The Pioneer Woman

by Ree Drummond

  “You made it,” he said, smiling and rubbing my lower back.

  “Yep,” I replied, concealing a yawn. “And I got a five-mile run in before I came. I feel awesome.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, taking my hand and heading toward the house. “I sure wish I were a morning person like you.”

  When we walked into the house, his parents were standing in the foyer.

  “Hey!” his dad said with a gravelly voice the likes of which I’d never heard before. Marlboro Man came by it honestly.

  “Hello,” his mom said warmly. They were there to welcome me. Their house smelled deliciously like leather.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Ree.” I reached out and shook their hands.

  “You sure look nice this morning,” his mom remarked. She looked comfortable, as if she’d rolled out of bed and thrown on the first thing she’d found. She looked natural, like she hadn’t set her alarm for 3:40 A.M. so she could be sure to get on all nine layers of mascara. She was wearing tennis shoes. She looked at ease. She looked beautiful. My palms felt clammy.

  “She always looks nice,” Marlboro Man said to his mom, touching my back lightly. I wished I hadn’t curled my hair. That was a little over-the-top. That, and the charcoal eyeliner. And the raspberry shimmer lip gloss.

  We needed to drive down the road a couple of miles to meet the rest of the cowboys and gather the cattle from there. “Mom, why don’t you and Ree go ahead in her car and we’ll be right behind you,” Marlboro Man directed. His mother and I walked outside, climbed in the car, and headed down the road. We exchanged pleasant small talk. She was poised and genuine, and I chattered away, relieved that she was so approachable. Then, about a mile into our journey, she casually mentioned, “You might watch that turn up ahead; it’s a little sharp.”

  “Oh, okay,” I replied, not really listening. Clearly she didn’t know I’d been an L.A. driver for years. Driving was not a problem for me.

  Almost immediately, I saw a ninety-degree turn right in front of my face, pointing its finger at me and laughing—cackling—at my predicament. I whipped the steering wheel to the left as quickly as I could, skidding on the gravel and stirring up dust. But it was no use—the turn got the better of me, and my car came to rest awkwardly in the ditch, the passenger side a good four feet lower than mine.

  Marlboro Man’s mother was fine. Lucky for her, there’s really nothing with which to collide on an isolated cattle ranch—no overpasses or concrete dividers or retaining walls or other vehicles. I was fine, too—physically, anyway. My hands were trembling violently. My armpits began to gush perspiration.

  My car was stuck, the right two tires wedged inextricably in a deep crevice of earth on the side of the road. On the list of the Top Ten Things I’d Want Not to Happen on the First Meeting Between My Boyfriend’s Mother and Me, this would rate about number four.

  “Oh my word,” I said. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she reassured, looking out the window. “I just hope your car’s okay.”

  Marlboro Man and his dad pulled up beside us, and they both hopped out of the pickup. Opening my door, Marlboro Man said, “You guys okay?”

  “We’re fine,” his mother said. “We just got a little busy talking.” I was Lucille Ball. Lucille Ball on steroids and speed and vodka. I was a joke, a caricature, a freak. This couldn’t possibly be happening to me. Not today. Not now.

  “Okay, I’ll just go home now,” I said, covering my face with my hands. I wanted to be someone else. A normal person, maybe. A good driver, perhaps.

  Marlboro Man examined my tires, which were completely torn up. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, actually. You guys hop in the pickup.” My car was down for the count.

  Despite the rocky start, I wound up enjoying a beautiful day on the ranch with Marlboro Man and his parents. I didn’t ride a horse—my legs were still shaky from my near-murder of his mother earlier in the day—but I did get to watch Marlboro Man ride his loyal horse Blue as I rode alongside him in a feed truck with one of the cowboys, who gifted me right off the bat with an ice-cold Dr Pepper. I felt welcome on the ranch that day, felt at home, and before long the memory of my collision with a gravel ditch became but a faint memory—that is, when Marlboro Man wasn’t romantically whispering sweet nothings like “Drive much?” softly into my ear. And when the day of work came to an end, I felt I knew Marlboro Man just a little better.

