Chapter Text
Excerpt from Harvest to Home , The Chemistry of Bread
“Bread is never natural. It is not a thing that grows out of the ground as loaves and rolls. It does not come out of the soil risen or baked.
Bread is a processed food, created from wheat ground by men and women, iodized salt, brown and white sugar, and chemical reactions. Anyone who sells you “natural and organic bread” is trying to sell you something else.
My hands have made countless connections between earth, table, wood, and fire in the repeated ritual of bread making. That is what makes homemade bread so rich and fulfilling. As you bring all the ingredients together, you are connecting yourself to the ground that gave you its ingredients and the people who made those ingredients ready for you to knead. Bread is a communal food, both in the making and consumption of it, which builds you and your relationships. In the process of creating your bread, making it puff with yeast, you are a chemical reaction in itself. The people around you adds something to you every day. You may have a consistent flavor, but you're never really the same exact person at each rising.
That said, here’s an easy recipe that will probably make your bread dependably rich and tasty every time you make it….”
--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast
*********
Nothing ever happens at Riverdale Farms.
Most days, Betty Cooper rose before the sun, dressing herself for farm work and getting breakfast ready for her two farm hands, Farmer John and Kevin.
After breakfast, they’d talk about what supplies they were running low on, what needed repair, what issues the animals may have, and what ideas may have sprung up while they did what they did.
When their meeting adjourned, they’d head out in the field.
Kevin, a freelance carpenter, would go about building and mending things--fences, ditches, barns, and other farming structures. She only really needed him three to four times a week, and sometimes he’d come and there would be nothing, so he’d help her do her farm work, which was to feed the animals, gather the produce from the vegetable field, fix broken machinery, and tend to the processing of the goat’s milk. Sometimes, he had bigger carpentry projects that he was contracted for and he’d parcel out his time between that and the farm.
He was always a pleasure to talk to, and they’d become as close to being the best of friends as their working relationship could get them. Sometimes, Kevin would ask her out to some gathering in town with his other friends. She almost always went. Of course, she never really met anyone in these gatherings who might be remotely interested in her, because Kevin was gay and so were his friends.
Farmer John wasn’t straight either. She had, after all, been introduced to him by Kevin. Farmer John tended the goats--his primary concern, and the Llamas, which were always incidental to goat care. Farmer John had a real passion for his job. He was a practical man, straightforward and steady, but when he talked about the goats, it wasn’t uncommon that he would be reduced to tears, telling her how big little Cheddar had gotten, or how proud he was of Jada for jumping over the fence even if she wasn’t supposed to. And this was when he was happy for them. It was a completely different matter when something goes wrong.
When something goes awry, Farmer John was all business and efficiency. He would apply first aid, call the vet, and make the arrangements for transport, then assign someone to watch over the goats while he was gone. He would stay with the injured or sick goat for days, if he had to. And in the rare instance of a death, he would hold a proper funeral, then weep for hours in mourning.
This had worried Betty immeasurably at first, wondering if she should be watching him when he got this way, but Kevin told her this was just how Farmer John was. He needed to weep. It was therapeutic for him.
“In the 20 years I’ve known him, he has never shown a single sign of depression or tendency for suicide,” Kevin said. “If you like fixing cars, he likes weeping. This is his thing. Books and movies make him cry too, you know. It’s like he has this endless supply of drama.”
Betty knew depression and anxiety. It was an old friend of hers, so she didn’t really take Kevin’s word for it at first. She kept an eye on Farmer John for a while, but when she watched him weep, then wipe his eyes, smiling happily as the goats gathered around his feet, and then continue on work like nothing was the matter, she figured he at least had a good coping mechanism.
At the end of the day, Farmer John and Kevin would leave, and the quiet of the farm—when the bleating of the goats grew silent, the flapping of the rainbow flag on her porch stilled, and the chickens roosted to soft clucking—would settle around her like the darkness.
**************
Betty liked to watch the sunset from her hayloft. Throwing a blanket over some hay, she would lie back with some cheese, fruit, and sometimes a book, and watch the day leave.
Sometimes she brought her cellphone up there with her to look at what was online. She had a blog called Harvest to Home, paired with an instagram account where her blog photos and more were posted. People seemed interested in her farm life, so she posted about her produce and farmhouse, her flowers and herbs. They were also interested in her chickens and goats.
She also had vegans and vegetarians following her. She wasn’t vegan or vegetarian. She did eat less meat, however, because she didn’t kill her farm animals to eat. She bought her meat from surrounding farms, but she could go weeks without eating meat if she only had herself to worry about. She had a vegetable and herb garden, which served most times for her meals. She made her own bread, which hipsters seemed to love judging by their instagram comments, and she did eat eggs regularly, in every way they could be cooked.
Sometimes she thought that the reason she could do all of this--bread making, butter churning, preserve canning, cheese aging, soap and shampoo producing--was because she was alone and she didn’t have to worry about anyone else, but she tried not to think too much about that, because it was a thought that could consume her, and sometimes she was afraid that the quiet of the farm could turn sinister if she wasn’t careful.
She loved her farm. Loved that she could cultivate life from it, loved that it earned her keep, but if she let herself remember how big it was, how empty it could be, how silent her hallways were, she was afraid she’d get lost in it.
