Chapter 5

A Hornet’s Nest

So far, so good.

I smile as I read the text Nathan sent me this morning for the tenth time.

I’ll see you at six-thirty. Can’t wait.

I know, I know. It may be a lie. Just another of those sweet lines from his book that don’t mean anything. But my heart skips a few beats just the same.

My event finished on time at two, so I was able to go home, take a shower and change. In the end, I chose a beaded little black dress. Chic. Classic.

I even had time to go to the salon to have my hair styled and my nails done.

Now, I’m ready. Well, almost.

I just have to buy myself some breathe mints. If there is any chance that Nathan decides to kiss me again, I want to be prepared. It’s been a while since I’ve had to prep for a date and someone kissing me and I’m nervous but excited about it. This whole thing is totally unexpected and I’m enjoying the thrill of it all.

I already have the safety pins Mattie gave me in my purse and some tape in case I need to do any temporary fixes.

I’m not taking any chances.

I head over to the convenience store. Moments later, I come out.

Now, I’m ready.

I cross the street and start walking. The art gallery isn’t far away and I still have — I glance at my watch — thirty-three minutes. Enough time to look at some paintings while waiting for my date.

Excited, but trying to keep myself calm, I put one foot in front of the other, “The Greatest” by Sia playing in my head.

Suddenly, the music screeches to a stop and so do I, a familiar sight coming into view across the street.

A pickup truck parked in front of a café.

Not just any pickup truck.

Rusty red. A faded bumper sticker saying Born To Be Wild above the dent.

A dent caused by the fence one stormy night.

The fence on the farm back home.

Yup, I know that truck. There’s only one of its kind in the world.

My brother’s truck.

The question is: What is it doing here in New York City?

I cross the street to investigate, peeking inside the café, my eyes growing wide as I recognize the couple sitting near the counter. The woman is in her mid-50s with graying hair and glasses, the man in his early 60s, his hair bald and his mustache white, his worn brown leather jacket the same one he’s been wearing for the past twenty years.

Alice and Charlie Willis, my parents.

What are they doing here?

They haven’t noticed me. They’re busy talking to someone. A man in his forties with black hair.

I’ve never seen him before.

Well, at least, my dad is talking. My mom’s quiet as usual. She always looks so small and timid beside my stocky, loud father.

She seems more timid than usual, though, her shoulders slumped as if she’s trying to make herself disappear, as if she doesn’t really want to be there.

She seems nervous, too, her hands twisting the hem of her shirt.

But why?

Who are they talking to? Why are they here? Why didn’t they tell me they’d be here?

They usually call when they come to town.

Unless… they don’t want to see me? Why wouldn’t they? I’m the only child they have left — the only family they have left, in fact. And the last time we spoke on the phone, everything was fine.

There shouldn’t be a reason why they don’t want to see me.

There’s one more thing bothering me.

Why did they drive my brother’s pickup truck? My Dad hates driving that thing. And he hasn’t touched it — no one has — since Jack died.

Something isn’t right. And I have to find out what.

I enter the café, and as soon as my mother’s eyes meet mine, hers wide and full of anxiety, my suspicion is confirmed.

Something’s wrong.

“What’s going on here?” I ask as I approach the table.

Mom stands up and gives me a hug. “Oh, sweetheart, what a surprise.”

“What are you doing here?” my father asks grumpily.

He’s only grumpy when the Yankees lose. Or he’s hiding something.

“I live here, Dad,” I tell him, eyeing the envelope in his hand. “Have you forgotten?”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” he asks.

Shouldn’t you be in Rumney? I want to ask.

“We were gonna call you, but we didn’t want to disturb you,” my mother says, stroking my cheek. “Oh, you look so beautiful.”

She’s trying to butter me up, which means Dad’s done something I don’t like.

And I already have a feeling what it is.

“Dad, why is Jack’s pickup truck in front?”

“What pickup truck?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about. Rusty Red. With a dent.”

“Oh, that dent can be fixed easily,” the stranger at the table says. “After that, all it needs is a new coat of paint and it will be as good as new.”

I look at him. “I’m sorry. I’m Samantha Willis, their daughter. You are?”

“George Harding.” He shakes my hand. “I contacted your father a few days ago about a pickup truck he was selling, and I asked him to bring it here so I could buy it. It looks better than I thought.”

I freeze. So, it’s true. I had a feeling that was it.

“Dad?” I look at my father, my voice trembling. “You sold Jack’s truck?”

“I’m sorry,” George says. “But who’s Jack?”

“My older brother,” I answer. “He died a few years ago.”

“Oh.” George looks sorry he asked.

“That’s right,” my father says. “He died. So, he’s not gonna need that truck anymore, is he?”

I can’t speak. I can’t breathe, tears pooling in my eyes. How dare he say that? How dare he raise his voice at me in a public place when he hasn’t done it since I was five?

“Sam…” I feel my mother’s hands on my shoulders.

They’re not comforting. They’re restraining, knowing I’m about to burst.

“And you know I can’t drive that thing,” my father goes on. “And neither can you.”

“Things have been tough on the farm, Sam,” my mother adds softly. “We still haven’t recovered from that storm last year, and then the pigs got a respiratory infection a few months ago. We need the money.”

“You could have at least told me,” I say. “You know I would have done anything just so we wouldn’t have to sell Jack’s truck.”

“That’s why we didn’t tell you.” My mother rubs my arms. “We didn’t want to bother you.”

“I would rather you bothered me instead of hurting me like this.” Tears trickle down my cheeks. “How could you think of selling Jack’s truck without letting me know, knowing that I’d be devastated?”

“That’s exactly why we didn’t tell you, damn it.” My father raises his voice, causing a few heads to turn. “I knew you were gonna cry and put up a fuss. You’re not a little girl anymore. Grow up.”

Mom moves behind him. “Charlie…”

Dad looks at me. “Jack’s dead. There’s nothing you can do about it. So just fucking move on, all right?”

For a moment, I don’t move. I can’t. I’m so shocked by my father’s behavior, I can barely breathe.

When the shock fades, the pain sets in. Then the anger.

“I don’t expect you to understand, Dad. After all, you’re not his little sister. Yes, he was your son, but he’s been long dead to you, hasn’t he? Ever since he decided to live his life as his own and not how you wanted him to.”

My mother comes over to me. “Sam…”

I shrug off her hand, my gaze, blurred with tears, still on my dad.

“It may just be a truck to you, but for me, it stands for so much, for everything he loved. And that can’t be measured in money. And you know what else can’t be measured in money, Dad? The love and respect of your daughter. And now, you’ve lost it, too.”

I turn on my heel, leaving. I ignore my Mom calling after me, knowing she wants to come after me but can’t because she has to stay by my father’s side. And I ignore the people in the café whose stares are stabbing my back like daggers.

I don’t care. I don’t care anymore.