View With Your Heart (Heart Collection #5) - L.B. Dunbar Page 0,4
slim. I’ll be working uptown. He’ll be presenting a town away.
He certainly won’t be looking for me because he never did.
Take 3
Scene: The Restaurant
[Gavin]
After I arrived in town earlier today, I went to register for the festival. I should have stayed closer to the festivities, but I didn’t want to move twice in my stay. I’d rented a car for the commute between the small towns. There will be dinners and cocktail hours, private showings and panel discussions, and I should attend as much as I can. However, tonight, I’ve agreed to have dinner with my family.
My younger brother, Ethan, owns a new restaurant outside of Elk Lake City. At thirty-four, he’s finally grown up, but then again, some would argue I still haven’t at thirty-eight.
Baseball scholar. College ball. Professional team.
Toward the end of my professional career, I wasn’t aware I was already beginning something else. A team of sports enthusiasts wanted to make a film about a rising star player. The plan was to follow his career for three years, showing the ups and downs of baseball as a business. The focus was Brant Kriss, as I was considered an old man in the sport. The crew liked my relationship with the younger teammate, though. When a fluke accident took out my wrist, and I lost my range of motion, I moved from before the camera as a side character to behind it. I became a consulting director of the project and, eventually, an investor in it. I wanted this documentary to be shown.
Driving a short distance south on the highway, I quickly turn off on a road I haven’t traveled in a long, long time. Weaving along the quiet street, I take in the rows and rows of cherry trees around me until I find a gravel path now extended into an honest entrance to a modest parking lot. Our family acquired the property with its multitude of trees along with an old red barn and a fieldstone building. For as long as I can remember, the Scott family didn’t use the barn or the stone structure. At least, not for farming purposes. However, Ethan and I each had our moments in these once abandoned buildings.
Memories rush me as I park and stare at the red barn.
A summer night. A musty sleeping bag. The heat of warm bodies.
I should have thought of candles back then, but I wasn’t really romantic as a teen. Just horny. Horny for a hot little thing in miniskirts and tight shirts, and blond hair almost to her fine ass.
Jesus, I need to stop thinking of Britton.
I shake the thought and unfold from the convertible I’ve rented. It wasn’t like my car at home, but close enough, and I planned to take her out for a spin later this evening. Closing the driver’s door, I twist to face the stone building and stare.
Damn, Ethan. You really did it.
I wasn’t certain what to expect when I entered The Red Barn Table, but the interior of white shiplap and wrought-iron accent pieces is fresh and modern. The tables are light wood with an eclectic arrangement of chairs at each.
“May I help you?” a female hostess asks. Considering Ethan’s playboy history, I can’t believe he’d hire someone young and beautiful to work for him. Then again, he told me he’s in love.
“Gavin?” I turn to face a woman I hardly recognize. My mother’s shaky voice startles me but not as much as her frail frame. Holy shit. She looks awful and beautiful in the same breath. My mother is from Ireland. At one time, she had wild, tight curls, but chemotherapy has removed those locks. Even knowing she has breast cancer, I am not prepared for the reality of things. Her eyebrows are gone. Her head is wrapped in a scarf.
“Mum,” I choke. Another thin piece of my mother’s heritage was her desire for us to call her mum instead of the American elongated mom.
As my arms wrap around my mother, I’m almost afraid to hug her. She’s so thin, but she holds tight. A sob vibrates against my neck, and I accept her tears of happiness. I blink several times to clear my own eyes. Dammit. I don’t want to cry, but guilt settles in. I don’t know why I stayed away so long.
Then I look up and have my answer.
“Dad,” I mutter, releasing my mother and standing tall. He offers a hand, and we shake, but it’s awkward. There’s no affection here.