by Imani King
There’s no mention of why she needed that space, and I try not to assume any damn thing. There’s hurt there. Since I started Coming Home, I’ve seen all types of hurt to the point where I can see it on people. She’s been through something dark, and something recent.
Maybe she’ll tell me, and maybe she won’t. I’ll bide my time.
I like this girl. I like her. The words repeat in my brain like a chorus, and I just watch her and listen.
I’d thought this month might be the worst of my life.
But things are looking up. Oh yes. Things are looking up.
CHAPTER FIVE
Coming into this, I knew that Rowan lived in the middle of nowhere, I just didn’t know exactly what that meant. New Jersey doesn’t have much in the way of middle-of-nowhere places, and there’s exactly zero middle-of-nowhere places in Manhattan. But from the great flat sprawl of the plains the expand behind Rowan’s estate to the snow-capped mountains jutting from the horizon, this place is about as out-in-the-sticks as a person can get.
Au milieu de nulle part. The thought comes to me randomly after ten years of being out of high school French class. In the middle of nowhere, but prettier. That’s what this feels like. It’s not that there’s nothing here. There’s more here than I’ve seen in a long time, more than I’ve seen walking down the crowded streets and alleyways of Manhattan.
The city will always have my heart, I think as Rowan’s driver takes us down the winding driveway, down into a valley and then up over another mountain. But all this might grow on me.
“You’re quiet,” Rowan says. Eliza Doolittle is snoring in the backseat, and she’s just about the only sound that either of us can here.
I nod. “Just thinking. And hey—how do you know I’m quiet if you’ve only just met me? I could be quiet all the time.” I glance at Rowan. He’s staring openly at me, and I’m not sure if he knows he’s doing it. It’s been years since a man has looked at me that way, and I’m not sure if Eli ever looked at me that way.
I’m imagining things. I must be imagining things. Billionaire cowboys don’t look at girls like me. I might be going slightly insane with Rowan’s eyes roaming over me like they are. With any other man, I’d call him out and tell him to fuck off. Like the construction workers by my office—they’d gotten an earful more than once. But the way his eyes meet mine, the way he listens when I speak, the way he’s looking at me… it makes me want more, not less. And damn, that’s a terrifying thought.
If I were in my early twenties—skinnier, more confident, makeup and brows fierce as hell—I’d probably have slipped him the key to my hotel room, or my number at the very least. I wasn’t shy back then, and I never hesitated when it came to getting the man that I wanted, the man that I deserved. I might not have ever been runway material, not in New York, but I had that flame, the passion that Eli said had driven him wild. But the flame’s been put out by the intervening years, and all this attention is making that flame try to awkwardly re-light itself. I’m too far out of practice, and I don’t even want to see what happens when that fire starts, sputters, and fizzles in a big puddle of gooey shame.
I wonder if I can get this mural done in two weeks and then just go home before Christmas. That way, we wouldn’t be stuck together on Christmas Day. No chance for hanky-panky or any of him sweatin’ me so hard.
I gulp and look back out of the window. There are snow-capped peaks around the town of Ruidoso, and come to think of it, Anna had mentioned offhand that Rowan lived near a ski resort. I just hadn’t put two and two together and figured out that it might actually be cold here.
“People ski here?” The icy blue sky makes the white mountaintops stand out like something from a movie. I want to rub my eyes it’s so bright, but I’ll mess up the makeup I hastily put on.
Probably to impress Rowan. Basic as hell.
“From all over the state. And from Southern California, Arizona. They say there’s skiing in Cali, but I never seen anything to beat the skiing outside of Ruidoso.”
“You ski?” I raise an eyebrow and look back at him. He’s wearing a plaid shirt today. I’m sure it was hand-tailored and made from Egyptian cotton or whatever, but he seems a little down-homey to get on a set of skis. And I’m a little too city, come to think of it.
“Not exactly. But I’ve seen a lot of skiing. I’ve paid for private lessons five—no, six—times. But I’m pretty damn sure horseback riding is my only sport. My dad tried to get me into golfing. But you know what?”
“What?” I can’t keep the amusement out of my voice, and now Rowan is smiling too. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and for the first time, I see the hints of two dimples. I hadn’t noticed them, but now that I have, they might be my kryptonite. I get the urge to reach out and poke at his cheeks, to see if he’s actually real, but I settle for melting slowly into my seat. “Seriously, what?”
“Golfing sucks. A big dick. Golfing sucks a humongous horse dick, and I won’t lie about that.” His voice suddenly goes very country, and I burst out laughing, thinking of him in his cowboy boots out on the golf course. I don’t know how his dad even convinced him to do it. “My dad says I’m strong, so I can swing, but the damn ball always goes off in some random direction, and I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. One time, I hit a senator from Texas right in the head.”
“With a ball?” I snort and keep laughing, tears popping up in my eyes.
