Sara Biren - Bend in the Road

PUBLISHERS NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

ISBN 978-1-4197-4873-8
eISBN 978-1-64700-071-4

Text 2021 Sara Biren
Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura

Published in 2021 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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To my parentsthank you for always believing in me.
Mom, you are the strongest woman I know.
Dad, I miss you every day.

Welcome to Stone & Wool Farm.

The sign hangs from a stone pillar at the main entrance to the farm. Tall, sprawling pines hug one side of the long driveway. Cones of light from lampposts on the opposite side scatter across the gravel, some of them dim, some out altogether. Franks pickup bumps along ruts in the long road to the main house.

Place looks better in the daylight, he says.

Frank hasnt talked much since he met me at the baggage claim at MinneapolisSt. Paul International a couple of hours ago. A gruff, You hanging in there all right, kid? along with a tight, bone-crushing hug. A few comments like, No fancy limo, then, huh? and You hungry? I could go for a burger myself.

Ive always liked that my uncle Frank is a man of few words. A man who recognizes that you dont have to fill every moment of silence with meaningless conversation. This whole ride up from the airport, he didnt ask about the album or my very recent ex, Marley, or even Chris. Hes smart, too. Knows how to read a room. Or the passenger seat of a pickup truck, as it were.

We continue down the gravel road until Frank turns in to the driveway at Grans, a big white house with a wraparound porch and stone columns. The porch lights are on, as though someone knew I was coming.

I asked you to keep this to yourself, I say, my words hard and cold. My pulse races and I can feel that familiar weight of dread settling in, a brick low in my gut.

I told Laurel, he says. Thats it. I had to make sure the place was livable, Gabe. She wont call the paparazzi, if thats what youre worried about.

I shake my head. I dont give a fuck about the paparazzi. Its not exactly true, but Im running out of fucks to give.

I didnt tell your dad, either, so you dont need to worry about that. He sighs.

Laurel will if she hasnt already. Its her job.

I asked her not to. Come on, kid, give me a little credit.

Hes right. I know I can trust Frank. Thats why I called him in the first place. I take a deep breath, try to break up that brick of dread. Ill need to talk to Chris at some point while I work my way out of this mess. But Im not ready yet.

Thanks, I murmur. Bet you never expected so much drama when you married into this family.

He shrugs and turns off the ignition. Its not so bad. Besides, a little drama is worth it for the free concert tickets and backstage passes, am I right? Lets do this. Im beat, and those cows wont milk themselves in the morning.

I probably should have gotten a car instead of calling a guy whos up every day before dawn to milk cows and whatever the hell else he does. Busts his butt to keep a farm and a family above water. Helps with this farm, too. But I called him, and he dropped everything and drove two and a half hours one way to meet my sorry, incognito ass at the airport so I could pretend to be nobody special, getting picked up at MSP by a regular guy with a beard wearing a Minnesota Wild ball cap and a rust-orange Carhartt jacket.

Truth is, Im not pretending. Im nobody special after all.

Leaves crunch beneath my feet as we walk up the driveway and sidewalk to the porch, the paint grayed and chipping. I tighten my hold on my guitar, swing the duffel bag onto one shoulder, and grab the wooden railing, which wobbles under my grip. My memories of this place are few and far between and, to be honest, hazy. After Gran diedfive, six years ago now?so did our main reason to come back. Chris spends a few weeks here every summer, a couple of days here and there, but otherwise the farmhouse sits empty. Empty and exactly the way Gran left it when she died. Laurel runs the farm. She asks Chris every now and then if he wants her to clean out the closets or pack up Grans belongings. Hell say something like, Thats my problem, not yours. Ill worry about it when the time comes. I asked him once, not long after Gran died, if he planned to sell someday since he wasnt there much, anyway. He shrugged and said, Well see.

Frank holds out the key ring. Take good care of the place. When I wait a beat longer than I should to reply, he says, You sure about this? You know youre always welcome at our house.

Nah, Im good. I shake my head and grab the key ring.

So, theres one for the round barn. Big barn. Garage, but dont get any ideas about the Mustang. Laurel and Chris are the only ones with keys. He skims over this like its not a big deal, but I wouldnt mind getting behind the wheel of Chriss vintage Mustang. Coupla other sheds. Youll figure it out.

I shrug. No reason to figure out any of it. Its not like Im going to be here more than a few days. Which one is for the house?

He takes the keys back and flips through them, stops at one in the middle, gold with a broad, square head. Look here, he says, placing his calloused thumb on the surface. This ones old.

I take the key back and hold it close. An engraving, worn almost completely off: Stone & Wool Farm 7-20-1964.

Your grandparents wedding day. Your great-grandpa gave them the farm as a wedding gift and moved to the cabin on Halcyon Lake the next day. The place has been in the family since 1907, but its a lot older than that.

I never met my great-grandfather or my grandfather, who died when I was a baby. Thanks for the family history lesson. I cant help the undercurrent of sarcasm. Im tired and need to sit my ass down again before I collapse, and what difference does any of it make, anyway? The farms past means nothing to my present.

He ignores me. Last chance, he says.

For what? I know exactly for what.

Gabe, come on. Youre seventeen years old. Youre still a kid. You shouldnt be alone right now. Come to our place and hang out with Ted. Janie would love to have you over. Shell feed you, make all your favorites.

My favorites? Even I dont know what my favorites are anymore, although I do remember from short visits and summer weekends at the cabin that my aunt Janie is an amazing cook.