Cider house fools, p.1
Cider House Fools, page 1
Cider House Fools
Jay Leigh Brown
Copyright © 2024 by Jay Leigh Brown
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Dedication
Playlist
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
Acknowledgements
Also by Jay Leigh Brown
About the Author
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mother-in-law Marjorie, who looked breast cancer in the eye and then kicked it’s ass. I am grateful beyond measure that of all the incredibly strong women who had no choice but to enter the battle, she won. To those who lost, I honor your strength and fortitude. I know your fought with courage and conviction.
We love you, Mom.
Playlist
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3TtGwHaGQ4TzkOrquWbUaX?si=3ab88f8b1a604a48
Cider House Fools playlist is on Spotify. Search the title of the book and look for the cover thumbnail. Enjoy!
1. White Winter Hymnal – Fleet Foxes
2. Lonely Man of Winter – Sufjan Stevens
3. The Christmas Song - The Raveonettes
4. Christmas Without You – OneRepublic
5. Christmas Lights – Coldplay
6. Home Alone – Sydni Cole
7. If I’m All Alone – Paria
8. My Favorite Time Of Year – Pete Masitti
9. Real Man – Sticks & Stones
10. I’ll Be Home For Christmas – Mabel
11. One I’ve Been Missing – Little Mix
12. ‘tis the damn season – Taylor Swift
13. For Those Who Can’t Be Here – Tom Walker
14. Single On The 25th – Lauren Spencer Smith
15. Mama It’s Christmas – Maple Glider
16. The Ghost Of New Years Past – Book On Tape Worm
17. The Secret Of Christmas - Ella Fitzgerald
18. Be Good At Christmas – Katie Malco
19. Paris– Canyon City
20. Neon Stars – Wild River
21. Now You Don’t – Ocie Elliot
22. Detour– Ainslie Wills, Old Sea Brigade
23. High And Dry – Rosie Carney
24. Already Miss You (acoustic) – Marc Sibilia
25. Moral Of The Story – Ashe
26. 21– Gracie Adams
27. July– Noah Cyrus
28. It’ll Be Okay – Shawn Mendes
29. Consequences– Camila Cabello
30. Stay– Rihanna, Mikki Echo
31. Lost Boy – Ruth B.
32. This Christmas – Oh Wonder
33. Hallelujah bonus track – HAIM
34. Glittery– Kacey Musgroves, Troye Sivan
35. Underneath the Tree – Kelly Clarkson
36. when the party’s over – Billie Eilish
37. Wait For You – Tom Walker, Zoe Wees
38. I Would Die For You – Rose Cousins, Bear’s Den
39. Love In The Dark – Adele
40. Dancing With Your Ghost – Sasha Sloan
41. Snowman (Sped Up Version) – Sia
42. Young And Sad – Noah Cyrus
43. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays – N’SYNC
44. Dear August – PJ Harding, Noah Cyrus
Chapter one
November 27 Sunday 9 p.m.
Bennett
“My feet and ass are smoked.” My unbuttoned chef’s jacket bunches open as I pull out a chair and flop down. I undo the bandana I have tied across my forehead to soak up the sweat and sigh in relief. The knot was really starting to dig into the back of neck and my feet are throbbing now that most of my weight is off them. My entire body feels like I’ve been cooking fourteen hours a day for three days but I can’t wipe the grin off my face.
Franklin shakes his head, grinning. I probably look like a crazed maniac with my half-thrilled, half-pained expression. “Like eighty some turkeys smoked?” He asks casually, his eyebrow quirking up in challenge. He wants his praise, and he’s going to get it. He earned it.
“No, like twelve city blocks in a riot smoked.” I pull a chair towards me with one foot before lifting both of my aching legs up and slouching with a groan. A tumbler drops in front of my face, glinting amber in the low light of my now closed restaurant. “You truly are a genie. Thank you. And please sit down, you did more work than I did.”
“Horse shit. I get to hide in the back and smoke. You, my friend, are deluded. You did the work of ten people today. I’m impressed Bennie. You pulled it off.” My chair is rocked back, the stiles gripped in strong, callused hands. My best friend, Eugene Franklin Patterson, leans over my tipped back face. He drops a kiss on my forehead. I smile, gratefully, at the man I’ve chosen to follow my dreams with. Until my eyes start to prickle. I blink rapidly, looking away, praying he doesn’t see it. He lowers the chair back to the ground and takes a seat in the chair across from me.
“Why the tears babe?” I study the whisky in my glass, stiffening. His question is innocent. He thinks I’m just exhausted from the work. He has no clue his simple query is a finger jab in a half-healed wound. The adrenaline that comes from an acute jolt of a chronic pain sizzles through my labor-deadened nerves, making me work hard to tamp down my response. None of what I’m feeling is his fault. Not really.
“Pfft. Nothing. I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?” I take another sip and smooth my face. Inhaling through my nose, I force myself to paste on a tired smile and slouch, praying he takes pity on me and drops his line of inquiry. “What are you and Thom doing tomorrow? Dinner with his family?”
