What I Remember Most (28 page)

“You’re feisty.” He winked. “I like that. Fight me, baby. You got the face of an angel and an ass like the devil. Makes me think of sexy things. Like stickin’ it to your devil’s ass.”

I stalked around the bar, well and truly into my flaming temper. I knew my regulars were watching what was going on. I didn’t care. Tildy didn’t care. In fact, she drawled, “No broken bones. I don’t need the lawsuit, Grenady.”

I came up behind the delusional one on the stool. “Look in the mirror.” I pointed above the bar. He grinned at our reflections, my smiling face close to his overstuffed red one. I put both my arms under his armpits and yanked him clean off that stool. He landed with a thud on his stomach, then flipped over. I grabbed the neck of a beer bottle.

Grizz and Chilton and two men who were in a motorcycle gang with only mild arrest records leaped off their stools and held him down when he said, “What the fuck you doing?”

“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.” I bent down and shoved the bottom half of the bottle right close to his face. “I am not your eye candy that you can abuse with your obnoxious, sexual, and low-class behavior. Leave. You go home and think about how disgusting you are.” I tapped his nose with the bottle, sort of hard. “Don’t make me break that next time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He shuffled out, head down after handing me a twenty for his beer. I went back to the bar and a flurry of orders from suddenly extremely well-behaved and polite men.

Grizz said to me later, when my temper had simmered down like cooling soup, “Grenady, this place is so much more exciting to visit now that you’ve arrived. I tell all my buddies. We got a show going on here, and it’s only the price of a couple of beers and a Grenady tip.”

“Thank you, Grizz.”

He left me a twenty-dollar tip. He always does. And he’s always polite.

I sure like Grizz.

That night I collapsed on my deck chair and stared at the stars.

The truth was that my seventy-five-plus-hour weeks were killing me.

Even my bones were tired. My brain was sludge by Friday night.

I couldn’t go on like this much longer without a couple of days off. I would ask Tildy if I could get a Friday and Saturday night shift off soon, then I could have a weekend off.

But what would I do? Time alone gave me time to think of my future, and my past.

The future made my heart shake with fear, and the past about ripped it out.

I located the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. I thought of the canvas with the magnifying glass that offered no clarity, the girl dressed in lilies, the dark woods, and the lighthouse that illuminated nothing. I hadn’t worked on it again. It bothered me too much. There was something about it....

I pushed both hands through my hair and massaged my head.

If I could only remember more. Two minutes more even. Then I might know. It was the not knowing that had thrown me for much of my life. The mystery. The tragic mystery.

Who was I? Who were my parents? Where did I come from?

Run, Grenadine, run!

I remembered that part.

“Okay, let’s go over the orders,” Kade said.

It had been a busy week. I helped clients personalize the furniture they wanted. A dining room table carved with the family’s boat in the San Juan Islands. A willow tree carved on a bride’s hope chest because as a child she loved reading under the tree. Bedposts carved with honeysuckle because a man’s beloved wife loved the honeysuckle vine he’d given her ten years ago when he’d asked her to marry him.

Kade and I went through one order after another. I had also reached out to hotels and lodges, sent information, drew sketches, and took orders, and we discussed where we were with each one. We were efficient.

When we were done, I gathered up all the folders, smiled professionally at him, not in a Can-You-Get-Naked-So-I-Can-See-What’s-Under-Your-Blue-Shirt sort of way, and said, “That’s it.”

“Good job, Grenady.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m thinking of expanding into new lines. I need a woman’s perspective. Any furniture you would like to see?”

Yes! There was! “How about oversized rocking chairs?”

“Oversized?”

“Yes. Huge. You can sell them to lodges, hotels, even personal buyers. The old-fashioned type. I could even see libraries buying them for the children’s reading corner. Or you could advertise rocking chairs for families. You know a Goldilocks type of thing—one huge one for poppa bear, a medium-sized one for momma bear, on down the line.”

He nodded, and I could tell he liked the idea.

“Can you sketch it out for me? I like your sketches.”

“Sure. I’ll draw a woman in a rocking chair holding a bottle of wine and a glass.”

