Fail Me (Florida Flowers Book 1) Read online

  Fail Me

  The Florida Flowers Series #1

  Copyright © 2021 Elodie Colt

  Published by Hudson Indie Ink

  www.hudsonindieink.com

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Model Photography: Wander Aguiar Photography

  Cover Model: Lucas Loyola

  Interior Design: Elodie Colt

  Fail Me/Elodie Colt - 1st ed

  ISBN-13 - 978-1-913904-94-4

  Contents

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  1. Matthew

  2. Matthew

  3. Samantha

  4. Matthew

  5. Samantha

  6. Samantha

  7. Matthew

  8. Matthew

  9. Samantha

  10. Matthew

  11. Samantha

  12. Samantha

  13. Matthew

  14. Matthew

  15. Matthew

  16. Matthew

  17. Samantha

  18. Samantha

  19. Jillian

  20. Samantha

  21. Samantha

  22. Matthew

  23. Samantha

  24. Matthew

  25. Samantha

  26. Samantha

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Elodie Colt

  Other Authors at Hudson Indie Ink

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  A Flare Of Life, The Jaylior Series prequel

  Dazzle Me, The Six Silent Sins Series prequel

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  To my husband, the guy who’s had my back for more than a decade now. We’ve been stuck in the same office room throughout this pandemic for almost a year and endured each other’s Zoom meetings 24/7. It was annoying as hell, but I still love you.

  One

  Matthew

  The ripe fruit is heavy in my palm. Large and round, with a thin, pebbled rind. Rare these days. A perfect orange that should be on a container ship right now and delivered to PepsiCo, Coca-Cola, or any other juice industry that makes its billions with my Valencias.

  Not this one, though.

  Not all the other thousands that have dropped to the ground after trying to keep them alive with tons of insecticides. Soil-killing and air-polluting chemicals that cost me my last two months’ salary. Under Florida law, citrus falling from a tree untouched can’t be sold, so here I am, watching my beloved oranges rotting on the ground.

  A fucking three-thousand acres compost heap.

  Locking my jaw, I cock back my arm, ready to throw the orange across the grove. Most of my workers are gone so chances are zero I’ll hit anyone, but the alcohol buzzing in my system toys with my coordination, and I stumble mid-throw. The fruit sails through the air for barely fifteen feet before it smashes against a tree trunk. The peel bursts open with a splat. Juice runs down the once strong and healthy orange tree. Now, it’s nothing more than a thick piece of wood, soaring high with withered branches and deformed leaves.

  “Fuck,” I curse under my sour breath as I tear my gaze away from the countless rows of pruned trees that will soon make this land a ghost grove.

  I flap my flannel shirt to cool my sweaty back, before I pick up the ladder leaning against the fence next to me and snap the rusty metal halves open. My hands itch to fetch the bottle of cognac hidden in the barn as I step up the ladder and place my feet on the top steps. Dad is the living proof that booze and farm work is a lethal combination, so I try to stay below the totally-wasted level as long as my feet are not on the ground.

  “You’re not the only one,” Sofia likes to remind me during our bleak and utterly draining what-the-fuck-am-I-supposed-to-do conversations. “Every orange farmer in Florida has to deal with this. This won’t be the last crop disease attacking your plantation.”

  Just a standard phrase to pacify me. Sofia knows as well as me that nothing can save my business unless I win the lottery, and considering I can’t afford the tickets, I’m at a dead end here. I mean, I could, in exchange for the liver-destroying booze I consume like water even on the hottest summer days, but I don’t see the point.

  I pull my work gloves from the back pocket of my dusty jeans, wriggle my hands into them, and pull out a pair of pliers from my waist belt bag. Why am I still bothering to fix that stupid fence? Occupation therapy, in all likelihood. Repression, too.

  Dexterity lies in my blood. I built my first tool shed when I was ten. When I was twelve, I fixed the conveyor belt in the packing house. Dad passed on his skills to me, so I could follow in his footsteps one day. Tools, machinery, engines—whatever you hand me, I can fix it. I can fix everything.

  Just not my plantation.

  My calloused hands grip the pliers as I bring the barbed wire back through the hook on the wooden post, before I fetch a hammer and nail it. Clamping the pliers between my teeth, I move the ladder two steps to the right to work on the next section.

  The sun is brutal, roasting the skin on my nape and ears, and making my sack so slick with sweat, it slides against my thigh like the neighbor’s Bull Terrier’s slimy bone toy. The heat sucks the oxygen from the air, leaving the thick scent of sun-burned earth and manure hovering over the freshly mowed grass like smoke. It also sucks the water from my body as ruthlessly as the bacteria feeding on every citrus leaf that grows on this plantation.

  I ignore the sting of blisters on my palm as I adjust my grip on the hammer, but I can’t ignore the sound of crunching twigs as footsteps come up the slope. I pretend to focus on my task. Prolong the inevitable for as long as possible.

