The Comfort of Favorite Things (A Hope Springs Novel) (13 page)

It was something she’d picked up from her father. She couldn’t even count the number of times she’d sat on a stack of phone books in a kitchen chair while knife in hand, he’d looked a cake up one side and down the other before slicing into it.

She’d held her breath, her gaze moving from her father’s studied expression to the cake’s perfect surface—sometimes smooth, sometimes mounded with whipped-cream dollops, sometimes decorated with a lattice of icing ribbons—until he’d made his decision. Then he’d taken the twelve-inch serrated blade he used only on cakes, and sliced.

She’d bought herself an identical knife to use for the same purpose. Then Dez had used it on the last cake she’d baked him to hack it into pieces, as much ending up on the ceiling as the floor and the clothes she’d been wearing. He’d made her climb onto the counter to clean the mess. And he’d snapped his whip behind her, the threat a real one.

No matter how she hurried, she hadn’t been fast enough.

“You okay? I mean, if you don’t want to cut the cake, that’s fine,” her visitor said. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I’m not crying.”
Dammit
. She swiped the back of her wrist over her eyes. “Just having a hard time with the things some people can do.”

“Like balance peanuts on their nose?”

The man really was a piece of work. “Like how they can hurt those they say they love.”

“That’s a song, you know. You only hurt who you love. Or something like that.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the way love’s supposed to work. But whatever.” She found her knife in the drawer where she’d left it and slid it into the cake. Before she made the second cut, she looked up. “How big of a piece do you want?”

His eyes went wide, his smile, too, all sorts of dimples and laugh lines lighting up his face. She expected him to ask for half of it, but he said, “Just a normal size piece is fine. Thanks. I really am starving.”

“Tell that to the bottom button of your shirt there,” she said, counting off eight pieces before cutting his wedge. “Is that enough?”

But he was busy looking down at the fit of his shirt. “I’m going to have to blame this on the fast food.”

“Just don’t blame it on me,” she said, finding one of the saucers they used for breakfast and a fork. “There’s bananas and pineapple in the cake so you can call it a serving of fruit. There’s pecans, too, so whatever nuts are. Protein I guess. But, yeah. It’s still cake.”

He glanced at the plate he held in one hand, then down to where he’d used the other to flatten the fabric to his stomach. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Fine,” she said, “I’ll eat it,” and reached to take it back. It wasn’t like he had more than a five-pound spare tire. More like the shirt had seen better days. “No one’s forcing you to do anything you don’t want to.”

But he kept the cake, and kept his gaze on hers as he took up the fork and dug in. He didn’t say anything, but for some reason she heard him asking about what she’d been forced to do. Even unspoken, the question fell softly between them, and it was all she could do not to tell him about Dez.

Luckily, he finished the bite and spoke before taking another, saving her from being foolish when she swore she was done with that. He gestured toward the cake with the fork. “This is probably the best not-chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten. No, not probably. It is.”

“This coming from the man who ate half a stale kolache.”

“I was hungry.”

“That, or you have no taste.”

“I don’t have to. It’s all in this cake. You going to sell this here, too? Because I was already planning to be a regular for coffee.”

“You can get coffee on the highway when you stop for your greasy egg muffin.”

“But the coffee here comes with more personality.”

“And you can get cake two doors down,” she said, ignoring the flutter in her belly at the idea of seeing him even after the shop was opened and Dakota gone.

“Not this cake,” he said, his head shaking as he ate more. “Not
your
cake.”

He might be able to. If the Butters Bakery deal happened. But she couldn’t say anything about that, so she cut herself a slice and joined him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
ennessee was at the Keller Construction barn when Dakota arrived from Bread and Bean. Thea had split midafternoon, not long after they’d talked out front. Pretty much like she’d split from the cottage this morning, though this time she hadn’t told him. He’d found out when he’d stepped into the kitchen to ask her if she’d mind him making another pot of coffee.

Ellie had been there. And Becca. Working together quietly in the corner on labels for some bins. Neither knew where she’d gone. Neither knew when she’d be back. Judging by their moods, which he had to say were pretty upbeat these days, it seemed Thea hadn’t said anything to them about breakfast at the cottage, or the mess he’d made of things with her later.

He supposed he should be thankful for that. It was bad enough having Thea know who he was. Working around the other two was already like navigating a minefield. He couldn’t imagine how bad it would get if they learned what a shit he was to his siblings. It was hard enough getting through the day without the truth of his actions seizing up in his chest like gears gone bad.

He hooked his tool belt on the pegboard just inside the door as a reminder to fix the buckle before going to work tomorrow. “I had breakfast with Indiana this morning,” he said to his brother. Seemed best to get it out in the open.

Tennessee tapped his pencil against the ledger on his drafting table. “The way I heard, there wasn’t much breakfast involved.”

Dakota shrugged. “I had plenty. In the truck on the way in. Most of it cold.”

That had the other man laughing. “If I weren’t your brother, I’d say it served you right.”

