Bountiful

by Sarina Bowen

  It wouldn’t be nice of me to wonder aloud if that was normal, right?

  “And he’ll, like, fall asleep anywhere. Even sitting up, with a toy in his hand.”

  “Hmm,” I said, feigning interest.

  “The first time I saw him, it was love,” Castro gushed. He spotted the look on my face. “I guess there’s one big difference, though. If my sister really needed me, I’d be there. But the truth is that he’s not really my baby. I can just hand ’im back if he cries. All I have to be is the fun uncle. So he’s real easy to love.” My teammate reached across the counter and squeezed my shoulder. “Give yourself time, D. We gotta get that deer-in-the-headlights look off your face.”

  If only.

  “So.” Castro clapped his hands. “Let’s talk about diapering. I’m gonna show you some skills. First you remove the old diaper. There are tapes that hold the diaper on.”

  “Tapes?” A fragment of a memory floated up to the surface of my brain. “I thought there were safety pins.”

  “Pins? Hell no. Too dangerous. Welcome to the twenty-first century. The tape is the multiple-use kind, so after you roll that wet diaper up you can close it again. If there’s poop, you use baby wipes to clean it out of all the crevices.”

  “That sounds…alarming.”

  He grinned. “Baby wipes are awesome. Once when Mario had a poopsplosion I used a half a box of them. You could clean up, like, organized crime with those suckers.”

  “Good to know.”

  But he wasn’t done talking yet. “The dirty wipes go inside the messy diaper. Then you tape up the whole mess into a little poop grenade. Most moms have a diaper bin thing to throw them into. You know those hazmat wastebaskets in the doctor’s office? Like that.”

  “Right.” I eyed the clock with a pointed look.

  “Now, always put something under the baby before you change her. A baby boy can whiz right in your eye while you’re working, so you gotta stay nimble. But a girl just makes a puddle, I think.”

  He thinks. We were the blind leading the blind. Or the stupid leading the stupider…

  “Then you take the fresh diaper…” Castro grabbed a paper napkin and set it on the counter. He took the banana peel out of my hand and laid it on the napkin. “Just fit the front part between the baby’s legs, and tug it upward…” While I watched, he began to bring the napkin’s front and back corners together between halves of the banana peel.

  “Whoa,” a voice said behind us. “What the fuck are you two doing?” Our sleepy teammate—Silas, the backup goalie—shuffled into the kitchen, staring at Castro’s banana diaper.

  “You don’t even want to know,” I warned. “You just stay in your happy place.”

  “My happy place needs coffee.”

  “Tape ’er up, and boom!” Castro said, as if I was still listening. “Fresh kid. Easy peasy.”

  There was nothing easy about any of this. “Pour me a cup, too, Silas. This could be a rough day.”

  * * *

  I wasn’t dumb enough to show up for my beating at the Rossi farm empty handed.

  With a little help from Silas—who had arrived after Leo and O’Doul went back to New York—I was well armed with a bouquet of flowers for Zara’s mom.

  And earlier in the week, Castro and I had waited in line for two hours outside a Montpelier food co-op to buy our allotment of the most decorated beer ever made. So I also had a case of coveted Heady Topper beer for Zara’s uncles.

  With my bribes in the back seat, I drove with the windows down along several winding dirt roads, following the instructions Zara had texted. I knew I was in the right place when row upon row of pear trees appeared out the window. The fruits were green and shorter than my thumb. But there were hundreds of them on every tree.

  I found the sign for Rossi Farm and turned onto a gravel driveway. The rental car bumped along until a big house came into view. It was a white clapboard farmhouse with a gently sagging porch and a porch swing.

  As soon as I parked the car, Zara came outside. My progress was halted momentarily while I took her in. She was wearing a sundress in orange and white that made her look… Softer was the word that came to mind. She looked more approachable than the bartender I’d met two years ago.

  “Hi,” she said shyly. Then she smiled like I’d done something funny.

  “Hi,” I echoed, walking toward her. I opened my arms to greet her, then hesitated. After our ugly moment earlier in the week, I needed to take care not to overstep boundaries. But then she came closer, allowing me to wrap her in the world’s most awkward we’re-just-friends hug.

