by Cathy Lamb
Annabelle, Lucy, and Stephi lived across the hallway. Annabelle was sixty-one, a nurse in the neonatal unit at the local hospital. She was raising her grandchildren, Stephi and Lucy. Stephi was four and Lucy was five. They had been living with Annabelle for about two weeks by the time I moved in. They were quiet, reserved. They didn’t act like normal kids. Both of them had odd, circular scars on their arms that I would later learn were cigarette burns. Stephi had a scar on her left temple, and Lucy had a long scar near her collarbone.
They scared easily. They halfway hid behind Annabelle when we said hello. They did not smile or laugh or jump around. Their blond curls were always brushed, but they were way too thin, their chocolate brown eyes huge and scared.
Annabelle had white hair and a young face. She was friendly, competent, welcoming. I was too withdrawn to make friends with anyone at first, but one night, about four months after I moved in, I met Annabelle in the hallway. We started chatting and she invited me in. She showed me the sweaters she was knitting for the girls. She told me that her daughter and her daughter’s husband were drug addicts, in jail, and she was raising the girls. Stephi woke up screaming, followed by Lucy.
“They have nightmares,” Annabelle told me, hugging the girls on her lap as they screamed, then cried, then whimpered. I started chatting with the girls when they calmed down, and soon they were on my lap and I read them stories until they fell back asleep.
In the weeks that followed, Annabelle told me how the girls got the scars, the ones I could see and the ones I couldn’t, and what else had happened to them when they were in the care of their mother and father.
Annabelle and I became close friends. She was irreverent, hilarious, super smart. The girls grew to love me and I them. They were a second family.
Then something happened to one member of the family, and grief hit like a freight train.
* * *
My pipes froze. My grandma had to go to the hospital because of a urinary tract infection that hit her kidneys. My mother’s patients who wanted to see Mrs. Gisela, and get her homespun medical and “natural healing” advice, were particularly upset. Word got out, and meals and desserts were brought to the clinic and to the farmhouse for “Mrs. Gisela and her urinary tract infection,” and by the way, will she be healthy enough to be at my appointment on Wednesday, and if not I need to reschedule.
Stephi sprained her arm when she jumped out of a tree, pretending to be “Rock Monster.” She was holding rocks in both hands when she jumped. Lucy had a meltdown because of things she remembered in foster care in Idaho and California when she and Stephi were taken from their parents. Chloe called, ecstatic, because Kyle won the school’s spelling contest. “He studies dictionaries. He enjoys it. He is so bizarre. I love that freaky kid and his Questions Notebook.”
My mother needed me to go with her to pick up a patient out in the country, because the woman was stubborn and said she would come only if I brought her my croissants. She told my mother, “Olivia makes them light and fluffy at Larry’s Diner, best croissants ever, and my grandma was French, the old witch, so I know a warm, correctly baked croissant when I taste it.”
Some weeks are not very easy, but they can always get worse, that’s what I told myself, at least.
Tuesday my attorney called. The week became worse.
* * *
Wednesday night I couldn’t sleep because I was worrying about what my attorney said. I wandered out to my back deck and saw my grandma in the gazebo. I stayed in the shadows. She was wearing her coat, boots, and blue gladiola scarf. She smiled and tilted her head back toward the moon, raised her hand, and waved to her family on the other side of that endless, dark Montana sky.
* * *
“Aunt Olivia,” Lucy said Thursday night, when I was tucking her and Stephi into bed. “Today on the bus Charlie said that his mom said that you’re married to Mr. Giant.”
Charlie Zimmerman. His mother was Grace Zimmerman, born Grace O’Shea, a longtime, funny friend who came into the restaurant last week to give me a hug and invite me to lunch.
When Grace and I were in high school, at a beer bong party before a choir concert she got so drunk that she fell off the risers in the gym and onto her butt. She climbed back up with my and Chloe’s help, then swayed drunkenly, side to side, to the very serious song we were singing in three-part harmony, hands floating in the air above her head like birds, eyes closed. She belted out, “La, la, la! Bong, bong, bong.”
