“Good. Let’s find a way to make that work. Maybe for the time I’m nursing, you can come visit on a regular basis, until she’s old enough to visit you by herself.”
“That’s not enough, Ruby. Would that be enough for you?”
She smiled. “No.” She rubbed her hands over her belly, then rocked forward and held out her hand, palm up. For the space of long moments, he held himself apart.
Finally he capitulated, placing his hand in hers and holding on.
“We made a baby, Liam, and whatever happened at the end, it was born in love from my side.”
“Mine, too,” he whispered.
“There’s time for us to figure out the details of how we’ll do this, but if we both try to be kind, it should work out okay.”
He nodded. “We can try.”
Hours later, when all the phone calls had been made, when all the relatives had been notified, when Liam had been sent on his way, and when Ruby had fed her kitten and made sure that Willow was comfortable with Valerie and Hannah, she flung a sweater over her shoulders and walked down to Noah’s cottage.
It was a small place, only four rooms in a square, with a front porch looking down to the pastures and the mountains beyond. Noah was sitting on the steps, a sturdy white cat stretched out on his legs, covering him from knee to waist, his tail dripping down the side of Noah’s thigh. “Hey,” Noah said as she came up. “You work things out with your baby daddy?”
“Did you see him come back?”
He nodded.
She half-grinned. “I guess that’s what he is, huh?” She laughed. “Yeah, we’re good for now. I suspect it will get testy in a little while, but tonight I sent him on his way and we’re good.”
“Good.”
She twisted her arms out in front of her, clasping her hands and stretching. It eased the muscles in her shoulders and back of her neck. “How are you doing?”
He bent his head, and Ruby saw that he was fighting tears. “Okay.”
“Oh, honey.” She scooted closer and put her arms around his shoulders. “Go ahead and let it out. I’m here. I don’t mind.”
“I’m going to miss her like an arm,” he said in a raw voice. “It was her time, and it was a good death, but she made me whole again. Just being here, being accepted.” Tears dripped on the cat, and his tail flicked. “I don’t think I realized how much better I felt until today.”
“She was very special, that’s for sure.” Ruby rubbed a circle on his back, and he rubbed the cat on his lap. “Tell me about when you first came here.”
“I was so tired of death and destruction and blood and noise,” he said. “I wanted to grow things.”
He talked about his conversations with Lavender. He told Ruby about their first meeting, when she’d looked him over with despair. He talked until he was hoarse, one story after another, and Ruby listened. When he wound down, she told him about Lavender tracking her down on the Internet and laughing when she found out Ruby was only twenty-one. It was impossible, she said, but they became good friends and founded the email loop that sustained the Foodie Four. She told him about when Valerie’s husband and daughters had died, how Lavender had raised nearly $10,000 in relief funds so that Valerie could have time and space to figure everything out.
Talked out, they sat in silence on the steps. Crickets sang in the grass, and far away a cow mooed. Stars shone, and the moon was still bright and white. “I’m over him,” Ruby said.
“Are you?”
“Definitely.” She leaned on his shoulder, her arm touching his side. No ghosts crowded in today. It was only the two of them and the baby dancing inside her and the crickets and the cat.
Noah took her hand. “Good,” he said, content. There were things that were coming—what to do with the farm and how to keep it, and all the details of living—but Ruby felt a quiet, clear certainty that it would somehow all work out.
I’m in Dead Gulch, friends. Nothing to worry about, a family emergency. I’ll tell you everything later.
Chapter 42
Ginny awakened with the dawn shining through the window, a hot bright dawn, unlike the ones she’d met recently, and she stared at her feet for a long moment, trying to place herself in time and space. It was her grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine that oriented her. A stone dropped in her gut.
Home. Back in Dead Gulch.
She got up and showered quickly, washing the travel day out of her hair, scrubbing the last of Jack away. She didn’t cry this morning. There were no tears left, only a hard little kernel of loss.