  I kissed her cheek quickly. She smelled like sunshine and perfume, and my libido shook itself awake.

  No time for that, I reminded myself, stepping back. “Have your brothers loaded the shotgun, yet?”

  “Oh.” She waved a hand dismissively. “There’s more than one shotgun. But lunch is almost ready, and they’re more interested in my mother’s cooking than in firearms. After lunch, though, you never know.”

  “Noted.” I went to the back door of the rental car and popped it open. “These are for your mother,” I said, pulling out a generous bouquet arranged in a basket.

  “Hello, kiss-ass.” Her face lit up with humor, and I found myself smiling back at her.

  “Can you blame me? And these are for everyone.” I hefted the beer out of the back.

  “Nicely done, champ. You might live through dessert.” She turned and carried the flowers toward the house and I followed her, trying not to notice her long legs in that dress.

  Maybe this whole thing would be easier if I wasn’t attracted to Zara. But there was no chance of that fading. She just did it for me. I couldn’t even say exactly why. It was some heady combination of her looks and her take-no-prisoners attitude.

  She reminded me of a female superhero from the comics I’d read as a boy. Put her in a bodysuit with a bow and arrow in her hands and ink in that dark hair and those piercing eyes.

  Then look out, boys.

  * * *

  A half hour later I was no longer worried about surviving until dessert. I was, however, worried that I might kill someone. Because Zara’s uncle Otto was a real dickface.

  We were seated at the dining table in preparation for the meal, and he’d already made disparaging remarks about Zara’s coffee shop, Alec’s bar, and Zara’s mother’s menu choices. “Who puts sesame oil on broccoli?” he grumbled. “What, are we Chinese now?”

  “I love sesame oil,” I said immediately. “I put it on everything. Even eggs.”

  Otto snorted. Then he mumbled something about “arrogant city folk.”

  Whatever.

  Zara’s mother had just put about ten dishes on the long table in about as many seconds, two of which were giant pans of lasagna. “TV off, Benito!” she hollered. “And bring a corkscrew to the table!”

  “Can I help you in any way?” I’d asked a moment ago, watching her make lightning-fast adjustments to the meal she’d prepared. Now I knew where Zara got her efficient demeanor.

  Mrs. Rossi had given me the side-eye. “Do you actually cook?”

  “Only bachelor food. Eggs. Burgers. Chicken. But I take coaching really well.”

  She’d sniffed. “I have everything under control. But it’s good to know you’re not completely helpless, like some of the men in this family.” She’d turned toward an open doorway and bellowed, “ON THE TABLE! LET’S GO!”

  Zara had set the flowers I’d brought in the center of the table. Now she was seated beside me. Her brother Alec was already seated as well, and shooting me grumpy looks. Another brother—Damien—had given my hand exactly the bruising shake that I’d give his if he’d gotten my sister pregnant. But now he was ignoring me from the seat beside Otto’s.

  Benito was the last to sit down. I noticed that Zara’s fourth brother was missing, but I didn’t ask why.

  And then there were the uncles. Otto had an identical twin, Art. But I found them easy enough to tell apart.
Otto was the sterner man, and his hair was grayer. Art had less to say, but he smiled when his sister put a lasagna down in front of him, and he didn’t seem to want to kill me.

  “So,” I said, clearing my throat. “Twins run in your family?” I asked, thinking of Zara and Benito. I gave Zara’s elbow a squeeze. “Only one at a time for you? Slacker.”

  “God, bite your tongue!” She laughed.

  But then I heard Alec mutter under his breath. “Maybe you just couldn’t get the job done.”

  You couldn’t pay me to touch that comment.

  “Thanks for these,” Art said, cracking open a can of Heady Topper. “You’ll have one, right?” he asked me.

  “Sure, I’d love one.” Or ten. “Want one?” I asked Zara.

  She shook her head. “Can I have just a sip of yours? Nursing is literally a buzz kill.”

  Otto snorted. “Offer the nursing mother a sixteen-ounce beer at noon, whydontcha?”

