Bend in the Road Page 7

  Chapter Twelve

  JUNIPER

  Somehow, I make it through almost an entire day without seeing Gabe, except for the few minutes when I ended up right behind him in the à la carte line at lunch. He didn’t say a word and, after he paid, walked right past the table where Ted and Amelia were sitting. He pushed open the door to the courtyard and sat down at one of the picnic tables. Alone. As in, he was the only person out in the courtyard on a typically chilly, cloudy fall day in northern Minnesota. At least he’s got Watson’s Army jacket.

  My luck runs out in fifth period, Entrepreneurship & Business Management, when Gabe, still wearing the jacket, strolls in and introduces himself to Mrs. Marxen, who raises her eyebrows at his disheveled, rock star appearance. I look down at my notebook, my blonde curls falling over my face, hoping that he won’t notice me.

  “I’m Gabriel Hudson,” he says. I’m surprised to hear him use his full name.

  “Yesss!” Chloe Horrible, who sits one row over and one seat up from me, isn’t shy about expressing her excitement. She turns in her seat. “Oh my God, I hope I get paired up with him for the project. Wouldn’t that be so amazing?”

  “So amazing,” I repeat.

  “Ah yes,” Marxen says. “Chris Hudson’s boy. I heard you’d be gracing my class with your presence. Lucky me.”

  I almost snort.

  Marxen has been around a while. She’s not from Harper’s Mill originally, but she’s well versed on the Hudson family lore.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Gabe says. Someone laughs, and Marxen shoots a glare in that direction.

  “Call me Mrs. Marxen,” she says, “not ma’am. There’s an empty desk behind Juniper Bell. I’m sure you’re already well acquainted. Perhaps she can help you get up to speed.”

  Chloe turns around again, her mouth open and her eyes wide. “Oh my God,” she says again. “He’s so hot.”

  I roll my eyes as Gabe walks down the row toward his seat. He doesn’t say anything, not that I expect him to. He even goes so far as to scoot his desk back a little to put more distance between us.

  “Your timing is perfect, Mr. Hudson,” Marxen says after he’s settled. Why does she call him that? She’s never called me Ms. Bell or Chloe Ms. Horrible. “Today, you’ll be assigned partners for your trimester project. Thanks to you, we now have an even number of students in the class.”

  She goes on to describe the assignment, most likely for his benefit because the rest of us already know: Create a comprehensive business plan for a small business that includes an executive summary, company mission statement, keys to success. . . . Marxen doesn’t stop talking for a long time. I hope she never stops talking and the bell rings before she can get to partner assignments. I cross my fingers that Chloe gets her wish.

  “And now,” she says dramatically, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” She marks up a piece of paper that must be the “partner” list. She reads off names, pair after pair. My dread increases with every name that isn’t mine or Gabe’s. Chloe is paired up with Olivia Parker, a quiet junior who also can’t take her eyes off Gabe. Chloe sighs loudly. Of course, the last names on the list are mine and Gabe’s.

  “So unfair!” Chloe stage-whispers.

  I don’t hear any sound from the person in the seat behind me. Nothing. No reaction.

  “With that,” Marxen says, “scooch together and brainstorm a list of ten possible businesses. Share phone numbers or email addresses or Snaps or however you want to communicate with each other. Tomorrow, you’ll need to have that list narrowed to three. There can be no duplicate businesses, so think outside the box, people. And please, no coffee shops or bakeries. I’m sick to death of coffee shops and bakeries.”

  The other fourteen students move next to their partners. Not me or Gabe. I turn around to find him staring at me.

  “What?” I snap as I stand partway to flip my desk to face his.

  He doesn’t say anything but locks his eyes with mine, those beautiful, unforgettable green eyes. So this is how it’s going to be. A stare-down. I don’t think we can pass the class if all we do is stare at each other. I raise an eyebrow. I’m not going to be the first to say something. I’m not. I swear, I’m going to beat him at his own game.

  “Do you have any ideas?” I blurt.

