Chapter 29 Nancy
TWENTY-NINE
NANCY
I realize real quick as I wander around the grocery store that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.
I’m in my twenties, and I’ve never had to cook a meal for myself, let alone for another person.
As I stand in the aisle surrounded by jars of tomato sauce and various canned goods, I want to cry, scream, or both.
I suddenly regret insisting that I go in on my own and that I’d be out soon. I seriously overestimated my ability to understand what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
There’s a woman standing ahead of me, her cart loaded with various tins and boxes, and I move closer to inspect what kinds of things she’s got, and then I grab similar things.
A box of Kraft Dinner, a couple cans of tuna, mayonnaise, peanut butter, pasta, tomato sauce, ketchup, kidney beans, a head of lettuce, pork chops, orange juice, ketchup chips, Cheerios, and a bag of frozen peas.
In line, I add two Coffee Crisps, a Mr. Big, an Oh Henry, and an Aero to the basket.
Panic chocolate bars to distract myself from this overwhelming feeling of failure.
I’ve spent so much of my life being fed, being told what to do and where to go.
I’m half expecting that to be the case with Karl, but he keeps insisting that I can do whatever I want.
And that’s so great, except I have no fucking idea what it is I should be doing, and I’m overwhelmed with the sudden freedom to what? Make my own dinner?
“That’s twenty-seven fifty,” the cashier says, and I blink rapidly, trying to ignore how wet my eyes suddenly are as I pull out my wallet and hand over thirty dollars.
I’m not making dinner tonight. Elizabeth has already asked us to join them for a meal, much to Karl’s disappointment, but tomorrow I have all day to figure something out.
Back at the cottage, I shove my secret purchase under the bed. I saw Karl eyeing it suspiciously every once in a while on the drive, and I don’t want him asking about it. I’m not sure I could lie to him if he did. He’ll see it tomorrow, hopefully after enjoying a delicious homemade meal.
Karl brings in our purchases and begins to wash our new dishes as I put away the groceries.
Standing in front of the open fridge, I hold back a pitiful laugh at how ridiculous it looks in there.
A jug of orange juice, a pack of chops, and a head of lettuce.
What the hell am I going to do with these things?
I didn’t even buy any spices or anything. Hell, we don’t have salt and pepper.
“What’s wrong?” Karl asks as he towels off a plate and slides it into the cupboard.
I shut the fridge and turn to him, plastering on a smile. “Nothing, just lost in the possibilities.”
He hangs the towel up and approaches me, sliding his hands into my hair and pulling me in for a kiss.
“A lifetime of possibilities,” he murmurs, deepening the kiss, making me actually believe those words.
Karl’s gone again when I wake up, but I can smell coffee today, which means he hasn’t been gone for that long.
I pull his pillow into me, burying my nose in the soft downiness of it.
It smells like the Head and Shoulders he uses, and I laugh, remembering how he’d managed to get it in his eye last night as he maneuvered around me in the shower.
I’d warned him, but he’d insisted that we could make it work.
We did make it work, but not before he’d hissed and rubbed his eye until it was red from the sting of the shampoo.
Today’s the day I’m going to start my journey to becoming a domestic goddess, and I jump out of bed with far more confidence than I have any right having.
I get dressed quickly, brush the rat’s nest out of my hair, and step out into the kitchen ready to tackle meal planning.
Elizabeth sent me home with the cookbook she received as a wedding gift years ago, saying she wanted to pass it along to me. I’m going to get well acquainted with Mrs. Colleen Smith’s School of Cookery today.
Sitting at the kitchen table with a raisin bran muffin and a glass of orange juice, I flip slowly through the book.
Almost every single recipe has additional information written in the margins.
Updated ingredients, suggestions, and temperature updates adorn nearly every page, and I’m overwhelmed by the options.
Also by the sheer number of recipes that include jelly of some kind.
I hope my new normal isn’t going to be feeling overwhelmed by absolutely everything.
“Practice,” I tell myself. Anything worth doing takes practice; it’s one lesson my mother taught me that feels applicable to my current situation.
When Karl comes in for lunch, I’ve got peanut butter and jam sandwiches ready, and you’d think I had some gourmet meal prepared by the way he reacts.
“That was a fantastic lunch, thank you,” he moans, sitting back and patting his flat stomach.
I roll my eyes, resting my elbows on the table. “Oh well, it took me all day, but I am glad I could make something edible for you.”
Elizabeth made the bread and the jam. My contribution was store-bought peanut butter.
“Best PB and J I’ve ever had.” He grins, standing to clear our crumb-covered plates.
I sit, watching as he quickly washes and dries them, then turns and holds his hand out to me. I take it, and he pulls me up, his lips meeting mine a second later. I smile into the peanut butter-tinged kiss, and his hands slide down my body, cupping my ass and lifting me easily.
“Don’t you have to get back to work?” I ask.
“I’ve got time,” he says, setting me on the counter, his hands moving to my thighs as he pulls me to the edge. “Time for dessert.”
After Karl uses up every single millisecond of his lunch break, I bundle up and head out for a walk. The farm is all rolling hills, but the cottage sits back against the forest that surrounds the property, and that is where I decide to explore.
Once in the trees, you’d never know that there was a whole-ass dairy farm only feet away.
It’s even quieter in here, with snow softly falling from the branches above, the odd bird song echoing through the trees, and the sound of my boots cutting through snow the loudest thing.
