by Robbi McCoy
“Can you pull that off?”
“I can.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll butch it up for you. I’ll be a ladies’ man.”
Raven squealed and flung his arms around Kyle. “Oh, this does sound fun! I wish I could play.”
When Raven and Kyle had gone, Wren lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes, remembering the incredible sensations of her night with Sophie. She knew it was going to take a while to come down from this high and she was in no hurry.
Now that she was alone with her thoughts, she reflected on Sophie’s morning note. It was a very impersonal way to leave things, to walk out like that without saying goodbye or going to breakfast together or…anything. For some reason, Sophie wanted to make sure Wren understood it was just the one night, that it ended right there. It was unexpectedly cool, coming from a woman who had seemed so warm, nurturing and passionate.
I’m a big girl, Wren told herself. Emotionally mature. I can do this.
She had done it, she corrected herself. It was over.
She took a sip of her coffee, then began to wonder if Sophie was still in town or if she was back on the farm. She wondered what her life was like there with her goats, if she was lonely, if she would be happily surprised and ardently enthusiastic if Wren were to show up there uninvited. Or was it possible she really was content with just the one night? Certainly it was possible, if she could believe her own argument, that women were capable of being satisfied with a one-night stand, that a woman didn’t have to follow some ridiculous imperative of nature that dictated she had to fall in love with anyone who gave her an orgasm. Or several.
That was a laughable idea in this day and age, and thoroughly without merit. She had had many an orgasm in her life with women she hadn’t been in love with. A few, anyway. It was just like a man to equate sex with love. If she were to fall in love with Sophie, or any woman, for that matter, it would have nothing to do with orgasms. It would be because of her character, her personality, the things they had in common.
She leaned heavily into the cradling arm of the couch, summoning up an image of Sophie. If Wren were to fall in love, it would be because of the inexplicable pull of that other woman’s gaze. Or the crease on the left side of her mouth when she smiled without parting her lips. Or the hesitation in her laugh when she was uncertain it was okay to find something funny. Or the relaxed, melodious rhythm of her speech that sounded like an oboe concerto when you lay drowsily in her arms with your eyes closed. It would be because of these and many other genuine mysteries that were thoroughly captivating about this one woman. There was no way to explain it, why one woman’s earlobe was so much more remarkable than every other woman’s earlobe. Or why her kiss sent you spinning and another’s left you cold. No, there was no easy explanation for falling in love, but Wren knew well that the compelling mixture of emotions she felt toward Sophie had started manifesting themselves twenty-four hours earlier outside the theater when they had first looked into one another’s eyes, long before they had ever touched.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life;
but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well;
but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life.
—As You Like It, Act III, Scene 2
Before her foot touched ground, Sophie heard the bleating of goats. Not the calm and sporadic comments they made to one another during a typical summer day, but urgent and distressed calls of alarm. She leapt out of the pickup and ran toward the goat pen as fast as she could, finding all the goats gathered around Tater, the little tan one, who stood with her head wedged between two runners of the fence, bellowing at the top of her lungs.
Tallulah, whom Olivia often called Chatterbox, started prattling at Sophie nonstop, as if explaining what had happened. She shook her head vigorously, making her long ears fly up and smack the top of her head. She could make dozens of different sounds, combining grunts, squeaks and brays into a language unique to her. Sophie was certain she thought she was the translator for the herd.
“Okay,” Sophie said, in a soothing voice, “Everybody calm down.”
She approached the fence, glancing around the yard and seeing no sign of her mother. As their gazes met, Tater stopped bleating, but her eyes remained terror-stricken. Sophie lay a gentle hand on her head, then entered the pen and straddled her, taking hold of her head in both hands and twisting it enough to angle her out between the boards. As soon as she was free, Tater hopped twice, then took off running full tilt to the other side of the pen.
Sophie laughed as Tater celebrated her freedom. Twopenny came up and butted gently against Sophie’s knees, so she gave her a scratch behind the ears before exiting the pen. She left the gate open, allowing the goats to wander into the yard.
