Hottie Lumberjack

by Tawna Fenske

  Like I hadn’t already figured that out, but it’s clearer now.

  She keeps going, since I can’t seem to find words of my own. “I thought at first I could scare you out of town,” she says. “Terrorize you into keeping your trap shut for good. But then you hooked up with the resort people, and it’s pretty clear you’re not going anywhere. You found your meal ticket, didn’t you?”

  I force myself not to react. There’s no point sinking to her level. “I’d never breathe a word to anyone,” I tell her. “Doesn’t it mean something that I’ve kept my mouth shut? I’ve never asked for child support or even breathed a word to Wal—to Senator Grassnab.”

  The flash of fury in her eyes tells me I’d be smart not to give her any reminders that I’ve been intimate with her husband. The memory of it sends a shudder of shame through me.

  One more reminder of my horrible judgement with men.

  “He doesn’t know,” she says simply. “About your daughter or about this little—complication. Sometimes a woman has to take matters into her own hands.”

  Maybe I can play off her motherly sympathies. I’m a mom, she’s a mom, we have that in common. “My daughter needs me, Mrs. Grassnab,” I tell her. “Just like your children need you. Please.”

  Fire blazes in her eyes. “You’ve met my children?”

  “No! Absolutely not.” God, maybe it’s better if I don’t speak. Keeping my eyes fixed on her, I scan the room with my peripheral vision. There’s a block of knives over by the window, but that won’t do me much good from here.

  “Please, Mrs. Grassnab,” I urge. “Put the gun down. We can pretend this never happened.”

  She gives a bitter little snort. “Hardly. People come out of the woodwork all the time the higher someone climbs on the political ladder. I should have nipped this in the bud a long time ago.”

  I glance at the weapon, which is definitely still a gun, and definitely still pointed at me. Swallowing back my fear, I try a different tack. “The police chief is in the next building,” I tell her. “He’s a friend of mine. The kind of guy who’d notice things like gunfire and bleeding bodies in the kitchen.”

  “There won’t be any blood,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ve thought this through.”

  “Of course you have.” Just what the world needs, thoughtful murderers.

  “If we do this right, there will be an unfortunate little kitchen incident,” she says. “A sink full of water, an electrical appliance, a—”

  Boom!

  I hit the floor, not certain what’s happened, but pretty sure ducking is the best move when a gun goes off. Covering my head with my hands, I look down at my body. No holes that I can see, and since my eyeballs work, I trust they’re still in my head, which is still attached to my body. All good signs.

  “I’ll take that.”

  Mark!

  I snap my head up to see him plucking the pistol from Mrs. Grassnab’s hand like it’s a toy. The scent of gunpowder hangs thick in the air, but no one appears to be shot. She’s rubbing the side of her head where the door must have hit her, too stunned to protest.

  “Give that back!” she demands. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  He ignores her and rushes forward to help me to my feet. “Are you okay?” His hand is firm and strong, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing.

  “I’m fine,” I breathe, flinching as he whips the gun around to point it at Mrs. Grassnab.

  “You,” he says. “Don’t move.”

  She puts her hands in the air, eyeing him up and down. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”

  “Oh, now there’s a misunderstanding?” My fury bubbles to the surface now that I don’t need to play polite anymore. “This psycho tried to kill me.”

  Mark’s whole body is rigid, all six feet five inches of him. I’ve never seen him so furious. “You tried to kill my girlfriend.”

  Mrs. Grassnab does her best to offer a who, me? look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just came in here looking for the ladies’ room.”

  I snort out loud. “With a handgun?”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” she says, flipping her hair. “If you’ll just put the gun down and stop looking all menacing, we can talk about this like sane, rational—”

  “I’ve had enough of you.” Mark’s voice is surprisingly calm as he sets the gun on the counter. He gives it a distasteful glance, or maybe that’s for Mrs. Grassnab. Before she can make a run for it, he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her toward the wall with the aprons.

