I scrunched up even tighter in my yellow comforter that night and cried my eyes out. Why do men make us ladies cry so much?
* * *
The next morning, as I was cutting up kiwis, strawberries, blueberries, and pineapple to form a Christmas wreath for a woman customer who was celebrating being free of cancer for five years on that very day, I thought about people.
How is it that you can be friends with someone, dating a person, having lunch with a member of your family you’ve known for years, and sometimes, or often, you don’t feel close to that person, and then you meet someone and instantly it’s like you’ve met your other half? You’ve met the person you’ve been supposed to meet your entire life, and your other relationships seem hollow now, soulless. You’ve met your heart and your future. Or your new very best friend. How is that?
How many women, living in this house, wearing corsets, long layers of undergarments, tight bodices, short twenties dresses, jaunty hats, poodle skirts, hippy shirts, conservative sweaters, or slinky negligees had had the same thoughts? Any of them? None?
I heard the distinct sound of wine glasses clinking together.
“I heard that,” I called out.
I would definitely come back and haunt this house as a chef.
Chapter 9
I met with the Three Wise Women at Barry Lynn’s bar, but only for a half hour because we all had to get to rehearsal.
“Get out those Grateful Journals, ladies,” Vicki said to us. “I wrote that I’m grateful I was able to find my steers, Little Todd and Little Todd’s Brother, when they escaped and headed to town. Last time they got near to town Little Todd’s Brother followed snooty Ava. She about had a cow herself. What’s in your Grateful Journal, Hannah?”
“I’m grateful for partial differential equations, variational calculus, and linear algebra.”
“I need a drink,” Vicki sighed. “What’d you write, Meredith?”
“I wrote that I’m grateful for Jacob and Sarah and for my antique claw foot tub. When I’m crying my eyes out in it, I know other women have cried in it over the years, too, and it makes me feel less alone.”
“Crying alone isn’t good,” Hannah said. “Better to cry with others. When I’m upset I focus on basic algebra. It’s soothing.”
“Sometimes I don’t understand you, Hannah,” Katie said, perplexed.
“What did you write, Katie?” I asked, not wanting to dwell.
Katie whipped her journal out and pushed her brown waves off her face. “I am grateful that when the paramedics came to our house last night because Mel pulled his back out when we tried the Korindike position, they didn’t laugh when I said that making love made mash of my Mel’s back.”
Well, I’ll be. Such alliteration.
“One of them said, ‘What’s the Korindike position? ’ and I showed them the photo and they all stared at it, and then they looked at me with these shocked expressions, and one of them said, ‘Ma’am, you can actually get in that position?’ and the other said, ‘Don’t you all have four kids?’ and Mel, who was still lying on the kitchen table in pain said, ‘So what? I’m not allowed to swing wild with my wife?’ But I’m grateful that Mel is not permanently hurt. Still, the doctor said he needs to lie still and be careful. Hopefully I’ll get a break.” She closed her journal. “It gets so tedious swinging like a monkey from that rope in our bedroom in my Jane outfit.”
There was silence for a bit.
“I hardly know what to say, Katie,” I said.
“I know what to say,” Katie huffed. “I’m sick of being exhausted in church on Sunday mornings after our Saturday night whoo-haw-haw, so now I’ll be able to listen to the message without falling asleep, thank God.”
Yes, thank God.
* * *
“Why do you keep pulling back from us, Meredith?”
I threw my hands up, layered in two pairs of mittens, then pulled on my white cowgirl hat with the silver medallion. “Do you ever, ever engage in small talk, Logan? Light exchanges? Banter? Do you know how to have a shallow conversation, because now and then I’d like to have one with you. A conversation about nothing. Chat. You always go right for the heart of everything. Your conversation is like an arrow.”
He stopped by the grass in front of the cathedral, the lit-up golden deer behind him, the cross standing tall. “I like arrows. Bows, too. Next time you come to my ranch, say, tomorrow, we’ll have bow and arrow practice. You’ll love it. You’re a very complex person. I like complex, but I wouldn’t mind if you trusted me a little more. You’re also difficult, Meredith. Very difficult.”
