A Perfect Compromise. Anna Sugden

muddy the family water with money.”

      Straight out of the mouth of Bastien Larocque. Their father said the same thing often enough.

      “Anyway, we’re not destitute,” his brother continued. “This winter was rougher than usual and things got a little tight. The bank’s been great about reworking payments to help ease the pressure.”

      It burned his butt that his brother preferred help from a bank manager over J.B. “If you won’t let me give you the money, at least let me invest in your place. Buy machinery, refurbish buildings or something. It’ll give me a tax break.”

      Marc Andre’s jaw set. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

      J.B. knew that stubborn look. “All right. But if you ever need money badly enough to not care about muddy freaking water, you know where to come. Deal?” He stuck out his hand.

      “Deal.” Marc Andre shook his hand.

      “So, what time’s your appointment?”

      His brother swore as he checked his watch. “I should get going. See you at dinner.”

      J.B. brooded about the situation as he finished his share of the chores.

      He understood his dad’s stance. Even when J.B. couched it as repaying what his parents had spent on his hockey, Bastien had refused to accept his money. In his father’s mind, professional athletes were a step above gigolos. Earning money playing sport didn’t count.

      The old man had spent his whole life working the farm, which had never made much of a living for the Larocques. If not for his mom, J.B. wouldn’t be where he was today.

      He hosed off the floor, hung the tools on the rack and headed to the house to clean up.

      In the kitchen his mom was busy cooking. She always made plenty so that her daughters-in-law—who worked alongside their husbands on their farms, as well as looked after their kids—didn’t have to. A good thing since both Amelie and Clare were lousy cooks.

      Twelve loaves were cooling on wire racks on the counter, next to a dozen jars of homemade spaghetti sauce. On the table two coolers were filled with foil-wrapped parcels.

      His stomach rumbled. It had been hours since breakfast and he wouldn’t get lunch until after his mom had done her weekly grocery shop. J.B. sneaked a piece of the potato salad his mom was mixing. “Mmm. Are you sure I can’t steal you away to come and cook for me in Jersey? You’re still the best.”

      She patted his cheek. “Much as I’d like to make sure you eat properly—you look a little skinny—I couldn’t leave the farm. Besides, I’m not sure I’d be happy where you live.”

      Like most people who’d never been to the Garden State, his mom thought the whole area was an industrial monstrosity. “You’d be surprised how nice it is, Ma. Come visit and see.”

      “Maybe later in the year.”

      J.B. wouldn’t hold his breath. Like the discussion about money, this was another old conversation. “Are you ready to go into town?”

      “Definitely. If you’re still happy to take me.” She slipped off her apron.

      He grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl. “For sure. I’ll have the prettiest woman in the area on my arm.”

      He wasn’t exaggerating. Ellen Larocque’s lovely face and cute figure still turned heads. Her black hair was just beginning to be streaked with gray and her pale skin was barely wrinkled.

      She swatted him with a dish towel. “I don’t think so. Maybe if you brought one of those women you’re always photographed with...”

      He kissed her cheek, breathing in her familiar scent: a mixture of her floral perfume and cooking spices. “None of them can match up to you, Ma.”

      “You always were the charmer. I’ll just grab my purse and my shopping list.”

      On the half-hour drive, his mom chattered away about the latest happenings with friends and neighbors. J.B. didn’t know half the people she talked about and was relieved to pull into a parking spot outside the diner.

      Though they only had a block to walk to the grocery store, progress was slow with people stopping them every few yards. A few he recognized, but most he relied on his mom’s clues as to who they were. It was the same at the store and the diner.

      He was grilled about when he was coming home for good. Those who followed hockey were keen to discuss his career. J.B. gave bland answers, his smile becoming more strained with each one. He accepted good-naturedly the usual ribbing about how he should play for a Canadian team, then posed for photos and signed napkins and scraps of paper thrust at him. He never turned down a request, especially from kids.

      By the time they got back into the car for the drive home, J.B. was wrung out, as if he’d played triple overtime.

      Only a few more days, he told himself as he did the evening chores. It was pathetic that he’d barely been home twenty-four hours and he was already counting down to leaving. He loved his family, but he didn’t fit here. New Jersey was more his home than this small town.

      Luckily, he couldn’t brood for long because his brothers and their families arrived for his welcome-home barbecue.

      Dinner was a rowdy affair. His dad sat at the head of the picnic table, while everyone else squeezed down the sides. His mom sat opposite her husband, beaming, clearly thrilled to have all her chicks under her roof.

      “Welcome home, bro.” Pierre Luc raised his bottle in salute. “Congratulations on making the Finals. Tough loss.”

      “You’ll get ’em next year.” Marc Andre clinked his beer bottle against J.B.’s.

      “Damn—darn straight,” J.B. said.

      “I’m sorry we couldn’t make any of your games.” His mother frowned. “Finding someone to look after the farm is difficult.”

      “Jean-Baptiste knows we can’t up and travel at the drop of a hat.”

      J.B. bit back his irritation at his father’s words. Other families—even other farmers—managed it. He understood it wasn’t easy, but his dad didn’t want to make the effort.

      “No worries, Ma.” J.B. smiled at his mom. “Maybe next year.”

      “Did you get the mess with that woman in the nightclub sorted out, Jean-Baptiste?” his father asked.

      Why couldn’t his old man ever call him J.B.? He forced a casual tone. “She got hold of Coach Macarty and explained that it was an unfortunate accident. She told the media, too, but the truth wasn’t appealing and the story got buried.”

      His father huffed. “Your team can’t have been happy. It’s not like this was the first time you’ve been at the center of a scandal.”

      Although that wasn’t quite true—Jake had taken the fall before—J.B. didn’t bother to correct his dad. He wouldn’t listen, anyway. “Once they had the facts, they were cool.”

      “It’s time you started being more responsible. You’re not a kid anymore.” His father loaded his plate with more potato salad. “Speaking of which, while you’re here, Jean-Baptiste, I’d like you to survey the fences. You should keep your hand in the farm.”

      J.B. exchanged wry looks with his brothers.

      “Give the kid a chance, Dad,” Pierre Luc said. “He just got here.”

      “He hasn’t even had a chance to stop by our places yet,” Marc Andre chimed in.

      “They’re right, Bastien,” his mother chided. “Our boy’s only here for a few days. He should rest, not ride the fence line. He works hard enough. He’s earned a vacation.”

      “He just had a week on a beach.”

      Before J.B. could react, his