He smiled. It transformed his face. Gentled it. Softened it. “Wine sounds good about now, doesn’t it?”

“I’m afraid I pour too much of it to appreciate it anymore.”

“It must be tiring to work two jobs.”

The question came as a surprise, and I stumbled with my answer. “I . . . I . . . like working.”

I could tell he didn’t buy that.

“Is the salary not high enough here with commission?”

“It’s high enough.” My checks had been much higher, and I was darn grateful. I could tell that Kade was offended that I had a second job. It made him feel as if he wasn’t paying me fairly. “It’s more than high enough. I’m saving for . . .” I swallowed. “A house.”

“I think you’ll be able to get one soon. You work hard. You’re making me a lot of money, but you look tired, Grenady.”

“I hate when people tell me I look tired. It’s another way of telling me I look like crap.” I sucked in my breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“I didn’t mean that.” His voice gentled again, and he leaned forward. “Not at all. You do not look like crap. You’re . . .” He stopped, glanced away, then back. “Sometimes you seem worried.”

“I’m not worried.” Oh, hell, yeah, I am.

“If you ever want to talk—”

“No, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Working two jobs is exhausting. I’ve done it. I know.”

I felt tearful for a second around that sweet concern, but I bucked up. “Hopefully I won’t have to haul anyone out tonight. It does, however, add excitement to my life.” I used my old tool: Change the subject, be amusing. “On Thursday, three women from Los Angeles decided to have a wet T-shirt contest on the bar.”

“Heard about it.” He didn’t smile. He’s a man, so I was surprised he didn’t find that amusing.

“You missed out,” I said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Tildy made them get down after a few minutes. She thought they were going to fall and get hurt, then sue her.” I tilted my head. “You don’t come in often.”

“I like the food at The Spirited Owl, but I don’t like the bar scene.”

“Me either.”

“That’s too bad, since you work there.”

“If I didn’t work there, I would come in for the hamburgers. I love their hamburgers. Gerard puts all this crumbled blue cheese on my hamburgers, and these crunchy onion rings and mustard. I feel like I’m eating my own heart attack, but I love ’em.”

“Me too. My favorite is the Blue Stallion Crunch.” He looked off into space. Men are so easily entertained by food and beer, I almost laughed.

I tapped the folders. “I better go. I know you’re busy.”

“Not too busy,” he said. He smiled again. Friendly, those eyes watchful. He had huge shoulders. I wished he’d been in the car with me when those two masked creeps tried to break in. He would have smashed their heads together like two pineapples. “Any time you want to chat, come on in.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Grenady. Have a good night.”

A good night. I was trying to enjoy each day of freedom. I would, therefore, try to enjoy tonight, though I had to serve a hundred beers.

That night, about two in the morning, I thought about Kade. I worked for him. I needed the job. I knew him well enough to know he would not date an employee even if he wanted to, and I wasn’t saying he wanted to date me—he had not given me that indication at all.

But if he did . . .

Hell.

He’d be a lot to handle, but I could gather myself up and rise to the occasion.

I leaned back in bed and smiled, wondering what he would look like naked.

Hot.

Wide chest. Black hair on it. Muscled arms to hold onto in the throes of multiple orgasms. Solid hips. Solid ass. Enough to wrap my legs around. Long legs. Those lips could do wonders. I imagined lying on top of him naked. I imagined kissing him. I imagined moving against him, with him, under him. I imagined my mouth on his . . .

I reminded myself not to look at him with unbridled lust and passion while at work.

No panting, Grenady!
I laughed.

He had always liked the nursery rhyme about the old woman in the shoe. He liked the part about the whipping best.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.

She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.

So she gave them some broth without any bread;

And she whipped them all soundly and sent them to bed!

He decided he could not improve the poem. It was perfect as it was.

Danny came in and screamed at him, told him what to do.

“Get out of here, Danny,” he yelled. “Out. I’m working.”

Danny wouldn’t leave, so he hit him in the face, again and again, he hit him, until he was bleeding.

Then he pulled out a hair and sucked on it.

Eudora, Rozlyn, and I continued to have lunch together most days.