“I am not!”
“Yep. You are. Dance with me.”
“What? I’m not going to dance with you.”
“Sure you are. Right here, in front of the cathedral. We can practice for later.”
“Later? What do you mean?”
“Later.” He brought me in close with one arm, my hand in his with the other. He started singing Christmas songs. “Jingle Bell Rock,” “I Saw Momma Kissing Santa Claus,” “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer”. . . I was laughing, and singing, too, the moon luminescent, the stars shining, the North Star beaming, and having the most beautiful time of my life.
Darn the man, darn Logan, who I hadn’t known that long, who I knew I should stay clear of. I could feel myself falling in love, swirling around, tumbling straight in, like an elf jumping into a pile of fudge from a diving board.
Yes, I was falling in love with Logan.
He kissed me until I couldn’t think a single thought.
* * *
All good Christmas tales come to an end. Mine came on a Thursday, about 1:00, when the snow was falling, light, quiet, pure, the kids in school, the guests out the door, the kitchen cleaned up.
I was drinking peppermint tea and eating a candy cane. I had about twenty minutes of break time before I had to work on stuff for the concert, but I’d had a vision of being on horseback with Logan, my arms wrapped around his waist, and we were being followed by white chocolate doves holding sprigs of thyme, and I was indulging it.
The phone rang. I shouldn’t have answered it; I should have at least looked at caller ID. I did not.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sister,” Leia said, quite cheery.
I felt myself go cold, everything in my body freezing up tight, as fear strangled my throat. Where was she, and was she coming to get the kids?
“Why are you calling, Leia?”
“How about, hi, how are you?”
“Why are you calling?” Please, please, don’t say you’re coming for the kids. Don’t ruin what I have finally, finally started to heal. It had been months since she’d called, and that was best.
“I’m calling to say Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas. Good-bye.”
“Wait!”
“Wait for what, Leia?”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Ask me how I’m doing.”
“I don’t care how you’re doing.”
“Anthony and I are in Texas.”
Relief rushed through me, sweet and quick.
“We’re having a great time.” She regaled me with the details of their “great time.” I decided not to hang up because I needed to make sure she was not coming back to Telena.
“Anthony and I are still wildly in love, still together. It’s bliss. It’s perfect.” She sighed. “I’m sorry that you won’t ever know about this, Meredith. This love between a man and a woman.”
Barring her saying something terrible about the kids, those words could not have hurt me more.
“I feel so guilty about that, Meredith,” she said, her voice catching. I knew she’d feel terrible for about one minute; that was the extent of her ability to feel guilt. “It was an accident, though. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I know I forever ruined you for a man in your life. It would be impossible for a man to get past that; they want beauty, don’t they
?”
I clenched my teeth and scrunched up my eyes, as if I was bracing for a hit, a slug to the face. I heard the other crushing comments from men over the years zinging through my brain: “Deformed . . . gross . . . can’t deal with it . . . crip . . . I am so not going there. . . not interested . . . I need a chick who is sexy all over, not just the face and hair . . . that’d be awkward and weird in bed. Eww.” It was like I’d heard them yesterday. They had followed me over the years, like a black, mean cape. My stomach hurt, like a razor was scraping right across it.
“But you’re a good mother,” Leia added, cheery again. “I know that Jacob and Sarah are much better off with you than me. You can cook. You’re a homebody. You were always so proud of your cooking job in New York but you’re more domesticated than I am. You’re a mommy. I can’t stand suburbia. Too boring for me. I’m going to send them Christmas presents, haven’t had time yet, will you tell them Merry Christmas for me? I’ll try to call again. Are you there?”
“I’m here.” I so wanted to tell her off, to let my rip-roaring anger out, target her, but I didn’t. Not for her, for the kids. I knew Leia, and if I made her mad enough, to spite me, she would probably come and get the kids and take them away.
