Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
At exactly two o’clock, I open our front door to hear, “This is how you rough it, to prove you’re a man. This isn’t a home.”
Rosalie bares her teeth in a grin as I stand before them, hearing the tail end of her grandmother’s judgment on Roman’s cabin.
The woman, who might be a foot shorter than Rosalie, doesn’t care that I’ve opened the door though. She keeps talking. “You have to have running water and a functioning bathroom to call it a home.” The woman pats the side of her curly silver hair and wrinkles her button nose.
“Oh, we do!” I say. “Both, actually. We have a fully functioning kitchen and a bathroom. It just looks a little rustic on the outside. Please, come in.”
“Very rustic,” Rosalie’s grammy says.
“I think it’s cute,” Rosalie chimes in, smiling at me. It’s a smile that apologizes for her grandmother’s brazen comments. But as a girl who just spent the last month with the burden of lying about her feelings on her shoulders, I find her honesty refreshing.
“Me too,” I say.
“Good grief,” the older woman gripes. Then she stares ahead into Roman’s tiny living room, to the tree that’s filling most of the space. “You have a tree growing in your front room. Did you know?”
“It’s a Christmas tree, Gram. See the lights?” Rosalie clears her throat. “Stella, this is my grammy, Noreen. Grammy, this is my friend, Stella.”
My stomach flutters a little with how easily Rosalie calls me a friend. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yes,” Noreen says. “Lovely. You are the girl with the clay.”
“I am.”
“You make pottery for a living?”
My brows knit. “Not really. I’d like to, though.”
“What I’m asking, dear, is if you’ll be able to make certain that my pot isn’t horrendous. I can’t give my Kermit something that stinks.”
I cough out a laugh. “I’ll be here to help you with every step. We’ll make something beautiful for Kermit.”
“My grandpa,” Rosalie says. “Hey, Grammy, maybe we don’t refer to your ceramic creation as pot, huh?”
Noreen huffs. “This one is always stressing,” she says, pinching Rosalie’s coat sleeve before walking further into Roman’s home. “Robert made her question her life choices. She’s chosen a great profession. She’s got that goofball friend—”
“Fran isn’t a goofball, Grammy.”
“But she’s loyal,” Noreen continues as if Rosalie hasn’t spoken. “And now she’s got Zev.” Noreen grins.
I’ve been curious about Zev and Rosalie—with Fran’s scheme to get them to kiss.
“I know Zev,” I say, because I truly want Noreen to spill more tea.
“Yes. That man is built like an ox. He could bench press Kermy with one hand.”
Rosalie swallows. “Yes, you’ve tried to get him to do that multiple times. Haven’t you?”
“Kermy won’t go for it,” Noreen says.
Rosalie presses her lips together and lifts her brows while staring at me. I’m pretty sure that look says that Zev isn’t going for it either.
“That man would have her married with a great-grandchild on the way if it weren’t for Rose’s bullheadedness.” Noreen is fantastic at tea-spilling.
“Okay!” Rosalie barks so loudly that Roman probably hears her from his bedroom. “Let’s talk about your pottery, Gram.”
Noreen’s hands flutter in the air, and she gives the stink eye to her granddaughter. “I thought you said we couldn’t call it pot.”
“Pottery is fine. But pot—”
Noreen sighs. “Well, that feels like a double standard.”
“Let’s go back to the porch,” I say. I may be crazy curious about Rosalie and Zev Hayes, but I am supposed to be Rosalie’s friend, which requires me to save her in this moment.
“You work on a porch?”
I swallow. How to explain that I fell in love with the space and then avoided it like the plague?
Thus, the discombobulatedness that is my life.
Noreen would absolutely have opinions on me.
So, I say, “This is where all of my equipment and tools are set up. The cabin is small, but Roman gave me this space to work, and it’s lovely out here. ”
I walk Rosalie and Noreen through the kitchen and into the enclosed porch Roman gifted me four weeks ago. Have I really been here that long? Has it been so long since I’ve worked? Since I’ve even sat at my wheel? No wonder I’ve been depressed.
We look out into the woods with pines, ferns, and woodland creatures.
“Very nice.” Noreen smiles with her approval. “Very inspiring. What have you made out here?”
“Um.” My brows knit. “Well, I didn’t move in all that long ago. And we’re newlyweds. And—”
“Say no more. The first year Kermit and I were married, I spent my days frying up chicken legs and baking chocolate cakes during the day. At night, I’d put on this lacy little nighty and—”
“Okay,” Rosalie says. “We get it. You were busy.”
“Very.”
I stifle a laugh, and Rosalie’s eyes go wide as she gives me a knowing look. It’s as if we’ve been friends for years and I know that her grandmother likes to overshare. It doesn’t bother either of us.
Willow would love this girl. And she would especially love Noreen.
Noreen claps her small hands together. “What’s first?”
I spend the next two hours teaching Noreen to use my potter’s wheel. I’ve never taught anyone to do anything before. But I think about what works for me and break it into small, simple steps.
“This will not do,” Noreen says, holding up her lopsided ceramic pot.
“It was your first try,” I tell her. “If you want something to give him by Christmas, you’ll probably need to come back soon. Once you have the piece you want, it’ll have to sit for a week or so before we underglaze it and then fire it up in the kiln.”
“Tomorrow it is,” Noreen says as if I’ve suggested as much. “Rosalie has class, so we’ll have to do the evening. Does five-thirty work?”
I smirk. “Sure.” Rosalie’s mentioned school before. “Are you getting your master’s or something?” I ask Rosalie.