I almost feel bad for disturbing the peace.
I am the loudest thing in these woods until a sharp bark cuts through the air, making me jump about three feet. Looking around, I can’t quite figure out what direction it came from. It didn’t sound vicious, more like a bark of distress, but I take a defensive stance nonetheless.
Another high-pitched bark has me turning to my left, confident this time that it’s the direction I should head in.
I walk for a bit, following yips and whines until I get to a small ravine. When I look down, I see the source of the sound.
A soft “oh” slips out as I take in the dog whining below me, its collar caught on a sharp root sticking out of the ground. The snow mixed with mud from where the dog has clearly been struggling to free itself.
I think I can get down to it easily enough, and I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should run home and get help. The dog releases a long whine that makes up my mind for me. I’ll do what I can on my own. I can’t bear leaving it there thinking I’ve abandoned it.
Picking my way down the embankment, I slowly approach the dog, who has quieted, waiting patiently with its tail wagging, a good sign, I tell myself.
Cautiously, I pull my mitten off and hold my hand out for the dog to sniff, holding my breath and hoping it doesn’t decide I smell good enough to take a bite out of. Thankfully, it deems me unworthy of becoming a meal.
“Alright, let’s see what you’ve done to yourself,” I say quietly, slowly reaching for the collar.
It’s twisted around the root and frayed a bit, fur clinging to a couple sections.
I can see where the skin is raw on its neck and feel sick for a minute, thinking about what would have happened if I hadn’t come for a walk.
It becomes clear quickly that the only way to free it is to undo the buckle, which is going to be difficult given how it’s nearly against the ground.
I’m worried about pinching or causing pain and then the dog lashing out. Which would be totally understandable.
It whines again, warm breath brushing my exposed wrists.
The minute it's free, I’m on my back being licked, happy little noises accompanying each lap of tongue.
“Okay, okay, yes, you’re welcome.” I giggle, pushing the dog off and reaching to untangle the collar that’s still firmly attached to the root.
“Let’s see if there’s a name or number on here.
” I flip the tags around, studying each carefully.
They’re both rabies vaccination tags, one from this year and one from the previous.
“Hmm, how about we head home and see if anyone recognizes you?”
I have no idea how I’m going to get the dog home without a leash but figure I’ll start walking and maybe it will follow. If not, if it runs away, perhaps it’ll find its way back to where it came from.
Looking down, I study the dog. “I can’t keep thinking of you as it,” I mumble, bending to see if I can see the sex.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Hore, you have a healthy, furry, very good boy,” I joke, giving him a firm scratch behind the ears.
“Do you want to come home with me?” I ask, laughing when he quirks his head to the side with his ears up.
I take a tentative step back, and he steps forward. With each step he follows, so I turn and walk with more confidence the way I’d come, following my tracks back to the treeline.
“There you are,” Karl says, greeting me when I get to the cottage. His eyes widen comically when he sees the dog, and he squats as we approach, his hand held out for the dog to sniff. “And who are you?”
“I found him in the forest. Almost as if I manifested him,” I say, removing the collar from my pocket. “This was caught on a root.”
“I think this is the Dennison’s dog.” He stands and takes the collar from me, turning it over in his hands. “Their daughter brought him home in the spring and then moved away.” He sighs, bending to scratch the dog behind his ears. “I bet you’ve been lonely, eh, bud?” he coos quietly.
He’s gentle as he slowly checks the dog over, looking for injuries, talking quietly as hands move around.
“He seems healthy,” he says, standing, his hands on his hips. “Want to go for a drive with me?”
“Where?”
“To take him home. They’re about twenty minutes east of here.”
I look down at the dog, who is sitting quietly watching us, and sadness washes over me. “Do we have to?”
Karl tips his head to the side, pity painted across his face. “He’s someone’s dog, Nancy.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be their dog though,” I argue. “Maybe he wanted to leave. Maybe they don’t love him, and he’s looking for someone who will.”
Strong arms wrap around me, and a hand slides into my hair as my breath stutters. “Shhhh,” Karl soothes, his other hand dropping to rub slow circles on my back. “We have to at least try.”
“What if they don’t want him?” I sniffle, peering up at him.
Blue eyes meet mine, a soft smile tilting his lips as he leans in and drops them to my forehead. “Then we’ll bring him back here, get him a proper collar, tags, and obedience classes.”
I pull back to scrutinize his face, checking to see if he’s messing with me. “Seriously?”
“Don’t I seem serious?”
I narrow my eyes further. “I’m never sure with you. Not yet anyway.”
He pulls me back to him and wraps his arms tightly around my shoulders. “I’m as serious as I was about asking you to marry me, dearest,” he murmurs into my hair.
Ten minutes later, we’re in the truck, rumbling down the laneway to the main road, the dog sitting on the seat between us.
Once we’re on the paved road, the dog lies down with his head on my thigh, and I focus on my hand running through his fur instead of on where the road leads.
“I’ve never had a dog,” I say, looking over when I sense Karl’s gaze on me.
“Really? I thought all horse people had dogs.”
“My mother’s allergic. No dogs or cats in our house. I was always so jealous at shows. Almost every barn had a dog.”
“Big or small dogs?”
“Well, most of the dogs that travel are smaller and probably easier to keep track of.”
“Easier to trample too, I’d guess.” Karl chuckles, his hand joining mine to pet the dog. “Do you want a small dog?”
“I’d take any dog,” I confess.