As the coffee brewed—the pot had stood empty the entire time she was gone—she dialed Ruby’s number. It went straight through to voice mail, and Ginny left a message. “Hey, Ruby. I’m sorry. I just realized it’s practically the middle of the night there. Give me a call when you get up. I’m so depressed I feel like I’m walking around in concrete shoes.”
She carried her coffee out to the deck, an elaborate thing Matthew had built a couple of years ago, complete with high-tech grill and seating for twenty, even though they never had parties or even much family over. He didn’t grill, either, but thought maybe he’d figure it out.
Someday.
She sat on one of the deck chairs, looking over the view of fields planted with corn and soybeans and, in the distance, a silo. The water tower squatted like a flying saucer in a bad movie, the letters fading so badly that only E D G CH was visible. As teenagers, the local kids dared one another to climb it, but Ginny never had. She was afraid of heights, afraid of getting in trouble, afraid of—
Afraid. Afraid to drive, in case she ran into a drunk driver and died a terrible, bloody death. Afraid to climb the water tower in case she fell off. Afraid to apply to anything but Kansas colleges in case she failed or there wasn’t enough money. Afraid to look stupid. Afraid to break up with her boyfriend, who bored her, because maybe nobody else would ever like her. Afraid of getting pregnant. Afraid of—
Afraid, afraid, afraid.
Afraid to stand up to her mother. Afraid to live somewhere else.
The same feeling swamped her now: fear that somehow she would get trapped here, losing letters, fading away until there was nothing left of her.
The only antidote was action. Rather than sit here and stew in the juice of fear, she would take her camera downtown and shoot whatever she saw. It would be a good blog, anyway.
She was only a few blocks from downtown Dead Gulch—what little there was of it—and even so early there were plenty of vehicles already parked in front of the Morning Glory Café. She stood across the street and shot the scene: The big pickup trucks that ranchers and farmers used to haul water and hay and whatever else they needed. The Morning Glory’s cheerful window, painted with vines and blue and pink and white flowers. Trees lined the street, giving deep shade during the hot summers, and they were fully leafed and glossy at this moment. A blue heeler, apparently free for the day, trotted with purpose down the sidewalk. Two men in cowboy hats and jeans stood talking in front of the drugstore. Looking through her viewfinder, she saw it objectively. A country village street, peaceful, productive, even beautiful.
How had she never been able to see that before?
Leaving the lens cap in her pocket, she crossed the street and shot a long view of the sidewalk—sideways, with the shops on one side, the street on the other—then headed into the Morning Glory for some breakfast.
She sat at the counter, swiveling on the stool, camera in hand. “Hey there, Ginny,” Bill Miles said from three stools down. “Heard that husband of yours had a doozy of an accident. How’s he doing?”
“I think he’ll be all right,” she said. “My mom and I are driving back up to Wichita in a little while.”
“He’s been through a bad patch, with the company closing and all, I guess.”
Ginny blinked. She rubbed a finger over the rough surface on the barrel of the lens, letting the information sink in. She nodded, giving him space to talk.
“We
ll, look what the cat drug in,” the waitress drawled. Hattie had been working at the Morning Glory since high school, which was probably about the time Ginny had started grade school. A tiny, busy, hipless figure on stick legs, she wore swoops of black eyeliner on her bright blue eyes. Her hair was dyed black and hung down her back in a coy curl. “Want some coffee, hon?”
“Yes, please.”
Ginny shot the coffee cup as Hattie poured, the swoop of light along the counter, the light coming in from outside. People glanced at her curiously but didn’t seem to mind. “Can I have pancakes and bacon, please? And some tomato juice with lemon.”
“Coming right up. How’s that husband of yours? He’s been eating here sometimes twice a day while you were off traveling.”
“We were just talking about that,” Ginny said mildly, stirring cream and sugar into her cup. “He’s banged up, but I think he’ll be okay.”
“Shame about the company, but he’s a smart guy. He’ll land on his feet.”
