Stars or no stars, I knew exactly where I was. Stuck under Dad’s thumb, where I would be forever unless I found a new escape map — and fast. One thing was for certain: I couldn’t stay beholden to Dad’s pursestrings that he wielded as both whip and chain.
Chapter eleven
Mother Map
EVEN FREAKS AND CONTROL FREAKS have to eat at some point. So I threw on my clothes and waited until seven in the morning before venturing downstairs, when I was sure Dad would be holed up in his office, working on his routing algorithm to move people from one place to another with the utmost efficiency. The person he most wanted to define and contain wasn’t in the kitchen, where I’ve always assumed I could find Mom. More troubling, there was no telltale lingering scent of her cooking and baking, as though she had never been here.
“Mom?” I called softly.
I looked in the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made, duvet fluffed, throw pillows tilted at the exact angle Dad liked them. I checked the den, the living room, even the pantry. Back upstairs, I stuck my head in my old alcove-sized bedroom next to the attic. No Mom. Worried now that maybe Dad had done something to her while I slept, I raced down the stairs, flung open Claudius’s bedroom. Still no Mom.
How did I ever think I could go across country to college and leave Mom alone here? I couldn’t. It would never be okay while she stayed with Dad. Who would listen for her when Dad went off on her? Who would make sure his barbs never became physical blows? Who would take care of her when he was done?
There was a thud outside the mudroom. I ran over to throw open the door, found Mom surrounded by freshly cut boughs, mounded high. Her face was flushed pink, and she was panting from exertion.
“Good morning, Terra,” Mom said brightly, wiping the sweat off her cheek. “I was wondering when you’d finally get up.” Her smile dimmed as she scrutinized my face. “Are you feeling okay?” Without waiting for my answer, she was already heading back inside the house, brushing her hands on her pants. “I’ll get you an ice pack.”
“I’m fine, Mom.” I reached out a hand to stop her. “What are you doing with all this?”
“Getting everything ready to make wreaths with Norah.”
Right, I had forgotten. Mom muttered now to herself, counting off on her fingers. Then she shook her head impatiently. “Floral wire! How could I forget that?” She bustled through the mudroom while I gazed at all the greenery, enough for at least four wreaths, maybe five. Mom had already brought out two bags of ornaments, all bought at countless end-of-season close-out sales online. Next to those was a bag of festive holiday ribbons and a cardboard box with wire forms that would be used as the wreaths’ bases — a few square shapes amid a bunch of circles and wire hangers.
“Ready?” Mom asked, tossing a spool of green wire into the box. “They’re expecting us at eight.”
“Mom, it’s only seven.”
“It’ll take at least twenty minutes to load everything in your father’s truck, and then it’s a twenty-minute drive to their hotel.”
“But if we leave now, we’re going to be way too early.”
Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Okay.”
I hated Mom’s easy acquiescence, hated how guilty I felt at deflating her that easily. So without a word, I grabbed a heap of pungent evergreens into my arms and trudged to the garage. Some of the needles scratched my chin. Hastily, I lowered my load so they wouldn’t brush my tender cheek.
Mom, for once, held the car keys, and as she opened the trunk for me, she chattered: “You know, Norah with all her traveling here and there for her job just didn’t have time to learn how to make basic crafts. Can you imagine not knowing how to make a simple wreath?”
I could.
What would it be like to fly around the world, be at ease in countries where the customs were as foreign as the languages themselves? Make enough money I could escape to the most expensive resort in town for a week and a half and not worry about the cost? I couldn’t wait to find out. With a grunt, I shoved in the mound of evergreens, made a note to vacuum the trunk later so Dad wouldn’t gripe, and wished I had the foresight to lay a sheet inside to corral most of the pine needles.
As soon as everything was packed, Mom handed me the car keys. “Okay, we should go now.”
My protest died at the apprehensive look she cast over her shoulder as if she expected Dad to thunder out of the mudroom, cut off our escape. That’s what this was. Escape. Now, I couldn’t have been more aware of the empty spot in the garage where our other car should have been parked. But that was at the shop in Leavenworth, more fodder for Dad.
