by Cathy Lamb
“Yes.” Our babies. His and mine. Jace had grieved, too. He had cried. Every time, with me. He was better at controlling himself, but I was not the only one in a tornado of pain, I knew that. “I’m sorry about how I handled it, Jace.”
“Please, Olivia.” He lifted my hand and kissed it. “Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for. It was a terrible time. The worst.”
“I shut down on you. I shut down on us. I felt like I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All I wanted to do was cry, and sometimes . . .” I took a shuddery breath. “I didn’t even want to live anymore, Jace. I had lost the babies, I had lost my granddad. We would never have children. It was too much loss. I didn’t see any light.”
He closed his eyes for a second and bent his head, the impact of my words so painful. He pulled me in close, and I hugged him. “I understand, baby. I do.”
“And it was my body,” I said, the flashbacks of my miscarriages graphic and soul sucking, “that kept screwing up, kept losing our babies.”
“Don’t take that on, please, Olivia.”
“I am sorry, Jace, that I couldn’t stay pregnant with our babies. I’m sorry I wrote a note and left you the way I did. I wanted out. I couldn’t handle my grief and living in the house with all those memories, the nursery, the children’s books we bought, the rocking chair, the toys. I lost my mind. I did.”
“Olivia,” he said, kissing my forehead, “we both lost our minds. It was devastating to lose our babies. Every time. But I was not the mother of those babies. You were. And I know it was worse for you. I watched you after we lost our first baby, then the second, then the third. It was like watching someone disintegrate. I couldn’t help you. You were lost in that grief. You couldn’t even get out of bed.” He teared up and so did I. “After you left, I kicked myself every single day. Every. Single. Day. I should have done more for you. I hope you can forgive me for that.”
“Jace, you were the perfect husband to me. I should have talked to you more. I couldn’t. I felt dead. I didn’t have any more fight in me, any more energy, any more of anything, but I knew I couldn’t get pregnant again, so I left.”
“I think life gets too hard for couples sometimes,” he said. “It’s not anyone’s fault, there isn’t any blame to be laid, and that’s what happened to us. Let’s let it go and be together again. Please. I want to be together with you again, Olivia, more than I want anything else.”
“But I can’t give you kids, Jace.” I choked on a sob. “I can’t give you the life you want.”
“You are the life I want, honey. That has not changed.”
“I’m a wreck.”
“You are not a wreck.” He kissed me and whispered, “I love you, Olivia. I always have, I always will, for my entire life.”
He loved me. Still. “I love you, too, Jace. I have missed you so much. I have never stopped loving you, and I know I will love you until . . . until . . . until . . .” Oh my. I could hardly talk through the emotion. “I am old and cranky.”
He smiled. “We’ll be old and cranky together.”
Jace was such a man. Strong and smart and confident and loving and forgiving. And amazing in bed. Sex on a stick. I couldn’t resist him. He bent his head and I gave in because he lights me on fire. I fell right into that kiss, and it felt like heaven with a hard-on. Our clothes went flying, our breathing was heavy, we smiled at each other, he lifted me up, and I was straddling him on the couch, totally naked.
Then I froze. I couldn’t help it. I saw myself pregnant. Damn. We still had the same problem. Huge, huge problem. “Jace, we need a condom.”
“No, babe, we don’t.”
“I can’t get pregnant again, it’ll kill me, Jace. I can’t do it.” My voice caught, and a rush of searing anger stole through me, taking away all the warmth and love. Why didn’t Jace get this? Why didn’t he understand me? Why was he pushing me to have sex and get pregnant when he knew what it had done to me? He had been there. I had just told him how I felt. He was okay with my losing another baby and losing my mind? Wasn’t he listening to me at all? I tried to get off of him, feeling like I’d been kicked in the stomach, but he held my face gently with one huge, warm hand, my waist with another, and said, “Sweetheart, you will not get pregnant, because I had a vasectomy.”
“You what?” I settled back onto him. He what?
“I had a vasectomy. You never wanted to get pregnant again. I know you, and I knew you would not change your mind. I don’t blame you at all. I also knew that you and I would never be able to be together if you thought I would pressure you to get pregnant again in the future.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a vasectomy earlier?”
