Chapter 27
C eleste couldn’t believe she’d willingly gone to town again. Was she a glutton for punishment? Possibly. But Sam’s words kept ringing in her ears. What are you going to tackle next? She had made bread and watched Esther make chicken salad, so attentively she thought she’d be able to repeat it. It was time to master something else, something completely unnecessary but wholly appealing for reasons she’d rather not contemplate.
“Oh, hello, Celeste.” When Sheila Hickman, a woman she’d never met, opened her door and greeted her by name, she didn’t even bat an eye.
“Hello, Mrs. Hickman.”
“If you’ve come for a pie, I’m sorry to tell you I’m fresh out,” Mrs. Hickman said. Celeste hadn’t bought the pie from the woman herself. She bought it from the market. But she was already becoming used to the speed of light relay system in Paradise. Of course Sheila would know that Celeste had bought one of her pies. And of course she would call her by name as if they were old friends when in fact they’d never been introduced.
“Actually, I was wondering if maybe you could show me how to make your pies instead,” Celeste said, biting her lip as she waited for the woman’s reply. She never asked people for things, hated to depend on anyone or owe someone something. The longer she remained in Paradise, the harder it was becoming to remain aloof. She was over her head here. First Minnie had helped prepare her for the storm, then Tony had arranged all the things she needed to buy, and then Elliot carried her heater upstairs and showed her how to light it. And now this.
“Well,” Mrs. Hickman drawled, and it was clear to Celeste she was going to say no.
“I’ll pay you,” Celeste blurted. “For your time and ingredients.”
“It’s not the money, my dear. It’s, well,” she paused and glanced furtively around, as if they might be overheard though there were no houses nearby. But given Paradise’s apparent ability to read minds and hear even the smallest whisper, it wasn’t a far-fetched fear. “There’s a bit of jealousy over my pies. They’re kind of a closely guarded secret.”
“Oh,” Celeste said. There was no way to make someone give up her secrets. Unless… “It’s just that I have no idea how to bake. And my friend…”
“Sam,” Mrs. Hickman interrupted with a nod.
“Sam,” Celeste agreed, glossing over the fact that her cheeks flamed, “He loved that pie I brought him, I mean really loved it. And it’s not only that I don’t know how to make that pie specifically, it’s that I don’t know how to make any pie. I don’t know how to do anything. I don’t know how to cook. I never had a mother.” She had intended to sound plaintive and ended up sounding pathetic, but since that was an authentic representation of her actual feelings, she let it linger, leaning in to the fact that her eyes tended to go wide and her lips jut unhappily when she was sad.
“Oh,” Mrs. Hickman wailed, pressing her index fingers beneath each of her eyes to try and stop her sympathetic flow of tears. “All right, but please don’t tell anyone. And please don’t enter a pie in the fair, okay?”
“I promise,” Celeste said, holding up a hand like an oath taker.
Mrs. Hickman stuck her head out the door, looked both ways, then held the door open and ushered Celeste stealthily inside.
She was slightly nervous, as she followed Mrs. Hickman through her cozy house to her kitchen in the back. What if it was like the cookbooks and the woman began at a level that was over Celeste’s head, causing her not to be able to understand anything?
“This is a kitchen, and this is an oven,” Sheila said slowly, gesturing to the white behemoth in the corner.
Celeste smiled and nodded, took out her notebook, and wrote it down. And then she took a breath. Everything was going to be okay.
T hree hours later Celeste left Mrs. Hickman’s house with a perfectly imperfect strawberry-rhubarb pie. Celeste chose the filling, reasoning that no one could object to the lesson as long as Mrs. Hickman wasn’t giving away her huckleberry secrets. The pie wasn’t as beautiful as the ones Mrs. Hickman made to sell. In fact it looked like it had been made by an overzealous ten year old, (a fact which set Mrs. Hickman’s mind at ease because she was not training her replacement in the competitive Paradise tourist pie market.) But Celeste couldn’t have been happier or prouder with her first effort. It was so much simpler than she’d thought it would be, and every bit as rewarding. As with the bread, it soothed her to put her hands in the dough and create.
People are meant to make things with their hands, she thought, making a mental note to add creativity to her list of important words.
