by Ellie Hall
Four boiled egg cups painted with little flowers line the windowsill. I grow a few inches, gathering courage. “Please speak to me and your grandson with respect.” I’m about to add that we’re not getting married. Where on earth did she get that notion?
“Respect is telling someone the truth, not hiding behind silence. Whatever language we choose, that’s no reason to shut your family out.” She glares at Russell.
“Ironic, coming from you,” he says.
Her frosty shell is hard and unwelcoming as she stumps from the room.
He folds his hands together on the table.
“Am I missing something? Why the instant lecture? And what was that about marriage?” I lower my voice to a whisper because I don’t want to get scolded again.
Russell rakes his hand through his hair and then rubs his face. “That went about as well as could be expected. Oma isn’t the warm cookies and cold milk sort of grandma. No soft shoulder to melt into with a hug. She was just cold, dragging me onto the ice for early morning practices before school and having me bring in lengths of oak for the woodstove during the interminable winter.”
“In any event, she doesn’t like me,” I say.
“That isn’t true, Cupcake.”
My gaze drifts from the sad little chocolate and red frosted confection on the table to his ice-blue eyes and hold there. If I have a new nickname, he needs one too. My gears turn.
His expression softens subtly. “She doesn’t like anyone. She’s grouchy, stodgy, distant...”
“Like you, Rusty?” I risk asking, using my new nickname for him.
Panky and Hanky
Rusty
The prospect of getting married didn’t come out of left field. Getting married to Lottie specifically is at least a pop fly into center field—not that I know a lot about baseball. I’m a hockey fan.
However, she is missing a piece of the story. I try to find a way to explain my fabrication in a way that avoids the complete and utter humiliation of it. Truly, it’s out of character despite the disparaging things Oma said about me.
However, I won’t argue with my grandmother because she wasn’t entirely wrong about me either. She can add a liar to that list too.
As I fumble with the right phrasing, leaving Lottie leaning in awaiting an explanation, Oma returns to her seat and her tea. Perfectly in line with her character—she can’t let anything go to waste. She’ll reuse her tea bags two, three times—and her insults.
As if I’m sixteen and spiteful all over again, I let my tea get cold. Lottie and the two of us stubborn grumps sit here in stilted silence taking a measure of hot buttons, clefts where weakness could seep through, and how we’ll pull off performing a dance for a month without stepping on each other’s toes…or annihilating each other.
Then again, I remember the choreography well enough—don’t do anything to upset my grandmother, help out around the house, and avoid trouble. Perfectly reasonable, but she was not. Growing up, the littlest thing would set her off—I didn’t fold the towels correctly. I forgot to turn off the porch light. My friends called too late.
Lottie has no idea what she walked into. As she gazes flatly from her hands wrapped around the teacup to the dog, it’s time to doctor up. To fix this.
“Oma, Lottie brought you a present. Magnolia, the yellow Labrador, is for you.”
Her aged and weather-worn expression passes through possibilities about what I could mean.
A German custom, like a dowry for the betrothed? Unlikely.
In place of cake or pastries? Lottie already presented the now sad-looking but deliciously satisfying cupcake.
As a peace offering because her grandson is selfish and neglectful? I can tick off those boxes.
As if prompted by my introduction, Lottie springs to life, giving a practiced spiel similar to the one I read on the website when I had the idea about the dog after Zoe called with her concerns.
I’ve had my own concerns about Oma over the years and want her to be safe and have a companion. The problem is, she doesn’t want a dog like I’d begged for years. She pushes anyone away with the force of a Baltic wind. Valda Ivanova doesn’t make having a human sort of relationship easy. Not inquiring about my broken arm being a case in point and outlining my deficiencies to my so-called girlfriend being another.
I offered to pay double for Magnolia because I needed to act fast and didn’t have time to undergo the usual waiting period. I want to be here for the initial adjustment and to ensure Oma didn’t turn the animal, or her handler, out on the street. I have to get back to work as soon as my arm heals.
