No Place I'd Rather Be by Cathy Lamb
I could do nothing about my shirt, which had a marinara stain on it, but luckily my apron had caught most of the mess.
I opened the door.
Dinah said, “Ooh-la-la, Olivia!”
And Justin said, “That’s a transformation.”
And Earl said, “You look real nice, Olivia.”
Larry said, “Got a date?” and leered and did the head-to-toe thing he does that makes me sick.
* * *
“Aunt Olivia said that you wouldn’t let our real dad yell at us or throw things or punch holes in the walls,” Stephi said. “Is that true?”
Thunder. That was the word I thought of when I saw Jace’s reaction to what Stephi said. Thunder.
I had arrived at my log cabin to find the “sick” girls dancing around the family room holding hands. Stephi was wearing a frog outfit from last Halloween and a cowgirl hat, and Lucy was wearing a dress made from a paper bag that she had decorated herself. On her head she wore a red ski hat with a white owl on top. They were clearly not sick. They were, however, having a fine time with Jace.
“That is true, Stephi.” Jace laced his fingers together on the dining room table where we were having Cockadoodle Sugar Cream cookies and milk. “No man, your father or not, will yell at you, throw things, or punch the walls when I am with you. Ever.”
“It was scary.” Lucy munched her cookie. Her white owl tipped forward.
“Yeah,” Stephi said. She wielded her cookie in the air as if she was swinging a hammer. “And I didn’t like Mommy and Daddy’s friends. That’s not nice to say, but I didn’t. They were mean.”
“They put needles in their arms,” Lucy said, pointing to the inside of her arm. “I hate needles.”
I felt slightly ill. Lucy and Stephi’s stories came out at odd times. They talked about what they went through, my insides would shrivel, they would cry and need a hug, then they would ask for strawberry pancakes or to go to the park so they could slide down the slide, and they were done talking about it.
“The friends sometimes tried to come in our bedroom at night,” Lucy whispered to Jace. “They tried to sneak in, like quiet mice, but me and Stephi put the small white dresser in front of the door. They were bad.”
“Bad mens,” Stephi said.
“But we had two mice friends,” Lucy said.
“Yep!” Stephi said, pushing her cowgirl hat back on her mound of blond curls. “They came out every night and said ‘Squeak, squeak.’”
More thunder. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Jace said. “They were bad people.”
“One man told us when we went to the kitchen to get food that we had to eat cat food because we were cats and he had eaten everything else,” Stephi said.
“And we did a few times, but cat food isn’t for kids and it didn’t taste good.”
Stephi nodded in agreement. “It was yucky.”
I had heard this. Jace hadn’t. I thought his jaw might snap, he was clenching down so tight.
“And also, Mommy hit Daddy. And Daddy hit Mommy,” Stephi said. She sniffled. “Are you going to hit our aunt Olivia?”
“No,” Jace said. “I have never, and will never, hit your aunt Olivia. I have never hit a woman in my life.”
“Do you hit kids?”
“Never.”
Lord. I thought the man might explode.
“We had rats in our room one time. Big ones. They tried to bite our toes.” Stephi wrapped her hands around Lucy’s feet. “I had to go like this to Lucy.”
“We don’t like rats. They’re scary,” Lucy said.
“When we see rats, we scream,” Stephi said. “I have rats in my nightmares. That’s when I wet the bed.”
“And fleas bit, too. We had bites from the itty-bitty fleas,” Lucy said. “They itched. We called them biters.”
“Kids at school called me Flea Bite. Like it was my name. That’s not nice, is it, Mr. Giant?”
“That’s extremely mean,” Jace said. “They won’t call you that here, Stephi.”
“One kid called me Dirty Girl.” Lucy blinked those huge brown eyes. “Mr. Giant, do you think I’m dirty?”
“No,” Jace said. “You are very clean and pretty. More important, I think you have a lot of brains.”
She giggled. “You only have one brain.”
