Beauty and the Wolf

by Bridget Essex

  I mean, it's only a half-lie.

  Betty is certainly in a worse circumstance than I am. I don't have kids to support, and Dad's feeling better these days.

  But even as I think all of these thoughts, my bravery begins to fade. Now that I've removed myself from the diner, I find that I don't have much energy left for anything else.

  “Bella, what are you going to do?” Betty asks, fear in her eyes.

  I shrug my shoulders lightly. “I'll do what I have to do. I'll be fine,” I tell her, with as much conviction as I can muster.

  I'll be fine.

  Even if I'm having a hard time believing that right now.

  Chapter 3: The Proposition

  I sit on the broken cement behind the diner, and I tap my fingers on my knees, wishing (for about the millionth time) that I hadn't given up smoking. My fingers itch for a cigarette, for the soothing ritual of lighting it, of taking that first, deep inhale, and I know how much it'd soothe me, but, seriously? I just quit. I've quit a bunch of times, and this time around, Pam bet me twenty bucks that I'd start up again.

  I've lost my job. I really can't afford to lose twenty bucks.

  The fake rose is lying across my thighs, and I stare down at it a little morosely. Logically, I shouldn't be here at the diner. Andrew could come outside, and I'd hate for him to see me licking my wounds. But I'm seated behind the Dumpster and a bunch of overgrown weeds, out of sight of the back door.

  I know this doesn't sound like the best spot to seek refuge, but it's a special place to me. It's where I used to go when I was a kid, playing hide-and-seek with my parents, and it's where I would go for alone time when I was a teenager being...you know, a teenager. I'd tuck myself back here and basically sulk until I started to feel better.

  Mom always tracked me down eventually. I guess mothers have a sixth sense for that sort of thing, pinpointing where their daughters have gone to pout.

  My mom was a gardener first and a diner cook second. She was obsessed with gardening and had the greenest thumb around; even though we didn't have much of a backyard behind our house, she transformed the small space into this living work of art.

  Roses...everywhere.

  So one time, when Mom surveyed my hiding spot back here, she put her hands on her hips and considered the barren landscape.

  Wordlessly, she embraced me. And, just as wordlessly, the next day...she planted a rose bush next to the Dumpster.

  Over time, we gardened together. We kept the part that you could see from the diner back door the same: grungy, ugly, uninviting. But, behind the broken bits of cement, Mom nurtured her half-dying plants, the ones that didn't do so well in the yard at home. And she helped me tend them all. We didn't need to do much work; that's the great thing about wild spaces.

  Plants become a little more beautiful, a little more wild, the less you prune them. Basically, we brought the plants here to set them free.

  And this little spot became my sanctuary.

  It's still my sanctuary, though it's overgrown with weeds, and I don't give a crap that Andrew owns the property now. This place still feels like it's mine.

  At least for the moment.

  I probably shouldn't come back here again.

  Oh, God...what have I done?

  My thoughts are on high spin, going a little something like this: What the hell? Andrew is such an asshole. Andrew is such an asshole. Who would fire a woman for stealing scraps, and then evict her and her kids? Oh, yeah, an asshole. Which Andrew definitely is. Did I really just get fired? Man, I just got fired. But it was for such a good cause! Yeah, I should feel proud of myself. But I just got fired. God, what am I going to do? I've lost my last tie to my family's diner...

  And repeat.

  I should hightail it to the apartment that Pam and I share. And I should probably self-medicate with lots of delicious, greasy food and then fall asleep, with a solemn vow to figure all of this out tomorrow. But I know myself. I know that if I zone out, if I sink into sadness, I won't be capable of fixing this situation, and I have to fix it. Even if that means riding the bus two hours every day to a new job. Even if that means doing work that I'm ill-suited for...like, I don't know, farm work or something.

  I can handle this.

  I have to handle this.

  But right now, I'm sitting here in my secret garden, and—if I'm being honest—I'm feeling very sorry for myself. Still, I’m too damn stubborn to shed any tears...

  Something stings my eye.