  He shakes his head. “Not a one.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “You can’t be serious. I’m sure you’re dying to suggest some sort of trendy vegan all-day-breakfast food truck or specialty shaving supplies store? Hipster beard oil? Something super LA?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not the LA I know. I’ll be honest here. This project, this class—they’re not at the top of my list of priorities right now.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “Look, Gabe, I know you have a lot going on. But I need an A in this class.” I don’t tell him why, that I can’t afford to lose my scholarship at Cloquet Valley State University in Fred Lake. I’m already planning to live at home and commute to save on housing costs, and I’ll be able to keep my job at the park reserve, too. I’ve been setting aside most of what I’ve earned so far for books and tuition.

  He’s quiet for a minute, then, “Fine. Fifty-fifty. You come up with five ideas, I’ll come up with five ideas.”

  I scowl. “Fine.” I open my notebook and tear out a sheet of paper.

  Trendy vegan all-day-breakfast food truck

  Specialty shaving supplies

  Recording studio for underprivileged youth

  Roadside farm stand

  Donut shop

  I slam my pen down and slide the paper onto his desk. He barely glances at it.

  “Recording studio for underprivileged youth? What even is that?” he asks.

  I widen my eyes. “What, not altruistic enough for you?”

  He ignores me. “She said no bakeries.”

  “You were listening! Donuts only. Specialized. Your turn.”

  He picks up his pen and writes, carefully and slowly, pausing between each list item. He slides the paper back to me when he’s done and smiles.

  His smile about knocks me over. Perfect straight white teeth, lines like twin parentheses on either side of his broad mouth. I swallow hard, then glance down at our list, surprised by his neat, all-capitals penmanship.

  DRIVE-IN RESTAURANT WITH CARHOPS

  FASHION EYEWEAR/INSTAGRAM INFLUENCER

  VINTAGE CLOTHING STYLIST

  GROCERY DELIVERY SERVICE

  CLASSIC CAR RESTORATION

  “Carhops?” I ask. “Is that still a thing?”

  “It could be.”

  “Isn’t that a little sexist? Pretty girls in short skirts delivering burgers and cherry limeades on roller skates?”

  “No one said anything about girls.”

  “Male carhops?”

  He shrugs. “Any gender. And retro is big right now.”

  I read through the list one more time and sigh. I think the grocery delivery service might have been intended as a jab, but overall, the ideas aren’t horrible.

  “Good enough?” he asks.

  “Yeah, good enough.”

  The bell rings and Gabe practically launches himself out of the chair and out the door.

  “Lucky you!” Olivia Parker squeals.

  “Lucky me,” I mumble.

  At dinner, Mom grills me about Gabe.

  “How was his first day? Did you show him around?”

  I take a spoonful of chicken and wild rice soup and fight the urge to roll my eyes. “No, I did not show him around. As far as I can tell, he survived. He didn’t say one word on the drive home, not even thank you after I dropped him off.”

  Mom sets down her spoon and links her hands together, elbows on the table. “Do you have any classes together?”

  “One. E-biz. And wouldn’t you know, we got paired up for a project. I’d rather be paired up with Chloe Horrible.” I fill her in on the assignment.

  “So? Did you narrow your list down to three?”

  I know that,
as a woman who runs a business herself, she’s genuinely interested in our brainstorm session. She was thrilled when I told her that I wanted to follow in her footsteps and study ag and horticulture, that I’d like to stay on at the farm and continue my work in Dad’s greenhouse. I would stay here forever if I could.

  I can’t shake the worry, though, of what Gabe might do after he inherits. I dip my spoon into the bowl of soup, lift the spoon, let the soup drip back into the bowl.

  “We didn’t get that far. Hopefully we can figure it out on the way to school tomorrow. Thanks for the executive carpool order, by the way. Not awkward at all.”

  Mom sighs but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge my comment. “He’s only been here a couple of days, Juniper. Give him some time. Give him a chance.”

  Give him a chance to do what? I push my bowl away.

