Only a Breath Apart Page 3

  I pop open my cap and drink. Marshall stares at the bottle in front of him. He’s considering it, and that makes me slightly like him.

  “Your grandmother made me the executor of her will.”

  I know this. He’s a lawyer. I’m not. I’m seventeen. He’s boring and forty.

  “I’m your legal guardian,” Marshall says, “but let me be clear, I will not clean up your messes. As we discussed in June, you think you’re old enough to live on your own, and I’m going to respect that decision. The state will only care if you dig yourself a hole. It’s up to you if you’re going to dig it.”

  His eyes flicker to the beer in my hand, and I place it on the coffee table.

  “If there are problems, I’m moving you into my house, and you’ll live by my rules. The only way I’ll allow you to live here is if you stay out of trouble, do you understand?”

  “Yes.” He’s not pushing me into his house because he doesn’t want me around his wife and children.

  “Until you turn eighteen, I’ll be handling the accounting for anything associated with the land.” This isn’t a shock. Gran listed Marshall on the farm account six months ago. She said when the land officially becomes mine so would the account. “That doesn’t mean I’m personally helping with anything associated with the farm.”

  That’s his stuck-up, suit-wearing way of saying he’s not the type of guy who can stand dirt under his fingernails. It must suck to be him. “I can handle taking care of the land.” I’ve been doing it most of my life.

  “If you need money, send me an email detailing exactly what you need, why you need it and a detailed cost analysis as well as bids/costs from three places. Do not spend a dime on this farm without clearing the purchase with me, do you understand?”

  “This isn’t your stuffy office where I need a purchase order number to buy a hammer. It’s a farm.”

  “A farm is a business. That’s a lesson you need to learn.”

  “Do you know a thing about farming?” I counter.

  He ignores me. “Your gran told me you’ve been saving money in a separate account so you could handle the bills associated with living in the trailer after her death. Is this true?”

  I nod. It’s not much. Most of the money I made went into the land account to keep the property afloat. If I’m careful with what I tucked away in the personal account, I won’t starve—yet.

  Saving wasn’t easy, but like damn squirrels Gran and I socked away as much as we could. Beyond the six hundred acres, we’re broke. Gran was living off of social security, and she made money by leasing our land to other farmers. Not able to take care of the land herself, she allowed other farmers to use our land to plant crops for themselves or to graze their cattle, and they pay us rent. They also pay me to work their fields or tend to their animals.

  Last year, I convinced Gran to let me keep some of the property for hay. Problem was, I had to rent equipment to cut and bail the hay, and I didn’t make any money. In fact, I barely broke even. Farming’s an investment, and it’s not cheap.

  Marshall leans forward and rubs his hands together like he’s nervous. He and I don’t get along, but I’m playing nice and so is he. The nervousness is out of place. He reaches into his man-bag overstuffed with papers, pulls out a crisp folder and slides it to me.

  A few paragraphs in, I sway as if I’ve been hit in the head. “What the hell is this?”

  Another rub of his hands. “A test.”

  I toss the folder back in his direction and wait for a better answer. He stares back because he knows I can read, process information and, according to some tests, I’m smart.

  “This land is mine,” I say, “so this joke isn’t funny.”

  “The acre that contains the trailer will remain yours regardless of what happens.”

  “This land is mine,” I repeat slowly in case he hadn’t caught on the first time.

  “I told your grandmother to give you this acre alone, let me sell the rest and put the money into a trust for you, but she disagreed. I don’t believe you can handle the responsibility of this land. She did, but she understood my reservations. So we split our differences and agreed to set up a tribunal.”

  “A tribunal?”

  “Three of us are going to watch you and make the decision if you’re responsible enough to own the land. We’ll vote when you turn eighteen in May. If the vote goes against you, the farm will be sold. The payments will be spread out over ten years to guarantee you’ll make good financial decisions. This test, the tribunal, is a good plan. A fair plan. It gives you a fighting chance to own the land.”

  My uncle is a bastard. “How did you talk Gran into this? Did you lie to her? Did you make her sign papers she didn’t even know she was signing?”

  “I didn’t have to do anything. Your grandmother was worried about leaving you such a big responsibility at a young age. I have to admit, I’m worried, too.”

  I bitterly chuckle. “You’re worried? Last I checked, you hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you, Jesse. I think you make bad choices.”

  “I make plenty of good choices.” Choices that kept my grandmother happy over the last years of her life. Choices that were hard on me, but helped the people I loved.

  “You believe that?” Marshall challenges.

  My eyes widen in affirmation.

  “Drug possession.”

  “It was pot, and that’s legal in some states.” And I bought it for a friend.

  “Suspension from school for fighting.”

  “The guy was an ass. You would have hit him, too.”

  “You buck authority, have no grounding, ignore rules, and you have no idea what it means to take on a farm of this size and not run it into the ground.”

  My head jerks back as if his words were a physical blow. “No sense of responsibility? Who do you think had been taking care of Gran?”

  Marshall looks me square in the eye. “Me.”

  My muscles tighten, and it’s hard as hell not to punch him in the face. Yeah, Marshall took care of Gran’s finances, but it was me who took care of this place, me who made sure she was eating and me who watched over her day after day.