“It did serve me right,” Dakota admitted, shoving a drafting stool between his legs and straddling it. “You being my brother shouldn’t keep you from telling the truth.”

Tennessee was silent for a long moment, his pencil still, his jaw working. “The truth is, it’s my fault for calling Indiana. I should’ve let you be the one to tell her. It wasn’t my place.”

An apology. Wow. “It doesn’t matter who told her. She needed to know. Now she does.”

“And Thea Clark was there.”

Dakota nodded. “She hadn’t seen Indiana yet. I figured it would be a good time to get them together.”

“And keep you from having to talk to Indiana,” Tennessee said because he was a Keller, too.

Another nod, and Dakota crossed his arms. “We talked. Not sure we said anything. But we talked.”

“Listen, Dakota.” Tennessee set down his pencil and spun his stool to the side. “I need to explain about the other morning.”

“No. You don’t.” It was the same response he’d given his brother each time Tennessee had broached the subject. “You own the business. You need to look after the business.”

“You’re my brother. I need to look—”

“No. You don’t.” He felt like a broken record. And his siblings both seemed unable to accept that he was no longer eighteen. “I can look after myself. I’ve been doing it for a lot of years. The last truly bad decision I made was the night I left the house with that bat.”

Tennessee crossed his arms, his body language a mirror of Dakota’s, a level playing field as they hashed out what had been over and done with long ago. “So you
do
think it was a bad decision.”

Dakota tried not to bristle. “Obviously you do.”

“I meant that as a question,” Tennessee clarified. “I know you didn’t at the time. Neither one of us did. But, yeah. I’ve wondered if you’d changed your mind about going after Robby being the right thing to do.”

“Have you?”

Tennessee sighed heavily, moving his hands to his thighs. “Maybe. I don’t know. I should’ve gone with you. I do know that much.”

A gust of wind blew through the barn’s open doors. Dakota cleared his hair from his face. “And have Indiana feel responsible for both of us paying for that?”

“Who knows?” Tennessee said with a shrug. “Things might’ve turned out differently if I’d been there.”

Right. “Because I’m a hothead and you’re the one who thinks clearly?”

“Not anymore, I hate to say.” He laughed, dragging both hands down his face. “Getting a full night’s sleep would help, but I can’t imagine that will ever happen again.”

“Kids,” Dakota said, then rubbed it in. “Feedings and diapers then playground bullies then driving and dating and sex—”

“Whoa, now.” Tennessee raised both hands. “I think you skipped a few steps there. A few big ones.”

He could do this with his brother all day. “Like the years when Georgia May believes the world revolves around her dear old dad? The same years where she keeps him wrapped around her little finger?”

Tennessee sighed. “No one told me it would be like this. All day long . . . Every decision I make . . .” He stopped, scratching at his jaw. “It’s like I can’t do anything without considering the impact on her.”

Dakota enjoyed seeing this side of his brother, uncertain and uneven. It made him more human somehow. Made him more . . . relatable. “Pretty sure that’s called being a parent.”

“Are you really?” Tennessee’s eyes darkened. “Because I can’t remember
our parents ever taking us into consideration with any decision they made.”

“Yeah, well.” Dakota shrugged. “There are parents, and then there are
parents.”

“And then there’s whatever ours were.”

“
Are
, brother. They’re still alive. At least as far as we know.”

Tennessee glanced over, his mouth twisted. “You know when I quit caring?”

“Not a clue.” Though it was interesting to hear that he had.

“You remember that calendar that hung next to the phone in the kitchen?”

Dakota pictured it clearly. The precisely penciled numbers and letters. “The one with all our schedules? Baseball and volleyball and SAT dates?”

“That’s the one. Even after you were gone, Indiana kept it up, and on the weekends when we didn’t have a conflict, she put down your name. She knew if she didn’t, they’d never remember to leave time for our trips to Huntsville.”

Dakota slapped his palms against his thighs and hopped down from the stool. “That worked out really well, didn’t it?”

“Most of the times when Indiana and I came alone? After I had my license? They didn’t even know. We would sneak out before they got up. Or we’d leave after they’d gone to save whatever part of the planet was in danger that day.” Tennessee stopped, snorted.

“What?”

“The only time they did notice, the only time we got in trouble . . .”
He waved one hand absently as he pushed off his stool. “They had a big conference of some sort to get to. I had no idea Dad’s car was out of commission. Alternator or something. We always took Mom’s. No different that day.”

“Bet that went over like a lead balloon,” Dakota said, picturing his siblings making that long drive, both teenagers, both still in high school, at least during his first two years locked up. He tried to swallow, but his throat was swollen, and he had trouble clearing it.

“They’d called a cab. So they hadn’t missed anything. But, yeah. We got a lecture about responsibility within a family, respect for all family members.” Tennessee rolled his head on his shoulders as if the weight of the memory had him stiff. “That was about the time I got up and walked out. I was afraid of what I’d say if I stayed. But Indiana didn’t hold back.”