“I’m coming to your house and bringing takeout. Pizza and Chinese? Because if I see or smell a single Thanksgiving staple I will lose my shit.” He smirks, lifting the Rack Slabbath crystal tumbler I bought him. It feels like he’s mocking me. But this is Franklin. He’d be way more obvious if that was his intention.
“I’m?” My heart starts banging around like an unbalanced wash machine.
“Thom and I are on a break. At least that’s what we’re calling it. But he knows it and I know it. We’re done.” His lips press together, his brow creasing as he stares intently at the clinking ball of ice he’s gently swirling. I gape at him, my mouth flapping useless as my lips form all the words my brain discards. He’s so calm. He looks so unflappable. But I know better.
“I…wha…no…I don’t…you…but you love him!” I squawk, my brain unable to process what I’m hearing. A part of me is angry. Franklin self-sabotages like a champ. It’s not that I mind always being the one that has to help him clean up the pieces. That’s not it at all. I owe Franklin a lifetime of unlimited pick up the pieces vouchers.
“I think I do. And I think he believes he loves me. But he’s miserable Ben. He hates the life I’m building. He wants to be in the city. I want to be here, building this restaurant with you. He likes the theater, and I like action movies. He likes wine, I like whiskey. He wants to retire in Hawaii. I’m going to die in a hick ass, country town, just like the one I came from.” Franklin shrugs, finishing off his drink. He slaps the tumbler on the table and gets up quickly, turning his back to me.
He wanders over to the bar and pretends to mull over the booze on the shelf. His evasion tactics don’t work. He can’t turn away from me. I can see his face in the mirrors no matter where he turns. Our restaurant may be a smoke house, but the décor is far more upscale than your average barbeque joint. “Stop with the evasion tactics and bring the bottle back,” I holler. “Please,” I add in a falsely sweet voice, my manners kicking when a tendril of guilt tugs on them. I’m a jerk for calling him out for the same shit I was just doing. He brings the bottle back and unscrews it, his lips twisted, his right eyebrow lifted so high it’s practically digging into his hairline.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, holding up my cup. “I’m a dick. But you know this and still chose to love me so I’m not apologizing. I’d love to do dinner, but I really can’t afford to take the whole day off. I should spend some time in the books.” Knowing the books are going to be in the black makes my fingers itch to pull out a spreadsheet. Restaurant accounting is heinous when you’ve paid all of your invoices and your employees and you can still afford to pay yourself.
A smile lifts the dead weight of my cheeks. I may be whipped, but this past week was worth it. Franklin and I made the executive decision to shorten the dining room hours and heavily advertise for holiday catering. It was a suc cess. We made eight-eight full holiday meals. Smoked turkey, cranberry orange stuffing, parmesan green beans, caramelized sweet potatoes with maple and maple smoked bacon, garlic smashed potatoes, mushroom wild rice, balsamic glazed Brussel sprouts or asparagus, and honey glazed rolls. Apple, cherry, and coconut crème pies, and pumpkin cheesecake were offered for dessert. We offered the vegetable dishes vegan. We offered twenty-two slots a day over the four-day weekend and sold every single dinner.
“Look at your dead ass smiling like we won the lottery.” He flips a chair across from me and sits. “You’re taking tomorrow off. You should pack your bags and go home for a few days, but I know you won’t, so we are spending the day together in sweats, carb-loading. Drink up. It’s time to go. I’m about to pass out.” He flexes his head to the side and rolls his shoulders, groaning.
“Yes, daddy,” I simper meekly, before laughing. He rolls his eyes, generously bestowing the smile I’m digging for upon me. I get up, pushing the chairs in, while he jogs to the back and grabs our coats. Silently we bundle up and step out of the restaurant.
Silence between Franklin and I is usually comfortable. But I’m filling it in my head, debating with myself on how far I should push the Thom thing. Does Franklin want to talk about it? Is he going to assume I have some kind of feelings about it? Is he going to need time off from work? Should I wait until after tomorrow and come right out and ask? I need to say something right?
I turn the key, loving the satisfying snick of the lock. “I can’t wait to spend the day with you tomorrow. Frank, I’m sorry about—"
“Don’t be,” he interrupts, his voice hard. “I’m not. We deserve to be happy. Neither one of us is willing to compromise on our plans.” He clicks the remote start to his truck. “My mother used to spout that crap all the time. You know, all the words of wisdom about how love isn’t enough and physical attraction isn’t everything. I pitied her every time, thinking she was making excuses and justifying the choices she made. Perhaps I owe y—her an apology and a thank you,” he verbally stumbles as he muses, his voice becoming softer as we stop at our vehicles.
My spine stiffens. A burst of freezing cold air stings my eyes. You’re mom, Franklin? Really? He might say he’s talking about his mother, but I’ve heard him compare me to her more than once. His diatribe is a bullet crafted to pierce me. I have no idea if he’s subconsciously needling me or if I’m being egocentric assuming his words are really for me. Not that it matters. There is no way I’ll ever tell him how much his words hurt. We are both ready to drop after days of working from before dawn into the wee hours of the next day. I don’t have the gumption to be logical. I swing open my door as he shakes his head.
“Bennett Vanderberg, when will you start locking your vehicle?” He sighs, shaking his head. His bone-weary posture and long-suffering groan are dramatic as fuck, and it makes me giggle.
