Bend in the Road Page 5

  “Where are you going?” Janie asks.

  “For a drive,” Ted says. “Probably to Fred Lake.”

  “We’ve got a special on root beer floats this weekend,” Bud says.

  “Keep an eye out for deer.” This, of course, from Frank.

  “Well,” Ted says as we drive out of the farm, “you survived your first family dinner! Congratulations!”

  “Could have been worse.”

  “What could be more awkward than having an attorney come to Sunday night supper?”

  Ted drives into town, past the high school, the drugstore, and the SuperValu, out of town, and about twenty miles east on the main highway into Frederick Lake. All the while, I scan back and forth for deer. Fred Lake seems to be going through a boom—a couple of fast-food restaurants under construction, a bright green GRAND OPENING banner at a food co-op, parcels of farmland with giant FOR DEVELOPMENT signs, thick yellow and black stripes below the words.

  We pull into the parking lot at Uncle Bud’s, and Ted has to drive around back to find an open spot. He takes out his phone and dials. “You want anything?” he asks me.

  “Surprise me,” I say.

  “Violet, hey, it’s Ted. Oh, you were at the game? Yeah? Thanks. Well, I’m in the parking lot and—yeah, I’ll take my usual, but make it two. You’ll never guess who I have with me. . . . Gabe Hudson, in the flesh.” He pauses while Violet yammers on. “Really? You’ll do that? Perfect. I’m parked in front of the service door in back, actually.”

  He ends the call. “On the house tonight and Violet’s sending somebody out with it.”

  “Who’s Violet?” I ask.

  “Bud’s great-granddaughter, which makes her a cousin. You’ve met her. She sang at Gran’s funeral.”

  “Ah,” I say, as though I remember.

  A few minutes later, a kid wearing a backward baseball cap and a bright green T-shirt with Uncle Bud’s World Famous embroidered above the pocket brings out a giant white paper bag and two drinks in a carrier. He hands them to Ted through the open window.

  “Hey, Ted,” the kid says, his voice cracking. “Violet said to tell you to stay out of trouble.”

  “Tell her thanks.” Ted hands me the bag and when I start to open it, says, “Whoa whoa whoa. Hold your horses there, buckaroo. You can’t eat that here. This calls for a trip to the park.”

  We pass the movie theater and a used bookstore and Ted turns in to Riverview Park, home of Big Louie, a twenty-foot-tall wooden voyageur. The sun’s gone down and the place is nearly deserted. I follow Ted across the grass to a picnic table by the statue that overlooks the Lone Wolf River, which from here winds around to the west, through Harper’s Mill and the Hudson property.

  “Now you may open the bag,” Ted says reverently.

  I do, and with a dramatic flourish pull out two foil-covered paper boats of Bud’s Spuds, deep-fried hash brown tots loaded with cheese, bacon, sour cream, and green onions.

  “Oh, damn, I haven’t had these in years,” I say. “How are you hungry already?”

  “I’m always hungry.” He takes the bag and roots around, pulling out napkins and two plastic sporks. He hands me half of the haul, then lifts his drink and taps it against mine. “Cheers. Welcome to Minnesota.”

  “Cheers.” I lift the lid off my cup and sniff before drinking. Root beer. I replace the lid and take a long sip. “That’s good.”

  “Bet they don’t have spuds and root beer like this out in LA,” Ted says and laughs. “If you need a reason to stay, this could be it.”

  “Funny.” I stab one of the tots, making sure the distribution of toppings is balanced for maximum flavor, and pop it in my mouth. He’s not wrong about these spuds.

  “So. What do you think about it all?” he asks tentatively.

  “How long have you known?” I ask.

  “About Gran’s will? ’Bout as long as you, I guess.”

  “You didn’t seem surprised earlier when I told you.”

  He shrugs. “I’m not surprised. And I’m not mad, if that’s what you think. I guess I just assumed she’d left it all to Chris, you know? I never thought I’d inherit, anyway.”

  “But, I don’t know, would you want to?”