She wanted to go straight home and show Sam the pie, knowing he would be as excited as she felt. But there was the practical matter of supper. Last night they finished off the last of the chicken salad Esther made. Celeste had plenty of canned and frozen food on hand, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat it, not after realizing what she was missing out on—real food made by a real person and not in a factory somewhere far away.
Instead of heading away from town and toward home, she turned instead toward the market. Again. I must be setting some kind of Paradise record for consecutive grocery visits. At the moment she didn’t care. All she could think about was creating something in the kitchen.
But as soon as she parked and wandered into the store, she was immediately overwhelmed. There were so many options and she had no idea what to do with any of them. All she knew was chicken salad, which was good. But they had eaten it two days in a row already. How long would it take to become malnourished by eating only chicken salad? Probably not as long as it would take to become sick of chicken salad.
“Celeste, hi.”
Maybe spoke from very nearby, making her wonder how long she had been standing there while Celeste stared at the meat display, wondering what the difference was between London broil and rump roast and why it mattered.
“Hi,” Celeste said, smiling. She didn’t have to fake it today. Maybe was a little scattered and eccentric, but she was sweet and sincere. “Thanks so much for sending Jack. I think he’s going to be life changing.”
“Well, he was for me,” Maybe said. She motioned to the beef display. “Are you trying to figure out what to make for dinner?”
“Yes,” Celeste said, but it came out sounding like a question.
“It’s the worst. I have to menu plan for the entire week, otherwise I lose my train of thought and will to cook. And sometimes we go to the diner anyway. Other times we eat leftovers because I’ve never acclimated to cooking for just me and Baird and cooking for three teenagers is a vastly different experience, so we always wind up with hordes of extra food. What’s that, Maybe? Stop weirdly monopolizing the conversation and shut up? Okay. Sorry.” She gave Celeste an apologetic smile and pointed to her mouth. “Once I get going, it’s hard to stop.”
“It’s fine,” Celeste said, realizing with some surprise she meant it. She had enjoyed the little glimpse into Maybe’s life. It was surprising to her that she cooked every day with no children at home. And sometimes they ate leftovers? Somehow she’d pictured regular people eating something new and delicious each day, not rewarming food they’d already eaten. That was something Celeste did—bought takeout and made it last three days.
“What are you considering? Perhaps I can help,” Maybe said.
“I don’t know,” Celeste drawled, making an inspection of the beef again. “I don’t know how to make anything and I don’t know what these things are.” It was getting easier to admit her incompetent helplessness. “I want to learn to cook, but I haven’t found anything that’s basic enough for beginners. And I mean basic .” Sheila Hickman levels of basic. Celeste supposed she should have been insulted when Sheila held up a box marked BUTTER and said, “This is butter,” slowly and carefully, but she hadn’t been. Because that was how little confidence she had in her ability to learn or understand this new thing.
Maybe glanced at her watch. “What are you doing right now?”
“Talking to you?” Celeste said, confused.
Maybe sputtered a laugh. “Good one. Are you free the next few hours? Is Sam expecting you?”
“I didn’t really give him a time for my return. I’m free.”
“How do you feel about chili?” Maybe continued.
“Good, but I’m losing the thread of the conversation,” Celeste said.
“I have that effect,” Maybe said, shaking her head sadly. “What I’m trying to say is that you should come home with me and I’ll teach you how to make chili. Then you can take it home with you and that can be your supper.”
“Oh,” Celeste drawled. “Would that really be okay?”
“I’d love it,” Maybe said with so much sincere enthusiasm Celeste believed her. “Why don’t you ride with me? I’m terrible at having people follow me. I tend to space out and forget and then it’s three weeks from now and I suddenly remember and wonder where you are.”
“Sure. What ingredients do I need to buy for chili?” Celeste asked, turning helplessly toward the meat again.
“None,” Maybe said.
“None?” Celeste swiveled to inspect her, confused. She wondered if everyone was equal parts confused and charmed when dealing with Maybe, or if it was only her.