  “Right. Sorry,” I said, feeling my neck heat.

  Zara gave me a sympathetic look. I winked at her. Otto was a prick, and her brothers looked ready to pounce. But I honestly didn’t care what they thought of me. I was here for Zara and the baby. They were the only ones who mattered.

  Luckily, Zara’s mother finally took her seat. “I’d like to say grace,” she announced, so I bowed my head.

  I always felt like a fraud at moments like this. Nobody had said grace at my house when I was a child. Hell, I couldn’t remember ever sitting down to a home-cooked meal. Even when I’d lived with my grandparents, food sometimes appeared on the kitchen counter. And when it didn’t, I heated things from cans for Bess and myself.

  “Thank you lord for blessing us with this meal, and may we know thy everlasting grace—” A baby’s squawk erupted from the other room, and she flinched.

  “Sorry.” Zara pushed back her chair and stood. “I knew she wouldn’t go for a nap right now.”

  “Amen!” Otto declared, then reached for the spatula in one of the lasagna pans, and his nephews reached for their beers.

  Mrs. Rossi raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I’m sorry, God. I tried. Thank you for these blessings. Amen.”

  Dishes were passed, and I waited for Zara to reappear. She came back with Nicole in her arms just as Benito offered me a piece of lasagna. I picked up Zara’s plate instead, extending it toward her brother, who plated it up.

  “No, you eat,” Zara said when I offered her the plate. “I’m going to cut up a few things for the baby first.”

  Other dishes were passed, and my plate became loaded down with two different salads, a slab of ham, and cheesy potatoes. There were olives in a cut-glass dish and green beans topped with almonds.

  “You must have been cooking all week,” I remarked to Zara’s mom. “This is delicious.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at me from the other end of the table, but somehow it still looked chilly. “I like to make a big spread for the family on Sunday. Then I walk out the front door and let Otto and Art deal with the cleanup.”

  “Totally worth it,” Art said, helping himself to the ham.

  Zara cubed a piece of meat into bite-sized pieces and cut several green beans in half. “Here,” she said, bringing the plate closer to where Nicole sat in her lap.

  But the baby pointed at the potatoes in their casserole dish and squawked.

  “Hmm,” Zara grumbled. “If you eat those, I’ll probably be wearing that cheese on my dress.” But she reached for the serving spoon anyway.

  “Shouldn’a got all fancied up to try to impress your man, then,” Otto rumbled.

  Zara glared at him, and I developed a fascination with my lasagna, pretending I hadn’t heard that comment.

  “So what do you do for a living?” Art asked me.

  Let the grilling commence. I was surprised I’d made it this long without being questioned. “Hockey,” I said.

  “That’s not a job,” he grunted.

  “There’s no desk, if that’s what you mean,” I said lightly. “But it pays, and it keeps me busy. I play eighty-five games during the regular season, and sometimes we make the playoffs. Keeps me off the streets.”

  “Did you go to college?” Otto asked.

  Did you? my inner smart-ass wanted to fire back. But I reined it in. I’d basically come here to be grilled, not that it was fun. “I didn’t finish college. The NHL signed me after my sophomore year. And I had bills to pay so it wasn’t a tough decision to leave the University of Michigan.”

  I’d been a decent student before I’d dropped out, but the NHL paycheck had been impossible to resist, since it would allow me to pay Bess’s college tuition and still feed myself. Who wouldn’t make that choice?

  “Still have your teeth?” Benito asked, smiling.

  “Mostly. But my dental bill is pretty brutal.” Like everyone else in hockey, I had a mouth full of crowns. Not my favorite topic. “I chew carefully now. It could be worse.”

  “How many years do you think you’ve got left?” he asked, watching me with a thoughtful expression.

  “On earth? A bunch, I hope. In hockey, maybe five.” Okay, that was probably a stretch. “Maybe less,” I amended. “But I don’t like to think that way.”

  Zara’s mother piled on. “What’s your Plan B?”

