Читать книгу A Perfect Compromise - Anna Sugden - Страница 14

CHAPTER FIVE

“GOOD TO SEE our Millionaire Ice Boy still gets his hands dirty.”

From wading in the Caribbean to wading in cow crap in three weeks: the two sides of J.B.’s life.

He didn’t give his oldest brother the satisfaction of a verbal response but continued mucking out the stalls in their parents’ barn. Shame the shovel of manure slipped, slewing its contents over Marc Andre’s jeans and boots.

“You ass,” his brother spluttered, jumping back. “I just got cleaned up to go into town.”

“I’m sorry, but what do you expect from a lowly ‘ice boy’?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m out of practice at shoveling crap.”

“Perhaps I should get Dad to send you over to my place to do chores, too.”

His father would love that. “Nah. Not much call for this skill in my day job.”

“Maybe not, but it might improve your aim, kid.”

“I’d say my aim’s pretty damn good.” He grinned and reached for the hose. “Want me to wash you down?”

Marc Andre laughed and stepped out of the line of fire. “By the time you’re done I’ll need to change everything, even my underwear, and I don’t have time.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone walked around town covered in Eau de Cow Dung. No one will bat an eyelid.”

“True. But sometimes even us yokels need to spruce up.” Marc Andre punched his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, bro. Been too long.”

“I know.” Guilt twinged his chest. The last time J.B. had come to the farm was back in December when he’d flown out a day early for the team’s swing through Western Canada.

Though he knew he should make more of an effort to get home, it wasn’t easy to find the time. Unlike the guys who played sixteen games of football and were done by the end of January, J.B.’s season was eighty-two games over seven months. If he was lucky, that was followed by a postseason that took him through to June.

And it wasn’t like he took the summer off. Technically, J.B. had three months before he had to report for training camp. But in reality, if he didn’t start his workout schedule in the next couple of weeks, he wouldn’t be in peak physical condition come September.

He’d tried in the past to draw the comparison with farming, where there was little downtime in the calendar, but it had gone over his folks’ heads.

“This was a tough year for visits, with me being selected for the All-Stars and then our Cup run.”

“We understand. Well, Dad doesn’t, but the rest of us get it. Who’d have thought a Larocque would be burning up the NHL?” His brother rubbed a hand over his jaw. “It’s a good thing, because you suck as a farmer.”

“Yeah. So, how come you’re going into town during the day, midweek?”

“I’ve got a meeting with the bank. Now Amelie and I know for sure that baby number four is due in the new year I want to simplify my finances.”

“Congratulations.” That would make seven nieces and nephews. Another reason J.B. felt like he’d been born into the wrong family. Much as he loved the rug rats, for sure he wasn’t ready for one of his own. There was plenty of hockey left to play and life to enjoy, before he settled down and burdened himself with those responsibilities.

“If you weren’t so freaking stubborn, you wouldn’t have any mortgages or loans. Neither would Pierre Luc.”

“I’m not taking your money.” Marc Andre’s expression was fierce. “You’ll need it to live off when you’re retired. You sure as hell can’t make a living off the land.”

J.B. leaned on the shovel to stop himself from using it to knock some sense into his brother. This was an old argument that always ended the same. While he respected independence and appreciated that his family weren’t spongers, they were too damn proud. “By the time I’m done, I’ll have more than enough for several lifetimes.”

“You never know. You could get injured or traded. The team could be sold or go belly-up. And once you’re done, you’ll still be young, with a long life ahead of you.”

Like farming was any more secure. “So take the money as a loan. I bet the bank can’t beat a no-interest repayment plan.”

“Appreciate the offer, but it’s best we don’t muddy the family water with money.”

Straight out of the mouth of Bastien Larocque. Their father said the same thing often enough.

“Anyway, we’re not destitute,” his brother continued. “This winter was rougher than usual and things got a little tight. The bank’s been great about reworking payments to help ease the pressure.”

It burned his butt that his brother preferred help from a bank manager over J.B. “If you won’t let me give you the money, at least let me invest in your place. Buy machinery, refurbish buildings or something. It’ll give me a tax break.”

Marc Andre’s jaw set. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

J.B. knew that stubborn look. “All right. But if you ever need money badly enough to not care about muddy freaking water, you know where to come. Deal?” He stuck out his hand.

“Deal.” Marc Andre shook his hand.