  The footsteps become slower. Hesitant almost. They stop right behind me.

  Owen clears his throat to alert me to his presence. I briefly close my eyes before I school my pained expression and turn my head to look down at him a few feet beneath me.

  He cracks a half-assed smile that stretches the dirt streaks on his cheek. “The irrigation system in the western section is running smoothly again. There were just a few limescale deposits in the pipes, nothing serious.”

  I nod, unable to speak just yet. The fat knot in my throat would have choked me as soon as I opened my mouth to say the goodbye that burns like rotten orange juice on my tongue.

  Shoving my tools back into my waist belt, I step down the ladder. Once my dirty boots hit the ground, I find the courage to lift my head to face the guy who busted his ass on my plantation for more than a decade. I’d rather set my harvester on fire than witness his crushed expression. Sadly, it wouldn’t change the outcome.

  “I’ve also taken some soil samples at the pit, in case you want to send them to the lab,” he adds with a heavy swallow.

  My nod feels robotic. We both know I won’t do that. It’s clear as day that this grove is done for, just like ninety percent of all of Florida’s orange pla
ntations.

  We both swivel our heads to the dozens of rootstocks I ordered from the nursery not that long ago, back when I still had hopes that I could kill that fucking bacteria before it killed my fucking trees. Turned out that tiny thing is more resilient than me, alarmingly sneaky, and malicious to a fault.

  With a slight nod, as if accepting his fate, Owen takes off his Beret, clamps it underneath his arm, and runs a hand through his damp hair. What the fuck? He only takes off his hat for lunch break. As if he’s entered a church and removes his hat solely out of reverence and dignity. I don’t deserve either. I’m twenty years younger than him and have to can him, for God’s sake.

  Hot silence singes the air. No squeaky wheelbarrows, no grinding motors, no plows breaking through the roots. Just the soft sway of the goldenrod flowers nodding along the fence and our devastating grief.

  I wipe a sleeve over my sweaty upper lip. My hairline is so wet from the damn heat and this fucking impossible situation, I fear I’m going to pass out if we don’t get this over with quickly. Still, I’m stalling, my eyes riveted on the hole in Owen’s oil-streaked work pants, right above his knee. He ripped it open with a pruner that fell from his hands and almost severed his sinew. He never patched it up. Wanted to keep it as a reminder.

  “Well, then…” He swerves his gaze one last time over the field.

  I don’t want him to say goodbye. It would imply the end of an era. The end of my life. He doesn’t live far away, just a few miles down here in Tampa, with an amiable wife and tons of fishing equipment that he bought with the salary he received from me. We will see each other again, maybe even go on a fishing weekend at some point, but it won’t be the same. With the plantation gone, nothing will ever be the same.

  “Take a few glasses of orange honey with you, will ya?” I nod to the barn where we store our trademark honey. Another income stream drying up. No bee keeper wants to bring his hives. Even the damn bees hate the taste of my oranges.

  Owen nods. His smile is genuine this time, as if he doesn’t blame me for destroying his future. As if he’s ready to start from scratch. Fuck, I’m not.

  “Matthew, it was a pleasure working with you.”

  He stretches out a hand. My lips are pinched when I slap my palm in his, rough skin against rough skin. The shake is brief and jerky. The shake of two men who have bonded like brothers. I don’t tell him I’m sorry. I think he got the clue after my last fifty apologies. He knows it’s not my fault that a Chinese bacterium, slumbering on tree clippings that were shipped from Asia to the states, was only waiting to infiltrate the East coast and raze Florida’s second-largest industry to the ground.

  “Go home and fuck your wife,” I say as we drop our hands, just to pretend I haven’t lost all my humor.

  He laughs and counters with a witty, “And you go out and find yourself a pretty girl, boy. When I was your age, I’d already been married for ten years, called myself Daddy of two kids, and plucked the first white hairs from my beard.”

  Shaking my head, I unveil a smile. The odds are against me in the family department. Hard to find yourself a woman when you smell like manure every day after work, your hands are as soft as a prickly shrub, and you live with a father who’s shitting in diapers. Not to forget, my bank account is as deflated as a flat tire at the moment.

  “I wish you all the best, Matthew.” Owen clasps my shoulder. “Give me a call when…” When I’m broke? Then we’ll talk in three days, I guess. “When you’ve figured out how to get rid of that damn disease.” Okay, never.

  “Will do.”

  With a last nod, he shoves his hat back onto his head, tucks his hands into his pockets, and stalks off. I blink into the sun, just to pretend that the bright light is producing the water drops behind my eyelids as the engine of Owen’s truck sputters to life. Before the sound disappears in the distance, I shoot straight for the barn, my boots crushing more fallen oranges. The shovels on the wall clank together as I push open the high double doors. I snatch the bottle from behind a banged-up fuel barrel, unscrew the cap, and greedily take some pulls until I can taste the booze oozing from my pores.

