by Tracy Ewens
“Thank God. How do you think it’s going to go? I can’t imagine Dad not doing what he does.”
“Me neither. He’ll win. It’s close, but he’ll pull it out, always does,” Grady said with that same inherent tension his voice usually held when he talked about their father.
“So, you and Kate are . . . good?” Kara asked, changing the subject.
“Think so. She’s . . . well she’s special.” Grady’s face was so warm and unrehearsed that Kara was taken aback.
“You love her.”
“I do.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Grady shrugged. “Okay or not, it plowed me over like a truck, so here I am.”
“Is she okay with all of our crap? Our delightful dysfunction?”
“I think it helps that it’s her business, so she knows a fair amount about bullshit. Every family has shit, Kara. Ours may be a little more public, but we are certainly not unique.”
“I know, but the public part makes it seem like we are.” Kara looked out the window as they pulled onto the freeway.
“I suppose it does, but there’s no way around it.”
“No way under it,” she added, smiling at him.
“No way over it.” Grady changed lanes as they approached their exit.
“I guess we’ll have to go through it,” they both exclaimed in concert and then laughed recalling the lines from a book their Nana read to them when they were little.
Chapter Ten
Kara woke up the Monday before Election Day to her brother’s face on the front page of the Times and the Pasadena Tribune. Overnight, it was everywhere. Her brother, known more for his partying than his substance, was the founder of the Roads Foundation, one of the largest philanthropic organizations in California, possibly the country. He’d started it with some friends from Stanford and for fourteen years had kept it a secret, from his family, even from her. Kara’s first reaction, upon hearing the news late last night via her mother’s text message, had been pride. There was more to Grady Malendar than he, or the rest of the world, allowed. She was proud because the Roads Foundation gave millions of dollars every year to local organizations of every size and shape. He did all of that without any recognition, which was pretty great because their entire life had been about public displays and recognition.
Her second reaction—hurt. That he hadn’t shared it with at least her, that he didn’t trust her to keep his secret. Kara knew on some level that he must have had a reason, but growing up, it had been the two of them in the sea their parents threw them into. She would have thought he could completely share himself with her, but then again she certainly didn’t share everything with him. Kara sat on the couch with her tea and hit mute on the television. She wasn’t interested in anything the talking heads had to say.
She texted Grady to check on him and got a response that he was “up to his ass,” and he would call her later to explain. By the time she got in to work, the Roads Foundation dedication of the new police resource center was airing on the flat screen in their lobby.
“Kara, I e-mailed you messages from reporters who have been calling all morning.” Their receptionist looked up, more than a little sheepish. “Do you want me to keep doing that or tell them something specific and leave you alone?”
“You don’t need to give me the messages. Please just say that I have no comment.” Kara briefly touched the counter for balance. “Thanks and I’m sorry for the craziness.”
“Not a problem.”
She walked into her office and Olivia was already standing by her window. “Holy crap, honey. Your gorgeous brother isn’t just a pretty face after all.” She turned toward Kara, brimming with curiosity.
“I guess not.” She set her bag down and took out her teacup, desperately wishing Olivia would learn some boundaries.
“I’m surprised you’re in. Don’t you guys need to do some kind of family huddle? Although, I’m sure since this is good news and the election is tomorrow, there’s no huddle necessary.”
“Olivia, did you need something related to work? Because if not, I’m not terribly inclined to discuss my family’s private business, even if it’s a bit more public this morning. If there’s going to be a ‘huddle’ as you put it, it will be during my off hours and you won’t be privy to the details.”
Kara took her jacket off and hung it on the back of her chair. When she glanced up, Olivia was in complete shock. Either that someone spoke to her that way or that she didn’t think Kara had any bite.
“Well, I guess you told me. Sorry to disturb, your majesty. I merely thought since your family is usually all over the place, that they were part of the general dialogue.”
“We are not all over the place. The media likes to have fun with us because of my father’s job. There’s a difference. And ‘the general dialogue’? I’m not even sure what that means.”
“Kara, what the hell has gotten into you?”
Kara took a deep breath because something bubbled beneath her surface. Sure she and Grady mocked their family, but they rarely tolerated anyone else trying to do the same. It was a tribe thing, Grady had once said. “I’m sorry. Under normal circumstances, we work well together, even gossip or talk current events. I’m just in the unique position that every now and then the people I love are the current event and then it’s not so fun. I’m simply reeling from all of this, so I’d like to get to work, if you don’t mind.”
“Understood.” Olivia let out a breath. “I’m sorry too, for the huddle comment. I don’t know your life and my therapist often tells me not to judge.”
Kara laughed off some of the tension. “Olivia, you’re a food editor—your whole life is about judging. How does that work with the therapist?”
Olivia shook her head. “I know. That’s what I kept telling him. But then we started sleeping together and the whole thing is just a mess now. I’ll leave you. You don’t need my drama on top of your own.” She walked out with her over-the-shoulder wave.