“There you go, kids,” she joked. “Cut the lawn for me.”
Poppy, the little black and white kid, followed her mother Rose out of the pen and over to the house where the green grass beckoned. The only goat born here, Poppy was as likely to follow Olivia or Sophie around as Rose. She seemed to consider them all her mother equally, which was hardly surprising, since Olivia often took the little kid inside the house and sat her on the furniture or her lap like a cat. It was her little joke that Poppy’s first word, directed at Olivia, had been “Maa-Maa.”
Sophie heard the sound of a horse galloping. Gambit, their chestnut gelding, raced in from the east, slowing to a trot as he neared the goat pen. Olivia was on his back, her hair loose and wild, the color of wood-fire smoke. She reined him in a few feet away. He was a midsized horse with plenty of spirit, intensely devoted to Olivia, the only rider he would take without a fuss. His fussiness was gradually diminishing in Sophie’s case. She could now induce him to take the bit without much arguing if she preceded it with a sugar cube or piece of fruit.
“You’re back,” Olivia said, holding the reins slack in her hand. Tall and thin, she sat up straight in the saddle. She wore jeans, boots and a sleeveless blouse that displayed her browned, well-toned arms.
Twenty years from now, Sophie expected herself to look nearly identical to how her mother looked now. She was a tough, capable woman. Before the stroke, she’d had no trouble running this place by herself. She’d lived alone here since Sophie had left over ten years ago and seemed perfectly content to do so.
“Tater got her head stuck in the fence,” Sophie reported.
“Silly fool.” Olivia stood up in the saddle and swung her leg over to dismount. “It’s always something with her. At least she didn’t get herself stuck on the roof again.”
Sophie laughed, remembering having to rescue a terrified Tater from the roof of the house a couple months earlier. After that, they’d had to move the wood pile away from the house to make sure it didn’t happen again.
“How many orders did you get?” her mother asked.
“Five. I think the sage is going to be popular. People seem to like it.”
“I like my cheese plain,” Olivia said flatly.
“Yes, I know, but foodies are always looking for a thrill. A new color of carrot or a new flavor of chêvre.”
“People are funny. A purple carrot tastes the same as an orange one. Did you know that?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a purple carrot.”
“I have.”
“It would be pretty,” reflected Sophie, “a medley of purple and orange carrots.”
Olivia nodded. “Yes, they’re pretty, like your lavender sprig on the top of the cheese. Like a pressed flower. That’s why people like it, don’t you think? Because it’s pretty.”
Sophie nodded and patted Gambit’s velvety snout. “I brought you a little treat, Mom. I’ll get it out of the truck.”
“Aebleskiver?” Olivia’s face lit up.
“Just baked this morning.”
“I’ll put Gambit away and go make a fresh pot of coffee.”
Sophie
ran to the pickup to get her bag of pastries. She found her mother in the kitchen taking mugs out of the cupboard, Poppy at her heels, while the coffee sputtered. As usual, she took the yellow mug down for herself, the one with a cartoon bus on it and the words, “World’s Best Bus Driver” inscribed in blue. One of her long-time passengers had given her that years ago and it remained her favorite. That was the sort of gift the kids gave to Olivia over the years, and all of them remained as part of the familiar, permanent décor, from the plush school bus pillow in Olivia’s rocker to the mustard-colored salt and pepper shakers on their kitchen table. It seemed those had always been here, a bus-shaped holder with smiling children for shakers, a boy for the pepper and a girl for the salt. For this reason, their kitchen was and always had been painted yellow. At her retirement party, the school transportation department had presented her with a bus-shaped cake, a realistic replica of the vehicle she’d driven for over twenty-five years, with the words Ashland School District in dark brown icing and the faces of children in every window.
Getting the coffee, Olivia worked around the huge stainless steel pot on the stove that Sophie used to heat the goat milk before curdling it.