  He shovels another forkful into his mouth and shakes his head. “Nah,” he says as he chews. “I don’t mind the work, but I’m not cut out for a lifetime of farming.”

  “Not even the dairy? When your dad retires?”

  “Nope. I want to play football in college and then teach. Coach someday. I’m not a dairy farmer. That’s more Frankie’s thing.”

  We eat in silence for a couple of minutes, then Ted asks, “What if you stayed for a while?”

  I look up in surprise. “Stay . . . here?”

  “Yeah, at the farm. What’s keeping you in LA right now? I mean, no offense, but your career’s in the shitter—temporarily, of course—your girlfriend dumped you and threw you under the bus. Seems like you could use a break.”

  “Wow, when you put it like that . . .”

  He ignores me. “The farm’s basically yours now. Why not stay here and be a regular high school kid for once in your life instead of some, I don’t know, world-famous, award-winning rock star?”

  Ha. A regular high school kid who’s about to inherit a farm. Good one. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Hell, yes, I’m serious. It would get you out of the spotlight for a while, and you’d get to hang out with me. What more could a guy ask for?”

  Let’s see. I’d start with a briefcase full of cash and/or a time machine to travel back to when I told Marley I’d get her the money she needed and this time tell her to figure it out herself. As an added bonus, maybe she would have dumped me sooner. And, as long as I’m asking, I’d go back even further and not fuck up the album. Easy.

  “What have you got to lose?” Ted asks when I don’t respond right away. He lifts his drink and sucks through the straw, the loud gurgle of the empty cup filling the cool night air around us.

  “Yeah,” I murmur. There is nothing left to lose. “Hey, Ted, how much do you think Stone & Wool is worth?”

  He chokes a little and sets down the cup. “Why? You wouldn’t sell the farm, would you? Because that would be a shit thing to do. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’m only thinking about my assets, you know? To have some idea of what it’s worth for my, uh, portfolio?”

  “Your assets, huh?” Ted lands me a skeptical glance. “I don’t know much about assets, but I do know a thing or two about asses. And only an ass would sell off his family’s farm, Gabe.”

  “I know, I know,” I say, putting my hands up in surrender. “Forget I said anything!”

  Until he said the words, the thought of selling hadn’t crossed my mind. But he’s right. Only an ass would sell. The same kind of ass who would beg a guy to transfer money from his dad’s account into his own to give money to his addict girlfriend.

  Ex-girlfriend. Who probably won’t pay me back even if she does get out of rehab before the end of the year.

  I sigh and look past Ted to the river. Chris brought me here once, the summer after he and Elise split up the first time and after his first stay at Hazelden, the one that didn’t stick. We sat on a bench not far from this spot and watched the river rush by, the same river that borders the Hudson farmland. He talked about rehab and how sorry he was about the separation.

  He went on and on about the river. How he could sit for hours and watch the river pass, how the river changes constantly yet remains the same. He was reading a book called Siddhartha, thinking about the idea that you can never step in the same river twice because the river has changed and so have you. Big Louie, he said, has borne witness to a lot of life-changing moments.

  I think I might understand what he felt that day.

  “You know what?” I say. “I could probably stay for a few weeks.”

  “Cool,” Ted says, nodding. “Mom can probably help with all the school shit.�
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  “Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”

  I take a deep breath of cool air, rich with the scent of pine and river and earth. Tomorrow, I’ll get my shit together. I’ll talk to the attorney and find out what it means that I’m about to inherit the family farm. I’ll get Janie’s help to register at the high school. I’ll lie low and let the rumors die down.

  Tonight, I’ll sit by Big Louie with Ted. We’ll watch the river together, watch it pass by, watch it constantly change and never change.

  Tonight, I am a river.

  Chapter Eight

  JUNIPER

  Monday morning, I wake early, groggy and out of sorts, so before I shower, I take a brisk walk to the park and back. I don’t have time to go all the way to the overlook, but even so, the sunrise is spectacular: pale blues and pinks that deepen to a rosy orange. This early, the air is brisk, the grass still damp and covered with oak and maple leaves, golden yellow and rich red. I can always count on the trail, no matter the season. I fill my lungs with crisp, clean air.