“With a club.”
“No. No. You didn’t. How in God’s name—”
“I was trying to swing. I swear it. Trying to do my daddy proud. But I got the thingy—the thingy at the bottom of the club—stuck in a patch of grass. The grass came flying up into my face, and I swung that club back as hard as I could. I was going to get that damn ball, I tell you, girl. But instead, I got Senator Johnson from the great state of Texas right in the damn face. He’s a friend of my father’s—”
“You didn’t. Bull. Shit. You’re making that up.”
He lets out a loud laugh. “To what? Impress you? Hell naw. You aren’t impressed, are you? It’s not usually a story I use to impress women.” He’s laughing at himself now, and I barely notice that we’re pulling up to a large building that sits on the outskirts of town.
“I’m a little impressed. Senator Johnson wants to shut down Planned Parenthood, restrict immigration, and approve racial profiling for the police force. He’s—”
“A racist, sexist, backwards, xenophobic asshole? I didn’t exactly say I wasn’t aiming for him. I wasn’t, really. I’m just really big and clumsy when it comes to golf and skiing and shit. The worst thing was that I had to act like I was distressed, and I most certainly was not.”
I’m laughing so hard now that I can’t stop, and it seems to me like a ridiculous joy is filling me. The sky is achingly blue around us, the day crisp and cool, the streets decorated with trees and lights and big green wreaths made of real pine and decorated with delicate golden ornaments. And there’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen getting out of a limo and walking around to open my door for me.
Roll with it. A voice deep inside of me tells me to just go on and enjoy. Maybe it’s that woman I used to be, coming back for one last fight. I thought she was gone a long time ago, but as Rowan walks me around the Coming Home Foundation building, I think she just might have a chance.
“This is it,” he says. “Star has her mural on this side.” I huddle into the fleece Rowan gave me this morning. It’s black with the Coming Home logo embroidered on the chest, and it’s far warmer than the leather jacket I brought with me. Eliza follows us as we walk up to the building, sniffing the ground and barking off into the distance when she hears a scuffling in one of the surrounding trees. “The weather should be warming up for the next week before the snow sets in—”
“Snow? It snows here? I mean, not just on the mountaintops?”
“No, girl. Not just on the mountaintops.” He points out Star’s mural—a burst of bright color, like sunshine—but I know I’
ll examine it further when I get to know Star and the team of people working here. After that, he leads me inside, Eliza following close behind us. “And this is Coming Home. I hope the snow holds off until after the fundraiser. I won’t be a happy man if it doesn’t. We’ll get by, I reckon, but it’ll be a damn sight better if the board members and community folk can come by without having to use the four-wheel drive.”
The building is huge, with a round open space in the middle, filled with light and trees and a little koi pond beneath a tall glass ceiling. On either side of the lobby are ten large rooms that look out into the gardens. Most of them are for group therapy, but they’re called “playrooms” so that the children who come here will feel more comfortable. Glass windows look into all of the room save for the back two, which are for private therapy sessions. The rooms are all filled with art supplies and wooden toys, bean bags, and works of art from children of all ages. “Holy shit. This is amazing.”
“It’s great, huh?” Usually, I don’t see pride register on Rowan’s face, but when he talks about the nonprofit, I see how proud he is. And coming here, I understand exactly why. “There’s a whole art studio down the hall. There’s a kiln and everything. Once it opens up for the day, we’ll see all the families who live here.”
“People live here?”
“We provide temporary housing for families in need. And there are plenty of families in need, even in ski resort towns. Any town near a reservation is going to be that way. We’ve got lots of people who’ve had to declare bankruptcy, or who just need a place to stay between leases. There are a hundred dormitories, and we want to expand to a thousand by 2017.”
“A damn big goal.”
“Like I said, I could build it myself, but I can’t run it myself. I need community support, and support at the reservation. Otherwise, we won’t have any damn clients, no way to help people.” I hear one of the doors down the hallway opening, and about ten kids—all wearing their backpacks—run into the main area. The kids are all different ages, most of them Apache, but there are many different races and backgrounds represented here. A few parents straggle behind and wave at Rowan like he’s someone they see at their bus stop every day. One of the littlest kids—a small girl—runs up to Eliza Doolittle and slides in to hug her around the neck. Eliza looks up at me and grins and then lays her head down on the girl’s shoulder.
“Morning, Rowan!” the girl chirps into Eliza’s fur. She darts off out of the door with the gaggle of other kids and parents to wait for the bus.
“Did I mention that Eliza’s our favorite therapy dog? Had her trained once she was all housebroken and that kind of thing. She has a real affinity for the little ones.” Rowan waves at the kids as they walk outside, and Eliza follows them out to the bus stop, sticking close to the kid who stopped to see her.
“For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me,” I say.
