City Kitty and Country Mouse

by Alyssa Linn Palmer

  “I am, but if I can’t, our insurance company will pay out the client,” she says. “And Jack hates that.”

  “Text me when you get home?”

  “I will,” she promises. “It might be late, though.”

  “Whatever time it is, call me,” I say. “I just want to know you’re safe at home.”

  Kitty smiles, but it seems wobbly. “I wish I could stay.”

  “Me too.”

  There’s an ache in my chest watching her walk to her car, open the door, and then drive away.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Never have I been so exhausted. Not even cooking for hours in a hot kitchen gave me this kind of bone-weary tiredness. And yet, the work isn’t done. Not even close. In quieter moments, I envy the pair of associates that gave their notice, one of them leaving law altogether, the other moving to a smaller firm that does family law. But then I remind myself that I’m ever closer to becoming partner and succeeding in my goal.

  That’s the only thing keeping me going. That and talking to Lucy every so often. But this lawsuit is coming to a close tomorrow, and while I think we have a good case, I’m not fully confident that we’ll win.

  As if I don’t have enough to worry about, I get an email from the food writer, Jo Raj: Hi, Kitty, I keep hoping to hear about another night for the pop-up! What’s happening? I have so many people interested, but your website and Facebook page haven’t been updated.

  I sigh. If only I could tell her that we’ll be doing another one this weekend, or next weekend. Or ever. We paid out Beatrice, and I convinced Lucy to let me pay most of the fee, given that it’s my fault this has happened. Beatrice has said we can use the space again when we get back up and running, but I have no idea when that will happen.

  If that will happen.

  I hate to say it, even think it, but some days it feels like Ming Kitty was a one-off. A one and done.

  I let Jo’s email sit while I make myself a quick dinner. As much as I love the ease of takeout, a home-cooked meal is so much better, and I need something good before going into court tomorrow. Tonight, it’s easy—pasta with pesto and garlic pan-fried shrimp. I even stopped by the store to get fresh basil and pine nuts and cheese for the pesto. No pesto from a jar here. In the interest of time, though, I did use a food processor instead of a mortar and pestle.

  My kitchen smells delicious once I’m done, and my stomach growls. I ate lunch, but that was hours ago. I’d planned on eating daintily, savoring my meal, but I’m too hungry and my plate is clear and clean within minutes.

  I push it aside and take up my phone, typing out a reply to Jo: Hi, Jo, your email means a lot to us! We’ve had a few personal setbacks. I’ll definitely keep you in the loop. Promise. Details, but not enough to give everything away.

  Jo emails me back surprisingly quickly: Aw, too bad! I hope you’re back to normal soon. Let me know, and I can spread the word.

  A fan. We have a fan.

  I go to bed heartened, yet exhausted. I’ll need to let Lucy know in the morning. I wish I was there with her, curled up in bed together, smelling the fresh-cut grass, the slight scent of the cows from her neighbor’s place, hearing the crickets.

  It’s hard to fall asleep.

  * * *

  The sun is bright, and though it’s early, it’s already getting warm. I was up with the dawn, knowing that I’d regret it if I wasn’t. The greenhouse bakes in the summertime and through early fall, which is great for the produce, but not so great for me, or for Alice. Even though I’ve been up for a while, coffee in me, my ass is dragging. Usually these mornings are the best mornings, but today—all this week, if I’m honest—it’s been tough to get motivated. Everything gets done, but there just isn’t the spark there used to be. Something is missing.

  Mama’s moving around a lot better now, having gotten the hang of her crutches. I still stick close to home, though, in case she needs me. She scolded me the other day for hovering too much.

  “Shoo.” She waved her hands at me. “Go call Kitty, do whatever you two do.”

  “Kitty’s working.” She texted that morning as she was on her way to court, telling me about Jo’s burgeoning fandom.

  Mama sighed. “That girl works too hard, and she’s not happy.”

  “She has to do what she has to do,” I said.

  “She’ll learn,” Mama replied.

  I keep hoping she will. But I know the drive, the need to succeed, the need to prove yourself. Country Mouse Farms is testament to that. And I still feel it, but the farm is established now, and it’s not as urgent there.

