No Place I'd Rather Be

  “The rabbits?”

  Why was he laughing? I smiled back. We had actually had sex, here, in the kitchen many times, late at night . . . “And cats and dogs. Stephi and Lucy love cats and dogs.”

  I remembered all the times when that smile was kissing my smile, and we were soon naked . . . I shouldn’t have done it, but I leaned over, put my hand on Jace’s shoulder, put my smile on his smile, and kissed him.

  He took things from there right quick. He was always one to take charge. He put a hand behind my head and guided that kiss, then with both hands he lifted me straight up, and I was straddling his lap.

  I had my arms around him, my mouth on his, and I thought I was melting, like marshmallows on a fire pit. I heard myself groan, and breathe way too heavily, and I was shaking, a smidge, because being back in Jace’s arms was scrumptious and seductive at the same time.

  The kitchen door opened, and I flew right off that cowboy and flung myself back in my chair. The chair started to flip back, my legs flying up in the air, and Jace caught it and righted me in the nick of time.

  “Hello, Olivia. Hi, Jace.” Dinah shifted her flowered bag.

  “Hi, Dinah!” I was way too perky.

  “Okay, Olivia. I have to tell you about this recipe my grandma sent over from Trinidad. You’re going to love it.”

  I stood up and hurried over to the kitchen island, my whole body on fire and frustrated. I snuck a peek at Jace as he left the kitchen, and that man actually had the audacity to wink at me.

  This work environment might be too much for my heart.

  * * *

  Before I went to sleep on Thursday night I thought of Jace, because I always think of Jace, but instead of forcing him from my mind because it hurt too much, I rested right there. I thought of the happy memories. The laughing, making love in his truck, cooking for him, riding horses, making love in front of his fireplace, skiing fast, hiking, making love in the woods, hugging him on his ranch as we watched the sun go down and pitching a tent in his backyard and roasting marshmallows at the fire pit and then making love yet again.

  I got up and ate some strudel, filled with apples and brown sugar, made by my great-great-grandma Ida. I would have to make her chocolate pecan bars soon.

  I finally went to sleep.

  * * *

  Joan, the case worker, came by my log cabin. My whole family was over. We were having a contest to see who could catch the most popcorn in their mouth. Joan got last place. She was bad at it. I knew it wouldn’t affect her review of my parenting.

  * * *

  Annabelle always dropped the girls off at daycare or school in her car, parked, then detached her bike from the rack and rode to work. There’s a lot of rain in Portland. It gets slippery and gray. She was hit by a bus. The driver didn’t see her. People on the sidewalk and on the bus rushed to help. Too late. Impossible.

  The funeral was filled with hundreds of people, many parents and grandparents whom she had comforted when she was taking care of their babies in the neonatal ward.

  The most important children in the church, Stephi and Lucy, stayed dry eyed, clutching my hands in the first pew.

  It was one more unspeakable loss for two children who deserved only peace.

  I became a mother, but not the way I wanted to become one.

  After Annabelle died, they went silent again, as they had when they’d been removed from their parents’ chaotic home. They withdrew. They cried. They stared vacantly. They couldn’t sleep, they had nightmares, they were anxious and worried.

  They are better now. We still miss Annabelle, every day. She was a compassionate, insightful, caring woman. My gift to her is to be the best mother I can possibly be to Lucy and Stephi, her beloved grandchildren, and to keep her memory alive with the girls.

  Annabelle, always, will be their Grandma Annabelle. Remembered and loved.

  * * *

  The girls were making friends at school. Lucy had won an award for jump roping—best in her grade. Stephi had won an art contest. She drew our log cabin, with six cats and two dogs on the front deck, all wearing red ribbons. She had even included the sun weather vane, my grandparents’ hats, the old wheel from the wagon train, and Granddad’s lasso. They were getting invited to other kids’ houses, and we had kids over to our log cabin to play, too.

  Seeing them smile, seeing how much fun they had with other kids, seeing them playing dress up and running around, made me so happy. They had been through more than many people will go through in a lifetime, but they were resilient, they were strong, they were learning to be happy again, and to be courageous Montana women.