This was why she had set up the farmhouse as a bed and breakfast. Her seven bedroom home was too big for one person. It once had hopes and dreams of being filled with kids and celebrations, but when that dream failed, it became a naggy thing, constantly reminding her that it wasn’t a home for a woman alone.
It was around four years ago that she decided she would open her house up for friends and strangers alike. It wasn’t a full time occupation for her by any means--guests were few and far between, but when she did have them, she gave them her full attention. Her breakfasts were legendary, her meals hearty and delicious, and when they were living at her place, she was a wonderful hostess, serving them bread, wine, cheese, and fresh produce. She showed them how she made her cheese and soaps. She played chauffeur for them their entire stay.
They were a break from her monotony and, loathe as she was to admit it, her loneliness. She tried not to say the L word to herself, because then it would be real.
Family visits were fleeting. There was nothing in her part of the world except the farm itself. Her sister, Polly, with her husband Jason, and twins, Sam and Caleb, came and went like a hurricane every other year. Her brother, Chic called her often, but he dropped by the farm even less than Polly did. Her sister’s sister-in-law, Cheryl, came by more often than Polly and Chic put together. She liked the whole Farm Chic experience. She came around every few months when she needed to get away from her job, running her family’s empire in the city..
Betty’s parents didn’t speak to her.
She supposed she did like being alone to some extent. She like being away from the heavy eyes of expectation. She wasn’t an underachiever by any means, but she had long realized that expectations would be the death of her if she ever let it rule her life again.
This farm life was a dream come true. She reminded herself often that this was what she always wanted, and it was the truth. Only thing was that she never thought she’d be alone doing it. She had always thought she’s have someone by her side.
********************
Betty checked her logs and saw that a guest was expected at her bed & breakfast the next day. The name he gave her was Jughead Jones and he had booked an indefinite stay.
It was a rare booking, but not the first of its kind. She’d had a few business travelers settle in her farm for a few weeks, often there by recommendation of others. Though she was 45 minutes away from the main business hub, travelers often stopped by, just to find out what the fuss was about, only to end up cancelling their town hotel reservations and spend the remainder of their stay there.
She supposed she was good at making people feel at home. She wasn’t a recluse by nature. She liked people, and she could stand them in groups if she already knew them individually. She preferred one on one conversations, getting to know them, making them her friend, or at least comfortable acquaintances. It was certainly why her Riverdale Bed & Breakfast was so beloved.
“You’re the main attraction, sweetie,” Kevin had told her one time, sipping coffee as he sat on her porch swing. “And even knowing you’re gorgeous, it’s not the looks you have, per se. It’s this whole vibe you have of making every little thing special, from the flowers in your bathroom to the little flourishes in your food. You’re classy like Martha Stewart, rustic like Ree Drummond, and friendly like Ina Garten. You know?”
Betty had rolled her eyes at him, scoffing as she did, but then she was tying twine around a bar of soap that she made, wrapped in pink wax that was dotted with her farm monogram “RF” in silver--while dressed in a crisp white shirt dress cinched at the waist, brown boots, and a flowery scarf over her braided golden hair, So maybe she couldn’t exactly dismiss Kevin’s assessment of her, however embarrassingly self-aggrandizing it was.
As she closed her log book, she pulled her pad from its slot at her work desk and started making a list of things she may need to do in anticipation of Mr. Jones’s arrival. While she tended to keep preparations basic--freshen up the rooms, dust the house, prepare the meals--, sometimes she did a little Googling to see if she could personalize something for her guest. She didn’t go too much into it, lest she crosses some line to creepy, but if there was something general, like a birthday or anniversary, or maybe a well-documented hobby, she put a little something extra into welcoming them.
When she Googled Jughead Jones, she discovered that he was a writer and that he had published two novels, both of them crime thrillers, both of them successfully making the New York Times Bestsellers List. He was J. Jones on the cover and when, against her better judgment, she looked at his photos, she found a handsome young man with wild, luscious black hair who drove a motorcycle, smoked cigarettes, and hardly looked at the camera when his picture was being taken. Even his author photo was of him leaning back casually on his bike, ankles crossed, a live cigarette between his lips, a cheap cup of coffee on one hand, and a newspaper in another. He wasn’t paying attention to the camera at all and he was scowling at something he was reading. Some parts of the picture were blurry and Betty had a feeling that wasn’t on purpose. His hair was kind of a mess and his black shirt, worn dark jeans, and heavy black combat boots looked a little worse for wear. If this was his Picture Day outfit, he didn’t look like someone who liked attention.
One of the river rooms, she thought, knowing that he would appreciate the quiet view, the bookshelves, and the bay windows. The sun did not rise on that side of the house, so he would appreciate darker mornings. She thought she might scent his room with vanilla, because he didn’t seem like a lavender or eucalyptus kind of guy.
She looked at his picture a bit longer and wondered if he was a little old school, based on the Ramones t-shirt he had on. She went on Amazon and saw that his books offered excerpts online. She read the first book’s excerpt quickly. There appeared to be a noir-ish tone to his writing, so he probably liked watching old movies. His website offered a playlist of songs he liked. It was an eclectic mix, but he tended to lean classic: Beatles, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, and Joan Jett, but he also liked bebop jazz and hip hop.
When half an hour later, she was still reading up on Jughead Jones, she realized that she had perhaps crossed creepy territory twenty minutes ago and that she needed to stop obsessing over whether she should change his drapes to a darker gray.