“I think you two have a lot of brains.” Jace smiled, but in it I could see the strain of what he’d heard. He was nauseated by it, as I was. “You’re smart. You’re tough, too.”
“Do you want to play Candy Land, Mr. Giant?”
“I was hoping you would ask.”
And they did. We all did. Candy Land drives me crazy. But it was fun with a gentle giant beside me.
* * *
“How does it feel to be back, Olivia?”
The girls were in bed. They sleep in the same bed because they get scared at night and have screaming night terrors about things they went through. They had asked Jace to tuck them in and read them stories. They had taken to Jace quickly, which was interesting, and endearing, because they don’t trust men. They held his hands until they went to sleep.
“How does it feel?” It feels like I’m sinking. It feels like I’m in danger of throwing myself at you, Jace. It feels like my heart might die of pain. I’m petrified to divorce you, but we have an unsolvable problem, and you wouldn’t want to be married to me again anyhow, I mean, who would, to a woman who did what I did to you? Seeing you and that delicious body in your jeans and white thermal shirt and cowboy boots is turning me on. And I’m broke and I might not be able to be the girls’ mother for much longer. Other than that, I’m fine and dandy. “It feels fine.”
“How’s the job?” We were on the couch together, in front of the fire that Jace lit. So close. I had propped a window open so we could hear the Telena River and the wind swooshing through the trees.
“The job is fine.” The job was miserable with Larry there. Each day worse. He was condescending and creepy. A man who wanted to control women with barbs and put-downs, disrespect and leers. Last week I’d had it and I wielded a spatula like a weapon as I ordered him out of the kitchen.
“Working for Larry is fine?” He didn’t believe it.
“What do you want me to say, Jace? He’s a foul-mouthed, knuckle-scraping, whiskey-gargling caveman. But it’s a job and I like cooking.”
“I still need a chef. I have a temporary one right now. She’s pregnant with twins. She’s leaving soon.”
“No.”
“Why not, Olivia?”
“Jace, I’m not working for you again.” Why did he have to be so tempting? Why did he have to make my heart cry? I had never been able to stop missing him even after two years. You can’t stop missing someone you are still in love with. I knew that, I did.
“What are you talking about? You never worked for me. We always worked together. We built Martindale Ranch together, and you should have cashed that check I recently sent you.”
I waved a hand, as in “Forget about it, Jace.” “That was kind, Jace, but no.”
“I’m not being kind. I’m being truthful. We planned it together down to the last deck on the last guest cabin. You cooked our way into excellence. If there weren’t cinnamon rolls in the morning, I thought the clients were going to revolt. People arrived a half hour early to dinner. You were constantly asked for your recipes. My tech guy said the most popular part of our website was where you put photos and recipes of the meals you cooked. Come back to the ranch, Olivia. I need you.”
“No, but thanks.” I need you, too. I so need you. But you need someone else, you need something else, and I am not being an annoying and throat-gagging martyr, it is flat-out true.
One day we’d divorce and then I’d get to see Jace dating someone. Now wouldn’t that knock me off my feet and into the pits of jealous ex-wife hell? Talk about a rambling rage. I’d probably start stalking the woman, then I’d be arrested, and that would be embarrassing, and I might have to go to jail, and what would happe
“Please.”
“Jace, I’m not here to work for you . . . or with you again. I’m here for a while, then I’ll be moving back to Portland.” Would I? Yes. No. Maybe. When it felt safe. When I knew the girls would be safe. How could I even live here with Jace around? I couldn’t. Could I?
“Why are you here, Olivia? The truth.”
I could not tell him the truth yet. I couldn’t tell him about the calls. About the threat. “I’m here because I needed a change, and the girls needed a change after their grandma died.”
“Nice try. The truth.”
“How about another time?”
“Was it a man?”
“No.” Never. How could I ever be in love with anyone else besides Jace?
He studied me. I knew he was evaluating the truthfulness of my answer.