  Then their mother called me and told me she couldn’t wait to see her girls again and have them live with her, you bitch, Olivia, and my attorney called and told me that Devlin would probably get out of jail soon and told me the legal reasons she might be able to get her children back, as outlined and argued by her court-appointed attorney. “I’m sorry, Olivia.”

  I think I felt my soul shrivel in fear.

  * * *

  “When I was here before, Jace . . .” I stopped as a truckload of memories hit, happy and horrible. He leaned back in his chair at the circular table, in his office, his face hardening up. I breathed, stared out his office windows at a bright, blue Montana day, and tried to find the right words.

  “You mean, when we lived here on the ranch together as a married couple?”

  “Yes. Uh. Yes.” I tried to gather my jangled nerves together. Jace was wearing a flannel shirt and a white thermal underneath. He was so manly it should be illegal. “Anyhow. I wanted to write a cookbook.”

  He nodded. I had told him I had always wanted to write a cookbook, and he had encouraged me to do so. We had been so busy setting up Martindale Ranch, advertising, hiring, etc., that I hadn’t had the time.

  “The cookbook could be filled with all the recipes that we use here. I could write them up, and use your camera, you have that fancy one, to take photos of everything I cooked and baked. I could also take photos of the animals, the pets and the wild ones that come through here sometimes, the guest cabins, the game room, the dining hall, and the kitchen. I’d take photos of the views, the mountains, the sunsets. I would take photos of our guests around the campfire, snowshoeing, making snowmen, playing in the lake in summer, jumping off the rafts. We could have a recipe on one side and the cake or the entrée or salad or soup on the other, and then intersperse the cookbook with the other photos. It would be a whole picture of Martindale Ranch.”

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands on his desk. “I still love the idea. Let’s do it.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. It’s brilliant. I’ll fund it. We’ll pay whoever to put the book together. You sell it and take the money.”

  “Ah, Jace.” I shook my head at him and smiled. “No. You know I’m going to say no to that. We’ll split the costs, split the profits.”

  “No.”

  “Yep.” I smiled again. He is easy to smile at.

  “No. Selling the cookbook will be helpful marketing for our ranch.”

  “Your ranch. I don’t know if anyone will even buy the cookbook. . .”

  “But we won’t know unless we try,” Jace said. “And I think they will.”

  “That’s what we said about the ranch, too.”

  “Right. And I had faith in our abilities to launch the ranch, faith in your cooking abilities, and I have faith in this venture, too. We’ll sell them online, through our website, and here at the ranch. I think people would love to have a souvenir of their time here. Right now we have the T-shirts and sweatshirts you designed, which people love, but we need more. What’s the title?”

  “I tried to think of something more clever, but I thought it should stay simple. Cooking on Martindale Ranch.”

  “How about Cooking with Olivia on Martindale Ranch in Montana? More personal.”

  “I, uh . . . Wow. You’re quick, Jace.”

  “Let’s do it.”

&n
bsp; Why does he make me smile so much? He’s not a smiley sort of man. He looks like he could bash someone in the face. He’s tough. But I had to smile at him. His toughness made me smile. And the cookbook was exciting to me. It would be fun. I would love it. “Thanks, Jace.”

  “No, thank you, smart one. Don’t work too hard, Olivia. You’ve got the kitchen, the girls, and now this.”

  “I love this, though.” I tapped my fingers together. I was so happy about this project. “I love cooking and baking and recipes. I’d love to have all my recipes from here together, along with the photos of the ranch. But I have another idea.”

  “Let’s hear it, babe.”

  “I thought I would also make some cooking videos, with my recipes that will be in the cookbook, and put them on the website. Hopefully it will make people more interested both in the ranch and in the cookbook. We can even put them on YouTube.”

  “Both ideas are perfect. Go for it. Tell me what you need me to do and it’ll be done.”

  “Okay.” I waited a sec because I wanted him to brace himself. “What I’d like is for you to come in to assist me in cooking for the videos. You own the ranch—”

  “As do you.”