  My hands are itching to create. I double-check the greenhouse, set the watering, monitor the growth, note what needs to be harvested, and then I go over to my studio, the large outbuilding with all my welding gear. The little mice and cats and bats and creatures all seem to eyeball me as I enter, but it’s the shape in the middle that keeps my attention. My dragon. She’s been neglected in the last while, waiting patiently in the dim barn. There’s a slight tingle of energy in the air somehow, and I think she knows I’m here. Fanciful, but true.

  I roll up my sleeves, wishing I could just leave on the tank top underneath, and put on my leather apron. There’s a pile of old plowshares and scythes in one corner, and I know they’ll need a lot of work to get ready. They’re rusted, worn, but polishing will bring them back to life, or at least to better than they are. I can still easily envision the spread of the wings from the dragon’s back. But before I weld them on, I’m going to need to figure out where to put this dragon. Her body is in pieces, and if I construct everything in here, she’ll never go anywhere. She’ll be huge and heavy.

  I start with the plowshares, piling them onto my workbench and getting my gloves and gear ready. They’ll need to be ground down, the rust removed, then polished. They will form the shortest ribs of the wings, where they jut out from the dragon’s back. And then, I’ll weld the scythes onto them. I can see it in my mind. I wonder if I should sharpen the scythes, or leave them blunt? Blunt might be safer for construction, but a dragon with shining and sharp scythes for wings would be gorgeous and dangerous.

  The image of the dragon in the middle of a field of wheat, her wings flashing in the sunlight, hovers in my mind’s eye. Somehow though, I feel like the sculpture should go somewhere else, somewhere with more traffic, somewhere that it won’t be forgotten, rusting out in the rain. I’ll have to consider it carefully. I doubt the town would be all that keen, but perhaps one of their parks could use some decoration.

  I set up my grinder and place the first plowshare into the vise on my workbench. Safety glasses are next and then a mask, and before I pull on my gloves, I take a moment to turn on the small box fan I have, getting the air moving. It’ll save me from the heat once the sun is high in the sky, beating down on the barn. I also check the barrel of water I keep in the corner. Grinding can throw off a lot of sparks, and though there isn’t much here that’s flammable, I wouldn’t want to take the chance. Then I pull on my gloves and pick up the grinder.

  Kitty would love to see this. I’d love to see her trying out the grinder and the welder, her hair up, her arms bare, intensity in her gaze. She’s been intrigued by the sculpture, but I don’t know if she’d be a builder. But I’d love to teach her, love to see her try.

  I need to stop thinking about her. We’re over.

  Then I start to grind and the noise and sparks make it difficult to focus on anything else.

  * * *

  The judge enters the courtroom, and my heart is pounding. We settle into our seats after he takes a seat behind the bench. We presented our closing arguments a few days back, and now we find out whether or not I’ve managed to save Mr. Anderson’s money, the firm’s business, and my job in one fell swoop.

  I look up at the judge and realize that he’s begun to speak, and I’ve missed what he was saying. “Given the evidence presented by both sides, and the contracts signed and agreed upon, it is my decision that the plaintiffs’ appl
ication for payment is denied.” He turns his gaze on the plaintiffs and their lawyer. “It is apparent from documented evidence provided that work was not completed and that the filing of the liens was inappropriate at best.”

  I don’t hear what he says next, but I know what it will be. We’ve won. I’ve won. The rest of his statement is a buzz in my ears, my heart pounding. Finally, we rise, and Mr. Anderson shakes my hand.

  “Well done,” he says, looking pleased and almost a bit smug. “Those men didn’t deserve to be paid for nothing.” I nod. “I’ll be meeting with Jack this afternoon, to let him know that you’ve met my expectations.”

  “Thank you.”

  Outside the courthouse, my knees feel weak. I watch Mr. Anderson walk to a waiting taxi, and I turn toward the office. As I walk, I wonder why I’m going back. Every step feels like I’m wading through molasses, the exhaustion I’ve been suppressing coming to the surface. I take out my phone and dial Cindy.

  “Well? Well?” she asks when she answers.

  “We did it,” I say.

  “That’s the best news I’ve had all day,” she says. “We should go out for lunch to celebrate. I’m pretty sure I can sneak out.”

