Wanted: Wife

by Jones, Gwen

  Andy swiped his hands on his jeans. “No refrigerator. My father’s wouldn’t get below fifty degrees, so until I get a new one, we’ll be eating fresh.”

  “You’re joking.” I thought of that little buffet Andy had set up the night before, right before we had . . . My stomach did a little flip. “What about that cheese we had last night? That must have been refrigerated.”

  “Refrigerate cheese?” His face squinched. “Spoken like a true American. A hard cheese doesn’t have to be.” He prodded the egg basket. “And neither do these. You just don’t wash them until you use them. If you don’t they’ll keep for a couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks!” I looked into the basket. “There’s close to three dozen eggs here, and if you’re getting them every day . . .”

  “I’ve sold some to the store in town, but on Thursdays there’s a farmers’ market outside of Chatsworth. I was planning on going this week.”

  “But that’s tomorrow,” I said. I held out the basket. “You have to have more to take than just this?”

  His face lit. “Exactly. Come and see what I’ve gathered so far.”

  We went to the far end of the barn, where we entered an airy, concrete-floored room with a drain, and lined with wooden bins groaning from all kinds of fruits and vegetables. “Right before my father died he had the pickers in for the peaches, and over the weekend I gathered what was left.” He tapped two wooden bushel baskets stacked next to dozens of empty ones on the floor. “The rest of the stuff I got from the kitchen garden, but there’s still more coming in, so much I can hardly catch up with it. And now the apples are just about ready to pick.”

  “Jesus . . .” I said, my gaze washing over a wealth of fruits and vegetables. “My God, look at all this stuff! You picked it all?”

  He returned a couple of red potatoes that had rolled from the bin. “Yeah,” he said, as if the very thought exhausted him. “What we can’t sell or give away to the food bank, you’ll can for the winter.”

  I thought of the lone, dusty can of olives that had been in what was, basically, a condiment larder in Philly. “Canning? I don’t know anything about canning!”

  “And what do I know about farming? Look, why don’t we eat, and then I’ll give you a dollar tour of the place, but first . . .” He reached for me. “Let’s go clean up.”

  Clean up, of course, being a subjective term. “You mean the lake wasn’t enough? Or do you just want to get me naked again?”

  He lowered his gaze. “Is that a rhetorical question?” he said, tugging on the tie of my robe.

  A few minutes later I found myself in an open-air shower, covered on just three sides, which his father had concocted from a barrel braced overhead. It was then fed through a rudimentary filter into a showerhead that looked straight out of the 1920s. With the sky above and Andy all around me, this normally mundane daily ritual seemed much more libertine than my au natural morning swim, especially with Andy swirling shampoo around my scalp. I slumped against him, nearly purring as he massaged the back of my head, faintly wondering if it was possible for my hair to have an orgasm.

  “God, that feels good . . .” I moaned, his nails digging in.

  “You have such beautiful long hair,” he said, letting its soapy length unfurl down my back. He bent to kiss my neck. “Don’t ever cut it.”

  I arched into the warm spray, the suds slipping down my breasts, my hips, my legs to the aged concrete pad below. “I wasn’t planning on it. Though I have to pin it up in the summer, it gets so hot.”

  “What’ll get me hot is pulling those pins out.” He kissed my neck, my throat, trailing down to my breasts, his skin slickened by my own soapy remains. He took a nipple in his mouth, the morning stubble on his face scratching my already sensitive skin to hyper awareness. I curled my fingers around his shoulders as he fell to his haunches, his tongue tracing a torturous path down my belly. “Si belle . . . si belle . . .” he murmured, going lower, until we reached a happy parity from our earlier encounter on the raft, lifting me to the very tips of my toes. Before the last bit of suds had curled a path into the yard, he was carrying his thoroughly sated, yet very ravenous little woman into the house.

  “You need a shave,” I said, brushing the back of my hand against his jaw, his coarse stubble leaving a substantial impression against my fingers. Such a manly man I married! He set me to the floor in our bedroom.

  “Which I plan on doing right now,” he said, before pushing a teeshirt half into his pocket. “First, I have to switch tanks on the generator.” He flicked an apparently dead light switch. “I should have done that last night, but we kind of got . . . sidetracked.”

