Page 81 of The Check Down
“Lacey Farms is one of the top soybean producers in the state.”
Humming, I take another look at the vast fields. “Impressive.”
“It’s that fertile delta soil. River’s that way.” He points to my window.
A couple of miles later, the road curves a bit, and the flat fields morph into more woodsy areas. We cross over a creek, and wind a little farther north, until he slows at a turnoff that cuts between two grassy fields bordered by white picket fences. A handful of horses graze in the field to our right, and in the distance stand a quintessential red barn and a cluster of chicken coops. We pass under a metal sign that stretches across the width of the road, the round Lacey Farms logo prominent.
“Lacey farms is part working farm, but part hobby farm, too. We’ve got chickens, goats, a few horses. Local schools come out for field trips, and Dad gives them tours, lets the kids hold baby chicks and feed the goats. Mom sells eggs to neighbors and stuff.”
“My own real-life farm boy.” Laughing, I squeeze his bicep. “Explains how you got these strapping muscles.”
The heated look he gives me makes me squirm. “You know I love when you call mestrapping, professor.” As twilight takeshold of the day, he pulls the truck up to a picturesque two-story white farmhouse, and parks in front of steps that lead up to a wide front porch. When he cuts the engine, he exhales, a content sound passing his lips, and surveys the scenery. “This is home.”
I’m gearing up to thank him again for bringing me here, for showing me the place that formed him into the man I adore, when the front door swings open and Trixie stomps onto the porch. “Quit making out in that truck and get in here, already!”
“Jesus,” he whispers. “I apologize in advance for every single member of my family.” His warning is laced with fondness. “They will be obnoxious as fuck about us.”
“Oh, you’ve told them?” My cheeks flame, but satisfaction courses through me.
“Like I’d keep you a secret. I want every fucking person on God’s green earth to know you’re mine.”
Holy hell, when he says things like that, my heart swells and my knees turn to jelly. Good thing I’m not standing up.
Griffin exits the truck and grabs our bags, refusing to let me help, and as soon as we step into the house, we’re swarmed with hugs and kisses from enthusiastic Laceys. Except for Shaw, of course. He stands apart until the frenzy calms, then he welcomes his brother with a slap on the back and me with a clipped nod.
The inside of the Lacey farmhouse is cozy and inviting. Overstuffed plaid couches and comfy leather recliners form the perimeter of the living area, and a fire blazes in the hearth to ward off the evening chill.
I step up to the mantle to get a closer look at a framed picture on the end. Three miniature versions of the brothers cheese at the camera, each wearing a different Memphis Blues T-shirt. Griffin wasn’t kidding when he said that he and Shaw looked like twins when they were young. And baby Tucker’s pudgy cheeks and dark curls have aged to perfection. I glance over my shoulder at whereFred and Donna are talking to their sons, resisting the urge to comment on their remarkable genes.
Trixie sidles up beside me and tips her chin. “That was at the Blues’ first home game. I was supposed to be there, too, but I had a fever that Sunday, so we had to miss it. Which Mom brings up every time she needs a favor.”
“Your mom’s not coming tonight?”
“She’s working at the Hoot tonight.”
“Griff pointed it out when we drove through town. Said we’d have to stop by while we’re here.”
We’re both quiet as I study the other pictures. On the opposite end of the rough-hewn mantel, in an ornate brass frame, is a shot of Griffin’s parents on their wedding day. Donna’s puffy white sleeves and Fred’s skinny tie and thick mustache make me smile. A large rock, roughly the size of a hand, sits beside it.
“What’s with the rock?” I whisper to Trixie.
She barks a laugh. “Aunt Donna, Brynn wants to know about your lying rock.”
All three brothers groan.
“Not the lying rock,” Tucker whines.
Donna swats his arm. “I’ll tell it over dinner. Y’all come on before these pork chops get cold.”
In a matter of minutes, we’re all seated around an oblong farmhouse table laden with steaming dishes of smothered pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans, and succotash.
Beside me, Griffin squeezes my thigh. “Mom, this smells amazing.”
She beams at her middle son. “I’m so happy to have all my babies at my table again.”
Across from me, Shaw rolls his eyes, but his lips lift in a small smile as he swipes his mouth with a napkin.
When Tucker taps at the screen of his phone under the table, Donna clears her throat. “No phones at dinner, Tucker Myles.”