“We’re separated, Olivia. You can tell me. In fact, I’d like to know.”
“You would be okay with it? If I left Portland because of a bad experience with a man?”
“No. I wouldn’t be okay with it at all.” His face grew hard. He was not happy. “Not at all. Thinking of you being with another man is enough to make me want to hit something. Probably him. It would be like a nightmare that was not a nightmare and my real life.”
“Jace, there wasn’t another man.” Not even close. I had been asked out by several men but had not felt the slightest inclination to go on a date. “None.”
He knew I was telling the truth, because he knew me. I could tell he was . . . relieved. Relieved enough to get a little emotional and hang his head, his hands clasped together. That about undid me. Seeing Jace, after all I’d done to him, the pain I’d caused him, getting misty eyed because I told him there had been no other men made me feel all weepy.
“Never.” I put my hand out and he held it, then brought it to his lips. He put his other hand on my cheek.
I pulled away before I ripped off his shirt and pulled down his pants. I knew what was underneath those pants . . .
He was hot.
I was not.
I heard the door shut quietly behind him when he left.
* * *
I checked my phone on a break at work and felt ill.
The e-mail from my attorney that I had been expecting was bad. Hit me in the face bad.
Oh, my Lord, so bad.
I was pretty sure I stopped breathing for a couple of hours.
* * *
On Friday afternoon Larry walked in drunk. This was not the first time he’d had too much to drink. He became more slovenly as the day went on. The staff and I were having a meeting at the time, short and quick. I was discussing menu items, new desserts I was adding, listening to everyone’s questions and comments, serving samples.
“Look at this.” Larry wobbled in, his stomach coming first. He slammed the newspaper on the center island counter. “It’s a review of my restaurant.” He smiled and burped, then pounded his chest with a closed fist. “Ha! This rag talks about how things have turned around here, the food is mouth smacking, makes ’em salivate, the atmosphere is ‘pure Montana.’ What do they mean, atmosphere? This ain’t outer space, but whatever. This is freakin’ awesome. Glad we worked on those recipes together, Olivia. People are loving the grub.”
“We didn’t work on them together. I told you what I was going to cook and I made up a new menu.”
He waved his hand, as if I were a fly. “We did them together. Ha-ha.” He laughed.
Working for Larry was getting harder and harder. He smirked at me. He was gross. He made comments about porn, “wild women, he liked them that way best,” how he was a star football player in high school, as if anyone would even mildly care about that, and his new girlfriend, which made me want to dump cracked eggs over his head. “Jealous?” he asked me once.
“Of what?”
“I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Larry, why would I care?”
“She’s not as hot as you—”
I whipped around. “Do not ever talk to me like that.”
He put his palms out, a faux innocent expression on his face. So manipulative. “What do you mean? You don’t want to be told you’re hot?”
“No. Never. It’s disgusting. If you do one more obnoxious thing, Larry, I’m calling an attorney and I will sue you for sexual harassment.”
“None of that is going on here, darling.” I could tell it caught his attention, though. “And watch your mouth. I know you got two kids and you need this job. Not many cooks jobs open in Kalulell.”
“One more word.” I put my fingers in the shape of a gun and I fired it at him and said, “Boom.” He is so stupid he actually flinched. Then he lumbered out, stomach first.
* * *
I lay back in my bed at two in the morning on a snowy night.
My financial situation was precarious. I was not making enough money at Larry’s. My mother’s plea that I stop being “unreasonable and difficult” and quit paying rent fell on my deaf ears. I am a grown-ass woman and I will pay rent. I paid my attorney, I paid the hospital. I bought food with coupons and brought leftovers home from Larry’s sometimes, as we all did at the restaurant.
The money math wasn’t working. I had eight dollars in my checking account.
I have always wanted to write a cookbook. I wanted to include all the recipes I used at Martindale Ranch.
