by R.S. Grey
“Well she’s scared shitless of Alfred, yet I still think she prefers his company to yours.”
I grind my teeth, and for the rest of the meal, we don’t bother with conversation. There’s no use. She’s angry with me for the way I’m treating Meredith, and I’m angry with her for not seeing my side. If she’d heard the way Helen spoke about her sister, she wouldn’t be so welcoming either.
I’m focused pretty hard on stewing, but not so much that I don’t notice how good Meredith’s food is. I’ve never willingly eaten asparagus, but she roasted it so well I’m a little disappointed when my plate’s clean.
I scoot my chair back from the table and carry our dishes into the kitchen. Meredith is in there cleaning, and she makes a point to completely ignore my presence. Not only that, she turns and angles herself away from me. Her shoulders are hunched over and her head is tilted down as she scrubs hard, cleaning the stove.
All right. Okay. I’ve had enough. This is what it must feel like to be the mean, responsible parent. It sucks. Why do I have to be the bad guy? So what? I didn’t want her eating with us and getting cozy, but I can’t stand her moping like this. Not to mention, the sooner she and I are back on semi-decent terms, the sooner Edith will come around as well.
“Food was good. Two for two.”
She hums and keeps her back to me.
“I’d never tried kooz-kooz before.”
She makes a little bored noise, unimpressed, and then I’m left with nothing else to say.
My temper starts to boil up inside of me, though not at her—at myself. I hate this. I hate that I can’t decide how I should handle her. One minute I want her out of my house. The next, I want to play nice and get on her good side. I can’t help but wonder what that would be like: fresh baked muffins with my morning coffee, sweet smiles, the returned love and affection of my grandmother. I could get used to that real quick.
And that right there is the problem.
11
Meredith
“I feel compelled to defend my grandson.”
I shake my head. “There’s no need, really.”
Edith comes around me and turns off the faucet for the kitchen sink. I’m elbow-deep in suds, but apparently this conversation is more important than the dishes from lunch. I reach for a towel and dry my hands before turning toward her.
She’s eyeing me with unveiled curiosity. “He thinks you’re using us as a stepping stone.”
“Oh yeah?” I cross my arms. “Who’s to say he’s not right?”
She nods, running with it. “Who indeed?” After a brief silence, she plunks me in the forehead with her pointer finger. “You are, dummy! So are you or are you not headin’ back to California as soon as that rich husband of yours figures out where you ran off to?”
My jaw ticks with anger.
“Whatever you think you know about me, go ahead and believe it. It’s all true.”
I’m so sick of everyone shoving their nose in my business. If this were a normal job with normal hours, she wouldn’t be asking about my personal life, but this hasn’t been a normal setup from the beginning. She and Jack know Helen, and therefore they feel like they know me. They don’t. It’s like looking out a single window and thinking you know what the whole world looks like. Whatever snippets I told Helen about my life back in California were only half-truths. My life back there wasn’t complete hell, but it wasn’t all rainbows and cotton candy either.
“Maybe I do come from a cushy life, but there’s a lot more to it. All you need to know is that I’m not going back. End of story. Now if you’re done, I need to get back to these dishes.”
“Was it ever good? Your marriage?”
Her question is so jarring that a sharp memory hits me like a bird smacking into a clean window. The last time Andrew and I were intimate, I was lying face down on our bed with him on top of me, letting it happen, trying to think of anything other than how revolting it was to have him touch me. I turned and my gaze caught on the framed picture on my nightstand: us, on our wedding day…me, smiling up at Andrew like he was my shining prince.
“Yes, we were happy once.”
“Well, marriage is hard. You gotta work at it to keep the love alive.”
I think back to all my desperate attempts to change him. In the end, I only succeeded in changing myself.
I pretend like her advice is blowing my mind. “Wow, really? Guess I just didn’t try hard enough. Any more sage advice? Maybe I should have spiced it up in the bedroom to keep him interested? Maybe I should have been a little more attentive? More doting? Funny? Aloof? Mysterious? Please tell me how I could have saved a marriage you know nothing about.”