I laughed so hard I wet my pants under my red choir gown. Chloe couldn’t even sing, because her laughter zapped the words. She stood and snorted, which made me laugh harder. Grace was suspended. Her father is a minister. Praise be to God, it didn’t go over well at her house that night.
“Yep,” Stephi said. “Charlie said that Mr. Giant is your husband. We said, ‘No, he’s not.’ But are you?”
Why didn’t I tell them earlier about Mr. Giant? What was wrong with me? It’s a small town. I grew up here. Everyone knew. I plucked at my white, lacy tunic that I’d bought in Guatemala and tapped my black cowgirl boots. It was Guatemala and Montana today for clothing.
“I like him,” Lucy said, leaning toward me, her hands on my shoulders. “So it’s okay if he’s your husband. But our dad hit us on the butt. Does Mr. Giant hit?”
“Mr. Rivera would never hit. Ever.” I wanted to hit their jailbird father. “Yes, Jace is my husband.”
Lucy’s brows scrunched together, then she pointed her finger up. “If he’s your husband, why don’t we all live together?”
“Because Jace and I had some problems. And we’re separated.”
“What problems?” Stephi said, wrapping her blue unicorn nightshirt around her knees. “When I had a problem with Stevie B. the other day, I told him he was a brat.” She frowned. “That made him cry. So I drew him a picture of a tiger with a smiley face sitting on some pink rocks, and then he stopped crying. That was nice, right, Aunt Olivia?”
“It was.”
“Mr. Giant told us that he has two dogs,” Lucy said, her face hopeful. “Their names are Snickers and Garmin. Does that mean his dogs are our dogs if he’s your husband?”
Yay! They could have dogs! They liked dogs! Jace had gotten Snickers and Garmin after I left. The two dogs wandered onto his property, half dead, half frozen, that winter. He took them in.
“No, it doesn’t mean the dogs are yours.”
“Are you sure?” Lucy was quite skeptical. “If he’s your husband, don’t you get to share the pets?”
“What about the cat, K.C.?” Stephi said, still hopeful. Maybe they could have a cat! They liked cats, too! “Is the cat ours?”
“No.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Stephi said, shaking her head. “Not at all.”
The girls weren’t happy. This was a disaster! I had a husband but they couldn’t have his dogs or his cat!
“I know!” Stephi waved both hands. “I have it! Mr. Giant should live here and then bring the dogs and cat with him!”
Perfect solution!
“Yes!” Lucy said. “Smart idea, Stephi. You’re smart.” She hugged her sister, and Stephi hugged her back.
“I like dogs. I like cats,” Stephi said. “I like that Mr. Giant, too.”
“Me too,” Lucy said, bopping on the bed. “If our real dad came and got mad at us, then Mr. Giant could tell him, ‘No. Stop yelling. Stop throwing things. Stop punching holes in the walls. Stop getting drunk and mean.’” She stopped bopping and crouched down to go eye-to-eye with me. “That’s right, right, Aunt Olivia? He would do that?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you know what drunk means, Aunt Olivia?”
“Yes, I do.” I wanted to smash their drunken father. And their mother.
Lucy’s eyes grew huge. “Do you think he would tell our real dad not to do that drunk stuff?”
“I know he would do that, but remember I told you that your real dad is going to be in jail for a long time.”
“I know, but he will get out and then he could come here and do that,” Lucy said, her face crumbling. “I didn’t like it when he was mad.”
“Me either,” Stephi said, snuggling into me. “It was scary.”
Maybe I would use their father for target practice.
“So let’s invite Mr. Giant to come and live with us with the dogs and the kitty cat!” Lucy said, her finger pointed in the air again.
“I’ll write him a letter,” Stephi said. “It’ll be like an invitation. Like some of the girls in my class got an invitation to Ella’s birthday party but I didn’t.” Her face fell.
I hated to do this. They were so excited. “Girls, Mr. Giant is not going to stay here.”
“Why? There’s room!” Stephi said. “If he’s your husband, then you sleep in the same bed. Your bed is plenty big!”
