The Belle and the Beard

by Kate Canterbary

  I couldn't keep that up much longer. Her last message had mentioned something about a fruit bouquet being refused delivery at my apartment building. She wanted to know where I was if I wasn't living in D.C. anymore and I supposed that was fair.

  My phone pressed to my ear, I paced the front room while the morning sun streamed in, warm and so blindingly bright I had to shield my eyes. The call connected, ringing only twice before she answered with, "Hello? Hello, are you there? Hello?"

  Through the line, I heard, "What's going on, Tawney? Who is it?"

  I sighed. "Mom?"

  "Jasper? Where in the world are you?"

  Her pointed tone stopped me and I turned to face the window. I had to close my eyes against the sun's rays. "I'm at Midge's house, Mom."

  I heard a door close and some rustling, and while it was early on the West Coast, I knew I hadn't woken her. She went to exercise classes first thing. Spinning, Zumba, Pilates. Things like that. Things that comfortably wealthy women enjoyed early in the morning.

  "Will you tell me if you're all right? I've been trying to reach you."

  The sun heated my face and neck. "I'm okay. I'm just taking a break from things."

  There was a heavy pause where I could almost see my mother twisting her hair around her index finger. Eventually, she said, "So, you're in Massachusetts."

  "I'm just taking a quick break," I said again. "I'll get back into the swing of things soon." When she didn't respond, I went on. "I wanted to leave Timbrooks, you know. I started planning my exit last winter."

  That was true in the sense I'd sat on the floor of my bathroom and cried for twenty minutes before work one morning last January after waking up to a dozen rage-filled emails from a dozen different ragey people. I didn't know that wasn't a normal way to start the day. I figured everyone cried all the time. That was the definition of adulting, right?

  "I know you always have a plan," she said, the uncertainty dripping from her words.

  "Oh, I do. I definitely do. I'm looking at some consulting opportunities. I have a lot of interest from media outlets as well. I have a lot to choose from."

  "Is that what you want?"

  "Of course it is," I said quickly. I didn't recognize my voice. It sounded hollow. "Why wouldn't it be?"

  "I don't know. I'm just asking."

  We were silent a moment, the sun still blazing over my face. I knew my cheeks would be pink when I stepped away from this window.

  Then, "I'm all right, Mom. Really. I'm just taking a break."

  "And Preston?"

  Please don't go blowing that storm in. "Taking a break from him too."

  "You're sure you're all right?"

  "I am. I'm actually really busy with projects here." I glanced at the ceiling, which needed several coats of paint. "Really busy."

  "How's the house?"

  "It's a little worse for the wear but I don't mind. It's amusing, you know, working on little updates, little projects. It's mostly painting, ripping up old carpeting, cleaning out the basement."

  I didn't mention the bats. It didn't seem like a necessary detail. Neither did the husky woodsman next door. Didn't need to talk about him at all.

  "I miss her," Mom said softly. "I wish I'd visited more. Called more. Letters and emails weren't enough."

  I felt a sudden rush of tears stinging my eyes. "Me too."

  "I regret it," she said. "Not spending more time with her. That's the shitty price of grief. You're always left with one regret or another and it never leaves you alone."

  I didn't want to talk about regrets. "Mmhmm."

  "I'm not sure I could do what you're doing," she said. "So many memories. I couldn't possibly go through her things. It's just too hard."

  "I haven't started working on her room yet. Not more than pulling up the carpet because it was musty."

  "It takes a lot out of you," she said. "You need to be ready for it."

  My face was so hot. I knew I wouldn't burn from a few minutes in front of a window but it felt like I might. "Yeah, well, I have some calls to return today and I should probably get to that. There's a think tank looking to talk to me about some of their strategic priorities and I need to look over my notes."

  "I understand," she said. "Call me, okay? Let me know if anything changes or…or you need anything."

  I turned away from the window and headed into the kitchen. "All right, Mom. I will."