  As the four of us rode away from the pens together, we passed the sad sight of my Toyota Camry resting crookedly in the ditch where it had met its fate. “I’ll run you home, Ree,” Marlboro Man said.

  “No, no…just stop here,” I insisted, trying my darnedest to appear strong and independent. “I’ll bet I can get it going.” Everyone in the pickup burst into hysterical laughter. I wouldn’t be driving myself anywhere for a while.

  On the ride back to my house, I asked Marlboro Man all about his parents. Where they’d met, how long they’d been married, what they were like together. He asked the same about mine. We held hands, reflecting on how remarkable it was that both his and my parents had been married in excess of thirty years. “That’s pretty cool,” he said. “It’s unusual nowadays.”

  And it was. During my years in Los Angeles, I’d always taken comfort in the fact that my parents’ marriage was happy and stable. I was among the few in my California circle of friends who’d come from an intact family, and I felt fortunate that I’d always been able to declare that my parents were still together. I was happy that Marlboro Man could say the same. It gave me some sense of security, an assurance that the man I was falling more in love with every day had parents who still loved each other. Marlboro Man kissed my hand, caressing my thumb with his. “It’s a good sign,” he said. The sun was beginning to set. We rode to my house in peaceful silence.

  He walked me to the door, and we stopped at the porch step, my favorite porch step in the whole world. Some of the most magical moments had happened there, and that night was no different. “I’m so glad you came today,” he said, wrapping his arms around me in an affectionate embrace. “I liked you being there.”

  “Thanks for having me,” I said, gladly receiving his soft, sweet kiss on my cheek. “I’m sorry I wrecked with your mom in the car.”

  “That’s okay,” he replied. “I’m sorry about your car.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I said. “I’ll be out there at five A.M. tomorrow with a crowbar and get to fixing those tires.”

  He laughed, then wrapped his arms tighter for a final, glorious hug. “Good night,” he whispered. You beautiful man, you.

  I floated into the house on clouds, despite the fact that I no longer had a car. I noticed my dad was in the kitchen. I flitted in to say hi.

  “Hi, Dad!” I said, patting him on the shoulder. I grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge.

  “Hey,” he replied, taking a seat on a barstool. “How was your day?”

  “Oh my gosh, it was great—I loved it! We went….” I looked at my dad. Something was wrong. His expression was grave. Troubled.

  “What’s wrong, Dad?” My face felt flushed.

  He began to speak, then stopped.

  “Dad…what?” I repeated. Something had happened.

  “Your mother and I are having trouble,” he said.

  My knees immediately went weak. And my secure little world, as I’d always known it, changed in an instant.

  I STOOD THERE frozen, unable to feel my feet beneath me. My cheeks turned hot and tingled, and the back of my neck tightened. My heart skipped a beat. I suddenly felt sick. All standard reactions to finding out that the longest, most stable personal relationship you’d ever witnessed wasn’t so stable anymore.

  In trouble? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But they’re just pulling into the home stretch. They’d raised four children, after all. They’d made it through the fight. Their youngest, my sister, was in college, for Pete’s sake—the hard part was over and done with.

&nb
sp; My dad gave me a brief rundown of the situation, then I walked slowly up the stairs, remnants of my soul dragging behind me. I felt gutted. My face still tingled as I entered my bedroom and pulled off my clothes—clothes dusty and grimy from my glorious day of working cattle with Marlboro Man and his parents. As I showered, I reflected on the turn my day had just taken: I’d felt so great that night when my love had brought me home—so elated, so in love, so full. Just an hour earlier, in Marlboro Man’s pickup, I’d rattled on about how nice it was that both our parents’ marriages were still intact. It was all nonsense now. I’d worn that label like a badge, that pride of being one of the minority of twenty-somethings whose parents’ marriage was still going strong, whose family’s foundation hadn’t been shaken by divorce. And just now, in the blink of an eye, all my illusions of a stable, perfect home life had been shattered. And though I’d always been a lifelong optimist, a glass-is-half-full type, a Suzy Sunshine Supreme, I also had enough weathered L.A. girl in me to know that my dad was deadly serious. And that this didn’t look good at all.

