Chapter 13
REESE
“Not what I expected,” I murmur as Ben’s Jetta turns past the large “Bernard Morris Grove” sign and creeps along one of the longest driveways I’ve ever seen, lined with oak trees big enough to create a tunnel-like cover. With strands of Spanish moss hanging elegantly from their limbs, it looks like something out of a movie setting. One of those dreamy places that feels magical and you’re sure has been doctored heavily by a stage crew.
“It looks like more than it is,” he denies.
“It looks like a giant house on an orange grove,” I retort as the sizeable white house with two levels of wraparound decks and stately pillars comes into view, windows flanked with black shutters staring down at us. The Confederate flag hangs limply from one corner, reminding me of a soldier, standing motionless as it awaits our approach.
“It is a big-ass house,” he agrees. “My mama’s great-grandparents, the Bernards, moved here from Louisiana and wanted to feel like they were back home, so they built a plantation house. Kind of out of place, but it was a cool house to grow up in. Needs a lot of work, though.”
As we get closer, I see what he means. The exterior is in bad need of a paint job, shingles have begun to lift, and the front porch leans just slightly to the left. Still, it’s beautiful in a historical, haunting way. And I’ll bet it’s brimming with all kinds of stories to tell—both joyful and heartrending.
Turning the ignition off, Ben half-turns in his seat to regard me with a rare serious expression.
“You’re nervous about me meeting your mother, aren’t you?” I knew the second he didn’t answer his mother’s call what was up. When he blows a mouthful of air out, I can’t help it; I laugh. “Please don’t tell me you have your mom convinced that you’re a virginal disciple of Jesus.”
“No, pretty sure that ship sailed when she caught me with the neighbor’s daughter behind the barn,” he answers with a wry smile, adding, “but please just don’t give me any grief, MacKay.” His eyes flicker over to the front door in time to see a small woman in a floral sundress and apron, identical to the photograph on Ben’s desk but older, emerge.
I follow his lead and climb out of the car as a hound dog lets out one long bay before it waddles down the porch steps and toward Ben, its belly almost dragging on the ground.
“What are you feeding this dog, Mama? Hey, Quincy!” Ben crouches down to let the dog put its front paws up on his knee. He grabs both ears and scratches, mumbling something under his breath about a “good girl.” With that greeting out of the way, the dog turns her attention on me, a little more cautious as I bend down to offer my hand. After taking a few sniffs and accepting a friendly pat, she turns and sways back toward the house and Ben’s mother, who’s watching me intently.
I wonder what this woman is going to think of me. I wonder why I suddenly care. I certainly didn’t when I willingly walked into this trap.
I haven’t done a lot of “meet the parents” scenarios. In fact, there was only one: with Jared’s parents, just after we eloped. Considering their son hadn’t had the heart to tell them that he had broken up with Caroline—the future daughter-in-law they would have hand-picked for their only child—I’d say that meeting went exactly as expected. A catastrophic explosion.
As discreetly as possible, I reach up to finger-comb my hair, left to air dry after the speedy shower earlier. There’s not much I can do about my jeans and T-shirt right now.
“Now who’s nervous?” Ben throws over his shoulder with a smug smile as I watch him saunter toward his mother. He’s in a blue and yellow Dolphins T-shirt and worn blue jeans, so I’m not exactly underdressed. The difference is, Ben still looks good.
“It’s been weeks!” Ben’s mom scolds, though there isn’t an ounce of bitterness in her voice. He answers by scooping her tiny body up in his arms and spinning her around, much to her howls and laughter. It’s hard to believe such a slight woman created something as big as this man. She can’t be more than five feet tall. “Benjamin Morris! You put me down before I have another heart attack!”
His smile falls off at that comment, but he does as asked. She proceeds to ruffle her skirt gently before turning to regard me with eyes as blue and kind as Ben’s. “And you must be Reese.” A small hand shoots out and I take it immediately.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Morris.”
She waves her hand. “Oh, please! Call me Wilma, and this old house is all but falling apart. Sometimes I wish a bolt of lightning would burn it down because it needs so much work. Come on in. I have some sweet tea and sandwiches ready.” She pats her son’s stomach. “Benjamin’s favorite.”
He catches me pursing my lips together tightly to stop the burst of laughter from escaping. Flinging an arm over my shoulder, he asks, “What?”
“You are such a mama’s boy!” I hiss, earning a giant grin.
Wilma steals a quick glance back and beams.
And it clicks. I know what Ben is nervous about. It’s not about me teasing him in front of his “mama.” It’s about her getting the wrong idea about us.
Ben has made it pretty clear to the world that he has no intention of getting serious with anyone. Ever. And if he were anyone other than Ben, an arm over my shoulder might constitute misleading people into thinking we’re dating. But it is Ben, and so I don’t make the effort to push it off.
