The Luckiest

by Wendy Owens

“I can’t imagine it not being here anymore,” I remark, wanting to make sure I make it clear how I feel. I know it’s not fair to put that kind of pressure on her, especially with her looking at the debt she must be facing, but that was a piece of our history. A piece of my original family history.

  “Don’t worry about it, all right?” She attempts to comfort me by wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out; I always do.”

  I look at her hand and then back to her face. She takes the hint. As she lowers her chin, her voice grows softer. “You know your dad loved you very much, and—”

  “It’s okay, we don’t have to do this,” I suggest, slamming the trunk shut and taking hold of my two bags, moving them to the center of the driveway.

  “I know you’re not into the emotional stuff, but I want you to know you mean a lot to me, and your sisters love you as well.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my eyes shifting around wildly, searching for my ride.

  “So…” Percy shifts the conversation, “don’t worry about any of your stuff. It’ll be here safe and sound until you return.”

  “I know.” My clipped response makes her squirm. I sigh. Damn it, it’s so hard to be cold to this woman. “I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

  She beams a smile like it’s Christmas morning. “I’m so proud of you for getting out there and doing something adventurous.”

  “I’m riding around on a bus and cooking for a group of smelly musicians,” I dismiss.

  “Well, I’m a little jealous. Sometimes I think I missed out on a lot getting married so young.”

  This perspective from her surprises me. Percy isn’t one to talk about regret. She has also never acted like she ever wanted anything in life other than to be the wife of my father. It’s one of the things that annoyed me about her. My mother was a dreamer, so I never understood how my dad could turn around and marry Percy after her.

  “I’m sure it’s going to be much less thrilling than what you think.”

  A silence hangs in the air, weaving its way all around us. Until suddenly, out of nowhere, Percy adds in a solemn voice, “I miss your dad.”

  It knocks the wind out of me. Percy had been married to my dad for eleven years. If anyone knows what it was like to lose a spouse, it’s her. She understands me in a way she never could before dad died. I feel compelled to comfort her, but how? I know comfort is something nobody has ever been able to give me.

  “Me too,” I say at last, offering my true feelings instead of some empty promise that everything is going to be okay. We both know nothing will ever be okay again.

  I grip Percy’s wrist and read the time: 9:25 AM. A cool breeze grazes my arm, and I shiver.

  “Are you nervous?” she asks.

  “A little. I think I’m more afraid that they’ll realize I have no clue what I’m doing and fire me when we’re three states away.” A laugh mingles with my words.

  “Oh, please, you’re the best cook I know. Your dad never stopped talking about how as soon as you were tall enough to reach the stove you were always cooking right alongside him in the restaurant.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, those were fun times.”

  A crunching sound of large tires on asphalt fills the air around us, and we both catch sight of the first tour bus turning down the driveway. And then another. Finally, a couple cargo vans follow up the rear. My heart is pounding in my chest. I expected a van, but not the entire tour. This is it; there’s no turning back.

  “You know, I looked up Head Case—”

  I’m laughing. “Oh God, please tell me you didn’t.”

  “Wait a minute … they’re actually pretty popular. Oh, and that lead singer, wow is he—”

  “A complete ass? Yeah, pretty much,” I interject.

  “Well, he’s a hot ass,” she quickly adds.

  I laugh. I can’t believe those words just came out of Miss Proper Percy’s mouth.

  The oversized vehicle hisses as it comes to a stop. My hands are sweating—why on earth are my hands sweating? The door opens, and the first face I see come off the bus is Christian’s. He’s wearing a smile from ear to ear, emphasizing those delicious dimples.

  “Oh dear God,” Percy whispers under her breath.

  There’s a smirk on my face as I turn and give her a look of shock.

  “What?” she whispers, a blush filling her cheeks. “All I’m saying is he’s attractive.” Her tone shifts as she adds, “Not like your dad was, of course.”

  “Way to bring it full circle to depressing.”

  “I do what I can,” she says with a shrug. “Who’s that?”