“By the way”—she peeked her head back in—“I always like Bitchy Kara best, but Bitchy Protective Kara—she’s fantastic.”
Kara shook her head as Olivia continued down the hall.
The woman was strange, no question, but Kara liked her for it.
She worked the rest of the day on a piece Olivia wanted her to write about cranberry sauce. She’d approved the final proof of the first part of Logan’s feature and was working on the first draft of his restaurant piece. She kept herself focused even though the phone kept ringing. Publicity of any kind made Kara nervous, and just as she was hoping her brother was okay, he texted her.
Are you mad at me?
No
Ooh, short response, you’re mad.
Kara smirked and responded.
I’m not mad. Well done, by the way. Proud of you. I love you. I wish you would have told me, but I’m sure you’ll have a very good explanation when you take me for pepper jack grits at Lo Lo’s because that’s what it’ll cost you.
That may have to be after Thanksgiving. I’ve got stuff to settle here. Let’s let the vultures calm down.
Okay, I understand, but you are totally doing the Thanksgiving dishes.
Aw, that’s cute. I love it when we play normal family. How about I help the caterers pack up?
She laughed and texted back.
Deal! Are you pissed at Dad?
There really aren’t words.
Will you forgive him before Thanksgiving?
Probably.
I love you.
Love you too.
Kara put her phone back in the charger and for some reason started to cry. She was sure it was a release of the tension she’d had since she woke up, but maybe it was also that the people she loved were out there, under the microscope all of the time. Ever since she was little, any time she saw reporters, her hands would start to shake, especially when they shouted. Why did they always have to shout? She’d gotten better as she grew older, but the vultures
got better, stronger, too.
As expected, Senator Malendar won the election. Kara surveyed the hotel ballroom and recognized only a handful of people. She took a deep breath and smoothed her hands over the snug-fitting wool dress that hit right above her knees. It was plain, sleeveless, and even with the gray four-inch heels she wore with it, she still felt like a child. Her mother had picked out the dress and it was delivered by messenger to Kara’s house the night before the celebration. She had been so insulted, so pissed, that she vowed there was no way in hell she would wear it, and yet there she was. Kara stuck with mineral water because if she drank too much, she might punch California State’s Attorney Beacham in the face. He kept pinching her cheek and telling her, he couldn’t believe how much she’d grown. She tried to deflect, as her father had taught her, tried to talk about his dog, but nothing worked. She wanted to scream that she was now thirty years old and well past pinching age.
Just as she was about to make a break for the bathroom, her mother took her arm, smiling for any roaming photographers. Kara smiled too; it was instinct. Part of her training growing up: how to smile in different situations. How to jut your head out a little to look thinner. How to position your body for the most flattering full shot. It was all in there somewhere rattling around in her head. Most of the time she simply responded like a trained soldier. Nothing worse than a bad photo, God forbid.
“Kara,” her mother greeted, kissing both of her cheeks, “you look stunning.”
“Thank you, Mother. Congratulations.”
“Oh, thank you, dear, but your father deserves all the credit.”
“No, no, he would be nothing without you, Mom.” Christ, this was like watching the same movie over and over again. Kara could predict the moves, the dialogue.
“Well”—she adjusted Kara’s necklace—“that’s nice of you to say. I just knew this dress would look great on you. Signature color.” Her mother touched her on the nose. It was a gesture that felt ridiculously juvenile between two grown women.
Again, she wanted to scream that she was no longer a child. That she was out of puberty, owned a home, oh and by the way, she fucking hated the color raspberry. Instead, Kara smiled and sipped her mineral water.
“I was thinking we could do some Christmas shopping once things . . . Oh, dear, could you excuse me for a minute?” Her mother didn’t wait for a response before she was gone. Kara watched her hug and compliment and hug and small talk all night.
She did have some memories of her mother when she was younger. When she still had bad hair days, before she became a professional senator’s wife. She used to garden before she hired gardeners and the Malendars used to eat pizza in the living room and watch episodes of Friends. They were a family, and they still were in the important sense of the word. It was just different, more collected and put together. Kara laughed at that thought as she finally snuck away to the ladies’ room.
She returned in time for the last round of congratulatory speeches and dessert. Her father stood to thank everyone for their support and then shook several people’s hands. By the end of the night, he would shake every hand in the room. That was her father’s thing. He knew the people who worked for him. He was actually a great senator and had helped to move the boulder that was politics in the right direction.
“Hey there, you ready to dance with your dad?” Her father came up next to her, still smiling and waving. Kara was pretty sure he never stopped smiling or waving.
“Is it my turn?”
“You’re up.”
“Cameras ready?”
“Come on, Kara. It’s not really that bad.”
“No, it really is.” She smiled to ease the truth. Everything was a staged photo op, but the senator was still her dad. “I’m only kidding, Dad. Of course I’ll dance with you.”
He smiled and took her hand. “Thanks, honey.” He spun her on the dance floor as Kara began to hear the “oohs” and “ahhs” that usually accompanied most private moments with her father.
“Wait, what are you thanking me for?”