  I thought you wanted to stay half-what sober until you’re done with work? A nagging voice inside me comes to life as soon as a relieving numbness settles over me. I tell the voice to shut up before I stash the bottle in the shadows again and trot back to the fence.

  The one positive thing about Dad’s condition? He can live the rest of his days in blissful ignorance, indulging in the dream that his plantation is blooming as it had in the seventies. Thanks to his skills, impeccable nose, and endless tenacity, he concocted a juice blend so sweet, his customers drove hundreds of miles for a taste.

  I try to focus on the task at hand and step back up the ladder. The sun has decided to call it a night, nestling deep behind my orange trees and dropping the temperature a quarter of a degree. Irritated, I rip open the buttons of my flannel shirt and toss it over the bed of goldenrod flowers.

  A grave mistake, as it turns out.

  The careless movement makes me lose my footing, and before it registers that my boot is kicking air instead of a metal beam, gravity pulls me down.

  The world tilts. A sharp pain sears through my skull, accompanied by a sickening scratching sound, before my back hits the dry earth. The dull thud of my bones smashing to the ground contradicts the squeezing pain of my constricting lungs. I hack for air like a fish out of water while I watch a lonely cloud floating over the blue sky.

  Told ya, the voice in my head mocks me, but I can only roll over to the side before I puke out undigested cognac, bile, and painful misery.

  I’ll survive. Not the first time I’ve taken a hit to the ground.

  But the first time I’ve almost cut off my ear, I realize when blood gushes from the right side of my chin to mix with my puke.

  I fumble for my shirt and press it over my ear while I try to regulate my breathing. My right side is throbbing so hard, I can’t tell if my ear lobe is still in place or not. No fleshy, bloodied chunks on the ground, as far as I can tell. A good sign. Guess my ear is still attached to my head.

  After the dizziness has dissolved enough for me to regain my orientation, I scramble up to hobble across the yard and into the house. Patches of dried mud drop from my boots onto the tiles as I heave myself up the staircase. Half a dozen unopened letters with red stamps clog the wooden bowl in the hallway next to the entrance, and the thought of more overdue bills almost makes me heave again.

  I stumble into the kitchen, turn on the faucet, and dip my head to take some sips. My stomach cramps as the ice-cold water hits my insides, but it immediately freshens my senses.

  Carefully, I remove the sweat-stiff shirt from my ear. The blue checkered flannel comes away soaked with red.

  “… got a long work day ahead and need to be done before dinner.”

  Croaky mumbles come from Dad’s bedroom, mixed with clattering noises. Sighing, I press my shirt against the wound again and cross the hallway.

  As usual, the door to his room is half ajar. I peek inside just as he tries to heave his weak, saggy body out of bed.

  “Ah, Matthew.” His sunken eyes dart up to me when I approach him. He recognizes me. For now. “Come, we need to plant a few trees before the sun comes up.”

  “Sure,” I say a little detached as I push him down onto the bed. “But we still have time until dawn, so get some rest.”

  His bushy eyebrows dive down into a frown, wrinkling his craggy, weather-beaten face. “Is Tegan already awake? Is Samantha preparing breakfast for her?”

  Fuck, this hurts. Watching your father’s brain slowly turning to mush, erasing his memories one by one, and basically wiping out an entire lifetime.

  “Tegan is still asleep,” I reply with a bobbing throat, but even before the Alzheimer’s had started to feed on Harry Mallory’s brain, he liked to pretend that his wife never left with his daughter.

  With my free hand, I tug him in and wipe a hand over his wispy
hair.

  “Charles, let Samantha tend to that. Looks nasty.” Dad nods to my wound. And just like that, his memory of me has switched to that of his brother.

  The jingle of tableware chimes from the hallway before Sofia’s small frame materializes with a teapot, a feeding cup, and an arsenal of pill packages.

  “Why is there blood on the kitchen fl… Matthew, Jesus!” Her eyes bulge behind her glasses when she sees the blood on my neck.

  “I want orange juice, not tea!” Dad complains before I can answer Sofia.

  She hurries to the bed to put the stuff on the nightstand, next to a framed picture of Mom, Tegan, and me. A small satin box sits in front, hiding Mom’s engagement ring and Harry’s painful memories of a marriage that wasn’t meant to last.

  “You’ll get your juice after you’ve taken your pills, Harry. And you,” she directs at me in a less exasperated, more commanding tone, “clean yourself up in the bathroom. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  I comply silently, as usual not eager to stick around Dad too long. I should be there for him, socialize with him like Sofia, but we’ve become strangers to each other, and with all the chaos right now, I’m rarely in a calm state of mind to endure the draining, mindless conversations and handle him with the tenderness he deserves.

  With a long exhale, I traipse into the bathroom and switch on the lights. I smell like a skunk, but instead of hopping into the shower, I stem my free hand on the sink and give my reflection a cold stare-down.