  “No, I don’t.” I so didn’t. “I’d like you, my mother, my grandma, the girls, Kyle, and my sister to be in the videos. We’d make some of the recipes together. A family thing. It’ll be personal then.”

  “I’m a lousy chef and you know it.”

  “I’ll show you exactly what to do.” He was hilarious when we cooked together. He truly didn’t know what to do, but it was endearing.

  “I’m not wearing a pink apron. Or a flowered one.”

  “I’ll make sure you have a masculine apron.”

  “Then I might do it.”

  “You look hot in aprons.” Shoot. Had I said that?

  He smiled. “Nowhere near as hot as you, babe.”

  Shoot. Had he said that?

  He smiled. He looked lusty.

  I smiled back. I couldn’t help it. I felt lusty.

  Then he stood up, cupped the back of my head, and kissed me. “Why don’t you and I get naked, except for our aprons, and cook dinner together. Alone. At my house. How does that sound?”

  I couldn’t even meet those dark eyes.

  “Are you going to look at me, Olivia?”

  “Nope.” I felt myself blush. I couldn’t believe I could still blush in front of my own husband.

  I heard his low rumble of laughter, then he pulled me up close and kissed me again. He growled like a bear, to make me laugh, and kissed my neck and collarbone, then things went all sizzly from there. He was so quick at unsnapping my bra and going where he wanted those warm hands to go.

  I could have an orgasm in Jace’s arms without sex. I could. I had done it before, many times. He had magic hands. I’d probably do it again.

  I pulled away. I had to. Nakedness was coming next and we were at work. But I smiled when I did it because I have to smile at that man.

  * * *

  On the way home I reminded myself of this fact: Nothing would come of making love with Jace but more shearing, face-planting pain.

  Nothing. A crushing amount of despair hit like a truck.

  * * *

  That night I didn’t sleep much because Lucy had a nightmare about her life before she went to live with Annabelle. “The mens were scary. They yelled, like Mommy and Daddy yelled at each other. One, Boom Boom, he hit my butt, and Mommy laughed. She thought it was funny. It wasn’t funny.” After I got Lucy back to sleep, her sobbing gone, Stephi told me, “The police came to our house and Boom Boom fought with them with a knife. There was blood. Lotta blood.”

  “Who was Boom Boom?”

  “I don’t know. Not Daddy.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “But I saw Mommy naked with him in the shower.”

  * * *

  I had to chuckle the next morning. Larry’s Diner had gone out of business.

  * * *

  “Let’s make something from Grandma’s cookbook,” I said. “One of Esther’s recipes.”

  Chloe leaned over my shoulder as I flipped through the pages and said, “Fire away, sister.”

  My mother and grandma were on the other side of the butcher block kitchen island in our log cabin drinking scotch. The girls were laughing in the loft with Kyle. He was teaching them to play chess. It wasn’t working out, because Lucy wanted to make the queen “magic” and Stephi wanted the king to be “locked up in jail,” but he was trying.

  “Grandma, this recipe has bananas in it, right?” There were bananas, spice jars, and what looked like a sugar container drawn on the pages.

  My grandma put her shot glass down. She never had more than one shot. She said she always wanted a “clear brain, just in case something bad happens.”

  “That’s banana bread, Cinnamon.”

  She ran her fingers down the ingredients, written in German, then traced the spices and a purple wisteria vine that was wrapped around the edges. “It’s my mother, Esther’s, banana bread recipe. She made the best banana bread in all of Munich. We always sold out at the bakery.” Her voice cracked and she put her hands to her eyes.

  “Mom,” my mother said, linking an arm around her waist, her brown and gray hair to my grandma’s white.

  “I’m all right, Fire Breather. Don’t worry. My mother wrote this recipe when she was teaching us at home because Isaac, Renata, and I were not allowed to go to school anymore. We were not allowed to go in swimming pools, the theater, or the parks. Jews were not allowed to vote. Two of my uncles had disappeared. Our assets were gone, as were our bank accounts, our art, and the gold my parents had hidden and saved. Everything. We had nothing. Our passports were stamped with a red J for Jew. On Kristallnacht, our businesses were looted and firebombed. Synagogues were burned to the ground, and the truth was clear to all of us by then. Germany had gone mad, as mad as Hitler was, and Jews wanted out.”