Rozlyn was upset because she did not know how to approach Leonard for a date. “And, see this? I weigh more than he does. I would squish him. But look at my boobs. They’re my best asset.” She lifted up her shirt. Luckily there were no men in the employees’ lounge.

“You’re right, Rozlyn,” I said, in slight awe. “Your boobs are porn star boobs.”

“I know, right? I could do a peekaboo movie with these girls.”

“You should be proud of those two,” Eudora said, leaning back in her chair. She resembled a seventy-year-old model, sleek and stylish, white hair pulled back. “Those are boobs to behold.”

Rozlyn put her shirt down, then rubbed her temple. “I could go to his front door and ask him out, but I can’t get up my woman’s nerve yet. My female power.”

“Do it,” Eudora said. “If he says no, he says no. You’ll live. You don’t want to look back on your life and say, ‘What if I wasn’t a wimp? What would have happened? What could have happened?’ ”

Eudora had made reservations to go to Antarctica. “I must go. I have to wear one of those red coats and watch whales. Last time I was in a red coat like that, I was in Siberia,” she mused.

“Why Siberia?” I asked.

She blinked a couple of times. “Vacation.”

“In Siberia?” Rozlyn said.

I laughed.

We watched Dell park his car outside of Hendricks’. Kade drove up at the same moment in his truck. He talked to Dell, gently, then thumped him on the back and walked him back to his car.

“Poor Dell,” I said.

“I wish I could feel sorry for him,” Eudora said, “but I can’t. He wants someone to take care of him. Cook. Listen to him. Stroke his ego. Be there when he gets sick and starts to die. I don’t want to play that role. He sees me based on what I can do for him, not who I am. He has an image of me and he doesn’t want to see beneath the image. You can’t be with a man who is unwilling or unable to see the real you.”

“That never works out for the woman,” I said. “She can’t live happily with a man who doesn’t want to know who she is, how she thinks. He wants a smiling robot. Playing the role of a robot is incredibly lonely and isolating. Better to be alone.”

“I think that Leonard would want to know how I think if I could get him on a date,” Rozlyn moaned. “What I want to know is if he has a girlfriend. If he does I’ll . . . I’ll . . . give her a one way ticket to Siberia!”

After my second stint in Hotel Isolation Hell, I was released again into the general population. I had a new roommate. Her name was L’Andi Howe. She seemed sane and friendly to me. She actually shook my hand when I walked into our suite. We talked about politics and social issues and both agreed that the world would be a better place if there were no guns.

I found her friendly and engaging. When the guards weren’t looking, she imitated them. She was brilliant, totally hilarious; her impersonations dead on, down to the sound of their voice, posture, the way their head and hands moved, how they walked.

L’Andi was arrested because she had assaulted a woman in the street who had backed into her car and didn’t apologize and didn’t give her the insurance information until L’Andi had her on the ground. “Don’t you hate rude people?”

I assured her I did, although, I said, “Sometimes I’m rude.”

“I’ll remember that, Dina. It is not in my nature to be rude. Serenity is in my nature. Peace. Tranquility. Meditation. Yoga. Sharing my love.”

Sure, sure. L’Andi was an angel. This was only her third assault charge.

We showered at the same time, one after the other. We talked, we laughed. When the other inmates called us the Lesbian Couple, we ignored them.

I met a number of prostitutes in there. After talking to them, I wondered why they were in jail. Two of the women had tattoos of their pimp’s name. He
owned
them. If they didn’t make enough money on the streets, he beat them up. If they worked the streets, they were arrested.

They couldn’t win. And we were arresting the women?

Some of the prostitutes were teenagers. Why was a teenager in jail? Why weren’t the men who were buying sex with a minor arrested? They were too young to give consent. That made it rape, even if those SOBs pretended they didn’t know the age of the prostitute.

What about the pimps? They’re selling people. That’s sexual slavery. They ruled by beatings and an occasional murder. Were they in jail?

It made no sense to me.

My being in jail made no sense to me, either, as I had not committed a crime, though L’Andi, the serene assaulter, did make me laugh.

I found Cleo an old lamp at a thrift store.

The next Sunday we painted it pink and put some of my extra pink-striped material over a shade. She added sparkly buttons.

“It’s not a princess lamp,” she said.