  “Farming isn’t owning a shovel and throwing down some seeds. To make this a working farm, you’ll have to take out a loan to buy equipment. The only equity you have is the property—this acre and trailer included. If you default on the loan, you’ll be left with nothing. That idea terrified your grandmother.”

  I stand because I don’t know what else to do. What the hell was Gran thinking? Searching for support, I go to the window and lean my hands against the frame. “I won’t lose it.”

  “I also wouldn’t be doing a good job as the executor of your grandmother’s estate and your guardian if I didn’t consider the possibility that you’d sell the land yourself the day of your eighteenth birthday and blow the profits within the first year.”

  I round to glare at him. “You honestly think I could sell?”

  “Before her death you had asked me about selling.”

  A small portion, just a few acres. Because I wanted to help Gran. I thought maybe if I had more money we could find a new specialist, a better specialist, someone who could help her live longer, but he didn’t believe me. He never believes me. “So you’re the decision maker now?”

  He waits too many beats before speaking or maybe not enough. “I took on this role because, believe it or not, I care. I won’t pretend to understand the pain you’ve gone through, and I won’t pretend to understand your connection to this land. I’ve watched you grow up. I know, for you, this farm is like a Band-Aid on cuts that won’t stop bleeding.”

  If that was meant to make me feel better, it didn’t. “You’ll never vote for me. You’re biased.”

  “I’m not biased.”

  For days I’ve been a stick under pressure, being bent too far. Finally, I snap. “I know you told Gran not to take me in after Mom died and to put me in foster care. You told her I was too broken and co
uldn’t be fixed. I know because I heard you. Tell me now you’re not biased.”

  Guilt flashes over his face, and he tries to hide it as he flips through the folder in his hands. “If it helps, that’s why your grandmother set up the tribunal and chose two other people to help make the decision. Majority vote will win, and she believed you’ll rise to the challenge.”

  I’m not sure if I respect him or hate him for not denying what we both know is true regarding the foster care. I’m also not sure how I feel that he doesn’t apologize either.

  “She chose people who will give you a fair shake,” he continues. “This isn’t a death sentence. It’s a wake-up call. It’s August, and you have until May to prove you’re responsible. You have time. Take it. Prove me wrong.”

  A growing sense of purpose takes root within me, and I do my best to funnel my anger and grief into it. “Who, besides you, is on the tribunal?”

  “If I tell you then I run the risk of you putting on a show for those people. This is your chance to change for the better. Take advantage of it.” Marshall leaves the paperwork on the antique table, shoves his folder back in his leather bag and stands. “If it’s any consolation, I want you to succeed, but I want you to truly succeed. I won’t vote for you to keep the land unless you show me you understand what it means to run a farm of this magnitude.”

  It’s no consolation. That’s him attempting to ease his guilt for when he votes against me.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Jesse. If you need to talk or if you’d like to stop by for a meal, you’re welcome at my house. And if you get tired of being here alone, you can live with us. We have plenty of room.”

  I don’t believe any of that, but I nod because doing so will get him out of my home faster. Marshall stares at me for a few more seconds, as if contemplating saying more, but he doesn’t. Instead he walks out, shutting the door behind him.

  His engine purrs to life and rocks crack under his moving tires. Then there’s silence. Maddening silence. I drop into Gran’s recliner, lower my head into my hands and close my eyes. I’ve lost Gran, and now I could lose my land. The only thing left that I love. The only thing in my life that brings me peace. “Why, Gran?”

  I strain to listen in the silence, and my gut twists that there’s no response. “I miss you.”

  Still no response and my head begins to throb. My cell in my back pocket vibrates. I dig it out, expecting to see a text from one of my friends, but I pop my neck to the right at the sight of Glory’s name. You need to stop by tomorrow night.

  Me: No

  Glory: I know of your grandmother’s plan.

  Me: So do I

  Glory: But I know who the people are who will be deciding your future.

  Me—stone cold frozen.

  Glory: Stop by tomorrow at nine. I should be wrapping up my last session then.

  Me: I won’t be there.

  Glory: Yes, you will.

  SCARLETT

  The two signs attached to the purple canopy that covers the craft table full of crystals for sale makes life seem incredibly simple: Let the spirits help guide your way. The other: Have questions? The cards have answers. Life, though, as I’m well versed, is never that simple.

  The Watermelon Festival is bustling with people, young and old, and Main Street is lined for as far as the eye can see with fair vendors. A gaggle of children are gathered on their tiptoes at the we-bring-the-birthday-party-to-you business that’s set up next to Glory’s booth. The whish of air being pumped into a balloon and then the associated screech of it being twisted into the shape of an animal is like music coming from the Pied Piper.

  My friend Camila Sanchez is in the center of the mob. With her sleek, recently dyed platinum-blond shoulder-length hair and ambitious personality, Camila is surrounded by a plethora of children. She manhandles balloons while simultaneously explaining the pricing of the parties for her parents’ business. Due to the smile stretching across her lips, no one would know she hates children, balloons and balloon animals.

  When a little girl complains that her dog’s legs are uneven and not long enough, Camila’s smile widens, but it’s not sweet. “It’s a short dog.”