  No, I won't cry. I won't.

  Suddenly, I feel the weight of a gaze upon me. Is it Andrew? Has he found me? I crane my neck, shivering just a little as a chill passes over my skin. The woods that border Paris are nearby, and I wonder, for a moment, if an animal is lurking beneath the trees, staring at me...

  But I don't see anything. At least, not at first.

  And then...she materializes between two trees. I swear to you, she wasn’t there, and then she was there, as if by magic.

  I stare up at her, blinking.

  The Beast.

  No. Not the Beast. I know her real name now: Mel Grim.

  Grim.

  She stares at me, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her leather jacket, her full mouth sloping down into a seriously sexy frown. It's weird that, even in the midst of total despair, I still notice how attractive she is. Well, I guess that's a positive sign. At least I'm still alive. At least I still recognize a sexy woman when I see one.

  “What...are you doing back here?” The words tumble out of my mouth without any forethought; I'm too drained to think before I speak.

  Grim rocks back on the heels of her boots, tilting her head to the side and raising a brow. She regards me with the bright amber of her irises shimmering.

  My throat tightens a little as I watch her.

  I am in my most pathetic state, and here she is towering over me: leather-clad, strong, sexy...

  This is a very low moment in the history of my self-esteem.

  “I was just taking a stroll,” she answers smoothly, her lips twitching up at the corners. Her words sounded slightly teasing, as if in recognition of the fact that no one would willingly choose to take a stroll behind the Dumpster. I smile weakly in return.

  “Enjoying the scenery, huh?”

  “Yeah.” She smiles warmly as she gazes down at me, and my heart somersaults about six times in my chest. Then she glances at the fake rose on my lap. “So.” Her voice remains low, her tone measured. “I'm assuming that you have an opening for employment?”

  I meet her gaze, and my brow furrows. She's wearing a Mona Lisa smile: mysterious. A little playful, a little aloof. I'm not sure what she's saying with the shape of her mouth. But I like it. I like it a lot.

  Confused, I shake my head and murmur quietly, “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was inquiring as to your current availability.” She shifts position, placing her hands on her hips and glancing up toward the sky before looking at me again. “You see, I need a cook. At Grim Tower.”

  “A...cook?” I repeat her words, tilting my head.

  “Mm-hmm.” Her smile is soft but electrifying... “Like I mentioned earlier, the people who live in the building are my family, and none of us are talented chefs—to say the least.”

  “Oh.”

  “So if you can cook...” She ducks her head, looking almost bashful—and definitely adorable. “Well, the offer's open.” She trails off at the end, watching me with hooded, golden eyes.

  I take in her words slowly.

  Is she trying to hire me?

  Several thoughts tumble through my mind. Of course I can cook; I started cooking at the diner as soon as I was old enough to hold a spoon without dropping it. But Grim has never tasted my cooking. Why is she offering me a spur-of-the-moment job in her family's home?

  Pity, maybe. After all, she watched me get fired—dramatically fired. So she probably feels sorry for me. I guess that makes sense. But feeling sorry for someone and offering them empl
oyment as a result seems like a mighty big jump, especially considering the fact that she had to prowl out here among the weeds to find me.

  I narrow my brows as I stare up at her, my mouth hanging open as I try to come up with a coherent response. “Okay. So,” I begin, working my jaw, “you need a cook.”

  “Yeah.” Her smile deepens a little wryly. “Like I said.”

  “God, sorry, sorry. I'm being so spacey.” I stand up quickly, brushing debris from my bottom. “It's just been... I mean, it's been a weird day. And that's a really nice offer. Especially since I...do happen to be in the market for a job.”

  “Well, think it over.” She slides her right hand into her pocket and draws out a business card. She holds it out to me between her first two fingers, and I take it from her gingerly.

  The card is plain, ivory, and printed across it in a bold gold script are the words “M. Grim,” along with a phone number.

  I glance up quickly then, gripping the card with such tightness that I cut my finger on the sharp edge. Wincing a little, I clear my throat and brush the blood from my fingertip against the side of my thigh. Grim watches me without speaking, her expression curious, expectant.