“I didn’t want you to feel that you had to come back to me because I’d had a vasectomy and had given up the possibility of having kids for you. You don’t owe me that. I wanted you back because you loved me and wanted to be married again.”
I was stunned. “But you could have had kids with someone else.”
“There is never going to be anyone else, babe. It’s always been you. Without you, my whole life is nothing. Ever since you left I have felt this huge, gaping hole. I have never felt so alone, or so lonely, ever. You are my whole life, Olivia. I love you, I want you, I want us.”
“Oh, Jace.” I was overwhelmed, naked, and straddling him. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“I can. It made complete sense. And we already have two daughters. Lucy and Stephi.”
I nodded. Sniffled. Not so graciously.
“And if you want to adopt more, we will.” He kissed me.
“What do you want? Do you want to adopt?”
“I thought we agreed on six kids.” He smiled. “So we’re four away from that number.”
I laughed. “You want to adopt four more kids?”
“Why not? We have a lot of love here, and I can always add on more bedrooms to the house.”
“Jace Rivera, you are the best man in the world. There is no place I’d rather be than right here, with you.”
“Forever?”
“Forever.”
I leaned against him, chest to chest, and kissed him. The kiss got better and hotter and wilder, and I looked him in the eye and said, “I love you, baby.”
“Love you, too, Olivia. Always.”
* * *
“Hi, Uncle Jace. Hi, Aunt Olivia.”
I sat straight up in Jace’s bed, absolutely aghast, clutching the sheet to my naked chest when I heard the girls’ voices. Oh, my God. They eyed Jace and me from the foot of the bed. They were wearing their pink bunny pajamas.
“Hello, Lucy,” Jace said, shirtless, and as calm as if this happened every day. “Hello, Stephi.”
“Uh. Oh. Hell . . .” I scrunched down in the blankets. “Hello, Lucy and Stephi.”
“Did you and Aunt Olivia have a sleepover, Uncle Jace?” Lucy asked.
“Yes, we did. We had popcorn and then we went to sleep.”
I blushed. Couldn’t help it. That was not exactly how it happened. After sex in front of the fire, we came up to Jace’s bedroom and had popcorn and a shower, then we had up-against-the-wall sex. Then more popcorn. I ate it off his stomach.
“How come you don’t have a pajama shirt on?” Stephi asked him, her eyes narrowed.
“I took off my shirt because during the night my muscles grow extra large and I need more room.”
Stephi studied him. Was that true? Then she said, happily, “You do have a lot of muscles.”
“But wait.” Lucy stuck that finger in the air. “How come Aunt Olivia doesn’t have a shirt on?”
Oh. Goodness. Gracious. Argh. I scrunched down farther.
“She got hot.”
I blushed again. Oh boy, did I get hot.
They tried to climb up on the bed.
“I want to do a sleepover!” Stephi said. “All four of us in the bed. I’ll get some of my rocks, too.”
“I get the middle,” Lucy said. “I’m a Lucy sandwich.”
“Not yet,” Jace said, holding an arm out, completely naked under the blankets. “Your aunt Olivia needs to go back to sleep because she didn’t sleep much last night, and I’ll get up and make you pancakes in a minute. Who wants a pancake in the shape of the sun?”
“I do! I do!” the girls shouted.
“Okay. Run on out, shut the doors, and turn on cartoons and I’ll be out there in a minute when my muscles stop growing.”
“I think you’re being silly,” Lucy said, but she was skeptical. Maybe Jace’s muscles did grow during the night.
“He’s a giant,” Stephi whispered to Lucy, her hand in front of her mouth so Jace wouldn’t hear. “Don’t you remember when I asked him? He said he’s a giant.”
They climbed off the bed, arguing about Uncle Jace, the giant.
Jace The Giant kissed me, then got up and locked the doors. My. He was fun to watch in motion.
“Jace The Giant wants his woman to climb on top of him again.” He kissed me, pulled me up on top of him.
The pancakes in the shape of the sun would have to wait.
