by Brent, Cora
What a bitch.
“Have you written anything new?” Annika asked abruptly.
“No, Mom. I haven’t written anything in years, but that has nothing to do with Ophelia Benoit.”
My long vanished dream was to be a prolific great novelist like Nora Roberts or Janet Evanovich. Once I reached college my father persuaded me to major in communications and I ended up gravitating toward journalism, which led me to sports journalism, which led to my network job and finally to infamy in Bath Bomber circles.
But that wasn’t important right now.
“I was planning to stay in town until Christmas and help Gemma get through the holidays.”
Annika’s chin had begun quivering again. “Gemma, always such a sweet girl. Now she’s been left all alone to take care of those darling children by herself. I’ll bring them some eggs tomorrow.”
She was sniffling up a storm so I started to dig a tissue out of my purse but my mother produced a beautifully embroidered handkerchief from the pocket of her sweater coat and dabbed at her eyes. Gidget twitched her tail and gazed at me accusingly before scampering behind the couch just as a hideous chicken stalked over.
“SQUAWWWK!” The chicken was red-eyed, scrawny, furious and familiar.
“Hello, Danielle,” I sighed, used to the fact that in this house chickens were family and Danielle resided at the top of the pecking order. Literally.
The chicken jabbed at my coat, which was actually Gemma’s coat. I’d draped it over the arm of the sofa before taking a seat.
“Hey,” I complained since Danielle seemed determined to drill a hole into the fabric. “Knock it off. That’s not even mine.”
Annika ignored Danielle’s bad behavior. “By the way, Katrina, your father called yesterday.”
“Really?” I had to take a break from trying to shake Danielle off of Gemma’s coat because this was surprising information. “You guys actually talked? To each other?”
As far as I knew my parents spoke approximately twice a decade. Theirs had been a short and strange union. Long before he began screaming into the camera on weeknights, my father was a hotshot attorney with a celebrity client list. He represented my mother in a lawsuit against a gossip magazine that printed a false story claiming she’d committed a hit and run against a stray cat. The lawsuit was won and the money immediately donated to her favorite animal rescue organization. By that time she was married to her dashing young lawyer and expecting his baby. It seemed like an odd pairing; the gorgeous but flighty Annika and the handsome, serious attorney, but stranger things have happened among the rich and famous. They were divorced before I was three and I had no memory of them ever being married. Sometimes I kind of wish I did. The sight must have been entertaining. While they didn’t hate one another, their personalities were so contrary it was hard to believe they’d ever shared a dinner, let alone a home and a child.
Annika was puzzled. “Of course Levi and I spoke to each other. Your father’s worried about you. I’m worried about you too. Danielle, aren’t you also worried about our little girl?”
Danielle pecked at my left boot this time in order to prove her concern. She’d outlived just about every other chicken in the history of chicken records. Annika insisted that Danielle was intelligent enough to tap out yes or no answers to complex questions. I had yet to witness the evidence so I was doubtful.
“You guys really don’t need to worry about me. People will move on to the next outrage and I’ll bounce back.”
“Your father plans to challenge this Bath person to appear on his show.”
“Oh god.” The idea was horrifying. I shook my head. “No, he shouldn’t do that. I’ll call him later. Look, this whole thing really wasn’t Chris Bath’s fault. It was mine. I was caught rudely gossiping. These days when that happens there are consequences. It will all blow over.”
Annika was unconvinced. “Pasquale says everyone has cancelled you. What does that mean exactly?”
“He’s being dramatic.” I paused. “Pas talked to you about me?”
There was a time when my baby brother was the light of my life. His father, a temperamental Italian model, had been married to my mother for less than a year. I was nine when Pas was born and I adored him instantly. There was a split custody arrangement so he didn’t live with us full time but my favorite memories of Pas were of this chubby little toddler who would waddle after me with his arms outstretched, begging, “Weena, meep!” Which translated to, “Katrina, pick me up.” He was still a little kid when I left for college and shortly thereafter he started spending the bulk of his time globetrotting with his father, rather than living with Annika in Maple Springs. For high school he chose the elitist institution I’d been booted from after I was caught in my room getting shitfaced on stolen bottles of wine with the son of the headmaster. After high school, Pas became distant, different.
These days I saw my brother on billboards far more often than I saw him in person. He was a world class model with a house in Malibu and a role in a reality television show about children of celebrities. He almost never came to Maple Springs and even when he visited Manhattan we rarely found the opportunity to connect because he was always busy.
“Yes, Pasquale is worried about you too,” said my mother but now she looked uneasy. Lying did not come naturally to her.
I crossed my arms. “What did he say exactly?”
Annika scooped Danielle off the floor and settled the hideous chicken in her lap. Danielle peered at me with shrewd disapproval while my mother stroked her sparse feathers.
“He wanted to request that if I did any interviews in the near future, which I have no intention of doing, that I should say my two children have never gotten along.”
This was even worse than my brother asking me to pretend we were fighting. He was so desperate to rid himself of any Katrina connection that he was now recruiting our mother to lie.