My explosion misses her completely. She hums with confirmation then turns for the back door. “Yep, that’s what I thought.”
I frown. “What?”
She keeps on walking. “Nothing. You can go back to your dishes now.”
“Edith!”
The back door slams behind her, and I throw up my hands in defeat. Jesus, what is with this family?
It’s early evening and I’ve quarantined myself in the shack. It’s just me and the local wildlife I’ve yet to evict. I have a hardback cracked open on my lap, a brand-new thriller I found Edith reading yesterday. Apparently we share the same literary tastes—we sat in the game room chatting about books for a good thirty minutes. When I heard Jack’s office door open, I leapt to my feet. I didn’t want him to catch me slacking on the job; I won’t gift him any ammunition against me. Other than our little blowups, I want to be the best employee he’s ever had. I want my likeness framed above a small plaque that reads: Employee of the Year! That way he won’t have any grounds to fire me.
He didn’t see me lounging there with his grandmother, and she insisted it didn’t matter anyway. Still, I didn’t want to abuse his trust, so I got back to work, and Edith must have finished the rest of the novel because it was waiting for me on my doorstep earlier.
It’s great so far, lots of murder and blood—everything a girl needs—but I’m having trouble focusing on it because it’s so damn hot in here. The sun is on its way down for the day, but the air is still humid and stifling. I took an ice-cold shower after work then put on one of Jack’s t-shirts, and instead of knotting it, I’m wearing it like a dress while my jeans hang up to dry. I finally got around to washing them, but this weekend I have plans to go into town and spend a little bit of my advance on some shorts. I can hardly wait.
I push the window open and stick my face out, hoping for some cool wind, but instead, I’m greeted with stale, warm air. A bead of sweat rolls slowly down my forehead. This is ridiculous. Texas is a sauna. In California, it’s probably a breezy 70 degrees. At this moment, a woman is out with her boyfriend and begging him for his jacket. He’s annoyed she didn’t bring one of her own. I didn’t realize it’d be so cold! Boyfriends in Texas must not have this problem.
Without another thought, I rip my book off my bed and fling the shack’s door open. I’m aware that Jack’s t-shirt cuts off pretty high on my thighs, but I don’t care. The idea of shoving my legs into wet jeans makes me want to dry heave. Besides, no one’s going to see me in this ensemble anyway. The guys are already gone for the day since ranch work starts early and ends early, and I’m pretty sure I saw Jack’s truck drive off an hour or two ago, so there’s no reason to suffocate myself in the hot tub I call home.
If there was a pool on the property, I’d jump into it head first. I’d stay there, floating on my back until the sun burns out. As it is, I’m aiming for a hammock nestled under two oak trees behind the house. I spotted it my first day on the ranch, but I haven’t seen anyone use it. It might be a little dirty, but I don’t mind. My hope is that if I really get it swinging, I’ll generate a little air flow to cool me down. If not, I’m marching into Jack’s house and Tetrising my entire body into the freezer. I’ll happily perish beside the frozen peas—just the thought sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine.
I relish
the feel of the soft grass beneath my bare feet as I make my way across the yard. I decide this is already infinitely better than the shack, right up until I hear a low whistle that says, Hey there, pretty lady.
My attention snaps to the left, toward the barn, and I freeze mid-step.
A group of ranch hands are circled around the front of the ancient truck I drove to the grocery store the other day, apparently working on it. Two of them are already staring in my direction—Chris and another boy about his age that I haven’t met yet. Chris’ eyes go wide and then he quickly averts his gaze as if I’m tiptoeing around outside in lingerie instead of a loose t-shirt. The other ranch hand doesn’t look away, and I’d bet money the whistle came from him. He’s focused on my bare legs like they’re two juicy cheeseburgers and he’s starving. The third ranch hand—the one with his head tucked under the hood of the truck—finally steps back and pauses his work. With a start, I realize it’s Jack. He wipes the grease from his hands with a rag and mutters something I can’t hear. Neither of the guys respond. He looks up to find them distracted then follows the gaze of the second man right…to…me. When he finds me standing in the middle of the lawn, my knees nearly buckle.