I clambered hurriedly into the driver’s side, adjusted the seat to fit me, and then as I swiveled around to look over my shoulder before I backed out of the garage, I caught sight of my face in the rearview mirror. And winced. I had made it a point not to look at myself when I got up, and for good reason. Overnight, my cheek had swollen to the size of a grapefruit, my bruised face now a battered purple. As far as grooming went, I hadn’t done more than drag a brush through my hair and yank it into a ponytail. Thankfully, I had brushed my teeth, and my sweatshirt, while not newly washed, didn’t smell. Still, God, did I really have to see Jacob looking like this? The problem was, going back inside to change was only courting Dad’s wrath.
The gravel crunched noisily beneath the truck’s wheels. Neither Mom nor I spoke until we were well down the road to town. Even then, Mom clenched her hands in her lap as she stared stoutly out the window.
“You doing okay?” I asked Mom.
“Of course!” she answered brightly.
Our town was deserted this early in the morning. Even the coffee shop had only one car in front of it, instead of the usual five or six crowding every parking space.
“That way,” Mom directed, as though I didn’t know to head over the bridge that spanned the Methow River.
I swallowed my sigh. “So when was the last time you went to River Rock Lodge?” I asked Mom.
“Oh.” She thought hard, her forehead wrinkling with the effort. “Too long to remember.”
“Me, too.” I had been inside the massive lodge only twice, and then only to pick Karin up during her brief stint hostessing in its five-star restaurant. Apparently, Karin wasn’t cut out for the service industry. I didn’t blame her. It was a seven-figure world up there on that mountain, where summers meant lavish weddings and falls saw hour-long cowboy cookouts that cost more to attend than I made in a day at Nest & Egg.
As we drew closer to the mountaintop, I couldn’t help but grip the steering wheel tighter. What the hell was I doing up here? I felt like a country bumpkin, smelling of pine and wearing needles where the boughs had shed on me. I picked one off my chest. When I checked the rearview mirror, the bags jammed with dollar decorations in the backseat could have been mistaken for trash. I breathed out heavily. Norah was probably just being polite about making wreaths with Mom, the way I was when I asked Erik about some new wrestling hold he was mastering, not intending for him to go on. And on.
The main lodge rose before us at the apex of the mountain, a megasized Lincoln Log toy structure. Miraculously, Mom knew where the Fremonts were staying: the private cabins. So I continued past the main lodge and its expanse of wide open snow field. A man in a green parka and jeans waved to us from his small tractor while he groomed the field, laying down fresh cross-country ski tracks for the guests. Beyond the field was a small, but steep, sledding hill.
Even driving as slowly as I could up the mountain, it still wasn’t eight when I parked next to Norah’s sleek Range Rover.
“Maybe we should get some coffee,” I suggested, killing the engine. And then, evil me, I added, “And scones. There’s got to be some kind of café inside. . . .”
For a second, Mom took my bait. She nodded. But as we both got out of the car, a familiar screech, muffled yet distinct, came from the cabin. Trevor was up and that was all the invitation Mom needed. She was at their door, knocking, before I could st
op her.
“Mom,” I said.
Too late. The door opened and there was Jacob, hair tousled from sleep, wearing a T-shirt and baggy flannel pants, barefaced as me. Stripped of his Goth accoutrements — all his makeup except for his black nail polish — he couldn’t have been more intimately revealed to me other than being naked. Even clothed as he was, I swallowed hard at the sight of him.
“Hey,” he said, smiling almost as though he had been waiting for me.
Good thing Norah called from the bedroom — “Jacob, you’re letting out all the warm air” — otherwise, I would have kept standing there, my mouth wide open. She padded to the entry in a cute sweatsuit, her hair twisted into a loose knot, somehow managing to appear both comfortable and sophisticated.
“Lois, you’re right on time.” Norah lifted her coffee cup. “Can I interest you in some? It’s my personal blend. I only roast it for a few people at my company.”
“Why?” I asked.
After a thoughtful sip of her coffee she answered me with a question of her own: “Why don’t I pour you a cup, too, and you tell me? Have a seat.”