“Here you go,” Sophie said, putting the pastries on the table. “I’ll be back in after I feed the chickens. Don’t eat them all.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll save you one.” Olivia grinned. “By the way, Sophie, I’ll be going out this afternoon. Warren’s coming by to take me kayaking.”
“Oh. That makes three weekends in a row.” Warren, known as Dr. Connor to Sophie, was Olivia’s neurologist. “That man does love kayaking, doesn’t he?”
Olivia looked slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, a regular fanatic. It’s great fun. Anyway, don’t expect me for dinner.”
“You won’t be on the river that long, will you?”
“No, but people usually go to dinner afterward. There’s a nice restaurant right there where we pull out.”
“So it’s a group of people you’re going with?” Sophie asked.
Olivia frowned, as though irritated by Sophie’s question. “Lots of people will be out on the river today. Such a nice warm day for it.”
“True. I wouldn’t mind going myself. You can rent a kayak there where you put in, right?”
“No!” Olivia spun around to face her. “I mean, yes, you can rent them. But you won’t have time for that today. You’ve got a new batch of cheese to start on.”
Sophie nodded. “You’re right. Maybe some other time.”
She went to the back porch to pull on her rubber boots, then went to the shed to get a coffee can full of chicken feed. The shed smelled of lavender. Several bundles of it hung from the ceiling, drying. With no facility devoted to her cheese-making operation, she made the best of what she had, the house kitchen for making the cheese, the shed for herb storage. Three lavender bushes grew on the property and they had been her inspiration when she expanded beyond the plain chêvre. She kept a few bundles drying here at all times and loved the floral fragrance they imparted to the shed, which had previously smelled, not unpleasantly, of animal feed and straw. A few bundles of drying sage had now joined the lavender above her head. She wondered how many other farmers had such fragrant sheds full of potpourri.
When she stepped into the chicken coop, seven chickens gathered around her feet, clucking excitedly. She poured the feed into their pan and then filled their water dispenser with fresh water as they circled the food pan, pecking intently, two white and four red hens and one rooster. There were five eggs lying on the raised straw beds.
“One of you has taken a break today, I see.” She sat on a stool and picked up one of the rust-colored hens, turning her on her back so her yellow feet stuck straight up. In the way of chickens, the hen went still and silent and lay in Sophie’s hands like a hunk of wood, one round yellow eye watching her, blinking, but otherwise completely inanimate. This behavior always calmed Sophie. Whether the hen was silent or it clucked softly, as they sometimes did, Sophie felt the tension drain out of her while holding a chicken. After her return to the farm, the chickens had helped her to learn how to relax, slow down and focus her thoughts. The hen’s eye was now halfway shut. Sophie began to feel the hypnotic effect of what she thought of as chicken magic. While you were lulling them into this lethargic state, they were doing the same to you.
Her life in L.A. had been frenetic, noisy and tense. For several weeks here she had to have the radio on all the time just for the noise, to drown out her own thoughts. But she had adapted, with the help of the chickens and the goats and the cheese making. Now she didn’t mind the quiet. She could even fall asleep at night without the radio, with no sound other than the crickets and frogs. The thoughts in her head weren’t disturbing like they had been at first.
Those first few weeks had been torture. She had lain awake in her room feeling like an exile from her life, wondering what Jan was doing and who she was with. In addition to the anxiety and pain of leaving Jan, she had also felt anger, mainly toward her sister Dena who had breezed in while their mother was in the hospital, then breezed out again, saying she had so many things to do, she had to get back to Tucson where Hank wasn’t able to manage on his own for long with his bad back. He missed her so, she just couldn’t ever leave him for more than a day or two, but she did want to come and make sure Mom was well cared for and to say how happy she was that Sophie was able to come up, which made her feel a lot better about leaving again.
That was how Sophie had been elected, rather than Dena, to stay on and help Olivia through her recovery period.