  That’s better.

  When I get back to the house, Mom is already at the big barn. I work through the rest of my morning routine: Make my bed, shower, dress. I go downstairs to make breakfast, wheat toast with chunky peanut butter and a glass of cranberry juice—my mainstay since I was in preschool. Then I brew a fresh pot of Proper Cuppa, my traditional English breakfast blend with a hint of blackberry and hazelnut. I pour myself a to-go mug, scribble Mom a note that we’re almost out of peanut butter, and grab my backpack.

  I back out of the garage and wait for the automatic door to close before actually driving away, thinking that everything could change. Today, Gabe meets with Allan. Chris hasn’t been here much this year. Maybe he’s already decided to sell, and he needs to get Gabe on board when he comes into the inheritance. And why wouldn’t Gabe want to sell? He has no ties to this place. But I do. This is the only home I’ve ever known, the repository of all my best memories, the place where, every day, I honor my dad and the work he did here.

  The idea that things might change—because of Gabe—creates a knot of worry in my stomach.

  I drive the same route to school every day. Cutting across Walnut Street might save me a couple of minutes, but I prefer staying on the county road, which hugs the river. I listen to public radio for the news and weather. On Wednesdays, I leave a few minutes early to give myself time to stop into Hartman’s Bakery for a bear claw because every Wednesday, Hartman’s donates all the day’s proceeds to a local nonprofit. On Friday mornings, I bring tea samples to the office ladies or the FACS teachers or the media center specialists.

  I like my routine, which isn’t to say I get flustered or upset if the bear claws are sold out or I need to stop for gas on my way to school. It’s more that, if possible, I like to be prepared for the unexpected, which makes no sense, I know.

  I’ve had enough unexpected in my life, thank you.

  I want things to be the way they’re supposed to be.

  I want to drive to school, park in my usual spot, eat my usual lunch, learn the usual things.

  No one can fault me for that.

  Chapter Nine

  GABE

  Frank pulls in to a parking spot on Main Street in front of the Law Office of Keen & Clark at five minutes to nine Monday morning. I barely slept and I couldn’t eat, so I’m running on caffeine and uncertainty. I have no idea how this meeting’s going to go, but I’m glad that Frank’s here with me. I open the door into a small lobby, which seems smaller with dark seventies wood paneling on the walls. A window AC unit blasts cold air into the room even though it can’t be fifty degrees outside.

  “I’m Gabe Hudson, here to meet with Allan Keen,” I say to the woman with ash-gray hair who sits behind the reception desk.

  “Hi, Gabe Hudson. Hi, Frank,” the woman says. I hear the buzz of an electric typewriter, which she switches off before she stands and extends her hand. She smiles as I shake it. “Chickadee. You can call me Chickie. Nice to meet you. You both have a seat, and I’ll let Allan know you’re here.”

  Frank and I sit down in orange overstuffed chairs to wait. I lean forward, my hands on my knees, and whoosh out a breath.

  “You nervous?” Frank asks. “Nothing to be nervous about. Now, singing onstage in front of tens of thousands of people? That’s something to be nervous about, and you’ve done that often enough. This’ll be a piece of cake.”

  God, I hope he’s right.

  “You can go on back now, boys,” Chickie says as she reappears from a long hallway. I let Frank lead the way to Allan’s office. The room is sparse and neat, a desk with a laptop and a few file folders, a round table in one corner, a wide window that looks out into a parking lot. There’s a painting of a ship in a storm on the wall behind him with a plaque underneath: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

  “Young Hudson,” Allan says after I sit down. “Frank. Good to see you again. So. Let’s jump right in. Tell me how much you know, Gabe, and I’ll skip ahead if I need to.”

  “Considering that I know nothing, why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  The wrinkles of his face fold onto themselves when he smiles. He leans forward and steeples his fingers. He’s clearly thrilled at the prospect and lays out a story that goes back generations, beginning with Finnish immigrants. He tells me how the Hudson family came to own first Gran’s farm and then the dairy. Some of it seems familiar, things overheard at the cabin or from Chris.

