10. Ten
Ten
LENA
R uthie giggles when my eyes flutter open. She lays against my pillow, our noses nearly touching. She smells like syrup and apple juice—her typical perfume—and grins like she knows a secret.
“Tell me what I was like as a baby again,” she requests, her green eyes giddy-wide.
A groggy second passes before my usual spiel emerges—she likes this question.
“You were born on a rainy Tuesday in the middle of the night—you’ve always been a night owl.
You didn’t take naps or sleep through the night like other babies.
You were too afraid of missing anything, like we were having parties when you were asleep—we weren’t.
We were sleeping when you were asleep, silly goose, but FOMO was real for you.
Books have always been your favorite toys.
You used to stack them and make book teepees.
Once you made a book tower that reached higher than you. ”
She giggles again with a low tummy rumble. “Book Jenga.”
“From day one, you’ve loved animals, even the squiggly, buggy kinds, and rap music—for the beats, not the bad words.
Late at night, it’s the only thing that soothed you.
Your first audible words were “Dada” and “Dot,” though I try not to take that personally.
Then, you said “taste” when helping me in the kitchen.
But you were signing before that. You’ve always been smart and sweet and a handful of sunshine. ”
I tickle her belly with my working fingers, and she laughs, writhing in the bed covers. The bed moves, and pain rips up my hand and arm like the slip of a sharp knife. Shit. Ben’s right—I hurt like hell. Every muscle aches like I spent yesterday doing advanced CrossFit.
Confusion hits me next. Bright sunlight streams in the sliding glass doors leading to the back deck.
Groaning, I reach for my phone, careful not to jostle my slung arm. Instead, I find a glass of water and a pill vial with a sticky note attached. Take two immediately is scrawled in Ben’s handwriting. I obey quickly.
“Daddy tricked you,” she reveals, laughing.
“What time is it? Are you late for preschool?”
“I’m playing hooky.”
A glance at the wall clock near the door has me whipping back the covers and popping painfully from bed. “Fucking hell! It’s after nine? Shit, don’t say Momma’s bad words.”
I breathe, trying not to freak out. I find clean jeans in a pile in the closet. Pulling them on one-handed is an awkward, clumsy dance that makes Ruthie laugh again.
I should’ve expected this. The first time I spent the night with Ben, he commandeered my phone so I’d sleep in. During Ruthie’s up-all-night baby years, he did the same thing. He knew what I needed.
I’m not sure that’s true now, not with Saddletree to consider.
“What about the bakery? Is it open?” I ask my precocious four-year-old.
“Yep.” Ruthie hops to my rescue when I get tangled in my shirt. I lean down so she can help me get it on properly.
“I like helping you, Mom. It’s funny.”
“Sometimes, we all need a little help, and it’s always okay to ask for it. Remember that. Where’s your dad?”
She shrugs. “At the bakery.”
More frazzled than usual, if that’s possible, I step into the bathroom and stare blankly at my toothbrush. I can’t pinch my left fingers together, let alone apply toothpaste without making a huge mess. An anxious wave of what I can’t do floods me…
Mixing and pouring batter…
Lifting heavy pans from the oven…
Delivering coffee and a cinnamon roll to a customer at once…
Buttering bread…
My shoulders slump achingly into resignation—this’ll be a nightmare. Jaye’s movie comes to mind. Who needs a coven of witches to cause problems and wreak havoc when a broken wrist is enough of a horror show?
“Ruthie, help.”
She giggles and obliges, pinching a toothpaste glob onto my bristles. Then, she leaves me to finish getting ready.
Stepping onto the front deck, I bathe in the sunlight. It hadn’t been a perfect night’s sleep—not with the pain in my arm waking me every hour or so and Ben rousing me at midnight for more pills.
But it was more sleep than I usually get, and restful, nonetheless. I’ve forgotten how refreshing it felt.
Spending time with Ben, too. I want to lasso Ben, pull him to me, hog tie him, and keep him there forever. Last night felt like an excellent start to our revitalized us-mission.
This feels pretty good, too—Saddletree appears to be running fine without me.
The usual cars occupy the lot—Trisha’s Subaru, June and May’s bright red Hyundai, Mr. Wickers’ Prius, and Alice’s minivan.
Dot’s work van is wedged between a white BMW and an old pick-up truck.
Regulars dot the patio while Jack Harvey strolls the garden in his usual overalls and baseball cap.
With the breakfast rush over, it’s a quiet Friday.
The anxiety knotting my stomach loosens in a breath. Ruthie’s hand slips into mine.
