One to Take (Stuart & Mariska): Sexy Cowboy (One to Hold Book 8)

by Tia Louise

  Pete. I haven’t thought about him in more than a year. A personal trainer at the gym, he’s carried a torch for me since the first day he was hired. He’s sweet, incredibly fit, very handsome, and completely unappealing to me. Still, we dated off and on for a year before Stuart came along and blew him out of the water.

  “Yeah,” I say, a little less enthusiasm in my voice. “Pete.”

  “Just for the record, I don’t believe a word of this shit,” she cuts through my melancholy reverie, “but I love you, and I’ll talk to Rook tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Ken.”

  We’re quiet, and I don’t really want to disconnect.

  “You okay?” she says softly.

  “I will be.”

  We end the call, and I put my phone on the table. My suitcase is in the doorway where I left it, and I retrieve it, rolling it to my bedroom. I stop at the small room I converted into an art studio. Lining the walls are figure paintings of Stuart. We’d only just decided I’d move to Princeton before we left for Great Falls, and I hadn’t moved hardly any of my stuff to his plush, penthouse condo yet.

  Walking through the room is like visiting a museum of the most beautiful time in my life. Stuart was the first man I ever loved, the first man I ever slept with, and as such, I kind of became a little obsessed with sketching his body. It helped that he has an amazing physique, tall and lean, with lines that would make Michelangelo weep.

  I would sit on the floor wrapped in nothing but one of his button-up shirts, sketchpad on my knees frantically drawing and shading him. Stuart naked, facing me, reading a paper. Stuart from behind, naked on the bed. Stuart sitting up in bed, lines along his shoulders, across his abs. Stuart sitting on the balcony in only his jeans, the sun highlighting all the planes of his square jaw.

  Stopping in front of that one, I squat, my black sheath dress rising up my thighs. I reach out to trace my finger along his jawline, along his profile, his straight nose, full lips. Closing my eyes, I hiccup an inhale. In my dream, Jessica had his lips, his perfectly straight nose. Her hair hung in long, chestnut waves like mine, but her face was her daddy’s. She even had his eyes.

  I push against my knees and leave the room. I go to my suitcase and unzip the top, reaching for the envelope I’d hastily shoved inside. I take it out and without opening it, I put it on the stand in front of that portrait. The pain is winning this time.

  In my kitchen, the bottle of wine I picked up at the drugstore waits on the counter. It’s a screw top, very classy. I couldn’t give a shit. Tonight, Cupcake Chardonnay and I are going to get through this pain together, and tomorrow, I’ll gather up all my fragments and keep moving forward.

  17

  Cutting

  Mariska

  A month has passed since I returned to the Jungle Gym. Just like before, I’m behind the juice bar making smoothies and gearing up for fall semester at OCC. Kenny still works here as a personal trainer along with Pete, and she’s out on the floor in her all-black trainer gear working with a young mother.

  It’s her favorite kind of client because she loves chatting about her little boy Lane and being a mom. Her ice blue eyes sparkle as they chat, and her long purple hair is pulled up in a high ponytail. I can’t bring myself to tell her what I’ve lost. I can’t talk about it yet.

  Kenny’s boyfriend Slayde had been our maintenance guy at the gym for a while, but now he’s a contract private investigator with Alexander-Knight LLC. It’s the same investigative firm Stuart founded with his commanding officer in the Marines, Derek Alexander. When Stuart went back to Saudi to work in private security, his younger brother Patrick took his place. That’s how Slayde became involved.

  Patrick is the father of Kenny’s little boy, but he was a surprise from the very brief time they were together. They share custody, but Patrick is now married to Elaine, and Kenny is with Slayde. It sounds more complicated than it is, but it works.

  “Hey,” my best friend hops up to the juice bar. Her athletic top reveals the lines down her toned torso. “Remember that Matcha tea smoothie you used to make for me?”

  “Barely,” I say, trying to think. I always prided myself on my therapeutic smoothie concoctions. I was always reading recipes and experimenting. “Matcha tea was really hot a few years ago, but it never took off.”