  “Grandma, that sucks,” my sister said. It might have sounded flip, but Chloe had tears pouring down her face, her voice wobbling. “I’m sorry. Those pissant Germans. Those mother bad word Nazis. Those sick devils. I hope they’re rotting in hell, their balls on fire.”

  “Outstanding vision, Chloe,” my mother said in all seriousness. “A Nazi with his balls on fire. Dying.”

  “You’re welcome.” Chloe wiped her eyes.

  “This.” Grandma tapped a brown stain. “That’s vanilla. I remember my mother telling me the morning that Renata and I had to leave, the last day of our lives that we saw her and my father and Isaac, that she’d accidentally spilled vanilla on it. She said the cookbook would always smell good. We loved her banana bread, which is why she made it for us that day.”

  I touched the vanilla and became so choked up. The vanilla was spilled by the mother of two daughters whom she would not see again in her lifetime. She had made her children a last loaf of their favorite bread before saying good-bye. I closed my eyes as we all sat in the black, excruciating pit of my grandma’s tragedy, her family’s tragedy.

  We made her mother, Esther’s, banana bread.

  When we were done, my grandma said something in Yiddish.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “I said, ‘I love you, I miss you. I will see you again.’” Then she told us about the Kindertransport.

  February 1939

  Munich, Germany

  Gisela Gobenko, grandmother of Olivia Martindale

  Gisela gripped her sister’s hand, fear flying up and down her spine like an electrical current. When her father had stumbled home beaten and bloodied and told her mother that they had to get the children out, Gisela had been scared. Now she was petrified.

  The scene around her, at the train station, was controlled chaos. Parents and children, all desperate Jews, were crammed together in a large room. They were not allowed onto the platform, so they were all waiting, waiting for an agonizing good-bye that would rip their families apart, most forever, and send children
off to strangers in another country. The fear and grief was like a noose around them all, tightening each minute.

  “We must get the girls out,” Gisela heard her father say to her mother behind the closed door of their bedroom where her father was recovering from the beating that had nearly killed him. “We can’t with Isaac. He is eighteen. Too old. But we have one chance for the girls. We have to take it.”

  What were they talking about? Isaac, Gisela, and Renata put their ears closer to their parents’ door. Isaac tapped his fingertips against his palms, then flapped his hands. The three siblings heard the word train. Kindertransport. Jewish children. Escape. Now. They must go.

  And that’s what today was. Today was the chance. Their one chance. Her parents had sold the jewelry they had hidden. It was all they had.

  Before they left that morning, she and Renata had decided to hide some of their favorite things under a floorboard in their bedroom, as they were only allowed one bag on the train. They would add something from each member of their family. Inside a tin box, the top imprinted with women dancing in lacy, ruffled, fancy ball gowns from long ago, they placed two red and purple butterfly clips they had given each other; their charm bracelets, each with a red pomegranate, a Star of David, a faux blue stone heart, a lion, a tree of life inside a circle, a four-leaf clover, a cat, a dog, and a key, which were gifts from their parents; and colored pencils that Isaac gave them, such a talented artist he was. They also saved photographs of their family.

  “For safekeeping,” she and Renata said, then hugged each other, Renata’s green, tilted cat eyes stricken. When they returned to Germany, they knew their favorite treasures would still be here, hidden from the Nazis.

  Gisela and Renata stood close to their family in the train station as their parents told them, again, how they had to work hard in school, be well behaved, do what they were told, that they would see them again when things were better in Germany. Her brother, always reserved, who spoke so properly, like an old-fashioned scientist, and who compulsively studied math and physics and drawing and art, and was rather odd, but kind, hugged them tight, and said, “I love you.” He looked them in the eyes, then away. Isaac could never hold anyone’s gaze very long. His hands flapped at his sides.