  She sputters, stumbling in her high heels. “What are you—”

  “I need you to sit still and shut up for a minute,” Mark says, yanking an apron off the pegs and making quick work of lacing the strings around her wrists. “I have something important I need to say, and it can’t wait.”

  She sputters again as Mark cinches the apron strings tight behind her back. “If you have something to say to me—”

  “Not to you,” he snaps, exasperation turning his voice into a growl. “To her. The woman I love, dammit.”

  Wait, what?

  He looks at me and frowns. “This isn’t how I saw this going.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “We can start over.”

  He nods, gaze sweeping over my body. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Positive.” Did he say he loves me?

  He steps forward and takes my hands in his. “Chelsea, I love you. I love you so damn much it scared the shit out of me, and I acted like an asshole.”

  Behind him, Mrs. Grassnab scoffs. “This sounds like victim blaming. I was a therapist for years. No one makes you act like—”

  “Shut up,” I snap, keeping my eyes on Mark. “You love me?”

  “More than anything,” he says, squeezing my hands. “I’ve been afraid to open up because I wasn’t sure you’d like who I really was if I told you. I wasn’t sure I’d like myself, or even who I really was without—God, I’m botching this.”

  “You definitely should have practiced,” Mrs. Grassnab observes. “You only get one chance to tell a woman that you—”

  “Shut up!” Mark and I bark the words in unison, hands still linked together.

  Mark squeezes mine and keeps going. “I’m not a real Bracelyn,” he says. “Not by blood, anyway, but I’ve realized it doesn’t matter. A name or a bloodline doesn’t make me who I am. And the guy I am when I’m with you is the best version of me I can be.”

  “Oh, Mark,” I say, tears clouding my eyes. “I love you no matter what’s in your DNA. I love you for the guy you are, and there’s nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me love you less.”

  “Try having him tell you he’s been boffing bimbos on the side,” Mrs. Grassnab scoffs. “See how everlasting that affection is when he brings home chlamydia for the third t—”

  “Shut. Up.” Mark glares at her, and this time, Mrs. Grassnab zips it.

  He turns back to me, fingers still laced through mine. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with this resort or my family or any of this DNA stuff. But I know that no matter what, I choose you.”

  A tear slips down my cheek, and I dash it away with my shoulder, not wanting to pull my hands from his. “I choose you, too. Always.”

  “God, Chelss.” He pulls me tight against him, wrapping me in the biggest, warmest, strongest hug of my life. “I promise to let you in,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Anything at all.”

  “We’ve got time,” I tell him. “All the time in the world.”

  He draws back, remembering our audience. “Speaking of time, someone’s going to be serving some.”

  I frown at Mrs. Grassnab. “We should probably call the police.”’

  “Won’t be necessary.” The door swings open and Austin strides into the kitchen. He’s flanked by Officers Studebaker and Leopold, both of whom have their guns drawn. “We tend to be summoned by gunfire.”

  “Austin,” I breat
he. “Is Libby—”

  “Safe and sound and back at Mark’s cabin with Betty,” he says. He takes a step toward Mrs. Grassnab, nodding with approval at the apron-string handcuffs. “Very nice,” he says. “Your husband is on his way to the station right now. We’ve got questions for both of you.”

  She mutters a string of unladylike curse words as Officers Studebaker and Leopold each take her by an arm and lead her out of the pastry kitchen.

  Austin watches them go, then turns back to me. “We’ll have questions for you, too, but you’re free to go back to your cabin,” he says. “It could be a late night.”

  “Not a problem,” Mark says, slinging an arm around me and pulling me close. “We’ve got lots to talk about.”

  “We do?”

  He nods. “Open, honest, no-bullshit, no-holds-barred, vulnerable as fuck conversation.”

  “Oh.”

  “From me,” he says, in case that wasn’t obvious. “I want to tell you everything, Chelss. I want to let you in. I don’t know what the hell I was so afraid of before, but I’m ready to let you see the real me.” His throat moves as he swallows, and he looks unsure for the first time. “If you still want me.”

