Chapter 1 #2
I rolled my eyes at myself. Excuses. My heart did a somersault into a well of pain and loneliness.
Who was I kidding? It’s him. That’s why I don’t live in Kalulell.
That’s why I didn’t visit for long periods of time.
I couldn’t live there because I would see him, and I would end up crying like a cow every time I saw him if cows could cry.
I sniffled—at the thought of him, not at the thought of cows crying, although that was a miserable thought, too. I wiped my tears. The worst part: What if I saw him and embarrassingly lost control of my mouth and told him the truth? It would flip his life upside down and then blow it apart.
“Mom, I can’t stay for seven weeks. My anxiety would flair.
My nerves would shriek. My equilibrium would become, uh, unequal.
” Those weren’t the only worries. I thought I was going to cry, as dread mixed with heartache wrapped itself around me.
“I have a Roxy Belle book due. I’m a wee bit stressed.
” I was more than a wee bit stressed. I’d missed a deadline. Maybe two.
“Love dove,” my mother said, her voice gentling, “You have the spirit of a lion, the courage of a goddess, and the heart of a warrior. You can handle seeing Logan. The sight of him will not smite you. Besides, I think Mrs. Claus has a miracle ready for you this Christmas. She’s wrapping it up now.”
“I do not believe in miracles, Mom.” I needed one, though. Doesn’t everyone?
“I do. I’m depending on Mrs. Claus! I am sure she is a feminist and a romantic, and all will turn out merry and bright.” Her voice rose in victory. “I’ll let you go to ready your sweet self. Pack the cats in suitcases, grab your notebooks and drawing paper, steel your loins, and come to Montana!”
“What do you mean ‘steel my loins’? How am I to do that?”
“I mean, dearest daughter, favorite daughter…”
“I am your only daughter and your only child.”
“Be brave! Like an elf! Like Rudolph! Bring your red nose home, and thank you, and I love you, and everyone at the bar misses you.” She hung up.
“Mom! Mom!” It was useless. Useless.
My mind was now a swirling mess of Christmas songs and bar rumbles. “Let’s go, cats. Garden walk.” I grabbed my red coat, shoved my feet into red boots, and shuffled the four cats out the door. Walking my five acres calms me down.
My cats and I take long walks every day around the property, inspecting the meadow, the pond, and the fir, pine, willow, and pink cherry trees. I had the twelve pink cherry trees planted along the road leading to my house. I love when they bloom each spring.
I named my sweet white cottage with a pink door Honeysuckle Pink. It was run-down and unloved when I moved in over five years ago. It’s about twenty miles from Portland, Oregon, and it came with a view of the sunset over the mountain range on the coast.
Original, wide, wood-plank floors contrast well with pure white walls and trim, three wood beams across the ceiling, and plush, comfy furniture. My couch is pink, as is a love seat. Pink-and-white embroidered pillows, several by designer Ellie Kozlovsky, are scattered about.
The house is small and cozy, two bedrooms. I had the wall taken down between the kitchen and family room to open it up and let the sunshine in.
I gutted the kitchen because it was so ancient I feared it would burn the house down.
Cabinets that are light sage green on the bottom and white at the top are separated by white quartz counters.
The island, made with wood from a fallen old barn, is topped with butcher block.
I brought in a wood kitchen table and four pink chairs I found at a garage sale and set them in front of the window in the kitchen nook.
I set up my worktable right in front of the windows of the family room so I can look past my white porch and out to nature as I write and illustrate my Roxy Belle chapter books for girls and boys.
I am lucky—the books sell well. Apparently, there is a huge market for a precocious, curious, awkward, nine-year-old fourth grader who lives on a farm with two parents and five odd siblings and many personable animals.
My bedroom is light pink—light pink walls, white bedspread with tiny pink rosebuds, and a pile of pink and white pillows. It’s a haven of pink and white. Serene. Romantic. Not that I have any romance in my life anymore. Haven’t in years.
To practice “self-romancing”—I made that term up—I light candles, listen to classical music, pick myself bouquets of flowers on my property, run up and down country roads to get my anxieties out, and read books at night, often romances.
I play chess online with other anonymous people who probably have no romance in their lives either. Other than that, I am a hermit.
A house hermit.
A lonely house hermit. I sound pathetic, but I am not.
I sighed and said to the cats, “Let’s go to the pond first.”
Yes, I talk to my cats. I’m a lonely house hermit with a lot of cats I converse with. I really don’t know what that says about me except that they are excellent conversationalists.