"On hearing this from her… Steven knew how lucky he was to have a family even if he's not loved 100%…. ""My dad was a junk—doesn't work, I mean. He'd go out with friends and come back home late and drunk… reeking of cheap whiskey and regret." The memories surged unbidden: the slamming doors at 2 a.m., the empty fridge , was a trauma to Joyce
"Joyce swallowed hard, her stutter easing as the pain took over the narrative. "He was unable to pay bills, so we got thrown out of the house. Eviction notice taped to the door one rainy Tuesday, our stuff scattered on the curb like trash." I lived in the street for 2 years before I had an encounter with grandpa who took me in and took good care of me until now"
On the other hand, Steven was beginning to regret why he asked about her, not knowing she had a terrible past that mirrored his own fractures in ways that made the air between them thicken with unspoken grief.
Steven waved it away, his kindness a shield now. "Hey, we're all walking scars here, experience Makes us better at spotting the good ones.
The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the countryside in hues of amber and rust It was 6:00 already and they have been going around for several hours on getting to the big barn… They were welcomed with a delicious and breathtaking aroma that wafted through the crisp evening air, a symphony of sizzling spices, roasted garlic, and something sweet like caramelized onions dancing with fresh herbs. It was the kind of scent that wrapped around you like a lover's embrace, rich and intoxicating, promising comforts untold.
Steven paused mid-step, his broad shoulders relaxing as the fragrance already filled him before even getting to taste the meal, flooding his senses with a warmth that chased away the chill of doubt. His mouth watered involuntarily, eyes half-closing in bliss.. Steven, still under the aroma's spell, stepped forward with Joyce trailing warily behind, his eyes darting for clues amid the abundance.
Woooow, who's preparing this? It's killing me already," Steven said to Joyce as they walked through the door to the setting of the table, his voice a mix of awe and hunger, louder than he intended in the cozy space. He inhaled deeply again, as if the scents alone could sustain him, his earlier suspicions about the wild goose chase dissolving like sugar in tea. "Smells like heaven's kitchen back there. You do all this yourself?" Beautiful…
Welcome back," he said, voice low but carrying over the hush of settling plates and the faint clink of cutlery. He lifted a hand toward Joyce first, then Steven, palm open in a gesture that managed to feel both formal and intimate. "Hope you two had a wonderful time together."
Joyce laughed, soft, and brushed a strand of silver hair from her eyes. "Oh, we did more than pass the time..
The barn's long table had been set with the plain, sturdy confidence of people who knew how to feed a crowd. Mismatched plates, heavy ironstone and chipped enamel, waited beside forks worn thin from generations of use. A single Hurricane lamp hung low over the center, its glass chimney smoked at the edges, throwing a cone of steady light that turned the steam from the stew into drifting gold.
"Greg lowered himself into the high-backed chair at the head, the wood creaking under his weight like an old friend… Joyce sat at close to Greg The only sound for a moment was the soft scrape as lids were lifted and the thick scent of beef and barley rose in a slow, deliberate cloud.
Steven spooned a mouthful, chewed once, twice, eyes half-closed. When he swallowed, the room seemed to wait on the verdict.. Hmmm. That's good," he said, simple as stating the weather, but the words carried weight. Greg's shoulders eased; Greg lifted the ladle, served Joyce first, then steven then himself again. "Real good. Been a long day; this'll set it right." He tipped his chin toward the pot. "Eat, everybody. Tomorrow's coming either way."
The bowls were nearly empty now, the last crusts of bread used to chase the final ribbons of gravy. The lamp had burned lower, its flame trembling in the draft that slipped through the chinks in the barn siding. Conversation had thinned to murmurs and the occasional scrape of a spoon against pottery.
Steven pushed his chair back a deliberate inch, the legs rasping across the boards. He wiped his mouth with the back of hand, then fixed Greg and Joyce with a look that carried no hurry and no room for questions… steven ," he said, just loud enough to cut through the quiet. "I'll show you your scheme after dinner. You'll get prepared to start working tomorrow morning."
Oh, I'll be more prepared tomorrow. Had a rough day before coming… Thank you, Greg. The words left him thin, the way a man speaks when the day has wrung him out and left only the husk. Steven's shoulders were still rounded from the drive, from the hours spent turning the same three sentences over in his head: I'll do what I came here for? What if I can't hack it? The stew had warmed him, but the warmth hadn't reached the doubt.
Rough don't matter after tonight," Greg said. "Sleep does." He rose, joints popping, and tipped his head toward the loft ladder. "Hay's clean. Blankets on the peg. Water pump's out back if you need it cold… Steven exhaled, a small sound that might have been relief or surrender. He stood, palms brushing the knees of his jeans, and met Greg's eyes for the first time since the offer had been made. "Appreciate it. More than the meal."
Joyce rose, "I'm done," she murmured, soft enough that only he heard the weariness tucked inside the words. "I'll be heading to my room. Thanks Grandpa… Good night, y'all," she said, voice warm as fresh milk. "Sleep tight, Steven. Mind the cats; they'll try to share your pillow lol…
Then slipped through the low door that led to the attached farmhouse, her footsteps fading into the familiar creak of floorboards older than any of them. The barn settled back into its night noises: wind against tin, a horse stamping in the stalls below, the soft pop of cooling embers.
"Greg killed the lamp. Darkness folded in, thick and comfortable, and Steven climbed the rest of the way to the loft, the day's weight finally sliding from his shoulders like an old coat.. "The loft smelled of sweet timothy and old wool, the boards above him rough with the memory of a hundred harvest moons. Steven lay on his back, boots off, blanket pulled only to his waist; the night was cool but not cold, and sleep refused him. Each time he closed his eyes he would recall lots of memories back home."
He rolled onto his side, the straw ticking rustling like dry leaves…. "The barn's darkness pressed close, broken only by a thin blade of moonlight slipping between warped siding. It fell across his cheek, and the tears came sudden and hot, sliding into the shell of his ear. He didn't wipe them away"