by Maya Rossi
His expression becomes stern. “You were my stepdaughter once, Olivia. If it were someone else, I will expect you to report to the police or your mom.”
With my eyes aimed somewhere near his collar, I say, “I’m not your stepdaughter and it was a mistake, right? You didn’t know it was me and if not for mom’s pictures of you--”
“Lily has pictures of me?”
Regretting letting that vital information slip out, I forge on. “It was a mistake and I think we can forget it and move on.”
He nods, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Thank you. Hmmm, what are you doing here, anyway? Lily called this morning,” his eyes narrow, “sounds like you had no business in Vetty’s in the first place, you were supposed to be in my house.”
The implication that our tryst is somehow my fault makes me bristle. I angle my chin at a stubborn angle and reply, “You’re not my stepfather anymore. I don’t even remember you--”
“I remember you. With your special pink bows and pink shoes and pink everything. Seems you’ve gotten over the pink phase.”
Something about his mild, pointed reply makes me feel small. I quell the urge to apologize and try to explain. “It’s true I was supposed to head to Lizanne, but I wanted a day to myself before reporting to you.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners but he doesn’t smile. “I’m far from a school principal, Olivia.”
“I can still go with you… if you want?”
Chapter seven
Mom called Lizanne a paradise, and she didn’t lie. The farm is like a love letter written by Griffin. There are neat rows of crops and vegetables and well maintained barns. There are lovingly tended crops, two horses, some cows and chickens. There’s a stream west of the property framed by rocks, flowers and a waterfall. I never want to leave.
My interaction with Grif is almost painful to experience. He hardly meet my eyes when we talk, and even that is if it’s absolutely necessary. I would regret giving him a blow job if it wasn’t the most I’ve felt safe these past months.
He took me on a short tour of the property yesterday. I never knew a farm can be this big. It extended as far as my eyes could see, even on horseback. Did I mention he has horses? Grif says Peter named the horse and his dog, Lex and Clark respectively.
I badly wanted to make a superman reference but Grif fidgeted so much and stammered so painfully, I just nodded to move things along. Asking him why Peter named animals he so obviously loved would only make a shitty situation shittier, so moved along. In less than fifteen minutes, the worst tour ever conducted in human history was completed.
Thoughts of returning home to Richard and Dana was the only reason I forced a smile and asked of the animals.
Grif frowned. “Are you sure? I’m still shoring up one of the barn walls so that part of the farm is messy.”
“I’m sure,” I say, “I don’t think greens are my thing.” Though the plants looked real pretty with their leaves spread wide to embrace the sun.
He made an amused sound, quickly cut off by a cough. “You still don’t like your vegetables?”
“Unfortunately,” I reply solemnly, hopeful our awkward phase will pass.
We got in the truck and drove in silence to wherever the barns were. The buildings are the size of a small sized house. The windows are high and wide giving it large spaces and light.
“It’s so airy,” was my genius observation.
But Grif nodded. “Ventilation is especially important for the birds.”
I’ve always loved animals and I don’t hide my pleasure now. By the time we get to the last barn, the corners of Grif’s mouth twitch in amazement and the lines of his face has softened. My voice is almost hoarse from ooohing and aaahing.
When we get to the goats, my heart melts. Grif watches in disbelief as I touch and rub at the ones I can reach. There’s a gorgeous one in the corner, watching me warily. Or is it my imagination.
“Why’s she not eating?” I ask, moving cautiously to the goat. She’s beautiful with a completely white coat and small horns.
“She’s quiet like that,” Grif sounds fond, “she’s been with me the longest, gave me some great kids too.”
“Wow,” I say, looking at the goat with new eyes. It’s weird to think among the twelve goats here, some are her children. “What’s her name?”
He clears his throat. “I-- ah, didn’t name her.”
I brush the line of her height from neck to buttocks. “Can I name her, please?”
“Sure.”
“Rose,” I whisper, “your name is Rose.”
Grif doesn’t say a word. But like a dam about to burst, I can feel the pressure of the question about to burst from him. Unlike my friends, Dana, Richard and even mom, Grif is transparent. There’s no artifice, no attempt to act cool or hide anything. It’s childlike, endearing and humbling. He makes me want to be a better person.
When we get to the car, he holds the door open for me. I’m conscious of the length of my legs in the extremely short skirts as I get in the truck. But when I take a quick glance out of the corner of my eyes, Grif is staring back at the barn with a frown.
Thinking one of the animals was in trouble or something equally dire, I ask, “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, why Rose?”
I wait until his eyes return to mine. “No reason.” His eyes narrow and I find myself admitting, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Grif nods and closes the truck door.