After a month, Sophie had begun to enter her own recovery period. Being away from Jan helped her see her more clearly, see what a user she was, and how that wasn’t going to change, despite the continuous promises, continually broken. She was a chronic liar and a chronic cheat.
The one person Sophie talked to about Jan was Ellie. One day Ellie had said, “My God, Sophie, the whole time you’ve been telling me about Jan, you’ve never once said you loved her.”
That had brought her up short. Of course she had loved Jan…once. But it had all turned so sour and left her full of anger and resentment. Nothing resembling love. Sophie recalled hearing somewhere that love, simple honest love, can’t survive everyday life. Things are always changing. It’s just the way of the universe. If it isn’t expanding, it’s contracting. If a mountain isn’t going up, it’s coming down. If you aren’t falling in love, you’re falling out of love.
Sophie looked at the pale yellow skin covering the hen’s eye and realized she’d been so cynical back then. Over the last two years, her cynicism had softened, her anger had dissipated. People weren’t mountains. They didn’t have to obey laws of physics like an inanimate object. People could fall in love and stay in love. Just because it hadn’t happened to her, didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. She was sure of it.
As Olivia’s health had improved and she’d assumed more and more of her former chores, Jan had asked, “When are you coming home?” and Sophie had said, “I don’t know.” After a couple more months, Jan said, “Maybe we should move your stuff out there, if you don’t know how long you’re going to be.” Then, somehow, two years had gone by and Sophie hadn’t heard from Jan for quite a while. They never officially broke up. They had dissolved like a sand castle in the surf, sloughing itself off wave by wave until you couldn’t tell anything had ever stood there.
Sophie wasn’t angry any more. Hope and optimism had returned. She had become herself again. She believed in love again.
She put the hen down. It ruffled its plumage before diving for the feed dish. She wasn’t tense today, had no need of chicken magic. She sighed, thinking of Wren, that sweet little bird with her own soothing magic. She wondered how long Wren would be in town. The note she had left her had been hard to write. As she’d sat at the desk in the hotel room writing that note, she could see the bed in the mirror, could see the tousled sheets and the top of Wren’s head, her chaotic hair testifying to a bo
isterous night.
Her note had been calculatingly casual. She had wanted to say more. She had wanted to leave her phone number and ask Wren to call her. She’d wanted to make a demand. At least a request. To corrupt their beautiful night with strings. If Wren had wanted that, she would have asked. At some point in the many hours they lay together talking, there was plenty of opportunity to mention getting together again. But it never came up. Since Wren didn’t mention it, Sophie didn’t either. Besides, even if Wren were willing to see her again, it probably wasn’t a good idea. It would be too easy to get used to her, to fall…under her spell. She thought again about the idea that love couldn’t survive everyday life. Love, she scoffed. This wasn’t about love. This was about sex. And it was marvelous sex, a gift given with no hint of everyday life to spoil it. Be grateful, she chided herself. Be elated!
Sophie rose from the stool, collected the eggs and joined her mother in the house for coffee and aebleskiver.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.
’Tis gone.
—Othello, Act III, Scene 3
Kyle put an arm around Wren’s shoulders as they admired a painting. The gallery owner stood nearby, available but unobtrusive. The watercolor was a vibrant tableau of carnelian tomatoes spilling from a shabby wicker basket, some of them smashed open, their watery seeds soaking into a newspaper. There was nothing “still” about this still life. Tomatoes continued to roll and bump into each other, urging the viewer to thrust out a hand to catch them before they escaped the edge of the frame. In a literal sense, it was the scene of an accident. Even so, to Wren it was more like a luxurious opportunity. She could tell the tomatoes were ripe, just picked, skins taut, unspoiled by refrigeration, bursting with lusciousness. Now that they had ruptured, they had to be eaten, immediately, and there could be no doubt that was a fortunate turn of events.
Wren admired an artist who could capture the desirability of a piece of fruit.
