by Wendy Owens
“Wait, that’s not all. Do you know anyone who is hiring?” He stares at me, but doesn’t answer. Nervously, I begin to ramble. “I’ve gone through most of my cash, and I didn’t clear as much on the condo as I thought I would, and I need to—”
“You can work here.”
“What? No, that’s not what I meant. I—”
“I always hire seasonal help in the winter. It’s a high tourist time for us. You can help Bea with whatever she needs. She can go over how it all works.” He turns to walk away. I want to throw my arms around him. He could have sent me away—made me grovel.
“Holden,” I yelp before he is gone. He whirls around to face me. I take a deep breath and say, “Thank you.”
He nods and leaves me standing there, alone.
Tucking the blanket under the corner of the mattress, I stand to marvel at my handiwork. With Holden in one room and me in the other, this still leaves two rooms for guests. I can understand why Holden needed an extra hand during this season. Since the night I arrived the extra rooms have been booked.
Bea has been an incredible teacher. I love to cook, but most other domestic chores don’t come natural to me. I hate doing laundry; so much in fact, I tend to re-wear clothes multiple times rather than deal with it. Dirty dishes left in the sink was a regular fight when Jack and I were together. And rather than clean our bathroom, I had the incredibly sweet woman who lived below us give it a tidy once a week for a small fee.
Yet here I am. In only a week I’ve become an expert. A true domestic goddess. Unfortunately it takes me ten times longer than Bea. She loves taking every opportunity to remind me of this. When I suggested I take on kitchen duties, she laughed and explained that guests expect to get their food fast and warm. I’m determined to win her over once again.
“When you’re done with this, can you make a post run for me?” Holden asks, standing in the open doorway.
I jump, wondering how long he’s been standing there. I’ve been back for a week, and this is about the extent of our relationship. I hear the scraping of his shoes as he’s turning, already starting to walk away from me before I can even answer. The awkwardness is suffocating.
“Yeah, I can go,” I say, as the top stair creaks from his weight. “Wait, Holden,” I gasp. I can’t continue to let things be broken between us. I think of Marissa’s words. I need to believe I’m powerful enough to push for the good things in my life and close off the things that can hurt me.
“Do you need something?” he asks, leaning his head in through the door.
“Do you have minute?”
“For what?”
“Can you come in and talk to me?” I ask, motioning toward the open room with a hand.
“Uh …” he hesitates. “I should probably get back. It’s pretty busy down there.”
“Please, it won’t take long,” I plead. He steps into the room, glances over his shoulder, and presses the door closed behind him. He looks uncomfortable. I make him uncomfortable. Do I make him uncomfortable because he hates me or because he still loves me? I tell myself to quit thinking about these thoughts. I need to focus on making this right between us.
“I’m sorry,” I decide to lead with another apology.
“There’s nothing to—”
“Don’t. Let me say what I have to say.”
“Fine,” he concedes.
“What I did was wrong. I was scared. You are this amazing guy, and I was starting to believe that somehow, out of the most messed up situation in my life, I’d stumbled upon my soul mate.” I bite my lip. I can’t believe I just said that. Don’t let him think about what you said; just say something else. “I was confused, and scared, and hurting. I didn’t want to hurt you, too. I thought leaving was the best for everyone.”
“I’m not angry,” he says, trying to avoid eye contact.
“Well, you’re something.” I huff.
“I’m trying. That’s what I am. I wake up Belle, and I try. It’s what I’ve been doing since you left. I’m not sure what you want from me.”
“What do you mean? You try?”
“You made me feel again, and when that was gone, I wasn’t sure what to do. I wanted to chase you down, but I had no clue where you’d gone. And now, you’re just back. I have to try not to kiss you. I have to try with everything in me to respect your wishes and not pull you into my arms and never let you go. Damn it, Belle, I don’t want your apologies … I want you.”
This isn’t happening. He can’t possibly be saying these words to me. I wanted to fix our friendship, not reopen old wounds.