  “The health food industry overestimates how much Americans want to drink something that color.”

  “Seems like I remember you putting kale in everything back then.” I make a disgusted face. Kenny has never possessed my talent behind the juice bar.

  “It was for a client!” She shoves an escaped strand of purple hair behind her ear. “Veggi-Smooth really wanted to work with us.”

  “They were a smoothie shop.” I lower my gaze, giving her my most offended look. “I’m the smoothie girl here. You were competing with your best friend.”

  “I think we saw who won.”

  “That’s right, and don’t you forget it.” Sometimes I’m surprised at how healthy I sound. I’m lucky nobody sees me at night when I go home. “You want me to make you one?”

  “Do you remember how?”

  Pulling out my old notebook, I raise an eyebrow. “A true chef never throws away a recipe.”

  Flipping page after page, I try to locate my recipe for the dark-green tea concoction. I’m near the back when a sketch derails everything. I swallow hard as pain shoots through my chest. It’s the sketch I started of Stuart the day after he came here, the day after I met him for the very first time.

  I only used a Number 2 pencil, but I can still see the dominant shade of green in his hazel eyes. I worked on it over and over for months, even after I went to Great Falls to pursue him. Even after I left him there… He gazes soulfully from the pages of my notebook, reminding me of every time he looked at me with longing, desire, possession.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” My best friend hops up on the bar, and I slam the book shut.

  Blinking fast, I clear the heated mist from my eyes. “Nothing,” I try to laugh it off, but I sound like a sick pigeon. “I have to check my other notebook. I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  Kenny’s blue eyes narrow. “Whatever you say, liar.”

  “I will!” I insist. “Do you need it now?”

  “I guess not.” She’s still watching me as she slips off the bar. Kenny’s quiet, but she’s smart as a whip.

  “I’ll have one ready for you first thing in the morning.”

  “My three o’clock is here, but I’m watching you.” She points two fingers at her eyes and back at me as she goes into the gym. I hold my face steady while she watches, waiting for any crack in the wall.

  Finally, she turns away to the older lady wanting to increase her muscle mass, and in that moment, my shoulders fall. I slide my finger out of the book, turning it back to his beautiful face looking at me, and all the love I felt for him in all those days I spent drawing this image burn in my heart like a brand.

  Later that night, alone in my apartment, I quickly walk past the closed door of my small studio-room. I haven’t returned to the Musée d’Stuart since the first night I got back. Those sketches and paintings will have to remain shut up until I’m strong enough to go in there and face them, and pack them up.

  Instead, I lean over my bar staring at the small Turkish coffee pot, my ibrik, and I wish for my grandmother. Yaya believed in soul mates and true love. She taught me everything I know about dreams and auras and reading coffee grounds. She’s the reason I waited so long, until I found Stuart, to lose my virginity.

  Yaya wasn’t religious, but she was incredibly spiritual. She believed in the bond between a man and a woman formed through sexuality, and she told me many times it was the most important thing I would ever do. It was a union that would create new life.

  Picking up the phone, I call our favorite Thai place and order takeout Pad Thai. In the meantime, I wander back to my bedroom, to my closet where I keep the box of her final possessions. It’s been a long time since I sifted
through this memorabilia, but it’s also been a long time since I needed to feel her close to me this much.

  The first item I lift out is her beaded shawl. She never wore it, but when I was a little girl, I would wrap it around my shoulders and pretend to be her. I would waltz through the house, speaking in an overly dramatic voice about the future and finding my purpose.

  Under that, I take out her favorite book, The House of the Spirits. Turning it over, I read the blurb. Apparently it’s one of the most important books of the last century, weaving magical realism, fate and love into an epic saga. I’ve only ever watched the movie. Opening the front flap, I scan the dedication, “To my mother, my grandmother, and all the other extraordinary women in this story.”

  Setting it aside, I think of my mother. She died before I ever knew her, and even though Yaya loved her dearly, we never talked about her. I dig deeper into the box, deeper than I ever have before. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I only feel the need to keep digging. I want answers, but I don’t know the question.