“When you start cleaning yours, slob. Love you. See you tomorrow, let yourself in if I’m still comatose.” He grins and winks lasciviously. His hand snakes out, grabbing the ends of my scarf. I trip after his gentle tug, resting my cheek on the soft, well-worn canvas of his Cahartt jacket. He drops a kiss in my hair.
I couldn’t give a rats ass if my hair smells like I washed it yesterday and spent thirty-six the last forty eight hours in a kitchen. Franklin and I may have an extremely complicated past, but he’s my person. My home. My very best and only friend. “Love you too.” With that we both slide into our vehicles and leave Smoke and Mirrors behind as we head to our respective homes.
A layer of fresh fallen snow crunches against the hard pack on the road as I pull out. My freezing fingers fumble through the console as I dig for a napkin to wipe my running nose. It’s so cold out I can barely feel my face. The heating element in my old jeep needs to be replaced, but car repairs are so far down the list of things I can afford I don’t bother wasting my energy on wishful thinking. My phone chimes with the notification I have set for Weston. I glance at it, but leave it in the passenger seat, unwilling to risk checking it while I’m driving.
My mind latches on to Franklin’s inadvertent comment. Perhaps I owe you an apology and a thank you. What he meant was maybe I was wrong, and I owe you a thank you for showing it’s possible to leave everything you love behind. Even though he didn’t mean to be cruel, his words cut, carving up my insides as easily as a knife slicing through the tender flesh of one of his smoked birds.
My phone rings. “Chill out Wes,” I mumble, gently pressing my brake far before the intersection. My breath puffs into the freezing interior of my car. I crack the window, praying the frigid air will keep my breath from fogging up the window.
My drive is home from the restaurant is short. I rent a refinished carriage house from an elderly couple. The rent they charge me is criminally low. I’ve offered to pay more, but they laugh it off. They enjoy the treats I bring them from Smoke and Mirrors and enjoy my company in the limited time I have to spare. My phone rings again while I’m mulling over the possibility of Franklin moving in with me. I hate living alone, and I miss living with my best friend. The ring tone is the general notification, not the one I set for Wes, but he’ll often call from a different phone when I don’t answer his first attempts. I told him I would be working sixteen-hour days this weekend and I would call him Monday, but Wes doesn’t seem to give a shit about my schedule.
I make the turn and accelerate slowly, grateful there aren’t too many people out on the roads. For the eight millionth time I wonder why I didn’t insist we go south after college. You’d think a girl from Michigan would be comfortable driving in the snow, but I’m not. Driving in the winter is hours of panic attacks, tears, and forcing myself behind the wheel. Moving to Pennsylvania was a testament to my love Franklin. There was also the building he inherited from uncle.
My phone rings for a third time as I pull into the driveway. I throw the jeep into park and yank the phone up. It’s a number I don’t recognize. A text notification rolls across the top of the screen from my mother telling me to answer the phone. I swipe the screen, my fingers are so cold it takes multiple attempts for the phone to unlock.
“Did you seriously call my mom Weston? Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter, irritable as hell my boyfriend has decided to enlist my mother.
“Last time I checked my name was mom.” Wry and rich, my mother’s dulcet voice tumbles into my ears.
“Mom. I’m so sorry. I thought it was Weston. He knows I don’t touch my phone when I’m driving, especially in the snow. He called so many times in a row I was getting pissed.” She sighs. She’s never met Weston, but I know she doesn’t like him.
I’m expecting a thinly veiled comment about him, but she surprises me. “You sound so tired sweetheart. Maybe I should call in the morning?”
“No, mom, this is just what I needed. The Thanksgiving dinners were a resounding success. I am pooped for sure, but I couldn’t be happier.” I gather up my bag and grab the door handle, more than ready to get out of the vehicle and into toasty warmth of my cozy, little space.
“You sound really happy, honey.” The hairs on the back of my neck rise. She doesn’t sound surprised. If anything her voice is hedged with trepidation. There is something else going on. Something she’s scared to tell me. Letting go of the door handle, I fiddle with my scarf. I’m filled with nervous foreboding.
“Is everything alright? Is Brian okay?” My voice drops to a whisper. “Are they okay?” My heart is thundering, pounding like a waterfall over slick rocks as it slams against my ear drums and my rib cage. I tug at the single loop around my neck as I struggle to breath. I waited too long. I marinated in my stupid pride and now it’s too late. My coat is so tight I can’t breathe, my fingers too stiff to undo the buttons or the zipper underneath.
“Brian is fine.” She reassures me her long-time boyfriend turned new husband is well. And then she stops talking.
“Oh my God, mom, what is it? Did Smith leave again? Mom. Mom, please! What is going on?” My voice is rising as my body sinks into the seat, paralyzed with fear.
“Bennett stop. Breathe.”
“I…I can’t. Mom, what is it. Tell me now! Is it Whittaker? Oh my God, Balthasar.” The last name is a whisper. The crazed, panicked woman in the driver’s seat of my jeep starts banging her fist on the cold steering wheel, heedless of the tingling pain in her white, numb fingers.
