Beauty and the Wolf

by Bridget Essex

  Lots and lots of pizza.

  We had a pizza night every month at the diner—which is kind of odd, considering there are seven pizzerias here in town. But true pizza aficionados know that it's all about the crust, and we had my great grandmother's crust recipe, a recipe angels surely sing about in heaven. Anyway, what I'm saying is, we made really good pizza. Paris residents flocked to the Rose Garden Diner for it.

  So I'm using my great grandmother's crust recipe now; honestly, I could make it in my sleep. Rex helps me spoon the sauce onto the dough, and then we put heaping amounts of cheese over that, though Rex also eats a lot of the mozzarella, and gives fistfuls of it to Mr. Cheese. We add some toppings—which we giggle about it, because it's all meat, meat, and more meat—and herbs while we sing silly songs about pizza pies.

  By the time the pizzas are in the oven, the kid has forgotten all about his earlier sadness. Which is good, because he'd been genuinely distraught over the loss of his friend. I'll have to ask Grim what's up with that... Maybe she'll have an address for the kid he used to play with. Maybe he could write a letter and explain that he's sorry. At least that might give the poor guy some closure.

  I wipe my hands on one of the dish towels, and Rex seats himself at the table by the door, kicking his feet against the table leg. Mr. Cheese is crouched beside a small pile of grated cheese, nibbling each shred, one after the other, as consistently and constantly as a little mouse robot.

  I made four very large pizzas, because last time, I was asked to make a hundred sandwiches.

  And now that I'm thinking about it, a hundred sandwiches for three and a half people to share is a little—no, very—excessive.

  “Do you guys have guests often?” I ask Rex, leaning against the table's edge. He's kicking a rhythm on the table leg with his feet: da, da, DUM, da, da, DUM.

  “Guests?” He looks at me, dumbfounded, and then starts to giggle...a little maniacally. He even holds onto his belly as he laughs.

  “What's so funny?” I ask, chuckling a little, too. The kid's laughter is infectious.

  “Guests!” He shakes his head so emphatically that his hair flies in all directions. “Pretty, you're funny!”

  “Gee, thanks.” I stretch, my hands at the small of my back. “The pizzas should be done in about twenty minutes. Can you do me a big favor?”

  He kicks the table leg one last time for good measure, and then he glances at me, offering a shrug. “Sure. I guess.”

  “Wow, I'll try to match your enthusiasm level someday,” I tease him. Then I jerk my thumb back up toward the steps. “Can you go tell everyone to get ready to eat in the dining hall?”

  “Sure!” His eyes light up, and he bolts up the stairs. He left Mr. Cheese behind. The mouse stares at the huge mound of cheese beside him and seems to sigh at the enormity of his task, but then Rex is bounding back into the room, snatching Mr. Cheese up and giving me a big grin, before racing up the stairs and out of sight.

  The pizzas don't need to be tended, as long as I keep an eye on my watch. I smooth the front of my apron—a plain black one that was hanging beside the basement door, fresh and washed—and then I'm glancing at the staircase.

  I know better than to go exploring with so little time on the clock. This place is massive; I'd probably end up getting lost, and then the pizzas would burn, and the whole place might go up in flames...

  And—understatement—that would be a pretty awful first day on the job.

  So I take my phone out of my apron pocket and thumb it open to the text screen—hurriedly, so I don't have to look at the texts I just sent and received from Pam. I see them, anyway, and my heart sinks. I glance at the name Betty and realize that the last time she texted me was about a week ago, before she found out that she and her kids were going to lose their apartment.

  God, I feel like a terrible friend. So much has happened in the last day that I haven't reached out to her since the incident at the diner, which was obviously upsetting for all of us. So I shoot her a quick hey, honey, how are you? and I'm about to pocket my phone when there's a chirp.

  Hey, Bella. My phone's going to be shut off. I'm at the barn on Mill Drive if you need to reach me.

  Blood is pounding in my ears as I stare down at the text. Her phone's going to be turned off because she doesn't have the money for the bill. Worse than that, she and her kids are seeking refuge in an abandoned barn.