But there were a million cookbooks on the market. How would mine stand out so I could actually make money off of it? It wouldn’t. I don’t think a publishing house would want it. I’m not famous. I don’t have a following. To put it together myself would be expensive, plus, who would buy it?
Stop with the pity party, I told myself. You’re making me nauseated.
But at the moment I had a critical problem: Eight dollars.
I am pathetic.
I am desperate.
I am poor. I am racking up my credit card.
Something would have to change.
Immediately.
* * *
A week later, Kyle came by. He knocked three times. He had something with him, wrapped in brown paper.
“Kyle, come on in.” I hugged him, and he allowed it, then he patted my back three times. He looked into my eyes for about two seconds, then away.
“Good evening, Aunt Olivia. I have come to visit. Mother says it’s best to be invited, but you said to come by at any time, so I have taken your invitation literally.”
“I’m so happy to see you, Kyle. I’ve made chicken cacciatore for dinner. It’ll be ready in about thirty minutes. Have dinner with us.”
The girls raced out. “Hi, Kyle!” they shouted. They loved Kyle. He played games with them for hours sometimes. Candy Land is enough to make me scream. You’re almost at the end, and no. A card sends your sorry self back down the rainbow trail. I’ve even stopped liking gumdrops because of that game. But Kyle will play it with them, while discussing art or science, of course.
“Kyle,” Lucy said, pointing at her chest. “Look. I’m wearing a T-shirt with a spider on it. Tarantula.”
“Tarantulas,” Kyle said. “Arachnids. They belong to a spider family, the Theraphosidae. They are hairy. They can be approximately nine millimeters as measured, or they can grow as large as an average sized human head. Eight legs. Two parts to their bodies: A tarantula has a prosoma and a opisthosoma—”
“They bite!” Lucy said. “Like this.” She showed him her teeth. “Sharp teeth!”
Stephi jumped up and down. “I made a cow today at school.” She held up her drawing, waved it around, and gave it to him. Kyle studied Stephi’s drawing with complete seriousness. He opened his mouth twice to speak, peered down at Stephi through his glasses, then held whatever he was going to say. Finally he said, “The cow’s face is symmetrical. The cow’s body is the appropriate color, with the exception of the green stripes and pink tulips
She jumped up and down again. “Thanks!”
“What’s in the package, Kyle?” Lucy said. “Is it a surprise?”
Kyle set it down on the dining room table, and we crowded around. “I have painted your portraits. I took the liberty of using paints so as to fully capture your coloring.”
“You have?” I said. He painted their portraits?
“You painted pictures of us?” Stephi said, surprised. Lucy was equally surprised.
“Yes.”
“Yaaay!” Stephi and Lucy clapped.
Kyle took his glasses off, then put them back on, his hands flapped, then settled. “During our last visit, Stephi and Lucy, you both said that two unkind girls at school suggested that you were not attractive. I have had the same said of me. Your tears indicated to me that you were upset. This was unfortunate, so after writing the incident down in my Questions Notebook, I went home and discussed this with Mother. Mother said, ‘What can you do to make those two girls feel better after what those mean-ass girls said, Smart One?’ Her words, not mine. I endeavor not to swear. I thought of what I could do to remedy this situation and reduce the emotional suffering.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucy said, pointing her finger in the air, “but okay!”
“I don’t understand you right now, Kyle,” Stephi said, shaking her head. “But I want to see the paintings!” She jumped up and down again, like a spring. “Cow wants to see it, too.” She held up the cow drawing. “Moo!”
“Kyle, this is so kind of you.” What a thoughtful young man.
He seemed confused. “I have completed this task so that I can share with Stephi and Lucy an accurate picture of their appearance. Then they will be able to see for themselves that the unkind girls are wrong in their assessment. Sometimes people are not truthful or make irrational statements. This is one of those times, so their opinions must be disregarded. Due to Lucy and Stephi being young, Mother told me that disregarding a false declaration would present some intellectual challenges. Therefore, the paintings should address this issue and provide a positive outcome.”