Danger, Sweetheart by MaryJanice Davidson Page B

Trust. (Ah, the carefree days of three weeks earlier when he was in his comfortable Residence Inn residence, authorizing wires to Sweetheart Trust while indulging in a Cobb salad with extra bacon and pondering what not to buy Rake for their upcoming birthday, because Rake was terrible.)
    Natalie knew of Blake’s complicity (he wasn’t sure how but assumed it was the grapevine, something small towns were prone to, or so Updike’s Rabbit, Run and Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird indicated). Natalie could have found out who he was in any one of a dozen ways; how she knew his identity wasn’t the puzzle.
    Her continuing manner of strained but polite dislike made no sense. If she knew he had paid off the other mortgages and surrendered the titles to Garrett Hobbes, she must know that, days before the closing was to happen, Blake had left Heartbreak alone. She should be pleased with him, correct? Especially since he was there to try to save the farm by being worked to death. At least, that was what his mother’s logic had indicated. So why the stiff, unpleasant manner with him, with only an occasional smile or laugh, and that given over most reluctantly? It was a conversation he wished for and dreaded in equal parts.
    Bottom line: she no longer liked him, and it was driving him mad.
    However things would play out, his first day at Heartbreak had been tiring, though he had done little more than explore the area and meet the employees, all of whom liked to discuss douching and Degas when they thought he was out of earshot. Perhaps it was being out in the fresh air most of the day, or perhaps his brain was demanding it power down to process everything he’d learned thus far. Whatever the reason, he collapsed onto the attic bed with a grateful sigh, and darkness began to descend almost at once. Before it took him completely, he reminded himself tomorrow was a new day, a new start, a new chance.
    If I turn out to be even a bit good at this, perhaps Natalie will smile more. And if I prove to have no knack for this, perhaps Mom will relent, which would make me smile more. Either way, tomorrow is another beginning. Not a new beginning; everyone says that, which is odd, because by definition all beginnings are new, so they’re merely indulging in redundancy, which is a waste of nnnnnzzzzzzzzzzz …

 
    Thirteen
    Myocardial Infarction Farm was like the apple Queen Grimhilde presented to Snow White: lovely on the outside while hiding the excruciating death within.
    Blake realized this when he attempted to get out of bed and at least 400 of his body’s 642 muscles seized in protest. His usual disorientation upon waking in a strange place
    (ow everything hurts did I work out in my sleep? or get run over? in my sleep?)
    kicked in and it took him a few seconds to recall where he was. Sweetheart, North Dakota. The farm. The attic, facedown on the bed. Fully clothed, shoes on. Natalie had delicately suggested he invest in a pair of cowboy boots
    (“You’re not dressed right; you’re not shod right; you look like a cruise ship tourist in those tennis shoes, God, why am I putting up with any of this?”)
    and his verbatim reply had been equally courteous
    (“Never! I would literally, literally and not figuratively, literally die before investing in cowboy boots. And where do you keep the Band-Aids?”),
    if also vehement.
    Sweating, because the sun had been shining on him for hours (in Natalie’s defense, she had warned him of the perils of east-facing windows when one lives on a planet that rotates in that direction). Right hand clutching a tube of BENGAY like a smoker clutched a pack of cigarettes. Left hand clutching his cell phone, as he had been in the middle of texting Rake his threat du jour, because Rake was terrible. Blake cracked one eye open and squinted at the last text he sent.
    The deepest darkest depths of Hell await you, little brommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm Text