by Cathy Lamb
“Damn, Julia,” Stash said, slapping both hands on his thighs in delight. “It looks like you’re in the chocolate business!”
I was soon buried in orders for chocolate. All day, every day, except when I was napping off the effects of Robert’s fists and teeth, I made chocolate. Aunt Lydia insisted on helping me. I offered her half a share in my company. She declined. I begged her. She declined. I insisted. She declined again.
So I made her my highest-paid, and only, employee.
We were quite a pair: Aunt Lydia, bald and fighting cancer, and me, with stitches on my cheek, a crutch under my arm, and my neck in a brace.
On the one hand, it sounds heartless to say that I employed a woman who was battling breast cancer with every single fiber of her frail body. On the other, helping me with the chocolate business, taking orders over the phone and credit card numbers, pouring chocolates into their little molds and wrapping them in little boxes kept Aunt Lydia’s mind off her chemotherapy.
It kept my mind off of it, too, although Aunt Lydia’s sweet little bald head was a constant reminder.
We were swamped with running a rapidly expanding business, and I had to do interviews over the phone with a vast array of newspapers, local and national, and even two TV national spots that picked me up after hearing about me on Amelia’s show.
I put the TV spots off as long as I could because of the damage that Robert had done to my face, but within a week I was on the air.
I made for a good story. The press, of course, found out I had had the guts beat out of me by Robert Stanfield III. As his family was rich and spoiled, and I, as they found out, had come from much humbler beginnings, it was a great sell. Especially since I’d run off on my wedding day. In addition, I was trying to launch my tiny business from my aunt’s home, an aunt who was fighting cancer and had giant pigs in her front yard and a bunch of flowering toilets…. Well, we were hot commodities.
Because of several story-hungry reporters, a lot of dirty laundry the Stanfield. family had been hiding came up. When the family tried to deny that Robert had mangled my face and body, three of Robert’s ex-girlfriends spoke of abuse, as did an array of women that his father and uncles and brothers had been involved with. To say the least, the family was utterly humiliated and quickly determined that it would be to their detriment to make me out as a psycho-slut, their usual attack against women who protested their beatings at the hands of male family members.
But the biggest surprise came with Caroline.
Caroline’s name had been in the local paper because of her role in protecting me. A reporter looked it up for the fun of it and found out who Caroline really was, which made the story even juicier. Caroline, my friend and local pauper who sold her psychic readings and her vegetables and breads to survive and collected coupons like mad and bought used clothing, was none other than Caroline Harper Caruthers, only beloved daughter of Martin and Shirley Caruthers, owners of Caruthers Electronics.
The wealth of the Caruthers family, although very new-money, made Robert’s family look like, well, trailer trash.
The press went berzerk when they found out that the Carutherses’ billionaire daughter had shunned the high life and lived on almost nothing. Caroline flipped out at all the attention, wished us all well, told us she loved us, and then disappeared for two weeks to some island in the Pacific her family owned. She called every day.
All would have been wonderful except for Dean Garrett.
He saw me home from the hospital but didn’t kiss me on the lips at all, even when he left and went back to Portland to a trial he had managed to put off when I was in the hospital. And his eyes had lost their warmth, and his smile had lost the secret sparkle he shared only with me, and our conversations were not charged with that special electricity anymore.
Things were not good. Not good at all.
When I was finally able to get up, I worked and worked, and tried not to think about Dean Garrett, tried not to think about how the phone was so very, very quiet. I thought I would give him some space. I thought I would pretend that he would come back, that he would forgive me.
But pretending didn’t change anything, and I was miserable.
It had not been my intent to get involved with any man after Robert. But I had not planned on meeting Dean Garrett, either.
“You’re gonna have to go after him,” Aunt Lydia told me, as she very carefully filled boob molds with chocolate one afternoon. Although it was cool outside, and had snowed the day before, the sun was streaming through the windows, the firs swaying in the distance, the mountains almost purple.
“He’s a man whose testosterone has backed up into his balls. He’s hurt, baby. And mad because you didn’t give him a chance to be the man he wanted to be around you. You didn’t give him a chance to be a part of your real life. You weren’t honest with him.”
I nodded. Of course she was right.
“I know why you didn’t tell him about the King Prick, Julia, and I understand. But he doesn’t, not really. You have to tell him you want him, that you love him, that you need him. He’s a fine man, honey. And if I could pick one man for you to spend the rest of your life with, I would choose him. He’s the stars’ winner.”
I smiled. Alphy licked my hand, and I patted him. When I was younger, Aunt Lydia always said the stars in the sky were the only things that could pick the winner.
I hugged her, took off my apron, and headed to the bathroom. Within a half an hour, I had my bag packed, my hair washed, and I was hobbling to Portland.
Dean Garrett was so darn sophisticated I could only shake my head in wonderment as I looked around his loft in the middle of the Pearl District in Portland. I had read about “the Pearl.” Upscale shops, upscale living, upscale lives.
I knew where he lived, and I had a key to get into his loft. He had given it to me once, telling me he wanted me to come and visit him in Portland.
“Any time, sweetheart,” he told me. “Surprise me. I’d love to come home from work and find you there, I really would.”