  Okay, she must have been motivated by pity to offer me this job, but I think I can handle the shame of a pity hire. After all, I'm a good cook; this isn't going to be some kind of charity case. I'll earn my wages, every penny.

  “I'll...take the job. Thanks.” I swallow the lump in my throat.

  She nods, then says, her voice gruff, “Come by tomorrow before noon, and you can make us lunch, get acquainted with the kitchen. See how you like the place. Trial basis.”

  “Okay. Sounds good.”

  For a long moment, we stand together, unspeaking. Her gaze flicks from me to the mess of plants behind my back: the wildflowers and weeds and the rose bush with its prickly, out-of-control growth. It's not the season for rose blossoms, but the bush is teeming with bright green thorns.

  As I watch, something moves across Grim's face. She stares past me—at the rose bush, I assume—and her face turns dark.

  I open my mouth to ask her what's wrong, wondering if she's having second thoughts about the job offer, but before I can speak, she weaves between the trees as effortlessly as a panther prowling the wilds.

  And just like that, she's gone.

  I blink, a little shaken. This day just keeps getting more and more surreal...

  I stare down at the business card in my hand, its corner stained with a spot of rust-red blood, my blood, and then I suck on my paper cut, wrinkling my nose.

  Yeah. Weirdest day of my life.

  ---

  Later that evening, when I relate my interaction with Grim to Pam, she stares at me across the couch as if I just told her that I intend to take up astronaut-ing as my new career.

  “The Beast offered you a job? What, just like that?” Pam snaps her fingers and scowls, then holds out her huge takeout container of fries to me. I've already eaten approximately five pounds of fried potato, but there's always room for a bonus fry. I pick one out of the container and chew it, holding onto my overstuffed stomach as I lie back against the cushions, sighing.

  “She's not the Beast, Pam, and if you keep calling her that now, you're just being a jerk.” I shake my head and arch a brow. “She just employed my sorry, fired ass, so I'm pretty grateful to her. Try to be a little nicer. For me.”

  “I don't know, Bella.” Pam regards me skeptically, dabbing a fry into the tub of ketchup. “It all seems fishy to me.”

  “Fishy?” I sigh, staring up at the ceiling tiles. “Okay, it's surprising, granted. But shouldn't we both be directing copious amounts of anger toward Andrew, the dude who fired me, instead of suspicion toward the person who's offering me a job?”

  She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then she seems to second-guess herself and simply groans softly, placing the leftover fries on the coffee table and rolling back onto her corner of the couch. “Man, I ate way too much. It was sympathy eating, so it's all your fault.”

  “Sure, blame me,” I smile wryly. But then I start to bite at my nail.

  “Hey, stop gnawing. You'll ruin your nail polish.”

  I put both of my hands in my lap and begin to wring them together.

  “Come on, Bella. What's bugging you now?”

  “Oh, I don't know.” I flop sideways on the couch, sliding down until my back is on the seat cushions, my legs propped up over the side, swinging in the air. We garbage-picked this couch one really, really hot August night and carried it back to our apartment, the two of us, eleven blocks, because we're champions. The thing is really damn comfortable and was totally worth the epic undertaking.

  Pam leans forward and fishes another fry out of the takeout box. “Bella, you have to tell me not to eat this. If I eat this, I'll probably explode.”

  I glance at her through one open eye. “Probably isn't definitely. You should eat the fry, Pam,” I say, ever the devil's advocate. Then I bury my face in a pillow and let out a low-grade scream.

  It's a tried-and-true coping mechanism—and it saves my poor nails from being bitten to shreds.

  “Look, Bella, I know it's been a stressful, crazy day. But you killed it at that diner. You stuck by your principles; you threw down your apron like a boss. And you're not going to end up homeless, okay? I'd never allow that,” Pam promises, drawing the pillow away from my face. “Now, have another fry. If I keep eating them, I'm definitely going to burst. And God knows you can't reheat these things.”

