Meet Cate

by Fiona Barnes

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Home again, as if nothing had happened, the scene grew less important in Cate's mind. She settled into a routine, taping shows for the new year and planning holiday events. As often as she could get away with, Cate carried her papers out onto the large deck. There, she'd watch the leaves fall while she worked up menus and shows, guests and ideas. She loved to watch little flurries of them fall all at once.

  Tom's face grew dim in her mind. She convinced herself she'd only pasted his face onto a stranger. She'd done it throughout LA, seeing him on a room service waiter, the publishing giant, and even strangers she passed on the street.

  Caught up on the backlog her trip had created; content with the work Melissa had done while she was away; safe in the knowledge that the guest host they'd chosen satisfied Cate's hunger to travel; Cate was happy. Organized over-preparation was the key, she thought. Sitting back in an Adirondack chair with her papers spread out before her, her eyes swept over the vibrant reds and oranges of the tall, majestic trees. Smiling, Cate imagined the satisfying crunch they'd make when she and Alex hiked through them.

  The day was magnificent, boasting sharp blue skies like only a fall afternoon in Connecticut could produce. Crisp air, with just the hint of a chilly edge to it, teased her nose. It might not last long (she'd expect snow flurries in the beginning of November) but for now it was perfect weather.

  Gathering the zip-up sweatshirt she wore around her slender frame, Cate sat for a minute, thinking. She'd layered the light hoodie over yoga pants and a tee. She'd kicked off her running shoes and short socks by the French doors to the kitchen.

  Try as she might, and as much as she promised herself she would, she couldn't let go of the feelings Tom created in her. It wasn't his face that haunted her, she'd let that go soon after she'd landed, she reminded herself. It was more a feeling of despair that sat deep in her gut. Questions. Why had he run off? Hadn't he seen her? If that wasn't him, where was he? Why did he go? Weren't they good enough?

  Cate hadn't even realized she'd been planting herself on the deck where Tom's house sat as her largest view. It had always been there, much like Tom. Tall against the horizon, the house was an old-fashioned Victorian-style farmhouse. Family-built, it boasted three floors and a massive front porch that spanned the front and south-eastern side of the house, the side that faced Cate. Was she waiting?

  Questions plagued her, thoughts she hadn't allowed in years. She understood his disease in a very real way, both in her conscious mind and on a rational level. Irrationally, she argued with herself. He needs me. He does not. If he did, he'd be here, in front of you. But what if he can't allow himself to need me?

  Why is he running? Her brain cycled back to the basic question again and again. The torment she felt in her heart when she was faced with his PTSD was something she knew her children felt on a daily basis. The heartbreak of feeling as if the person you loved most had rejected you−and suddenly. Knowing it wasn't personal, truly believing that, was the key to moving past the pain.

  But some days that knowledge was simply a fantasy. Cate indulged her anguish a few minutes longer, searching for the bottom of it. If she let it get to her, she'd fall into a chasm where everything felt wrong. Torment would tease and quitting would seem the only way. She wouldn't lower herself to the level of the bully: PTSD. She wouldn't. But she was no longer able to raise Tom up to her level, she thought, saddened. And that haunted her.

  Chapter Forty

  Cate stretched lazily, warm in the afternoon sun. Adjusting the outdoor speaker, she concentrated on the music for just a minute. She forced herself through a ritual she'd created: gratitude. As her content mood caught again, she pushed all thoughts of Tom back to their dungeon. She breathed deeply, inhaling and exhaling loudly, smiling as she thought of Deni Houston's teachings: make your breathing loud and proud.

  I'm worth the peace, Cate reminded herself gently. I'm doing the best I can. Cate cemented the sentences with a petite piece of chocolate.

  The end of Werewolves of London teased her ears, reminding Cate that Halloween was approaching quickly. Her team always did a live show, full of practical, fun tips and scares. This year Cate had decided to dress up. What good was access to what she considered the world's greatest hair, makeup and dress if she didn't use it?