“She is an educator.” Noreen nods, clearly proud of her granddaughter.
“I teach second grade in Reno,” Rosalie says.
“That’s nice,” I say. I should have asked more questions about her and Fran. I was so content to stay in the background, to hide, that I haven’t done a very good job at getting to know the women who’ve been so kind to me.
“It wasn’t my first choice. I was sure about education, but I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoy the littles.”
Noreen holds up her clay-covered fingers. No words necessary.
“Oh, right. Um, you can wash your hands in the kitchen. This way.” I walk the pair back through the door that leads to the kitchen, realizing how well Roman has set me up.
“Could I use your restroom?” Rosalie asks. “Gram talked me into an extra-large Diet Coke on the way over here, and I downed it.”
I laugh. “Yeah, of course.” But I stop short. There’s one bathroom in this house. A Jack and Jill bath. Which means she has to walk through a bedroom. Mine, which clearly a man does not live in, or Roman’s, which clearly, I do not live in.
Newlyweds with separate rooms. How am I supposed to explain that?
I swallow. “It’s through my bedroom.” I nibble on my bottom lip, my head reeling. “And Roman might be … naked. One sec.”
Rosalie blinks. I have practically given her permission to picture my husband nude. I might even be giving myself permission. And while I am pretty darn smitten with my husband, we aren’t there yet. I should not be picturing the man naked. It does things to my sanity.
I rush off to Roman’s room and shove my way inside. No knocking.
Roman’s sitting on his bed, legs stretched out, leaning against the wooden headboard, one hand beneath his head, the other hand holding a book.
And it’s possible my ovaries come to life.
He should be sculpted. Someone should sketch him here and now, then sculpt his perfect form out of clay.
Wait. I could do that. Literally. I have that ability.
I mean, I’m much more skilled on the wheel than I am at sculpting, but I aced all of my ceramic classes in college.
My heart thumps and my ovaries sing, and I stand there just inside the door, staring.
At least he isn’t naked.
“Stell?” he says, looking up from his book. And then—that bent arm supporting his head and popping that perfect bicep comes down to his side, and the trance he’s put over me loosens its hold.
“Rosalie needs the bathroom.”
He straightens, planting his feet on the ground. “Okay. Sure. Just—”
“Roman, she’ll walk through here. It’s obvious that I don’t live in this room.”
“Right. Do you want to lead her through your room?”
“You obviously don’t live in there.” Although, he does sleep there now. Every single night.
“Do you want to bring some of your things in here?”
I clamp my teeth onto my bottom lip. “Maybe just a few things?”
“Sure. It’s not like she’s going to inspect our bedroom.”
With full control of my body now, I race through the bathroom, into my room, and snatch up a pink comforter and a handful of my clothes. Racing back, I toss them into Roman’s room.
A small grunt tells me I have hit Roman. I don’t care though. Rosalie is waiting with a full Diet Coke bladder. I rush back for one more load. This time, I am strategic. I grab a bra, my purple water tumbler, and my one framed photo—my family, Brice’s senior year.
Back in Roman’s room, he’s laid out the floral comforter over his bed and tossed my clothes on the ground, next to a few of his. Roman has two nightstands, so I choose the least empty of the two, toss Roman my bra, and set my family photo and my tumbler on the stand I’ve chosen.
Straightening up, I peer at my husband. Go time!
But he’s holding up my lacy white bra as if on display. “What did you want me to do with this?”
“Oh.” I swallow. “The floor. With the others? Because apparently, we are slobs who don’t believe in hampers.”
“I have a hamper,” he says, and it’s true. He does, and most of his clothes are in it. He has one shirt and a pair of socks on the ground, where my clothes are now littering it.
“She won’t see my things if they’re in the hamper,” I say.
“Which is why we’re slobs.”
I reach over, snatch my undergarment from his grasp, and toss it. It hangs from the corner of the hamper—but in clear view.
“Hey,” he says, walking around the end of the bed to reach me. “This isn’t a big deal. We aren’t breaking any laws, and we’re two consenting adults. We can live however we want. Right?” Roman runs a hand down my back, but I’m not sure I’m convinced.
“I’ll grab Rosalie.”
Huffing, I hurry to the kitchen. This house is way too small for me to be breathing so hard.
Then I open my mouth and say the only thing I can think of for taking so long: “Naked!” I lean my hands on my thighs and peer up at a gaping Rosalie and an intrigued Noreen.
“So, so naked.” I swallow. “But he’s decent now. This way.”
“Okay.” She sounds like she’s questioning my sanity. With good reason.
“Roman’s in our room. Mine and his. Totally dressed. No stress,” I say, leading her to the door of Roman’s room.
“No stress,” she says.
I open the door to Roman’s space, and Rosalie hesitantly follows in behind me.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. Uh, bathroom’s in there.”
Roman stands next to his bed, unsure of how to escape this. He gives Rosalie a small nod as she disappears through the bathroom door.
“Is it weird that we’re just in here, waiting for her?” I whisper. “That feels creepy.”
“That’s because it is creepy,” he says.
“Fine. Then channel your friendly side because you’re about to meet Noreen.” I slip my hand into his and pull him from the room. We rush out to the kitchen, where Noreen sits at Roman’s small table for two. “Hi!” I chirp. “Noreen Conrad, this is my husband, Roman Graves.”
Noreen tilts her head. “The honeymooners.”
I wrap one arm around Roman’s back, and in turn, he wraps his arm around me. It’s more natural than it should be. “Yep.”
“I can always spot honeymooners.” Her eyes sweep over us. “They can never keep their hands off one another.”