“So, what time’s your appointment?”

His brother swore as he checked his watch. “I should get going. See you at dinner.”

J.B. brooded about the situation as he finished his share of the chores.

He understood his dad’s stance. Even when J.B. couched it as repaying what his parents had spent on his hockey, Bastien had refused to accept his money. In his father’s mind, professional athletes were a step above gigolos. Earning money playing sport didn’t count.

The old man had spent his whole life working the farm, which had never made much of a living for the Larocques. If not for his mom, J.B. wouldn’t be where he was today.

He hosed off the floor, hung the tools on the rack and headed to the house to clean up.

In the kitchen his mom was busy cooking. She always made plenty so that her daughters-in-law—who worked alongside their husbands on their farms, as well as looked after their kids—didn’t have to. A good thing since both Amelie and Clare were lousy cooks.

Twelve loaves were cooling on wire racks on the counter, next to a dozen jars of homemade spaghetti sauce. On the table two coolers were filled with foil-wrapped parcels.

His stomach rumbled. It had been hours since breakfast and he wouldn’t get lunch until after his mom had done her weekly grocery shop. J.B. sneaked a piece of the potato salad his mom was mixing. “Mmm. Are you sure I can’t steal you away to come and cook for me in Jersey? You’re still the best.”

She patted his cheek. “Much as I’d like to make sure you eat properly—you look a little skinny—I couldn’t leave the farm. Besides, I’m not sure I’d be happy where you live.”

Like most people who’d never been to the Garden State, his mom thought the whole area was an industrial monstrosity. “You’d be surprised how nice it is, Ma. Come visit and see.”

“Maybe later in the year.”

J.B. wouldn’t hold his breath. Like the discussion about money, this was another old conversation. “Are you ready to go into town?”

“Definitely. If you’re still happy to take me.” She slipped off her apron.

He grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl. “For sure. I’ll have the prettiest woman in the area on my arm.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Ellen Larocque’s lovely face and cute figure still turned heads. Her black hair was just beginning to be streaked with gray and her pale skin was barely wrinkled.

She swatted him with a dish towel. “I don’t think so. Maybe if you brought one of those women you’re always photographed with...”

He kissed her cheek, breathing in her familiar scent: a mixture of her floral perfume and cooking spices. “None of them can match up to you, Ma.”

“You always were the charmer. I’ll just grab my purse and my shopping list.”

On the half-hour drive, his mom chattered away about the latest happenings with friends and neighbors. J.B. didn’t know half the people she talked about and was relieved to pull into a parking spot outside the diner.

Though they only had a block to walk to the grocery store, progress was slow with people stopping them every few yards. A few he recognized, but most he relied on his mom’s clues as to who they were. It was the same at the store and the diner.

He was grilled about when he was coming home for good. Those who followed hockey were keen to discuss his career. J.B. gave bland answers, his smile becoming more strained with each one. He accepted good-naturedly the usual ribbing about how he should play for a Canadian team, then posed for photos and signed napkins and scraps of paper thrust at him. He never turned down a request, especially from kids.

By the time they got back into the car for the drive home, J.B. was wrung out, as if he’d played triple overtime.

Only a few more days, he told himself as he did the evening chores. It was pathetic that he’d barely been home twenty-four hours and he was already counting down to leaving. He loved his family, but he didn’t fit here. New Jersey was more his home than this small town.

Luckily, he couldn’t brood for long because his brothers and their families arrived for his welcome-home barbecue.

Dinner was a rowdy affair. His dad sat at the head of the picnic table, while everyone else squeezed down the sides. His mom sat opposite her husband, beaming, clearly thrilled to have all her chicks under her roof.

“Welcome home, bro.” Pierre Luc raised his bottle in salute. “Congratulations on making the Finals. Tough loss.”

“You’ll get ’em next year.” Marc Andre clinked his beer bottle against J.B.’s.

“Damn—darn straight,” J.B. said.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t make any of your games.” His mother frowned. “Finding someone to look after the farm is difficult.”

“Jean-Baptiste knows we can’t up and travel at the drop of a hat.”

J.B. bit back his irritation at his father’s words. Other families—even other farmers—managed it. He understood it wasn’t easy, but his dad didn’t want to make the effort.

“No worries, Ma.” J.B. smiled at his mom. “Maybe next year.”