I was too shy, too unable to commit, so I had never done it. As I walked around his two-bedroom loft, I realized now how my never making any move to go to Dean, my making him come to me in Golden all the time, had probably hurt him, too.
And though I liked his loft, liked the modern lines, liked the openness and the view of the river and the city, it had a frigidity about it that I didn’t like. I couldn’t see Dean here.
Granted, he didn’t have a lot of furniture, and the inside looked like a single heterosexual man was living here, which means it was plain and beige, but there was something fundamental about it that didn’t appeal to me. I liked the country. The chickens and the pigs. The dewy sunrises and color-streaked sunsets. The space and the clean air and the mountain views. And I liked the peace.
This was fine to visit, but I couldn’t see myself living in the city.
But, I told myself, I would, if Dean asked me to live in the city with him, I would do it.
I put the take-out Chinese food I had bought us in the fridge as I didn’t know what time he would be returning home, then I flicked on a couple lights, turned the heat up, and lit a few candles. It was raining here in Portland, and for a while I watched the raindrops dripping down the glass. When I felt myself nodding off, I hobbled over to the bedroom, slipped off my clothes, pulled a lacy nightgown over my head, and went to sleep in Dean’s bed.
The sound of Dean’s keys unlocking the front door woke me up. By then the moon was shining through the window of his bedroom. I could have gotten up and greeted him, but I was too tired, so I sat up and ran my fingers through my hair and waited.
I heard the door shut and his briefcase drop to the floor. I knew he was probably now looking at the place settings I had set out, the box of chocolates in the middle of the table, the wine I had in an ice bucket. I started counting to five, knowing it would take about that long for him to get to the bedroom. By the time I got to three, Dean was walking in.
>
My first thought was that he looked awful. Even in the dim light I could see that he had lost weight. His face was gaunt. He looked absolutely exhausted as he leaned against the door frame, dark circles under his eyes.
I gripped the sheets and blanket with my hands, suddenly nervous. Suddenly insecure. But then my joy at seeing him again, of even being in the same room with Dean overcame me, and I smiled as my heart tripped and then thudded, in a happy “I love you so much” kind of way.
“Hi, Dean.” Yes, what an inane thing to say.
He nodded at me, the corners of his mouth lifting just a bit. He was wearing a beige raincoat and a formal suit, and he looked so darn cute I wanted to eat him up.
“Julia.”
We stared at each other for long seconds before I finally looked away. That vagina of mine was on fire again, but this time I was ready to let the good times roll.
“I’ve seen you on TV several times,” he said.
I nodded. Yes, I had seen the interviews, too. Their makeup artists and hair people had gone to town, and I hadn’t looked half bad except for my swollen and shut right eye and bruising on my cheek. I had become the unwitting poster child of abused women.
“I’ve also read the articles about you and Julia’s Chocolates. Congratulations. Sounds like you’ve got yourself a great business.”
I nodded again.
“Good for you. How’s Lydia?”
I told him, then said, “Are you hungry? I brought dinner.”
He smiled, but it was a sad smile. He took off his raincoat, tossed it on a chair, then came and sat down on the edge of the bed. “What are you doing here, Julia?”
How to start? What to say? I probably didn’t want to say that my vagina was a hot, liquid mess because then he would think I just wanted him for sex. And I didn’t want to say that I was crazy in love with him because that would sound too desperate. And I didn’t want to say that I was just passing through because there’s no way he would believe it.
I took a deep breath. “I wanted to see you.”
He ran his hands over his face.
“I’ve missed you, Dean.”
He nodded, as if he knew, then looked me square in the face. I swear that man had aged since I last saw him, and he looked so darn worn-out I just wanted to pull him right into bed with me and make him sleep for three days.
“I don’t want the relationship that we have now anymore, Julia.”
I could feel the blood draining from my face. Oh joy! Here I was, dressed in sexy lingerie, in Dean Garrett’s bed, and I was being rejected.
“I need to know, Julia, what you want, why you’re here.”
What did I want? I wanted Dean. Every day.
“I can’t be in limbo with you anymore, Julia. You’ve made absolutely sure that I don’t get too close to you, that we never take our relationship to a serious level. I could understand it in the beginning. You’d had a horrible experience with Robert, and you were scared, and rightly so. But you’ve never trusted me, and I’m beginning to doubt you ever will.” I saw him clench his jaw, a pulse throbbing in his temple. “I don’t think you and I want the same things out of our relationship.”
Fear knotted my stomach. “What…wh…what do you want?”
He shook his head, then stared at the ceiling, before piercing me again with those eyes. “You tell me first, Julia. And be honest. Lay it on the line, because that’s all I want to deal with.”
The moonlight slanted in on his face, and he had never looked so beautiful to me. Tough and yet gentle; strong, yet vulnerable. I almost choked on my own poetry, but it was so true.
“I want…” I stopped, tried to summon up my courage. Surely I had courage somewhere in my battered body?
He raised his eyebrows at me, wanting me to go on.
“I want you.” There. I said it.
