No Place I'd Rather Be by Cathy Lamb
“I left because it was time, Olivia. Past time. You were right. It was dark. The logs were dark, there weren’t enough windows, as there are in your grandparents’ log cabin. It was too old, freezing and drafty in winter. It was too isolated, especially in bad weather. Too far from town.”
I studied my coffee. He was right about the house. I had totally loved Jace, loved being there with him, but I found that home depressing. It was even more depressing after what happened.
“I left, Olivia, because I knew you would never live in that house again.”
My eyes flew back up to his. “You moved because of me?”
“Yes. I should have moved earlier, with you. I’m sorry I didn’t. I failed you, babe. You told me you thought it was dark, you told me you felt isolated, and then it got worse for you. I should have moved us. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Jace, you don’t owe me an apology. You offered to move when we were still living together.”
“When you told me how unhappy you were in that house, how hard it was for you to be there, I should have had us out of there within days. We could have rented another house, moved into one of the guest houses at the ranch, anything. I didn’t do that for you. You never complained about anything, Olivia. Ever. So when you told me how you felt, I should have fixed that problem right away. That day. We were slammed with the business and the ranch, and I put it off. I told myself I’d get to it, I’d build, or we’d buy a new house, in the future. That was an extremely bad decision on my part. I have lived with how I failed you as a husband since you left.”
“Jace, you didn’t fail me at all. Not for a minute. I flipped out.” My voice was muffled by my inelegant sniffling. His apology was turning me into a teary mess, and I told myself to get some cement in my spine.
“I did. I hope you can forgive me, Olivia.”
“Jace, there is nothing to forgive, not a dang thing.” I sniffled again. “But I love this house. It’s the most incredible home I’ve ever seen.” As a chef, the kitchen alone was enough to make me start salivating. Long, wide island painted a dark blue, with its own sink and drawers beneath. Tons of storage in cabinets stained a natural wood color, a copper vent hood, six-burner gas stove, double ovens. He even had an antique armoire built into the kitchen. I love armoires in kitchens, and he knew it. He had open shelving, which I also love. “This kitchen is the best kitchen I’ve ever seen. You designed it?”
“I told a kitchen designer exactly what I wanted. What you wanted. He threw it together.”
“That window seat is wide enough to fall asleep on.” I had told him, one time, when we were dating, that one day I wanted a window seat wide enough to fall asleep on. And there it was.
“I believed you mentioned wanting one.”
“And your views, all around.” We were up on a slight hill, and I could see the town. At night the lights would sparkle, it would be a friendly view. There was privacy out here, but it wasn’t isolating. In ten minutes, you could be in town, having coffee or dinner.
“Want to see the upstairs?”
“Yes, definitely.” Upstairs there were three bedrooms. Those extra bedrooms hit like bricks being throw at my face and made me unbearably, rippingly sad.
Jace would eventually meet someone, probably blond and small and perfect, not tall and rangy with messy brown hair with egg yolk and spices and olive oil all over the place. He would fall in love, and they would reproduce. They would have offspring. Kids would drop out of that woman as fast as apples fall off a tree.
They could call their kids Apple and Orange.
I already disliked his future skinny wife.
The kids’ bedrooms were empty, no furniture, and I walked out quick. We didn’t say anything to each other. That tight silence said it all. I caught my breath, made a sad squeaking sound, and he put his hand in the middle of my back as we headed down the hall.
The master had his king-sized bed in it and the bedding I’d bought for it. The bedding was all white.
That bed! The bed I slept in, that’s where Jace and Bimbo Wife would make more babies. They could call one kid White Comforter and the other kid Pillow Sham.
I tried to pull myself together before I said something snappish and unhinged. “You still have the comforter.”
“It’s still comfortable.”
Despite the deep pain in my heart looking at those bedrooms, Jace The Man could still make me laugh.
There was a huge soaker tub, for two, in the bathroom. So this is where he and Big-Boobed Wife would make a couple more babies. They could call those babies Bubbles and Soap.