  “Now,” Allan says, then pauses. He reaches for a mug on the desk, looks inside, then sets it down again without drinking. “Here’s where things get tricky. I know I don’t need to tell you about Chris’s struggles with addiction.”

  At my nod, he continues. “Your grandmother had a lot on her plate in those days. Her husband had died, Chris was gallivanting around the world snorting cocaine—apologies for my insensitivity, Gabe—and she had two farms to manage. That’s when she sold the dairy business to Frank here—Frank, how are ya?—and thank goodness she had Doug and Laurel running Stone & Wool. She had some decisions to make, and let me tell you, the hours I spent at that kitchen table drinking coffee and eating coffee cake to get there. Did you ever have your gran’s sour cream coffee cake, Gabe?”

  I smile and shake my head. “Not that I recall.”

  “Shame, shame. Maybe Janie has the recipe. But I digress.”

  Much of what Allan explains is over my head, but to boil it down, Gran was worried about Chris (and Elise) overdosing and leaving me a homeless orphan—which, at the time, wasn’t far-fetched. She wanted to make sure I had a place to live. He goes on and on with the legal stuff about the inheritance.

  “What questions do you have for me, Gabe?” Allan asks finally, sitting back in his chair.

  I might as well be the ass and ask the question. I lean forward. “What if I want to sell? How quickly could that happen?”

  Frank turns to me in surprise.

  “Hypothetically speaking, of course,” I add quickly.

  “Well, assuming Chris is of a similar frame of mind, a transaction of this nature could wrap up in, oh, two, three months.”

  “I see.” I sit back in my chair, the wheels in my brain turning with ifs. If Chris wanted to sell. If I could find a buyer—and fast. If all the moving pieces moved in the right direction at the right time, I could have the money by the end of the year and back in Chris’s account before his year-end recap meeting.

  “Best piece of advice I can give you right now?” Allan says. “If you ultimately decide to sell, let me know immediately, and I can assist throughout the process.”

  “Got it,” I tell him.

  “I’ve got one more thing and then I’ll let you go. You are the first grandchild, Gabe. To hear Leona talk, the sun rose and set with you. When she got sick, I asked her if she wanted to revisit the estate plan, and she said she knew in her heart that this was the right thing to do. She hoped you would see this for the gift that it is. To learn to appre
ciate your heritage. . . . At the same time, she didn’t want you to resent her for it, and she wanted to protect the family legacy. It’s a delicate balance.”

  Gran was a good person. Too good for me. Too good to me. God, she’d be so disappointed if she knew what was going through my head right now.

  “I’m on your side, Gabe,” Allan says. “I’m here to help you.”

  He doesn’t know me or what I’ve done. If he knew why I needed the money, I doubt he’d be so quick to offer.

  “Well,” Frank says as we sit down at a booth in a diner across the street from Allan’s office, “you’ve got a pretty big decision in front of you. Pancakes or waffles?” He laughs at his own joke.

  “Funny. French toast, actually.”

  The server brings us coffee, water, and orange juice before we’ve even opened the menus. We don’t speak for a long time as we look over the menu selections.

  “So, you get all that?” Frank finally asks after the server takes our orders.

  “What?” I ask. “What Allan said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, mostly.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, Ted said you were thinking about maybe staying, then?” Frank says after he drains a glass of orange juice.

  I nod. “For a few weeks.” I glance at my watch. I should be in first period at Barlow-Winston right now. I wonder if Chris called me in absent and laugh to myself. “I guess I need to figure out school.”

  “Why don’t I drive you over there after breakfast, and Janie can get you all settled?” he says. I nod. The server brings our plates, and for a few minutes I watch in awe as Frank packs it away—bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, hash browns.

  I eat half of my French toast and then set my fork down as an idea occurs to me. “Frank, what about you? Would you ever consider buying Stone & Wool?”

  He laughs as he sops up egg yolk with a piece of toast. Then he looks up. “You’re serious?”