  “Kinda,” I said. I tried the switch myself. “Our electric comes from a generator?”

  He sat on the bed, yanking on his boots. “You mean you didn’t notice the distinct lack of power lines on the way in? Everything here works off a diesel generator—the electric, the water, the fridge will, once we get the kitchen cleaned out, that is.” He stood. “For now, we’ll have to cook on the grill in the yard. I’ll get it going and you can make those omelettes. Frying pans and things are in the footlocker right outside the door.”

  “Got it,” I said, trying to remember what was in the Western omelet I’d order at the Melrose Diner. “And please tell me you have coffee.”

  “Ma petit poussin, if the house were on fire and it came down to saving you or my coffeepot, I might be just a bit conflicted.” At my gasp, he laughed, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I’m joking! And oh—don’t forget to put on your farmer’s wife’s clothes. After breakfast, we’re going afield.”

  “Afield. Got it.” I snapped him a proper salute. He laughed, waving me off.

  I went to my suitcase. One of these days I was going to have to unpack, but for now I dug into my purse, needing to check my phone. I had told Denny and Brent I’d text them and here it was, almost twenty-four hours after I had left. Maybe the editor needed to contact me or the station had called about my resignation or maybe even—I swallowed significantly—maybe even Richard had . . . I sighed, pulling it out. Old habits died hard, and—“What?!” I nearly screeched, staring at the phone’s face.

  NO SERVICE.

  I dropped the BlackBerry into my purse. Damn. Not that Andy hadn’t warned me. But come on, mine was no flip phone. It was a state-of-the-art communications device, and this was New Jersey, for crying out loud. Maybe if I went outside. I dug it out again and went to the porch, but NO SERVICE still stared back at me. I went inside and fell back on the bed, disorientation rippling through me. It was one thing to be out in the woods with no electricity, running water or the fact I’d have to cook our rather rudimentary meals over a fire, but it. It was quite another to be without viable communications to the outside world. Christ, I thought, how can he stand it?

  I ripped into my suitcase, past skimpy sundresses, skirts, t-shirts and shorts, lacy underwear and sandals, my running clothes and a pair of sneakers. I pulled out my Nikes and a wide cotton skirt and teeshirt. I was sure this wasn’t what could be construed as farmer’s wife’s clothes, but it’d have to do for now. My stomach was growling from lack of my morning yogurt, my underarms were sweating from lack of air conditioning, my head was pounding for lack of a Mocha Latte Venti. I left for the porch and the footlocker.

  What I found inside would surely make for a great campsite: cast-iron frying pan, sturdy-looking knives, plastic and jarred containers of what I assumed were food staples, a coffee pot. Alongside the locker was another old basket like the one I had gathered the eggs in. I piled into it stoneware plates, cutlery, a spatula, a can of coffee, a jar of sugar, a sharp knife, what remained of last evening’s baguette. In the corner was a huge jar with something cloth-wrapped inside. I opened it to a strong smell of vinegar and cheese; I prodded the cloth back. Apparently this was the cheese we’d had the night before. Since it hadn’t killed me yet, I closed the jar and slipped it into the basket.

  Outside the door about fifty or so fee
t away I could see the stone barbecue smoking away. Next to it was a wooden picnic table with the egg basket and some assorted vegetables, peppers, onions, tomatoes, a melon, plus a plate of melting butter, all atop a large wooden cutting board. On the barbecue, an old enameled dishpan sat atop a slate next to the fire grate. Behind it was a huge earthenware water jug with a spout at the bottom aimed over the edge. Good Lord, I thought, so this is my kitchen. Would I also need to go down to the lake and beat the dirty clothes on a rock? I set everything to the table, then ripped off a piece of baguette. I dipped it into the butter, my head fairly swimming from the infusion. I needed something to eat and quick. But first, the coffee. I lifted the tin pot.

  I had a vague recollection of the enameled coffeepot that sat atop my grandmother’s stove. Even though I was too young to drink from it, I couldn’t forget the glorious scent it produced, even though I was pretty fuzzy on how she accomplished it. Now my coffee mostly came from someone else’s carafe, but when I had made it in Richard’s Technivorm Moccamaster, it was roughly a scoop and a cup of water for each serving. So I measured likewise into Andy’s battered tin pot, setting it to the back of the fire grate. Next, the omelet. I hefted the cast-iron frying pan to the fire to let it heat up, knifing in butter. Then I washed the eggs the best I could from the water jug.