“Did you get the mess with that woman in the nightclub sorted out, Jean-Baptiste?” his father asked.

Why couldn’t his old man ever call him J.B.? He forced a casual tone. “She got hold of Coach Macarty and explained that it was an unfortunate accident. She told the media, too, but the truth wasn’t appealing and the story got buried.”

His father huffed. “Your team can’t have been happy. It’s not like this was the first time you’ve been at the center of a scandal.”

Although that wasn’t quite true—Jake had taken the fall before—J.B. didn’t bother to correct his dad. He wouldn’t listen, anyway. “Once they had the facts, they were cool.”

“It’s time you started being more responsible. You’re not a kid anymore.” His father loaded his plate with more potato salad. “Speaking of which, while you’re here, Jean-Baptiste, I’d like you to survey the fences. You should keep your hand in the farm.”

J.B. exchanged wry looks with his brothers.

“Give the kid a chance, Dad,” Pierre Luc said. “He just got here.”

“He hasn’t even had a chance to stop by our places yet,” Marc Andre chimed in.

“They’re right, Bastien,” his mother chided. “Our boy’s only here for a few days. He should rest, not ride the fence line. He works hard enough. He’s earned a vacation.”

“He just had a week on a beach.”

Before J.B. could react, his mother laid her pale hand on his father’s dark one. As it had for as long as he could remember, the action calmed his dad.

Later that night, as J.B. sat out on the front porch, nursing a beer, he thought about his parents’ marriage. The gentle former teacher and the rough farmer seemed to fit together perfectly; to complement each other. His brothers’ marriages were strong, too.

Bella popped into his head, as she had every day since he’d returned from Antigua.

Never before had a woman had such a lasting impact on him.

J.B. shook his head. It didn’t matter. Their relationship was over and he was good with that. He didn’t have the time, energy or inclination for commitment. Being back here only emphasized his feelings. His family’s responsibilities weighed heavily, as if he were the one suffocating under the pressure.

Bella was...had to be...nothing more than a pleasant memory.

* * *

“IF WE CAN’T paint the town red, then watching Colin Firth isn’t a bad alternative.”

Relieved that Sapphie didn’t mind their last-minute change of plans for the Labor Day weekend, Issy sighed. “Thanks. I really don’t feel up to a dinner cruise tonight.” The thought of putting on a fancy dress and heels, and spending the evening on a boat on the Hudson made her stomach pitch. “I promise I’ll make it up to you on your next visit.”

“You’ll get that chance sooner than you think. Part of the reason I wanted us to go out was that I’ll be spending a lot more time on the east coast over the next twelve months.”

“You got the contract with Marty Antonelli?”

“Starting Tuesday, I’ll be evaluating the basketball team he bought and advising him on how to make it a more financially viable enterprise.”

“Congratulations!” Issy squealed as she jumped up and hugged her friend.

This was a major coup for Sapphie. She’d worked hard to get her foot in the door with the technology billionaire who’d recently acquired several sports franchises.

They danced around like lunatics for a few minutes, then collapsed on the sofa, laughing.

“I know you like hockey and football. What do you know about basketball?” Issy asked.

“Not a lot. But I used that to my advantage. I told Mr. Antonelli that he didn’t need someone with preconceived ideas about the team.”

“And he bought that?”

“Of course.” Sapphie blew on her nails and polished them on her top. “That, and my impressive track record.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

Sapphie had always found a way to make things work more efficiently and effectively while squeezing a quart out of a pint-pot budget. She’d put herself through college with her projects on the side for local companies. It hadn’t been a surprise when Sapphie had formed her own management consulting firm.

Issy couldn’t help being envious of the way her friend was able to improvise and adapt, to achieve whatever she set her mind to. If she’d had even half of Sapphie’s talent, Issy would have been made head of department before, instead of being passed over for ‘more experienced candidates’ the past two times the position had become vacant. Certainly she wouldn’t have had to jump through hoops for one more year to prove to Farlingdale Academy’s board that she was capable of taking over the retiring head’s position.

She frowned at the snack foods on the coffee table. “We should be celebrating with something fancier than popcorn, chips and sodas.”

“Trust me, this is great. I get enough fancy food at work. Besides it’s the company and—” Sapphie indicated the Pride and Prejudice DVD “—the entertainment that makes this a real celebration.”