“Because we’re not living together right now. He lives on his ranch and he has a lot of work to do there and I have a new job and, like I said, we had problems.”
“If you have problems, say sorry, Aunt Olivia. And tell Mr. Giant to say sorry and then give each other a hug,” Stephi said.
“That’s what me and Stephi do,” Lucy said. “Like this.” And they hugged each other and smiled encouragingly at me.
“You can do it, Aunt Olivia!” Stephi said. “Just say sorry.”
“And hug him!” Lucy said.
I smiled, hugged them, and tucked them into bed.
“I can’t wait until the dogs and kitty cat come and live here!” Lucy said.
I went to bed that night with a cold washcloth on my head.
First I thought about what the girls said about having Jace live with us.
Then I thought about Jace.
His smile.
His body.
Then I thought about him naked, in this bed.
Next I thought about why we were separated and why it wouldn’t work to get back together because we had an unsolvable problem between us.
Then I couldn’t sleep.
* * *
My mother picked up the girls from school and took them to the clinic. Over dinner that night they told me all about strange diseases. I could tell that diseases thrilled them. Yep. They might be doctors.
Chapter 7
After college I traveled and worked and sampled different types of sweet, sour, spicy, and strange food for three years. I loved cooking, loved traveling, and wanted to experience both.
I traipsed all over western Europe, Turkey, India, Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia, then spent a few months in China and Japan. I worked my way through. I had wanderlust, I had cooking lust. I tasted food completely outside of my experience. My mouth about exploded. I learned about the culture and the people. I tasted the spices, the sauces, the fruits, the meats, the treats.
After the three years, despite my mother’s grave disappointment that I wasn’t going to become a doctor, I applied to culinary school. I was accepted at a respected school in Portland, Oregon. Two-year program. At the end of it, I was hired at an expensive restaurant in town where I’d done an internship. I loved it. Loved the head chef, Lucinda, loved how we worked together and tried new things. It was on a month-long sabbatical when I returned to Montana that I met Jace at a bar in Kalulell.
The bar was pure Montana. Cowboys and cowgirls. Ranchers and farmers. Doctors and teachers and nurses and motorcycle riders and rebels and intellectuals.
I knew who Jace Rivera was. Everyone knew him. He was two years ahead of me in school, but he was the athlete, he was the student body president, he had all the friends, and the girls loved him. His grandfather had come from Mexico, worked in the mines, then bought land, and kept expanding as his cattle ranch became more successful. Ricardo Rivera married a local girl, Eleanor, and they had Jace’s father, Antonio. Antonio married a friend of my mother’s, whose name was Clarissa. The ranch stayed in the family. It was now Jace’s responsibility.
In high school, Chloe and I played sports hard, we played to win, and we often got in trouble for one prank or another or general wildness. We were outgoing, but I remember being too shy to talk to Jace Rivera. He said hello now and then, and smiled at me, and I smiled back. Everyone knew that Jace was friendly, unless you were a jerk or you were picking on someone, and then there were a few fights that Jace won, and the bully shut up and backed down.
I couldn’t believe he remembered me when I saw him in the bar. He introduced himself, and said, “We went to high school together. I remember when you and Chloe made cards that everyone held up at a basketball game that spelled out, ‘Whip Their Butts.’”
I laughed and said, “That would be us, practicing our literary skills.”
“I also remember when you and Chloe made posters about Bring Your Pet to School Day, which was the next day.”
“Ah, yes. We had Lilly and Mr. Bud back then. They missed us when we were at school.”
“I brought both my dogs, Rex and Amanda.” He smiled. The school had been filled with pets. The principal nearly had a coronary. “And there was also that epic prank with the cow.”
“She was a calm cow and wanted to hang out in the school cafeteria and protest the use of meat.” I smiled back. “I know who you are, too, Jace.” And that was it. We talked and laughed and then danced until two in the morning. I saw him the next day, and the next. Date four we were in bed together at his home, his parents, Antonio and Clarissa, happily retired in California.
