Whatever You Say Read online

  Loretta sidled up to Brody, occasionally bumping into his leg as they walked across the gravel drive toward the garage housing the tractor, mower, and other machinery.

  “Hey, what’re you up to?”

  Startled, Brody snapped around and saw his sister, Liza, walking up the lane, her purple hair fluttering in the cool breeze. She was wearing a long quilted coat she’d found at a thrift store and green rubber boots. He’d never understood her style, but then again, it was ever changing so what was the point?

  “Hey, stranger. Where’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a week,” Brody said.

  “Working on a new series of winter landscapes and trying to get my orders finished before the holidays hit.” Liza was a talented watercolor artist, successfully selling her art at regional galleries, as well as online. She made one-of-a-kind, custom-ordered Christmas cards from her watercolor designs and was always swamped this time of year. “Plus, I had to work at the bar three nights last week. One of the other bartenders was sick.” She’d worked at the Brass Rail since college and couldn’t seem to give it up. She claimed it was all that got her out of the house, but Brody thought it was how she kept up with local gossip.

  “I’d like to see what you’re working on,” he said.

  “All you have to do is walk down the lane, big brother. This driveway runs both ways.” Liza lived in the little house once owned by their grandparents at the edge of the farm.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Been busy clearing the hill and delivering wood.”

  “I know. Taking care of your little old ladies and just being a good boy scout.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckled and walked into the garage. He picked up a gas can and began filling the tractor’s tank, Liza still on his heels.

  “Are you working in the field today? I thought that was Tucker’s job.”

  “Tucker’s in Oregon buying hops and didn’t get it done. I don’t have anything to do today, so I’ll do the plowing for him.” Brody leased out his fields—for zero rent—to his friend Tucker, who had started a local craft beer business. Since the fields had been fallow and Tucker wanted organically grown barley and wheat, Brody offered to let him use his farm in return for partial ownership in the business. Most of the time, Tucker handled the planting and cultivating himself, but Brody stepped in when needed.

  “Sure you do. You can get back in your studio and write some music.”

  Not this again. He shook his head as he kept his back to Liza.

  “I know you can hear me. And you know I’m going to harass you until you’ve written another big hit.”

  “No pressure, right?”He twisted the cap back on the gas can and walked across the garage to replace the container on a shelf.

  “Seriously. You need to get back to it and stop being a creepy recluse, locked away on your farm where you only talk to your dog and yourself.”

  “I don’t talk to myself.”

  “You keep everyone at arm’s length. Refuse to be among the living. Build your cliff-side hideaway instead of going out.”

  “You’re being melodramatic.” He turned back toward the tractor but she blocked his path, standing with her fists on her hips.

  “I’m not. I know you’ve got another great song locked in there, dying to get out.” She poked him in the chest with her finger.

  “I’m not so sure about that.” The days of feeling that buzz when a new riff or chord pattern popped into his head were long gone. He hadn’t felt that creative rush since New York and doubted it would ever return.

  “You’ve just got writer’s block.”

  He knew it wasn’t writer’s block. This was different. Not since he’d dropped out of college his sophomore year to pursue a career in Nashville had he felt such a painful lack of creativity, as if his senses were deadened. He used to hear notes in his head, even the accompaniments that would later round out the song. Not so much as a quarter note had come to him since the accident, and he doubted they ever would again.

  “Drop it, okay?” He gathered her shoulders in his hands and practically lifted her out of his way.

  “I can’t drop it. Brody—” Liza shadowed behind him. “It’s not your fault. You have to forgive yourself and let it go.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Fine. I’ll drop it…for now. Let’s talk about your love life.”

  “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” He looked over his shoulder to find his sister just inches behind him.

  “Have you even tried to meet anyone?”

  “Give it a rest.” Brody climbed on the tractor and turned the key, hoping the engine would block out her mantra, but she reached up and turned it off.

  “I’m serious. You’re young, smart, handsome—well, when you’re cleaned up.”

  “I don’t think someone with purple hair has the right to comment on my appearance.” He lifted the bill of his cap, adjusting it to his liking.

  “My hair is a fashion statement.”

  “A fashion statement, really?” He leaned his elbow on the steering wheel and shot a narrow gaze at her head.

  “I just like it, okay?” Liza fluffed her long locks and climbed onto the foot rest. “Let me introduce you to some women I know.”

  “Not interested. I like my life just as it is. It’s uncomplicated, stress-free, simple,” he said.

  “And boring. You’re lonely.”

  “I’m not lonely; I’ve got Loretta.” The dog’s brown face turned at the sound of her name and she trotted over to the tractor, placing her paws on the opposite foot rest. Brody rubbed her ears and patted her head.

  “Loretta may keep you warm at night, but she can’t take care of other needs.” Liza raised and lowered her eyebrows.

  “Stop. We’re not going there.”

  “Don’t you want to find that special someone?”

  “It’s not a good time.”

  “When would be a good time?”

  He released a heavy sigh and attempted to turn the key again, but Liza arrested the action by covering his hand with her own. “I’m not sure, okay?”

  “Kyle wouldn’t want you to live like this. You aren’t to blame for what happened. He would want you to go on with your career without him and you know it.”