I do the only thing I can think of: hold up my book as if to say, Hello kind fellow, nothing to see here, just doing a bit of light reading.
He scowls, and just like that, the look is completed. It’s the perfect cowboy fantasy I never knew I had: he’s over there working on a farm truck with grease-stained hands, the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw, his dark hair winging out from beneath his backward baseball hat. His t-shirt is stretched tight over his chest and his dark jeans are so worn in, I bet they’re perfectly molded to his thighs. His dark eyes warn me away. In fact, they do more than that. They’re a visual growl, rumbling in the waning light, but I can’t seem to take heed because in that moment, he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen, and that’s a problem.
A major problem.
He catches the ranch hand still focused on me and smacks him in the back of the head, knocking his cowboy hat off. The boy scurries to pick it up and make his apologies, and I use the opportunity to turn tail back toward the shack as fast as possible. My legs move so quick, I break the sound barrier and a random window four miles away shatters as a result.
Once I’m there, I throw the door closed behind me and start pacing. I get it; it doesn’t look good. He already thinks so little of me—hell, he probably thinks I’m some kind of west coast nudist, forcing my liberalism on these good Christian people.
There’s a heavy knock on the door a second later, and I curse and squeeze my eyes closed.
“Meredith,” Jack says, pounding again. “Open up.”
“No!” I shout back. “I’m busy.”
“I just saw for a fact that you are not busy.”
“I’m busy not dealing with this right now!”
“Bullshit. We need to talk.”
“Fine!” I groan. “Okay!”
I reach for the jeans, which are still hanging up to dry, and try to yank them on. I get them up to my knees, but they won’t go any higher; they’re too wet and tight. DID I HAVE TO LEAVE MY HUSBAND IN A PAIR OF SKINNY JEANS!? I hop around, yanking as hard as I can. I’m Ross Geller trying to stuff his sweaty gams into those leather pants, but it’s no use. The jeans won’t budge, and Jack is growing more impatient outside.
“Meredith!”
“Just hold on a minute!”
I lie back on my bed and tug with all my might, and finally the denim starts to work with me. YES YES YES. I zip and button them, leap off the bed, and fling the door open with an angry huff.
Jack breezes right past me and stomps into the shack so heavily that the fragile walls quake. It’ll be a fitting end, both of us suffocating under the rubble. Just as we’re gasping for our last breaths, I’ll offer to make peace, and very quietly, he’ll whisper back, Go to hell.
“Yes please,” I mock rudely. “Invite yourself in and make yourself at home.”
He turns to face me.
“What the hell was that?” he asks, flinging his arm toward the yard.
I scowl. “That was an accident. I thought I was alone.”
“Alone!?” He shakes his head like I’m a certifiable idiot then takes two deliberate steps closer to me. I’m made aware of how small I am by comparison. I have to tip my head back to meet his brown eyes. I’m a child standing at the feet of a giant. “Let me make something perfectly clear: this is a working ranch. You’ll never be alone on this property. Also, you’re a young female employee—correction: the young female employee. It’s hard enough trying to keep the guys in line, and then you go out there dressed like that!”
I fist my hands in my damp hair, resisting the urge to scream as I shout up to him. “I get it, okay?! I’m not an idiot. It was an honest mistake and it won’t happen again.” I walk to the door, yank it open, and motion for him to get out. “Now if you’re done yelling at me, I’d like to try to salvage the rest of my evening.”
He doesn’t budge, and his angry scowl only deepens. His gaze is on his t-shirt. “I thought I told you to stop wearing my clothes.”
“I plan on it, as soon as I get some of my own.”
“When’s that gonna be?”
“This weekend.”
For a few seconds, neither one of us speaks. In fact, we don’t even breathe. We stand there, staring each other down. His hands are on his hips. There’s a deep line etched between his dark eyebrows, and that line says, You’re more trouble than you’re worth.