  “I’m wiped,” I say. “I need to go home. Do I have any meetings this afternoon?”

  “Nothing I can’t reschedule,” she says. “I’ll just say you had a bad oyster.”

  “Thanks, Cindy. You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Take care of yourself, Kitty,” she says.

  “I will.”

  I head to my car. My stomach growls, and I know I’ll need to eat, but that’ll wait until I get home.

  * * *

  I don’t know why I’m coming out here. Taking time off was sensible, and my lunch of leftover pasta somewhat revived me, but I have a ton of work piled up at home on my coffee table and on the sofa next to my laptop, and I should be there instead, using the time to catch up. At times, I wonder if Jack has decided to make me his whipping boy. Whipping girl. Whatever. I’m not the prodigy anymore, even though I’ve kept Mr. Anderson and his business with the firm. One screwup, and I’m doing everything I can to make it better and then some.

  I really shouldn’t be thinking about work at all. My chest feels tight, and I try to consciously slow my breathing, breathing from the diaphragm like the online list—“13 Things to Help Anxiety”—suggested.

  Breathing helps. Sort of. It doesn’t quite help the tightness in my chest, but it keeps me from hyperventilating. I push my gaze beyond my windshield, taking a greater interest in my surroundings: the long stretch of road, the Rockies on the horizon, the rolling foothills. I roll down my window partway, letting in the fresh country air. The noise of the wind keeps me from thinking too much, drowning out all the other noise. All that remains is the need to see Lucy. To be on the farm with her, whether we’re walking down the road, or in the house, or tending to the produce. I won’t stay long—the work won’t let me—but even just a few hours might quiet the longing.

  At least, I hope it will.

  Cindy’s been after me to schedule a break for once the court case was done, some days being pushier about it than others. I think she thinks that Jack is overworking me, and her too. He’d hinted at the partnership the other day, and that put a bit of spring in my step, as my father would say. But it didn’t last long.

  “He’s taking advantage,” Cindy said in a low, low whisper after she’d closed my office door. “You need to set boundaries.”

  “He’s my boss,” I’d said. “It’s his firm.”

  Cindy shook her head. “Make sure you take some time this weekend, then. Even you can’t work 24/7.”

  No, I sure can’t. I worked last night until late, probably eleven, nearly midnight. And I was up not quite with the dawn, but almost. Coffee and a piece of toast fueled me for court. Sort of. What I really need now is a nap. A long, long nap.

  Finally, I turn onto the range road leading to Country Mouse Farm. But in a moment of hesitation, I slow, turning into a small pullout partway down the road. There’s a house nearby, but it isn’t Lucy’s. I turn off the car and step out, my sandal-clad feet getting scratched by the long dry grass as I wade away from the car and onto a path through the field. There’s a little gully nearby, a large gangly tree overhanging. Just the spot to sit and take in the light breeze, the smell of the fields. And it’s quiet here too, no cars to be heard, no honking, no screech of brakes, none of the city noise that fills my days and nights.

  There’s a log resting near the edge of the tiny pool of murky water. Not exactly a beautiful scene, and I’m sure there will be mosquitos, but I don’t care. I lower myself onto the log, adjusting my jeans. A bird chirps nearby, and I look up, spotting a small pair of wrens in the branches of the tree.

  Somehow, right this moment, this place is a slice of heaven. I’ve left my phone in the car, and not having it feels strange, but right. I lean forward, propping my chin on my hands. A water bug skitters across the surface of the pond, and I watch it go, tracking its movement to the other shore. I can hear the slight buzz of flies or bees or both, and the wrens making their noises in the tree. There’s a bit of a breeze, but not enough to make it cool. As I sit there, my body seems to lose some of its tension, as if it’s draining out through my feet and into the soil. I take a deep breath, and another, closing my eyes. If I could have this every day, my life would be so much easier.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there, only that I’ve lost track of time when I open my eyes, hearing the sound of footsteps through the grass. I blink against the brightness and look up.

  Alice is there, looking concerned, glancing between me and my car.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asks. “Did you break down?”

  I shake my head. “The car’s fine. I just needed a moment or two.”