  The questions just kept flying. And I hated that one. “Not quite sure yet,” I admitted. “Some guys coach, some work in the media.” I happened to hate sports-TV, so that wasn’t really a good choice for me. But the Rossi family didn’t get to hear all my secrets. I cut another bite of lasagna with my fork. “This is really fabulous,” I said, and meant it. “I don’t really eat carbs during the off-season but I am going to have to finish this, anyway.”

  “You drink beer,” Zara pointed out.

  “Yeah. That’s why I don’t eat carbs.” I lifted another forkful. “During the season I can eat and drink almost anything, and I still drop weight. During the summer I have to be a little more careful. The Chinese takeout place knows me as that weirdo who doesn’t want any rice with his order.”

  “That is weird,” she said, offering Nicole a tiny bite of potato on the end of a spoon.

  I glanced at her plate, which still held only baby bites of food. “Don’t you get to eat?” I asked.

  “In a minute,” she said.

  Well, then. It was obviously time to make the point I’d come here to make—that I’d stand by Zara and her baby if she needed me to. So I pushed my plate forward, out of the way. Then I offered my hands to take the baby. “Switch?”

  The corners of Zara’s mouth turned up in amusement, and I waited to see what she’d say. And everyone else watched us as carefully as a season finale on Game of Thrones.

  But Zara’s mother jumped out of her chair and came around to take Nicole herself. “Finish that lasagna,” she ordered me. “I only make it a few times a year. And I’ll take care of the baby.”

  She’d fired me before I’d even begun my job.

  * * *

  Alec got chatty as the meal wore on, taking some of the focus away from me. “I think all those emails I wrote to travel bloggers are paying off. The summer tourists have found The Gin Mill.”

  “It’s either that or the fact that you’re sleeping with that woman from the distributor,” Benito teased him. “You never run out of the hard-to-get beers anymore.”

  Alec grinned, and Mrs. Rossi gave them both a stern look.

  “Seriously, though. Business is good. If my cash flow keeps up I can renovate the mill kitchen and think about serving food.”

  “Don’t get out over your skis,” Otto grumbled. “The off-seasons’ll kill ya. Running a bar is hard.”

  “Oh yeah?” I heard myself ask. “Do you run a bar?”

  “The Mountain Goat in Tuxbury,” he said. “Goin’ on fifteen years now.”

  “Huh.” I picked up my excellent beer and took a sip. “Two years ago I went there all the time. Never met you, though. Seemed like Zara was running the whole show—t
ending bar, managing the help, keeping the place orderly. Tossing out the drunks, too. You’re right—looked like a lot of work.”

  Otto chewed slowly, staring me down. Maybe he was trying to decide whether or not I’d meant to call him out on if he’d put in hours at The Mountain Goat. Under the table, Zara nudged me with her knee. But I was pretty sure it was more of a solidarity tap than a plea to shut up.

  Meanwhile, Benito hid his smile behind his beer can. At least somebody found me funny.

  “This is a great meal, Mom,” Zara said, deflecting. “Is the baby still eating?”

  “She sure is. Another member of the clean-plate club. Takes after her daddy, maybe?”

  Daddy. How wild that she was referring to me.

  * * *

  After lunch I tried to ferry some of the dishes to the kitchen with Benito and Alec, while Otto scowled at me.

  “Guests don’t help,” Mrs. Rossi said sternly. “Have a glass of wine instead?”

  “Or come outside to see the orchard,” Zara suggested. “Nicole needs to run around a little and tire herself out.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, grateful to escape the claustrophobia of the Rossi house.

  The old farmhouse screen door squeaked (as a screen door should) as Zara carried Nicole outside. I followed her, trying not to admire her tanned thighs as she set Nicole onto the grass. “Let’s show Dave all the pear trees,” she said, pointing toward the first tidy row of orchard trees. I noticed that Zara hadn’t used the word “daddy.”

  Nicole took off at a toddle, her chubby little feet bare in the grass. “Vermont is an awfully nice place to be a baby,” I said. “Nobody can run free like that where I grew up in Detroit.”

  We followed Nicole between the row of pear trees, and it felt like entering a green tunnel. “Detroit, huh? You never told me where you grew up,” Zara said.

  “You never let me tell you anything,” I said.

  “That is true.” She bit her lip, looking sheepish.