She opted to picking some books he might like from her collection and stacking them artfully on his bedside table, with a handwritten note welcoming him to her home and conveying her hope that he’d enjoy some of the book recommendations she had left him.
She pinned the note to his bed with a sprig of dried flowers, vanilla scented, and a can of house made fruit pastilles. She had also called Farmer John on his cell phone, asking him to buy a few packs of smokes for her. She had had guests in the past who needed cigarettes but found themselves frustrated that there wasn’t a nearby 7/11 for them to buy some. Since she already knew Jughead was a smoker, he was likely to want a pack sooner or later.
The rooms were constantly aired and the house often cleaned, so there wasn’t much else to be done, but she always made her meals fresh for her guests, even if she prepared the ingredients ahead of time.
She set to work chopping and cutting, putting them in handy containers and grouping them in her humongous refrigerator. The pies she assembled ahead. Those were always just a matter of popping into an oven and waiting for them to cook as close to mealtime as possible. By the time dinner rolled around, she was ready to receive her guest whatever time of day he arrived.
A flutter of excitement rose from the pit of her stomach. She always got this way when she expected guests. It was the newness of people. The possibilities they brought at the mere thought of their arrival. She looked forward to the break in her life’s monotony.
This was what excited her.
And yeah, maybe the fact that those intensely blue eyes, attractive cheekbones, and rebel vibe kind of took her breath away, added to the fun.
His overall tall, dark, and broody was attractive, but it was just fun. Because he was a person, and he probably had a girlfriend, or he could possibly even be gay, or just be completely uninterested in flirting with anybody.
This was just normal Anticipation of Guest excitement.
She grinned at her reflection on the mirror, shaking her head at herself. “Tomorrow’s a new day and that’s always a good thing, Cooper.”
******************
Jughead Jones did not arrive as expected, which was a bit of a let down, but not unheard of. She’d had a few cancellations in the past, but they usually called ahead or at least the day of. Nevertheless, it wasn’t earth shattering, just mildly disappointing.
She didn’t lose any money by his non-appearance, except maybe for the cigarettes which was minimal, and she didn’t lose a day of work. Guests were never so disruptive that she had to stop everything she was doing to attend to them. She had gotten to the point that the farm was a well-oiled machine, and there were hours between waking up and closing shop that she had to fill. She often filled them with crafting and creating, making her farmhouse modern and customized, but except for having things to talk about on her blog, they weren’t terribly necessary.
Beautifying her house and writing about it on her blog was a hobby. It was the kind of thing she could set aside when she had to play hostess to her B&B guests.
She’ll live.
As she herded the last of the goats and Llamas into their sleeping pens and closed the barn doors around her property, she felt a raindrop on her cheek.
She looked up and saw the dark clouds in the evening sky. She closed her eyes and felt more droplets on her face, cold and sharp against her skin. She stayed that way until the rain poured from the sky and she ran to take shelter. Smiling to herself, she got under her porch and watched the rain fall on her farm, dripping herself dry.
*********************
The night felt a little bit cooler for the rain, which hadn’t stopped since early evening. There were already reports of flash flood warnings on TV in the surrounding areas, but nothing catastrophic. It was a little windy outside, causing the rain to pelt her windows sideways.
To wash off the last of her disappointment, she had bathed in her tub, soaking in her favorite scented bath soaps with music in the background and a book to read. She loved these moments of relaxation, serving also as a means of quiet meditation.
When she got out of her tub, she felt clean, refreshed, and she smelled amazing.
She slipped into a comfortable pair of sleep leggings and an overly loose top to match. It was an old thing, worn in places, but it was comfortable and perfect for the chilly night. She let loose her long hair, letting it dry on its own. She made herself some tea and sat on the living room couch in front of her old, craigslist bought flat-screen television. It was just good enough for streaming shows and movies from Netflix and Amazon, and new enough that it can get regular TV channels hooked up to it, but she didn’t watch too much television. She had a television installed for her guests who might appreciate movie nights and binge watching.
She selected Galaxy Quest on Netflix, because she felt like she needed a bit of laughter tonight. She was just stifling a laugh at how Alan Rickman’s character, Sir Alexander Dane, was staring miserably at his gross and wriggling alien dinner when her doorbell chimed through the house.
She looked at her clock. It was just a bit past nine in the evening and it was still pouring outside, so she was a bit concerned about who it could possibly be.
The doorbell chimed again and setting her cup of tea down, she hurried to the door and looked through the peephole.
She saw a man soaked to the skin, his dark wet hair plastered to his face and head. He ran a hand through his wet hair and droplets shot out around him like fairy dust. His leather jacket made him look a little big and intimidating, but there was nothing but exhaustion marking the planes of his excruciatingly handsome face.
Oh, my ovaries.
Her own thoughts made her cheeks burn.
This had to be the author, and he was turning to the windows now, probably checking to see if someone was inside the house.
She swung the door open. “Jughead Jones?”
He turned to face her, his shoulders sagging with relief. When he saw her, he looked surprised, blinking for several seconds as he stood there, staring at her.
She arched an eyebrow. “You are Jughead Jones, aren’t you? I’m Betty Cooper, your hostess and the person you’ve been emailing with.”
“Sorry,” he finally said, looking away and obviously embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m Jughead Jones. Good to finally meet you... I wasn’t expecting--well, you’re younger than I expected.”