* * *
Later, Jace opened a drawer in the table next to his side of the bed. “Sweetheart, I love you. Will you do me the great honor of wearing your wedding ring again?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.” I sure would. He put it on my ring finger and kissed it. I slipped his ring back on his finger again, too, which had been in a box with mine.
Jace was seduction on legs. Bliss on two feet. He was extraordinary in bed because he was loving and caring and creative and fun and intense and serious and funny out of bed.
He was the only man I have ever been in love with, and I know that he is the only man I will ever be in love with.
“I love you, Jace.” I flipped on top of him and gave him a big smackeroo.
“And I you, Olivia. Always have, always will, babe.”
* * *
“I think I’m ready to get naked with a man.”
“Cheers to that, Nutmeg.” My grandma kissed Chloe’s cheek, then my grandma, mother, Chloe, and I clinked wineglasses.
“I think it’s time,” my mother said, leaning against her kitchen island, made from her favorite old oak tree. “You’ve got your Martindale woman power back. Go forth and mate.”
“Yep. I’m a tough-talkin’, hip-rockin’ Montana woman.”
“Which lucky man will you choose?” I asked. I had a lucky man. Tonight I hoped he would pull off my blue-green skirt from India with sequins and tiny mirrors. I’d flip off my black cowgirl boots and we’d be set.
“Choose the man who acts like a man, Nutmeg,” my grandma said. Her pink scarf had red tulips on it. “Protective. Smart. Calm. Loving. Caring.”
“Choose the man who won’t let you run over him like a tractor on high speed, like a charging grizzly, like a tsunami of woman,” my mother said. “You need to choose a man who can remain standing under the hurricane force of your personality, or you won’t be attracted to him.”
“Choose someone who won’t freak out when you’re in the helicopter under gale force winds and snow getting someone off a mountain,” I said. “That’s part of who you are.”
“That’s right,” my mother said. “He can’t restrict you or what you need to do in any way. He accepts what you’re doing, respects it, or haul his butt out.”
“I am going to choose Zane Corrigan,” Chloe said.
“Excellent choice, but why is he the lucky man?” I asked.
“Because I like his shoulders.” Chloe crossed her own arms and patted her shoulders.
“Oh, pfft,” my mother said, tapping her black cowboy boots with red trim. She called them her Devil Boots. “You’re going to judge a man on his shoulders? Why don’t you judge him on his capillaries or his heart or his blood pressure? All better predictors of health and lifestyle.”
“Listen to your daughter, Fire Breather,” my grandma said. “Wait.”
My mother squirmed. But she did as told.
“I like his shoulders,” Chloe said. “He stands straight, that says something. When I reached up to kiss him, his arms went right around me and I felt protected by those shoulders. When I was upset about a patient who we rushed to the hospital, and I put my head on his shoulder, he was comforting, like a teddy bear. When I laughed with him the other day, I saw his shoulders shaking, like he thought what I was saying was super dang funny. When I told him that I worried about Kyle a lot, he put an arm around my shoulder to make me feel better, and when I was tired after a trip up the mountain in the big bird and I fell asleep on his couch, he didn’t move his shoulder away because he was afraid it would wake me up and he knew I was wiped out.”
“Wow, Chloe. I think this man’s shoulders sound about perfect,” I said.
She nodded. “And he lights my personal butterfly on fire.” She pointed at her boobs. “Lights these girls on fire, too. That’s important. Without that chemistry you don’t have anything. We have it. I told him I’m getting these girls reduced and he said he’d like them any size at all. I need a man like that. Accepting. I don’t need anyone judging my love machine.”
“Get him tested for diseases before you engage in intercourse,” my mother said. “Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. AIDS, herpes, the works.”
“Mom. Duh. I already sent him to the doctors for a test, and he went. A woman has to protect herself. No test for bugs and bacteria, no bang bang. No condom, no cutesy. No lab tests, no nakedness.”
“He’s kind, then,” I said. “He wants to protect you, wants to make you feel reassured that you’re going to be healthy with him in bed.”
“Zane is so kind he could melt your insides with a smile. He’s warm and ready to go, ready to rock, ready to roll and schmoll and bowl.”
