Page 10 of Pick Me This Time

5

STERLING

On my drive around the farm, I went everywhere but the bakery. I hadn’t been in there since my mom had died and I didn’t plan on ever going there again. Frankly, I didn’t even know if it was still open.

Given the state of everything else around here, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the bakery had closed its doors for good. It would be a travesty, but again, I wasn’t eager to find out and stir up old memories.

Eventually, when the sun started sinking behind the mountains and I’d driven to every nook and cranny of the property, I headed back to the house. As I parked, I noticed there was a single light on inside now, in the kitchen.

My heart squeezed at the sight of that one light on in the whole house. It’d always been such a warm and welcoming place when my mother had been alive, but now, it seemed almost eerie. My mother had died but it was my father who had become a ghost, haunting the dark halls.

When I opened the door and climbed out of the truck, a cold breeze sliced through me and I shivered, wondering when the hell the farm had become such a gloomy place. Leaves rustled and dropped to the ground, adding to the thick layer already there, and I sighed, slid my hands into my pockets, bunched my shoulders against the chill, and I jogged to the front door.

I didn’t bother knocking this time, simply pushing it open and gladly shutting it behind me. Once again, I was struck by the lack of pleasant scents in the house. Instead of Mom’s cooking, it smelled like Dad had burnt whatever he was making for dinner and my stomach turned to stone.

Ignoring the dark hallways and rooms leading off the foyer, I followed the glow of light emanating from the kitchen and paused in the door. Right there, not ten feet away from me, my dad sat at our kitchen table, a solitary figure at the head of a table that could accommodate eight with ease.

He barely looked up when I walked in, but for the brief second that his gaze met mine, I saw how closed off he was. It was almost like there was no life left in him, but he motioned toward the stove anyway.

“There’s soup in the pot. It’ll be cold by now.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” I said, bypassing the stove and the counters to join him at the table. I considered offering him my hand, but his gaze had already returned to his bowl of soup and he was watching as he dunked a thick slice of bread in it.

“Hi, Dad,” I said as I sat down, folding my arms on the table and waiting for him to look at me again. “How are you?”

He shrugged his narrow shoulders, so much smaller and thinner now than they used to be. On the other hand, much closer now than I had been this afternoon, I realized that his whole body was much thinner now than it used to be.

His cheeks were sallow and gaunt, his clothes at least two sizes too big and his hair wiry and silver now that the ballcap was gone. More pain streaked through me. Dad and I hadn’t really seen eye to eye since Mom had died, but it still hurt that he looked as downtrodden as the property.

“I’m fine,” he grunted. “You remember where your bedroom is, right?”

“Of course.”

He nodded, reached into his pocket for a dirty balled-up handkerchief, and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “Good. There are sheets in the linen closet. They might be musty, so you’ll have to do something about that. I didn’t have time to clean for you, boy.”

I nodded. “I didn’t expect you to. I’ll take care of it. We should talk about⁠—”

“I’ve got more work to do,” he said, pushing his bowl away and rising slowly out of his chair. “Make yourself at home if you want.”

Just like that, my chance to finally speak to him was gone. He shuffled out of the house and I felt the rift between us gaping like a festering wound. I had no idea what to say to bring him back here, both physically and mentally.

He’d barely touched his soup, the bowl still almost full and the slice of bread only half eaten, and worry started gnawing at my gut. Obviously, he’d been skipping more meals than just dinner, considering the amount of weight he’d lost. No wonder he’s a zombie. He’s starving himself.

God, Mom must be furious up there.

I pictured her watching us now, disappointed and afraid for how things were going.

Swallowing hard past a suddenly bone-dry patch in my throat, I groaned and stood up. My dad clearly didn’t want to talk and I hated the idea of being stuck in this dusty, dark, quiet house all night, so I strode back to the foyer and grabbed the keys to Eric’s truck.

It was a good bet that he’d be at Maverick’s, the local bar in town. If I was lucky, I’d run into him there and we could catch up over a few drinks instead of me wallowing around here by myself all night.

Maverick’s was right on the corner of the main drag, and while the parking lot was only half-full, there was country music blasting inside and I could see people laughing and playing pool inside through the windows. Feeling instantly more at ease, I got out of the truck and walked in. Eric was sitting at the bar.

He was laughing with some people I recognized vaguely, but as he turned to reach for his drink, he spotted me. His eyes widened in surprise and he grinned and stood up. “Sterling, my long-lost brother! I wasn’t expecting to see you out tonight. You here to drink or you just picking up some food? You know what? I don’t care. You’re having a beer with me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m here to drink,” I said, nodding politely at the guys he’d been with. They nodded back.

“Hell yeah!” He tipped back the rest of his beer and calling out for three more. “Guys, you remember Sterling North, right?”