  I'm not surprised that Betty thought of that place. We used to hang out there when we were kids, playing game after game of hide-and-seek in the dilapidated ruins. Even then, the barn was in bad shape, its exterior pinkish, faded and worn, with holes in the roof and the walls.

  The building is set far back from the road; it's empty and private. The nights are still cold; the barn was probably the first place she thought of as a shelter from the elements for her family...

  I seethe, thinking of Andrew. He made Betty and her kids homeless—and he has no remorse for it.

  I want to text her back immediately, but my fingers falter. I...don't know what to say. Pam and I are fighting, and, anyway, Pam has never been as close with Betty as me. So if I asked Pam to let Betty and the kids stay with her in the apartment while I'm at Grim Tower... Yeah, I just don't think that would go over well.

  I grip the handle of the oven to steady myself as I consider a hundred plans, immediately discarding each one.

  I need to think.

  I need some air.

  Immediately, my eyes dart to that door at the back of the basement. It probably leads out to a dark, creepy alley, but this part of town is nearly deserted. I don't think I'll run into anyone, aside from cats. Besides, with the ovens on, the kitchen is too hot; I feel overheated and a little trapped.

  Resolved, I check the time on my watch, leave my phone on the counter, and then jog toward the door, throwing the sliding bolt and tugging at the handle. It opens—as I expected—to an alley, but it isn't dark or creepy.

  In fact, the space around me is kind of beautiful.

  I ascend the concrete staircase to reach ground level.

  There are solar-powered lights strung across the walls between Grim Tower and the neighboring building; they shine with a soft yellow cast in the lowering dark. And in the center of the alley is a pedestal—the kind you'd put a Greek statue on—made of what appears to be white marble, about three feet high.

  On top of that pedestal, in a large, sterling silver urn, sits a rose bush, its leaves dry and brown.

  Entrance to the alley is gated off to my right, so no strangers can get inside—at least, not without a great amount of effort. Cats, on the other hand... I crouch down to call to a sleek-looking black-and-white cat who's staring at me with some alarm. Slowly, I slide my hand into my apron pocket and produce a fistful of cheese. I'd stuffed some mozzarella in there as a treat for Mr. Cheese, but he's more than had his fill, and this cat looks a little scrawny. I make coaxing sounds until the cat comes nearer, nearer... Finally, it sniffs the cheese in my hand and takes a tentative lick.

  “That's right. Go on, eat it.” Smiling, I put the rest of the cheese on the ground, and the cat begins to eagerly chow down.

  I rise to my feet and walk over to the rose bush.

  It hasn't been pruned in ages, and the stems are heavy with dead flowers. I smile softly to myself, imagining my mother tsk-tsking at the sight. If she were here, she would pluck those shriveled petals right off...

  I reach out and gently remove a withered blossom—

  “What are you doing?”

  My heart leaps into my throat, and I jump in fright, dropping the dead rose to the ground. At the same moment, the cat hisses, abandoning the rest of its cheese to climb the gate, leaping off of the top with a yowl.

  “Grim,” I breathe, turning to face her.

  She's standing on the stairs leading up from the basement, chest heaving; her eyes are dark, bronze rather than gold, and her teeth are bared as she asks me again: “What are you doing, Bella?”

  “I...”
My fight-or-flight instinct is overwhelming, but there's nowhere for me to go, and, besides, what am I afraid of? So, “I was getting some air,” I say quietly, forcing the words out around the lump in my throat.

  Grim raises a brow, her eyes narrowed. “No. What were you doing to the roses?”

  “Oh.” I lower myself to pick up the rose that fell from my hands, and then I present it to her gingerly. “It's dead. See?” She doesn't move, doesn't even look at the rose. Her eyes are burning into mine. “I was deadheading the bush. So that it can grow new flowers.”

  Now her gaze flicks to the flower and lingers there.

  I go on nervously: “This bush is dying, but it could thrive again with the proper care. If I pinch off the old flowers, the plant will stop sending its energy to those dead petals, and, instead, it'll start working at growing new buds.” I pause, cough, clear my throat. The rose tumbles from my fingers. “My mother was a gardener. She loved roses. They were her specialty, and she taught me... Sorry, I'm rambling.”

