Page 75 of Spicy Ever After
That was the moment Doberman Dark Lager shot out of my nose.
Now, I can’t look at my brother when he answers. “Kennedy’s great. Thanks for asking.”
Uncle Paul nods, satisfied. “It’s been a while since we all sat down together like this. I’m thinking this is a good time to talk about a few things.”
Well, fuck. Here we go.
Grif and I exchange another look, but Pop just turns back to his newspaper. “We’re not selling, Paul,” he grumbles.
Uncle Paul flashes a grin that looks about as innocent as a jackal’s. “Hold on, now. You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”
“Don’t need to.”
“I have a buyer.”
The declaration lands on the table like a dead fish. “He’s made a serious offer.”
My gut clenches. A buyer?
Uncle Paul has brought up the topic of selling too many times over the last two years. This is the first time he’s mentioned anything as concrete as a buyer.
And I know it’s not because someone knocked on his door out of the blue. He went looking.
Even after we’ve told him a dozen times we aren’t interested in selling.
Pop scratches his chin, but I can see the irritated set of his jaw. “Paul?—”
“Cas, we have to at least have the conversation. You’d keep the house. Steadman Farms is willing to pay top dollar for the acreage, the outbuildings, and the equipment and?—”
“My son is farming this land,” Pop growls. “Just like I did. Just like Dad did. Just like Grandpa Jake did.”
The jackal grin is back. “Well, that’s the beauty of it—” Paul gestures a hand to me. “Steadman is willing to keep Beckett on as foreman with a guaranteed contract for five y?—”
“You are wasting your breath, little brother,” Pop says, a warning in his tone.
“You know as well as I do,” Uncle Paul’s voice is low, not with threat or warning, but with a gentleness that sounds eerily more threatening, “that soon, things will have to change.”
At first, I’m confused because if Paul is referring to Pop’s deterioration, then he knows something I don’t. Pop’s doctors have been purposefully vague about timelines for the progression of his Parkinson’s, saying only that it’s aggressive but every case is different. That stress makes it worse.
I look from Paul to Pop, and I’m alarmed to see the color has drained from my father’s face.
“You wouldn’t.” The two words are low and, to my shock, afraid.
Uncle Paul scoffs, but his expression is almost sad. “What makes you think I have a choice?”
“What’s this about?” I ask, looking from Paul to the Pop.
But Pop doesn't answer me. He doesn’t even look at me. He’s too busy glaring at his brother.
“Castor, you’re sixty-seven. I’m sixty-four. You weren’t ready to retire, but I am,” my uncle says.
Pop scowls. “So, retire. You have an IRA. Beckett sends you a dividend check every quarter.” Pop waves a trembling hand at me. “What do you want for? Collect social security and use it as your play money.”
It’s like Griffin and I have disappeared and all Pop and Paul can see is each other. Uncle Paul narrows his eyes. “Do you know that with a sibling with Parkinson’s, my risk of developing it increases?”
Jesus Christ, what?
When Pop was diagnosed, his neurologist mentioned the disease could run in families, but Pop couldn’t recall a relative ever being diagnosed. As soon as his doctor told us about exposure to pesticides being a risk factor—especially in farmers—we stopped asking why?
