Stir Me Up

by Sabrina Elkins

  “He must have been thinking if you weren’t with Julian, he could contact you today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What is it with you and breaking hearts, babe?”

  “I don’t know,” I say watching Julian. He catches me at it, and our eyes meet. His seem heated to me all of a sudden. Which makes me blush.

  “Oh my God,” Taryn says, eyes wide. “You did it!”

  I wince. “Did what? And shhh...lower your voice.”

  Taryn’s trying to hold in a huge smile and failing miserably at it. “So?”

  “So?” My cheeks burn.

  She laughs. “So, how was it?”

  I shrug. Blush again. “Nice.”

  “Nice? Come on, I need details!”

  If it had been Luke, I probably would have dished with her. But with Julian, it’s different. Private. “No.”

  “Oh, come on. Did it just happen last night?”

  “No. When we went skiing.”

  “You mean the night you wouldn’t tell me about? You did sneak into his room. I knew it!”

  “Shhh! Lower your voice.”

  “Did you have to be on top because of his legs? Was he completely amazing?”

  “Stop, people will hear you.”

  “Who’ll hear what?” Julian asks, coming over to me.

  “Nothing,” I say, slightly mortified.

  “Nothing,” Taryn echoes, highly amused.

  “Excuse us a minute,” Julian says to Taryn. He ushers me slightly away and leans near my ear, touches my waist. “There are people having sex in our room,” he whispers.

  “What? No!”

  He grins. “Yes. In the closet.”

  “They’re hiding in my clothes closet?”

  “It’s partly mine.”

  “This is disgusting. People are disgusting. Don’t they know people are using that bathroom in there? That it’s the only downstairs one in the house?”

  “They’re being very quiet about it.”

  “You think this is funny,” I say, watching him.

  “I do.”

  “My clothes. They’ll be all yucked up. And Dad and Estella are still wandering around. Couldn’t they have at least waited ’til later?”

  He smirks. “I guess not.”

  “I hate big parties. Even when they’re mine.”

  “Hey, maybe when the closet frees up we can—”

  “NO.”

  Julian laughs. “You want me to get rid of them?”

  “No. Let them do their thing. This is why big parties are no good.”

  “They’re good. Chaos is good.”

  “Good? There are people humping in the closet. Before cake.”

  “Oh no,” Julian teases. “Not before cake!”

  I push him. He tries to kiss me, but I resist a little. “Uh-uh.”

  “No?”

  “If Dad sees, he’ll carve you up into medallions and serve you on toast points.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  I give him a swift kiss. “There.”

  “Rebel.”

  Suddenly a great cake blazing with candles is brought into the dining room, and everyone starts singing “Happy Birthday” to me. There’s a frosting cartoon of a female chef juggling spatulas and knives on the top of the cake. It’s adorable—and delicious as anything. I steal a quick bite of the first piece, then bring the second one over to Dad.

  “Don’t ever stay out all night without calling again,” he says. In English. He must want to make sure I really understand him. “And it better not be very often. At all.”

  “Okay. Agreed.”

  He gives me a brooding look. “I hope you’re being safe. Using protection.”

  I nod. Embarrassed.

  Dad sighs, shakes his head.

  “You hate him,” I observe. Hoping it’s not true.

  “I don’t hate him. He’s...” Dad looks over at Julian just as Julian steals a glance at me, “not completely horrible.”

  Not completely horrible? I look at Dad and fight back a smirk.

  He seems to be doing the same. “Do you like your cake?” he asks, changing the subject on me.

  “Yes, it’s incredible.”

  “Natalie made it. She couldn’t be here tonight, so be sure to thank her the next time you see her.”

  “I will.” I kiss his cheek. His chin jerks a little, I think.

  “Growing up on me,” he grumbles. “Some nerve.”

  The night goes long into the morning, with cleanup, opening presents and Julian saying good-night. I watch him leave and then eventually, inevitably, crash in my bed all alone.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Hi, Natalie,” I say one Saturday morning a few weeks later. I’ve been speaking a little bit more to her since I thanked her for my birthday cake, but not much. Today, I’ve come in early just to talk to her before anyone else arrives.

  Natalie makes all our bread from scratch every day. This is unusual for a restaurant. Usually bread is brought in from a local bakery. “Morning.” She’s probably thinking I’m done chatting with her for the day. But no.

  “Can I give you a hand with something?”

  She eyes me. This is unexpected, but not unwelcome, I don’t think. “There are some blueberries you can pick over.”

  “Sure,” I say. I go get them and start work. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You can ask,” she replies. She’s kneading the dough. She probably thinks I’m after a recipe, I realize. “I may not answer.” She smiles a little.

  Hmm. A good sign, I think, that she’s joking with me. “I just received my acceptance letter to the University of Vermont,” I tell her. Dad was thrilled, incidentally. Which makes one of us.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but... I’m trying to decide if I should go or keep training to be a chef.”

  She glances at me and gives a nod.

  “Dad keeps saying that being a chef is a hard life, especially for a woman,” I tell her. “He says you don’t see your kids much and that kitchens can be rough places. I was just wondering what you thought about it.”

