Chapter 29
REESE
“You squirm a lot in your sleep,” Ben murmurs into my ear, somehow sensing that I’m awake.
“That’s because you’re a leech,” I grumble, the soft tickle of his breath grazing the back of my neck. I’ve never been a cuddler. Normally, I hug the edge of the bed, despising anyone else’s body heat. Jared knew it and was fine with it, preferring his own space anyway.
Not Ben. Every time I tried to shift away, an arm or leg managed to lock itself around me and yank me back, until he was molding his body to the back of mine. Never in a million years had I expected him to be the type.
I also never expected to find myself liking it.
“Leech?” With a strong hand against my shoulder, Ben pushes me onto my back, his mouth affixing itself to my breast. It takes a moment and a pinch of pain to realize what he’s doing.
“Stop it!” I smack him against the head. “What are you, twelve?”
He lifts his head to check his handiwork with a smirk and then dips down to nuzzle himself in the crook of my neck, sending shivers through my body. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot how nasty you are in the morning. Let’s see if we can fix that mood.” Ben’s thrown the covers off and starts working his way down, his hot breath leaving a trail along my chest, my stomach, my belly button, and farther down.
“Hello?” The warm, delicious scent of coffee and baking tells me there recently was life in the kitchen, but it’s empty now, save for a plate of scones and jar of marmalade on the table. I help myself to a cup—as great of a wake-up as Ben just gave me, I still need my coffee—and then go in search of him, wandering through the main floor, out to the back veranda. When I pass the foyer and notice that the front door is partially open, I venture out onto the porch.
Ben is standing in the driveway, his arms wrapped tightly around Wilma; her face buried in his chest, her tiny body shaking.
Sirens sound in the distance.
I pick up speed until I’m running. I’m sure my feet are stomping against the gravel driveway, but all I hear is the pounding of my blood in my ears as I close the distance, until I’m skidding to a halt to find Ben’s eyes squeezed tight, his jaw visibly taut as his mother sobs uncontrollably.
There’s really only one thing—or one person—this can be about.
And when I turn to see the barn doors gaping open, and the body slumped over in the Adirondack chair, the arm dangling lifelessly to the side, that bottle of whiskey lying on the ground next to a small white bottle, it’s not hard to put all the pieces together.
A processional of lights and sirens invades the serenity of the family grove as a line of emergency vehicles race up the picturesque driveway. When the paramedics hop out, arms loaded with big black bags, and neither Ben nor Wilma makes a move to address them, I take charge. “He’s in there,” I say, pointing. They don’t need any more instruction than that, but I run over with them anyway.
And wish that I hadn’t.
There’s no doubt in anyone’s eyes that Joshua Morris is beyond saving, his skin an unappealing shade of gray that I’ve never seen on a human being, the very shape of his face transformed, the muscles lax. By the yellow-tinged stain on his shirt, he had vomited at some point.
The paramedics—a man and woman in their early thirties who have probably seen this more than once—begin with standard protocol, checking his pulse and his pupils, but it’s not long before the male glances over his shoulder at the police officer and gives a very clear, single shake of his head.
The female paramedic begins reciting a bunch of personal and medical questions that I can’t answer. I admit as much to her and then retreat to Ben, my steps shaky.
“She found this next to him this morning. He must have come back out here, not long after we went to bed last night,” he explains in a low, somber voice to a young police officer, handing him a sheet of paper and an envelope.
“Were there any signs to suggest that Joshua Morris was thinking of taking his own life?” the officer asks.
Ben shrugs, his eyes wide with shock as he stares at the ground, Wilma still in his arms. “He’s been doing it slowly for years with the booze. You know that, Roger.” The cop doesn’t look that much older than Ben. Maybe they went to school together.
Wilma finally speaks up, her voice ragged. “Joshua is allergic to aspirin. Quite severely, too. And that was a new bottle that I bought for myself.” She sniffs, her voice dipping low as she admits, “He knew exactly what he was doing.”
They talk a bit more, the officer asking various questions, a few of them—about their marriage, their finances, potential infidelities, and such—irritating Ben enough that he instructs Wilma in a very lawyerly manner not to answer.
The officer finally turns to me. “Can I have your name, please, miss?”
“That’s Ben’s girlfriend,” Wilma announces quickly, reaching back with her arm to beckon me forward. I comply and find myself tucked under one of Ben’s arms in seconds. We steal a glance at each other over her introduction, but neither of us corrects her. It doesn’t really matter right now. Still, I don’t miss the tensing in Ben’s jaw.
“I’m so sorry you had to see this, Reese,” Wilma offers as a fresh set of tears fills her eyes. I can offer nothing more than a sad smile as Ben tightens his grip around us, squeezing us to him.
I guess the coroner’s office isn’t busy on a Sunday morning in the heart of Florida’s richest orange groves because an old, wiry man shows up less than an hour later to make the official declaration: Joshua Morris Senior is dead.
And not long after that, still standing in the exact same spot on the driveway, the three of us quietly watch the taillights disappear as the last of the vehicles drive away, his body in one of them.
Wilma releases a heavy sigh, a resigned mask taking over her face. “Well, I suppose I should go call your brothers and Elsie and start making arrangements.” Her voice has taken on an almost lifeless murmur.
“I’ll be there in a minute to help, Mama,” Ben offers.
“Okay. I’m so glad you were here.” Patting Ben’s shoulder as she passes him, she moves slowly toward the house, her head hung, while Ben wanders over to stand in front of the barn, his arms folded across his chest, his back rigid. And he says nothing.
He simply stares at the empty chair and the bottle lying beside it, until I can’t help myself. Closing the distance, I set a tentative hand against his arm and lean into his side. His face is stern.