We fell in love, so hard, so fast, so fun. We were engaged, we were married on my grandparents’ property, in front of the river. Jace’s parents were welcoming and happy about the marriage. They knew my mother and grandparents and were friends with all three of them. Jace had agreed that having six kids would be a “fine number. Not enough for a football team, but definitely a basketball team with one to spare.”
We used birth control at first. Jace had his family’s ranch, and tons of cattle, but decided we should turn part of it into a vacation destination place for families. He had a trusted foreman, Daniel LeSalle, to run the ranch, and this would be a new business, our business.
Families could come and ride horses, hike, fish, boat, ski, snowshoe, play horseshoes, and hang out at the lake. They would stay in private cabins, eat in a dining hall, and there would be sing-alongs at night with guitars and ukuleles, and campfires. There would be a game room with pool and Ping-Pong and board games. We would have excellent food—which is where I came in. The town of Kalulell would attract people, too, as would the annual winter jump into the icy lake, our Bach festival, and a three-day country rock concert.
We planned and constructed and worked and worked and we launched Martindale Ranch and it was a success. Jace had insisted that we call our new venture Martindale Ranch. As a surprise he had a MARTINDALE RANCH wooden sign made to hang from two posts at the entrance. I was flattered, and I showed him how much in bed that night. He said he was going to name our ranch Martindale Ranch every day so he could have the same treat with me again and again.
We had a couple of write-ups in major magazines, and we were soon up and growing. One thing people especially loved was the food. I was delighted. Thrilled. So was Jace. I put meal photos up on a special section of the website called “Olivia’s Creations,” and I would throw in a recipe now and then.
I cooked. Jace handled the business end of it, the books, marketing, hiring. We greeted all of the guests, made friends, spent time talking with them.
We worked all the time. We loved it. Loved each other.
And then disaster struck too often, and I saw no way out, and I lost my ever lovin’ mind.
* * *
“Olivia, phone call.” Dinah handed me the restaurant’s phone. She had recently cut off the green ends and dyed her hair light pink.
“Hello?” I was making three types of salads—Chinese with scallions and mandarin oranges, chicken Caesar with homemade focaccia croutons, and a vegetable blend with Italian seasoning. We had had more customers than expected, which was
encouraging, but I was wiped out.
“Hi, Olivia,” Jace said. “I have the girls.”
“What?”
“I have the girls.”
“What do you mean?” My hand froze above a bowl of chopped vegetables. “They’re in school.”
“The office called and said they couldn’t get ahold of you. The girls are sick . . . no, no, don’t worry. I think they have colds. In fact”—he paused, and I could hear the girls chatting and giggling in the background—“they may have already made a miraculous recovery.”
“I . . . I . . .” This was so confusing. I dug my phone out of my pocket. Shoot. It was dead. “The school is supposed to call me, then Chloe, then my mother or my grandma when this happens.”
“The girls told Sheryl Lalonski to call me as I am your husband.”
“Ah. Oh. Ah.”
“Sheryl called and said she was so happy we were back together again, and it was the best news she’d had in a long time, and she’d called her parents and told them, and her parents and their best friends, Bud and Alice Jacobi, who were all playing pinochle together, send us their best.”
I groaned. Now it was all over town. I could see Stephi’s and Lucy’s excited faces in my mind. They were probably jumping up and down thinking of a new dad and two new dogs named Garmin and Snickers and a cat named K.C. They would have pets! “Where are you?”
“Your house. Your grandma came by and let us in.”
My grandma. Not surprising. The traitor. “I’m coming. I’m almost done with my shift. Thank you, Jace.”
“No rush, and you’re welcome. My pleasure.”
* * *
I finished my shift in twenty minutes, then I tried to clean up in the restaurant’s bathroom. I unwound my hair, brushed it, washed my face, washed my pits, brushed my teeth—yes, I carry a toothbrush in my bag—put on lotion that smelled like roses that I keep in my bag to hide my usual odor of onions and garlic with a side of meat thrown in, and put on mascara and lipstick. I studied my green cat eyes staring back at me. They looked worried.