  She'd ask her team to contact Broadway, to see who was willing to come out and promote their shows. Cate liked to incorporate children and families in everything she did, therefore she'd have a kid-friendly episode−complete with a party for children who wanted to bring their moms and dads. She'd brew up punch with dry ice, add clean plastic eyeballs and spiders to ice cubes, make spaghetti covered in chunky green pesto for gooey brains.

  Grabbing her favorite fine-point, Cate began to messily scrawl on the closest empty paper, satisfied with the scratch scratch sound her pen made as it marked the white sheet. Hot cider cooled, forgotten, in the clean white mug beside her right hand. The warmth of the mug had heated Cate's heart as she carried it out to the table, both hands laced around the thick china. The spicy scent of crisp apples, warm vanilla and thick cinnamon sticks drifted slowly toward her nose. The chunk of milk chocolate she'd popped in her mouth moments ago melted on her tongue, delighting her taste buds. The sweetness of it calmed and comforted.

  She'd have grapes for eyeballs, an old favorite. Add a twist, Cate jotted quickly, tapping the pen to her lip as she thought. Toothpicks speared through them? With−what? she wrote, underlining and circling the word several times for emphasis.

  Cate could do menus standing on her head while being fed grasshoppers. Grasshoppers! she wrote. Chocolate delicacies for the parents. The dads could gross out their daughters. Perfect.

  She added to her list: cider, cold/hot. A long party grinder, she'd do her cooking spot on that, Cate decided. A quick spin-through: how much meat, mayo and toppings (lettuce, tomato, onion and pickle) to add per person. Of course, she'd offer pizza alongside the sandwich. Homemade potato chips, or donated? The pen tapped again as she thought, eyes skyward.

  So far, she had several main courses, a few sides, and drinks. Cate scrawled coffee, water. Lrg fruit/veg plate. Dessert.

  Now she wanted to think about ambiance. Jotting atmosphere across the top of another clean sheet, Cate tapped a rhythm on the wooden tabletop with the end of the pen.

  Maybe she'd leave the effects to the crew. She knew she wanted fog, cobwebs, creepy mirrors and a staircase. (Why was a staircase to nowhere such a fabulously Halloween-y thing?) A large table to set her creations up on−she'd ditch the kitchen for the first part of the episode: too homey and comforting. A set that resembled a creepy old house, implying the haunted. A large cauldron she could stir, with dry ice buried deep in the bottom, for a spooky effect. Her team could pour in some interesting liquid−should she add something to it for those brave enough to peek? Small rubber bats? She'd add wonton soup to her menu to go along with the sandwich. She'd call it bat stew, Cate decided with a grin that was mostly evil.

  Cate pictured herself smiling in a traditional witches costume. A tall, pointed hat, a tea-length, airy (for under the lights), black (for customary) gown, striped stockings and dark, pointed clunky shoes. Warts. She'd add spiders and an overall mess to her hair. What about a stench−the pen tapped her lip again, eyes searching the clouds−could she make her hair smell like earthy soil, for effect? She'd have to ask Bel. Hair could smell good; why not a yucky scent that made little boys and girls giggle?

  She'd offer them treats, of course−her favorite part. Maybe a costume parade for the youngest ones, picking viewers out of the audience to open doors up on stage (each set with a different curb appeal) as if they were trick or treating. Cate listed the candy she'd add to bowls for each "home". Maybe she'd create some of her own sweets and showcase them in a second show.

  She'd arrange a spooky reading of her favorite Edgar Allen Poe tale−in a cemetery, pre-taped. She could offer it to the older children who wanted to be on camera.
Melissa would nix that one but it was a fun thought.

  Scary story contest, she noted instead.

  Bobbing for apples, caramel apple-dipping. Cate often found a return to the most innocent and simple was the key to the happiest shows. Who among them didn't like to pamper their inner child? She'd light beautiful candles and offer creepy makeovers for the adults.

  Before she knew it, Cate had enough for a week's worth of shows with no end in sight. Sipping the cooling cider, Cate knew Melissa would want to turn the shooting into a video package. John would want a book out of it. They'd offer packaging of the chocolate she'd prepare, with the recipe leaked in time for Valentines Day the following year. The two would figure out a way to bundle all of it to their mutual interests: The Show, A Cook's Guide To Halloween. No. A Mother's Guide? A Family Guide, Cate scrawled and crossed out. Thinking, Cate doodled her name repeatedly.

