21. Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Charles
I hate the loss of the warm intimacy of our little household, but the reality is that our arrangement isn’t fair to Kate or to Cece.
My daughter is precocious. I won’t say she lacks common sense, but she doesn’t have the experience or self-restraint to keep out of trouble. I know that Kate loves her and will do everything she can to keep her from harm. But an almost five-year-old with a lively imagination can come up with more than ten kinds of mischief in as many minutes.
Fortunately, Grace is both fun and competent. She and Kate take turns teaching Cece and have some sort of method for splitting up the housework. Their arrangements are functional, so I don’t ask.
Besides, it has side benefits. Finding moments for intimacy or even just holding hands had been difficult with Cece always around. With Grace available to pinch-hit for Kate, I can sneak my Household Manager out of the house for a little, er, personal business. All I have to do is come up with a face-saving excuse so we can have time alone .
September is upon us, and the local farmer’s market — now set up in the parking lot of the newly christened Spindizzy Municipal Center. James has been spot-on when he says that I’d put too much “me” in my ideas for the little town, and not nearly enough “them” and “they.” The citizens of the town show almost comical relief when the old market building is not called “The Emory Center,” or “Agri-oil.”
“Are we going to stop at the market?” Kate asks, as we drive toward it.
“Maybe later. Right now, I have something I want to show you. It was your brother’s idea. At first, I thought he was completely out of his gourd, but now…it’s kind of growing on me. I know you aren’t happy with the current house, so I wanted to show you this project.”
“It was James’ idea?” Kate lets suspicion tinge her voice.
“Yes, indeed. It seems he’s been wanting to do this for a long while. When several of the wheat fields failed, I bought the crops thinking we could at least salvage the straw. Just wait till you see this!” I glance over at Kate hopefully. I’d dispensed with having a driver for the day, on the chance that I might have Kate to myself.
As we draw near the construction site, I can see that a lot of progress has been made. Kate just stares at it, round-eyed. “What is this place?”
“It’s an experimental building site,” I explain. “Did James ever talk to you about the New Alchemists?”
Kate sighs. “James can talk some real nonsense sometimes. Weren’t they, like, a hippy colony on the east coast?”
“To hear him tell it, not exactly. They were a group of scientists, college students, and volunteers who were trying to work out more sustainable buildings. They still exist. They now call themselves ‘Green Way’, and they are still working toward what they call bio-shelters.”
“I think I remember something about that,” Kate says. “ Dad put the ki-bosh on what he called new age nonsense. But James talked you into trying it?”
I sigh. This could be a mistake, but I make an attempt at justifying it. “Well, look at it this way, Kate. I bought up a lot of acres of wheat straw that isn’t good for much. The wheat kernels are destroyed, and there’s only a small market for animal bedding. James had this idea, and I thought maybe, just maybe, it might work.”
“All right,” she says. “Let’s go take a look at it.”
We get out of the car and begin a walking tour.
The first thing we come to is a work gang that is mixing what looks like mud. Square tarps are spread out, ten feet apart — gotta keep up the social distancing — and each tarp has a person stomping around on the tarp.
An oldster sits on a rickety folding chair pumping away at an accordion. Apparently a call and response song is in progress to the tune of “Over the hills and far away.” The melody is catchy, and Kate starts humming under her breath.
The oldster calls out a line, and the people stomping around on the tarps call back. Later, I got a copy of the words. They went like this:
“One part straw
Four parts sand,
One part clay,
Dug from the land.
Cho.
Lost is the harvest
But we’ll find a way
To keep the wintry winds at bay!
Shape the loaves
Each by han d
to cover the baled straw
As it stands.
cho.
Oh, you’ve got a headache
Bet it’s true
From drinking too much
Tullamore Dew.
There are sounds of general laughter, and I realize that most of the people mixing mud are young adults, ranging from around sixteen to maybe thirty. More than a few of them might have sampled the famed Irish whiskey.
The chorus follows, then another verse:
“Cut those bottles
Spang in two,
Make some windows,
To let light shine through.
Farther ahead, we can see a work brigade doing exactly that — cutting bottles in half, then taping them together with some sort of industrial tape.
An older man with a long pigtail is manning the table saw where the bottles are being cut, while masked workers pick the bottle halves off a conveyor. There are all sorts of bottles — white, clear, brown, green, and occasionally, blue. As we watch, I point out to Kate, “Notice how he tries to always cut two of the same shape? That makes it easier for the people making the bottle bricks to join them together.”
“Bottle bricks? Who came up with that?” Kate asks.
I shrug. “I have no idea. We could ask James, I guess.”
“What are they going to do with them?” she inquires. Then adds, “Using one part straw, that’s not going to use up much of the ruined wheat.”
“That’s certainly true. But come on up to the building site. James is going to be mad at me, because he wanted to surprise you, but I couldn’t wait any longer. ”
I want to grab Kate’s hand and pull her up the path, the way Cece might. But we have not made our relationship public, and I don’t want to embarrass her. Still, I am bursting with excitement as we draw near the construction area.
The structure is built low and wide, with the tallest part facing south. It uses post and beam construction, with stacked bales of tightly baled straw making up the walls. The north side of the building sweeps low, as does the east and west, with gambrel that will allow the wind to flow over the structure, rather than bear down upon it.
“Not tornado proof,” I say regretfully, “but we’ve got an earth bermed structure planned that just might be. And don’t worry. One of the first things we built here was a spider-free storm shelter.”