“My husband is a cattle rancher. If we don’t have at least a ton of beef in the freezer at all times, along with the complete ingredients for impromptu chili, the Montana Cattlemen’s Association will show up and drag him away in the night.” She turned and walked away before Celeste could protest or even respond. All she could do was trail helplessly in her wake. They piled in her truck. She remained silent until they were out of Paradise because it seemed like Maybe was the type of person who was easily distracted and shouldn’t talk while trying to navigate parking lots and pedestrians.
“If you already have all the ingredients for chili, why were you at the market?” Celeste asked.
“I went to see if they had any fresh fish,” Maybe said.
“I didn’t think the market here carried fish,” Celeste said.
“They don’t, but I’m optimistic. One of these days when I decide I’d like to have something other than beef, some fresh cod or mahi-mahi will magically dangle from the grocery’s ceiling like a thought bubble,” Maybe said.
“Are there any vegetarians here?” Celeste asked.
“Sure. Except here we call them cows,” Maybe said, smiling at Celeste when she laughed. “So how’s the orchard going? Jack said he put some parts on order for you.”
“A lot of parts, I think. He’s a sweet kid.”
“He is that,” Maybe said nodding her agreement. “It’s kind of a crapshoot when they’re little, you know? You do the best you can and hope they turn out okay, and then when they do it’s like winning the best lottery in the world. Moving to Montana was the best decision I ever made. No, one of the best decisions. Having them to begin with was pretty great, and marrying Baird, of course.”
“Baird isn’t their father?” Celeste guessed.
“Not biologically, but they’re all pretty close. And they call him Dad, even Jack now sometimes. He was the lone holdout, not wanting to trample his dad’s memory. My first husband was killed in an embassy attack.”
“Dar es Salaam?” Celeste said.
Maybe turned to her in shocked surprise. “How do you know that? Nobody ever knows that. It was like it never happened here.”
“I was there. I saw the plaque with the names of the soldiers who died.”
Maybe blinked at her, speechless.
“I was in the army. I went a lot of places,” Celeste explained.
“But you’re so adorable, like a little sugar glider or something,” Maybe said.
“The cuter you are, the more places they let you go,” Celeste said, smiling when Maybe snorted a laugh.
“Wow, I can’t believe you saw the plaque. I’ve only ever seen a picture of it, and of course I have the flag. Rather, Jack has the flag. Would you mind telling Jack sometime that you’ve seen it? It’s always been a big deal to him, the fact that his father died a hero.”
“I can only imagine,” Celeste said. “And I’d be happy to talk to him about it.”
They’d been driving a while, in the opposite direction Celeste usually went. “Is your house far?”
“It’s about another forty minutes. This is our land, though.”
Now it was Celeste’s turn to be speechless. She looked out the window at acre after acre of fencing, dotted by the occasional cow. “All of this land belongs to you?”
“Technically Baird, but I guess legally it’s half mine. Still feels weird to think that. And someday it will belong to my kids, Baird’s already drawn up his will to sort out the legalities. If you knew where I came from.” Maybe paused and stared thoughtfully through the front windshield.
“Somewhere bad?” Celeste asked, somewhat hopefully. She was always looking for a fellow trauma survivor. If someone like Maybe could overcome a bad childhood, there was definitely hope for her.
“No, nothing like that. I had a good life with good parents and a good, if somewhat boring, older brother. But I got married two weeks after I graduated high school and had my first baby nine months later, followed by two more in two years. My husband was gone because of the army, of course. And then he was really gone, killed when the kids were three, two, and almost one. And then my mom died that same year. My dad got remarried immediately and moved to Florida, along with my brother. I thought I understood what it was like to be a single mother while my husband was deployed, but then I had a new understanding of the word alone . I coped by doing what needed to be done, every day, day after day after day. I got up, went to work, did all the heavy lifting and hard work of parenting, made the Halloween costumes and birthday cupcakes, drove the kids to various lessons and events.”
“How did you end up here?” Celeste asked when Maybe paused and became thoughtfully silent with remembrance.