  “God.” I throw my arms around him and squeeze him tight. “I still want you. More than ever. More than anything.”

  “Good,” he says, squeezing me back. “Then let’s do it.”

  Epilogue

  MARK

  “Thanks for coming.” I follow Bree and Austin through my living room as they gather their things and say their goodbyes. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Austin turns back and whistles for his dog. Virginia Woof thumps her tail on my carpet but doesn’t take her focus off the task of cleaning Long Long Peter’s ears. Between that and the fact that Libby is rubbing the dog’s belly, Virginia’s in heaven and not looking to leave anytime soon.

  “She can sleep over if you want,” Chelsea offers. “I’ll have Libby bring her by in the morning.”

  Libby bounces with energy, her birthday hat slipping sideways on her head. “Please? Oh, please, Aunt Bree?”

  Bree smiles and slides her arm around Austin’s waist. “We probably can’t say no to the birthday girl. It’s in the manual or something.”

  “Just don’t feed her any cupcakes,” Austin says. “She passed gas for three days last time.”

  Libby dissolves into a puddle of giggles, because farting is funny to a seven-year-old no matter who’s doing it. “Thanks, Uncle Austin.”

  Aunt Bree. Uncle Austin.

  There’s no blood relation among any of us here, save Libby and Chelsea. None of us are married yet, either, which I guess is a damn good reminder that family has nothing to do with blood ties or wedding vows or any of that shit. It has everything to do with who you decide to love with your whole damn heart and hold tight to no matter what.

  “By the way,” Bree says, hesitating in the doorway. “I’m not really one for those cheesy social media announcements or some huge proclamation at a family gathering, so I’ll just tell you now—”

  “Oh my God.” Chelsea draws a hand to her mouth. “You’re—”

  “Yep.” Bree grins.

  “For sure?”

  “For sure.”

  Austin gets a big dopey grin and puts his hand on Bree’s back. “We’ve known a few weeks.”

  I look from Chelsea to Bree to Austin and wonder what the fuck everyone’s talking about. “Will someone please translate this conversation?”

  Chelsea laughs as she pulls my sister in for a hug. That’s when I notice Bree’s touching her belly. Pretty sure it’s not because she ate too many cupcakes.

  “Holy crap,” I say. “You’re knocked up?”

  “I am.” My sister is glowing, and she laughs as I take my turn hugging her. “Kinda doing it in reverse order. We’ll have a quiet wedding, maybe in the next month or so.”

  “Congratulations,” I tell her, turning to shake Austin’s hand. “Way to go.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m half tempted to salute or something, but I settle for glancing back toward the living room. Libby’s too far away and too wrapped up in playing with her birthday gifts to care what the grownups are talking about, which is just as well. No sense overshadowing her birthday with news of some other baby’s impending arrival.

  “Congratulations,” Chelsea says. “We’re so happy for you.”

  I love that she speaks for both of us. Chelsea and me, a unit, a family. My big, dumb heart swells like a mylar balloon.

  “Thanks for having us over,” Bree says, then peers around me to shout back to Libby. “Happy birthday, kiddo!”

  “Thanks!” Lib shouts back. “G’night.”

  Chelsea gives a big, contented sigh as the door clicks shut behind Bree and Austin. She turns to me and smiles. “Well, that was amazing.”

  “Yeah.” I’m grinning like a dumbass, so happy for my sister.

  But that’s not the only thing I’m jazzed about right now.

  I watch as Chelsea moves back through the living room, and I admire the sway of her hips as I trail after her.

  “Was the party everything you wanted it to be, Lib?” she asks.

  “It was the best party ever,” she says. “My friends thought the horses were cool, and I love Grandma Bootie’s present.”

  Long Long Peter was less enthusiastic about the sweater my mother knitted for him, but he doesn’t seem to be suffering much as he rolls to his side so Virginia Woof can clean his other ear.

  “And I like the stuffie she brought me, too,” Libby says. “The giraffe sheep.”

  “Llama,” Chelsea reminds her, even though “giraffe sheep” is so fucking adorable we almost didn’t correct her.