  I flopped onto my bed facedown, utterly deflated. Oh, what a beautiful day I’d had: meeting Marlboro Man’s parents. Getting to know his mom. Nearly killing her on a ninety-degree turn in my Toyota Camry. Laughing with her. Seeing so much of Marlboro Man in her smile. Messing up my car. Leaving it all askew in the ditch on a rural county road. Embarrassing myself, but being okay with that. Talking with Marlboro Man as he chivalrously drove me all the way back to my house. Falling more in love with him with each mile we drove, with each sexy grin he flashed. But now—good God, what was the point? Love obviously didn’t last forever—it couldn’t possibly. Not when two people in their fifties, married thirty years, four children, two dogs, and a lifetime of memories, couldn’t even keep it together. What was I doing? Why was I even bothering with this romance thing…this love thing? Where would it even lead? An uncharacteristic hopelessness suddenly flooded my insides, filling me with doom and dread. Reality, ugly and raw, grabbed me around the neck and began to squeeze.

  As I lay in bed and looked at the innumerable stars outside my bedroom window, I tried to make sense of it all, even as my tired eyes bled painful, salty tears. Then, as had become customary, my phone began to ring. I knew who it was, of course. It was Marlboro Man, the source of so much joy that at times I could hardly handle it. He was calling to torture me with his strong, yet whispery, voice. He was calling to say good night. I’d come to expect his postdate phone calls; I drank them in like a potion, inhaled them like a powerful, mellowing drug. I’d become totally and completely addicted.

  But that night, instead of jumping up and darting to the phone like a lovesick schoolgirl, I rolled away and pulled the comforter farther over my head, trying my best to drown out the ringing. After four rings, the phone stopped, leaving me in the dark, depressing silence of my room—the same room in which I’d grown up. Tears of pain and confusion dampened my pillow as everything I’d ever understood about stability and commitment melted away. And for the first time in weeks—for the first time since Marlboro Man and I shared our first beautiful kiss—love was suddenly the last thing I wanted.

  Chapter Nine

  SWEET SURRENDER

  FEELING AWFUL, I dragged myself out of bed the next morning. My stomach felt hollow; I was a child lost in the woods. Over-night, I’d been excommunicated from my exalted position in the Church of the Stable Home, and I was ill-prepared to handle it.

  I couldn’t even bring myself to think about Marlboro Man, to find the emotional energy to escape to my normally vivid and delicious daydreams of him. I was weighted down, suddenly unsure of where I stood with anything. I’d never been one to look forward to marriage, to sharing my life with someone forever; I’d always lived way too much in the moment to think that far ahead, and besides, I just hadn’t had the kind of relationships that had given me cause not to be cynical about love. But Marlboro Man had changed that. While we hadn’t yet talked of marriage, he was the first man I’d ever been with who filled my thoughts twenty-four hours a day; who, four seconds after dropping me off at night, I longed to be with again; who I couldn’t imagine ever being without.

  But now, that morning, my cynicism had crept back in. I was back to feeling like it was all a foolish pipe dream, this idea of finding the one true love of one’s life. Sure, I was in love with Marlboro Man now, but where might we be in five years? Fifteen years? Thirty? Right where my parents are, I supposed—struggling with dead love and apathy and ambivalence. After all, they’d been in love once, too.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” I asked after walking downstairs. She was scurrying around the kitchen, clearly on her way out the door.

  “Oh, I’m going to go get ready for the soup kitchen,” she said. “I’ve gotta run, sweetie….”

  “Mom,” I said, more assertively. “What’s going on with you and Dad?” My face tingled as I spoke. I still couldn’t believe what I’d heard the night before.

  “Sweetie,” my mom repeated. “We can talk about it later….”

  “Well, I mean…,” I began. I couldn’t figure out what to say. “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s…it’s too complicated to go into right now,” she answered, acting busier as she went about her business in the kitchen. “We can talk about it some other time.”

