I can’t help but hear the hidden meaning in her words and that look. If you can’t get over your fear of wildlife and take up gardening, then you may as well reconsider living out here.
“Yeah, we’ve been so busy with the house and the charter business, we haven’t been back there lately.” But do I dare admit to this woman that I have no plans to become a gardener?
“Okay, come on. Let’s go and see what state it’s in.” She marches for the side door, her heavy boots clomping on the floor, leaving more muddy prints.
“Right now?” I peer down at my pajamas. “But I’m not dressed.”
“Who you got to impress? The goat?” She snorts.
“Uh … I …” I’m momentarily stunned, unsure how to respond. But she’s Toby’s mother and one of only a few neighbors, I remind myself. Someone I might need help from in the future. And a woman whose son disappeared five years ago, never to be seen again.
My annoyance softens with that reminder.
I just need to nod and go along with this charade until she’s gone.
She gives Jonah a broad smile. “It was nice to meet you. Make sure you get Toby in here if you have any issues with your planes. He’s the best mechanic around, and I’m not sayin’ that because I gave birth to him.”
“I’m planning on giving him a call in the next few days,” Jonah promises.
“Good. Come on, let’s go, Calla. I haven’t got all day!” She caps off her request with a wave of her hand, one that tells me I’m coming with her whether I like it or not.
I shoot a glare at Jonah—he’s still grinning, amused by Muriel’s stern demeanor or by my visible discomfort over my predicament, or maybe both—and head for my rubber boots.
* * *
“There’s a good boy.” Muriel pulls chunks of banana peel from her pocket and tosses it over the fence to Zeke. “You’re looking a little thin. Aren’t your new owners takin’ good care of you?”
Zeke bleats and rushes to gobble it up, as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks.
“Jonah comes out every morning and night to feed and check on him,” I say, a touch of defensiveness in my tone.
“Well, no wonder he’s not eatin’. You know, Zeke doesn’t like men.” Again with that matter-of-fact voice.
“He doesn’t mind being fed by one.” Something tells me my childhood horror stories wouldn’t earn any sympathy here.
She harrumphs, and it could be in agreement or disappointment with me—I can’t read this woman—but then says, “Probably the stress of change. First Colette gone, then Phil, though Zeke never liked …” Her words drift as her eyes go wide, locked on the triangular face watching us from the tiny opening. “Is that a raccoon in your chicken coop?”
My stomach tightens instinctively. There’s no mistaking the displeasure in her tone. “Yes?” He’s taken to his new home. Though he has free range of the entire pen, he usually lingers inside the coop.
“You can’t have a raccoon living in your chicken coop. How are you gonna have any chickens?”
We’re not, I want to say, but admitting that would somehow feel like another strike against me. So, I say the next best thing I can think of because I’m tired of bearing the brunt of Muriel’s disapproval and I’m still angry with Jonah. “Bandit is Jonah’s pet.”
Maybe she’ll scold him, too.
The jerk would probably enjoy it, though.
Another harrumph, and then she continues traipsing through the boggy, brown grass as if this property is her own, leading the way to the spacious clearing and the enormous rectangular enclosure that Phil put at about a quarter acre in size. “That’s your greenhouse.” She points out the small, dilapidated structure on the far end of the pen—the wooden frame missing pieces, the plastic sheeting tattered and dangling. “Bad storm came through and twisted it all up last summer. Never got around to fixin’ it in the fall.” She flips open the lid on a panel next to the gate and flicks a power switch. “This is a voltmeter,” she announces, pulling a black rectangular box from her plaid coat pocket.
“I think I found one of those.” I put it in the hallway closet with everything else that Jonah said we couldn’t throw out, but I have no idea what to do with.
“’Course you would have. You’ll want to make yourself a little garden kit, so you have it at the ready when you head out here every morning.”
I struggle to school my expression. When I head out here every morning?