  A bit of chopping and whisking later, I had enough veggies to toss into a six-egg omelet; all I needed as a bit of cheese. I opened the jar and upended it, the cloth-covered hunk sliding out. Well, look at this. I thought, so this is where cheesecloth gets its name from! I felt like I had discovered the secret to gravity. I shaved a bit off. Then, I dumped the vegetables into the pan and let them cook a bit before sliding in the eggs and sprinkling the cheese atop it.

  While my omelet sizzled, I sliced the melon in two and deseeded it, recalling the casaba Andy and I had on our first and only date at the diner. That meeting seemed so innocent and ages ago, though it had only been five days, and it startled me a bit how intimate we’d become since then. But had we really? Did I know him any better? I almost laughed. Hardly any better that I knew myself. I looked to the coffeepot, now happily perking away. Who would have thought that of me a couple months earlier at the Daytime Emmy Awards, awash in Prada and walking the red carpet with Richard on my arm, his smile toothier than any of the plasticized people in attendance? I set a pair of plates on the picnic table and placed half a melon and half the baguette on each, with the cutlery atop the paper towels we’d use as napkins. I fingered one; quite a difference from the Bulgari scarf that had been in my swag bag at the Emmys.

  I picked up the spatula and, holding my breath, folded the omelet; it complied perfectly. Eggs done, I shifted the pan to the slate, covering it with an extra plate. Then I poured an experimental sip of coffee and, tasting it, surprised myself. It wasn’t half bad, so I filled it to the rim, then surprised myself again. I had no idea how Andy took his. Not that we had creamer anyway. With one look back at my first attempt at matrimonial domesticity, I went in search of my husband, his coffee in hand.

  I had no idea where the generator was, but then again, he did mention he was going to shave. Since the only other sink I knew of was in the barn, I headed toward it. But just as I cleared the house, I spied him standing under a tree before a mirror, still shirtless, his face dappled with spots of soap, scraping something shiny against what looked like a long strap of leather. Once again a shiny object had transfixed me. Andy’s back, the metal, the sun in my eyes, his muscled arms so rhythmic, all recalled a dozen old movies. Bucky, on his back at Andy’s feet, saw me and flipped over with a bark.

  Andy glanced over his shoulder, sunlight flashing off the dampened blade. “Oh, hello, wife.” He nodded to the coffee. “Is that for me?”

  As I stood there, fresh from cooking over an open fire, from showering under a barrel, from watching my bare-chested, vegetable-gathering, cow-birthing, woodchopping, ’coon-shooting husband strop a straight razor for his shave, a realization flooded me: this wasn’t a farm. This was a detox from the twenty-first century.

  “Yes,” I said, going to him as Bucky shot past me.

  “You’re shaving with a straight razor under a tree,” I stated the obvious. “Why? Did they run out of Bics at the Target?”

  He took the coffee and after a sip, lifted my palm to his cheek. “Just feel that.”

  I gasped. It was cool and wet and—I slid my thumb down his jaw—so smooth it nearly squeaked. “Andy! Like a baby’s behind!”

  “Learned from a merchant marine in Bremerhaven.” He toweled his face, then slapped his cheeks with something out of a green bottle. “Nothing like those German blades,” he said, snapping the razor closed. “Well, now, how goes it with breakfast?”

  “Andy.” I stood back. “I truly believe I’ve made the perfect omelet. And coffee and melon and maybe . . .” I poked his stomach as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, “a few little surprises.”

  “Oh really?” he said, his arm slung over my shoulder as we walked to our al fresco dining room. “I can’t wait.” Then all at once his eyes narrowed. “Although I think I’ve figured out what the first surprise is.”