I thought he would smile, but he didn’t. “You want me? For what? Friendship? You want me to be your boyfriend? You want us to be together, with no real commitment for twenty years, like Stash and Lydia?”
I bent my head and let my curls hide my face while I thought. Being in the hospital had given me so much time to think. Now that my greatest fear was fuming behind bars I felt like I could dream again. Live again. Have a future.
“Julia?” he prodded.
So Dean wanted the truth. The very truth. Then I would give it to him. “I want to get married. I want to have at least four children. I want to live in the country with a few of Melissa’s Lynn’s piglets and a bunch of chickens. I’d also like five lambs. I want to run my chocolate business. I want to go to Psychic Night each week. I want to laugh and sing and dance outside. I want to roll in the sand at the beach and make snow angels. I want to learn how to make decent cinnamon rolls and plant a giant garden. But, most of all, I want you, Dean. I really, really want you.”
His face relaxed during my little speech. I held my hands together nice and tight so he wouldn’t see them shake. He smiled a little smile again, but this time he actually looked somewhat happy.
“You didn’t mention love. Don’t you want love?”
Oh, God, did I! So much! “Yes, I want love. Your love in particular, Dean. Loving you has been the greatest thing I have ever done in my entire life. I love loving you.” I spoke from the heart, and I could almost feel my heart still, waiting for his answer before it beat again.
And when he did speak, when he covered my hands with his and kissed me smack on the lips, long and slow, I heard all I wanted, or needed, to hear.
“I love you, Julia. I loved you from the first day I met you when you were covered in chicken shit, and I will love you my entire life. Always, always, always I will love you.”
He bent to kiss me again, and it was the greatest kiss any man has ever given a woman, I am sure of it. We decided to make love all night, with breaks for dinner and, of course, chocolates.
27
Lara showed up at Aunt Lydia’s house three weeks later. We ran out to greet her, our aprons dotted with melted chocolate and various colored icings we were using to make different colored nipples for boob chocolates, and gave her a huge hug.
We had to stop and gape at her outfit, which was a pure city look: black boots, black leather coat, a jade green halter type of shirt with long sleeves, and way cool jeans. She had let her hair grow and was wearing makeup beautifully applied. Yes, Lara Keene was a stunner.
And she had never looked so miserable.
Pale, and way too skinny, and tired—so tired.
“You’re pale, and way too skinny,” Aunt Lydia told her. “And you look tired. Don’t you ever sleep in New York? Come on in. You need some chocolate.”
We made small talk until the three of us were settled at Aunt Lydia’s table with chocolates and wine. A couple of birds flew overhead, but we largely ignored them.
“New York was fabulous,” Lara said, her voice quiet. “My art sold everywhere.”
We nodded.
“New York itself is fabulous.”
We nodded again.
“I loved living with my brother and his partner and meeting all their friends. They were fabulous.”
We nodded again. I was about fabulous-ed out, though.
She made a choking sound in her throat, then massaged her neck.
“What?” Aunt Lydia and I said at the same time. Lara said something, but we couldn’t catch it. Then she repeated herself.
“I said that I can’t live without Jerry. I can’t live.”
Aunt Lydia and I leaned back in our chairs. Two birds who had refused to go back into their cages that morning chirped from the corner of the room.
“Well, then, what are you going to do?” Aunt Lydia asked. “If you’re confused, summon the strength in your breasts, ask your estrogen for answers, demand that your femininity give you advice.”
Lara nodded. “I thought I hated living here. I hated how small it was. I hated how I had to work all the time. How I was the church secretary and in charge of Sunda
y School and the choir and women’s groups. I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
Sheesh. No wonder. I wouldn’t be able to stand it, either. Being a minister’s wife definitely had its dreary moments.
“I wanted to be me. I wanted to be an artist. I wanted freedom and success and an exciting life.”
“And?” Aunt Lydia asked.
“I found that I can’t have an exciting life without Jerry. I was so lonely in New York for him I thought my loneliness would eat me alive. I was so…empty, so dead. All these exciting things were happening to me, and all I wanted to do was tell him, because I knew he would be happy for me. All I thought about was Jerry, in fact. When I was painting, I thought of him. When I was out at dinner with my brother and his friends, I would think of Jerry. When I was at galleries or on the phone or even peeing I would think of Jerry. I couldn’t sleep at night for more than three hours because I can’t sleep without him. I was lonely in bed. I can’t live without hearing his voice, without laughing with him, without planning a future with him.”
Lara pushed her hair off her face. She had lost too much weight, she looked skeletal.
“I met so many men in New York, and they all made my skin crawl. All of them. What should I do? I love Jerry, I miss him, but I don’t think he can forgive what I did.” The last came out in a squeak as she buried her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Ah ha!” Aunt Lydia pointed both pointer fingers in the air. “This is the simplest answer to any problem I have ever heard.”
“It is?” Lara snapped her head back up.
“It is?” I echoed. “But Lara doesn’t like her life here in Golden, she doesn’t like working in the church all the time and being a minister’s wife. She doesn’t like that she can’t be herself. She wants to be an artist, she wants an exciting life. She loves Jerry and can’t live without him, but she can’t live with him here, either. How can she combine all of that and make it work?”