  “Tough week?” Alice lowers herself slowly to the other side of the log, takes off her hat, and wipes her brow.

  “Yeah.” My stomach churns just thinking of it, and I have to take another deep breath.

  Alice nods. “Michelle mentioned it, said that Lucy was worried about you. That you work too hard.”

  “I have to,” I blurt out, trying not to make it sound like a snarky retort.

  Alice nods again. “High stakes jobs are like that,” she agrees. “It’s good to have a retreat.” She indicates the farmhouse that’s barely in sight over the hill, its blue roof poking over the grass. “That’s my retreat.” She smiles. “Absolutely worth it too.”

  “Have you lived here long?” We’ve spent time together, but I realize that I don’t know much about Alice, not really.

  “Since I was about your age,” she says. “I bought it off an elderly widow who had to move into the city to be nearer her kids and grandkids, in a home. She wanted to stay but couldn’t. I’ve made a few changes in decor, but it’s mostly the same otherwise.”

  “Where did you live before?”

  “In Calgary,” she says. “Much like you do now. Working for an oil company, being part of the rat race.” She glances back to her house, and her expression softens. “Got laid off in the 80s, part of the recession. I was just glad I had some savings and could move. And Adam was young enough that he came with me part of the time. Being a divorced single mom wasn’t easy.”

  “That’d be rough,” I say. My parents were lucky during the recession, or so they tell me. Doctors and lawyers are always in demand.

  “It was. I was pretty aimless for a while. Then I met Michelle and her husband, and little Lucy. She was about eight then, I think. Cute as a button, already following her dad around, loving it when he’d let her hold the grinder or try to weld something.” Alice chuckles. “Not a girl’s girl, by any means. And Adam loved it out here, though he spent more time with his dad, in Calgary.”

  “I’d love to be here more often.” As I say the words, the need rises in me, feeling almost like a panic attack, my chest tightening. But my eyes prickle, and I blink back the emotion and take a
deep breath, trying to convince my body to relax.

  “You could,” Alice says.

  “Not if I want to be partner.” The reply is automatic, almost.

  Alice regards me thoughtfully. “Do you?”

  I want to say yes, but something stops me. I look down at my hands, at the nails carefully manicured, and then to my toes, also manicured but now smudged with dirt in my sandals.

  Do I?

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Welding the plowshare and the old scythe together is fussy work. My dad’s portable welder is loud, and I keep telling myself that I should replace it, get a stick welder or flux core, something easier to handle. But they’re expensive, and this one still works. Daddy’s girl to the core, that statement. I shake my head and push the welding mask up, inspect my work. Not the cleanest line, but it’ll do.

  I take off the mask, hang it at the end of the workbench where it usually goes. And then I pick up the scythe and plowshare, meant to be one of the ribs of the wing. I take it over to where I have the abdomen of the dragon and try to position it where I think it will go.

  It’s heavy. It’s awkward as hell, and right then, I realize that it won’t work. All those plowshares there in that pile, all for nothing. The only saving grace is that I only polished up one before I gave it a shot. The scythes might still work, but I need something lighter for them to be attached to, something more malleable. I set down the rib and go back to my pile of scrap, outside in a little lean-to of the outbuilding. This stuff is mostly sheet metal, taken off old tractors, combines, and the like. Most of it has ugly paint of varying shades of orange, green, red. It’ll need cleaning up before I can do anything with it. Adam used to know a guy who did sandblasting. That may be what I have to do.

  I dig through the pile, find a piece of sheet metal that is surprisingly clear of paint. I’m not sure where it came from, maybe a replacement fender, but it’ll be perfect to experiment on. I take it back into the barn. I set it on the workbench and grab the scythe and plowshare. I grind down the weld, and the scythe falls to the floor with a clang. I toss the plowshare back into the pile and take up the scythe, bringing it over to the workbench. The sheet metal is slim, and I try to picture how it might go with the scythe, how I can attach the two. I take the sheet over to the jigsaw in the corner, eyeing the sheet. If I cut it in half, then I can bend both pieces to form basic spokes, giving it more strength to hold the scythe. I grab my safety glasses from my pocket, slip them on, and turn on the jigsaw.