stand and move over to him wrapping my arms around his neck. “Tell Aunt Darla I love her.”
He nods, slipping back into his Birkenstocks.
“Katie,” he acknowledges my mom. Then, he ventures to the back of the store.
“Let’s go. Your father has been waiting on us.” She swivels on her flats and beelines it out of the shop.
I follow more because I won’t disappoint my father.
“I don’t like you in that store. You know, he and Darla do illegal activities in there,” she whispers, as though the cardinal to our right could dare repeat her words to someone else.
“I love Uncle Wally, and he gives sound advice.”
Okay, I’m purposely trying to piss her off. The anger from her not sticking up for the Lynches in Bishop’s still lingers even though Uncle Wally did spout out some great things for me to think of, words I’m debating in my head.
“That man is crazy and lives like he’s sixteen and following the Grateful Dead. He’s an embarrassment to the Keaton name.”
I choose to ignore her as I climb into the van. This time, I take the front seat because my mom gave Holland a chew toy from the store, and I don’t want slobber all over my jeans.
She drives for a few minutes before she brings up the topic I figured she’d wait to discuss until my father was present. “Why didn’t you tell me, Ella?”
There’s hurt in her voice, and although I hold resentment toward her for not sticking up for us two years ago and for letting our town railroad my future, I haven’t had to lie.
“So that you could convince me to switch colleges or maybe move in with me to lock me in an attic?”
She remains silent for a few uncomfortable beats of a minute, and I assume the conversation is over. She’ll wait for my dad to handle the issue.
“I just worry. The two of you…”
I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t.
“He’s there for baseball. He made the team, and I think it’s great.”
She releases a long breath, her knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel. “Are the two of you…you know?”
“Dating?”
She nods.
“Not yet.”
Her shoulders relax, and her hands loosen.
“But I love him, Mom.”
She sits up, stiff as an ironing board, her knuckles going back to white. “It was childhood love, Ella, not grown-up love. You love the fantasy.”
I huff, glaring over at her.
Has she ever felt love like I have with Crosby? If she did, she’d know that I’d rather not attend medical school than be away from him for one more day. Being a doctor has been my dream since I was eight, and being Crosby’s wife was a dream I had when I was fifteen, so our level of love is clear.
“It’s not, Mom, but I won’t argue with you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glance out of the window in time to pass Cherry Blossom Cemetery where Noah and Kedsey lie. My hand touches the glass of the window, and the engine of the van revs with her acceleration.
Chapter Thirteen
Ella
We reach my parents’ farm fifteen minutes later. My mom pulls up the driveway, and I spot my dad working in the cow barn, shuffling in and out with hay.
“I’m going to go see Dad,” I say, opening the door and leaving before she can stop me.
“Our conversation isn’t over, Ella,” she calls out.
I ignore her, calling for Holland to follow me.
My dad’s already gotten the soil ready for winter, but there’s more that needs to be done around the farm. Farming is an everyday life. An everyday life that has slowly aged him over the years. Sure, he keeps a healthy body, but I swear, every time I visit, he’s limping or icing his elbow. The daily chores wear on a body. It killed my grandfather early and my father’s grandfather, too. It only brings me worry that it will have the same effect on my father.
He looks up from milking Cassandra when I step through the barn doors.
“Sweet Ella.” A wide smile crosses his lips, but he continues squeezing those nipples at a rapid pace.
I used to find the nickname Sweet Ella annoying when I was younger. It embarrassed me, but over the years, it brings a warmth to my heart. The reference will probably stop with my uncle and my dad.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, grabbing a bucket and moving over to Violet, Cassandra’s sister.
The one thing about farm life is, you don’t stand around and chitchat. Talking