I’m staring up, memorizing every tan contour, when he suddenly breaks. He puffs out a heavy sigh and pinches the front of his shirt so he can tug on it and get a little air down his collar.
“Shit, it’s hot in here.”
“See?!”
I want to wrap my hands around his neck and shake him like a doll, but it would only annoy me more when he wouldn’t budge. Maybe if I throw my whole weight into it like I’m trying to break down a door…
“That’s why you weren’t wearing any clothes?”
I purse my lips, unimpressed with his hyperbole. “I was wearing clothes.”
“Not enough.”
I roll my eyes and resist the urge to plunk him on the forehead. “I feel like we’re going in circles.”
He shakes his head and slowly spins, taking in the shack with fresh eyes. I wonder what he thinks of it now that I’ve been here for a few days. My clothes are hanging on a line near the window. My cream-colored lacy bra flutters beside his t-shirts and I blush, resisting the urge to yank it down. If he notices it, he doesn’t say anything. His gaze sweeps over to the twin bed and then down to the floor.
It’s no Taj Mahal, but all things considered, it’s a hell of a lot cleaner than it was when I found it. I have plans to purchase a few necessities, like a lamp and a rug, this weekend—that is, if my budget extends that far. I’m hoarding most of my advance, so unless the going rate for a rug is a few dollars and a winning smile, chances are I’ll be going without.
“I’m getting you an A/C unit this weekend,” he declares suddenly.
My face is a mask of indifference. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing my excitement before he breaks and admits he’s kidding.
He doesn’t notice my resolve, too busy staring down at the floor. “And I’ll have Chris and Daniel come in here and repair these floorboards. Could have them do it Monday while you’re working so they aren’t in your hair.”
I nod very, very slowly. My mouth is hanging open so wide at this point that I’m bound to catch a fly.
“After that, we’ll see about fixing the walls.”
At that, he turns for the open door, apparently finished with me for the time being.
Wait…
“Was that all a joke?!” I burst out after him. “Honestly, if this is another one of your weird mind games, I don’t want any part of it!”
He doesn’t even bother acknowledging me,
just keeps on walking, which I think means he was serious.
I can hardly believe it.
Soon, I will have cold, air-conditioned air blasting my face like I’m some kind of queen. I think I could cry. On second thought, it’s still too hot to cry—I have to stay as hydrated as possible until I get that A/C unit.
Friday flies by and before I know it, it’s close to quitting time. I’m about to experience my very first weekend of freedom here in Cedar Creek. I’m so excited, I don’t even get annoyed when Jack tells me he has a girl coming into town for a visit. Christine. He gives me zero details about her. In fact, I’m pretty sure he only brought her up so he could make sure I put extra towels in the master bathroom. I’m disappointed in his lack of gossip. Are they dating? Friends? Lovers? More? Luckily, Edith has no qualms about filling me in. We sit at the kitchen table during my break, sipping coffee and talking while Jack is out with the ranch hands doing all manner of manly things, I’m sure. (Earlier in the morning, I saw him carrying a rope—an actual ROPE! I always thought those were more for show. Anyway, at the sight of it, my recently kindled cowboy fantasies may or may not have ramped up tenfold.)
I get the following information about Christine from Edith: she’s a “city girl” like me, though she used to live in Cedar Creek and went to the same high school as Jack. They didn’t date back then—I asked. Also of note, Jack was valedictorian of his graduating class. I didn’t ask about this, Edith just offers the tidbit up like any proud grandmother would. She also offers up the fact that he had a dozen girls chasing after him on any given day. Also, he was the starting pitcher for varsity baseball. She’d probably keep on rambling about him all day, but I pull her back to the topic at hand.
“But are they dating now?”
“Right, yeah…well,” she continues, “Christine lives out in San Antonio and has some fancy fashion job.”
This piques my interest, but when I ask for details, Edith drops the ball.
“I don’t know what she does,” she replies, waving away my question like it bores her. “Looks at clothes, dresses mannequins—something like that.”