  Suddenly, Grim places a hand to her temple and shakes her head. “Forgive me. I...” She wavers a little on her feet, and I place my fingers to her elbow, worried.

  “Grim? Are you okay?”

  A low chuckle. “No.” When her eyes meet mine, they're glassy—wet with tears.

  “Oh, God...” I exhale quietly. “I'm so sorry about the rosebush. I should have asked first—”

  “No, no. I'm sorry.” And her mouth slides into a small, self-deprecating smile. “You must think I'm a monster, shouting at you for tending a plant.”

  “Well, it was startling.” I lick my lips and then shake my head when she winces. “But I don't think you're a monster, Grim.”

  She glances at me, her amber eyes shining but cautious. “What do you think I am?” she whispers hoarsely.

  My heart thumps too fast in my chest as the world around us falls away. There are no walls, no lights, no dead roses. All I know, see is her. “I think,” I begin, watching the curve of her mouth, the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathes, in and out, in and out, “that you're very kind—”

  She scoffs.

  “—but very guarded.” I inhale deeply. “I think you keep other people at a distance from you, but I don't know why. And I think...”

  “What? Go on.”

  My face flushes with heat—at her nearness, at the longing cresting inside of me, and at the brazenness of my words: “I think you're beautiful.”

  In that single, starburst moment, Grim's mask falls away, and she looks at me with an openness I've never seen on her face before. Her lips are parted, revealing the slightest hint of her tongue, her teeth... A surge of passion seems to move through her, forcing her speak. “Oh, Bella,” she says, “I think you...”

  “Yes?”

  Something changes in her expression, then; she purses her lips, closes her eyes. A long moment passes before she says, in a voice tinged with regret, “I think you should know the truth about that rosebush.”

  “Oh.”

  I can't help but feel mildly disappointed. I had thought she was going to say... Well, I guess it was presumptuous of me to hope that she might tell me that I'm beautiful, too. I mean, she's my boss, for Pete's sake. It was an inappropriate compliment for me to make in the first place. What was I thinking? The moment just felt so intense, and—

  Ugh, I feel like an idiot.

  I have half a mind to climb over that gate like the black-and-white cat and disappear into the night.

  But Grim's face still looks open, vulnerable.

  I focus on her, and I hold my breath.

  This may not be the confession I'd hoped for, but she's letting me in, laying down her shields. It’s almost like wedging a crowbar into a tiny crack, seeing that first shaft of light seep in when there was only darkness before. I'm afraid to speak; I don't want her to close up again, don’t want this moment to pass...

  She approaches the rosebush, and her fingers graze the leaves. “It was my mother's,” she whispers, directing a hooded glance in my direction.

  Was.

  There’s no polite way to ask whether someone's mother is still alive. I know that from personal experience. People try, so hard, to be gentle with the question, or gentle with their sympathy. And it’s kind of them to wish you well after your mother passes away. But every well-wish is a knife twist in your gut when you’re already missing her so terribly that you’re breathless with the pain...

  I simply nod at her, urging her on.

  Her lips curve softly as she speaks. “She loved roses, too, just like your mother. Her favorites were called boule de niege, and they were pure white.” She bows her head, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. “She grew them in our backyard. Every summer, they burst out with these giant white flowers—like snow in June.”

  A slow smile spreads across my face. I remember that feeling: waking up to find that the garden had come alive overnight, like—

  “Magic,” Grim says, her voice sobering. “It was like magic. And then one day...” Her fingers pinch one of the withered roses, and it comes off in her hand. “One day, the magic—and my mother—were gone.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Did she...”

  “She was murdered.”

  “What?” I gasp, stunned. “Oh, my God. I can't imagine... Grim, I... I'm so sorry.”

  She nods, almost imperceptibly, and then she leaves the rosebush to step near to me again. I breathe in her earthy scent as I gaze into eyes with the sheen of molten gold. “I never knew my father. My mom was all I had... Along with my sister and brother. She was my world. I tried to protect her.” Subtly, she gestures to her arm, where I know that long white scar hides beneath her jacket sleeve. “But in the end, all I could save were her flowers.” The dead rose rolls dryly in her hand.