“For a lot of things. I know these campaigns are tough on you guys and, well thank you for putting up with it. Sincerely, thank you.”
Kara brushed his jacket and smiled. “Well, if you’re sincere, then you’re welcome. Have you talked to Grady yet?”
His face fell. “No.”
“Don’t you think you should?”
“I do, I know. I’ll go see him tomorrow.”
“Thank God it was an early call this year, right?” Kara tried to change the subject.
She had learned in her years as a Malendar that there was no point discussing the who did what to whom or the why. Her father won the election on the back of his son’s hard work. It was probably necessary to ensure his win, but it was wrong. Kara knew and from the look on her father’s face, he knew it too. With nothing left to say, it was time to fall into the “let’s talk about other elections” part of the evening. “Remember the year you had the runoff?” Kara asked.
Her father laughed his politician laugh as he continued to turn her around the dance floor past the photographers. As her Nana would say, “it is what it is.”
Chapter Eleven
Ryeland Farms had been hosting the Fall Festival since before Logan was born. His roots ran deep and this was often a source of inspiration for him. At some stupid hour of the morning, he and Garrett had finished moving bales of hay for the hayride. No matter how many years they did this, it seemed like they always left the hay for the last minute.
One of his fondest memories growing up was sitting out on the bales in the moonlight, and drinking beer Garrett snuck from the garage refrigerator, where their father kept his stash. Logan learned how to throw a punch and how to unhook a bra on those hay bale nights. Valuable information was shared between brothers who had no idea what they were doing or where they were going in life. Back then, the only thing certain in their lives was that chores would come the next morning. Logan smiled at the memory as the Fall Festival opened and visitors started pouring into their farm. He watched his brother lift a little boy up and down on one arm while giving the kid’s parents directions to the petting zoo. Logan grew up loving the farm, but Garrett was the farm. He knew every last acre. He probably kept a running mental list of every crop, every animal, and what needed to be done at any given moment.
Logan watched as people filled up the main parking lot, many of them pulling their children in wagons. He saw her in the crowd, well actually he saw her wild hair, bundled in some kind of golden nest at the base of her neck, first. He’d just turned to check on the roasted corn and the sight of her soft in the setting sun, wearing jeans and a wide, beautiful smile as she watched the face painting, almost knocked him to the ground. She saw him too and her eyes traveled over him in that way they'd started to lately, sort of like she was undressing him. Logan wasn’t complaining, but when her eyes grew that smoky, it made it very hard for him to remember why steering clear was his best option.
Kara glanced toward the entrance and then ordered her eyes to look away from the sight of him in a baseball cap, as if his “I work with these hands” image needed any help. A light gray T-shirt and the flannel he wore open, finished up every fantasy, farm or otherwise, that Kara had. The man jumbled her, but when he turned those golden earth-god eyes on her, she slipped past jumbled and straight into stupid.
She reminded herself this wasn’t some high school field trip and walked over to get a very adult beverage. Handing the tall woman at the wine booth five dollars, she took a little plastic glass of some local Pinot she’d heard of, but had yet to taste. She sipped and leaned against a low wall of hay while she finished watching Eloise get her face painted by a woman with dreadlocks and a starfish tattoo on the back of her neck. Jake and Cotton were still taking pictures.
So this was a fall festival, she marveled. She had been to a few farm-themed birthday parties and even a wedding that took place on a vineyard, but this was more farm than she ha
d ever experienced. Kara loved fall, and as she waved to Eloise, who turned and ran back toward the ponies with a very impressive cat face painted over her cherub cheeks, Kara realized she liked farms too.
She bought a roasted corn, finding herself suddenly hungry again. As she lifted the buttered corn to her mouth, she felt him. Jake and Cotton were over with the ponies and Kara knew the warmth behind her could only belong to Logan.
“You’re cold.” He stood next to her.
“No, I’m fine. I’m just adjusting to the setting sun.”
“Is that real? Adjusting to the setting sun?” Logan asked laughing.
“Um, yes. The sun is going down and my body is adjusting to . . . not having the sun. Christ, why do I sound so stupid around you? No, Logan, I am not cold, but thank you.” She bit into her corn and tried to catch the dripping butter as it trickled down her chin. When she glanced over, Logan’s eyes were fixed on her mouth. Even when neither of them appeared to be trying, the energy was palpable. Kara wasn’t sure if it was the festival or the excitement of fall, but she wanted to pull that flannel off of him, run her teeth up his—
“See, that was a shiver. You are cold and it’s only going to get colder once the sun goes down.”
Before she could figure out a way to tell him the shiver had nothing to do with the temperature, he was taking off his flannel. Kara averted her eyes, searched for something else to focus on. Suddenly, the corn in her hand felt awkward.
“I have a jacket, but I left it in the car. I can go and—”
Logan took her wrist to keep her from moving away.
“You parked in the side lot. That’s a hayride or a pretty long walk. It’s just my shirt, Kara. I’m not in it—take the damn thing.”
