by Cathy Lamb
I told myself that he was artistic, free spirited, that I loved his openness. I told myself that he did things for me, too, even though I soon couldn’t think of anything. In fact, I did it all, the house cleaning, the cooking, the cars and maintenance, the legwork behind our next film project . . .
I told myself it was okay. That we would get through it.
It is amazing what we women tell ourselves is okay when it absolutely isn’t.
The next night Blake walked up the stairs of my tree house and knocked on the door. My heart jumped and I sternly reminded myself that I was my grandma’s granddaughter and she had faced far worse than an impossibly sexy police chief.
“Hello, Blake.” I felt rather faint. He was devilish and delicious.
“Meggie. May I come in?” He was smiling. He was in jeans and a light blue shirt. He handed me a huge bouquet of pink tulips and yellow roses.
“Yes, of course. And thank you. They’re beautiful.” I stepped back so he could enter, and I told myself to breathe. Something rather strange happened and I didn’t get it as quick as I should have, because I was bedazzled and dumbfounded by how that man filled my tree house and how close to my bedroom he was standing. Why, we would only have to climb that ladder lickety-split and we could be bouncing on my bouncy mattress under the skylight in seconds....
I snapped my mind back.
Blake’s gray-blue eyes were on mine, then they dropped briefly to my chest. They stayed there for a millisecond, then he looked away, toward my maple tree, and took a long breath. I saw that huge chest go up and down.
I wanted to run my fingers through that blondish hair.
His eyes came back to mine for a second.
Oh, those eyes. I wanted to see them half closed with passion.
I am not nervous around men.
But I was around Blake. Nervous, skittish, awkward.
He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.
I stared at his neck. I have this thing about men’s necks. I like when they’re muscled and tight and look kissable.
“Uh, Meggie.”
And that voice. Deep and controlled.
He was setting me on fire, and I told myself, sternly again, to cool it.
“Yes?”
“Uh, I would like to talk to you, but I am having some trouble concentrating.”
“You are?”
“Yes.” He glanced away again, then back at me, then down to my chest again.
I looked down.
Oh, shoot!
Shoot!
I crossed my arms with the roses and tulips in front of my chest. “Whoa. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, his voice strained. He transferred his attention to the rafters of my tree house and my hanging white lights. “It’s a great . . . white . . . tank top.” He ran a hand through his hair, then over his face.
“Hang on.” I dropped the bouquet on the counter, then scooted on up my ladder to my sleeping loft. I hadn’t even thought when I opened the door. I was in faded, tight jeans, which were not a problem. I was wearing thick white socks. Also, not a problem.
And I was wearing a tightish white tank top, rather thin from too many washings.
And no bra.
None.
The tank top outlined the curvy parts.
And, good golly, it was see-through.
I about died.
Then I laughed. Might as well show that chief what lurks beneath my sweatshirts.
“Okay. Dressed appropriately now.” I had put on a bra, a white T-shirt, and a blue sweatshirt. Blake was standing near my maple tree, and smiled when I came back down. “I wasn’t trying to be . . .” I swallowed hard. What was I not trying to be? I was not trying to be provocative. But I couldn’t say the word provocative to the man towering over me. It would be easier to say bottom but not as hard as saying nipple.
Stop, I told myself. Stop now.
He raised his eyebrows at me, those lips turned up at the corners. “You weren’t trying to be what, Meggie?”
“I wasn’t deliberately trying to open the door to you like that. You knocked, I opened up, I didn’t think about whether I should open up, you were there and I wanted you in . . .” Oh, dear God. It would have been better if I’d said the word nipple fifty times.
“Well, Meggie, maybe one day you’ll be dressed like that deliberately when I come over.”
“Gee. Maybe. You’re pretty cute, but you’re trouble.” I felt myself blushing. I am too old to blush. I escaped into the kitchen. I saw the lemon meringue cookies that Cassidy had made me. “Do you want to drink a cookie?”
“I don’t think I want to drink a cookie,” Blake said, following me into the kitchen. “But I’ll eat one.”
“Yes. Eat one. Here.” I handed him the whole platter. There were at least twenty cookies on it.
“Thank you.”
He sat down in front of the platter of twenty cookies at my table. I put my head in my hands, then joined him, hoping my brain would show up soon.
“Good cookies. Did you make them?”
“No. My niece did. She’s a naughty girl but she bakes like a dream. I’m totally undomesticated. Cooking, baking, zero interest in it.”
“You grew up with your mother and your grandmother. I would not have expected you to be queen of homemaking.”
“Actually, my mother loves to cook, quilt, embroider, sew, and garden. She’s Betty Crocker reincarnated with red hair and knitting needles.”
“I saw her on a late-night talk show once. After I met you, I listened to her again.”
What was my mother talking about when he listened to her? I wiped my forehead. Oh, the topic could be anything. Anything. I skipped past that one.
“I’m more like my grandma. She hired a cook as soon as she could afford it. She taught me about all aspects of the business. For Show and Share in kindergarten I brought in spread sheets of Lace, Satin, and Baubles.”