  I glance back to the bus and watch as Dean steps off, running a hand through his messed hair. “You don’t recognize him from all your Googling?” I tease her.

  “He seems taller in person,” Percy notes.

  Christian lifts the side panel on the second bus before making his way over to me. “Morning MacKenzie—”

  “Mac, call me Mac,” I remind him.

  He nods, then asks, “Are these your bags?”

  Nodding, I hand them to him and offer a thank you. “I appreciate you all picking me up on the way out of town. I’m storing my car at my stepmom’s, so this saves her from driving me.”

  “No problem,” Dean interjects, walking past me and straight over to Percy. “Besides, it will give the nosey neighborhood ladies lots to gossip about.”

  Percy giggles, and I roll my eyes.

  “And you are?” Dean is standing next to Percy, peering at her with his big, ocean-colored eyes.

  “A recent widow.” I slap my hand across my mouth, overcome by my statement. Why would I say that? I look at Percy’s face, and she’s horrified. I took all of her pain, and I put it out there for the world to see. Why would I do that? Jesus, I really am a horrible person. I may not like her, but she doesn’t deserve that.

  Dean is only quiet for a moment; he scoops Percy’s hand into his and pulls it to his chest. Peering into her widened eyes, he says, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  His sincerity rocks me to my core. It’s as if he has known her his entire life and the idea of her lost love breaks his heart in the deepest of ways. Speechless, motionless, I say nothing as he briefly embraces Percy. He expresses how wonderful it is meeting her and that he looks forward to their next encounter. He then turns and walks back to the bus without a word to me, not even so much as a glance.

  I take a few steps toward Percy and gasp pathetically. “I’m sorry—I don’t know why I said that.”

  She smiles at me, reaches out, and squeezes me tightly. “Be safe. I love you.”

  I pull away and smile. The words float through my mind, and I consider saying them. I think those three words might be the perfect ones to tell her just how sorry I am about my remark. But instead I nod and tell her, “I’ll call.”

  Turning toward the long line of vehicles, I make my way to the second bus—the one Christian is loading my bags under. He stands, closes the hatch, and smiles at me. I’m relieved he walked away before my rude comment moments ago. “This is the ladies’ bus,” he explains. “Kristen, I mean Storm, is on board.”

  I lean in and hug him. “Thank you,” I whisper in his ear. In the one week it’s been since I met Christian, my life has completely changed. I appreciate his kindness and I know this opportunity is in large part due to him.

  Pulling back, he looks at me with confusion in his eyes. “You’re welcome, I guess.” Then he walks away.

  I look back one last time at Percy, standing next to the open door of the bus. I wave and smile at her. I see a familiar sadness on her face, one that I want to get away from. It’s a look that, when I see it, reminds me of the similar pain I feel. Though she doesn’t know the loss of a child, she is still there, in the garden of the darkness—the place I have lived for three years. I’m relieved to be distancing myself from the suffocating grief that plagues our family.

  Climbing up the stairs, I smile at the mid
dle-aged bus driver, who I notice is missing a large corner of one of his front teeth. I walk past him, exchanging some kind words with Storm, or as kind as Storm can be. She shows me where I’ll be bunking, and at that, I collapse onto the tiniest bed I have ever slept on.

  Panic washes over me. The idea that I have no clue with whom or where I am is stuck, playing repeatedly in my head. I’m broken into a million pieces, the shards spreading out from my center, floating away from me to all corners of the earth. Helpless and hopeless to be whole again. A tear escapes from the corner of one eye, but I don’t bother to wipe it away. Instead, I keep my eyes closed. Storm is jabbering on from the bunk above me, but I’m not listening to what she has to say. I’m trying to fight my way through the fear that is consuming me. The bus vibrates beneath me, and I pray I’m making the right decision.

  Thumbing through the recipes in my notebook, I try to pick the perfect selection. This is the first official meal I’m cooking for the guys. My guess is most of them don’t even remember my name, not that I mind it that way. I simply would like to keep this job longer than a few days.