  After Yaya died, I was too sad to pack up her things. My great-aunt Beatriz assembled this box for me. In the beginning I didn’t want to dig deeper. Later, I guess I felt like I knew everything there was to know about her. Now, in view of my recent history, I understand everyone has so much history we don’t know. I suppose I’m curious about what my grandmother might have held onto, what she might have found important enough to preserve.

  The first thing I find is a sepia photograph of a handsome man in uniform. His thick black hair is styled away from his face, and he has dark brows and an imposing jaw. His black eyes twinkle with mischief. Turning the photograph over, I read Manfred Heron.

  “Oh my god,” I sigh, remembering how Stuart and I made fun of his name. “He’s so handsome!”

  Putting the image of my great grandfather aside, I keep digging. A manila folder is under a thick book that appears to be a journal. Lifting it out, I open the front cover and read the words Dr. Jim Endicott, Patient Notes—Mariska Renee Heron, Age 6. My brow lines just as the doorbell rings.

  I scan the page quickly. It appears to be some sort of medical record, but I’ve never seen it. The bell rings again, and I have to set it aside to get my dinner.

  The young guy out front wears a tan uniform-type shirt and jeans. His hair is shaggy and dark brown, and he appears to be about my age. “Pad Thai Number 3 heat with miso?”

  “That’s me,” I say, digging out my wallet.

  “You’re home alone on a Friday?” His brows disappear under his shaggy hair, and I think of high school and boys who never understood my preference for solitude.

  “I’m… doing research,” I say hastily, signing the receipt and handing it back to him. “Thanks!”

  Closing the door, I go to the kitchen and pop open the top of the paper container. I take a deep inhale of fish sauce, pork, and crisp steamed veggies, and my stomach rumbles. Setting it aside, I grab the flimsy white plastic spoon and dig into the miso. One spoonful, and the tangy bite of lemon fills my mouth. It’s chased by the savory zest of seaweed and fish, dashi. I eat it quickly, spoonful after spoonful, until it’s gone.

  My tummy is warm and satisfied, but I pour a glass of Pinot Gris and carry the carton of Pad Thai back to my bedroom along with a fork. I’m curious about this strange manila folder, and I wonder why I’ve never seen it.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my closet, I pull the folder onto my lap as I hold the carton above it to eat my dinner and read.

  Mariska Renee Heron, Age 6. Diagnosed with a brief yet severe case of HERV-X, a retrovirus known to cause hallucinations, dissociative disorder, and in worst cases schizophrenia.

  I feel the bite of Pad Thai I’ve just taken stick in my throat. Setting the carton aside, I change positions. My back is against the wall, and my knees are bent. My entire focus is on this folder I’m holding as I dig deeper into a story I’ve never been told.

  Flipping forward a few pages, I read more of Dr. Endicott’s notes.

  Patient’s symptoms include hearing voices. She indicates hallucinations of color around individuals’ heads and recounts vivid dreams believed to be real.

  Tentative diagnosis is schizophrenia with dissociative disorder, however patient’s grandmother refuses treatment. Against medical counsel, patient’s guardian removed her from our care and insists on home treatment and managing patient’s care through homeopathic remedies.

  My face is hot, and my insides simultaneously flash hot and cold. What the hell is this about? Reaching for the journal, I open it to the beginning and examine the date. The entry is around the same time as these notes, and it’s written in Yaya’s script like a diary.

  I can’t remember everything that happened that day. Mishka was playing outside when she started complaining her head ached. She was tired, and I believed she had become overheated, perhaps needed water or tea.

  That night, her fever spiked so I gave her aspirin. She began having seizures and convulsions, and I was so afraid. I had to take her to the hospital.

  Men in white coats tried to take her from me, but she cried and screamed. They let me accompany her back, but she soon lost consciousness. When she was no longer aware, I slipped away to the chapel and prayed until a nurse came and found me.

  Her fever had broken. They were sure she had made it through the worst of the mysterious virus, but we were only at the beginning of our journey.