He laughed. “I bet your kindergarten friends appreciated that.”
“They thought I was strange. I got used to it.”
“I don’t think you’re strange.”
“I don’t think you’re strange, either. I think you’re yummy.” I dropped my head in my hands yet again, that red flush back and blooming. “Why do I speak out loud?”
He chuckled. “Thank you. And you, Meggie, are beautiful.”
I don’t feel beautiful. I feel like a sponge mixed with detergent and Baggies. I quickly ducked and swerved and asked about what his job as police chief entailed. He winked at me, and I could tell he was choosing to let me duck and swerve.
He worked with his police officers, all levels of the chain of command, neighborhood groups, other state and national agencies, and the union. There were endless meetings. Speeches. Gang violence and domestic violence to address. Crimes to solve. Decisions on who to arrest and when. Training on how to handle the mentally ill. Lots of “building relationships” types of things. Conferences. Speaking at conferences. Hiring. Firing. Undercover operations. Drug busts.
Blake asked about my day. He wanted to know the details. I’d rarely met a man who wanted the details. Basically, for them, “how is your day” is a perfunctory question to pretend that they care, when what they really want to do is tell you about their day, their problems, and their physical aches and pains. They want a hot dinner and then they want you to hop eagerly into bed and serve them like a brainless robot.
Blake was different. He asked how I liked being at the company again, what I found interesting, what I found hard, what I did each day, who I worked with, etc.
We chatted so easily, the words flowing like a crystal clear river through a field of pink tulips and yellow roses. It was as if we met over lemon meringue cookies each night.
“Okay, Meggie, I’m off. I’ve stayed way too long and I know you have to get up early for work.”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He walked to the door, then pulled
me close into a hug. I stiffened up at first, but he held me closer, not tight, but closer.
I took a scary dare and put my arms around his neck. I inhaled the scent of him, resting against his chest for a second, relaxing into his strength. I closed my eyes, wanting to remember what it felt like to be hugged by him, how his arms felt around me, how safe it felt, how friendly, how smokin’ hot . . .
I pulled back and wrapped my arms around my waist. I bent my head.
The last man I had hugged . . . but no, I would stay away from that and the black rats.
He wrapped one of my curls around his fingers. “One day you’re going to tell me why you feel like you’re wrapped in black, right?”
“Probably not.” No way.
“I don’t know what’s wrong, but when you want to talk, I want to listen.”
I didn’t even nod. I couldn’t even move.
He took a step closer, kissed my cheek, then left.
I wanted to leap on his strong back, spin him around, and head for my bedroom with my legs wrapped around his hips.
I didn’t have the right amount of guts to do that yet.
I told myself to gather the guts and go for it.
That night I looked at my bathtub, fit for two, for Blake and me.
I used to love taking baths.
I used to have bubble baths in all sorts of scents: vanilla, orange musk, lemon, cinnamon apple, even chocolate.
I could not take a bath now to save my life.
I sat in several meetings the next day.
I always insist that all meetings be quick.
I look at the agenda before it starts, if I don’t write it myself. I have only the people who must attend come to the meeting. All electronics are off. Everyone must pay attention. We move quickly. I listen. We discuss, and sometimes the discussions get heated.
My style of leadership is to lead. I want people to feel that they have a voice and that I’ll listen. I want to be approachable.
On the other hand . . .
Decisions have to be made, and I make them. If they go well, we all take the credit. If they go poorly, it’s on my head. Sometimes I think we get bogged down in discussions and “hearing everybody’s opinions,” and these squishy feel-good attitudes at work, where there are meetings for the meetings, consensus building, and other time-wasting junk.
I don’t operate like that.
I don’t have the time or the patience, and right now the company absolutely doesn’t have it, either. I expect people here to eventually settle down, even if they don’t agree with my decision or Grandma’s, be professional, and back me and the company.
I’ve known many of these people for years, some for decades. I think they’re talented and hardworking. The ones who weren’t hardworking I’ve fired since I’ve been here. I’m considering firing another person because she gossips, something I try to smash down. I’m cutting payroll by cutting out people who aren’t cutting it.
To me, this is a business, not a charity. If people are lazy or negative or incompetent or too difficult, they’re out. Someone else would love the job.
Yes, I have been told that I’m demanding and exacting. So what? I’m not Santa.
That said, meetings—with all the noise, hoopla, emotions, people not staying on track—can drive me absolutely out of my head.
Especially ones with Tory and Lacey.
“We need to talk about the fashion show,” I told Tory and Lacey. I had already made a list of what we needed to do. My intimidating list included, but was certainly not limited to, finding a place, building a runway, advertising, invitations, the decor, lighting, choosing the lingerie the models would wear, finding models, organizing the show itself, getting the music, affording it . . .
“We’re absolutely going to do this?” Lacey asked. She was wearing a lime green maternity dress, snug and stylish.
I sat back in my chair at the table in my office, my boring white tennis shoes crossed in front of me. I noticed they had dirt on them. I tried to care about that. Nope. Couldn’t do it. “Yes, we are.”