  “Hello?” I hear Storm huff behind me. I turn to reply, and see her bottom lip is sticking out, pouting at my lack of immediate response. I have no clue why she is looking at me like this. “Haven’t you been listening to me?”

  “Huh?”

  “Seriously? I’ve been talking to you for like five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry.” I quickly refocus my attention on her. “I was trying to figure out which dish to make tonight.”

  “Christian wants to know which grocery boxes to pull from the truck,” she repeats herself again, though I’m not sure how many times this has been.

  “Oh, let me see,” I stammer, flipping to my pages again. I have a system—a system that has to work. A system that I pretended I’d used before. I shop for the food I need for each meal within three to five days, depending on the schedule; the ingredients for each meal are then boxed and numbered. Now all I have to do is pick a meal so Christian can pull the box with the corresponding number. “One, tell him to pull the box labeled one.”

  I can’t decide, so the first meal I will make them will be the first one in my binder. Seems like the easiest way to make the decision.

  “All right,” she snarls. “I’ll tell him.”

  Staring at the recipe noted box one, I try to focus long enough to read the words. I sigh with happiness; this recipe has always made me think of home. A clothesline in the back yard, lavender being carried on a breeze, golden light filtering through green trees, friends gathered around a patio fire pit roasting marshmallows. A recipe that makes me think of what home should feel like. Not empty hallways or quiet bedrooms, not dark rooms, and certainly not loneliness.

  Today, I will treat these men to a symphony of tastes. There would be a summer vegetable hash, with onions, garlic, fresh rosemary, red potatoes, carrots, portobello mushrooms, and snap peas sautéed in coconut oil. But the truest treat will be the pork medallions with a cherry sauce. There is simply no way this dish won’t wow my new employers.

  “Box one, m’lady,” Christian says, presenting me with the brown cardboard box.

  “Did you get the meat package from—”

  “The refrigerator? Yes, I put the one with a number one on it inside the box, so you’re ready to go. Do you need help prepping?”

  “No, just curious, when will they eat? I want to time everything correctly,” I ask, taking stock of the items in front of me.

  “They prefer not to eat something heavy before the show so you’ll be prepping for just after they come off stage.”

  “Which is?” I press, wanting a more exact time to plan when the pork medallions should hit the pan.

  Christian pulls out his phone from his pocket and glances at the time on the face of it. “They take stage at 7:30 so you can expect them about an hour or so after that. It won’t always be that early, so sometimes you might have to make them a late lunch or evening snacks. I can go over their schedule in more detail with you later and what they need.”

  I nod, taking in all of his instructions. “Sounds good. I better get started on prep.”

  “Okay, if you need Storm, she’ll be helping with equipment and sound check.”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  A large wind gusts, blowing through the tent and knocking over some spices on the nearby makeshift table.

  “I’ll get some of the crew over here to get some walls zipped in, which should help cut down this wind,” Christian adds. I can feel him looking at me. I avoid looking back for fear I might drift off into his dark eyes or brilliant smile. “Have you ever cooked in conditions like this?”

  I think about lying, but I’ve had enough of pretending I’m something I’m not. That, and Christian has this way about him that makes me want to tell him everything. “Honestly? No, this is going to be new for me. But it doesn’t seem too bad.”

  It doesn’t take long for me to learn I am completely mistaken. Cooking like this is a complete nightmare. The crew came and put up the vinyl walls just as Christian had asked, but the wind was the least of my worries. In order to find water, I had to go in and retrieve it from one of the bathroom sinks at the facility. This in itself just seems wrong, but since I’m boiling it I decide I can overlook it. Then, when I heat the pan in order to get a nice sear on the pork medallions I can’t get it hot enough. The little burners simply don’t pack enough of a punch.