“And check your fences often.” She taps it against the electric wire and watches the screen. Nothing appears. “See? Not workin’. They’ve been having issues with this one and the animal pen for years. I remember foxes got into their chicken coop one winter years ago and slaughtered the lot of them. Another year it was a wolf. Jonah’ll need to fix this soon, or you’ll have critters in here mowin’ down everything, and you don’t want to lose an entire summer’s worth of work overnight.”
Does Jonah even know how to fix an electric fence? Should I be embarrassed that I moved across the continent for a guy and I can’t answer that?
She tucks her tool back into her pocket. “I harvested and cleaned the beds up as best I could last September. Buried the leftovers for some good compost. Colette was always good at keepin’ on top of the weeds so there wasn’t too much of that, at least. And I didn’t get a chance to amend the soil, but we can do that once the ground warms up a bit more. Spring’s takin’ its sweet time comin’ this year.”
My attention wanders beyond the garden to where patches of snow persist within the thicket, despite the warmer temperatures. The last claims of winter, holding on tight. “When do you think that’ll be?”
“Another week or so, if we don’t get too much rain.” Reaching the gate, she pauses to inspect a cinch in the wire. “Before you have that hot tub in and screened porch of yours finished.”
Muriel must have been standing by the door for a moment, listening, before she knocked.
I pretend to survey the patch of dirt within the fencing but really to hide the heat in my cheeks. “I don’t know the first thing about gardening,” I admit, wishing my mother were here to navigate this conversation so I wouldn’t feel so inept.
“You’ll know more than the first thing by the end of summer,” Muriel assures me, emphasizing her determination with a firm nod, as if she’s made it her personal mission. “You’ll need to pick up all your seeds at the local Feed & Mill. We’ll get your little greenhouse set up for next year’s seedlings but for this year, I should have some extra lettuce, peppers, onions, and tomatoes you can use. Oh, and cabbage, for your sauerkraut. You’ve been saving all the jars from the cellar, right?”
“We have,” I confirm. Mainly because I’m not sure what to do with them, so I just put them back on the cellar shelves after Jonah’s done polishing off their contents. But right now, under the perpetually disapproving eye of Muriel, I’m relieved I’ve done something right.
“Smart girl. Good. Makes it easier when you go to do all your preserving.”
Right. My preserving. I recall the day I walked into Agnes’s house last summer while she was pickling vegetables from Whittamore’s—payment to Mabel for her labor. Her kitchen was a war zone of jars and dirty pots, her skin and shirt stained purple from beets, despite having worn gloves. My nose curled from the vinegar and cloves in the air. I remember asking myself why anyone would go to all that trouble when they can go to the store if they want a jar of beets.
“Colette’s strawberries are over there, under the straw. That’s the trick with them. You need three to five inches of mulch to overwinter the plants.”
I follow her stubby finger to the far corner. “That looks like a lot of strawberry plants.” The patch takes up at least a quarter of this entire garden.
“Colette loved her strawberries. Sold almost forty quarts at the farmers’ market last year!” Muriel says proudly.
I have no idea how much forty quarts is, but I can guarantee it’s far more than a person like me—who doesn’t
eat strawberries—could ever want. “So, there is a local farmers’ market where I can buy fresh produce?” As in, I can avoid all this work?
“Yup. Every Friday afternoon from end of June till September in the community center. They sell all kinds of stuff. Produce, local honey, jam. Colette made wonderful jam. We served it at the Ale House for breakfast. People can’t get enough of it. If this year’s growin’ season’s as good, I reckon you’ll be elbow-deep in mashed berries for a good three weeks.” Muriel’s head bobs up and down. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll help you with your first batch, so you get the hang of it.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, though I feel anything but thankful. Yet again, Muriel assumes I intend to spend my entire summer gardening and preserving.
She doesn’t clue in to my reluctance. Or maybe she does, but she refuses to acknowledge it. “We need to make sure things keep growin’ in here.” Her brow is furrowed as she studies the barren dirt again. Her best friend’s garden, that she laid to rest after she laid her best friend to rest.