  I took her home and we resumed our life as usual. We would go to church, go to the store. Mishka would go to school, where she always made good grades. She was an imaginative child, creative and whimsical, so at first I paid it no mind when she said the voices told her to do this or that.

  One day I passed by her bedroom, and she was sitting on the floor playing with her dolls. All at once she dropped the doll she was holding and pointed into thin air.

  “No!” her little voice was brittle. “I won’t listen to what you say. I’m not a failure!”

  Naturally, I was disturbed. I went into the room and asked to whom she was speaking. Who would tell my beautiful girl she was a failure? She answered so surely, “The people. They talk in my ears.”

  We are gypsy folk by heritage. If someone claims to hear the voices of our ancestors, no one questions this. If someone sees a vision of the future or dreams a prophetic dream, no one bats an eye.

  What was happening with my little granddaughter was something different. I took her back to the men in white coats. I asked them what was happening to my baby, and they said they needed tests. Tests upon tests upon tests. They needed the blood and the urine. They wanted the video and the hours upon hours of interviews and case studies.

  My little girl was so tired after the first month. She cried and begged me to take her home. The men gave her medicines to stop the voices, but the medicines changed her as well. Her beautiful golden eyes dulled, and her happy disposition flattened. The medication transformed her into a daytime sleepwalker.

  When I went to see her in the hospital, she no longer had a personality. Her face was pale, and her glossy hair hung in dull brown locks over her shoulders. Her eyes sunk into her young face, and she was like a living corpse.

  Dr. Endicott talked of hydrotherapy and lobotomy. I couldn’t allow this to happen to my beautiful girl. She was so full of life. I went to the men in the white coats and told them I was taking my Mishka away from their madness. Yes, I called it their madness for they had taken her confusion and turned into their experiment.

  I would care for my little girl. She would stay at home with me, and I would home-school her. I would bring back the light to her eyes. She would paint and sing and dance, and together we would conquer these voices.

  Dropping the book, my shoulders quake as the dreams I had flood my brain. Running from men in white coats, the water, the hands, white room with the bright metal that hurt my eyes, the restraints and the voices talking to me, telling me I’m a failure.

  Yaya’s journal doesn’t
say if I ever tried to escape the hospital, but she wasn’t there all the time. Could my dreams be memories? Could they have happened to me?

  Pushing off the floor, I go to the bathroom and switch on the light. Leaning into the mirror, I stare deeply into my eyes. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A break? Some sign of insanity?

  I do hear voices, only it’s different now. I have dreams. Sometimes I see colors when I think of my friends’ names. Messages appear in my mind when I look at coffee grounds. Yaya said it was a gift, but is it actually fissures in my sanity? Are they tremors? A warning that something bigger, a breakdown far worse is lingering out there, around the corner?

  My gaze travels to my hair hanging over my shoulders in long waves. I look at the line of earrings up my ears and the necklaces I’m wearing. Stepping back, I look at my clothes, the rings on every finger.

  “It’s all a lie,” I whisper.

  All this time, I believed I had a gift. I believed what my grandmother had said about being able to read auras and predict the future. It’s why I never saw a clear message in the coffee grounds. There was no message! Perhaps it was a lie told to protect me, but it doesn’t change the fact that it was a lie.

  Walking to my room, I go to my dresser where a square, red-satin jewelry box sits. Opening it, I remove every ring from my fingers and drop them inside. Next I reach up to my ears, carefully pulling the backs off one earring then the next and the next. I drop each one into the box. I lift the necklaces from around my neck.

  Turning away, I go to the bathroom and pull open the cabinet under the sink. A silver basket holds hair ties, tampons, and headbands. I dig until I find a pair of pointed scissors. Standing in front of the mirror, I lift a long lock of hair. I hesitate only a moment before pushing the blades closed, cutting it.

  A ribbon of chestnut falls into the sink and I release the lock of hair I was holding. It now skims the middle of my neck. Grabbing the next clump, I repeat the procedure, only this time I must have grabbed too much. I have to saw-saw-saw with the scissors before it cuts. Still, the ribbons of chestnut fall away, dropping into the sink in a soft heap.