Hugo and Penelope greet us as we traverse the lawn, demanding Ruthie’s attention. She races them to the playground by the garden. The restaurant isn’t the five-alarm fire it feels like every other day—it stands and operates without me. A smile eases over my cheeks. Everything’s okay.
My serenity is whacked with a wrecking ball when I walk inside.
Everything stops—restaurant noises, air circulation, conversations, heartbeats—and not in a good-to-see-you way.
Their wide-eyed, gaping stares make me think I’ve caught them doing something naughty, like giving away free pastries or reporting to the health inspector that I don’t always wear a hairnet.
Dot’s ginormous brown orbs find mine. Her oh-shit expression alarms me as she mouths fuck me and points not-so-discreetly to her left.
Ben stands with probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in person.
Her Swedish-esque blond hair makes mine look dirty, as if she’s a descendant of elves in Rivendell and I’m a hobbit.
She has the sweet girl-next-door charm of Anne Hathaway combined with a strong vixen vibe, as if she studied sex appeal under Nicole Kidman’s tutelage and was her best student.
She wears a white linen sundress showing off her silky, sun-kissed skin and Barbie curves, and she doesn’t have a single worry line on her forehead. Not one.
This is Lauren Riley . Her icy eyes meet mine with strange relief.
No competition there , I imagine her thinking.
Her full lips curl into a beaming smile like her new best friend has arrived.
Or her rival, and she’s already one-upped me.
She carries a soft bouquet, bride-like, and stands so close to Ben that my stomach twists into a hard, tight knot.
Ben needs close proximity to hear, especially here, where there is a lot of noise and few soft surfaces to buffer it.
Still, he steps back when he sees me, breaking their tight circle.
Any other time, I’d coo over how adorable he looks sporting an antique blue apron dotted with lemons and his hairnet, discarded in his hand.
But not today. He looks perturbed. Whether at Lauren or me, I’m unsure.
My automatic smile shows up in record time. I approach, extending my right hand. “You must be Lauren.”
Her dainty hand feels like expensive silk against my calloused, working woman’s hand.
“Lena, I’m delighted to meet you finally.” She looks and sounds like a Disney princess, especially when her nose scrunches with sympathy. “How are you feeling?”
“A little banged up, but good, thanks.” I merge next to my husband. “Ben’s taking good care of me.”
Dot chuckles lightly, chomping on Cheetos and appearing on my free side as if expecting I’ll need backup. She’s not wrong.
Lauren pushes the flowers toward me. “These are for you.”
An obligatory sniff has me wondering if their odor might be poisonous. Lauren could be a Disney villain disguised as a princess. “Thanks. How sweet.”
Her tone shoulders bob in a gentle shrug. “Dad and I were so worried when Ben left yesterday. Car accidents are scary.” Her eyes lock on Ben’s again. “Remember Becca’s in high school?”
“Yes.”
“You never know what might happen,” she says when Ben fails to reminisce about his twin’s accident. “Glad you’re okay.”
I’m being dumb. Her goddess-like perfection doesn’t matter; Ben’s with me. My feelings aren’t my reality. I sigh, replanting my best smile.
“Thanks, Lauren. Come sit down. Let me get you some coffee and a cinnamon roll.” Then, glancing around, I remember—I haven’t made cinnamon rolls this morning. “Or, um, something.”
“That’s kind. But, no, thank you. I’ve placed an order for the office and must get back.”
Trisha sets two large pink boxes on the counter as she says it. She’s practically bought out my display case.
Mr. Wickers appears from nowhere. “Would you like me to carry those to your car, madam?”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely.”
“The white BMW?” Dot asks with a rough nudge into my sore midsection.
“That’s right,” Lauren says.
A lightbulb flickers. “You’ve been in before,” I say as it comes to me.
She wore sunglasses and a baseball cap that day.
Dot and I were shocked when she didn’t ask for directions.
We don’t see many strangers on the weekdays—certainly not ones driving BMWs and sitting alone. “Coffee and a bran muffin.”
“The bran muffins are my favorite,” Mr. Wickers chimes in, holding the pink boxes beside us. “It’s important to keep the body regular.”
“Oh, right, yes,” she says in a belabored breath. “Good memory.”
“Lena loves getting to know her customers,” Trisha adds, taking the bouquet from my hand. “I’ll just put these in water, shall I?”
I nod, happy to be rid of them.
Alice Harvey strolls into our circle, carrying a clipboard and looking formidable in her fifties-style polka-dotted dress and a black-cat apron. She lowers her perched reading glasses and sizes Lauren up.
Then, she extends her hand. “I’m Alice Harvey of Lavender Fields Forever, the farm next door.”
“Lauren Riley. Nice to meet—”