Maybe that’s what is at the root of Muriel’s dogged determination to mold me into the consummate gardener—loyalty.
“I best be gettin’ going. I promised Teddy I’d make him an omelette.” She makes to step away but then stalls, her lips twisting, the wrinkles around her mouth more pronounced. “This ain’t none of my business—”
I struggle to school my expression. Sentences that start with those words are never welcome.
“But I’m guessin’ Jonah likes to have control.”
Hearing her use the word “control” to describe Jonah makes my irritation flare. A controlling man is not appealing. “He likes to have his say. It’s not about control,” I correct. Jonah is assertive and he knows what he wants. Those are appealing qualities.
Her head tilts in a “you silly, naive girl” way. “Men like him don’t do well havin’ no say over things like finances.”
She’s Toby’s mother, I remind myself, biting my tongue and forcing a smile.
“You know that resort? All those acres we own?” She juts her thumb in the direction of the Trapper’s Crossing resort. “That’s my family’s property. Teddy married into it. But the day I told him that we were gettin’ married or to quit wastin’ my time, I knew it would become as much his as mine. I still had a hard time lettin’ go, seein’ him as having an equal say. Took a few years to get used to the idea of that, especially for a stubborn broad like me. And I’ll tell ya, those were some hard years.” She shakes her head. “But there is no labeling ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ once you’re married.”
“We’re not married.”
“And you won’t ever be if you two let a big pile of money get in the way of it happening.” She points at the house. “It seems you’ve already made some big commitments to each other, buying this place, all the way out here. Rings and a ceremony … that’s all for show. It’s the day-to-day stuff that makes a real marriage, and out here where the winters are long and cold, you don’t wanna be at odds with your other half, believe me. You’ll need him.” She smiles knowingly. “I get what I want when it comes to the resort. Teddy thinks he’s runnin’ things around there, and I let the fool think it. Everybody wins.” Her pat against my shoulder is firm, and yet somehow comforting. “Do me a favor and listen to a willful old goat who had to learn the hard way.”
I find myself nodding dumbly.
* * *
“You two need to come down to the Ale House at the end of the month!” Muriel hollers, throwing a leg over the seat of her ATV. Behind it is a metal rack and on that rack sits a long, slender gun. The sight of it is unnerving. “It’s our annual chili cook-off. A good way to meet locals. The seasonal folk start lurking then, too. Comin’ up to open their cabins.”
“I like chili,” Jonah announces from his spot on the covered porch, leaning against the post, his shapely arms even more pronounced folded over his chest.
“I’ll have Toby send a list of everything we need to prep the soil. You go on and get that stuff for Calla. She’s got a lot of work ahead of her this summer.”
Jonah grins, enjoying this far too much. “I’ll be happy to help Calla with her garden in any way I can.”
She waggles her finger at me. “And don’t forget, tomorrow, eight a.m. at the Burger Shack. They’ll …” The low rumble of the ATV drowns out the rest of her words, and then she’s off, speeding down our driveway.
“Bet she could shoot a sprinting deer from a thousand yards with gale force winds,” Jonah says, equal amounts amusement and admiration in his voice.
“If she doesn’t just order it to drop dead.” I sigh with defeat, my gaze drifting over the expanse of water. The snow melted weeks ago, leaving behind a frozen blue surface that gleamed in the sunlight but that locals no longer dared test with their recreational toys. It seemed like the spring thaw happened overnight. It began with patches of dull black ice and slush appearing, and then the jarring sound much like a cracking whip as fissures formed and ice chunks broke off, to nudge each other like slow-moving bumper cars as they floated to the shoreline. There, they dissolved into the cold blue lake that stretches before me. Early in the day, the surface is glass, a perfect reflection of the sky and clouds above. But now a slight breeze in the air creates a ripple across its surface.