  She continues kneading. “I’m a pastry chef, so my hours are better. I wake early, my husband takes the children to school and by the time they’re finished, I’m home. But when they were babies, it was rough. I couldn’t find a nanny I liked. I almost quit a few times.” Now she looks at me. “I once asked your father if I could bring a playpen into the kitchen, and he said no.”

  Huh... I didn’t know this. I can see why Dad wouldn’t like it, but also, I can see why she’d ask.

  “In terms of a kitchen being rough for a woman,” Natalie says, “yes, kitchens can be, though not usually as much in pastry. But you have to have the right skill set for this kind of work.”

  “Hmm.” This, unfortunately, I do know to be true. I’m not artistic enough to be a pastry chef.

  “My grandmother used to say, ‘Do what you love, and the money will follow.’” She smiles. “Sorry. I guess I’m not much help.”

  “No, this is a huge help. Thanks, Natalie.” I go back to picking over the berries. Did this help? I ask myself. Yes. It did. So then why do I feel more confused than ever?

  I knock on my father’s office door after the shift ends that night. “Dad?”

  “Yes, come in.”

  I go inside and shut the door. “Here’s the thing,” I say, and take a breath. “I don’t want to work in front of a computer all day. Maybe when I’m in my forties I won’t still be a chef, but I’d rather be involved in cooking in some way than an office. I just prefer being here. No telling where that road will lead yet—maybe I’ll be a restaurant owner who hires an executive chef to work for me, or maybe I’ll be stuck on breakfast for a few years, I don’t know. But I do know I’m just like you. For better or worse, a kitchen is where I belong. I’m still deciding the ins and outs of it. But I am turning UVM down.

  “I know how much it means to you that I go to college. I’m sorry
to disappoint you. And I am definitely going to make sure I’m somehow around for my children someday. No idea yet how that’s going to work. But it won’t be by giving up what I love most right from the start. That’s just not going to happen.”

  Dad regards me carefully. “All right. If you’re certain.”

  “I am. I’ll let them know in the morning.” I head for the door. “See you at home.”

  “Cami?”

  I turn.

  There’s a strange look on Dad’s face. He mumbles something in French.

  “Hmm?”

  He smiles a little. “I said I’m proud of you.”

  I frown. Think about this for a minute. “Wait, was this a test?”

  “No,” he says with an innocent look.

  “Was it?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Hmm. I go out to my 4Runner not sure if my father ever really did mean for me to go to college, or if he was just testing me to be sure I knew what I wanted. Guess it doesn’t matter. But still.

  * * *

  After a fairly mild winter, March mud season is almost nonexistent. Meanwhile, it’s Saturday—my new day off—and I’m going ice skating with Taryn. Our hometown has a tiny little mountain for sledding and downhill skiing, and it also has an ice rink. It’s not Olympic-size or anything, but it’s still fun.

  I’ve known Taryn a really long time, so pretty much as soon as I see her I know from her face something’s up. “What?” I ask.

  “The movie’s been delayed. I don’t have to leave until July.”

  “That’s fantastic! You can stay and graduate.”

  “Yeah,” she says with a smile. “I guess they had some issues with the studio, but it’s been worked out.”

  “They’re still making the movie, though. Right?”

  “I hope. I think it’s just been delayed—which works out well for me. I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I’m concerned it’ll wind up not happening.”

  “I think it’ll happen. Don’t delays occur all the time?”

  “That’s what my agent says.”

  We lace up our skates. It’s crowded because it’s a weekend, so lots of jeans-clad legs go by.

  “It’s too bad I couldn’t have known about the delay before auditions for Les Mis,” says Taryn. “It’s no biggie, but it would have been nice to know I could do it, you know?”

  “Yeah well, rumors are it isn’t going that great.”

  “That’s just early staging stuff,” she says. “It’ll all get fixed in time.” We go out onto the ice; the music is blasting. Little kids are zooming past us. “Oh, Cami?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something else I should tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Turn around,” she says. She points to the other end of the rink.

  Hmm, okay. I turn, look in the direction she’s pointing—and die. Because Julian is walking over to us on the outside of the rink. Without his cane.

  I skate over to the wall near where he’s standing. “Hey,” he says, “imagine meeting you here.”

  Taryn is smiling.

  “You’re hands free!”

  He grins.

  “Wait, hold on.” I skate out of the rink and hurry over to him. He hugs me tightly, standing up, with both arms around me. And doesn’t let go for a long time.

  “Want to sit?” I ask when we finally break apart from each other.

  “Sure.”

  We find an empty bench. I can’t stop smiling. “How did you find me here?”

  “Estella had Taryn’s number.”

  “Hmm.” I kiss him. “Let’s go.”

  “No, you’re here with Taryn. It’d be rude to just leave her.”

  “She’ll understand.”

  “No, go around a few times at least. I’ll watch.”

  I skate for another hour, say goodbye to Taryn, then on our way home, Julian asks me to stop and pull over. We walk out onto one of the town’s covered bridges. It’s a cute little red one, laden with snow. Cars drive in and out of it, but there’s also a covered foot trail on one side. We walk slowly to about the center of the bridge and then stop.