“Mom,” Jacob groaned. “Don’t test them.”
“You can bring in everything from their car,” she answered sweetly, and then checked to confirm with Mom. “Right?”
I lost track of their interchange when Jacob yawned, stretched. His T-shirt lifted a good couple of inches to reveal nicely muscled abs, not the rock hard, super-defined six-pack that Erik sported. But smooth and hairless and begging for me to run my hands over them. Forget caffeine, I was wide awake now. Jacob caught me gawking. I felt the blush start at my chest, willed it to stay there. His lips quirked into a grin I recognized, black lipstick or not, before he stopped in front of me.
Oh God, now what?
“Keys?” he prompted innocently.
“Oh, right.” I fished them out of the pockets of my jeans, handed them to him. Again, the knowing smile.
“What do you smell?” Norah was asking Mom. She gestured more emphatically at me to join them at the round table in the large living room. “Sniff. And tell me. Use any words to describe it. Sound, colors, anything.”
Coffee, that’s what I smell, I wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Not with Norah watching us so expectantly, her eyes glittering like she had given us a gift. Mom looked perplexed as she sniffed her mug, too.
When neither of us answered, Jacob stopped slipping his feet into his Vans by the front door. “Caramel, nuts, earth, monkey poop . . .”
That made Trevor chortle from where he was sitting atop one of the beds, miniature trucks surrounding his construction site of pillows. He cackled, “Monkey poop!”
“I’m not kidding,” said Jacob, eyeing me mischievously. “Monkeys eat the coffee beans —”
I wanted to gag, pushed my coffee cup away from me. “Too much info, thanks.”
Norah rolled her eyes. “Kopi Luwak beans aren’t in this blend.” She pointed to the door meaningfully as she looked at Jacob.
“I’m going, I’m going,” Jacob said good-naturedly. Of course, he ambled out of the cabin without putting on a jacket. Yes, I noticed. What was it with him and braving the elements without the proper gear?
Mom took a hesitant sip of the coffee. “It’s . . . bright.”
“Yes!” Norah beamed like a teacher with a precocious student. “Exactly. Part of this blend comes from Guatemala, my favorite Central American. The beans there are so complex.”
“Guatemala . . . ,” echoed Mom faintly, and I knew what she was thinking about: Aunt Susannah and how she had died in that country.
“You should see the coffee plantations there.” Norah looked into her dark brew dreamily, missing Mom’s consternation. “Each tribe has their own pattern of woven clothes. Seeing them scattered among the dark green coffee trees is one of the most evocative sights I’ve ever encountered. Ever. For someone who loves interior design, Lois, you would just fall in love with the country, all those colors.”
“Really?” Mom asked, cautiously curious.
“I really need to get back there sometime soon. You should come with me.” Norah sipped her coffee with a meditative expression.
“Oh, I don’t —”
Norah’s lips had pursed, as she concentrated on her coffee and she interrupted Mom’s protests now. “Definitely bright. And something more.” She rubbed the fingers in one hand together as if trying to filter the taste itself.
I took an obedient sip and tasted . . . coffee.
“Coconut,” Mom said, looking surprised. She set the cup down on the table, excited. “In the back of my throat.”
“Yes! And a little floral, right?” Norah asked, nodding as if willing Mom to taste it. She leaned toward her now, her eyes probing, as Mom sampled the coffee again.
Mom’s lips puckered; she nodded.
Norah sat back, satisfied. “The best Kenyans are the pinnacle of the coffee world. This is definitely my favorite East African bean.”
“Guatemala, Kenya . . . do you really visit all those places?” I asked and sipped again.
“Oh my God, yes. And I take the boys whenever I can.”
“But aren’t you scared?” Mom asked. I was glad she did. It’s what I was wondering, too. That, and how she could discern all the different beans and their flavors that went into crafting this coffee. I took another sip; coffee.
“My first trip to Ivory Coast, I was still a baby. I was so scared, and I remember sitting on the Tarmac thinking, the Ivory Coast is so far from home.” Norah cradled her mug in both hands and shrugged as if traveling afar was a normal, everyday occurrence. It probably was, for her. “I just never let fear stop me from having an experience.”