  “Yes,” Libby agrees. “I’m naming him Llamanade.”

  “Perfect,” I say, clearing my throat. “There’s one more present.”

  Chelsea’s head tilts in confusion, and she leans close for one of those low-volume parental conferences I’m just now learning are a thing. “Am I forgetting something we got her?” she whispers.

  Nope, she’s not. This one’s a surprise for both of them, and I’m nervous as hell about it. Nervous, but also excited.

  “Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the couch. “Both of you, right next to each other.”

  Mother and daughter exchange a look of intrigue as they settle themselves on the sofa side by side. Libby’s pigtails are crooked, and her face is smeared with chocolate, while Chelsea’s decked out in leggings and one of my old shirts.

  “I turn into a pumpkin after nine,” she told me earlier after Libby’s friends got picked up, and the party was just down to family. “Might as well be comfortable.”

  “You’re beautiful when you’re comfortable,” I told her, kissing her as she rolled up the sleeves on my old plaid flannel.

  As I look at them now—both of my girls—I’m pretty damn sure I’ve never seen so much beautiful in one place. Not even the cupcake displays at Chelsea’s shop, which is saying something.

  I settle on the edge of the coffee table I built from an old Ponderosa pine that got hit by lightning last fall. It’s scarred and sturdy and my favorite piece of furniture in the whole house.

  Taking a deep breath, I begin. “Libby and Chelsea.” My voice wobbles a little, so I clear my throat. “The two of you have become the most important people in my whole life. Every day, you make me smile and laugh, and I love the crap out of both of you.”

  Libby giggles, delighted by the curse word as all good seven-year-olds are. That’s another thing I’ve learned lately: A curse word or two never killed any kid, and it’s okay to cut myself some slack.

  Chelsea’s smiling, but there’s still a question in her eyes. I wonder if she knows what’s coming. If she recognizes an even bigger question I’m trying to get out in my own fumbly way.

  “You are my family,” I say to my girls. “Both of you, unquestionably, until the day I keel over from sugar overdose, you’re my
reason for getting out of bed in the morning and the reason I want to get into it at night.” I nod at Libby. “That part’s more for your mom.”

  She grins. “I figured.”

  “But tucking you in at night is one of my favorite parts of every day.”

  “Because Alice the Camel,” she says.

  “Yeah.” But that’s only a tiny fraction of why, and I hope she knows it.

  “You’re our family, too,” Libby says. “Right, Mom?”

  “Absolutely.” Chelsea reaches out to touch my hand, which I didn’t realize is shaking.

  There’s a damn lump in my throat, too, so I swallow it back and keep going. “So, we’re all each other’s family,” I continue. “And if it’s okay with both of you, I’d like to make that official.”

  I reach down beside me and pull open the drawer I built into the coffee table. Inside is the cigar box James has been keeping for me in his safe. I pull it out and rest it on my knees.

  Libby cocks her head. “I’m old enough to smoke cigars now?”

  “Definitely not.” I fight the urge to smile. This is serious stuff, right? “There’s something in here that belonged to my father. And before he had them, they belonged to his mom—my grandma.”

  I’m leaving out a few details, though I’ll explain later to Chelsea. I’ll tell her how my dad had an endless supply of valuable gemstones, courtesy of his mother’s extensive collection and her willingness to fork over a handful any time my father felt like proposing to someone.

  He got that urge a lot, but that’s beside the point.

  “Two times, my dad proposed to Grandma Bootie,” I explain as I extract the first ring box. “And both times, she said no.”

  Pretty sure the rings had nothing to do with her answer, or with why she eventually returned them both to my dad. Just in case there’s any lingering bad juju, I had them melted down and the gemstones reset into something new. Something just for the three of us, the family I’m hoping we’ll become.

  “Oh, Mark.” Chelsea’s eyes glitter with tears as I open the first box to reveal a tiny gold pendant studded with sapphires. Blue, Libby’s favorite color, and I hold it out as her eyes get bigger.