  She clearly wasn’t in the mood to share. Within minutes, she was pulling out of the driveway, leaving her older daughter behind to wallow around in her parents’ empty house. I shivered; a cold air had moved into our once-warm home.

  I made myself a scrambled egg and sat on the back porch in my pajamas, looking out at the seventh fairway. It was a beautiful summer morning—cool, quiet, serene. A stark contrast to the chaos erupting in my soul. I wouldn’t be able to stay here—it was all different now. I was no longer the Prodigal Daughter lovingly welcomed home after a long stint of unrighteous living in Los Angeles. I was now the Intruder—barging in on my parents’ lives at the most inopportune time. I’d have to get my own place somewhere to give my parents their space. But where? Not here, in my hometown; that would make no sense. I wished I was back in Los Angeles. Chicago. Somewhere anonymous. Anywhere but home.

  I needed air. The golf course looked inviting. Throwing on my favorite black Gap leggings, a USC tank, and tennis shoes, I took off on a brisk walk, using the cart path as my guide. I loved walking on the golf course; it looked and smelled just as it did when I was a little girl. I began on the seventh fairway, the same fairway I’d always crossed to get to the clubhouse so I could order Shirley Temples to go, and before long I was near the eighth green, which was situated near a busy residential intersection. The horn of a passing black Cadillac sounded; a friend of my parents smiled and waved. I waved back, wondering if she knew of my parents’ marital problems, wondering if anyone did. My parents had always been “one of those couples”—not just to me but to an entire community. They were, simply, the Smiths, the king and queen of Suburban Stability, Success, and Bliss. If the worst happened, if they were unable to resolve their conflict and wound up divorcing, I wasn’t sure the town would survive the shock.

  I headed west and broke into a jog. I’d always hated jogging. Not that I could ever be confused with Dolly Parton, but running had always hurt my chest. It was jarring. Bouncy. Disruptive. Also, as a lifelong ballerina, running was something that always had to be done with turned-out feet, pointed toes, and long, lanky, outstretched arms resembling those of swans. I looked bad—really bad—whenever I tried to run like an athlete. I looked like a psychotic stork…but that morning, I didn’t care. My jog turned into a run, and soon became a sprint, and before I knew it I was running like I’d never run before. I ran hard and fast, the pain of my panting lungs masking the sadness over my parents’ marital woes. And when I finally arrived at the eighteenth hole, I stopped for a rest.

  Glorious, cleansing sweat trickled down my back, and my face and torso burned like a furnace. I bent over, propping my hands on my knees, ga
sping for breath. I stood at the top of a huge hill—the hill on the eighteenth hole. It was an ideal hill for sledding in the wintertime, and on heavy snow days it was peppered with country club kids and their adventure-seeking parents, sliding down the hill at lightning speed and trudging back up to the top for another go. Standing there on that hot summer morning, I could almost see my dad pushing my brothers on the red plastic disc, the one with thick rope handles, and could hear my mom giggling and screaming wildly as she gave my sister and me a healthy shove on our toboggan. We were a happy family, weren’t we? I hadn’t imagined it, had I?

  The run had helped. My body felt renewed, refreshed, even if my thinking was a little off balance. I walked slowly back home, breathing deeply and taking in all the sights and sounds of a private country club golf course: the beeping of a distant golf cart driving in reverse, the barking of the bird dogs Dr. Burris took hunting with him every fall and winter, millions of tiny birds in triumphant song. It was the closest thing to the country that I’d known until now.

  And my thoughts turned to Marlboro Man.

  I was thinking of him when I walked back into the house, imagining his gorgeous voice in my ear when I heard the phone ringing in my room. I ran up the stairs, skipping three steps at a time, and answered the phone, breathless.

  “Hello?” I gasped.

  “Hey there,” Marlboro Man said. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, I just went for a run on the golf course,” I answered. As if I did it every day.

  “Well, I just want you to know I’m coming to get you at five,” he said. “I’m having Ree withdrawals.”

  “You mean since midnight, when we last saw each other?” I joked. Actually, I knew exactly what he meant.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s way, way too long, and I’m not gonna put up with it anymore.” I loved it when he took charge.