“Tell me again why?” Tory asked. She had on pink stilettos, a black midthigh skirt, a low-cut pink satin blouse, and one of our burgundy negligees from the Delicate Devil line. It reminded me again of how outstanding our products are. We simply needed to get ourselves, our brand, and our message out there more.
“We need to use this as a marketing tool,” I said. “It has to be different from anyone else’s fashion show. It’s our anniversary celebration.”
“I feel nauseated,” Lacey said, already off topic. “Why do we have to be sick when pregnant? We’re supposed to procreate, right, so why does our body rebel?”
“You sure procreate a lot,” Tory drawled.
“I like kids.”
“Kids are noisy.”
“The fashion show?” I interjected.
“How would you know if my kids are noisy or not? You hardly come over and visit us—”
“That’s because I’m hardly ever invited except if it’s a holiday or birthday and Mom and Grandma are there, too.” I saw Tory’s eyes mist, but she stuck her chin out farther. “It’s not like I get a special invitation. Just me.”
“I invited you for years to come by yourself and you hardly ever did.” Lacey slapped the table with her hands, her face flushed. “The kids don’t even know you that well—”
“That’s because you say bad things about me to them, so I know they don’t like me—”
“I do not say bad things about you, Tory, to my kids.” She stabbed a finger at her. “Never have I done that.”
“I’ve never heard Lacey say anything bad about you to her kids, Tory,” I said. “We need to talk about the location and lighting. I think that—”
“You haven’t made me a part of your family, Lacey. I’m like the ogre aunt. The mean one. Sharp teeth. Eats children.”
And there was the crux of the problem. Tory was hurt because she didn’t feel a part of Lacey’s family, and Lacey was hurt because Tory didn’t make more of an effort. I leaned back and muttered, “Here we go.”
“You’re not a part of my family because you don’t want to be. I feel like you don’t love my kids!” Lacey said, her voice wobbling. “How do you think that makes me feel? And that skirt barely covers your butt!”
Tory’s temper flew up ten notches. “Maybe you should have covered your butt so you wouldn’t be pregnant for a fourth time.”
“I like to ride my husband like a damn horse. Maybe if you rode your husband like a damn horse more often he would have wanted you to stick around.”
Bad call.
Tory’s face lost color instantly.
Lacey put both hands up and said, “I’m sorry, Tory. That was mean, uncalled for, awful. I’m a wicked pregnant witch. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I said. They were about ready to cry. “You are both being way too mean—”
“You don’t know a thing about my marriage, Lacey!” Tory stood up and hit the table with her fists. “Nothing. Not a thing. You’re a mother to an army of brats—”
Another bad call. “This is gonna get nasty,” I muttered to myself.
“They are not brats!” Lacey was on her feet, too, Mother Bear roaring. “They’re just strange and troublesome. Cassidy can’t keep her pants on and Hayden believes he’s a girl and Regan collects animals like they’re stamps, but they are not brats.” My sister shook that same finger at Tory and charged at her around the table. “Take it back!”
“You take it back that I don’t ride Scotty like a horse, because I do!”
It went from there. Like a bonfire.
I lost another mannequin.
“Any chance we could talk about the fashion show?”
No. Clearly not. I started answering e-mails.
Regan arrived at my house about ten o’clock the next night, awash in tears, a gray, scruffy-looking cat in his arms.
“Honey, what are you doing here? It’s late.
”
“What a relief. You’re up. This is a bad day. I snuck out of the house to see you. There’s been a disaster! You have to rescue this poor cat for me, Aunt Meggie. It’s a stray. Our neighbor was going to take it to the pound, but the pound will kill it.” The waterworks flowed. “I don’t want him to die.”
“Come on in.” The cat made a hissing sound at me. “Whoa. That’s a hissy sort of cat.”
“Jeepers does that because he’s unhappy. I named him Jeepers because when I heard he was going to the pound I said, ‘Oh, jeepers! He’s lonely. He doesn’t have a family to love him.’ ”
“He has your family.”
“No,” Regan moaned, his whole animal world shattering. “He doesn’t. Mom said no more cats. I think she’s being mean. Cats are friendly. Smart thinkers. They don’t make a mess, and you have a cat door here, too. He can go in and out when you’re at work.”
“Honey, I don’t want a cat. I’m hardly here.”
He plopped down in the middle of my floor and stroked the hissing cat, hugging him close in his huge arms. “Please, Aunt Meggie. Please. All houses need a friendly cat to be a home.”
“Who told you that?”
“No one. It’s what I feel inside.” He tapped his aching heart. “Right here in my gut.”
I sat down beside him. “I’ll think about it. Want something to eat?”
His face showed his gratitude. “Yes, thank you. Mom doesn’t feed and water me enough.” He said this in all seriousness. “Tonight there was only spaghetti, salad, peaches, garlic bread, and apple pie.”
“How about a club sandwich and milk?”
“That’d be great. My stomach is all rumbly from starving.”
I made him a sandwich. Good thing I had the meat. I like my club sandwiches with crackers and pickles, but I left those out for Regan.
“How’s school, Regan?”