I’d had enough. I took my almost-unhinged self back downstairs to the kitchen. He followed me, the silence heavy, rife with a mess of cauldron-sized emotions.
My eye caught on that granite kitchen counter. Heck, it was long enough and strong enough so that Jace and Witchy Wife could make babies there, too, and name them Carrot Peeler and Blender, and outside was the hot tub where more babies could be made, and they’d probably even do it in the red barn. So many places in this house for Jace to mate and spawn. I felt dizzy and sick thinking about all the mini Jaces running around town.
I would not, could not, stay in Kalulell once Jace was married and his wife was breeding. No way. Pain cut through me, chop, slice, dash.
I shifted my gaze to the view because suddenly water was in my eyes, drowning them. Drowning me.
“You want to talk about this, Olivia?”
“It’s nothing.” Buck up, Olivia, now. “I was thinking that every detail in this house is exquisite.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Stop trying to read my mind, Jace. You think you’re some sort of male psychic?”
“Not at all, but your face is transparent, so I know you’re not thinking of architectural details.”
“What did you think I was thinking of?” Your children named Carrot Peeler and Blender and Pillow Sham? Ha. You’d never guess that one, cowboy.
And, like that, amidst my ridiculous vengefulness, my anger evaporated. Jace was the best man I’d ever met. He deserved a sweet wife and a pile of kids. He did. I still didn’t like Miss Perfect, but he deserved her. I closed my eyes against that rush of hurt and upcoming loss.
He knew what I was thinking about, and we locked gazes, then he smiled, soft and slow, and the mood changed. Sometimes I can feel myself having sex with Jace even when I’m not touching him. How can he do that to me? We had sex all the time when we were married. It’s a wonder I could walk. But I did. I walked. Felt like skipping sometimes.
And here it was again. This tight, rapidly spiraling, steaming passion where I could hardly breathe. I heard myself take a breath that was way too loud.
He lifted up a strand of my hair and wrapped it around his fingers. I sucked in another breath. This one sounded like a mini hurricane. I wished my heart would stop pounding.
He put an arm around me and pulled me close. Body to body, and my body was suddenly on fire. I kept my head down because if I tilted my head up, he would put his head down and I’d be lip-locked with the cowboy god.
“Give me one kiss, Olivia.”
“You’re making this hard.”
“You’re making me hard.”
“I know.”
Jace cupped my face with his hand, then let his hand drop to my neck, my chest, then my breast. Now I really couldn’t breathe in a soft, rolling, amazing way.
“Jace—”
“Olivia.”
“You’re too close.”
“And you are not close enough.”
His finger traced my nipple through my burgundy sweater and my red bra. “I think I’m going to have a standing orgasm against you.” Oh no! I had said that out loud.
Jace laughed, low and deep, and bent his head, his lips to mine. He knows how to kiss me until I’m half out of my mind.
And it was when I was half out of my mind, but still half in it, that I pulled an inch away.
“Jace, this isn’t helping
“What is there to help?” He pulled me in closer. I put my hands on his chest. What I wanted to do was run my hands over his chest and then move lower.
“Us.”
“Let’s help us in bed.”
I couldn’t look away from him or those dark eyes. I had missed him. Missed him every day. But I am screwed up. I am a mess. I am a wreck. I am trying to get myself together, and I can’t be with him and get myself together, and we had that mega problem between us. Unworkable, mega problem.
So there was no rational reason to step closer, wrap my arms around him, and kiss him until I couldn’t think. I simply couldn’t resist the cowboy any longer. It wasn’t long before our clothes were off and we were on the couch, and Jace was doing what he does best to me.
I pulled away at the last second, a strangled cry in my throat. I snatched up my clothes and rushed to the door. I stuffed my legs into my jeans.
“Olivia, wait,” he said, following me. “Come on. Please, sweetheart.”
I shoved my feet into my cowgirl boots, threw my sweater over myself, held my jacket in my hand, and grabbed my purse. I ran to the truck and locked the doors.
