The cuts are quick, careful, and when I’m done, I file the edges to remove any sharpness, then take the pieces back to the workbench. There, I shape the sheet with my tools and some clamps, then hold up the scythe to the rounded piece.
Not quite.
I use a thick mallet to bend the sheet almost double, then retry with the scythe piece. It slips into place, and I hold up both pieces, turning them around, careful to keep the pieces together. If I weld the two together, I can turn it to whichever angle I need on the body. I take the piece to the welder and slip the mask back on. I follow the line of the metal with my gaze and then with my gloved finger, memorizing its shape, its length. Then I get to work.
When I have it ready, I take the new rib back to the body. This time, I can see how it would work, and it’s not going to increase the weight of the wings as much as the plowshare would have. I prop it against the abdomen and go back to my stack of scythes. There’s a lot more to clean up and polish, and I’ll need to call Adam soon. There’s a lot of sheet metal to deal with.
* * *
I go back and forth in my mind—job or no job? Lawyer or not? What could I do instead? How could I make money, keep my condo, keep the lights on? The thought of being broke makes my stomach churn once more, and that vise around my chest pinches. I feel breathless. Alice’s touch breaks into my distress, grabs my attention.
“You’re utterly white,” she says. “This isn’t life or death.” She rubs my back, shifting closer on the log.
I try to steady my breathing, imagine the tension running down my legs and away. A therapist I had once as a kid had suggested that, and it sometimes works. It’s not working very well right now, though. I need to calm down. Somehow.
“Have you ever considered taking a leave of absence?” Alice asks. “Even a short one, just to figure out what you want to do?”
I shake my head. As if Jack would ever accept that. You leave, you’re leaving for good. None of this silly snowflake stuff like stress leave or sabbatical. Only if you have a line on an amazing client or an amazing job. And I have neither of those.
“I can’t. That’d be the end of my chance at partner.”
Alice’s hand on my back is warm, reassuring. “Is that all you’ve ever wanted?”
My immediate answer is yes, but I don’t blurt that out. I lean forward, chin on my hands, staring at the water. Being partner means security. Real security. I could pay off my condo, take trips, choose my own clients, make my parents proud. I’d be making as much or more as my mother does as a doctor.
The silence stretches between us, but Alice doesn’t seem bothered, doesn’t demand an answer. How different from my parents she is. They’d want an immediate decision. No sitting calmly, no waiting. No patience.
“Imagine what your new life would look like,” Alice says. “Imagine how it might be, from the smallest detail to the largest. Don’t think about what your life is now, or what things weigh you down. Think about what it could be, what it will be when you make the decision.” She rises from the log. “I’m no psychic, or even a counselor, so I can’t say how your life will turn out or what decisions you should make. But I will encourage you to imagine yourself at your absolute happiest.”
I glance up at her, not sure what to say except “Thank you.”
“Come up to the house later if you want. Goldie always loves company.”
I’m on my own again, but this time my thoughts slide to positive things, dreamy things, things I’ve never dared really let myself want. I’ve spent so much time trying to please everyone else: my parents, my teachers, my boss. What if I tried to please myself instead?
My perfect day would be to wake up next to Lucy, whether we’re on the farm or in my condo—although if I’m honest with myself, my thoughts go right to Lucy’s bed, with its quilts piled high, the slanted ceiling, the gabled window. The condo doesn’t even register. It’d be cozy, warm, a fresh breeze tickling my nose with the scent of grass.
We’d get up and go to work, tending the greenhouse and the gardens outside. If Lucy went to a market, I’d go into the kitchen, try out new dishes, figure out new combinations. And then I’d go to Ming Kitty. My imagination first takes me to the storefront in Cochrane, but the kitchen in my imagination is more up to date, shiny and clean and ready. I’d prep for the evening’s opening, and then we would open the doors, let in people who want to eat my food, to eat produce from Lucy’s farm.
I open my eyes. Peeking around the corner that night of the pop-up, seeing people eating and laughing, savoring the food and the atmosphere…it was just about perfect. And then afterward, we’d clean up and go home, and spend more time together, and crawl into bed together.
I can’t imagine a happy life without Lucy.
I try to imagine being at the firm, being a partner with a corner office, in meetings with clients, with Jack, winning cases for my clients, making sure they get the best deals, the best agreements, the best everything.
I can imagine it.
Except it’s gray, all of it.
Where life with Lucy is brilliant and energetic, my other life—then and now—has lost all appeal.
I sag on the log, crossing my arms on my knees, resting my forehead on top.
I know what I want. But I don’t know if I have the courage. And I have to do this for me. If I were Lucy, I wouldn’t take me back. I wouldn’t be trustworthy after what I’d done.
But I need to know. I’ll need to ask. And hope.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but when I lift my head, I know what I need to do. Even if it scares me half to death. I rise to my feet and head back to the car. Once there, I turn on the engine and the air conditioning to cool myself off. And stall for time. I’ll admit it to myself right now. My phone sits in the cup holder, and I know I need to pick it up, need to call Jack.
I swallow hard.
Then the phone is in my hand and I scroll through my contacts until I reach Jack’s cell phone number. I rarely use this one, though I’ve had it since I started. For emergencies, he said.