“No?”

“No. My mother says that princesses are silly. She said that when parents tell their girls that they’re princesses, it’s ridiculous. No one is a princess, and if you tell your girl she’s a princess she’ll grow up to be a spoiled brat.”

“Could be.”

“I’m not a spoiled brat, am I, Grenady?”

“Nope. You’re smart. And funny.”

“Yeah. And I like hamsters, but I think they should be bigger. Like the size of a seal. What do you think?”

On a rainy afternoon, I made sketches of rocking chairs. Poppa Bear, Momma Bear, Kid Bear Chairs. I drew an oversized one with a pillow on it for a library. I sketched a huge one, maybe for a lodge, with spindles that went up eight feet. Three people could sit on it. I sketched a rocking chair that looked like it might have come from
Alice in Wonderland,
with a back that curved. Another one had a seat four feet off the ground.

I put the sketches on Kade’s desk.

He e-mailed me to come by when I had a chance. I saw him after lunch. He had the rocking chair designs in front of them. “I love ’em.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I talked to Sam, and we’re going to fast-track these, get them on the website, and see what happens.”

“I’ll cross my fingers. Could be that I gave you a lousy idea.”

“You didn’t. I’m sure of it.” Kade leaned back in his chair. “Ever been to Ashton?”

“No.”

“Want to go?”

“Uh . . .” I paused, confused. Did I want to go to Ashton
with him?
For the day? Overnight? For work? For a weekend of carnal pleasure before I was locked behind bars for years and could not experience carnal pleasures? Yes and yes!

“I’m sorry, Grenady.” Kade put his palms up. “I should have explained this better first before asking that question and putting you on the spot like that. I apologize. Legacy Hotels is building a lodge down there. They want us to make a bid for two sixteen-foot-tall wood hearths with carvings, a long bar for a saloon, sideboards, tables, a couple of wine racks, the check-in desk, etc. Upscale, expensive, and comfortable.”

“Super.” Whew. It was for work.
Of course
it was for work. Kade would not make a pass at me, at any time, or toward any of his employees. I wanted to bash myself in the chin with my fist. Duh.

“I need you to work your magic with the sales. Come up with ideas with me, and we’ll present them to Legacy.” He leaned forward, tapping his pen. “I’ve been told, quietly, that they haven’t asked anyone else for a bid. We’re it.”

I was thrilled for him, for us. For Hendricks. “Yes, I’ll go. . . .” I thought about that. I would have to clear it with my pretrial release gal, but I think I’m allowed to leave if I stay within Oregon. “I’ll arrange it with Tildy and switch my schedule. When and for how long will we be gone?”

“I’ll get you the exact dates and have Rozlyn make the reservations. It’ll be for two nights, at least. The planning for it is tight, but we can do it and it’ll open a lot of other business for the company.”

“I’m sure it will.” I was suddenly nervous and jumpy. I smiled. It was a tight, nervous, jumpy smile.

“I’ll pay you, Grenady, for your time on the trip and whatever you would have made at The Spirited Owl.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I need a night off, anyhow.”

“I insist.”

“It’s totally fine. You don’t have to.”

“No arguing. You argue too much. I’ll pay you. We’ll have a lot of work to do to get ready for this.”

We had ourselves a business meeting. I did some sketching, and he did, too. I looked up the Legacy Hotels company and tried to figure out how to incorporate something from their company into the furniture.

All the while I thought, two nights, three days with Kade. Two nights, three days.

Tough man, Kade.

Reserved, observant, private, kind, and incredibly smart, Kade.

Two nights.

Whew again.

Four months into my marriage I told Covey I needed more space. He wanted to know where I was and who I talked to constantly. His anger flared if he thought I was omitting anything, and when I refused to submit to his possessive grilling, he would follow me around the house, relentless, that handsome face of his tight. The man I married was—poof—gone.

“Why do you want space?” he asked, his face flushed.

“Because, you call and text me all day long and it’s tiresome.”

He slammed a hand down on the kitchen counter. “You’re my wife, so we talk throughout the day.”