“My great uncle died and left me his house, a should-have-been-condemned heap of junk. To this day I have no idea what shook me out of my stupor and made me think I should come here and start over. A miracle, probably, because I had gotten so used to being numb I could barely feel the strain and stress and pain of life anymore. And then I came here and it was terrible, at least at first. The kids were miserable and I was gobsmacked with confusion, completely overwhelmed by culture shock. And then Baird stepped in like some kind of avenging angel, rescuing us all in different ways, in the ways we needed to be rescued. And I, able to breathe and relax and not have to be ‘on’ for the first time in eighteen years, had a complete and total breakdown. Really freaky stuff, like my brain and body broke. Completely bonkers.” She tapped her head and faced forward, shaking her head.
Celeste stared at her, unable to believe someone as sweet and vibrant as Maybe not only had a breakdown but felt free enough to share it with a stranger.
“What happened to make you better?” Celeste asked, wondering if she should take out a paper and pen and take notes so she could apply it to her own life.
“I needed to finally deal with the trauma I’d been avoiding. It was exhausting to always be on the move and doing what needed to be done, but it was also an excellent distraction, a handy way of never dealing with all the pain I’d been dealt. When I finally held still long enough to let it catch up with me, it did so with a vengeance, like a shovel to the face. And, being the mature grownup I am, I tried to run away again. But this time Baird came after me and just…let me feel. He held me and sat with me in the pain, didn’t try to fix me or tell me it was going to be okay. He made it okay for me to be sad. I lingered in the sadness a while, marinated in it. Those were some dark days. Not a lot got done. The house was messy, the beds unmade, the meals uncooked, the laundry unwashed. Sometimes he would come home from a long day on the ranch and find me lying on the floor, staring at nothing, doing nothing. And I would see him and realize how much time had passed and I would cry and apologize for all the things I hadn’t done. And do you know what he did?”
Celeste shook her head.
“He lay down on the floor beside me, gathered me close, kissed my cheeks, and said, ‘So what? So what, Maybe, it’s only laundry. It’s only a little dust. We have plenty of food in the freezer. So what?’ I had spent so much of my life in crisis mode, stressing over every moment, over every possible outcome of every day. You have no idea how powerful it was to hear someone say, ‘So what?’ Because then I started to ask myself, ‘So what? So what if I’m almost forty and still have no idea what I want to be when I’m a grownup? So what if I’m not going to win housewife, cook, or mother of the year? I’m doing my best, and right now my best is going to have to be good enough.’ After that I stopped trying so hard to be perfect, to do all the things and be all the things. I started trying to be okay with average, with ordinary. Some days I get everything done, I rock being a wife, mother, and grandma. Some days I wear two different shoes and forget to open the glass door before walking onto the patio. So what?” She shrugged. “So much of life is letting go of the vision in your head, of the person you think you should be, of the way you think your life should look. I’m not perfect. I never will be, ever. I’ll always be that person with my head in the clouds who talks too much and often says the wrong thing. But I’m trying my best. I’m taking it moment by moment. And I’m happy; I’m fulfilled; I’m content. ”
Celeste would kill for “content.” She didn’t say so because, unlike Maybe, she wasn’t comfortable baring her soul to a stranger. Or anyone, really. But she had a lot to think about. “I have to admit I’m a little envious. Baird sounds like a wonderful guy.”
“He’s the best,” Maybe agreed. She darted Celeste a covert glance. “Sam seems like a good guy.”
“He does,” Celeste agreed. “We don’t know each other that well.”
“Ah, early days,” Maybe said with a knowing nod. “Those are fun times. Also terrible. But mostly fun.”
“Why terrible?” Celeste asked.
“Because you don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know if he likes you as much as you like him, if it’s going to work out, if he’s the one. ” She took her hands off the wheel to make air quotes. Celeste gripped her seat when the truck yanked sharply to the right. “That doesn’t seem normal. Maybe there’s something wrong with the tires. I’ll have Jack take a look.”
Celeste bit back her reply. She thought it was more likely something wrong with the driver who probably shouldn’t use her hands to talk, at least not while driving. She’d bet Jack had to take a lot of “looks” at vehicles after his mother used them. And even after one interaction with the kid, who seemed almost angelically good, he probably did so with a smile and no longsuffering sigh whatsoever.
“I just don’t have good luck with cars,” Maybe muttered to herself.
Celeste turned to the window to hide her smile.