  And there, on her page, in messy, loopy handwriting, sat her title: Cate's Guide to Halloween.

  Despite herself, she was starting to feel better. Looking in the direction of Tom's house, she uttered a short prayer for a safe ending and the knowledge, wisdom and courage to know what to do when the right time came.

  Chapter Forty One

  Cate picked up her cell phone, scrolling through her contacts. Melissa answered on the second ring.

  "Hi."

  "Mel, I've got a week's worth of Halloween shows." Cate wasted no time, as excited as a small child as each hour crept closer to Christmas morning.

  There was a sigh.

  "Melissa?"

  "Cate," Melissa answered, after a beat. "It's not like you to wait until the last minute."

  "It just came to me. There's time."

  "We're thinking about Christmas now."

  "Halloween is only a few weeks away. We always do them live. Do you want to hear my ideas or not?"

  Melissa took a silent breath and shot for a calm tone, "Yes. Of course. But let's talk about a personal assistant again. It's more than time."

  "I would need a couple."

  "It's not about organization, or time management," Melissa spoke kindly. "You're a genius at both, I know. It's more on a level with an incredible amount of work. Let's talk about farming some out."

  "Is it too much?"

  "No," Melissa thought aloud. "Never too much work. It's a sign of you growing. You'd−we'd−be able to do so much more if our energy was on what we each do best. Hire someone to−"

  "I'll think about it," Cate interrupted.

  "Why are you afraid?" Melissa asked quietly.

  There was silence.

  "Is this about Tom?" Melissa waited patiently, knowing now that Cate was hurting.

  "Not hiring a PA?" Cate laughed hollowly. "No, that's not about Tom."

  "Everything else is, though," Melissa surmised.

  "I−" Cate started to tell her friend everything. The words got stuck as they formed in her throat. Trust was a big part of PTSD. There wasn't always a lot of understanding. People often felt, as much as they loved the person, as much kindness and empathy as they themselves had, that it wasn't a real disorder. There was a tendency to offer solutions that wouldn't always work; to suggest leaving when that wasn't always right (it left the diagnosed person struggling alone); and to sigh helplessly, underlining the already worthless feelings someone might associate with being a caregiver to PTSD. "I'll think about it, okay?"

  Melissa often offered more sympathy, more caring than Cate could always appreciate. "Tell me about your Halloween ideas then."

  Cate didn't hesitate. Melissa listened to her friend talk, Cate's voice slowly returning to typical, and began to understand a little bit more about what the woman needed.

  Chapter Forty Two

  Later, Melissa sat on her porch. She stared out over the gently rolling hills of the golf course to the view of the ocean she loved so much. The waves were endless. The blue of the water seemed to match its depth somehow.

  Whenever Melissa rounded the bend on Putnam Avenue, that first full view of the ocean always took her breath away. Something about how patient it was, how vast, how beautiful. It was sharp and full, enduring and blue. Her home−it was always her home.

  The smooth cement floor of the porch was warm from the sun still, even this late in fall. Melissa kicked her feet out of the worn flip-flops she'd slid on at her door, stretching her long, thin legs. Settling back, she tossed her bare feet up on the porch railing, crossing them at the ankles, where the setting sun hit them full blast. Music from the window behind her whispered across the air, melodious and soft. The glass of wine Melissa had carried outside sat waiting on a small table at her elbow.

  She wore a soft-blue cardigan, three gentle clips buttoned at the top then falling loose to her tiny waist. Closer to her skin lay a soft tank top of the same color. Faded from repeated washings, Levi's hugged her hips and kissed her tan ankles. Her waist-length pin-straight blonde-streaked hair cascaded behind her shoulders, bangs just hiding her eyebrows. When she smiled, spoke or laughed, those bangs would dance, highlighting big blue eyes and lashes the length of butterfly wings.