She pressed her lips together to stifle her smile. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. People who came to her farm expected a nice old lady in a pinafore and apron. She had only just hit twenty eight a few months ago so she hadn’t quite left her twenties yet. She looked younger than an average Bed & Breakfast owner and manager, that was for sure. Her mid-century name didn’t help, either.
“Come inside before you catch your death of cold,” she said, putting forth a more familiar, country ma’am tone. It was just the sort of thing grandmothers said, she supposed, but it was all part of making her guests feel comfortable.
“Yeah,” he said absentmindedly. “I will, but do you have some kind of garage I can put my bike in? It’s a little banged up and I was hoping I can take a look at it…”
“Of course! Wheel it over to the building right here on the left--that’s my garage. I’ll open the doors for you right away.”
She hurried back inside, grabbing a towel from her linen closet, and going to the side of the house, through the mudroom, and through the door leading to the garage.
She hurried around her pickup truck, which was parked there, but the garage was large enough to accommodate big farm trucks and equipment. When they broke, she brought them in here and she fixed them herself.
Her tools were lined neatly up on the walls, drawers, and shelves. It was a well-organized work shop, ready when she needed it.
Rushing to the big barn doors, she slid one side open. Jughead was right there, and he wheeled his bike in, taking it and himself out of the rain.
The wheel in the front was flat and she looked at him sympathetically, handing the towel to him.
He looked at her a bit warily before shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the bike. He took the towel from her and thanked her softly.
She told herself to stop checking him out, since his wet shirt was sticking to the planes of his body. He was slender, with a rather tantalizing hint of definition on his chest and abs, but his arms and shoulders looked damn good, and the sleeve of tattoos going down his right arm was doing things to her body temperature.
Tearing her eyes away as he ran the towel through his hair, she turned her gaze to his bike. “When did this happen?” she asked.
He jerked his head back. “About two miles away. I figured I’d just wheel it all the way here instead of waiting in the rain for a tow. Longest two miles of my life.”
She gave him a half smile as she began to examine the wheel. “Hell of a night to get a flat on a motorcycle. You could’ve called me and I could’ve gone and got you.”
“I didn’t want to--” he faltered slightly. “I figured I can handle it without bothering anyone.”
She wondered if he was just that kind of person who didn’t like asking for help, or if he just thought he would be asking a middle-aged to geriatric Bed & Breakfast hostess to get up from bed and creak her way to his location on her bad back.
“It wouldn’t have been a bother. I want to be there for my guests. Looks like there’s a nail in there,” she said, examining a knot in the rubber. “You okay? You didn’t take a spill, did you?”
He shook his head. “I wobbled and slowed down, but it was a gradual thing. I was able to pull up the side of the road.”
“It doesn’t look so bad,” she said, looking at the wheel again. “If you’re good with a patch up, we should be able to do that and you can get to where you’re headed after your stay here. If you’re going to a big city, I suggest you have the tire ordered up there so that by the time you get to them, you’ll have your wheel and all they have to do is replace it.”
“Can’t I get it replaced around here?” he asked.
She shrugged. “You can, but around here it takes at least two to three weeks for parts to arrive.”
He shrugged right back. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She realized then that he was staying for at least three weeks, if not more. She straightened and smiled. “Well, then I’ll order the parts for you first thing.”
He arched an eyebrow and she couldn’t help but note that his eyes were even bluer than in the pictures. “ You’re ordering the parts.”
She was amused by his skepticism. “Yes. I’ll fix your bike. Unless you already have a mechanic around here…”
“Um, no. I’m very new to these parts,” he muttered.
She looked at the bags strapped to the back of his bike. “Are these your things?”
“I got them,” he said, slinging the towel over his shoulder and unstrapping his things. He tucked the backpack’s strap over his shoulder and carried the duffle bag by its handles.
“I’ll get your jacket,” she said, picking it off the bike’s seat. It was heavy with the rain. “I can hang it by the wood burner in the living room. Should help dry it properly.” She led him up the stairs to the mudroom, where he took a moment to wipe the bottom of his boots so that he wouldn’t trail so much water into the house.
She hurried to the living room and hung up his jacket, then hurried right back to him just as he was done wiping down his bags with his towel.
“Do you have anything dry to wear? I have some clothes I can lend you.”
“My bags are waterproof,” he replied. “I should have something.”
“Have you had anything to eat?”
“Not in a while.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder reassuringly. “I have a hearty, beefy soup on the pot. I just need to reheat it, and some fresh bread. Baked it this morning. I can make you a sausage omelette, too. With mushrooms in it. Easiest thing.”
“Yes,” he said, relief in his tone.
She wanted to ask him if he was saying yes to the soup or the omelette, but she figured she had already said the omelette was easy, so she’ll heat the soup and make the omelette, and he could decide then.
“You can come right down after you’re dry and changed,” she said. “Kitchen’s back there, but first let me walk you up to your room. I call it the River Room because it has a nice view of Sweetwater River. You have a writing desk, some books and a shelf. You also have a bay window you can sit on comfortably, and while we generally don’t smoke in the house, I guess you can throw open a window if it’s late and you don’t feel like stepping out of the house.”
He gave a frustrated sigh. “Right. Smokes.” He dug into his pocket and fished out a soggy pack. “Shit.”
“Fret not. I bought you a few packs. We don’t have a convenience store for miles around so I had one of my guys get you a few packs just to tide you over. I’ll give them to you when you come down for dinner.”