“Good. Well. I guess that’s it then. Anthony says howdy hello. I say, after a while, crocodile. Bye, bye, Meredith. Toodle-hee-hoo!”
I hung up and stared at that cross on the grounds of the cathedral.
I could not let Leia have the kids back. I had meant to take legal action for full custody, but I didn’t think the kids were ready for it, and I thought Leia would fight back. But now I had to. No other way. I couldn’t risk her hurting them when she decided she wanted to play mommy again and dragging them into her sordid lifestyle.
I dropped the candy cane to the table as the accident flicked across my mind. The wet pavement, his eyes, seeing the darkness fold in on me, the operation, the rehabilitation, the months of nerve screaming pain, some that was real, some that wasn’t, depression like I’d never felt, the fury, the shock and anxiety, seeing myself, my body, in a whole new light, then finally, finally, finding the light and going on with my life after months and months because I chose to live, because I could not choose to die.
My parents had cried over me, gotten me the best doctors, the best care, never leaving my side . . . and Leia had skipped on off, not missing a beat.
She had changed my whole life because of her irresponsibility. I knew she was a lousy sister, a lousy mother; that anger had been in me forever. But a few of her words, despite my best efforts to deflect them, hit the mark.
They hit that mark hard, and all my insecurities and fears that I’d worked so hard to smash down came roaring at me like an emotional tsunami.
I smashed the candy cane with my cowboy boot.
* * *
Logan had no clue what hit in the next few days.
We went from dancing by the cathedral at night, chatting and laughing during rehearsals, and my making him the largest Funky Fly Fisherman’s Omelet Telena has ever seen and the highest pile of Roarin’ Raspberry French Toast because I wanted to hear him laugh, to my frozen coldness.
“What the hell’s going on?” he asked, never one to mince words.
I denied there was anything going on. He accused me of avoiding him, dismissing him. “Don’t lie to me, Meredith. Ever.”
I didn’t take his calls. I cooked him a normal breakfast when he came in, instead of turning his scrambled eggs into a river with parsley on the side for trees and fish made out of orange slices.
I wouldn’t let him drive or walk me home after rehearsal. “Why can’t I take you home? Damn it, Meredith, talk to me.”
I knew I was being awful. I was trying, trying to get up the nerve to break up with him, but I couldn’t, it killed me, and yet I knew I had to, so I pulled away, hoping the relationship would simply sever, break, he’d go away . . . although I had no solid plan, because no solid plan can be made when you believe you are dying from a heart that is no longer beating the way it should.
I was blackly miserable, and I saw Logan’s misery, his anger, and the raw hurt in those green eyes. I wanted to hug him close, hold him, cry on him.
“Meredith,” he said, barging into my kitchen and bringing with him the scent of mountain air, honey, and a picnic basket on a drift boat.
Mary and Martha scurried out.
“We’re going to talk about this.”
“No, we’re not. Not now. Please. Not now.”
My eyes filled up with tears; my hands shook; I dropped a plastic bowl.
He wanted to argue. He was so stubborn.
“Please, Logan,” my voice squeaked.
He ran a hand through his hair. “You are going to talk to me about this tonight, do you have that, Meredith? After rehearsal, we’re going to talk. You are so difficult, but this time it isn’t funny and it isn’t amusing and I’ve had it. I don’t play games. You’re playing them, and we’re done with that. I’m too old for that, and so are you.”
No, this wasn’t funny, or amusing; it certainly was no game.
It was gut shrieking awful.
* * *
“Get in the damn truck,” Logan said to me as he roared up beside me outside of rehearsal. He slammed out of his truck, stomped through the snow, and grabbed my elbow. “Right now, Meredith. We agreed we’d talk after rehearsal. It’s after rehearsal, so let’s go.”
Rehearsal for our Christmas concert had gone surprisingly well, despite the fact that I thought stress would strip away my ability to stand up, and despite the fact that during the potluck dinner, Logan sat right next to me, seething, his thigh hard against mine, and I couldn’t even concentrate on my food because of his glare. Part of me wanted to swing myself around on his lap and kiss him; the other wanted to hold him tight and never let go.