“Scuse me for just one minute, Cadence,” Rowan says and steps over to the parents to chat. I watch him as he puts an arm around one of the fathers and claps him on the back, then as he embraces one of the women in a hug. Their faces light up when they see him, and one of the toddlers in the crowd comes hurtling toward him at full force and hugs his leg. Rowan picks the small boy up and stows him on his hip as he talks to the mothers and fathers who live at the Coming Home Foundation.
*He doesn’t talk to them like he’s a billionaire. He talks to these people like they’re his friends.
The toddler fiddles with the buttons on Rowan’s jacket, and Rowan bounces the child on his hip like it’s nothing. I just stand and watch him, lost in thought until he turns to look at me and gestures for me to come over to the crowd of parents. After introductions are made and the parents all make their way to the bus stop, Rowan takes my arm and walks me through the halls, pointing out the paintings and sculptures he had commissioned to fill the place with brightness.
Warmth expands and flows through my body as he walks with me, my arm still in his. I have half an impulse to pull away, to make sure that I don’t get caught up in a silly crush on a man I shouldn’t have--no, can’t have. But the clean and cozy beauty of the Coming Home Foundation lulls me into a sense of false security, and I cling tight to Rowan’s perfectly formed bicep as we walk through the U-shaped hall, exploring the colorful rooms that he created with the help of this community.
*Is he real? How can he be real?
I’m starting to get it--to get him--the heart of this unusual man who lives so far removed from the world, but who wants to make it a better place when and where he can. I know that if I looked at him from the outside, I might not understand. I’ve always chosen to surround myself with people, to hide inside a city where I’m anonymous more often than not. But Rowan is more comfortable with himself and the world he lives in. He *knows his place in it.
*But still, why is a man like this alone?
We walk along in silence as we round the corner that leads us back to the lobby. Even though we don’t speak, I feel comfortable walking beside him. As we walk into the lobby, full of light and green plants, I see a woman walking toward us. Instinctively, I let go of Rowan’s arm and step away from him. Something tightens in my chest, and pricks of electricity travel through my veins. The way she’s looking at him, the way he meets her eyes.
The woman laughs, and my image of her changes. Her dark eyes are warm and friendly, and when she brushes a shock of black hair over her shoulders, I’m struck by her casual elegance. She’s wearing a colorful caftan that looks like it must be hand-embroidered on the reservation, and her pants are equally bright but don’t match her shirt in any way. This must be--
“Cadence, this is Star--the artist who’s been working on the mural for the east side of the foundation. She’ll help you get started on the west side.” Star comes up to me and takes my hand in her cool, slim fingers, and she pulls me into a quick embrace like we’re old friends.
“Welcome to the Foundation, Cadence. I know Rowan’s told you everything about it, but you’ll find we can’t stop talking about it when it comes to how much we all love it here. He’s got something really special.” Another pang of jealousy rises up in my body, but I push it down and nod at Star dumbly. No words will come out, and I have the passing thought that she might wonder whether or not I’m mute.
“She’s one of my oldest friends in New Mexico.” When Rowan says the word “friends,” he looks at me pointedly like he he’s reading my mind. “She and her husband welcomed me here when I first moved out and got set up on the ranch. And they haven’t let me down a day since then.”
My heart starts beating fast again--this man has an insane effect on my pulse. And I gulp back my guilt at misunderstanding the situation. My eyes flicker between the two of them, and I realize what I’m seeing is an old, comfortable friendship. Not anything else.
*But why, why is he alone? If not Star, then why not someone else? Maybe he’s a playboy? Maybe gay? No, no. The good Lord would be playing tricks on me if he made this man gay. He can’t look that good and own so much flannel if he’s batting for the other team... especially not if he’s a billionaire.
I realize I still haven’t spoken a word to Star since I met her, and she’s still holding onto my arm while she chats with Rowan about the designs she has for the front mural. “It’s nice to meet you,” I chirp. My voice doesn’t quite sound natural, but at least I managed to get out a few words, even the face of my complete ridiculousness.
*Please don’t let him see anything. Please don’t let him notice. Damn, I need to get back out to that guest house as soon as humanly possible. God, let the damn electrician and plumber come today. Oh God, please. Don’t let me hang on this man’s words, the curve of his full lips, the length of his jawline, or the way he keeps the top two buttons of that shirt undone, just hinting at the strength of the muscles beneath.
I take a breath and pretend to listen to Star and Rowan as they talk about the architectural plans for the expansion of the foundation. But instead,
I’m slipping deeper into thinking about Rowan and his body, his naked skin beneath the sheets of his bed, just down the hall from where I’m sleeping. And what would happen if he got up in the night and came knocking on my door, dressed only in his boxers, or maybe... nothing? I’m not a small woman by any stretch of the imagination, but Rowan might make me feel delicate, like a sexy woman he can throw around and use as he wishes--