  I look back up. Mom’s eyes are soft, kind. Unlike my blue eyes, hers are a light brown. I may have gotten Dad’s eyes, but I definitely take after Mom in the height department. What she lacks in stature, she makes up for in strength. Physical and mental. I’ve seen her lift a 120-pound ewe like it was nothing, and I haven’t seen her cry since the day Leona died. She’s compassionate and sensitive to the needs of everyone around her, but she rarely lets her own emotions get the better of her.

  That’s another way we differ. I can be a bit salty, as Ted likes to point out, and it doesn’t take much to set off my waterworks. I’ve been known to cry when a bird flies into the picture window in the living room.

  “We’ve weathered some storms over the years,” Mom says, “some of them real storms, like the year a hailstorm completely obliterated the pumpkin crop. For a while, after your dad died, I thought I wouldn’t be able to do this without him. I was this close to packing it in and moving to Wisconsin to be closer to my folks.”

  “You were? You never told me!”

  She smiles. “There are some things you don’t tell your young daughter who’s just lost her father to cancer. Leona told me that she’d felt the same way after Hal died, that she couldn’t stand to live here without him by her side. But she also said that one day, I wouldn’t see only pain and heart-ache around me. And that I had to stay because it was the right thing to do for you, like it had been the right thing for her to stay for Chris and Janie, even though they were much older when Hal died. She was right. She was right about a lot of things.”

  “Why did Leona leave the farm to Gabe?” I don’t want Mom to know that I’m worried, but I can’t help asking the question. “And why only fifty-one percent and not the whole thing?”

  “It’s complicated,” Mom says. “But she had her reasons. There were some rough years before Chris got clean. She didn’t think Gabe should know when he was younger, because she didn’t want that extra pressure on him. He’s had enough to worry about, more than any kid should have to deal with.”

  I nod and she continues. “I assume you’re up to speed on everything that’s going on with him right now? What happened in LA?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, then, that he’s going through some things right now. Imagine how lonely and out of place he must feel. He could use a little grace, Juniper.”

  I think about him in that video, crouched against that car, seized by panic. I think about the statement from the record label. I think about Leona’s funeral and how he’s all alone in the farmhouse. Maybe she’s right.

  “Talk to him, hon,” Mom says softly. “Show him around the farm. And don’t forget, you’ll catch more flies with honey than you will with vinegar.”

  As I clear the table and rinse dishes before putting them in the dishwasher, her words echo in my mind: Catch more flies with honey. Catch more flies with honey.

  That might be the answer I’m looking for.

  Chapter Thirteen

  GABE

  Turns out that public school isn’t that much different than Barlow-Winston except for the lack of uniforms and considerably less gossip, other than a few people I’ve noticed whispering about me as I pass by in the hall. And the fact that I have no music classes. I wonder if that was intentional on Janie’s part or if they don’t offer anything.

  Laurel has invited me up to the little red house every night for dinner, but as much as I would love a home-cooked meal rather than another frozen pizza, I’ve declined. Being around Juniper in Entrepreneurship & Business Management—or e-biz, as she calls it—is stressful enough. I know three things: One, she treats me like I’m some Joe Schmo off the street, not the rich-kid son of two celebrities with his own chart-topping album (and one horseshit follow-up album); two, I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that she treats me like some Joe Schmo off the street; and three, I realize how fucked up it is that I’m not thrilled about it.

  In e-biz on Wednesday, we choose our project topics. First we narrowed it down to three: roadside farm stand, donut shop, and the grocery delivery service, which was meant to be snarky. If she noticed, Juniper didn’t mention it.

  “Donut shop?” Marxen has been walking around the classroom peering over shoulders. “I said no bakeries.”

  I smile to myself while Juniper stumbles over an explanation. “It’s a specialty pastry shop, not a bakery!”

  “Don’t argue semantics with me,” Marxen says. “I’ve made your decision easier.”

  After Marxen moves on to the next students, I say, “You know, I really don’t care. Pick whatever you want.”

  I know exactly which one she’ll choose. She circles roadside farm stand on the paper.