“Not so easy,” Bill said, shaking his head, “when a man’s pushing fifty. And what’s left around here, anyway, I wonder? He’ll have to go to Wichita. Kansas City, even.”
Another block of cement grew around her ankles. Matthew had lost his job. Wrecked his car.
Did that mean she had to stay? What did you owe another person? What were the bounds of decency?
The questions dogged her as she choked down pancakes and bacon that was too salty. Behind her, the murmur of breakfast voices, the clank of silverware, the ordinary, pleasant sound of morning in a café, took her back to breakfast on the road, and she wished that she could turn around and see the Rockies through the window, or some of her fellow RV’ers. She wished Jack was sitting here next to her, talking about peach trees or The Twilight Zone or the book he was listening to on tape.
What was her obligation?
She paid for her breakfast and carried her camera outside, her feet so heavy she felt she might drown. Her shoulder blades itched again.
In her pocket, her phone rang. It was her mother, who said, “Where the hell are you, Ginny? I’ve been waiting for you for ten minutes, honking and ringing the doorbell.”
“I came downtown for breakfast at the Morning Glory,” she said.
“By yourself?”
“Yeah.” Ginny looked over her shoulder and realized that she had done exactly that, eaten alone in public in her hometown. It hadn’t been strange at all. “I was hungry.”
“Well, stay there and I’ll run by and pick you up.”
“I need a cake shot, so I’ll be in front of the bakery.”
“Can’t believe you’re thinking of your blog when your husband is in the hospital.”
“It’s my job. I can’t just let it go.”
“Whatever. I’ll be there in a second, so take your pictures fast.”
And it was the tone that made her linger, made her walk slowly down the block, shooting whatever interested her, as she’d done across the West—a trio of planters filled with geraniums, a pair of forgotten garden gloves beside them, the jewelry-shop window reflecting her face, and then the bakery. She went inside. “Hey, Renee,” she called. “Mind if I take some pictures of your lemon cake here? That’s so pretty.”
“For your blog? You go right ahead. I’m honored, honey. I’ve got the recipe, too, my own special one, if you want to run it.”
Ginny lowered the camera. “Really? I’ve wanted to make this cake for a dozen years, at least.”
“All you had to do was ask. I don’t mind some publicity for my little shop.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny spied her mother’s blue sedan creeping down the street. “I gotta go, but can I email you?”
“Call me and I’ll give it to you.”
Waving, Ginny dashed out into the street and flagged her mother down, feeling lighter. Lemon cake could do that to you.
“Mama,” she said, slamming the door, “when did Matthew lose his job?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
She clicked backward on her photos, trashing a couple that said nothing, pleased with a couple of others. “In the diner.”
“He didn’t want you to know. It was a few weeks ago that he found out. They’re closing the local office, and he’s got to go to Kansas City or be out of a job. He wanted you to have your trip before he told you.”
“Huh.” Ginny stared out the window. Digesting.
“He’s one hell of a good man, Ginny. Better than you deserve, with all your gallivanting.”
“I told you last night that I wouldn’t listen to this, and I mean it.”
“You just don’t appreciate—”
“Mom.”
“You can’t tell me to stop speaking my mind.”
From her pocket, Ginny pulled out a pair of white earphones. “Then you won’t mind if I listen to music.” She stuck the buds into her ears.
Her mother kept talking, and Ginny could make out some of the words, but mostly she didn’t. She hummed along with the music to help block the sound. Quite adolescent, she supposed.
Also not bad boundary-setting. She checked it in the plus column.
A phone call rang in, and Ginny pulled out her earbuds and answered without bothering to see who it was. It didn’t matter if it helped her block her mother out. “Hello?”
“Ginny, it’s Ruby. How are things going?”
“Um. Okay. How are you?”
“I …” She cleared her throat. “I have some news.”
Something cold moved over the sun. “Not the baby?”
“No. But it’s bad.” Ruby took a breath. “Lavender had a heart attack and died. We found her under the willow tree, just sitting there in her dress.”