“I’ll hurt you,” I insist, stumbling back, leaning against the desk, his words making me tremble.
“I’m already hurting. Let me love you.”
Holden rushes forward. He’s breathing heavy, as his hand slips behind my neck and tilts back my head. Our lips press together. I close my eyes, and release myself into the moment. It takes everything in me, but I place my hands squarely on his chest and push him away.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I’m pregnant.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I can kinda see that.”
I’m shaking my head, because I want so badly to kiss him. Every fiber of my being wants to kiss him. But we’re weak with one another. If I let this happen, we’ll make decisions with our hearts rather than our heads. How much will he resent me when he looks into my child’s eyes and sees Jack? I hear my heart beating. I think I can hear his beating as well. In unison. We want the same thing. Each other. I don’t have the courage to take that risk. Not with Holden’s future, and not with my unborn child’s.
He licks his lips, looking into my eyes. God I wish he would look away. Look anywhere but directly into my soul. But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches out and grips my hands. I don’t pull away. Why don’t I pull away?
“I should leave—go back to the States.” My words are barely audible.
“That’s the last thing you should do.” He sounds so confident, so strong. The new, powerful me wants to relinquish control of all my decisions, but I can’t. I try to stare at my feet, but he won’t let me. He uses a single finger to lift my chin, shifting my gaze to his. “I’ll wait.”
I shake my head, confusion washing over me. “Wait for what?”
“For you. I’ll wait for you to be ready.”
“I might never be,” I answer with the truth.
“Then I guess I’ll be waiting for a long time,” he says, then presses his lips to my forehead, turns to open the door, and walks out of the room. I crumple to the floor, resting on my knees, warmth surrounding me.
Watching Bea in the kitchen is like watching a ninja silently and gracefully on a mission. She shifts with confidence and ease, a dance unfolding before my eyes. A dash of spice in a sizzling pan, a brief check on the shepherd’s pie that is baking in the oven, before swirling around to drop a batch of fish and chips into the deep fryer.
“Do you think you have it?” she asks without shifting her focus.
It’s been a week since Holden and I were alone in that bedroom. Since he kissed me. Since he told me he’d wait. We haven’t spoken of it again, but he’s laughing at my jokes once more. Occasionally, I catch him watching me. Though I know he wants more from me than I can give, it’s calming to feel like I have our friendship back.
Bea wants me as far away from the kitchen as possible, which, of course, means that’s the only job I want. It’s only taken me dropping the hint to Holden a few times for him to tell Bea to give me a chance at the dinner rush. I’ve been excited, but now, watching the action of it all, I’m beginning to question the desire to own this task.
I nod, but I’m not sure I have it at all.
“Tickets are hung in the window here,” Bea continues, pointing to the row of clips. “When an order is up, place it in the window and ring this bell. Got it?”
“Got it,” I reply, glancing around at all the stations one last time.
“Perfect, I’ll leave you to it then.” At that,
she walks toward the door.
“Wait!” I panic. “Where are you going?”
“You wanted kitchen duty, you’ve got,” Bea chimes, almost laughing.
My heartbeat quickens. I can hear it in my ears. The adrenaline is pumping, and I’m ready to prove myself. I hear a beeping. What is that beeping? It’s such an annoying sound; I clench my fists, frantically searching for the source. I see a light on a machine to my left. Rushing over, I realize it’s the timer on the fish and chips. I’m pulling them from the fryer and dumping them into draining pan, when I hear a shout from the window, and a new ticket appears. I’ll get it in a minute, I decide, plating the tourist special.
I place it in the window and grab the next ticket. I recognize Bea’s scribbles: baked chicken and a vegetarian special. Running to the fridge, I pull out the ingredients I need and immediately begin chopping. I search for a pan and, once it’s located, I begin heating the oil. She thought this would get the better of me, but it’s clear I can handle anything she—
“Shit!” I exclaim, a cloud of smoke enveloping me.