The door opened and Jacob blew in with the wind. He carried a massive armload of the fresh greenery while also managing two of the paper sacks. “I’ll help you,” I said as I stood up. “I have defective taste buds.”
“That’s because you haven’t been trained to pay attention,” Norah said, shaking her head adamantly.
“Here we go,” Jacob mumbled to me as he strolled past me to the table. “Where should I dump this?”
Norah waved to the floor before continuing, “Show me anyone with average sensory abilities but with a real passion for coffee, and with practice and coaching and paying attention, they can heighten their skills in tasting.” She considered the pile of branches at our feet warily. “And that’s what I hope it’s going to be like making wreaths.” Without any hesitation, Norah cleared the newspaper off the table, tossing every section on the floor.
Mom nearly choked at that. And Dad? He would have had a major conniption at such blatant slovenliness.
Norah raised her eyebrows at Mom. “Whenever I tidied the tasting room, my mentor would always ask me, ‘Are you going to keep house or taste coffee?’”
Mom blinked as she processed that. It took me a second, too, to understand that maybe not everyone was as compulsively neat as Dad — or us. And then slowly, Mom smiled. “We’re going to make wreaths.”
I heard a muffled groan from a pained-looking Jacob, who was standing close to me.
“Yes?” said Norah, her eyebrows arching up.
Jacob nudged me. “Terra was going to show me around town, right?”
I was? And then I recalled my impulsive offer last night. I just never thought he’d actually take me up on it. Of course, it probably had more to do with the threat of floral tape and ribbons than hanging out with me. None of that, though, seemed to bother Trevor, who bounded over when Mom wiggled the largest wire form at him and told him she’d help him make the biggest wreath ever.
“So you’re okay if we left for a little bit?” I asked Mom.
“Go on,” she said without even looking at me; she was too busy pawing through the greenery to find the choicest boughs for Trevor.
“Your mom will be fine here,” said Norah, who fingered her wire form suspiciously. As I turned to follow Jacob to the door, I caught her taking a fortifying
draught of coffee.
Jacob waited for me, his dark eyes fathomless. What was I going to do with him? Talk about with him? He’d been to half of the world; my world was Colville, two blocks of downtown.
“Do you want to change?” I asked Jacob, not that I minded the clothes he wore as pajamas. Not at all.
“Nah,” he said.
“So where to first?” I asked, holding my palm out for my car keys that he was still holding.
“You’re the boss,” he said, but he eyed my keys doubtfully before tossing them to me. He retrieved his own from the rack next to the door. “But I’ll do the driving.”
Once we were sitting in his Range Rover, waiting for it to warm up, Jacob didn’t even pretend that he wasn’t studying me intently. “You look like shit.”
If this were Karin, she’d tell him to go to hell. Me, I couldn’t help but duck my head and apologize, “I can’t wear makeup for a week.”
He spread his hands wide — So? “No,” he said, touching me gently on my exposed wrist. “I meant, you didn’t sleep. Your dad didn’t take the car well, did he?”
I snorted. “Definitely not.”
“So you forgot this.” He reached into the backseat, pulled out my post-op care instructions that must have slipped out of my jacket pocket last night. If Jacob hadn’t known all the details about my laser surgery last night, he certainly knew now. I took the paper as he said, “I was going to drive back with it last night, but . . .”
I knew he was referring to Dad, somehow knowing my father had spent a good chunk of the night grilling Mom, fact-checking her story, cross-referencing it with mine. More ashamed of my father than my face, I couldn’t meet Jacob’s eyes, relieved when he looked over his shoulder to back us out of the parking space. On the drive down the mountain, I might have been able to keep my gaze planted firmly on the vista outside, but I couldn’t block out the musky scent of his creamy leather seats. Even our cars sprang from different worlds. Vehicles here in the valley came in one basic style: Subaru station wagons, purchased specifically for their ability to handle snow. So Jacob’s entire lifestyle? I couldn’t even begin to fathom it, this world where Guatamala and Kenya were part of his memory, not just pushpins on my map.
North of Beautiful Page 9