“Not this much. You get upset when I don’t call or text you right back, but I don’t have time. I have work to do in my studio, I have client calls, clients come here, I go to their offices or homes—”

“You don’t have time for your own damn husband?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It is, don’t deny it. Don’t lie.”

“Covey, we both work a lot. I will call and text you back when I have time, but you have to stop pestering me when I don’t immediately respond.”

His tone was condescending. “Fine, Dina. I’ll leave you alone during the day.”

For a week he left me alone during the day, and when he came home at night he would be seething and refuse to talk to me.

Finally, late on a Sunday night, the seventh day of the silent treatment, when I started to wonder if I should pack up and leave because what was the point of staying with someone who wouldn’t talk to me, he said, “Who’s the other guy?”

I was stunned. “There is no other guy.”

“Yes, there is.” He stalked over to me, stopped three inches away, and shouted, “Who is it? Who the fuck is it, Dina? I want a name, and I want it right now!”

It went from there, a trajectory down to marital hell. Jealousy. Suspicion. Demands. I learned later that he was checking my cell phone and my e-mail to see who I was contacting.

It was creepy. It was smothering.

Covey put a tracking device on my car, which my mechanic, Britz, who is also a whiz at computers, discovered about six months into my marriage. I had no idea when Covey put it there; it could have been when we were dating. For revenge I had Britz put the tracking device on his own car. He was leaving for Disneyland that afternoon with his wife and four teenagers.

The calls and texts from Covey flew in—What’s going on? Where are you? Damn it, Dina, call me!—I didn’t answer. Covey drove after my mechanic, who was two hours ahead of him, for five hours.

When I finally picked up my phone and told him I was home, he was livid. He paid a guy to drive his Hummer back to Oregon, and flew home.

At first he stormed in, raving that I had wasted his time, how dare I put my tracking device on Britz’s car, he was a busy man, he didn’t have time for this shit, why didn’t I answer his god damn phone calls?

This went on, like he was a human tornado, until I said, “Shut up, Covey,” nice and quiet. I told him I would not put up with his possessiveness any longer. He could not put a tracker on my car. He was to stop being so sickeningly possessive, or I would leave.

First he had another fit, then he gradually turned white as he saw how resolute I was. “No, no no. Please, Dina. Don’t leave. We’ll work this out. I’m . . .” I could see his brain ticking away, trying to find a way out of this, to soothe and cajole me. “I’ll change. I love you so much. You’re my whole life. I won’t put a tracker on your car again. I did it for you. For you, Dina. I wanted to know that you’re safe. If something went wrong, I could come and save you.”

“Not true, Covey, and you know it. You’re paranoid about me. You think I’m having an affair. That you are actually spying on me like this, following me, watching me—”

“Honey, it was
for
you. I want to protect and defend you at all times. That’s my job. I’m your husband.”

“Give me a break you odd, obsessed man. You will stop tracking me, you will stop smothering me, e-mailing, and texting me all the time. You can call once during the day to say hello, that’s it.”

“What?” He was flabbergasted, pissed, the cajoling tone gone.

“Once, Covey.”

“That isn’t going to work.”

“It will work. Or I’m leaving.”

That about lit him on fire. He flipped. When he calmed down, at my insistence or I would leave that night, he said, “I love you, Dina. If that’s the way you want it, then fine. It’s not something a loving wife would do, and I’m sorry you can’t show more love for me—”

“Covey, if you need me to show love for you by allowing you to call me all day long and to keep a tracking device on my car, get someone else.”

“No, I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.” He pushed and tried to manipulate me, and I pushed back and he backed down.

I knew it was only temporary. He tried to make love to me that night, but I rolled over. Covey was technically excellent in bed. That was one of the things that I loved about him when we were dating. He took time to make love to me. Foreplay, romance, music, candles, dinner.

He always waited until I had several orgasms before he did. He liked watching me orgasm. I thought it was sexy at first. Loving. Passionate and lusty and generous.

After we were married, I knew it was all about utter and complete control.

He had me all to himself, in bed, or on the couch or in the hot tub or in the pool. I was focused on him, physically and emotionally. He could play with my sexual reactions, make me wait when I was on the border of having an orgasm, then pull out at that crucial moment until I begged him to come back in again.