“Oh, my God. She died?” Ginny’s mind raced through the weekend hours, the trip to the emergency room…“It wasn’t her gall bladder. It was her heart.”
“Yes.”
Ginny made a noise of pain, pressing her fingers to her mouth. A burning started in the middle of her throat and behind her eyes. Hot liquid tears spilled over her lower lids. “I’m so sad. I can’t believe it took me so long to get there and now I’ll never see her again.”
“I know. But we’re all saying the same thing—that it was the kind of death you want. She went fast. She must have gone out in the early morning, still wearing the tutu, and sat beneath the tree. Her dogs were with her.”
Blinking, unmindful of the tears, Ginny peered out the window, thinking of the beautiful party. “And at the end of a perfect day. I’m glad she ate a lot of cake.” Her composure broke, and a sob escaped from her lips. “When is the funeral?”
“She didn’t want a funeral, just a memorial. She’s being cremated, and of course she wants her ashes scattered around the farm. We can wait to do the memorial for a few days. As long as you need. We all agreed, even the nephews.”
Ginny nodded, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll call you later, okay? I’m in the car with my mom right now.”
“Do you need me to come and be with you?”
“Oh, honey. No. Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” She steadied her voice. “Thank you for offering. Take care of yourself and the baby. And my dog.”
Ruby laughed softly. “Yeah, I think Hannah might fight you for her when you get back. She’s really in love with her.”
“That’s good. A dog can heal a lot of wounds.”
“So can cats!”
Ginny was surprised to find she was smiling through her tears. “Of course.”
“Call me.”
“I will.” She hung up and held the phone in her hand. There was no need to put her earphones back in; her mother was quiet.
“Bad news?” she asked, signaling to change lanes.
Ginny nodded. “Lavender died. It was her birthday we celebrated. She was eighty-five, and had”—Ginny’s tears welled up again—“an amazing life.”
“I’m sorry, hon.” Ula patted her hand, then dug in her purse and pulled out a packet of tissues.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Ginny wiped her face, but the tears kept spilling out. All the way up the road, she stared out at the fields beneath a hot blue sky and thought about Lavender laughing. She thought about the Rockies, and the ocean, moving and moving and moving.
“She really meant a lot to me,” Ginny said to her mother. “She used to work as a stewardess in the sixties, and then, when she was almost sixty, she took over this farm and planted it with lavender.”
“That’s brave, at sixty.”
“Yeah,” Ginny said, and the tears choked her again. “I can’t believe I’m never going to see her again.”
Lavender.
Lavender and her life, her courage, her power, her absolute zero tolerance for bullshit. What would Lavender say right now? What would Lavender do?
She wouldn’t be whiny and weepy, that’s for sure. Taking a breath, Ginny dried her tears and sat up straight in her seat. She didn’t speak until they got out of the car. She flung her purse and her camera case over her shoulder. Her mother closed and locked the doors and headed for the entrance.
“Mom, wait, before you go in.”
Ula turned warily. Her feet were bad from decades of hard work, her hair thin and too long for the texture. She had put on lipstick, but Ginny could not remember the last time she’d worn anything but that. No makeup, the same loose button-up shirts and baggy jeans and tennis shoes she’d worn every weekday of Ginny’s life.
But what Ginny could also see now were the chains around her ankles, the chains of circumstance and time and missed chances. “I love you,” she said. “I know that you mean well in all of this. But I am not staying here. I am not going back to Dead Gulch today. I’m going to the airport and I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave a man who’s injured and out of a job! That’s not decent.”
Ginny raised a hand, maybe blocking the blow of the words. “I have been trying to be a good daughter and a good wife and a good mother my whole life.” She took a breath. “It didn’t get me anything, because it’s never been quite good enough. I had to find out what it was like to be loved for myself before I had the courage to stop being a good girl and just be me.”
The All You Can Dream Buffet Page 29