Interesting. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I sat at the top of the stairs and listened to her rant about how they had time for every cause that came their way except the three they owed the most. The three they’d created. She asked them over and over why they wouldn’t drive us to see you. Why
they
wouldn’t come see you more often than they did. It was like she’d been saving up for a year and couldn’t deal anymore. She laid into them, just flayed them. And they took it. They didn’t say a word. Even when she finally wore herself out . . . nothing. She was all out of tears, and they told her to go to bed. She walked right past me and I got up to go after her but she just slammed her door. She was crying, so I knocked. She told me to leave. Later I heard her on the phone with Thea—”

“Thea? I didn’t think they’d stayed in touch.”

“I don’t know how long they did, but I do know they talked a lot the first year you were gone.”

Dakota blew out a big puff of breath. “I spent the night before going to Huntsville with Thea. At her place. Her mother wasn’t home. Her mother was never home. She told me once she liked being at our house when we were all there because it felt normal. Like what a family should be.”

“If she only knew the truth, eh?”

“She knew. Hell, everyone knew. She never said anything, but we wouldn’t have gotten away with half of what we did if our folks had been around.”

“And when they were . . .” Brow arched, Tennessee let the sentence trail.

Dakota shoved his hands to his hips. “What a joke, huh? They had no idea who half the kids coming into our house even were, but boy did they ever know how to put on a show.”

“Especially for Robby Hunt.”

That had him wondering . . . “You think that’s why they’ve been scarce all these years?”

“What? Like they actually woke up and realized their part in Robby being able to get close to Indiana? C’mon. That would mean they’d paid attention. They didn’t then. They don’t now. Georgia May’s a year old. Mitch and Dolly are the only grandparents she knows. And Dolly’s only related because of marrying Mitch.”

“Not a bad set to have.”

“The best. She’s got an honorary aunt and uncle in Luna and Angelo. And then she’s got her Uncle Oliver and her blood kin. Indiana and you. And that’s why you can’t just up and leave.”

“Tennessee—”

“No. Let me finish. It’s not just about my girl. It’s about our sister. And it’s about me. I want you here. I need you here. We spent the first half of our lives in side-by-side bedrooms, fighting and pulling pranks and lying to our parents to cover for one another. We spent the second half apart. The three years you were on the inside, I saw you a few dozen times, and always with a partition between us. Then you were gone. For all those years. I didn’t talk to you. I had no idea if you were alive or dead. And it took our hardheaded sister—”

A shudder had Tennessee rolling his shoulders and walking away, rubbing at the back of his neck as he did. Dakota crossed his arms and looked down at his wide spread feet. Then he closed his eyes because it was easier to pretend he was anywhere else but here. That he wasn’t putting his brother through this. That he hadn’t ruined his siblings’ lives by staying away. Hell, he’d ruined his own life just as completely.

That’s what he was having the most trouble coming to grips with. Not what he’d done to Robby Hunt, but what he’d done to Tennessee, to Indiana, to himself. And there was no going back.

It was done. It couldn’t be fixed. Meaning he had no reason to stay. He stayed, they’d all be pretending that life was beautiful all the time. It could be, he supposed, for some people. Other people. He couldn’t risk things getting worse because he didn’t listen to his gut that was screaming for the open road, the next job, enough cash in his pocket for one more day, then one more night. It was an easy life. A good life.

Except it wasn’t anything more than existing. It wasn’t living at all.

“I should’ve looked for you sooner.” Tennessee had turned and come back. His hair was disheveled, having been raked with his hands repeatedly, and his eyes were bloodshot and bleary, but dry. “I shouldn’t have waited for Indiana to do it. I want to kick my own ass into next week for being too . . . I don’t know . . . whatever, to do it.”

Dakota found enough of his voice to ask gruffly, “Why didn’t you?”

Tennessee stopped, his hands laced on top of his head keeping him in place, as if letting go would have him spiraling into the ground, round and round until he was planted, unmoving. “Because I was afraid of the truth. Afraid I would search and never find you. Afraid I’d find you dead. Afraid you’d be alive and kicking and want nothing to do with me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Why
wouldn’t
I think that? Any of it. You weren’t in touch.
You weren’t in touch
. You couldn’t have called? Or dropped a postcard in the mail once a year at Christmas? You couldn’t have let us know you were alive? You let us think the worst. You let us believe you’d written us off. That you didn’t care. That we didn’t matter. Indiana—”

Tennessee cut himself off, his voice raw and strained and finally choked by emotions that had him turning away again, had him walking the length of the barn and standing in the far entrance, as far away as he could get without leaving the premises.

It was a distance all too familiar, one that continued to expand the closer they got, or at least the closer they tried. Dakota wasn’t sure what to do, what to say. His brother was right. He hadn’t been in touch. He’d left his siblings hanging, while at the same time he’d kept tabs on their lives. Not exactly a fair exchange of information, and they didn’t even know.

So, yeah. Tennessee had a point. He and Indiana had deserved more consideration. And Dakota had one more thing to atone for. He was going to need to live a hell of a long life to cover even half the list, he mused, turning at the sound of an approaching car and thankful for the interruption.