But Lottie seems hesitant and slightly nervous around the dog. Or maybe it’s me.
Nonetheless, I’m not always the jerk my grandmother made me out to be.
Not acknowledging Lottie or her speech, Oma says, “Russell, you can take your old room.” Turning to Lottie she adds, “The guest room is for you. I’m traditional. No sharing until you’re married.”
I give Lottie a subtle shrug not bothering to correct Oma. The thing is, I’ve claimed to be too busy to visit for a variety of reasons, not least of which being my girlfriend occupying my time.
The fictitious girlfriend.
The one that doesn’t exist.
The one that my grandmother thinks sits across from me at the table.
The one who said she’s from a dog matching service. Like a dating service? Russell, get your head together. I scold myself.
Then my stomach drops. Oma must not understand. Zoe only said she’d fallen at the market, but Oma is getting older. Maybe forgetful. Confused. I’ll have to be sure she sees her doctor while I’m here since I know she’ll refuse my care.
Lottie’s gaze slides to mine as if she has a similar thought. Either that or she thinks we’re both crazy.
“No hanky panky,” Oma says in all seriousness.
Lottie snorts, slaps her hand over her mouth, and then coughs.
I jump to my feet, ready to give her the Heimlich. “Are you okay—?”
She nods rapidly. “Yes. Swallowed wrong. Of course, Valda. I’d never panky anywhere ever. Definitely no hanky in your home. I mean—” As the words bolt from her mouth her eyes grow bigger as if she sees but can’t avoid an avalanche.
I shake my head slowly, urging her to quit while she’s ahead.
Lottie exhales as Oma examines her carefully, confusedly?
How do I explain that my “girlfriend” and I haven’t even shaken hands? Although, there was the hand holding at the blood bank—purely professional. And she slid her hand underneath mine earlier as if to hide the lack of ring on her finger—pure necessity. It wasn’t unpleasant. Soft. Warm. Cozy...a subtle electricity buzzed between our palms.
My attention lands on Lottie’s hands, her slender fingers, and trim nails painted a faint rose. The electricity isn’t limited to the metacarpus. I feel it zipping through my arms and toward my torso.
Oma, being a traditional Latvian woman of a certain generation, believes marriage is the key to happiness. Cue eye roll. I’ll believe it when they find a cure for cancer.
I don’t have time to invest in a relationship, never mind one that would be the key to happiness. I had a steady girlfriend in high school. Interesting that Zoe still had my number. Let’s say that went about as well as striking out in the last inning—also known as being ditched on prom night. We’ll leave that in the past along with a period of time where I broke more than a few rules...and noses. Lucky me, I know how to realign them now. I dated a bit in college but when the reality of being an orphan hit me, I threw myself into medicine. Helping. Healing.
“Dr. Koenig, do you mind showing me to my room?” Lottie asks.
Her sweet voice pulls me from my thoughts. I bang my knees on the table as I get up.
“Of course. Oma, excuse us. We’ll be down in a bit and get you acquainted with Magnolia.”
She harrumphs in response.
“Come on, Cupcake,” I say, using my new nickname
for her as she mournfully eyes the one on the table that Oma disregarded.
Down the dim hallway, I have three options: stop and look closely at the photo of my mother and me on the table, walk straight out the front door, down the walk, and into another life, or continue up the wooden staircase.
The handrail is as polished as ever and the ninth step from the bottom creaks loud enough to wake Oma, which is saying something because she’d sleep through everything except a sixteen-year-old boy, trying to sneak out—that would have been me.
Such a scamp.
My room appears as though I never left. It’s depressing and not in a Cupcakus Addictis kind of way.
“Hockey fan, huh?” Lottie asks, pointing to the posters. “Hmm. What else should I know about my boyfriend?” she asks in a volume well above a whisper.
I hold up my hands as though pumping the brakes. “Don’t let her hear you.”
“Or what? She’ll whack us on the head with the cabbage she brought back from the market?!”