Immediately I thought of Syler and Gemma. Gemma had never considered abandoning her brother no matter how much of a plague that Spirit Killer nonsense became. And I was sure that if the world went bananas and somehow Gemma found herself a social pariah, Syler wouldn’t hesitate to stick by her side. Look at how he’d dropped everything and come running up here to Maple Springs as soon as he heard his sister was in trouble.
I couldn’t help but compare Syler with my own brother, who was tripping all over himself trying to put permanent distance between us just because I’d made fun of Chris Bath. Syler would walk through fire for his sister. Pas could shun me without a second thought.
The knowledge was depressing. It was almost enough to make me want to play Pretend Apocalypse again.
Annika patted my knee in sympathy. “I know what we should do. Let’s go feed the chickens.”
The sky was a forbidding gray, ready to unleash another round of winter. I shivered, grateful for the armor of Gemma’s coat but wishing I had more practical footwear. Annika withstood the cold better than I did. She simply buttoned her sweater coat and slipped on thick gloves. Her hardy boots had no trouble on the icy ground and the sight of her tall figure marching through the snow with her red coat and her white hair braided in two identical plaits made me feel like I was trailing after a woodland queen in a fairy tale.
She wanted to check on the goats first. When she pushed open the door to the barn that predated World War One, I feared we’d get trampled by the horde of ecstatic little hooves. Annika called them over one by one to receive a treat that she pulled from her pocket. She explained to me that only Rita Hayworth was allowed in the house because the animal currently suffered from a cold, which justified the presence of the lone goat curled up in a corner of the living room.
“Rita Hayworth can keep your squirrel company,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
My mother beamed. “As a matter of fact, they are really great friends. Danielle has been a little jealous but she understands that Mother must be shared with the rest of the family.”
“I
see.” I patted the knobby head of a curious grey haired goat that I thought I’d heard her refer to as George Burns.
“On the new property I’ll be building a brand new barn closer to the main house. Twenty seven steps away is just too far.”
I stopped petting George Burns. “New property?”
“Yes. The Harrington place at the other end of Union Avenue. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No. I would have remembered. So you’re selling the stone house?”
“Well, I don’t need two houses. I can only live in one house at a time. The Harrington house has more space, more acreage and it includes this adorable little cottage that I can offer as a refuge to struggling artists like Dustin. And of course you or Pasquale will always be welcome to stay there when you come to town. Katrina, I see you’re still doing that thing where you chew your lower lip.”
“I am not. I was just thinking.” I pressed my lips together and tried to stop nibbling.
She gasped suddenly and clapped her hands together. “OH! OH!”
“What?” I was wary. Annika’s sources of excitement were unpredictable.
She smiled at me so radiantly it was easy to imagine her face on magazine covers everywhere. “You’re staying through Christmas so you’ll be here for your birthday!”
“That’s right.” I was pleased she’d remembered. Sometimes she didn’t. “I will be here for my birthday.”
She nodded. “We should go check on the chickens now. The snow will be starting again soon.”
As I trudged through the snow en route to the chicken coop I glanced over at the stone house. Even though I’d never been terribly fond of the place, it had been my mother’s sanctuary for over twenty years, ever since she moved to Maple Springs in search of a quieter life away from fame. It was drafty and dim and at one time I was convinced it was haunted by unhappy Quaker ghosts. Yet somehow I disliked the thought that it wouldn’t be part of my life anymore.
Annika’s setup was the Ritz Carlton of chicken coops; a miniature two story building with multiple windows attached to a fenced in yard. The interior was equipped with heaters, a farmhouse style chandelier and polished walnut trim. Brightly colored paintings also hung on the walls, probably courtesy of Annika’s artist disciples, though I was unsure how much art chickens were capable of appreciating.
We collected the eggs Annika had missed gathering this morning, tossed some additional feed at the flock and checked to make sure the temperature was comfortable. I was glad to help, and glad for an activity that my mother and I could do together.
“I have an idea, Katrina,” my mother said. Then she pocketed an egg and solemnly thanked a chicken named Natalie Wood for her contribution.
“What’s your idea?”
She turned to me. “You should live in the house!”
“The stone house?”
“Yes!”
“Mom, I live in Manhattan. I have an apartment. And a job. Well, I’m actually not too sure about the job. But I doubt I’ll find any sports broadcasting opportunities in Maple Springs.”
“No, but it is the perfect place to be a writer.”
I could have sworn we’d already covered that base today. I’d given up on the idea of writing a long time ago. But the offer was touching and Annika meant well.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll give the idea some thought,” I said, knowing the chances were high she’d forget she ever mentioned it.
I’d actually had fun tending to the animals but when we returned to the house things got weird again. Dustin was back. At least he’d thrown on a pair of ripped sweatpants. He sprawled on the cold slate floor near the hearth, propping himself up on one elbow and sketching Danielle, who appeared to be napping with her red eyes open atop a wooden footstool beside the fireplace.
I peered over his shoulder and observed that he was indeed drawing the chicken but with the full, sensual lips of a woman instead of a beak and eyes with long curled lashes.