Again, he seemed surprised, then he sighed with relief. “Thanks. Seriously, this evening’s looking up.”
She was pleased by that. She took pride in giving her guests the best experience and she knew it was the little things she did for them, like the convenient pack of cigarettes and the books on their bedside table.
When they got to his room, she opened the door for him and he walked right in, putting his duffle bag and backpack down on the floor. He took a deep breath and seemed happy with the vanilla smell, then he went over to the bedstand, picking up the first book on the stack.
“Walter Mosley’s Charcoal Joe,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to read this for a while now.”
She cocked a smile. “You seemed like a Walter Mosley kind of guy. You might like the others, too. I’ve read them all. I make sure of that when I make recommendations. Those are mostly crime novels, but I snuck in a couple of YA novels in there, too. I figured you might like The Lie Tree for its crime vibe and The Serpent King for its dark coming of age themes . ”
He looked mildly stunned. “How did you know I liked YA?”
She felt her face grow warm, hoping that she didn’t come off as completely psycho. “Erm, your author Facebook page photo. You, um, have Stephen Chbosky’s words tattooed on your arm.”
His blue gaze flickered unconsciously to his arm for a second. “We accept the love we think we deserve,” he said, quoting his tattoo.
She nodded. “Anyway, full disclosure: I do a bit of research on all my guests. I want everyone to feel at home, so… don’t get creeped out. I swear, I didn’t dig too deep.”
“No, this is great,” he said, gesturing to the entirety of the room. “I’m already looking forward to staying here.”
“Excellent,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’ll be in the kitchen downstairs, but holler if you need me, alright?”
He nodded. “Alright. Um, Ms--erm, Mrs. Cooper?”
She blew a breath through her lips. “Good lord, please call me Betty. Mrs. Cooper is my mother and the only thing I’m married to around here is this farm.”
His face went red and he looked ready to jump out of his skin from embarrassment. “Right. Betty. I’m sorry I’m late. I wanted to get here earlier but I got sidetracked on my way here. I’ll definitely pay you for the day you lost.”
She chuckled. “Right, because I’ve fully booked all six of my empty rooms.”
His brows knotted in confusion.
“I didn’t exactly lose anything by your late arrival,” she explained, gently. “It’s all good, Mr. Jones. We’ll start fresh in the morning. Tomorrow’s a new day and that’s always a good thing.
His brows smoothed over, but his eyebrow arched again, a smile threatened to break from his lips. “Mr. Jones is the name of a song by Counting Crows. I’m just plain Jughead.”
She didn’t think he was plain at all, but she refrained from saying that. She didn’t make a habit of flirting with guests. “Come down whenever you’re ready, Jughead.”
When he nodded, she turned and shut the door behind her.
*******
Jughead blew a breath softly between his lips, staring at the door warily for a moment before he sat at the desk chair and started to remove his boots.
He had not expected Betty Cooper to look the way she did. When he booked this Bed & Breakfast as his writing getaway, he had been told that it was a quiet, out of the way place, with an accommodating owner/hostess who cooked divine spreads, offered great conversation, and made her guests feel right at home.
He had been expecting a more matronly figure, gray haired perhaps, stately, maybe, the way those baby boomer, Hampton-living, ladies carried themselves. She had, after all, been described by his editor as a cross between Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, and Ree Drummond of Pioneer Woman fame. None of those ladies were leggy, in their twenties, smelled like sweet lilacs, and was gorgeous as hell. And none of them had that long blonde hair.
“You and your blondes, Jughead,” he muttered under his breath.
Not that he’s dated many. He didn’t go dating every attractive woman he met, and the two he’d dated seriously weren’t blonde at all, but almost all his fantasy women were blondes. Hitchcock blondes, platinum blondes, strawberry blonde, and yes, golden blonde.
In all fairness, Betty seemed to be well read and can change a flat tire on a Harley. That pretty much sealed the deal on his little crush. And if everything they said about her cooking was true, he was pretty sure he’d be halfway in love with her before midnight.
His room had its own bathroom, which was something he was truly grateful for. He found that he had a supply of those signature soaps, shampoo, and lotion he kept seeing all over the house, but the toothpaste was regular brand. He was a little surprised that wasn’t homemade, but he supposed a smart lady like Betty would choose extensively researched dental products over her own homegrown efforts.
He refreshed himself a bit over the bathroom sink, then he stripped himself of his wet clothing.
He changed into dry underwear, a fresh pair of jeans, and a plain white shirt. He towel dried his hair and tucked the necklace his father had given him under his shirt. He figured he’d go barefoot because she walked around barefooted herself.
He checked his phone and found that his best friend, Archie Andrews, had texted him from his New York penthouse.
How are the boonies? Asking for a friend.
That friend was Archie’s wife, Veronica.
Jughead typed his response.
Boonies are good. Veronica would like it here.
And that was the truth. Though in the middle of nowhere, this house was magazine shoot ready. It’s what Veronica would breathlessly call farmhouse chic, with its artfully distressed furniture, rustic decor, and modern flourishes, it seemed that Betty had an eye for class. The woman had mad interior design skills.
Tucking the phone into his pocket, he made his way down the flight of stairs. He could already smell the food cooking from the kitchen. He passed the living room and saw that the movie Galaxy Quest was playing.
He paused for a moment, and sighed. It was one of his favorite movies.
Get a grip, Jughead.
He followed the sounds of plates and cutlery chiming from the next room.