I tip my head from side to side. “Wouldn’t be out of the question.”
Lottie crosses her arms and leans in the doorframe. “Dr. Koenig, we cannot let your grandmother believe we’re dating. It’s wrong.”
“Then we’ll tell her we’re engaged.”
“Do I need to consult the DSM?”
“Mental health isn’t a laughing matter.”
She cocks her head. “I’m not laughing.”
“But you’re smiling.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“Oh, come on, I’m a catch. Good job, nice car, moderately considerate grandson. It’ll only be until Magnolia is settled and then we’ll both be on our merry way back to the city.”
Interest flickers in her blue eyes, I think. “Not according to Oma. What aren’t you telling us and why?” Lottie sniffs the air. “I smell cypress and lies.”
I lower onto the bed and rest my elbow on my knee and tuck the broken arm to my chest as I prepare to come clean. “It started as an excuse as to why I couldn’t visit and then it snowballed.”
“Lies have a way of doing that, but they also always come out in the end.” She puffs out her cheeks and makes an exploding snowball gesture with her arms.
Goodness, Lottie is so not like the other women I encounter. She’s as sweet as a cupcake, refreshing as a spring day, and as weird as...well, as herself.
“You’re right. But I don’t want to upset her,” I hedge.
“She already seems pretty upset.”
“That’s her general demeanor.”
Lottie paces in front of the door. “Then telling her the truth can’t make it much worse.”
“No. We can’t go back now. She already thinks we’re together.” And I have this thing where if I paint a perfect picture the ache of loneliness will lessen, go away. Then maybe someday when I have time a relationship could become a reality.
Lottie smirks and then turns back to stone-faced seriousness. “Dr. Koenig, I’m here to help Valda and Magnolia bond. Not to be your fake girlfriend. Although, you are quite the catch...in a clinical kind of way.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, but you can call me Russell.”
“I hardly know you, Dr. Koenig.”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, getting to my feet.
“Was there ever a real girlfriend? A fiancée or anyone special I should be aware of?”
I snort a laugh. “Not lately.” She has no idea how badly I wanted to get out of this town. I’m returning successful but as a single guy, don’t feel like I can face everyone after what happened senior year—juvenile yes, but senior year was harder than med school.
Her lips turn down. “Do you want to get married someday?” she asks.
“Nope. Or someday. Maybe.” The answer jumbles. “I don’t know. Hadn’t thought about it.”
Her smile reminds me of the Mona Lisa but more feminine. Kissable. “How long do you expect to keep this charade up, Dr. Koenig?”
“You only have to go along with it until I go back to work. Or while you get the dog adapted. Then we never have to see each other again.”
The words hang strangely between us like bubbles right before they pop. I second guess what she meant by charade. Who am I actually trying to fool?
I don’t like the way it feels.
She turns toward the window for a second. “What’s in it for me?”
“I did save your life.”
“I was in a hospital.”
“The speeding car.” I point in the general direction of the train station.
She slides her lips from side to side as though contemplating. “Dr. Koenig, do you actually like cupcakes?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a start. And your job as a doctor? How do you like it?”
“Very much.”
“What is your deepest desire, sir?”
Can’t tell her. “Seriously, call me Russell.”
“That sounds so formal. Very proper.”
Lottie sits down next to me, leaning in. Her pale blue eyes search mine. Her gaze slides down to my lips, my jaw, and then travels to my hands. Warmth crawls up my neck. I swallow thickly. Her skin is so soft, so clear. Our gazes lock. Hold for a long moment.
“Just checking out what I’m getting into,” she whispers.
Yep. Definitely checking me out. It’s a strange sensation, having a beautiful woman looking at me from under her long lashes. I can’t deny that I’ve done the same—she’s made me curious about the thoughts in that kerfluffled head of hers to the yearnings in her heart to the source of the scar on her cheek. But as a single guy I don’t have time for romance.