  I wouldn't. I didn't need her or anyone else, and that wasn't about to change. Just like I wasn't about to stop thanking Linden for his generosity with some homemade goodies.

  The oven was still acting fritzy so I was relying on my crockpot to cook two small pecan pies this morning. I'd never made pie dough before, not on my own, but what else was there to do after waking up at daybreak, yesterday's clothes plastered to my body and the memory of a breathtaking kiss buzzing on my lips?

  I didn't have the exact ingredients required by the recipe but I knew enough about pecan pie to wing it. I'd seen it done plenty of times. After growing up on a three-hundred-year-old pecan farm, I knew a thing or two about making these pies.

  Linden would like them. He looked like the kind of man who enjoyed a good slab of pie. He probably liked cheddar folded into the crust of an apple pie. The senator from Vermont always served cheddar crust apple pie—all from his home state—at special gatherings for his staff. It was legendary.

  After making an unpleasant story about his daughter hazing sorority pledges go away, I always received an invite to those gatherings.

  I did in my past life.

  That senator forgot my name weeks ago. Even if his daughter was caught on tape making a pledge choke on a strap-on again, he wouldn't call me. No one was calling me, not even the think tank I'd mentioned to my mother. My scandal made me radioactive and I was nowhere near the half-life of my toxicity to fix anyone else's.

  The pies looked ready so I pulled them out to cool. Linden would like these. He'd do it grudgingly but he'd do it.

  I returned to the front window, glancing toward his driveway to confirm he hadn't circled back for some reason. A lucky chainsaw or…whatever arborists used. Finding the driveway empty, I swung my tote bag over my shoulder and hefted my laundry basket. I'd come back for the pies after I'd showered and the wash was running.

  While rolling out dough, I'd decided I'd only use Linden's shower. There was a perfectly good laundromat nearby. But going to the laundromat and sitting there through the wash and dry cycles would eat into my day, and I'd decided I was very, very busy handling Midge's affairs. Too busy to sit in a hard plastic chair and scroll through emails that seemed to take a cherry pitter to my soul.

  There was the hate mail. The people hopped up on contempt and condemnation because I'd joked about the senator's digestive distress. I should know better and I was a whore and they hoped I died. Some even offered to help me with the last one.

  There were the late-night talk show requests. Those bookers did not stop. They wanted me to spill tea and shit-talk all of Washington, and basically turn myself into a precious little dancing monkey who didn't care if she ever got a job again.

  There were the interview requests from across the print journalism spectrum. People, Us Weekly, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post. All the Georgia papers. They wanted an act of contrition or a tell-all, and nothing in between. And print was desperately unforgiving. Everyone thought television edited with a hatchet but that was print.

  The broadcast journalists came at me hard. They promised to let me tell my story and offered to paint me as a staffer forced to work in a hostile environment, but I knew better. Those stories were only meant for individuals needing to save face after stepping in problematic mud. They didn't work on people who'd stepped in the mud, tracked it through the house, and found themselves disowned on television. Besides, the only time a woman could sit for one of those interviews was after she'd been fucked over and fired or forced out, and now had a book or documentary on the fuck-over to promote.
I had neither.

  Yet cable news hosts, the source of this scandal, were the worst of them. They didn't say it in their emails but it was clear they wanted me to unleash on live television again. They wanted the same unfiltered, insider info I accidentally blabbed when I should've been talking about states closing polling locations and making it harder for people to vote.

  For every thirty messages I had from the media, I had one vague response from my contacts at consulting or lobbying firms, or political action committees.

  If I had to guess, my inquiries were handled something like this: "Jasper-Anne Cleary? She's one helluva campaign strategist. But isn't she the one who went on TV and complained about Timbrooks? And said he had no chance of placing in the primaries? Hmm. No thanks. Whatever she's asking, we can't answer. No turncoats on this team. Send the thanks-but-no-thanks."