Plus, I have to admit, it makes me feel good.
Beyond the house, row upon row of trees stretch over the dips and rises of the property as far as the eye can see. We pass by a honey-colored barn to our left, obviously built much later than the house. Large doors sit closed at the front, flanked on either side by small windows. And in the darkness within, I’m almost positive I see a face peering out at me. But it’s gone so fast I can’t be sure.
“We can have lunch out on the sun porch,” Wilma offers, leading us into the house. The interior is dated but in a quaint way, with worn wood floors and floral wallpaper—some of its seams starting to lift—stretching up to crown molding that trims the high ceilings.
“Ben tells me this land has been in your family for generations,” I say as my fingers intentionally slide across the wood grain of a side table. Everywhere I look, I find a piece of rustic furniture. Each one is different, suggesting it’s not mass-produced, and yet there’s something about them that hints that they’re part of a set.
“Over a hundred years,” she confirms. “We’ve done a lot of living here.”
I feel Ben’s hand graze the small of my back as we step out into an all-white room of glass and wood. The wall-to-wall windows overlook the massive expanse of the family grove that I couldn’t quite appreciate from the driveway. I can’t help my eyes from bugging out at the beautiful oak table, laden with breads and meats and salads, partly because of my rumbling stomach, but mostly because of the amount. There’s enough for ten people here. And I don’t doubt that it’s all 100 percent homemade and made especially for her son.
“Manners, Benjamin!” Wilma swats Ben’s hand away from the sandwich platter. “Wait for Reese.”
“She likes me just the way I am,” he says through a smile, wrapping his arms around his mom’s shoulders for another bear hug and planting a kiss on her forehead. It’s cute.
And so completely foreign to me.
As we sit down to eat, I listen quietly to Wilma talk about the coming season—citing concerns over spreading disease and sub-ideal climate as well as the high costs of using the packaging company and having to cut back on staff—and how all the pipes in the house need replacing. All while I look for flaws in her. Deceptive flares, duplicitous statements, self-absorbed topics. Things that remind me of Annabelle. But I find none.
Ben’s mom is genuinely nice and she very obviously loves her son.
Like any mother should love her child, I suppose.
By the time we’re carrying the dirty dishes to the kitchen, my stomach is ready to explode, but I feel like an old resident of the Morris household.
“Reese, have you ever seen a grove before?” she asks, tucking one of her short chestnut curls behind her ear. The gray is just beginning to thread through.
“No, can’t say that I have.”
She pats Ben’s back. “Why don’t you take her out for a while?”
I’m expecting him to decline, insisting we have to get back. But he doesn’t. He simply nods and throws an arm around my shoulders. I look up in time to catch the secretive smile touching his lips as we pass through the house, on our way to the foyer again.
“Where did all of this furniture come from?” I dare ask.
Wilma’s blue eyes flash to Ben as she says, “They’re beautiful pieces, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I confirm, running my hand along the carved leg of a small desk.
“Ben’s father made everything in here. He’s a carpenter.”
“Really?” Ben hasn’t mentioned a word about his dad and, given no father figure has made an appearance as of yet, I was beginning to think he wasn’t in the picture. Plus, Ben made that comment about helping his mom with her orange grove last weekend because she’s all alone—while groveling for my help at the office.
But Wilma just used the present tense, so his father is obviously around. Otherwise why would she keep an entire house full of reminders? Poking Ben in the ribs, I ask, “Did you inherit your father’s talent?”
“Nope. Can’t say I did. Come on.” He hooks his arm around my neck, pulling me into a gentle headlock, his shirt deceptively soft against my cheek. “Let’s go, MacKay.”
“Don’t roughhouse her! She’s not one of your brothers.” Clasping his face between her hands, Wilma stretches onto her tiptoes and lays a kiss on his cheek. “Now go have fun. I’ll pack all this extra food up for you to take home so you don’t have to worry about cooking.”
I stifle my snort. Ben doesn’t worry about cooking. I’ve seen him walking past my office every day with a Subway bag in his hands. He may as well buy a franchise of the chain. That poor, unsuspecting woman . . . I watch her disappear down the hall and then can’t help but whisper, “Does your mom have any idea what her sweet little Ben is really like?”
With an arrogant smirk, he leads me out the front door. “What do you mean?”
“That your pants are off more than they’re on.”
“Not lately.” Eyes drive down the front of my body, stirring an unexpected flurry of nerves inside me, as he leads me toward the barn. “And that has nothing to do with whether I like to take my mama’s cooking home with me.”
“Fair enough.” I start needling his ribs with my fingers until he loosens his grip of me. “So you have a brother?” Ben knows far too much about me and I don’t know nearly enough about him, I’m realizing.
“Three. Jake, Rob, and Josh.”