We stand like that for what feels like an eternity. I want to ask him how he’s feeling but I won’t. Knowing what I know about their relationship, I can’t even guess how Ben might feel right now. Anger? Relief? Happiness? Is there still room for sadness somewhere in there? I finally settle on, “I’m glad she wasn’t alone.”
His head bobs slowly. “Yeah.” His eyes roll all over the barn. “I want to burn this entire fucking building down. Pour gas all over it and light it up.” After a pause, a feeble attempt at a smirk touches his lips. “What do you know about arson?”
I jab a finger into his ribs softly. “I told you, I’m not a criminal. I’m just an occasional idiot who always get caught.”
He starts to chuckle and my insides instantly warm. It’s bizarre; I remember a time when the sound of Ben’s laughter made me cringe. Now I can’t get enough of it. “Not that I have the best ideas, but I don’t think setting fire to this place would be a good one.”
He heaves a sigh. “No, you’re right. I’ve got a lot to do, with the funeral arrangements and all that. I guess I should phone Jack. Do you think he’ll give me the week off? I don’t want to leave Mama here alone and I don’t how long it’ll take for everyone else to get here.”
“Jack’s big on family-first. I’m sure he’ll agree to it.” A whole week without Ben at work? It’s understandable. Still, the selfish part of me fills with disappointment.
He kicks at some loose gravel carried into the barn. “I guess we’re going to miss those orders.”
“Says who?” I stick a hand into Ben’s pocket, squeezing his thigh gently as I fish out the set of keys that I know are nestled there.
He peers down at me curiously. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I give him my best southern accent as I drawl, “Goin’ tangerine pickin’. What else?”
A crooked smirk sets one dimple on display. “You don’t have to do that, Reese.”
I reach onto my tiptoes and lay a kiss on his cheek. “I know.”
“I was thinking we could go out to dinner tonight as a family. You, me, and Mason. We’ve never done that before. What do you think?”
“Uh . . .” I stumble to find the right answer as I stare at the row of tangerine trees, stretching out as far as the eye can see. “Today’s not a good day, Jack.”
“Oh, okay. I understand. Maybe some other time,” he, says, his tone reluctant. Shit.
“It’s just . . .” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I probably won’t make it back to Miami early enough. I’m up at the grove again.”
There’s a long pause. “I thought you were with Lina this weekend.”
I guess he hasn’t floated the idea of dinner by Mason yet. I need to warn the guy before his father ambushes him. “No, I’ve been up here since yesterday morning. Ben’s mom needed help with some early orders and I really like it up here. It’s peaceful.”
Jack’s heavy sigh fills my ear. I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose.
“So does this mean—”
“Ben’s dad died this morning, Jack,” I blurt out, wanting to avoid answering the other question. Not that I have an answer.
“What? Is Ben all right? I mean . . . was it sudden? How did it happen? Heart attack? Stroke?” he stammers slightly, caught off guard.
“A fifth of whiskey and a bottle of pills,” I admit somberly. “Ben’s going to need the week off. He’ll phone you later.”
“Of course.” More to himself, I hear Jack mutter, “Family always comes first.”
I hear the big farm truck plodding down the trail behind me. “Look, I’ve gotta go now, Jack. I’m trying to help Wilma get at least some of this order filled.”
“Good for you for helping them.” I smile. Jack always points out when I’m doing something right or good. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting a standing ovation for tying my shoes properly. Today, though, it makes me glad to know that I’m helping Ben and Wilma in some way.
“See you tonight, Jack. Ben’s going to drive me home.”
I hang up as the truck pulls to a stop, those squeaky brakes sending a tiny shiver down my back. When Wilma and not Ben hops out, I’ll admit that I’m slightly disheartened, but the feeling quickly vanishes because I am, after all, happy to see her.
“You’re looking a little pink there, Reese. Here, you need this. Don’t want to ruin that lovely skin of yours.” She hands me one of those giant floppy hats that you see famous people on beaches wearing. “And you must be thirsty.” She hands me a bottle of water, which I thankfully accept. I’ve been out here for three hours and my mouth feels like cotton.
“Hold still.” She pulls a can of sunscreen out from who knows where and begins spraying my arms with it as I drink. “I hope you don’t have anywhere fancy to go anytime soon, because you’re going to have a lovely farmer’s tan on your arms.”
“Nope. I think I’m good for big events in the near future.” Annabelle would disagree, seeing as her charity ball is next weekend. “You really didn’t need to come out here. I’m fine on my own and I know you have a lot of planning to do.”
“Not really. I’ve called my children and the priest. Ben’s making arrangements for the coffin and the burial. And now what?” She shrugs, leaning over to sift through the baskets that I’ve already filled on the back of the tractor wagon. “Cook. And wait around, twiddling my thumbs, that’s what. I may as well be out here.”
And mourning the loss of your husband, who just killed himself hours ago. I don’t say that, though. I don’t doubt that Wilma will do more than her fair share of crying over her husband. I’m sure she already has. I’m sure she’s been quietly crying for years.
“You have a good eye for picking fruit.”
I smile, resuming my task. “I had a good teacher.”
“You did,” she agrees. “I always hoped the football thing was just a boyish phase that he’d grow out of. I was convinced he’d be the one to keep this grove going another generation. But then he got a scholarship and, well, we were all sure he’d make it all the way. Had he not been injured, I’m sure we’d be watching that boy run around in tights on the television right now.”
I snort loudly at the thought of Ben in tights, but then I have to admit, he probably looks hot in a football uniform. “I got the impression you always supported football?” That picture on Ben’s desk with Wilma’s beaming face certainly made it appear so.
“Oh, I did!” Her voice spikes, as if just the suggestion of not supporting her son is appalling. “I’m his mama. Of course I did. It’s his life, after all. I just wanted him to be happy.” She adds wryly, “And not make me a grandmother too early.”