  But I press on, all day, determined to make my first meal for the group perfect. And here we are, it’s now 8:30, and everything is in their warming containers, ready to be consumed. The vegetable hash turned out to be absolute perfection, I’m confident they’ll all love it. The pork medallions, on the other hand, proved to be quite difficult. I lost an entire batch that turned out rubbery because they were cooked on too low of a temperature. Tossing them, I figured out if I cooked one at a time I was able to get enough heat to properly sear it, and this is exactly what I did to each and every one.

  My heart jumps when I hear footsteps approaching; this is it. They’re about to be treated to a delight they probably never expected. Dean is about to see just what a genius I can be with food.

  “How’s it going in here?” Christian’s voice fills the tent.

  “Oh.” I sigh.

  “Gee, sorry to disappoint you.”

  “No, sorry, my fault, I thought you were the band.”

  “Nope, they’re still on stage.”

  “What? I thought the show was supposed to be over,” I blurt out, watching as Christian inspects my food.

  “Is this bread?” he asks, and I can hear the worry in his voice.

  “It’s flax seed bread, so it’s gluten free,” I inform him firmly. “How long are they going to be? The food is warm now.”

  “I don’t know. The first act ran over, and I’m sure they’ll get an encore.”

  “Wait! What?” I feel my heart sink. “They need to eat this stuff while it’s fresh.”

  “Just keep it on the warmers. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Christian suggests before exiting the tent. I don’t even have a chance to argue. Put it on a warmer. What does he think this is? I’ve slaved over this food all day; the last thing I want is for them to sample my skills when it’s not at its peak. But here I am, with nothing to do but wait.

  The minutes tick by, one after another. The anxiety in the pit of my stomach is growing. I take the lid off of the vegetable hash to stir it, and see a pool of liquid has gathered from the condensation of the lid. I stir it as quickly as I can, the potatoes losing their firmness and starting to mash into one big gooey mess with the other veggies. I place the lid back on and decide it’s best I not disturb them again, for fear of making matters worse.

  Nine o’clock has come and gone. The food has been sitting on the warmers for thirty minutes. I begin to pace. My worry shifts to frustration. Is this what it will be like to work for them? Will they always be inconsiderate like this? Is th
is how it works? Am I being unreasonable? If food sat like this in the restaurant, it would be tossed.

  I hear a commotion down the path and the roar of a crowd. I look at my phone: 9:17. I exhale, preparing myself. I want them to love it, but there’s a voice in the back of my head that tells me it’s going to be a disaster. The band mates file into the tent, one after the other. None of them seem to notice me aside from a quick sideways glance from Dean. That is the most he has given me since the embarrassing moment in Percy’s driveway.

  I hear them discussing the show, clawing over each other to reach the plates and utensils I set out. Ripping the lid off the vegetable hash, I cringe, waiting for grumbles, but they scoop heaping mounds of it onto their plates, barely looking at it. And then, one by one, they move to the pork medallions, loading their plates up, and I’m suddenly glad I made extra.

  It’s Dean’s turn. The others are already shoving the food into their mouths, little bits spraying out left and right. I’m not sure what I expected, perhaps more fawning over all the work I put into the food. I tell myself their enjoyment should be enough. They continue to fill their mouths, laughing and enjoying the moment. They must like it or they wouldn’t keep eating, I tell myself.

  Then Dean catches my attention again. He is fishing around inside the container of pork medallions, his nose pulled up as he snarls as if something is disgusting. Panic floods my body as I worry something has fallen in with the pork medallions. I rush over to assist.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “What is this?” His words come out as venom, and the other guys fall silent.

  I peer inside the container and realize there is nothing in there except the food I’d prepared. Proudly, I announce, “Pork medallions in a cherry sauce.”

  He moves the tongs around in the sauce. “Look at it,” he groans, “it’s all congealed.”

  “I—I—” are the only words I can manage.

  “Oh, shut up and eat it,” Pete shouts, shoving another bite into his only partially empty cheeks. Then, with a full mouth, he adds a muffled, “It’s delicious.”

  “Thank you,” I say with a nod and return to the corner.