“Bullshit,” one of the men said. “She’s listening to you.”
I turned around and saw that it was Luke who had said that. He was a good-looking young man in his earlier twenties with sandy-brown hair and hazel-green eyes. He was wearing jeans, a dirty white T-shirt, well-worn leather boots, and a cowboy hat.
“Shouldn’t be long now,” he said. “It’ll go quick at this point. Talk to her again, Lisa.”
I did, and as I did, the last few moments did go fast as Mable kept lifting her bottom until the calf slipped out.
“It’s a bull,” Harold said. “And a big one. No wonder she was having such a hard time. Step back before she stands up, Lisa. Let’s give her some room now.”
“Is the calf OK?” I asked. “It’s not moving.”
“Looks fine to me,” he said as Mable struggled to stand before she started to wash her newborn with her tongue. As she did, I saw that Harold was right—the calf started to respond to its mother’s touch. Its eyes opened and blinked, it lifted its head with an effort, and then it let out a small grunt as Mable continued to clean it.
With the exception of Jennifer’s birth, it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever witnessed.
“Lisa, would you like to name him?” Harold asked.
“Are you sure it’s a boy?”
“No two ways about it.”
“Then how about Nico?” I said.
“Nico?” he said. “Why Nico?”
“Because one day, he’s going to be popular with all the girls on the farm—and being named Nico won’t hurt one bit. Trust me.”
“So, Nico it is. Luke, you watch over Mable and Nico for a couple of hours. Scotty and Mark, back to it.”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
“Now,” Harold said to me, “I have a feeling you didn’t come looking for me to see a cow give birth, although I hope it was a new experience for you.”
“It was amazing,” I said as I watched Mable tend to her new calf. “My grandparents had a farm, but I never saw any of their livestock give birth. I can’t believe I just witnessed that.”
“Nature does its thing, and so did Mable—with your cow-whispering help, of course.”
He held out his hand to me, I walked over to him and took it in my own, and we walked outside, where hundreds of cows were grazing in the sprawling fields that stretched out before us. Well beyond them, I saw what appeared to be thousands of chickens free-roaming the land.
“So, what’s on your mind, kiddo?” he asked. “Let me guess—last night? Because if this is about last night, you and I have nothing to talk about, other than I’m glad my son is with a woman who’s willing to take on his creative cell-phone suggestions in an effort to make both of you happy.”
Tank really had told them everything. I didn’t know whether to cringe or be grateful. Like Mable just moments ago, I also felt vulnerable and exposed.
“Ethel made a big deal of it because that’s who she is, but I need you to know that I’m not her, Lisa. Whatever she walked into last night doesn’t concern me, it shouldn’t concern her, and I don’t want it to ever concern you. Because frankly, there’s nothing to be concerned about. I know you’re the right woman for my boy—I’ve seen it in how you two look at each other. I also know that at some point, when my wife finally gets over the stupid idea that she’s going to lose her son to another woman, she’ll see what I see in Mitch and you: a great match.”
“Is that what this is about?” I asked him. “She thinks that because Tank and I are about to get married, he won’t continue to be there for her?”
“I think so. I think Ethel loves Mitch more than she loves me. Not that she doesn’t love me, because I know she does. But ever since the day he was born and the doctor told her she couldn’t have another child, Mitch has always been her world.”
“Her doctor told her she couldn’t have another child?”
“He did, and for personal reasons that even Mitch doesn’t know about.” He looked at me for a long moment and then appeared to come to a decision. “Ethel miscarried twice before she had Mitch. When she found out that she was pregnant with him, she started to pray every day that this would be the one. We both wanted a child more than anything, and I think the pressure she felt to give us one was one of the reasons she started to go to church. For a while, she practically lived there—at least until the pregnancy got so bad that she was ordered to take bed rest for the last several months of her term.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea about any of this.”
“Ethel believes that without prayer, she would have lost Mitch just like she’d lost the others. And you know what? Who am I to judge, because she might be right. That woman prayed every day, and in the end, we got our son.”
“Tank knows nothing about this?” I said.
“He doesn’t. And that’s Ethel’s choice. She sees those miscarriages as failures—deep signs of her own weakness, likely something that could have been prevented if she’d just turned to the church earlier. After we had Mitch, we never discussed them again, because it was too painful for her to think about all that we had lost. Instead, we were just grateful for what we had, and that was Mitch.”
And there it was—the reason Ethel was so protective of Tank—and also why she was so religious. But did any of that give her the right to judge me? To taunt me? To make things so difficult for me? No. It was terrible what Ethel had gone through, but I shouldn’t be the one bearing the brunt of it.
“Now, listen to me,” he said. “I’m only telling you this so you can have a better understanding of her. She’s fiercely protective of Mitch, and now you know why. Whatever’s going on between you two has nothing to do with you, Lisa. Because believe me, if Mitch was with another girl, she’d be going through the same bullshit you’re going through. With that said, is it an excuse for any of her behavior toward you? No, it isn’t. After she and I got off the phone with Mitch this morning, I told her myself that she needed to lay off you or we’d lose Mitch. Because after that phone call from Mitch this morning, I’m here to tell you that he let his mother have it. If she’s smart, she won’t want to cross him after that. But when it comes to Ethel, I also know that I can’t promise you she won’t. She might go after you again. You need to be prepared for that.”