  I think of the plastic rose from the diner and feel a tear sting my eye.

  “Bella.”

  My gaze seeks hers, and I'm surprised to feel her taking my hand, turning it upward. She tilts the rose into my palm and bends my fingers over it, enclosing it.

  “Will you bring the roses back to life?”

  My heart pangs with heartache—for her, for her mother, for me and my mother...

  “I...can try,” I whisper, staring deeply into her eyes. Her head is bowed toward mine, our foreheads nearly touching—

  BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!

  “Oh, no, the pizzas! I—I'm sorry. The pizzas are done. If I don't take them out of the oven now, they'll burn.”

  A faint smile flickers over Grim's mouth, and then we're walking together to the stairs leading into the basement.

  I tuck the rose into my apron pocket and then remove each pizza from the oven, placing them on the counter. I watch the steam curl up into the air for a moment after I close the last oven door. Once I've determined that the crusts are the perfect shade of brown, I take the dead rose out of my pocket and regard it thoughtfully, spreading the petals.

  Grim is still here, leaning back against the counter.

  “I lost my mom, too.” I turn to face her, and she—expression blank, mouth closed—watches me quietly. “It was...” I breathe out shakily, searching for the perfect words, but I can't find them. No words could ever define the grief I suffered over her loss. “It was an accident. And it was...rough,” I finish weakly, whispering; the weight of emotion in my voice communicates everything I can't quite say.

  Grim nods, just one nod, and then her chest rises and falls. “People say the pain fades over the years, but...”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Our eyes meet. And something feels different between us. It's as if we've crossed over a threshold together and come out on the other side—changed.

  “Pre-e-e-e-tty! I'm sta-a-a-arving! Is it time to eat yet?” Rex comes bounding down the stairs, Mr. Cheese clinging to his shoulder. “Oh, hi, Ants!” he greets Grim, smiling from ear to ear. He leaps over to her and wraps his arms around her waist. “I was trying to find you! Pretty made pizzas!”
<
br />   “Pretty?” Grim smiles down at her nephew indulgently.

  “That's my nickname for Bella. She said she likes it. Don't you, Pretty?”

  I nod, laughing lightly. “Listen, I'll be up with the pizzas in a minute. I have to slice them first.”

  Rex moans. “But I want to eat now...”

  “Come on, Rex. Why don't you help me start the fire in the dining hall?”

  “Ooh, can I light the match?”

  “Well, you can watch me light the match...” Grim glances at me over her shoulder, an unreadable expression on her face, before leading Rex up the stairs and out of sight.

  Chapter 10: The Moment

  I place the dead rose on the counter and exhale.

  My heart hurts.

  Poor Grim, losing her mother in such a cruel, violent way... There was agony in her eyes when she asked me to tend the roses. Agony, and a dim flicker of hope. I'll need to resurrect all of my dormant horticultural skills to bring that dying bush back to bloom.

  I sigh deeply, raking a hand through my hair.

  Granted, I'm feeling pretty overemotional right now, but I still have a job to do...

  Just focus on the pizzas, Bella.

  But when my eyes alight on my phone, all I can think about as I slice into the pizzas—with a sharp knife, because I can't locate a pizza cutter—is the image of Betty and her kids sitting in that barn, huddled together in the dark, shivering. It's a horrible picture, and it haunts my mind as I lift up one of the pizzas in its pan, placing it on the potholder balanced on my shoulder. Once that pan is situated, I raise the other one and grit my teeth as I ascend the staircase, aiming for the dining hall.

  The truth is...there's no simple solution to Betty's predicament.

  There are no women's shelters in Paris. I could drive Betty to Montpelier and the women's shelter there...but I don't have a car, and I don't think Pam will be willing to let me borrow hers.

  My dad, always fond of Betty, can't take her and the kids in because he's in an assisted living facility.

  My bank account is nearly empty. I can't front her the money to get a new apartment right now.