  I snort, and she glances around. Camila spots me then gives a conspiratorial wink. It’s 5:45, and her parents are letting her off at six. Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez are awesome parents, and if they said six, they mean six. They’re the parental unit of my dreams.

  “I thought you said you were meeting Camila.”

  I jump at the sound of Dad’s voice and spin in his direction. “I am.”

  Dad studies me, and I hide my hands behind my back to conceal the slight quiver that could announce my guilt. When I left him, he was in good spirits, but his moods can quickly shift. There are two patched-up holes in my bedroom that can testify to this. Dad replaced the drywall, covered it with fresh paint, but the perfection can’t take away the memory of the way my heart pounded through my chest as he drove his fist through the wall.

  He inclines his head toward the booth of balloon animals. “Camila appears to be working.”

  “She’s getting off soon,” I say too fast as I bite back the need to ask why he didn’t go home like he said he was.

  “Why did you leave us if she’s still working? You said Camila would be done by five-thirty.”

  My mouth dries out, and the tremble in my hands travels to the rest of my body, but I force out a cleansing breath. Show no fear. Don’t give him any reason to doubt a thing I say. “She was supposed to be off by now, but her parents asked her to work a few more minutes.”

  “If Camila isn’t getting off until later, you should have told me.” There’s a subtle sharpness to his tone that causes hurricane warnings in my brain. “I was showing you a great deal of trust by letting you find Camila on your own.”

  “She’s only running a few minutes late. Her parents are watching me so I’m okay.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glance over and my heart lifts when I notice Camila’s mom watching us. Her stare gives credibility to every falsehood rolling off my tongue. She’s not watching because she thinks I need a babysitter, but probably because she’s mentioned to Camila that she’s perplexed by my father’s strict rules.

  I touch the crystals on the table as if I’m interested in them. It’s difficult to act normal as Dad looks at Camila’s mom then studies me. Please believe me, please believe me. Please.

  I’m so stupid. I should have never left Dad early. I should have never lied. But I did. Dad was having fun at the fair, Mom was having fun and my sister, Isabelle, was having fun. They were all laughing and smiling. They’ve forgiven him, and I haven’t. I can’t, not again, and this is one of the many ways life is no longer simple.

  I want to peek at him in an attempt to understand my fate, but I don’t. Eye contact doesn’t help when he’s angry. It only makes it worse.

  Being in public won’t soothe his temper. He’ll just be more discreet. Like last year when Dad had arrived early to pick me up at a football game and saw me heading to the bathroom by myself. After I had returned to my friends, he called me away with a smile on his face. He had placed a seemingly loving arm around my shoulder, but his fingers dug into my arm as he severely whispered in my ear how I was irresponsible and that it was time to go home.

  Dad didn’t cause a scene at the game. The yelling started the moment we were alone in his car and continued until he left me in my room. I stayed on my bed for hours, curled up in a ball and sobbing.

  My throat swells as I think of how this will play out. Will it be like Christmas? Will he throw a lamp and force Mom to clean it up as I watch? Or will it be like this past spring and he’ll flip the kitchen table, breaking all the dishes that had been placed there for dinner?

  Dad steps closer to me, and I’m filled with dread. “Next time, in a situation like this, you return to me and have Camila text you when she’s done working. I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

  All I want is to be alone, fo
r my thoughts and actions to belong only to me. But he’s not angry, he’s believing me, and I release the breath I had unknowingly held and take the small win. “Okay.”

  “I worry about you,” he says with such sincerity that I feel guilty for causing him anxiety.

  “I know.” I keep my eyes locked on the crystals on the table, terrified if I meet his gaze, he’ll change his mind and flip out.

  “I only worry because I care.”

  “I know,” I say again.

  “I miss you talking to me. I miss us being close.”

  Me, too, but I stay silent because I don’t trust either of us to continue this conversation—for his mood not to change and for me not to cry.

  There’s a beat of awkward silence, and I wish he would leave. I take a risk and peek at him. Dad’s staring past the tent and into the hole his mind goes to when he thinks of his sister.

  Dad and I are opposites. In mood, demeanor and appearance. Where he has light brown hair and brown eyes, I resemble Mom with my black hair, blue eyes and some long-lost generation of Mediterranean olive complexion. There are many times when I’m thankful I favor Mom. When I look in the mirror, I’m glad I don’t have to be reminded of my father.

  “Your mom and Isabelle are feeding ducks at the pond.” Dad blinks as he returns to the real world then grins at me as if the gesture can wash away the past few minutes. “Do you remember when you were Isabelle’s age and you fell in the pond feeding the ducks and I jumped in to save you? Do you remember, to make you laugh, I put duck feathers in my hair?”

  I do remember. I had ruined my favorite outfit, I was cold, I was wet and I was crying because I had gone under the murky water and couldn’t swim. But my father had rescued me, had hugged me, had given me his jacket to make me warm and then made me laugh.

  Standing beside me now, Dad has this expression like he’s considering good-naturedly bumping his shoulder into mine, just like he did when life was easier. I step away from him, not a ton, just a fraction. Enough to let him know I’m not ready.