An army of ants matching in a neat formation climb over my leg and I curl my legs under me to give them room. A few paces away in the stream, a row of ducks swim and quack away. Tipping my head back and letting the cool breeze play with my hair, I’m just inching towards sleep when my phone rings.
“Mom.”
“How’s Grif and Lizanne?”
“They are fine mother. Is that really why you called?”
She sighs and I can picture her in the office, legs propped on her desk and a pen in her mouth. Miserable but slogging on. “You think Grif would want me there?”
The thought of my mom here with Grif doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t bother trying to sift through my emotions or the reason for them. “I don’t know. Why not ask him?”
“Yesterday was the first time we’ll speak in twelve years.”
“Did something happen between you two?” I know mom liked, even loved Grif. Why did they stop talking? Plus Grif had to be the most peaceable human who ever lived. “Did he hurt you, mom?”
She scoffs. “Have you seen Grif? He’s a gentle giant and won’t hurt a fly. Anyway, try to forget about what happened with Stanton. I’m handling it.”
I cover my forehead with my hand, cringing at the mess sure to follow mom going against her husband’s wishes. “Mom--”
“I will have those pictures pulled and the Stanton’s sued and --”
“Mom! Just stop.” I sink my teeth into my lower lip for a second, trying to choose my next words with care. “I don’t think I can live with Stanton and Dana.”
“Olivia Lee-Sterling. Whatever do you mean? We--”
“Your questioning my decision after having a front-row seat to Richard's idea of parenting and Dana’s bitchy attitude says a lot mom.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Shit,” I exclaim loudly. I’m literally drowning in fright. It jerks me around like a puppet on a string and somehow I find myself inside the stream. The cool water lap against my skin like a loving caress. I just spread my arms out and sigh in pleasure.
The guy responsible laughs and says, “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
With a languorous sigh I turn on my back, so I can see his face. He is in his early twenties or thereabout. With brown hair and unremarkable features. It’s his eyes that makes him attractive. There are big and gray and filled with merriment. Was he laughing at me?
“Thank you for dumping me in the pool?”
“If you say it’s a pool,” he spreads his
hands, “who am I to complain?”
My face heats at my mistake. The water is no longer pleasurable so I get out, taking the hand he holds out.
“You’re Grif’s stepdaughter I heard.”
Is that the word going around now? “I’m not but if you want to go that route, ex-stepdaughter. Why are you here anyway?”
His eyes drops to my chest and down my body. I’m suddenly reminded that my spaghetti top and short skirt is no longer appropriate, not with droplets melding my clothes to my body.
“Just, let me go change first,” I murmur.
“Grif says lunch is ready.” he says. Unlike the guys at my school, he doesn’t stare or seem entranced by my body. I need not try to know my control games won’t work on him. “I’m Peter and you’re Olivia. I help Grif sort and handle his deliveries--”
“Grif does deliveries?” I’m surprised at this. Mom basically called him a hermit, says he never leaves the farm. “I thought…”
“He never leaves the farm?”
There’s an inflection in Peter’s words I can’t make out. “Well.. yeah.”
“He does when he wants, it’s not like he doesn’t want to or anything. He just--”
“Stop,” I say with a smile. “You don’t have to defend him to me. I strongly believe we should do whatever we want.”
“Yeah?” he looks skeptical. “Because he’s hella cool.”
“Yes,” I say firmly.”
“Good,” he claps his hand together like some hyperactive child. I realize then that’s what he reminds me of, a child. “We’re having our annual spring community dance, I know you just got here and all but--”
“Peter,” I say, dripping wet and uncomfortable with the sudden turn of the conversation. “I don’t--”
“I’m not asking you out,” a serious expression foreign to his overly cheerful persona takes over his features, “I have… look, I’m not interested, okay?”
“Okay, I will come.”
“It’s next Saturday,” he shouts, bouncing backwards and away.
By the time I get to the house, I’m shivering. Clark runs out excitedly to say hello. Any thought of changing leaves my mind and I get down and dirty with Clark. I’m laughing as he licks my face, thinking about the perfection that is Lizanne. The farm even comes with its own adorable dog.
Someone clears their throat and I wrap my arms around Clark to see over his head. Rick shakes his head ruefully. “You treacherous dog. Grif, you see how fast he replaces me with someone else?”
Almost as if he understands, Clark licks my face in apology and runs over to Rick. Grif grunts. “He knows something better when he sees it, even I won’t go for your ugly mug.”
Did he just call me beautiful? Our eyes meet and skitter off. I don’t know what to do to make Grif comfortable around me. He’s so relaxed with Rick, they laugh and joke around. But me? It’s stilted conversations and grunts all round.
From what I’ve learned these past few days about Grif, I know breaching the distance between us will be up to me. “Grif, can I come with you, like to the farm?”
“Had enough of my favorite spot, have you?” Rick jokes with a sly smile.