“You’re going to bowl with him?”
“Sure,” Chloe said, shrugging. “I love bowling. Throwing balls is my thing.”
We laughed. I had a vision. I laughed again.
“I think you know what you need to know, Nutmeg.” My grandma gave her a hug.
“Yeah, me too. So that’s why I think I’m going to get naked with him, soon. I think he can handle all of this. A big woman like me.”
“A beautiful woman like you, Nutmeg,” my grandma said.
“You are the bravest woman I know, Chloe.” She was. Army. Paramedic. Search and rescue helicopter pilot. Fearless mother to Kyle.
“You’re not a doctor,” my mother said, “but I’m still proud of you, kid.”
“I want to take a moment and tell all of you that I love you with all that I am,” my grandma said, “with my heart and soul forever and ever.”
“We love you, too, Grandma.”
* * *
Chloe called me a few days later. She said, “Zippy zap Zane.” And laughed. A happy laugh. I happy laughed back at her.
* * *
“Hello, everyone.” I smiled into the camera from behind the island at Martindale Ranch. Today Dinah’s hair was her natural brown but she was wearing a silver sequined headband.
“I’m Olivia Martindale. Welcome to Cooking with Olivia on Martindale Ranch in Montana. Today I have a guest with me, my nephew, Kyle. I asked him what kind of recipe he wanted to whip up, and he said that the most important thing about cooking is for everyone out there to understand the importance of baking soda and why we use it in so many recipes. So, because Kyle loves science and experiments, today we’re going to do something different. Kyle, what are you going to teach us about baking soda today?”
He fiddled with his glasses, then put his hands down at his side. They flapped, then stopped.
“Greetings. Let’s discuss baking soda. Baking soda is sodium bicarbonate. It releases carbon dioxide—which, as you know, is an odorless and colorless gas—when it mixes with acidic ingredients. It makes tons of gas bubbles.
“For example, you use baking soda to make breads, or buttermilk pancakes or cakes, which is what my family likes to make together. We call it Martindale Cake Therapy. The baking soda makes
the cookies and cakes rise. The chemical formula for baking soda is, and you probably want to write this down, NaHCO3. It has a crystal structure.”
I nodded at him, twice. That was our silent communication for him not to go on and on about baking soda because he was fascinated by it.
“Let me show you an experiment with baking soda.”
Kyle showed everyone the experiment. He had made a two-foot-tall German chocolate cake. Not a real one—it was made from papier-mâché, with ruffled brown and beige tissue icing—but it looked delicious. Tucked inside was a plastic bottle in which he had combined baking soda, vinegar, warm water, and a pink drink mix. The cake erupted and started fizzing out “icing.” It was quite cool. Dinah cheered, as did I.
“You see, baking soda has many uses,” Kyle said. “Now we’re going to make a real German chocolate cake from my great-grandma Gisela’s cookbook.” He smiled, tapping his fingertips against his palms. “Mother told me to smile. She says if I don’t I come off rather robotic. Obviously, I am not a robot.” He paused. “For the record here, that was a joke. I am learning about humor.”
I held up the ingredients. “Chocolate. Pecans. Coconut. Baking soda. Now we’re going to have some fun.”
* * *
Needless to say, the viewers loved Kyle. We got many, many requests for more science experiments on the cooking show. As one young reader wrote to me in an e-mail, “I am seven and I love watching things explode like that. When is Kyle on again?”
And “Do you have a cookbook, Olivia? I would like to try your recipes . . .”
Chloe said to me, after seeing the video, “He’s got a bit of the Mad Hatter in him, don’t you think, Olivia? I seriously believe he might also be channeling both Julia Child and Charles Darwin.”
* * *
On Sunday evening, one set of guests gone, another set arriving tomorrow, Jace and I took a drive. We drove across the land that would soon be covered in buttercups like a golden blanket, to the hill where the white crosses stood tall. We sat behind the babies, me in front of Jace, his arms wrapped around me, as we watched a magical purple, blue, and pink sunset. The glowing sun hung from an invisible string from the sky, the clouds opened, and white lights tunneled down from heaven.