Chapter 79

Barry didn’t inquire too closely about the agreement Bess and Frank had reached regarding her return home. He suspected he wouldn’t like what he’d hear.

As Frank had had his driver’s license suspended pending his court case, Barry agreed to take Bess to the hospital for her therapy sessions. At least that way he could make sure she attended.

Bess fretted about how she would be taking up so much of Barry’s time.

“With five hungry cowboys to feed three times a day, I need to do a lot of shopping. I can either do that while you’re having your therapy or the two of us can go to the store afterward.”

Barry knew Bess enjoyed going food shopping with him, so was glad when she chose the latter option.

“So long as you’re sure.”

Barry rolled his eyes and gave her a hug. “Even though you’re not living with me anymore, you’re still my girl.”

Bess laughed and socked Barry in the arm. On one of her first days at the Double J, Barry had sung what he could remember of the song “Bess, You Is My Woman Now” from Porgy and Bess

“Ouch! You’re developing quite the mean right hook there,” Barry said, rubbing his arm.

* * * *

“You remember my cottage pie?” Barry asked as he drove Bess home one afternoon following speech therapy and a visit to Wally World.

She nodded. “Yes, it went down real well with everyone.”

“Thanks. Well I got an email from my mum, uh, mom,” he corrected. “I’m making an effort to sound more American seeing as how I plan to make a life here.”

Bess beamed. “But you shouldn’t lose sight of where you came from. Your English accent is so cute.”

Barry tried not to groan. Everyone said that. “Well anyway, back to the email from my mother. I’d asked her the other day if she still had my Gran’s recipe for cottage pie.”

“Uh huh?”

“And she sent it me. Do you want me to make it for you this afternoon?” Barry had made sure Bess had bought ground beef and the other ingredients at the store.

“If you have time. Thank you.”

Barry knew the physical and occupational therapy often exhausted Bess. Frequently he would offer to cook, and occasionally she would accept.

They were standing together at the counter in Bess’s kitchen, Barry showing her how much seasonings his grandmother had recommended, when the door from the mud room opened.

“Frank,” Bess said, her happy mood of earlier dimming.

“What’s he doing here?” Frank grumbled.

“Making you dinner,” Bess replied. “So be nice.”

“Huh.” Frank slumped into a dining chair and opened a ranching magazine.

Barry continued. “I always run the carrots over a grater. That way they blend into the meat better.”

“Good idea,” Bess said, pulling her box grater out of a drawer.

“Now, the potatoes.” Barry got them out of the microwave.

“Don’t like microwaved taters,” Frank grumbled, not looking up from his reading.

Barry decided to ignore the comment but Bess had other ideas.

“I’ve cooked the potatoes in the microwave for the past couple of months and you haven’t said anything.”

“His idea, I’m sure.”

That was it, Barry couldn’t stay silent any longer. “He has a name.”

“Yeah, faggot.”

“Frank!” Bess banged a spoon on the countertop.

“If it looks like a duck, swims like—”

“I’m sure the same can be said for bigoted assholes, too.”

“The Good Book says—”

“Oh, Frank, don’t start that,” Bess said.

“Mr. Wilson.” Barry tried to keep his temper. “The Bible says a great deal about many subjects.” He really didn’t want to get into a discussion about wearing mixed fibers, touching a menstruating woman and the hundreds of other so-called abominations.

“It’s unnatural.”

“Frank, you’re being rude, not to mention unchristian.”

Barry admired his friend for standing up to her husband. It was new and very welcome. “I was always taught that God is love. I love Jimmy. He’s a good, kind, gentle man. Bess, you should be proud of the way you raised him.”

“Still turned out to be a faggot,” Frank said, flipping to the next page.

“It must take so much effort to be so hateful. You must be exhausted at the end of every day.”

Frank looked up, his eyes blazing with anger. “What the fuck would you know about a good honest day’s work? You just fuck around in the kitchen playing house.”

“Frank!” Bess warned.

“And it was my kitchen that fed your wife, your sons, and your ranch hand those couple of weeks.”

Frank returned to his magazine and didn’t say anything.