Betty was standing over a hot skillet, folding over the cake of eggs.
She smiled brightly when she saw him. “Just in time! This is almost done.”
A place had been set for him on the rustic kitchen table. There was a bowl of steaming hot soup set on his plate and a bread basket set on the side. A small bowl of butter sat beside it.
“You going back to watching Galaxy Quest?” he asked, taking his seat.
She took a moment to process his question, then she chuckled softly. “I’ve seen it more than a dozen times, so I really don’t need to see it again. I’ll sit with you.”
Of course she’d seen it more than a dozen times.
When she set the omelette down, she sprinkled the top of it with some chives. She took some hot water from a tea kettle and poured it into a mug, submerging a tea infuser into the hot liquid. She took a seat at the table.
“I hope that aside from the flat tire, you didn’t run into too much trouble getting here,” she said, gesturing that he should start eating.
He was famished, and the soup smelled fantastic. He took a spoon and a slice of the warm bread, shrugging. “I ran a few errands on the way here, that’s why I was late in coming, but apart from that, it was an easy trip.”
She nodded. “Good to know.”
He tried the soup and it was like comfort, flavor, and all beefy goodness. “Jesus, this soup is fucking amazing. Pardon my french, but it’s so good.”
She smiled shyly. “You’re just hungry. Now the bread--”
He tried the bread and it was fresh and perfect. “You made this yourself?”
“Most of everything here is homemade, but I am proud of my bread. I love making them,” she said. “And it’s communal. You can share a loaf of bread on the table, sure, but the making of it--it takes a village. All the ingredients to make that bread came from someone’s hard work, and then when you put it all together, it comes into its own when it rises from the yeast. It’s chemistry and art coming together.”
He watched her talk about bread like it was the world in her hands.
“Sorry,” she said, her cheeks growing pink. “I guess I just really like making things in general.”
“Don’t apologize. I think it’s great.”
The omelette was delicious as well and he told her that if all her meals were this good, he would be 400 pounds by the end of the week.
She smiled and sipped her tea. “So are you here on business the next town over?”
He looked at her questioningly. “Business? Is that how I come off?”
“Well, people only ever come here for business in town. I’m not exactly a tourist destination.”
He debated telling her that her farm should be. It was idyllic and she was an attraction in itself, but he supposed that could make things immeasurably awkward. “I’m not a tourist and I’m not here on business. I basically came here to write. The book I’m writing is set in a farm off the beaten path. I have no concept of farm life and I needed a place to get away. Your farm came up by word of mouth and I thought it would be perfect if I can do my research and writing all at the same time.”
Her brilliant green eyes brightened. “Your book--you mean your next one. You’ve published two of them, yes?”
He shrugged. He still couldn’t believe he wrote books for a living and that his job was basically to loiter in some farm, trying his hardest not to make an ass of himself in the presence of its beautiful hostess. “Yeah. I was lucky.”
She smirked. “I ordered your books from Amazon yesterday. Epistrophe and Goodbye, Sugar Pie Blues are still holding strong on the NYT Bestsellers extended list. They haven’t reduced the price.”
He smirked, shrugging. “I can’t control that, but I could’ve given you a copy of each for free.”
“But that won’t help you at all,” she pointed out as-a-matter-of-factly. “Couldn’t help but notice the jazzy names, though. Was that you or your editor?”
“Both. I was inspired by Thelonius Monk’s Epistrophy and Charles Mingus’s Goodbye, Pork Pie Hat. They’re compelling works of music that translate well to crime novels, so I wrote the first book, Epistrophe, with an E, that way. It was my editor who thought it would be a good idea to name the novel in homage to the song. I went and just did it for the second book.”
She shook her head, smiling. “I never would’ve made an entire book based on bebop, especially since both songs are purely instrumental.” She reached for some of the bread and spread some butter over her piece. “Which is why you’re the writer and I’m the farmer.”
“I don’t know,” he said, cutting a large piece of the omelette. “We’re both creative people. We make crazy connections in our own mediums.” He nodded at something behind her. “At what point, when you were looking at that broken piece of folding door, did you know that you could make something beautiful out of it?”
She looked over her shoulder and saw that he was talking about two slats of a folding cabinet door. They were fitted into the corner of the kitchen and she had attached shelves onto them. She had painted and treated the wood, bringing out its distressed look in an appealing way. Above the highest shelf were mirrors set in the same right angle, beneath the mirrors was a ceramic pitcher, and a washing bowl. The second and third shelves contained blocks of her packaged soaps and bottles of her signature lotions.
She shrugged. “Saw them at the antique fair and bought them. I just knew I can make something out of it.”
He nodded, smirking. She had made his point for him.
“When you put it that way, I suppose I get it,” she said, simply. “Your books will probably arrive in a week. I’ll read them and we could discuss it at meal time.”
She didn’t sound like she had any doubts that they would. He couldn’t say otherwise, because it wasn’t as if he had any plans other than staying here and writing, especially if his motorcycle was out of commission.
As if reading his thoughts, she said, “I can drive you to wherever you want to go, by the way. I’ll be your chauffeur for your entire stay. If you need to go anywhere, just let me know. The keys to the house are in your bedside drawer so feel free to come and go as you please. My laundry room is right beside the mudroom. You can do your own laundry or you can leave your clothes outside your door in a bag that I’ve provided you--you should find it by your hamper--and I’ll do your laundry for you.”