  I chew on another fry numbly. “Did Freddie give these to you for free?” I ask, and she laughs, nodding.

  “I was supposed to tell you. He said they were 'Fuck You, Fries,' in honor of your firing today.”

  “That ‘fuck you’ being directed toward our boss, I assume.”

  She ducks her head, nodding, and suddenly I notice that her cheeks are flushed.

  “How's your migraine, Pam?”

  “Oh, a little better, thanks.” She stares out the window for a moment before turning back to face me. “Anyway, Freddie knew the fries would make you smile.”

  I do smile. I even laugh a little, but it's a laugh that ends with a nervous chuckle, and then I'm gazing at the ceiling again as I begin to fret.

  “Maybe I should just leave Paris, head to Boston or Portsmouth or Montpelier. But Dad...”

  “Your father's never going to leave Paris,” Pam says quietly, “but you can go, Bella. If you want to leave this shoebox of a town,” she goes on, a little disdainfully, “you should. God knows I wouldn't blame you, and your dad only wants you to be happy.”

  “I'm not...unhappy,” I say, but as the words pass my salted lips, they sound forced, uncertain. “I just hate watching Andrew turn my hometown into...Andrew-ville.”

  I inhale, and I drop the half-eaten fry onto my napkin on the coffee table. “Pam,” I say soberly, because there's no mirth left in me. This is Serious Conversation Time, and Pam knows it. She leans forward, watching me warily, her mouth set in a soft, concerned line. “What if...”

  “What if what?”

  “What if this is all there is?”

  “Hmm.” She sits back and regards me thoughtfully. “Are we talking about heaven and hell stuff—and that gorgeous hunk Elvis, who I'm totally going to seduce in the afterlife—or are we talking about something else?”

  I shake my head. “I'm talking about here, in this life.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  I tuck my knees beneath me and sigh. “What if this is it? I just...stay here, waiting for my dad to get better or worse. And Paris does become Andrew-ville—maybe he even changes the name—but I still stick around. Out of love for this place...or out of habit. Or because it's just easy.

  “And since we're in the middle of nowhere, I never meet my special someone. I just...live. And then I die. A sad, lonely waitress...” I draw in a quavering breath, then exhale it slowly. “Just like Andrew said.”

  Pam’s eyes are
steely as she holds up a finger. “First off, Andrew didn't call you sad. Sure, he said some mean stuff that he shouldn't have,” she says, glaring at me in warning when I attempt to interrupt her. It seems as if she had this speech plotted out, stored away for when all of the adrenaline ran out of me and I inevitably ended up feeling lower than an earthworm. “But he's all hot air. You know that. He's like—I don't know—an angry dog. If you bite him, he bites back. It's all instinct. It doesn't really mean anything.

  “And if you're worried about finding a woman to date, just look for one and stop being so damn picky. It's the age of the Internet. You have options. There are a lot of—”

  “In the middle of rural Vermont?”

  “You can drive, Bella,” she tells me, her voice stern but fond, “if that's what you really want to do. You could borrow my car.”

  “I know. I know.” I grab one of the couch pillows and squeeze it against my chest. Pam's tough-love pep talks are often hard to hear—but this is exactly what I need to hear right now.

  “Look, it royally sucks, no question, but this is the hand that's been dealt to you, and you have no choice but to make the best of things.” Her tone softens a little as she brushes a loose strand of brown hair from my eyes: “You can handle this. I believe in you. You've faced harder challenges. The way you've dealt with your dad's illness... It's nothing short of heroic.”

  I shake my head quickly. “I don't feel like a hero.”

  “The best heroes never feel like heroes. That's what makes them so hero-like.”

  I can't help it; I laugh. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When did you become so wise?”

  “I've always been wise. Just ask my mother. She's been calling me a wise ass ever since I was five years old.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she gently taps my knee. “Trust me. I know things. I know you. And...” She closes her eyes and places her fingers to her temples, as if she's receiving a transmission from outer space. “In my infinite wisdom, I reluctantly predict that you might enjoy working for the Beast—”