  Would he ever get over what had happened? Kyle was his writing partner, a guy he met a few years after he moved to Nashville. Even though they were very different, their styles meshed. Brody was the impatient one, the one who would work all day, not stopping until the song was perfect. Kyle liked to move at a slower pace, let the tune simmer for a day or two before finishing the song. At times their opposite personalities clashed, but more often they were a healthy counterbalance to each other, which resulted in some amazing music. Now, after nearly two years, the sting of Kyle’s death had only decreased to a dull ache.

  “Just come to the bar Friday night. You can sit down near the waitress station and talk to no one but me if that’s what you want. But I’ll be surprised if you don’t see some people you know and have a good time.”

  He stared at the tractor’s steering wheel, taking deep, steadying breaths as Liza droned on. “It’ll be good for you. Have a beer or two, play a little pool—”

  “If I come,” he lifted his ball cap and replaced it on his head, not making eye contact with her, “will you promise to stop harassing me about my life?”

  “Yes.” She gave him a hug and a loud smacking kiss on the cheek. “You won’t regret it. You’ll have a great time, I promise.”

  “Okay, okay.” He peeled her arms from around his neck. “Get off my tractor. I’ll see you Friday.”

  Friday was five days away. Surely by then he’d come up with an excuse not to go.

  THREE

  “Those are some nice melons.”

  “Excuse me?” Kate looked to her right, shocked to find a man leaning over her shoulder. He had waist-length, blonde dreadlocks and was wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt. She looked around for store security in case she neede
d it; the tingling up her spine had her on high alert.

  “I said they’ve got some good melons in today. This time of year it’s hard to find a ripe cantaloupe at the market.”

  “Oh.” She dropped a cantaloupe in her cart and moved down the aisle to a display of golden pineapples. The man followed behind her.

  “Did you know if you cut off the top of the pineapple and let it dry out for a couple of days, you can plant it in some potting soil? It makes a great house plant.”

  “Um, no. I didn’t know that.” She decided to skip the pineapples and inched her cart down the aisle.

  “I bet you’re wondering how I know that.” The man continued, relentless in his quest to engage her in conversation. This was the first time anyone had attempted to pick her up in a grocery store.

  “Not really.”

  “I used to work on a pineapple farm in the Hawaiian rainforest.”

  “No kidding.” Increasing her speed, she skirted around the end of the aisle, passed the bananas, and charged across the produce department toward the mushrooms. Her pursuer caught up with her as she approached a display of lettuces.

  “It was hard work, I’ll tell you. Not as glamorous as it sounds. You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

  “Look, I’m trying to shop and don’t really have time to hear your tales of the rain forest.” She snatched the first head of lettuce she could reach and charged away from the fruits and vegetables. If he followed her into the cereal aisle, she would call for help.

  Kate gave the heavy wooden door a swift shove with her hip and rushed toward the kitchen, lugging six plastic bags of groceries, praying her arms wouldn’t break. Annie was leaning over the counter on her tip-toes, staring out the window into the backyard.

  “Unbelievable! They didn’t have any portabella mushrooms or pancetta. How can people cook around here?” Kate dumped the pile of groceries on the scratched wooden table and continued her protest. “I’m not sure how your mushroom risotto is going to turn out. I had to get white mushrooms and regular bacon instead. Surprisingly, they had Arborio rice—weird.” None too gingerly, she unloaded cans and boxes into the pantry, shoving older items aside to make room. “And get this, while I was in the produce section, I got hit on by some guy with dreads hanging to his waist. How do I attract these kinds of people?” She gathered up the plastic bags and then turned to look at Annie, still craning her neck over the window sill. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

  “Of course, dreadlocks and Arborio got it.”

  “So far I’ve encountered the oddest people in this town. Remember the chatterbox at the post office telling me I should get a Vera Bradley tote bag to carry Gram’s mail? Do I look like the quilted bag type? The sooner I get out of here and back to work, the better.” Kate pulled her cell phone out of her purse but found no new messages from the office.

  “How was your grandmother this morning?”

  Before stopping at the market, Kate had gone to the hospital to check on her. The morning after they arrived, Kate and Annie had gone to the hospital, only to find Gram groggy on pain killers. “She was much better this morning, more lucid. She’s got a good attitude and is ready to get out of the hospital, but she has to go to a rehab facility.” She sat on a kitchen chair and dropped her head in her hands. “She wants me to stick around and keep an eye on her house while she’s in rehab. They told me this morning it might be six weeks.”

  “Six weeks? What did you tell her?”

  “What could I tell her? She’s my grandmother. I’m all she’s got. Plus, I can’t even name all the times she’s been there for me. Of course I told her I would, but what am I going to do? I told Patrick I’d be here for a week or two. We have a trial coming up next month.” She leaned across the table and lifted the cover of her laptop. “No internet. I’ve got work to do. I wonder if there’s a Starbucks in town.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.” Annie turned from the window and smiled at her friend. “Listen, I know it’s not what you planned, but I think it’s nice. You should stay and help your grandma until she’s back home.”