Lately I’ve found myself inclined to sit on the porch with my morning coffee and admire the yawning expanse of water, land, and mountain. I never thought of myself as a person who gravitated to water, but in this vast wilderness and solitude, there is an unparalleled calm that comes with starting my day here.
This morning, though, there will be no finding calm, my peace suitably disturbed. I don’t have the energy to deal with Jonah, not after dealing with Muriel.
I climb the porch steps and push through the front door, kicking off my rubber boots along the way to the kitchen, aiming for the laundry room where our mop bucket is stashed.
“Hey.” Jonah catches up to me, reaching out to rope an arm around my waist.
“I’m not in the mood—”
“I know it’s your money. I’m just trying to …” He spins me around to face him. “Fuck, I don’t know what I’m tryin’ to do. Anytime I come into some extra money, it goes straight into the bank.”
“It’s not like I don’t have most of it invested already.” Simon’s financial adviser—I guess I should start thinking of him as mine, too—has tied up most of it in a dozen different ways, ranging from short- to long-term, low risk to high yield.
“I know you do.” He brings his forehead to mine for a few beats before pulling back to show me earnest eyes. “I’m sorry for being an asshole earlier.”
“A big asshole,” I correct, feeling my lingering anger—and hurt, now that I consider it—disintegrate.
“Fine. I deserve that. I guess my priorities are different. I have no idea how we’ll be doing in five years, and I like safety nets. I wasn’t raised to drop cash like this.”
I curl my arms around his waist. “Unfortunately for you, I was.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Simon doesn’t seem like an extravagant guy.”
“His car is older than I am.” In mint condition because he coddles it and keeps his mileage low, but still. The only time he gets new clothes is when my mother buys them for him, because she’s tired of seeing him in the same five outfits every week. She’s been trying to convince him to redecorate his office for the past ten years and he’s fought her on it. I think it might be the only argument against her that he’s ever won. “Simon’s very … fiscally responsible with his money.” Much like Jonah, I’m beginning to see.
“So how does he deal with Susan, then?”
“They agreed on a monthly budget for her ‘frivolous spending.’” I let go of Jonah long enough to air quote that word. “She stays within her budget, and he’s not allowed to so much as blink at her purchases, no matter what. Not a word.”
Jonah bites his bottom lip, hesitating. “Is that
something we should maybe consider doing here? Or at least talk about purchases over a certain amount before they’re made, to make sure we’re both thinking clearly?”
I shoot him a flat look. “By both, you mean me, though.”
Jonah’s lips curl into a small, playful smile.
Muriel’s advice—though unwanted—loiters in my mind. “I’d be willing to discuss anything over a thousand.”
“Five hundred,” he counters.
“So, two thousand?”
His brow furrows.
“I’m trapped in a log cabin in the woods, with a goat and a raccoon and no driver’s license. A crazy woman with a gun just told me I’m making strawberry jam and growing cabbage this year. Frivolous spending is all the joy I have!”
His burst of laughter carries through the stillness. “Fine. A thousand, but only if you plant brussels sprouts back there.”
“Ew. Really?” I grimace. “Fine. And you can’t argue with me just because it’s not important to you.”
He glares at me. “A five-thousand-dollar dining room table is fucking ridiculous, Calla. We’d use it once a year, if that!”
“Fine,” I agree begrudgingly.
He pulls me in tight. “We’re gonna have to come to a more reasonable common ground eventually, though.”
“Eventually,” I agree with mock innocence, smoothing my fingertips over his coarse beard. It’s finally back to the length it was when I left Alaska the first time.
“I hate fighting with you.” He leans in to capture my lips with his.
“Stop being insufferable, then.” I trace the seam of his mouth with my tongue.
“You want insufferable?” The wicked grin that flashes across his face sets my pulse pounding. With a swift tug, he yanks my pajama pants down, letting them fall to my ankles. My panties follow in a split second, and before I can balk, he has a grip of the backs of my thighs and he’s hoisting me onto the kitchen counter.
Chapter Nineteen
Wild At Heart: A Novel Page 16