  Melissa and Cate had been friends for more than ten years. They'd met at a cocktail reception, both admiring the same work from an up-and-coming artist, a young woman from the area: Jessica. Jess had threatened to sell them both rights to the same painting, her eyes full of laughter, the joy of the moment evident on her glowing face. In the end, a friendship grew between the three women. Jessica sold Melissa the original and Cate another, similar piece. Each of the three walked away happy with the memory. Both Melissa and Cate kept the canvases in their offices, as a symbol of beautiful things that might grow−given the chance.

  Jess would be great to have on the show in the new year, Melissa thought idly. She'd tell her assistant, Mary, tomorrow. Mary would call Jessica and set everything up. Mary was a God-send.

  Melissa had vowed when she'd hired her to give Mary office hours unless it was an emergency. In her opinion, anything that couldn't wait should be handled herself−it created a situation where her self-respect stayed intact. And Mary's gratitude felt good. In the beginning, Melissa had paid Mary a huge amount of money to do the smallest things for her. Mary had quickly risen to a place of trust where she'd earned access to several accounts including one of Melissa's payrolls.

  When she showed a distinct love of organization, Melissa assigned Mary to her studio office where Mary efficiently went to work. Soon Melissa's computer system, her files and her office hummed. Mary had gifted Melissa time, order and more peace than the busy executive had ever dreamed she'd see again with the schedule she kept. It was a perfect union, and Melissa was never more filled with gratitude. She simply wanted the same for Cate. She understood the pitfalls Cate was afraid of, or felt she did, Melissa thought, as she slowly rose, hungry, but not wanting to leave the peaceful view, the gentle, warm breeze and the soft air.

  Rising, she sighed wistfully and moved toward the heavy wooden front door, open to the breeze. She left her flip flops where they lay, still in the sunshine. In the sunny kitchen, she faced the same view she'd just left through an impressive window. On the spacious island, she found a crisp red apple, in the cabinet, cashew butter. Digging a single knife out of the utensil drawer, her bare feet cool on the tiled floor, Melissa paused a moment, staring out the large window.

  She'd call Alex, talk to her. Then Melissa would ask Mary to spend the day with Cate−no one could say no to Mary's effervescence.

  Now Melissa only had to figure out how to help her friend with one more problem in this life: Tom. She was a little bit afraid it was going to take all Cate had. And even that might not be enough.

  Chapter Forty Three

  Cate, meanwhile, was singing. Her world was at peace, her heart busy. There was nothing, she thought, nothing like the feeling of a job well done, of being ahead of the game. Cate refused to remember a busy woman such as herself was never truly done being prepared. Still, it felt good.

  She
'd called each of her beautiful children to check in and tell them she loved them. She'd talked to a jovial Mike. She'd listened contentedly and replied to messages from Clark and Joan.

  Winding up a call with Cindy, Cate sat on the wide couch in front of the fireplace, an old fashioned rotary dial phone to her ear. Cate twisted the springy cord around her fingers as she listened to her friend's lilting voice. Wide pillows of various sizes sat behind her, adding to the overall comfort of the room. Cate often thought she would have loved to professionally stage rooms.

  Cindy, a soft-spoken best-selling author, was telling Cate all about her new book idea when Merry alerted. Cindy's quiet, confident voice comforted and inspired Cate. She always sounded the same; nothing could knock Cindy from who she was.

  "Hold on," Cate requested. "Someone's at the door."

  Cate placed the phone down. Her bare feet carried her through the house via the ample main hallway. Soon it would be time for thick, woolen socks. The floor, although in a warm house, would be no match for the cold, snowy winter forecasters were calling for.

  Peeking through the peephole, swiping a chunk of chestnut hair out of her eyes, up on her tallest toes, Cate's heart dropped.

  Brown hair, blue eyes. It was Tom.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Cate swung the broad door open after entertaining a brief fantasy of select hearing loss, amnesia and just pure death.

  "Tom−"

  "Hi," Tom said, sheepishly. The two stared at each other. "Can I come in?"

  "Sure..." Surprised, relieved, Cate opened the door fully, gesturing for Tom to enter the large foyer. He wiped his feet on the mat, not removing his worn boots, then stepped into the house cautiously.