Chapter 14 Most Important Meal of the Day
Most Important Meal of the Day
Bitsy was typically a light sleeper and an early riser. But she hadn’t moved when the sun and King rose to greet the new day.
She stirred herself only after Buster—one of their four cats, an overweight calico with an outsized personality—jumped onto
the bed, unsheathed his claws, and began scratching her on the forehead, lightly at first but then with increasing pressure,
until she groaned and opened her eyes.
“Buster, you are a fiend.”
The cat made a chittering sound and butted her shoulder with his head. Bitsy yawned, scooting herself into a half-sitting,
half-reclining position against the green tufted velvet headboard and pillows. Noises coming from the kitchen, the low twang
of the country music station on the radio, Johnny Cash singing “Ring of Fire,” punctuated with the occasional clank of a pot, pan, or silverware, told her King hadn’t left for work yet and was probably
making himself breakfast. She knew she should probably get up and cook it for him, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to
leave the bed. For one thing, her head was still hurting from too many sidecars the night before. For another, she knew King
would want to talk. He was always chatty and cheerful in the morning. Normally she didn’t mind. But today . . . she wasn’t
ready.
Bitsy was still sorting through all the things she’d shared with the Bettys, her feelings, and their reactions.
She still felt a little funny about it, wondered if she’d been wrong, even disloyal, to speak so openly about her marriage.
The tightness she’d been carrying in her chest for weeks seemed to lessen as she’d relayed her story, and her shoulders seemed looser than usual this morning, not nearly as tense as they often felt when she woke up.
But Bitsy knew King would have been hurt had he overheard their conversation, and so—even though he couldn’t possibly know what she’d said to the Bettys—she didn’t feel ready to look him in the eye. Not yet.
Instead, she snuggled back down under the covers, pushed aside the insistently purring Buster, and picked up the copy of Herland she’d left on the nightstand, opening to the first chapter. Though the book was older, Bitsy was pleased that the Bettys
had chosen it. She’d always enjoyed fantasy stories, so a tale about a utopian society run by women was intriguing.
As she started reading, Bitsy grew a little disappointed to find the book was narrated by Van—one of three men who went off
in search of the mythical Herland. But the first few pages pulled her in just the same, dropping hints of adventure yet to
come. She would have liked to read more, but Buster kept headbutting her and would not be put off, and she knew she really
should get up and see her husband off to work. As far as her reluctance to look King in the eye . . . well, she was being
silly. He couldn’t know what she’d said to the Bettys any more than he could read her mind. Besides, she couldn’t just hide
in the bedroom forever, now, could she?
She put the book aside, put on her white terry cloth bathrobe and slippers, and shuffled into the kitchen with the cat in
her arms.
King was standing at the stove. He was dressed in scuffed leather boots, dark blue jeans, and an indigo-colored shirt. A stethoscope
peeked out from the pocket of his brown barn jacket. All this, combined with his broad shoulders, ruddy complexion, and touch
of gray at the temples, made him look just like a horse vet ought to—strong, rugged, and trustworthy.
King cracked eggs into the pan. The other cats—Lilith, Oscar, and Bob—and the dog, a deaf and arthritic coonhound named Zeke, sat in a hopeful ring around his feet, eyes alert to King’s every move, ready to spring into action should any food drop to the floor.
After Bitsy set him down on the floor, Buster went to join his comrades in fur. King flipped two eggs over in the hot pan,
making them sizzle and pop.
“Good morning, li’l bit.” He gave her a peck on the lips. “Sleep good?”
Bitsy yawned, nodding with her mouth partially open. “Too good. If Buster hadn’t woken me up, I’d still be in bed.”
Bitsy looked down at the cat. Buster collapsed on the ground next to her feet, then stretched and rolled his body over the
top of her fluffy pink slippers.
“Fiend,” she said, then squatted down to scratch him between the ears.
“Yep. You were dead to the world when I got up. That’s why I thought I’d make you some breakfast.” King pulled a plate from
the cupboard and gave her a sly smile. “You know, just in case you had a reason for being so tired.”
Bitsy felt her jaw clench. He was worse than her mother. If she was pregnant, did he honestly think she’d keep it a secret? She’d have been thrilled to tell him she was expecting, if for no
other reason than to keep him from constantly dropping hints about it. Bitsy poured herself some coffee.