This feels like an emergency to me. It might be to him too, but not for the same reason. I press on the number and put the phone to my ear.
My stomach clenches and I taste a sour flavor in my mouth. My hands shake. The line rings, and rings.
Finally, when I’m about to hang up, Jack answers.
“Hi, Jack.” I try not to stutter, not to panic. My chest is tight.
“Kitty,” he says. “What do you need? I’m at the golf course and we’re coming to the next tee.”
I take a deep breath.
“I’m giving you my notice,” I say, before I lose my last bit of nerve. “I’ll have a letter on your desk on Monday morning.”
“What?” The word is loud, loud enough that I take the phone away from my ear, flinching. “This is ridiculous. You have too many clients, too many files to just quit now. And you made Mr. Anderson very happy. I saw him for lunch, and he sang your praises.”
“I’ll stay on to help my replacement get up to speed,” I say, finding my equilibrium somehow. I’m still shaking, but now that I’ve said the most important words, some of my anxiety is lessening. Only a bit, but it is. “But after my notice period is up, that’s it.”
“Is this about that restaurant? You’ll never make as much there as you will with the firm. And you are so close to being a partner. C’mon, Kitty, you’re the reliable one. You’re the one I know I can depend on. You can’t do this to me.”
I swallow. So close to being a partner.
The need is still there, that desire to prove myself worthy. And I hate letting Jack down. In some ways, he’s been like a second father, looking out for me. But I remember how many times Jack’s kept me going over the past year, telling me about how close I was to being a partner, and how I still haven’t moved any farther along that path, how he’s never given me any indication that my struggle would soon end. I’d like to believe him, but I don’t think I can.
&
nbsp; “When would that be?”
There’s silence on the line.
“Soon,” Jack says, hedging. “But not yet.”
“I won’t do it anymore, Jack. This is my two weeks’ notice.”
He blusters. “You need to give me more than that. Two weeks is nothing.”
“I don’t,” I counter. I know the rules. “Two weeks is all you’re legally entitled to. More than that is by the employee’s grace, and I have another job lined up.”
I don’t yet, but I hope that Lucy won’t be too mad at me, won’t have given up on me entirely. If not, well, I can figure something out, somehow.
Jack sighs.
“I see. I’m very disappointed in you, Kitty. We’ll talk on Monday about how you’ll transition the other staff.”
The line goes dead while I’m waiting for him to say something more. I pull my phone away from my ear and see the screen light up, showing the call has ended. I drop it back into the cup holder. My chest is still tight, but my hands aren’t shaking anymore. I put my seat belt on and put the car into gear.
* * *
The grinder is heavy. Not right away, but after an hour of removing rust from the scythes, my arms tremble. I set it down, shake out my arms and shoulders, walk around the dragon, pull off my dust mask and safety glasses, wipe my forehead with my arm. There’s a smear of rust there. No doubt I just smeared my face too. I pull up my shirt, blot my forehead, and it comes away brown. Figures.
I check my phone, text Adam about sandblasting the sheet metal. Then I go back to the couple of sheets I have, putting my safety glasses and mask back on. I get down to business, cutting the sheets, shaping them. The vision of the dragon is clear in my mind. So clear.
* * *
I pull up to Country Mouse Farms, parking just in the driveway, close to the sign. Once I’m out of the car, I can hear Michelle on the porch, speaking in Chinese to someone on the phone, though she’s just out of eyesight. I could go say hello, and she’d be happy to see me, but I’m not here to see her.
I check the greenhouse, but Lucy’s not there. Her van is parked where it usually is, so she should be on the farm. The vast outdoor garden is empty too. I spot the open door of the outbuilding where she has her sculptures. There’s a hum in the air, and I make my way to the door.
Lucy’s inside, a dark red mask obscuring her face, her hands covered by thick gloves, her clothes by a leather apron. There’s sparks and I squint, looking away. Clouds of some sort of gas or smoke hover in the air above her. A motor revs and there’s a bright light. I keep my gaze directed away from it, skimming along the edge of the workbench. The pile of scythes that Lucy had are arranged there, some of them far less rusty than they had been. She’s working hard.
The light from the welding has subsided, so I glance back at Lucy. Her arms are covered with a snug shirt, and she takes off her mask, wiping her forehead with her arm. There are smears of dust or dirt on her face, and she’s perspiring.
She’s beautiful.
Her sculpting wasn’t part of my earlier imaginings, but standing here now, watching her, they slot themselves in—me helping her with the work, maybe even learning how to weld. How crazy would that be? Manual labor, real manual labor. My mother would be horrified. All my degrees going to waste.
I step into the building, and Lucy starts at the movement.
“You’re here.” She gives me a long look, one that I’m not sure what to think of. Is this good or bad?
She strides over to me and pauses only a second before she drops her mask to the floor and pulls off her gloves, taking me in her arms. This feels so right. So real. She’s warm against me, the scent of dirt and metal and sweat making me feel at home. Why did I ever think otherwise?