  I heard a clank of plate against metal, then looked to the barbecue just as Bucky jumped from it. “You little bastard!” I screeched, running toward him. The hellhound darted past me as my intended slap hit the air above him. When I got to my impromptu kitchen I found my perfect omelet mangled and half-eaten, the coffee pot on its side and hemorrhaging brew, the melons on the ground. I fell to a bench, whimpering.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll make more,” Andy said, squeezing my shoulder. “For what it’s worth, your coffee was terrific. Now come on,” he prodded me up by the elbows. “Practice makes perfect. And this time . . .” He plopped onto a seat on the bench. “I want to watch—hey!”

  I reached for another tomato. Holy cow, that man had good reflexes.

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  Wild Things

  “SO HOW MUCH acreage comes with this place anyway?” I asked, closing the lid of the footlocker.

  Andy banged one last nail into the gutter, dropping the hammer to the ground. “Oh, around six hundred, but most of it’s wooded.” He curled his hands under the aluminum and gave it a shake, testing for stability.

  I leaned into the door jamb, smiling insularly; I truly believed I could watch his muscles flex all day. “Wow. Ever think of developing it?”

  He looked at me as if I’d suddenly gone daft. “No. We’ve always come here to get away from people. Why would we want to bring more in?”

  “Why would you want to own six hundred acres of woods?” I said, loping down the steps. “Seems kind of a waste.”

  “It’s not waste if you leave the woods alone and let them go on doing what they’d do anyway without you.” He tossed the hammer into an ancient wooden toolbox perched on the floor’s overhang. “I think you’ll understand a little better what I’m talking about after you actually have a look at it. Why don’t you get ready?”

  “This is about as ready as I’m going to get,” I said, arms out at my sides, gesturing at my skirt, t-shirt, and sneakers.

  “Hm.” He eyed me. “I thought you were just dressing for breakfast.”

  “So maybe you’re expecting black tie for dinner?”

  His mouth crooked. “Hey, I don’t care if you walk around naked as long as you’re comfortable.” And I believed he meant it. “I just figured you’d find jeans more appropriate for where we’re going.”

  I thought of my hasty packing, and the fact I really didn’t plan on staying much past the first frost. Not that I could tell him that. “I didn’t bring any jeans.”

  “You didn’t bring much of anything,” he said ostensibly. “Not planning a very long visit?”

  My hand flew to my chest. “Why would you say that!” Because it’s true? I had to think fast. “How much do you think I could fit in a cab?”

  He seemed to brush that off. “Then what did you
do with the things you left?”

  “There wasn’t much,” I said honestly. I’d never been much of a collector, always preferring to toss out the old for the new. My few things of value I shoved into two suitcases: original contract from the editor, a somewhat useless bankbook, my grandmother’s emerald stud earrings, and enough clothes to last until the weather changed. “I left what household stuff I’d had with Richard, and my laptop, books and papers and the rest of my clothes with my friend, Denny.”

  He thought a moment. “The cameraman.”

  Then his gaze darkened. “Richard. That’s your former fiancé, right?”

  It was almost as if he were standing between us. “Yes.”

  “You leave anything with him you wish you’d taken?”

  I felt like an insect pinned under a microscope. “Nothing I can’t get later.” Say, around November.

  “So, nothing of particular importance.”

  I had to admit, “There was an antique tea table.”

  “Was it a family heirloom?”

  “No.” Richard had bought it for me during a trip to the Eastern shore of Maryland, back when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I was ridiculously fond of it, and not for any particular reason connected to Richard, yet I felt a blush creep over me. “But I did like—”

  “I’ll buy you another one,” he said quietly. “I’ll buy you five more, if you want.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said, taken aback. “I don’t need you to buy me anything.”

  “Yet I would.” He stared at me a moment before abruptly reaching for the toolbox. “Let me put this away. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched him walk away, at a loss. What was that about? Was he actually jealous? Or was it something much more elemental? I didn’t know, and at the moment I wasn’t up to examining it. Not that he gave me much time to anyway. In short order he was striding toward me in heavy boots, the leather sheath on his belt unmistakably housing a large knife. Seeing that, my blood coursed a little hotter. Was it simply the Tarzanian implications, or had something fearful in me actually spiked? Either way, after the Rabid Raccoon Incident earlier that morning, I was happy he toted something that could inflict damage. Not that I relished the idea of his rolling around on the ground with some wild animal, but I set that image aside. His lordship and I were about to survey our dominion, and my stomach flipped with anticipation.