“Nope. Just a late night and one too many sidecars.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
Though his tone was casual, disappointment registered in his eyes, making them seem a little less blue than they had a moment
before. King slipped a spatula beneath the eggs and slid them onto a plate alongside a slice of buttered toast, then set the
plate on the counter.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks. Aren’t you eating?”
King grabbed his coffee cup and took a slurp, shaking his head. “Already did.”
Bitsy carried her plate to the table, feeling even worse about the things she’d confessed to the Bettys. It was unfair of
her to reveal so much, and only one side of the story. King really was kind, much more considerate than most men. Her failure
to conceive was a thorn in their relationship, but that would change once she gave him the thing he wanted most: a child to
carry on his name. And since the fertility doctor had found nothing that would eliminate the possibility of her becoming pregnant,
apart from anxiety and somewhat irregular periods, it was only a matter of time.
“You’re young and strong and healthy,” the doctor had assured her. “Mix up a pitcher of martinis, put some Nat King Cole on
the stereo, and let nature take its course.”
“My friend Viv suggested Chianti and Sinatra. She’s got six kids with one on the way.”
“Well, there you go. Apart from her taste in music, I couldn’t agree more.” The doctor reached out and patted her knee. “Mrs.
Cobb, half of my patients are just like you, women who’ve taken a little longer to conceive than whatever their mother or
sister or husband or girlfriend says is ‘normal.’ They get themselves so worked up that it makes a perfectly natural process
a whole lot harder than it needs to be.
“So I’m telling you what I tell them: Take care of yourself, eat healthy meals, get enough sleep and a moderate amount of
exercise, and take some long, relaxing bubble baths. Especially right before your husband is due home from work.” He winked.
“Do all that, and you’ll be picking out nursery wallpaper before you know it.”
Bitsy could have done without the wink and didn’t much care for having her knee patted, especially while wearing nothing but
a thin cotton gown that barely covered her thighs. But his words were reassuring, and she felt certain he meant well.
And King meant well too. It wasn’t fair of her to transfer her resentment about the world’s injustices to him. All he’d done was love her, offer her a home and his hand. What more could she have asked for?
When Bitsy was a little girl, she’d sometimes dreamed of getting married. Every summer, she and her parents would drive to
Tennessee for a week of vacation, staying with family. She and the girl cousins would play bride, using one of Aunt Naomi’s
old lace tablecloths as a veil and topping it with chains of daisies they picked from the yard. They played house too, sometimes,
but bride was their favorite.
Then one summer, after Bitsy shot up so suddenly, growing a full five inches in one year, the cousins said she had to be the
groom from then on because she was too tall to be the bride. “The girl has to be shorter than the boy,” they insisted. Around that same time, she was coming to the kitchen to get a cookie and overheard
a conversation between her mother and Aunt Naomi. “I don’t know what to do about Bitsy,” her mother said, sighing. “Tall,
gangly, clumsy, shy as all get-out. How will she ever find a husband?”
After that, Bitsy told the cousins she didn’t want to play bride anymore and talked them into playing Black Beauty instead,
galloping through the field and leaping over logs, having races and adventures. It was a lot more interesting.
Bitsy did get married, of course. As did the girl cousins. But King was so much nicer than the men they married. Becky’s husband
stepped out on her every chance he got. Cindy’s husband was bone lazy and dull as dirt. King, on the other hand, was loving,
hardworking, and solicitous, doing everything he could think of to make Bitsy happy, from bringing her flowers to frying her
eggs. All he needed to make him happy was a baby, preferably a son.
Once she had the baby, they would be happy, the both of them. The tension would disappear and everything would be fine. She
was sure of it.
King brought the coffeepot to the table and topped up her cup. “You heading over to the stables this morning?”
Bitsy nodded. “Mrs. Graham is planning to ride this afternoon. The farrier was supposed to get Delilah shoed yesterday, and I want to make sure he did before Mrs. Graham arrives. Then I need to muck out some stalls and take Bitterroot out for a ride. Congressman Clancy hasn’t ridden him in over a week, so he needs some exercise.
Busy day,” she said, unfolding her napkin.
“Same here.” He gulped down the rest of his coffee, then bent down to kiss the top of Bitsy’s head. “Wish I could stay, but
I gotta go see a guy about a horse.”
Bitsy smiled as she always did at his traditional exit line. She picked up her fork, ready to dig into the eggs, but stopped
after taking a sniff.