A burnt char smell entangles itself around me. Dropping the chopped veggies into the oil, I throw open the door to the oven, a blackness swallowing me. My eyes are burning, and I can’t see a thing. Without thinking, I reach in to grab what used to be shepherd’s pie. I immediately regret this as soon as I realize I do not have a barrier between the dish and my hand.
“Jesus!” I blurt out in pain, dropping the plate, which shatters on the floor.
Holden presses open the swinging door as I rush to the sink, placing my blistered hands under a cool stream of water. “Are you all right in here?” he cries, stepping over the mess on the floor and inspecting my injuries. “What happened?”
Before I can answer, the door swings in again, and Bea is standing in front of me—hands on her hips, surveying the situation. “You’ve got this, right?” she snarks sarcastically, taking action immediately—removing pans from burners, sweeping up broken dishes, and sliding the dish of chicken into the oven.
“Don’t be so hard on her … she’s trying,” Holden defends me.
My mouth is hanging open. I can’t pinpoint the moment things began to go wrong, but what happened in only five minutes time has comedic proportions of impossibilities attached to it. Holden is wrapping a damp cloth around my hands, and I burst into a thunderous laugh. The room stops, and all eyes are on me with stares of bewilderment.
“Oh, come on, could that have gone any worse?” I ask, continuing to laugh.
Holden snickers first; Bea just looks at us in disgust and continues with her work. He escorts me out of the kitchen and, as the door swings shut, I hear her quiet and controlled laughter. I smile; she’s warming to me.
I’m in a different room than my last visit to Dr. Marshall’s. On the wall is a diagram of the inside of the human body—the heart, the lungs, the colon, the intestines, the brain, all of it. In my mind, I imagine them pumping, moving in perfect harmony together.
I tug at the paper gown I’m wearing, smoothing it over my round belly and pressing the edges of it under my legs. Considering Dr. Marshall had been the one to deliver me the news about my pregnancy, it was obvious I would pick him from the two doctors available in this area. It doesn’t, however, mean I enjoy the visits. Something about being half-naked while you’re poked and prodded doesn’t constitute my idea of a good time.
I’d tried sneaking out for my appointment, unnoticed, but Holden is like a bloodhound when it comes to my whereabouts. The moment he found out I was headed in for a check-up he insisted on bringing me. I had to draw the line at coming back into the exam room with me. But now, alone and vulnerable in my paper gown, I wish I had someone’s hand to hold.
“Miss Hart,” the doctor says, walking in, “Good to see you again.”
I smile. It seems like the appropriate thing to do—what civilized human beings offer in conversation. “You too.”
“So, let’s see here,” he begins, flipping through the chart and reading his notes. He places it on the desk and asks me to lie down. I shift uncomfortably, trying to keep from exposing any naked body parts. Lifting up one side of my gown, he presses gently on my stomach in several locations. “Have you had any concerns?”
“No, everything seems fine,” I answer.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed the increase in size.” His comment makes me giggle.
“Yeah, it’s kind of hard not to,” I reply.
“Things tend to get pretty active around thirty weeks. You’re going to start noticing a lot of fetal movement, along with some other annoying symptoms that are completely normal. You might have some flatulence, bloating, constipation, stretch marks, ankle swelling—”
“Please, Doc, you’re making this sound far too exciting. Stop it before I explode in anticipation,” I joke, staring at the ceiling.
He laughs, blows a breath on his stethoscope to warm it, and presses it against my belly. He listens silently for a moment before saying, “This one has a strong heartbeat. Have you thought anymore about learning the sex?”
He takes my arm and helps me upright. I turn and sit on the edge of the table, making sure I’m covered. “Yes, I have, and I’m sure I don’t want to know. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Then how about some of the fun news?”
“Fun?” I repeat.
“Yeah, the fun part of being pregnant. Learning all about what’s happening inside there,” he says, tapping on my stomach.