I don’t even know how to say it. I bury my face in her shoulder, breathing in her scent, letting her warmth radiate through me. We stay like this for several minutes, I’m not even sure how long. But then, we finally part, just enough to see each other. Lucy’s still holding me, and I’m still holding her.
“What’s wrong?”
It’s all so much to tell, yet it’s not. It could be so simple. I know my lips are trembling, and my eyes start to water. I haven’t cried since I was a teenager, but here I am, welling up.
Lucy waits. Her calm, her patience, much like Alice’s patience, are a true comfort. That makes me even more weepy, and the tears spill down my cheeks. I bite my lip, bowing my head and trying not to sob. I shouldn’t be crying—I don’t need to be crying. But I am.
She pulls me close once more, and this time I’m clinging to her; it feels like being a little kid again in some ways, not that my parents ever really had time for hugs and tears. A few of the nannies did, sometimes. And then I do sob. It’s ugly, it’s messy, it’s immense, the feelings spilling out of me through my tears.
Lucy’s rubbing my back, making soothing sounds, slowly rocking her weight from foot to foot, a rhythmic movement that is surprisingly calming.
I sniffle in a very unladylike sort of way, wiping my eyes. Lucy takes me over to the workbench and pulls a box of tissues from a drawer.
I sit down, perching on the edge of the workbench, take a handful of tissues, blot my face, no doubt now red and blotchy and swollen. I blow my nose and breathe more deeply. Lucy rests next to me, still patient. I toss the sodden tissues into the garbage, then wipe my cheeks with my hands.
“Are you all right?” Lucy asks, her arm over my shoulder. I lean against her, compelling my breathing to slow, focusing on her touch, on the dirt floor, on the smell of metal and chemicals from her welding. Bringing myself back down, like my therapist once suggested. The emotions are still there, the anxiety still simmering, but I’m much closer to tranquility.
“I—” I start, then sniffle, then take another deep breath. “I’m quitting my job.”
Lucy squeezes my shoulder, but she’s quiet, surprisingly so. I shift my gaze to her, see her looking at me.
“You’re certain?”
“I can’t do it anymore. I’m not happy. I thought I was—thought I would be, but I’m not. I won the lawsuit, but it doesn’t matter.” A couple of leftover tears leak from the corners of my eyes and I swipe them away. “I’m happy here. Happy with you. Happy on the farm. Happy making food, getting run off my feet, and then seeing all our customers happy and eating.”
“What about your goals?”
“I can’t do it. I thought I wanted it, to make partner. But then I thought harder and I was going to keep doing what I was doing, and I just…I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“What will you do instead?”
I might be overstepping, assuming, but I can’t not take that chance. “I want to make Ming Kitty a reality. Not just an occasional pop-up, but a real, every day restaurant. And I hope, I really hope, that we can do that. That we can make it a reality, and that I can help you out here on the farm too. And…I’m sorry I broke things off. I know you likely won’t be able to trust me, but…” I swallow hard. “If you can find a way to give me another chance…”
My heart thunders in my chest, the anxiety rising once more. What if she says no? What if I’ve put it all on the line for nothing?
Lucy’s solemn face moves, changes, and she’s smiling. Grinning.
“We will have the most incredible restaurant ever.” She takes my face in her hands, and then we’re kissing, through tears and glee and giggles, and the anxiety drains from me, leaving a lightness I’ve never felt before. I’m giddy, trembling under her touch.
Desire rises and our kisses deepen. I grasp the ties of her apron, pulling them free, and we break apart so she can pull it over her head. Then I’m tugging up the hem of her shirt and she’s working on mine, and I don’t care that we’re in a cluttered outbuilding, the door partly open, practically in public. We’re stripped down, and Lucy lays her apron on the floor, and then we’re there. She’s pushing me onto my back, bringing my legs up, my feet on her shoulders as she licks me, flicking my clit, then sucki
ng it, then drawing back. And again. It’s been so long that I’m starved for her touch, the press of her tongue inside me enough to undo me, shuddering, gasping on the floor. She doesn’t stop until I’m limp and panting, then reclines beside me, stroking my breast, then down to my hip.
“We get to do this every day,” she murmurs into my ear. The thought makes me shudder again, shiver as she strokes me. I cup her cheek, bring her mouth to mine, kiss her, tasting our mixed flavors. Then I stroke down her body, moving lower, taking a nipple into my mouth, my hand going between her legs, finding her damp center. She takes my hand, presses my fingers inside her, a moan coming from her. I thrust three fingers into her, my thumb brushing her clit, her fingers clutching at my shoulder.
Her head has fallen back, her mouth open, her chest flushed, her hips lifting against my hand, grinding into me as she clenches around my fingers.
I’ve missed this, needed this. Needed her.
I suck on her nipples, one after the other, scraping them with my teeth, still penetrating her, stroking her clit, until finally her legs squeeze together, trapping my hand, and I feel the flutter of her muscles as she comes hard.
When she relaxes, I withdraw, and we end up on the apron, our legs stretched out on the dirt floor. I’m perspiring and so is she, and there are smudges of grime on her face and likely on mine. We’re a mess.
“Your mother is going to wonder what we’ve been doing,” I mutter to her.
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