  “Excellent,” I say, slouching down in my chair and stretching out my legs. “I was hoping you’d pick that. You already know everything there is to know about running a farm stand.”

  She opens her mouth to say something, closes it again, opens it. I can almost see her biting her tongue.

  “Well,” she says slowly, “we don’t exactly have a farm stand at Stone & Wool. Mostly we take vegetables to the farmers’ market, and occasionally a customer will stop by for larger quantities.”

  “Sounds similar, at least.”

  “Why don’t I give you a tour of the farm after school today, and you can get a feel for it?” She sounds . . . less snide? “I mean, I assume you haven’t had time with your important, busy schedule to have a look around.”

  Ah, there it is. I almost laugh. She can’t help herself.

  On the other hand, she’s not wrong. I’ve got a guy from the commercial real estate company coming to “have a look around” right after school.

  “Sure,” I say. “I do have something on my important, busy schedule that will last about a half hour, but I could take a tour, sure.”

  “Fine. I’ll meet you at the farmhouse.”

  That might be tricky if the real estate guy is still around. I think fast. The greenhouse is behind the little red house and not completely visible from the road, so maybe she won’t see the agent. “How about I meet you at the greenhouse instead? You’ll be working there anyway, right?”

  She narrows her eyes at me in suspicion. “Yes,” she says slowly. “I will be working in the greenhouse, as it happens.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “Perfect,” she echoes. “And hopefully, once you’ve had the tour, you’ll start to contribute more to this project.”

  “Maybe I will,” I say as the bell rings.

  Probably not, not when I’ve got other shit to worry about.

  There’s a black luxury SUV in the driveway when Juniper drops me off. I guess the agent decided to show up early.

  “Who’s that?” Juniper asks.

  “No idea. Maybe Chris is here finally and it’s a rental?” The lie sounds flimsy even to me. But I’m out of the car and slamming the door before she can ask any more questions.

  The SUV is unoccupied, and there’s no sign of the agent. Luckily, Juniper’s halfway up the road back to her house before the guy walks out from behind the garage.

  “You must be Gabe,” he says. “Eric Dunbar, Riverside
Commercial Properties. I’m so glad you called the best agency in northeast Minnesota, and you will be, too. Here’s my card.”

  Eric Dunbar, Riverside Commercial Properties, has got to be about six and a half feet tall, with a mass of brown hair and pale white skin covered in freckles. He’s dressed in a poorly tailored charcoal gray suit with a bright red tie and brown loafers crusted with soil. His handshake is firm but sweaty.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I came a little early,” he says before I can return his obnoxious greeting. “I kept myself fairly well out of sight, though. Don’t want to give the caretaker anything to worry about now, do I?” He chuckles to himself. “I took a good look around, got a good idea of the lay of the land. You’ve got a tremendous property here, Gabe. Tremendous. The river on one side, park reserve on the other. Land like this is highly sought-after. I think this could be a very attractive property to the right buyer. Now, what kind of time frame are we looking at here?”

  “I’m not sure, to be honest,” I say. “This whole thing was sort of dropped on me, and I’m not quite up to speed yet. I only met with my attorney a couple of days ago.”

  “Good, good.” Eric Dunbar nods.

  “I’m only interested in valuation at this time,” I continue.

  “Sure, sure.” He nods again. “Ideally, we’d get this on the market before the snow flies, of course, but you let me know once you’ve got all the details. Now, do you have any questions for me?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Do you want to come in the house or—”

  “No, no, I’m a little short on time this afternoon.” His voice booms across the yard. “That’s why I came early. I didn’t go into any of the outbuildings, of course, but I doubt that will matter in the long run. I’m sure you’re wondering dollar amount, correct? Who might be interested in this land, things like that? I’ll need a day or two to put together the information you’re looking for. Sound good?”

  “Yeah,” I say again. “Exactly what I’m looking for. I do have some questions, so—”

  “Fantastic.” He cuts me off again. “Great to meet you, Gabe. I’ll be in touch. Give me a call if any other questions come up.”