“I was going to leave today,” I said to him. “I was planning to go to a motel.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. I would have driven you to one myself, even though I would have missed having you here. My hope is that you will stay. My other hope is that Ethel will give you the respect you deserve.”
“But what if she doesn’t?”
He shrugged at me, and I saw in his wary blue eyes that even he wasn’t sure how Ethel would behave going forward.
“If she doesn’t, you’re either going to have to go to a motel and have your wedding elsewhere, or you’ll have to have it out with her,” he said. “She knows what’s on the line here—being denied going to her own son’s wedding. If she’s foolish enough to risk that by continuing to provoke you, then that’s on her, and she’ll get what she deserves. What Ethel went through thirty-some years ago doesn’t excuse her behavior now, Lisa. I just told you about her past so you could have a better idea of who you’re dealing with and how she became the woman she is today.”
“I’ll never say a word about any of it,” I promised. “Not to Tank. Not to anyone. But thank you for telling me, Harold, because at least it gives me some insight. I’m very sorry for your own losses.”
“In the end, Ethel and I both won—we got our Mitch, who has made us proud throughout his life. Graduated from high school and college with honors. Star of his university football team. Became a Navy SEAL. A war vet. Landed a top job at a big corporation in New York City. He’s a good man. And now he’s about to marry you. I for one couldn’t be happier, Lisa. I always wanted a daughter, you know? And as far as I’m considered, a daughter-in-law is the next best thing.”
“Can I give you a hug?” I asked.
“Thought you’d never ask,” he said with a smile.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When I returned to the house, I found Ethel sitting in the kitchen on her padded bench next to the bay window. She was wearing a pale-blue apron, her legs were stretched out in front of her, and in her hands was the second novel I’d published with Wenn, The Dead Shall Rise.
She’s already finished You Only Die Twice? I thought incredulously. Just how fast does this woman read? She must have finished it while I was with Harold, Mable, Nico, and the boys, because there it is lying next to her. And what’s going through her mind now that she’s finished it? She’s probably wishing that I’d just die once, never mind twice—and preferably before the wedding.
“Well, hello!” she said, looking up at me over my book. “How was your walk? Did you see get some fresh air? Did you see Harold?”
“I did,” I said. “And I saw more than just Harold.”
“What does that mean?”
“I saw Mable give birth.”
“Mable?” she said with alarm in her voice. “Who is Mable, and why has she given birth to her child on my property?”
“She’s one of your cows,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “Harold has names for a few of his favorites. I don’t spend much time in the barns anymore, so I don’t know of a Mable.” Her eyes widened at me. “But that must have been something for you to see.”
“It was amazing,” I said. “I’ve never witnessed anything like it.”
She genuflected when I said that. “Bearing witness to something as sacred and miraculous as the start of a new life can be humbling, can’t it?” Ethel said as she tapped her finger against the back of my book. “Especially when they’ve been denied a life.”
Please don’t start with me, I thought. Not now. Let’s just get on with the day.
But she didn’t start. Instead, she put the book down on the window sill and stood, smoothing down her apron as she did so. “You know, giving birth to Mitchell stands as the best day of my life,” she said. “Marrying Harold comes a close second, of course. But going through the pain of childbirth and then having the rewards of holding Mitchell in my arms for the first time? And then hearing my doctor assure me that he was healthy? No moment in my life has ever been as powerful as that moment, Lisa.”
When her eyes suddenly became bright at the thought of giving birth to Tank, she quickly blinked the tears away and apologized to me in embarrassment. Seeing her like this, I knew her connection to Tank was more formidable than I’d ever imagined—and frankly, for good reason.
But what does that mean for us going forward?
“Sorry,” she said. “Whenever I think back to that time, I get emotional. I apologize. That’s unlike me.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” I said.
“Anyway,” she said with a brisk shake of her head. “How about if we cook? Let’s make Mitchell’s favorite dish of all time—his grandmother’s God-given chicken pot pie. I’ll walk you through all of it, and then you’ll be able to make it for him yourself when you two are…well, you know—married.”
“I’m game,” I said, ignoring the hesitation in her voice. “But please don’t expect much from me, Ethel. There were a few times when my mother tried to show me how to cook, but she and Dad were so busy, I’m afraid it wasn’t enough to stick.”
“I understand that, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t show you how to cook. On the counter is an apron for you. Put it on, and I’ll get the chicken breasts from the refrigerator. Do you see the sheet pan on the island?”
“I do,” I said as I slipped my apron over my head.
“And the bottle of olive oil next to it? And the salt and the pepper?”
“I see them.”
She closed the refrigerator door, moved beside me, and placed a package of six chicken breasts on the island. “The chicken, salt, pepper, and olive oil alone are all you need to make a delicious meal. Add a salad or some roasted potatoes, and you’ve got yourself a winner. It’s so easy, even a fool could do it.”