Jughead thought that it had to be the most awkward thing to know that Betty Cooper would be sticking his wet underwear in a washing machine. “I think I’ll do my own, thanks.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. For food, you can always just grab something from the refrigerator and pantry between meals. I’ve got everything well organized in here so that you can find things easily.”
He did observe how things were in open baskets and trays, arranged in beautiful racks and shelves. Most things in jars were labeled, and the fruits and vegetables were so fresh they were gleaming.
“All from your farm?” he asked.
She nodded. “The vegetables are. I have a few fruit trees here or there, but I have to get most of them from other nearby orchards.”
“God, you can practically live off the grid out here,” he sighed. “Sounds amazing.”
And it did. The thought that he can actually remove himself from the rest of the world sounded so terribly appealing. He just might move here permanently.
“Does it?” she asked, looking amused. “People say that, but when it’s real, they get cabin fever. And I don’t know if it’s totally realistic. I’m lucky enough that my property runs through the cable company’s fiber optic route. Some places around here have to do without internet. So that’s one thing I can’t do without. I mean, I can make my own toothpaste, for instance, but why the hell would I? With toothpaste, I'd like to stick to the hi-tech stuff, thanks. I like to keep all my teeth. So I order that stuff online.”
He chuckled. “Fair. Amazon delivers, thank God. Also, you’ve got movie streaming, probably local channels, and you apparently don’t sew your own clothes. So maybe not entirely off the grid, but sufficient enough that you don’t have to keep, you know, putting up with the shit that comes with interacting with a bunch of people all at once.”
She tilted her gaze at him, and his eyes were drawn to the golden hair cascading slowly down her shoulder. “Do you prefer to be left alone?”
“Sometimes. Most times. But by groups. Not one-on-one. I’m good like this. It’s parties that kill me.”
She nodded. “I understand. I have no problem being at parties in general, but I have to be ready for them. You can’t spring one on me. I would pick vegging out on the couch watching movies over a party any day, but I’ll go to a party if I have to do it for friends. Only one per week, though. Max. I will riot if you make me go to a party two days in a row. I need an entire week to recover from one.”
He couldn’t help but smirk. “You’re a social butterfly compared to me. But you get my drift. We’re not that different. People exhaust us.”
“Yes!” she gasped, then her cheeks turned red again. “Guests I can deal with constantly. I like having guests over. It’s one of my favorite things, because I do like knowing people enough to make them happy.”
He wondered if that made her a people pleaser, but that seemed like an unkind assessment of her. Maybe she used to be one, but now she just liked spreading that feeling of warmth and welcome, because she was a hostess for a B&B after all. She excelled at it, anyway. No hotel would have had the desire to recommend books to him the way she did, books that he might actually enjoy. No hotel would have promised to fix his flat tire.
“What time do I have to be down for breakfast?” he asked.
She cocked a smile. “That’s completely up to you. If you’re an early riser, let me know, but I usually have breakfast ready for my farmhands by the time they get here at 6. When I have guests, I prepare breakfast for them at the hour they prefer. I do have to know ahead what time that is, though.”
“I am not a morning person.”
“9:30?”
“ Ten,” he corrected. “Ten thirty.”
“Brunch, then,” she said, smiling gently. “No problem, Jughead. Know, however, that coffee will always be there first thing. If you wake up earlier, you’ll get your caffeine fix.”
She stood suddenly and went to the refrigerator. He realized that he had finished everything on the table. She brought something out of the refrigerator, and when she uncovered it, he saw that it was a cherry pie.
“Dessert?” she asked. “It’s not exactly as fresh as this morning, but I baked this pie just yesterday.”
He loved this place. “Still sounds awesome.”
She sliced a piece and put it on a plate, then she snuck it, plate and all, into the oven.
“Should be a couple of minutes, but it’ll be nice and warm.” She did not put the rest of the pie away.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asked, awed.
“The B&B?”
“Everything, I guess.”
A hint of a smile ghosted on her face and he wondered if her eyes always looked this vulnerable. “I moved to this farm when I was twenty. I loved it instantly. At the time, the only crop it had was corn. The animals were for eating and there were horses. Lots of horses. But they were too much money. They were the ones that went first, then a couple of failed crops later, we--I had to rethink the entire concept of this farm. I can’t even remember how I went from corn to goat’s milk.” She paused and sighed. “All these soaps and shampoos and lotions, that’s my product. I make them here, package them, and sell them to boutiques in New York. They sell really well. Same for the cheese, except I sell them to fancy restaurants. I refuse to mass produce them, because then I can’t control the quality. The B&B was a means to fill the house. It’s too huge for me to live alone in the whole entire year.” She threw her head back and closed her eyes. “God, it’s been eight years! Time flies when you’re having--well, stuff to do, I guess.”
He did note that she didn’t say “fun.” He supposed she thought that was disingenuous. Who had “fun” for eight years? Still, it was hard to imagine that a twenty year old would move into a house and farm like this all by herself.
“Did your parents buy this place for you?”
She chuckled and looked down at her hands. “My husband inherited it.”
He thought she had said earlier that she wasn’t married. He actually specifically threw that line of Ms. vs. Mrs. to find out if she was. Maybe they had separated.
God. She married him at twenty.
“I know. It’s weird,” she said, cocking a grin. “I met him at eighteen and married him at twenty. But things don’t always work out the way you plan.”