  Radioactive was a dark place to be.

  I'd run the numbers enough times to know I could manage six months without a paycheck before dipping into that retirement account if I held my expenses to the barest minimum, never, ever got sick, and continuously sublet my D.C. apartment for a slight bit more than my rent.

  Saving two dollars a week on the laundromat wasn't big money but there was no reason to sniff at small money. Same with forgoing a gym membership for showers. It wasn't like I was going to exercise there anyway. Stomp-walking in heels used to get my heart rate up. Now, I sparred with my hot, husky neighbor.

  As I stepped through the door off his extremely enviable deck, my gaze immediately landed on the kitchen counter that haunted my unfulfilling dreams. Things could've gone much differently if I hadn't chosen that moment to drop that bomb.

  And Linden wasn't going to let me forget that moment because he'd left a notepad propped up against a fruit bowl, Jasper scrawled in big, blocky letters across the top in case I had any doubts about where he wanted my attention.

  "Mmhmm. This is great. Not passive-aggressive at all." I set my basket on the table and grabbed the notepad.

  Jasper.

  The bathroom is through the door directly behind you and the laundry is in the basement. The door is on the other side of the bedroom. Help yourself to the supplies, or anything else you need. I'll be out from ten to four tomorrow. The door will be open. Don't even think about baking another biohazard. Poisoning is not neighborly.

  –L

  "You'll have a new tune after you try my pies," I muttered.

  Since I wanted to get in and out long before Linden arrived home, I dropped the notepad and headed toward the basement. Unlike mine, it smelled clean and dry. A metal shelving structure running the length of the far wall held tidy rows of boxes and tools. Everything was so precise and not at all fungal. I loved it, not because I harbored a deep need for organization (I did not) but because it was so vividly Linden. Everything in its spot, everything the way it should be. Order and structure and utility. Nothing fouling the system.

  It was another one of the many reasons why Linden and I would never work, even on a short-term, fling basis. He craved that structure and I excelled in structure's fault lines.

  Last night was a mistake. Talking on the porch and sharing memories of Midge was good but the rest of it was another strike in my poor judgment column. It was strange to keep fucking up. This wasn't how I existed. Aside from getting married to someone I didn't love the right way, I'd never made such significant mistakes—and so many of them.

  What was wrong with me? Why was I wrecking my career and throwing myself at a man who was all wrong for me? Not to mention doing it while my marriage was still on the books.

  It was like I wanted my life to implode. That was ridiculous, of course. "Completely ridiculous," I murmured as I loaded my clothes into the washer. "Completely."

  I chewed on this as I climbed the stairs, carried my tote into the bathroom, and turned on the taps. I had no reason to torpedo my life. It didn't make sense. I didn't actually want any of this to happen.

  I was thirty-five and steering the direction of major campaigns. I was well-known and highly regarded in some of Washington's most powerful circles.

  I had a cozy apartment in Georgetown and enough friends with summer homes up and down the eastern seaboard to have my pick of summertime destinations. What more could I ever want?

  Yes, my primary purpose for those in power was inventing ways to keep them in power and extinguishing any challenge to that power. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't fun but it was the task I'd accepted.

  And yes, the apartment was unspeakably expensive for its dime-sized space but that was Beltway real estate for you.

  I didn't get any time for summer getaways to the shore either but that was the price I paid for being successful. The reward for hard work was more hard work, not a trip to the Hamptons.

  As for friends, they were scarce these days. I'd expected more from them but that was my fault. I knew better than to expect anything from anyone. They'd always let you down.

  All of this at thirty-five didn't resemble much of an achievement these days. Those years didn't add up to much when I looked back on them. I had an absentee marriage and hardly any reliable family to speak of.

  There was a time when I told myself my turn would come. That everything would fall into place for me. My marriage would right itself, the work would slow down enough for me to breathe, and I'd find all the things I craved but never let myself need.