Was I the fool? I wasn’t sure. I seriously didn’t know where I stood with her after last night. And since she refused to talk about it, I’d likely never know, which meant that I was left to interrupt every single thing she said to me, especially if it sounded like a slight.
And that just had.
“But we’re going beyond serving mere chicken breasts today, so listen closely for the best results. What I need you to remember is that when you make this recipe, the chicken must be cooked on the bone. Never use boneless filets, because if you do, the chicken tends to be dry instead of succulent. Trust me on that. The meat’s connection to the bone makes all the difference.”
“Good to know,” I said. “Should I be writing this down?”
“No need. I e-mailed you the recipe when you left for your walk.”
“I see,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, here…take the chicken, assemble the breasts on the pan, pour some olive oil over the skin, and give each breast a good shake of salt and pepper—but not enough to overwhelm.”
I did as I was told.
“Perfect,” she said, grabbing the pan and putting it into the oven. “These will roast for about thirty-five minutes at three-fifty. Why such a low heat? Because protein always cooks best at a low heat, Lisa. Like the eggs I cooked for you this morning. I cooked them over the lowest heat possible so that they wouldn’t be tough. It’s these kinds of tips that will make you an accomplished cook.”
“Thank you.”
“While the chicken roasts, let’s chop the vegetables, make the gravy, and then get to what many believe is the hardest part—making the pastry itself. I’ve already told you that my method is so simple that anyone can master it. Even you.”
Even me? Bitch, what are you doing right now?
Instead of reacting, I started chopping carrots, onions, and parsley while she looked over my shoulder, saying nothing. When I was finished, Ethel simply nodded her head in approval and then showed me how to make the gravy, to which we added the chopped vegetables and a bag of frozen peas.
“Never think twice about using frozen peas,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because they are just as good as shucked peas. Trust me, I’ve tried it, and there is zero difference. Consider that a time saver.”
“Noted,” I said.
“Can you smell the chicken?” she asked.
“I can.”
“It smells delicious, doesn’t it?”
“It smells better than the chicken I cook.” And that was the truth.
“It’s all about the heat,” she said. “What temperature do you cook your chicken?”
“Four hundred?”
“Then you’re about to see the difference a mere fifty degrees can make. Just you wait. Now, trust me here—Mitchell needs you to make this meal for him, especially in the winter. I can’t even imagine how much he’s missed it—and that he’s gone more than a year without having it even once. But we’re about to fix that now, aren’t we? By the time we’re finished, you will have mastered this dish.”
And if I don’t, what then?
“I’m sure I will,” I said.
“Good. Now for the pastry,” she said. “My mother’s recipe is excellent, but when I saw that fat Contessa woman make her version on television, I decided that since she was literally heaving, sighing, and mooning over it, I probably should give it a shot. And guess what? It was triumphant, as you’d guess just by looking at that woman. I mean, consider how many pastries she must have eaten to turn into the person she’s become today. By the looks of her, I’d say she eats whole sticks of butter, bacon grease, and fried whatnots all day long. But I digress. Because I’ll give this to her—that woman knows what she’s doing.”
“That’s so charitable of you,” I said.
“Isn’t it? I mean, w
hen a woman lets herself go the way she has, shame on her, I say, because her husband deserves better than that, doesn’t he? Not that I think you’ll ever have any issues with your weight. What size are you, anyway?”
“I’m a size zero.”
“A size what?”
“Zero.”
“But that would mean that you don’t exist. That would mean that you’re not even here with me now.”
Don’t get your hopes up, old girl.
But then she just pointed a finger at me. “Oh, I see,” she said. “You’re talking about the world of high fashion, aren’t you? You’re talking haute couture. I mean, where else in the world could you be reduced to nothing but zero than in that world? In my world, I’d say you’re probably a size two. Maybe smaller. But a zero? A zero doesn’t exist at Macys, Lisa, which is where I do most of my shopping.”
“Did you buy your Louis bag there?” I asked with a smile.
“Goodness no! That was a treat! But enough of this talk about fashion. To make the pastry, we now turn to the magic of the food processor. Are you familiar with what it does?”
“I believe it processes food.”
Her eyes narrowed in the face of my sarcasm, but then she seemed to catch herself, and in a flash, her features returned to normal.
“So clever,” she said. “And always so quick! You know, it’s in that way only that you remind me of Tank’s first girlfriend, Linda, who also has a quick wit. We’ve remained friends to this day. We both belong to the same quilting club. We do some shopping here and there, and we have lunch at least once a month. Things like that. Wonderful girl. But she and Mitchell met too early in life for anything serious to happen between them, like marriage and children. I sometimes wonder what would have happened between them if they’d only met later on.”
“I guess we’ll never find out,” I said.
“No,” she said wistfully. “Probably not.” She arched an eyebrow at me. “Hand me the flour? And the salt and the sugar?”
Unleash Me: Wedding (The Unleash Me Series) Page 10