Shoot. I’d forgotten my red bra. And my purple lace underwear. I shoved the keys in and sent my light blue, old, and rumbling truck back down the driveway. In my rearview mirror I could see Jace on the deck, in his boxers, hands on his black steel railing, head down.
He does not deserve to be hurt anymore, and I’d hurt him again. I am an awful person and I am so screwed up.
* * *
After a week, on a sunny day, I finally got myself together and did what I knew I needed to do. I drove the back way through Jace’s ranch, where the buttercups lie like a golden blanket in summer. I hiked up a hill to an old, craggy oak tree with a labyrinth of branches that had seen many generations come and go.
I dropped my red picnic blanket and sat down by three white crosses, each two feet high. The view went on forever, soft hills and soaring mountains, towering trees and a glistening lake, a meadow only half filled with snow, a winding stream in the distance. This is the prettiest graveyard in the world. I wrapped my arms around myself, rocking back and forth.
I had always wanted children. I played with dolls and baby dolls for hours and hours when I was a child. I also ran around outside, explored nature, climbed rocks, galloped on horses, skied fast, lassoed cows, hiked, and boated in the lake. Chloe and I drove our Jet Skis fast and our trucks faster. We were headstrong, we were on the edge, we were trouble.
But I always, always wanted to be a mother. I had a wild streak, and a maternal streak. Both equally strong. I had picked out names for my children when I was a child. I wanted to name them after flowers when I was seven: Rose. Petunia. Marigold. Daisy. Honeysuckle. Wisteria.
When I was ten I decided I would name them after neat places in Montana: Glacier. Helena. Bozeman. Gallatin. Madison. Ruby.
When I was fifteen, I decided I would go traditional: Victoria. Emma. Grace. Jack. Johnny. Tommy.
I was so relieved when I fell in love with Jace to find that he wanted kids, too, and he happily agreed to six. It made me love him even more.
A year after opening Martindale Ranch we decided we couldn’t wait any longer, though we were both working long hours. It was a delight to make a baby with Jace. It was fun, it was exciting. We were thrilled. I could not wait to get pregnant.
We got pregnant the first month. I made a tiny white cake in the shape of yellow baby booties, thick with lemon frosting. Inside, between the three layers, I used light pink and light blue frosting. Girl? Boy? Did not matter to us. We were so happy our tears mixed together when we hugged.
I had hardly any morning sickness. We painted the baby’s room, next to ours, a light yellow and switched out the darker trim for white. We had an animal theme. We bought the crib together, after Jace had endlessly researched which one to buy. It had been so sweet watching him, printing out possible cribs, asking my opinion, studying any and all research on safety. We bought a changing table, again researched diligently by Jace. We bought a rocking chair. I brought my childhood books over to the house, we went to a bookstore to buy our favorite childhood books together, we laughed.
Our sex life was hot. Being pregnant turned both of us on even higher. We went to sleep with Jace’s hand over the baby. We rocked in the rocking chair.
At three months, I started bleeding, on the ranch, and we raced to the hospital. It was too late.
The grief was overwhelming. I could hardly get out of bed. I lay in it and cried, and so did Jace.
We climbed the hill, above Jace’s family’s property, and put the white cross down in front of the oak. The cross faced the sunset. We shut the door to the nursery.
Within two weeks we were making love again. We used birth control so I could heal physically and in our heads. In three months we tried again. My mother and my OB-GYN assured us that miscarriages were so common, my future in birthing many children was bright, nothing was physically wrong with me, go make another baby.
We were pregnant immediately. I made a tiny white cake in the shape of a heart with white icing. Thrilled again, but muted. Smiling, but tearful. Hopeful, but wary. We opened the door to the nursery, aired it out, dusted. We rocked in the rocking chair. I got to four months that time. All was fine, and we breathed. The next day I bled, gushing. We rushed to the hospital. I cried the whole way. I knew we were too late.
We climbed the hill. We put a second white cross by the first, so, in our heads, our second baby could watch the sunset with our first. We shut the door of the nursery once again.