  Julian’s arms come around me again. “I’ll get my permanent leg in June. It’s far better than this temporary one. Then the doctors say I’ll be able to do everything—play sports, go on hikes.”

  “Julian, that’s fantastic.”

  “So is holding you like this.”

  I unzip his coat and reach my arms inside. He gives a contented sigh. “Someday soon,” he says, “I’m going to walk all the way up that hill to your house.”

  His eyes meet mine.

  “Not today,” I warn, concerned this is what he means.

  “No. Not today.” He grins and kisses me.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A few weeks later, Julian announces it’s time for that walk. Estella drops us off at the bottom of the hill and our plan is to hike up it to go home.

  “If you get tired, call me,” she says. “I have my cell.”

  Julian rolls his eyes. “It’s like I’m eight years old again.”

  “We’ll call if we run into trouble, don’t worry,” I assure her.

  Finally, she drives on home.

  I’ve walked up Old Meadow Road so many times I have it broken down in my mind into sections. First section, fairly small houses near town. Second section, estate owned by rich movie tycoon and hidden carefully from view by ridiculously fancy iron fence. Third section, larger homes up on the hill off to the right, forest and field off to the left. There are fourth through sixth sections as well, but when we reach the third, Julian suddenly stops and looks out over the field and into the trees. “What’s with the buckets?” he asks.

  I smile. “They’re sugaring buckets. To collect sap for maple syrup.”

  He shakes his head.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing. This place is just different for me. I’m not used to the country.”

  Julian grew up mostly in New York with Estella, and before that, I think a suburb in Ohio. “Do you like it?”

  He nods and just takes it all in. I’m glad he likes it here, I really am. Because I love it so much myself.

  “See that forest down there?” I say, pointing past the field and down into the distance. “It’s all owned by the widow who lives in that house.” I point to the home just to the right of us that sits behind a tall wooden fence. “She’s this really nice old lady who sells hand-knitted sweaters. Would never harm a fly. But this entire mountain is protected and every year the deer hunters come anyway. So, one year she got so fed up with it she stood on her back porch and yelled, ‘If I hear one more gunshot, I’m calling the police!’”

  Julian is staring at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Do you think she’d mind if we trespassed a little?”

  “Um. No, probably not. Just as long as we don’t have shotguns.”

  The field is muddy from snowmelt and just starting to bud with wildflowers. Julian works his way up to the forest line and then stops short. Takes a breath. “Let’s go in.”

  I look at him. He is so phenomenally beautiful at this moment, wanting to walk into this forest with me. “Sure.”

  The woods are quiet. For me, forests are like churches, hallowed places. There’s a stillness about them, a sort of reverence. The ground is blanketed with soggy pile needles. The air is cool, clean and fragrant. All the trees look fresh, like they’ve just shaken themselves out after a long sleep and are now reaching, stretching and bursting with new growth, tender green shoots and leaves. “Look.” I point out some pink lady’s slippers that are tucked near a tree root.

  Julian comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. “This is gorgeous.”

  “It is. There’s a stream down there, I think.”

  “Let’s go see.”

  We wander, hand in hand, between trees until we reach an embankment blanketed in a thick
layer of moss. The moss clings to the trees and large boulders at the water’s edge. The water is tumbling over shallow drops, around piles of driftwood and down past nodding ferns. “Let’s go over here.” Julian guides me to a tree that’s tilting towards the stream.

  “We’ll fall.”

  “We won’t fall,” he says, and I’m backed against this tilted tree and its mossy coat. “Does that woman ever come into this forest?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know how pretty you look right now, on this tree with your hair hanging down?”

  I close my eyes and the stream fills my ears and there are squirrels up overhead and I listen to them and hold onto the trunk. Julian’s mouth is warm and riotous. We’re kissing deeper and more urgently, then fumbling with clothes. His breath is sweet against me; my body is unsteady though. “I’m tipping.”

  “I’ve got you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, of course. Wrap your arms around me.”

  I do and Julian clings to me, and everything around us is still and quiet, holding its breath, and then he pushes into me and tears brim in my eyes. Because this is amazing and I know he feels whole like this, standing on two legs over me; he’s whimpering like he’s overwhelmed, and the tree shakes and sways and a single leaf falls into the water and the current carries it off. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers.

  “Yes, you do.”

  He grips me, loses himself and gives and surrenders and there’s a great stillness while the forest holds us so close we can scarcely breathe. I lift my hand, after awhile, and stroke his hair.

  “There was a third man in the truck that day. His name was Ken Cooper. He...” Julian tears up. One overflows and plunks down on me. “He said he was all right. So I left him and went for the others.”

  This, I realize, is what haunts Julian the most, why he cries out “Coop” sometimes in his sleep. I could tell Julian that it wasn’t his fault, that he had no way of knowing there was a second bomb, that the man, Ken Cooper, obviously wanted him to get the wounded men out first. But Julian is intelligent enough to know all this. So, instead of just repeating what he knows, I try to think of something better. “He’d want you to let it go,” I say after awhile.

  Julian’s grip on me tightens. “I can’t.”

  “Did you visit his family in December?”