  “I know, but…” With a heavy sigh, Kate slumped against her seat and snapped the laptop shut. “What about my career? The promotion? Grant Goldman all but promised me I’d get it. I have to win this.”

  “I understand losing this promotion is not an option for you—losing never is—but, they can’t fault you for a family emergency. Surely, they’ll understand if you can’t keep up.”

  “Oh, I’ll keep up. Don’t worry about that.”

  “That’s my Kate. To be the best you must work the hardest no matter what.”

  “You know me well.”

  “I do, but in the meantime, you might as well try to enjoy yourself.” Annie waved Kate toward the window. “And I know one way to do that. Come here. Look at this.”

  She crossed the room and looked through the window at the tidy backyard with its large spreading oak tree, red wooden shed, and white picket fence. There used to be a tire swing hanging on a branch where her grandfather would push her to the sky. She and her dad helped Grandpa paint the fence when she was young, each man patiently teaching her the proper way to stroke along the wood’s grain. But her warm musings over the familiar yard turned cold when she saw a tall, shaggy-haired man, sporting a little more than the typical five o’clock shadow, disassembling the wood pile that normally lined the fence. He was tossing the logs into a heap in the yard. “Who’s that and what’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know. He got here about ten minutes ago. Check out his arms—so well defined, but not too bulky. Wait until he turns around…that guy is built.”

  “Seriously? You want me to check out some unknown, hairy…interloper? He doesn’t look like he’s bathed in a month.”

  “Kate, are you kidding me? He’s obviously been working hard, tossing logs or whatever he’s doing. You should go talk to him. From what I can tell, under those stained ripped jeans and dirty t-shirt is one hunk of a mountain man.”

  “Now he’s going in Gram’s shed. Not only is he making a mess of the yard, but he’s breaking and entering, trespassing, destroying property—”

  “Okay, okay, settle down. Why don’t you go find out what he’s up to before you slap a restraining order on him. And,” Annie shouted to Kate as she stormed out the back door, “try to be nice!”

  Kate marched down the back steps through a thick carpet of leaves that snapped and crackled under her feet. She heard a heavy bass beat thrumming through the mountain man’s ear buds and she poked a pointy fingernail into his shoulder while he was bending over in the shed.

  “Excuse me,” she shouted, continuing to poke.

  The mountain man stood up and turned, pulling the small speakers out of his ears. He looked at her through squinted lids. His dark, almost black eyes drilled into hers, then looked down at her finger still levitating in mid-air.

  “Excuse me, but what are you doing? You have no right to trespass on my grandmother’s property.” She paused, the stranger’s penetrating gaze making her squirm. But after a moment she drew herself up to her full height and met his stare full-on. “Your attempts to steal tools out of her shed have been thwarted. If you don’t put down that hammer and leave immediately, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

  With a shake of his head, he turned, ignoring her warnings, and walked deeper into the shed, only to reemerge a few short moments later with a handful of nails.

  Kate assumed the stance she’d learned in tae kwon do: locking her legs in place, one in front of the other, and raising her arms, bending at the elbow. “What are you planning to do with that? How did you gain access into the shed? What about these logs? Why are you taking my grandmother’s wood pile apart? Start talking.”

  “You must be Katherine.” He looked down at her hands, flattened palm up, and walked past her toward the back porch.

  “How did you—”

  “There’s a loose gutter over the back door,” he s
aid as he glanced at her over his shoulder. His voice was deep, its volume low; his mild-mannered response felt out of sync with the intensity she felt in his gaze. She could practically feel his eyes blazing a path over her body as he took in the sight of her, somewhat deflated but still determined in her pursuit.

  “Oh.” Kate looked up at the rain gutter hanging askew over the back porch. “Well, you didn’t answer my questions about the wood pile. What are you doing with it? It looks to me like you’re just making a mess. Who asked you to do this? I expect this to be cleaned up.”

  He walked toward the porch once more, gave his head a quick shake, but stayed quiet.

  “Wait, stop. Don’t you go in there.”

  He raised the hammer and said, “The gutter?” He was tall enough that he didn’t need a ladder. Instead, he lifted the aluminum tube and slammed the hammer three times against the existing nail before drilling another one in beside it. He walked past Kate and replaced the hammer in the shed, snapping the padlock shut on the door.

  “You had a key?” She followed him around the side of the house, where a 1980s-era Ford pickup sat loaded down with fresh-cut wood. “Were you planning to leave that here? I didn’t order this wood and won’t pay for it.” She watched him lift a gray wooden pallet with one hand off the top of the woodpile, and couldn’t help noticing the strain of his bicep against the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. The air was frigid and her teeth started to chatter. She had rushed outside so quickly, she hadn’t bothered to put on her coat, but here he was working in short sleeves.

  “Who are you anyway?”

  He didn’t answer—just walked into the backyard and placed the pallet flat on the ground against the fence.

  “Did you hear me? I didn’t order this wood and want you to take it away. There was plenty of wood in the pile that you’ve now demolished.” Kate was close to blowing up, doing all she could to restrain herself from landing a punch between his shoulder blades. She drew in a deep breath and slowly let the air ease from her lungs. “Stop and answer me.”