We waited a year the next time. We couldn’t do it sooner, couldn’t face the loss, the grief. Our sex life returned to what it was, we adored each other, but we were older, we’d been hurt, we had aged.
We got pregnant. I did not make a cake this time.
We opened the door to the nursery, aired it out, dusted. We rocked in the rocking chair. We got to four and a half months this time and we started to breathe, to hope. I bled again.
The baby did not make it.
We climbed the hill. We put a third cross in. Our third baby could watch the sunset with our other two babies. We lay down by those crosses and cried until we couldn’t move.
The door to the nursery stayed shut until I lost it one night and kicked holes in it with my cowgirl boots. Jace wrapped me in his arms.
A month later, my grief turned me into someone I didn’t recognize, someone near comatose, emotionally dead, yet one who exploded, too. Jace and I had a huge fight. It was as if I finally woke up and had to scream, had to emit my rage and loss, had to lose it.
I was done, no more pregnancies, I told Jace. Though the specialists could find nothing wrong with me, I knew that my body was flawed. I could not bear to lose another child, another beloved and wanted and precious child. I could not bear to do it to the baby. Warm and living one moment, gone the next. Did the baby hurt when he or she was dying? Did he or she suffocate? Was my son or my daughter scared? Crying? Oh no oh no oh no, I would not hurt another baby in my life. I would not allow another baby to die inside of me.
Jace was kind and understanding, but he couldn’t commit to no more pregnancies, he wouldn’t. He didn’t say, “No, I can’t agree to that, Olivia,” he said, “Let’s wait. Let’s go and see another specialist. Let’s not make a decision now. Not today.”
I screamed at him, glad we were so far away from our visitors at the ranch. Told him it wasn’t his body that couldn’t handle a pregnancy, that killed a baby, that failed, it was mine. How could he ask me to do it again? To endure this racking pain and guilt? Didn’t he get it? I could hardly breathe it hurt so much.
He got it, he said. He loved me, he loved our babies. He tried to hug me, and I pushed him away with both hands and screamed at him again. No more babies, Jace. None.
And in the midst of my sheer grief and ever rising fury, I told him other things, too, things that had bothered me, things
I hated being so isolated, away from town, away from my sister and Kyle, my mother and grandparents, especially in winter. My granddad, the man who acted as my father from day one, protective and loving, had died three months before and I hadn’t been able to see him as much as I wanted because I was stuck out here in this “godforsaken brown cave under a truckload of stupid snow.” I was lost in that river of guilt, lost in the thunder of my unending grief for my granddad.
“I’m in a log cage, not a cabin, Jace. This is your house, your parents’ house, your grandparents’ house, this is not our house, and our babies probably wouldn’t even want to live here, and I don’t want to live here anymore at all. Not for one more day.”
It was his boyhood home, he loved it. It was his history, his family. What I said went to the core of him.
We had wild, up-against-the-wall sex that night. There was anger in it, a rawness we hadn’t had before. Afterward he held me close and an hour later we gently, so caringly, with such love, made love again. With protection, both times.
I was exhausted, more exhausted than I’d ever been. My body had broken. My mind had snapped. I could not live in this stress or relentless grief, in this log cabin out in the middle of nowhere, snow piled up in winter like a trap. I was having trouble eating, I lost twenty pounds. I had nightmares about babies dying whom I couldn’t save. I relived my miscarriages, each one, the loss and the blood. My mind would get stuck in a loop of despair.
I would often go out to the barn, up to the hayloft, and cry. I’d cry on a hike, sitting on a rock. I’d cry horseback riding. I’d cry making up grocery orders for the ranch. I’d cry while I cooked and baked for our clients in the dining hall. I hid much of what I felt from Jace, so he only saw what I let him see.
I was having a nervous breakdown. A true, utter, anxiety-provoking, can’t breathe, crying-all-the-time nervous breakdown. I started having trouble swallowing. Food made me feel like choking. My mother wanted to medicate me.