Hope.
“Sorry.”
She shrugged. “I’ve moved on. I think. When your husband dies on you after just two years and you realize that you are officially a twenty two year old widow, it puts a lot of things in perspective.”
Jesus. Now I feel like an asshole.
Before he could think on it, he put a hand over her arm. She was warm to the touch and she looked up at him, startled.
“I am so sorry, Betty,” he said, meaning it.
“It’s--it’s alright. Like I said, I moved on. It’s been six years after all. He changed my life. I am so grateful for that. This is the life I want and I never would have known that if I hadn’t met and married him. But thank you.”
His guilt gave him a mental slap to the back of the head. “I’ll be here a while, so maybe I can help you out in the farm. If it’s just to lift things, I think even an idiot like me can manage that.”
“You’re very kind, but are you sure you want to help?” A glint of mischief put the light back in her eyes. “The farm wakes up at 5:30. That’s 5 whole hours before you wake up.”
He took a deep breath and couldn’t really think of a response.
She laughed, getting up again to go to a cupboard to get something. It was his cigarettes. Half a dozen packs of Marlboros. His brand, of course.
“How much do I owe you for those?”
“On the house. Consider it a thank you gift for choosing my B&B.It’s as much for me as it is for you.”
Her face reddened right after she said it, but then she began to busy herself putting away his plates. When he tried to help, she shooed him away, telling him he could kick back and relax. Expertly, she put the warmed cherry pie in front of him, so that he had little choice but to eat it while she cleaned up around him.
She chattered lightly about the places he may want to venture to outside the farm. Everything was at least thirty minutes away, but it hardly mattered to him at the moment. He didn’t have any immediate plans of leaving the farm.
The pie was delicious and he finished it quickly. He brought the plate to the sink and started washing it along with the other dishes without asking her. She shot him a gently chastising look, but he shot a look right back. “You told me to feel at home and this is what I do at home.”
She rolled her eyes but patted his arm lightly. “Fine. But most days, I use a dishwasher. Let’s be completely clear. I try to do my part for the environment but as a matter of practicality, dishwashing and laundry need to be done by machine.”
When all the dishes and cutlery were on the drying rack and Betty had wiped every surface clean, she told him one last time that the house was at his disposal.
“I’m heading off to bed,” she said.
“So you really aren’t finishing Galaxy Quest?” he teased mildly.
She smiled. “I was only doing it to pass the time. Now the time has passed.”
When Betty left, he opened a pack of the cigarettes she got him and stepped out on the porch to smoke.
The rain had finally subsided into a soft drizzle, so now it was unbelievably quiet. There might have been the sound of a distant cluck from the chicken coop, and maybe the soft bleating of the goats from afar, but the peace surrounding him was slightly unnerving.
He could get used to it, however. It’s what he came here for. That escape from the white noise.
It was while he was leaning against a porch beam that he remembered what she said about her B&B. It was as much for her as it was for him--or rather, her guests.
Considering what he would be paying daily to live here and him being the only guest, it didn’t seem like she was making a profit from it. In their email exchanges about her prices, she had sent him a price menu, with fixed daily, weekly, and monthly rates, based on single, couple, and family occupancy. Her rates had been cheap, considering all meals and amenities were included. It was like living with your mother with cheap and controlled rent. If he ever wanted to move out here, he could just as easily start boarding in her home.
And perhaps that was the point. She wanted people to stay with her. She didn’t want to be alone in this house if she could help it.
The B&B was as much for her as it was for guests.
He wouldn’t dare feel pity for her. That was not what she wanted and it was not something he wanted to offer, but he could completely understand what she felt. It was the kinship of shared experiences.
He hadn’t lost a wife to death, but he’d known loneliness in his life. When he had been homeless, abandoned by his family, he had lived in a movie projection booth during warm months and the school janitor’s closet in the cold. When that became unavailable to him, he had lived with his best friends, first Archie, and then Veronica, her family eventually fostering him, and when he graduated high school and turned 18, he worked hard to stay off the streets and put a roof over his head. When his father got out of jail five years ago, he rebuilt his relationship with his father.
It was a hard road and it was still a work in progress, but he appreciated his father making amends, however late it was. He appreciated that his father was sober for five years. He was grateful that his father was, for all his faults and flaws, a pretty decent human being and that he did, truly, love his son.
All the way out here in Riverdale Farms, Jughead was an hour away from his dad’s house--the house Jughead bought for him. It was the reason, after all, that he arrived late here. He had spent most of the day with his father, and it had been a good day.
He hadn’t expected it to end so perfectly, though. He hadn’t expected Betty.
Jughead finished his cigarette and wondered where he was going to put it out. He looked around and found an ashtray on the porch coffee table.
He wondered if she had put out the ashtrays specifically for him.
Probably.
He went back inside, locked up, and retired to his bedroom. He found the note on his bed welcoming him to the farm, with mention of the books she had set on his bedside table. He popped a pastille in his mouth and turned the card over. At the back of it was the WiFi network and password. He turned back to the front and examined the note more closely.
Her handwriting was neat and flowy, and she signed it “B” like a heart. The card was exquisitely tasteful. Satin colored paper, embedded RF monogram, and at the bottom were two links. One was Riverdalefarms.com and the other was Tumble.com/hometoharvest.
She had a blog, which piqued his interest.
He dug out his phone and opened a browser. He typed in her blog url and started to read.