  I'd find my place and my people, and then things would begin for me.

  Now, with thirty-five slipping out of my grasp, I wasn't sure about my turn anymore. I was going back to square one with everything. If I had to spend five or ten years rebuilding, where did that leave me?

  I knew little of hobbies, and my entire personal network was a product of my profession, and none of that seemed like a problem until now. If anything, it had been a badge of honor. Look, I'm so deep into this, I can't recognize myself without it!

  My life was my work but I didn't have my work anymore and I didn't know what to do with myself except keep going.

  Replace some stairs, bake a pie, kiss a neighbor. Just keep going—and don't think too hard about it.

  Once I was bathed and dressed, my hair twisted into a low bun that would dry into loose curls, I tossed my wash into the dryer. Linden's high-end machines were a big improvement over the industrial whales at the laundromat. His entire house was a big improvement with its amazing river rock shower and the bold blue walls. I couldn't stop thinking about the precision of it all. The basement, the colors, the décor. Precise.

  "That's why he hated my banana bread," I sang to myself on the walk across our yards. "And everything else I've brought his way."

  When I returned to Linden's house with the cooled pies, I tore off his note and wrote one in response.

  Linden,

  Poisoning might not be neighborly but pecan pie is. Please enjoy these treats as a small thanks for allowing me into your enormous shower. I'd ask who designed it but you're very sensitive about these things. Enjoy my pie.

  ~ Jasper

  I gathered up my basket and bag, and crossed through the backyard, a grin warm on my face.

  When I stepped into Linden's house the next morning, there was another note waiting for me. In truth, I was relieved to see it. Even if he hated the pies, a note meant he had something to say to me. I liked that.

  Jasper.

  I'm concerned that you thought you'd baked pies. They tasted like hot rubber. Those were nutty hockey pucks. Did you chop up real hockey pucks and blend them with the nuts? I'm forwarding my dentist bill to you.

  Yes, my shower is big. Nothing about me is small.

  I'm heading up to Swampscott tomorrow so I'll be on the road by nine. I'm meeting up with my sister for dinner in the city so I won't be back until later. The place is all yours.

  –L

  I smiled all the way through my shower. I didn't even care that he'd hated the pies. Chances were high he'd hate the cupcakes I had for him today too. The only thing o
n my mind was my response since I had to keep this exchange going. It was the only thing keeping me going.

  I paced Linden's living room for ten minutes, coiling my hair into a twist and then shaking it out and starting over several times. I couldn't get it right but that was due to the fact I was busy studying the knickknacks and photos on Linden's bookshelves. And the books, of course. Allllll the books.

  I couldn't get the twist right but I knew Linden's family was adorable, his beautiful sister was recently married, and he was a massive Lord of the Rings fan. Massive didn't even cut it.

  I'd lost track of all the different editions he had of the same books. Hardcover, paperback, movie tie-in covers, specialty covers, illustrated, annotated, translated.

  When I refocused on the wall beside the bookshelves, I realized the quartet of framed watercolors weren't random landscapes but scenes from the books. This guy adored Lord of the Rings and it was a revelation because he seemed like the type of person who made a point of not going hog wild over anything. He had interests, sure, but nothing bordering on fanaticism.

  I tore off his note and grabbed the pen he'd left nearby.

  Linden,

  Nothing about you is small but yet you choose to live in this cozy bungalow. Are you secretly living out a Hobbit fantasy? Is this your Shire, Bilbo Baggins?

  As for your commentary on my pies, I'm concerned you don't know much about baked goods. The cupcakes in your fridge will change your mind.

  How's your sister?

  Thanks for the water.

  ~J

  Jasper.

  Those were not cupcakes. They weren't cake of any kind. Are you using some kind of WWII-era cookbook where the ordinary ingredients are replaced with the things they didn't need to ration? Or is it a dietary thing? Is this stuff gluten-free? Or vegan? That frosting had the disappointing flavor of carob.