I peer up at him. “I already know what’s going on in there. A lot of heartburn.”
He’s laughing; I must really be on my game today. “No, no, with the baby. At thirty weeks your baby’s brain is growing at an incredible pace. It’s also going to start gaining around a half a pound a week.”
“Wait, there’s nothing fun about gaining half a pound week.”
“Oh, you’ll most likely gain more than a half a pound. I’m just talking about the growth of the baby,” he clarifies.
“Yup, the news just keeps getting better,” I moan.
“It’s a good thing. A growing baby is a healthy baby.” At those words, my chest aches. A healthy baby. I’m growing a child inside of me, and when this is all over, if everything goes well, I’ll have a healthy baby.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, you’re right,” I say softly.
He pats me on my leg and tells me everything looks great, and I can go ahead and get dressed. Just before he exits the room, I find the courage to ask a question that has been plaguing me since the day Holden kissed me upstairs at the in. “Dr. Marshall …”
“Yes.” He pauses, looking back at me.
“I did have one question,” I begin. He shifts his body, facing me. “You said the baby’s brain is growing rapidly now?”
“That’s right,” he confirms.
“Does this include their memories?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“Will the baby have memories of things that are happening right now? Conversations I have, things I experience.” I want to shake him as I ask the question Just tell me if my baby will have memories of another man kissing me, or how it felt for Mommy when he did.
“Some have said there are people who can remember their birth, but common medical opinion is that memories often do not date back younger than age three, maybe two,” he explains.
“But it could go further back?”
“Is there something in particular that’s concerning you, Miss Hart? Maybe I could answer your question better.”
“No, of course not. I’m just curious.” I watch as he leaves the room. Hopping down from the bed, I get dressed. The thought of my child remembering things while in the womb haunts me. Talk about a tragic start to life. All of this is exactly what I’m determined to protect my son or daughter from.
Slipping on a pair of mules, I make my way outside to the receptionist and make my appointment for a follow-up visit. As soon as the waiting room door opens, Hol
den is on his feet. He looks worried. I stare at him, puzzled. “Are you all right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “I was just about to ask you the same question. You were back there forever.”
I giggle.
“What? You were,” he insists.
“It wasn’t that long,” I argue with a smile, walking toward the exit. He follows closely behind me, pulling the keys from his pocket.
“I was about to ask the receptionist if everything was okay,” he adds.
I reach out and squeeze his arm. “I’m fine.”
He pauses, causing me to come to a sudden stop. We’re now standing just in front of the truck. Looking into my eyes, he asks, “And the baby?” The way he says it causes a chill to flood through my body. He’s so serious. Is he actually concerned about this baby? Why?
“The baby’s fine,” I answer in a soft tone, still staring at him.
He opens the door for me before hopping in the other side. He’s smiling, and I don’t know what to think.
My days have become routine. This is a preferred form of distraction for me. It’s hard to think about Jack and his threats when I’m busy from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to bed. If I have a second of quiet time, I fill it with writing. My latest journal is almost full, and every time I crack my notebook, I feel a calmness wash over me. There’s contentment in me that I haven’t known for some time.
As soon as I wake up in the morning, I head straight out back and collect the eggs from the chicken coop for the breakfast run. This was been a new experience for me, but Abner seemed more than happy to show me how it’s done. What he didn’t tell me was that the Rooster is a bastard. He loves a good chase during egg collection time, and at thirty-one weeks pregnant, I’m not getting around as quickly as I used to. After the initial attempt, it was a simple matter of learning the trick; you trap the beast in the corner with the gate. After that it’s smooth sailing.
I also found out they collect their own milk, but Holden wasn’t letting me or my perfectly round belly anywhere near the back end of a cow—a luxury reserved for Abner. Bea keeps a mini greenhouse to the side of their small cottage at the rear of the Inn. My second daily chore is to collect all the fresh herbs she needs for that day’s kitchen duties.