Kate laughs. “I am glad of that. Even the new, improved cellar at the old Bailey homestead still has spiders.”
“No need for spiders to sit on Miss Muffet’s tuffet,” I say tenderly. A stray lock of hair has blown across Kate’s face, and I long to brush it away, but there are too many people watching.
Kate smiles at me. “Speaking of Miss Muffet…any chance we can get some curds and whey?”
“Maybe not curds and whey, but there’s a row of food trucks on the other side of the house. We could get something to go and bring it back up to the mostly finished part of the house. What do you think?”
She smiles. “That sounds good. It would be nice to have some quiet time and adult conversation.”
I can’t help teasing her a little. “Doesn’t talking with Grace count as adult conversation?”
To my surprise, Kate wrinkles up her nose and says, “Not as much as you might think. I swear, sometimes she doesn’t seem any older than Cece.”
I laugh. “I have noticed that her speech seems to be liberally sprinkled with, ‘James says . . .’ and ‘Do you think James would like this on me?’”
“Exactly,” Kate says. “My brother has his good points, but he is certainly not a saint. Nor does his opinion guide my every waking moment.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I comment. I want to ask whether my word guides her day, but I’m not sure I’m secure enough to hear the answer. As her boss, my word could guide her day. As her…what? Lover? Boyfriend? Illicit and guilty affair? I’m not sure what role I play in her life, other than she is becoming increasingly important to me. Her words might not guide my every waking moment, but her opinion counts.
I ponder this while we purchase tacos, boxes of something Asian or oriental, buffalo wings and cake pops. We get two liters of clear soda and cups from the last truck in line, then trudge up the rather steep slope to the house entry.
The straw bales are neatly stacked between custom-ordered square beams of oak that hold up steel beams salvaged from a warehouse at the edge of Spindizzy. It was originally part of the old farmer’s market and is one of the few buildings that I was sure no one would have regrets about its demise.
I’m not entirely sure what was going on with the construction. This is James’ baby. He is starting a second one for me, Cece, and an undetermined number of other people. If things go in the direction I hope, Kate will be included.
I can see that part of the roof is on, and a fireplace is installed. The brick flooring around the fireplace is complete, and a double wall on either side of the fireplace and chimney is mostly laid. A picnic table sits in front of the fireplace, mute testimony to this being a favorite lunch spot.
“Oh, wow!” Kate exclaims. “James is really doing it. That looks like a hip roof, with this fireplace as the center of the house. Is he planning a living roof? ”
“I have no idea,” I reply. “But I love the smell of this place. Most construction sites stink of glue and formaldehyde. This smells like a hayfield.”
“Maybe because the walls are made of hay?” Kate’s eyes crinkle with silent laughter as she bites into a taco, not waiting for me. “Mmmm, so good. I’m so busy these days, it is hard to find time for a good, sit-down meal.”
I make a mental note to put a stop to that as soon as possible, even if it means hiring another person to help with the house. Kate makes everything seem so seamless that it is easy to forget that a lot of hard work goes into preparing meals, keeping the drafty cracker-box of a house clean, and preventing Cece from endangering herself.
“Maybe I should capture you for lunch more often,” I say, picking up my own taco.
“Yeff, pheef,” Kate returns, her mouth full of taco. She chews, swallows, and says, “I’m sorry. Not very polite of me, but these are so good! Yes, please, capture me for lunch. I would love to see more of what is going on.”
“I’m glad to be your tour guide anytime,” I say, scooching a little closer on the picnic table’s bench seat.
“That would be lovely.” Kate scoots over and leans into me as she reaches for one of the cartons of food.
I put one arm around her. She leans into me, while expertly using chop sticks to scoop noodles, vegetables, and tiny shrimp into her mouth. When she realizes that I am not eating, she holds up a large bite toward my mouth.
Obediently, I open up, savoring the moment more than the Americanized cuisine. Together, we polish off both cartons of food, then each pick up a cake pop.
“Odd sort of thing,” I say, looking at the iced pastry on its popsicle stick.
“Country fair food,” Kate explains. “Easy to hang onto while you walk around. Try it, you’ll like it. ”
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “My name is not Mikey, and this does not look like green eggs or ham.”
Kate giggles. “Nope. But try it anyway.” She takes another bite of her cake pop.
I bite into mine. Mmmmm…it was good! Orange zest icing over marbled vanilla and chocolate cake. “What kind is yours?” I ask, after I have cleared my mouth.
“Red velvet,” she says. “Try a bite?”
“Sure,” I reply. Then trade her a bite of mine. It is a moment almost more intimate than having sex. Her warm body presses against me, trusting, confiding, while we trade food.
When the last bite of cake is gone, I dip my head and kiss her upturned mouth. She tastes of chocolate, orange, and vanilla. Her hair smells like coconut and lemons.
I am on fire with wanting her. My world narrows to her mouth, her body warm against me, the light, willing way she molded herself to me.
“I think there’s some hay bales in one of the rooms,” I say. “Let’s go check them out, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s,” Kate says, hastily stuffing our lunch debris into one of the bags.
As we rise, a voice rings out from the front of the house, “Chief? Kate? Are you in here?”
We look at each other and groan in unison. I roll my eyes, and Kate covers her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“In here, James,” I call.
By the time her brother enters, we are decorously masked and seated on either ends of the picnic tables bench.
“I wondered where you’d gotten off to,” he says.
I look over at Kate, and she looks back at me. Her face is calm and professional, but her cheeks are aflame with color and the look in her eyes promises me everything.