I like Rick. He’s sad, blunt and fun. Way more fun than Grif. Our drive from the hotel to Lizanne is the most uncomfortable ride I’ve been on. Grif didn’t say one word to me. And I can’t be angry with him because he’s not been rude. He’s just…Grif. When we got to the farm, Rick sat on the porch, waiting. For a second, I wonder if Grif asked me there to smooth over the awkwardness.
I and Rick got on beautifully. He even teased me about that night. He still does.
“What do I get for giving you a prime vacation spot, eh?”
Before I will answer, Grif turns away, saying gruffly, “You need to go change.”
Rick makes a face. “Forgive him, Grif is like an old man set in his ways. That thing between you at the bar is like the end of the world for him. Give him time.”
Chapter eight
She discovered the books in the first week. One of my goats is down with something. Usually, a little care and time away from other animals for some days is enough to get them moving again. But this one has me worried. She expresses no interest in food and gives almost no reaction when I try to feed her.
Around mid day, I return to the house to call the vet. Olivia stands before the hidden door lining one side of the living room that leads to my private library. She gives me an awed glance and I’m unable to stop the flush of pride that engulfs me.
“You did not,” Olivia breathes, “all those times…” she pushes the door open and steps in only to jump back. “Should I --”
“Please, help yourself,” I laugh, excited to share my house with her. I want to show off Lizanne, the work I put into it.
I complete the call with the vet, booking a date for tomorrow. Even at that, I’m mildly frustrated because I don’t like the look of the goat this morning. My mind is on the activities I have planned when Olivia runs out with a pile of books in her arm.
“You’ve got all the Harry Porter series, and,” she stops in the middle of room, mouth wide in wonder, “romances, romances, romances. Shit, Grif. You’re a romance fan!”
Yup. I read romance by the ton. I can’t get enough of it. Contemporary, historical, fantasy. I love love. She dumps the book on the living room table, leaving a mess as the books are all over the place.
Olivia spreads her hands to encompass the pile. “Oh, my fucking god. Grif, I would have come here sooner. Lizanne is the shit both inside and out.”
Her excitement is palpable, easing a wound deep inside me. I want to rub her adulation in the face of everyone who called me stupid and a moron. But I’m cool about it, strolling to where she’s maniacally looking through book titles and blurbs.
“I don’t know where to start,” she moans, “my best friend would absolutely lose it when I tell her.”
“From Lily’s letters, Dana sounds more like a socialite than a reader,” I say, picking my well-worn copy of After the night by Linda Howard.
Olivia’s light dims. It’s almost unnoticeable, but I’m always watching her so her reaction makes me pause. “Olivia?”
“Mom writes you?”
I shrug, reaching up to rub the back of my neck. Hearing Lily’s name in the room leaves me uncomfortable. “Yeah, a few months after the divorce, to check up on me, I think.”
“Why not call?” Olivia drops back against the couch, frowning. “I don’t get it. Mom hates writing for any reason. She — why did you break up?”
“We were better apart.” I shove the Linda Howard masterpiece in her direction. “Check this out.”
She tugs at a strand of her natural hair. It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, thick, woolly and black. Lily always had hers in a wig or some other hair do. It’s the first time I’ll see it up close.
“Do you still like her? Mom, I mean.”
I stare at the side of her face in frustration. The last person I want to discuss is Lily and especially not with her daughter. My eyes fall to her hands where my precious copy of Harry Porter is clutched in a tight grip. Olivia is heavily invested in my answer, I realize.
The knowledge sends a dizzy rush through me. It is shameful, inexplicable and downright scary. “No,” I croak. Her head jerks up, her dark brown eyes narrowed in anger. I sigh. “I mean yes, but not like that.”
She regards me quietly. Olivia has a way of watching me like I can do anything. Like I was important.
“Has she ever been here?”
“The town or Lizanne?”
“Lizanne.”
“Yeah,” my body runs cold at the memories, “Yes. A long time ago.”
“Where does the name of the farm comes from, is it a family thing?”
I arch an eyebrow and makes for the safety of the kitchen. “You sound like a reporter.”
She laughs. “I so do not. I hated English at school.”
Pressing my back to the kitchen door fr
ame, I watch her as I down my glass of water. “Lily mentioned you have problems at school.”
“Problems?” she scoffs. “What problems?”
I know a big game talk when I hear it. Eric was like that too. Facing uncertainty with bluster and bravado. Rather than admit he was afraid of chickens, Eric trash talked them and me until I sent him off in exasperation. It was only later as I noted my fresh aches and bruises after the day’s work that I understood what he had done.
I’ve always been a slow learner. Big for nothing, mom would say. It was the first and not that last time Eric drove a hoe into my heart.