The twin bed remains tightly made with the wool blanket, knit in a familiar Latvian motif folded at the end, a stuffed teddy bear in a deep decades-long snooze. The drapes breeze, making faint sunlight ripple on the wood floor.
Tension pulls tight between us as we take each other in. A flush rushes through me, leaving an electric tremor in its wake. I have the overwhelming desire to find out if she’s as warm and trembly as me.
I let out a long-held breath. “Can I show you to your room, Cupcake?”
“Yes, Rusty, but no panky or hanky.” The smirk on her face gives me hope.
“So you’ll do it?” I ask.
Her fist flies to her hip. “I just said no.”
“I mean, you’ll go along with it? The fake dating thing.”
Her sigh is long. “If I must.”
Back in my room, I unpack my suitcase, my bag, and plug in my computer. No Wi-Fi. That won’t do. I slouch onto the bed, my eyes flitting over relics of what feels like a distant past, yet I haven’t changed, not that much. Still stubborn. Still lonely. Still searching. The notion drops into my stomach and remains there like liquid lead, hot and viscous, possibly even vicious.
My grandmother’s words, “Life isn’t always easy or fair,” take up residence in my mind. I know that all too well. But what have I gotten us into?
Then something else catches up with me. Lottie called me Rusty. My thoughts swim as memories make my face feel tingly and my eyes pinch at the sides. I push them under the ice.
Downstairs, Oma sits in her rocking chair, her eyes lidded even with the movements of her knitting needles as she rocks forward and back. I think she’s making mittens. Meanwhile, Lottie talks at length about Magnolia, her traits, the benefits of having a companion and protection animal, and then adds that over the next few weeks, she’ll review the commands and signals along with care practices for the yellow Lab.
Lottie and Magnolia sit at a distance, forming a triangle between them and my grandmother.
I move to pet the dog’s ears and Lottie jumps a little. “No contact. She’s a workin dog.” She explains initiating a bond between the animal and Oma.
I hold my hands up, palms out. “Lottie, does Magnolia need to take a walk?” I ask, looking for an excuse to get out of here.
She nods. “Typically, the new c
aretaker would join us.”
“Oma, want to take a walk?”
She replies in Latvian with a solid no.
“It’ll be just us.”
Lottie hesitates, bites the inner corner of her lip as if deciding and then her, Magnolia, and I wander along the beach road. The negative tide reveals a broad stretch of sand that almost appears to stretch to the horizon.
While the dog sniffs something goopy and questionable, I pause and lean on a wooden fence, wondering just how far away I am from understanding time, distance, and what the heck I’m doing letting my grandmother think I’m dating the beautiful woman holding the dog’s leash like it’s covered in whatever Magnolia sniffs.
A sidewalk leads us toward a café with a few unoccupied tables under the awning. Advertisements cover the glass door. There are ads for dog walkers, snow plowing, metaphysical something-something, and tutoring.
“Magnolia is technically a working dog so she can go inside,” Lottie says.
The door jingles as we enter. A chalkboard menu spans the back wall topped with the words The Roasted Rudder. The menu includes drinks, salads, sandwiches, and specials. Desserts, muffins, and cookies fill the display case. Worn armchairs and rickety tables spread out comfortably in the space, but they’re all vacant. This place must be new-ish in town, but is empty.
From behind a swinging door pots and pans clang. “Be with you in a minute,” a female voice calls.
Two minutes later a rather diminutive woman appears wearing a black V-neck T-shirt and a matching apron tied snuggly around her waist. “Russell?” A wisp of her dark brown hair catches in the corner of her mouth. “I’m so glad you came.” She rushes toward my arms for a big hug.
I hold the broken one out of the way of getting mashed.
She gives me a long, appraising, and flirtatious look.
The alarm bells ring in my mind. This is a small town where my grandmother has practically lived forever, prompting me to introduce Lottie. I clear my throat. “Zoe, meet my girlfriend. Girlfriend, meet Zoe.”
Lottie and Magnolia give me a sharp look.