“That’s interesting,” I said.
“No talking!” he barked, sketching furiously without looking up. “Do NOT say anything else.”
I was about to tell him where he could stick his crappy manners but Annika pulled me away and led me to the kitchen.
“It’s not you,” she whispered. “It’s the muse.”
“The muse makes him an asshole?” I whispered back.
Annika pursed her lips and chose not to answer. She began unpacking the eggs from her pockets and placing them carefully in a wicker basket.
My phone pinged in my pocket and I withdrew it with a touch of dread. I’d been avoiding the digital world since leaving Manhattan. But it was just a text from Gemma.
Do you want to be picked up soon?
I answered in all caps.
YES PLEASE!
I wasn’t sure how much of Dustin I could endure before erupting. Annika would be distressed over being caught between her painting prodigy and her daughter.
Gemma responded with a winking emoji.
The first flakes in the next round of the snowstorm were beginning to fall. I was surprised to see Syler’s car materialize outside the window less than five minutes later.
My mother handed over the basket of eggs and told me to give Gemma her love.
“Who is that?” She was peering out the window.
“That’s Syler. Gemma’s younger brother. You remember him.”
“Syler.” She was thoughtful. “He’s the one you had a crush on?”
I had no idea my mother was aware of my feelings for Ryland McKnight.
“No. He’s the one who frequently made me feel homicidal.”
Syler honked the car horn. I promised Annika I would keep her updated on my Maple Springs plans and exited through the kitchen door so I wouldn’t have to traipse through the main room and trip over Dustin.
Syler saw me coming and climbed out into the snow just to open up the passenger side for me. He gestured with a flourish like he was the chauffeur and flashed his crooked grin. Once again, despite my will to suppress it, was that honey coated flutter in my belly.
“Thanks for picking me up,” I said once he’d returned to the driver’s side.
He began to turn the car around. “You are welcome, Katrina. I forgot to ask you something earlier.”
I braced myself. “What do you want to ask me?”
“What did you do with my shirt? You never returned it.”
My cheeks overheated as I recalled how I’d pressed Syler’s shirt to my face like a pathetic stalker and inhaled the spicy hints of his aftershave while my neglected sex drive convulsed.
I examined the basket of eggs in my lap, hoping he’d noticed nothing about my furious blush.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “You’ll get your shirt back. After all, it’s not even my style.”
He chuckled. “It sure isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mean a thing. I’m agreeing with you.”
Syler had this unique way of delivering statements while letting you know that he mocked you without mercy in his head.
“Just drive,” I grumbled and deliberately turned up the volume of the Christmas music so I’d have a hard time hearing anything he might say on the short drive back to Gemma’s house.
9
Snickerdoodle Failures
Katrina
“Did you have a nice visit with your mom?” Gemma asked.
The kids were already tucked in and so we were sprawled on her bed, eating popcorn and drinking wine right out of the bottle while It’s A Wonderful Life played on the television.
I took another swig from the bottle. “It was better than average. Dustin the nearly naked painter is kind of a jackass. I was glad to hear they aren’t sleeping together. Danielle the immortal chicken is still alive.” I nudged Gemma’s shoulder. “Did you hear she’s buying the Harrington place?”
“You’re kidding.” Gemma was amazed. “It’s been empty for over ten years, ever since the old man d
ied. She must have offered Harrington’s son a sweet deal. The last I heard he was still living in Florida and refusing to even list it on the market.”
“She was going to sell the stone house but then she said I was welcome to stay there if I wanted to. She called it a dream writing retreat. I guess that’s an accurate description. A far cry from Manhattan life.”
Gemma was thoughtful. “Do you ever think about changing directions and giving writing a try again?”
“No.” I tossed a piece of popcorn in the air and tried to catch it in my mouth. I missed. “How could I consider depriving the sports world of my cunning insight?”
“You never even liked sports.”
“I still don’t. But I’m good at pretending otherwise.”
Gemma folded her hands together and propped her chin on top of them. “Are you happy, Katrina?”
I thought about the question. Despite my recent public relations disaster, I wasn’t unhappy. I was just…maintaining. My life was nice. I’d be a fool to complain just because I had no one worth swooning over. That could always change.
“I guess so,” I told my best friend. I realized I sounded extremely unconvincing.
Gemma sighed. “I was happy. I really was. For a long time. Russ and I had our problems but we were a family. I thought we’d stay that way. I thought we’d raise our kids in this house and grow old together. For better or for worse.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I would never have done this to him. Never.”
“Gem.” I set the wine bottle on the floor and wrapped an arm around her, resting my head on her shoulder.
“Katrina, I feel like I’ve lost a piece of myself. It’s a bad feeling and I don’t know what to do. I’m terrified of falling apart. I can’t do that. I need to be both a mother and a father now.”
“You will not fall apart. No way. You’re Gemma freaking McKnight. You’re brilliant and beautiful and kind and if you weren’t my best friend I’d be completely intimidated by you. You are without a doubt the most amazing friend in the world the most excellent mother on the planet.”