“Logan,” I croaked out. “How about later?”
“No, now.”
I was manhandled into the truck and we were driving off in about three seconds. He drove to a quiet street near the downtown, deserted at this hour, except for the huge Christmas tree and the white lights wrapped around the other trees. He did not say a word, his jaw set, hands gripping the steering wheel, then he turned the truck off and turned toward me.
“What the hell is going on?”
How to end it?
“You have got to talk. This isn’t fair to me.”
What to even say?
“Is it something I said? Something I didn’t say? Is there someone else?”
Oh, the very thought of someone else infuriated him, I could tell. I shook my head.
“Then what? What is it, Meredith?”
I looked up into those green, confused, ticked off, hurt eyes, and I burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Logan, oh, I’m so sorry . . .”
And I moved, and he moved, and we were in each other’s arms, passionate and hot and overwhelming, and all I could think of was Logan, his lips, his tough, sweet face, the chest I leaned on when he lifted me up and straddled me across his lap, our breath mingled, a groan, a moan, bliss . . .
It was when my cowgirl hat was knocked to the floor of the truck, my jacket and sweater on top of it, my blue blouse unbuttoned, my bra unsnapped, his jacket on top of mine, his shirt almost off, our heat together creating more heat, it was when his hands stroked me from shoulder to breast to waist to hip, to thigh and lower that I wrenched away and scrambled off his lap.
“I can’t do this,” I breathed, reaching for my sweater with shaking hands and yanking it over my head. I heard my sister’s voice. “I forever ruined you for a man in your life. It would be impossible for a man to get past that; they want beauty, don’t they?”
I couldn’t let him see me.
“What?” Logan panted back, those warm, skilled hands that had brought me to the brink of some fantastic ecstasy, slapped up to his head. “What are you doing?”
“I said I can’t do this.” I tried not to cry; I did. I cried anyhow.
> “Why not?” I could hear the crushing anger ringing through the disbelief in his tone.
“I can’t . . . I can’t be on your lap like this. I can’t kiss you.”
“Dammit, Meredith!” Those green eyes flashed at me where seconds ago they’d been languid and aroused, yet so primitively fierce as he took control of this whole panting, velvety, hot encounter. “What are you talking about? Why can’t you kiss me?”
I rolled my lips in tight and let my black hair cover my face, my white streak flashing in the darkness. “Because I can’t.”
I reached for my jacket and shoved my arms through before I was tempted to fling the rest of my clothes out the window and launch myself at him again. My heart wanted to stay. Stay in his embrace, stay in the passion, the heat, the comfort of his friendship, the trust I had for him.
“Answer me, Meredith.” He brought a fist down on the dashboard, not in a scary way, but in an “I’ve had it” way. He leaned toward me and put a hand on the window behind my head. “I’m not asking you to make love to me, Meredith, for God’s sakes, I sure as hell wouldn’t do that in my truck, I respect you more than that, but what is this? You’re passionate, you’re cold, you’re passionate again. Why do you keep pulling away from us?”
“Because there is no ‘us’,” I bit out, then clenched my teeth together, so I wouldn’t sob like a drunken maniac on his chest. “There is no ‘us’, there is not going to be an ‘us’.”
“Why is there not going to be an ‘us’?” He shook his head, the moonlight glinting on that hair I wanted to run my hands through. “Why is there no ‘us’ now? Why can’t you at least trust this, trust what we have now?”
“Because I can’t. I can’t.” I grabbed my purse and smashed my cowgirl hat on my head. “Please, Logan, let me go.”
“No, I’m not letting you go.” A pulse jumped in his temple, his face still flushed from all that passion. Mine was probably about as red as squished cherries. “I don’t understand you; I don’t understand what you’re doing, where you’re going here. What’s wrong, Meredith? What is wrong?”
I was awkward, clumsy, as I tried to unlock the door, my hands shaking. I would probably be brought home by Officers Sato and Juan tonight. Wouldn’t Sarah think that was hilarious?