Chapter 19
lovelillibet What do we get from our animal companions? Laughter. Unconditional love. A reminder to slow down and simplify.
And in some cases, a stunning soft cheese.
Love, Lillibet
Image: A charcuterie board with rosettes of cured meat and rounds of herbed soft cheese, arranged in an ampersand.
#diy #flavorincubator #fresh #neverhidethecheese
“I don’t know what I’m more excited about, their little bouncy hops or the sweet noises they make. They’re just so cuddly.” Hildy had spent most of the car ride hyping herself up to meet the goats, steadily raising Libby’s blood pressure. There was no way her pretend pets could live up to this level of anticipation.
“There’s this one YouTuber I follow who taught her goats to dance,” Hildy said from the backseat. “I wish I could have goats. And chickens. Maybe an alpaca. But I was never allowed to have pets.” She didn’t have to look at her uncle; they all knew who she was targeting with that tragic disclosure.
“It’s very hard to travel with pets,” Uncle Richard said. “We all make sacrifices.”
“That’s funny. I distinctly remember Albie having an aquarium.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” her uncle replied unconvincingly, as Libby pulled into the driveway of Mr. L’s house.
She bent to pick up her purse, buying herself another moment to gather her courage. Something hit the front of the car with a loud thump. In the passenger seat, Uncle Richard screamed.
Libby jerked upright, convinced she’d rear-ended someone even though they were parked. The headlights illuminated the terrifying face of an animal, front hooves propped on the hood of the car. It stared at them with one demented eye before tipping its head back and shrieking again.
Good to know the scream hadn’t come from Hildy’s uncle.
“You were saying?” Jefferson remarked from the backseat, earning a shove from Hildy.
A sharp tap on her window made Libby jump. She expected to see hot goat breath fogging the glass, for some reason imagining the furry beast circling the car like a killer whale in search of a weak point.
The reality was worse. Mr. L stood inches from her door, tapping the watch on his raised left wrist. Out of sight, the goat screeched again.
You and me both, Libby thought, reluctantly exiting the vehicle.
“Do you see this?” he sputtered, waving at the grass. “They relieve themselves everywhere!”
Libby stopped herself from suggesting he design a goat-friendly outdoor commode. This was more of a diaper situation, judging by the trail of pellets littering the path.
“I need to speak with you,” Mr. L continued, ignoring the curious looks from their guests. Well, Hildy seemed interested. Jefferson’s face was harder to read.
“How was your meeting?” Libby asked, belatedly realizing it would be the wifely thing to say.
The tense line of his mouth relaxed into a curve of satisfaction. “I was able to preview the Scylla and Charybdis. The prototype of my personal drying station,” he explained as Uncle Richard joined them. “But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about.”
“Ah.” Libby scanned the yard, in case there was an escape hatch hidden under the bushes.
“How’s your back?” Hildy asked suddenly, clutching her uncle’s arm. “It must be acting up. From the trip and all.”
“Not really. I had a private cabin on the plane—”
“You don’t have to be brave in front of me, Uncle Richard.” She looked up at him through trembling lashes. “I know that old fencing injury is a torment.”
“I don’t like to complain,” he started to say, yelping as the goat tried to ram him in the thigh. Jefferson grabbed the trailing rope, pulling it away from Hildy’s uncle.
“I know.” Hildy patted Uncle Richard’s sleeve before turning to Mr. L. “I don’t suppose you have anything that might help with a stiff lower back?”
Libby’s pretend-husband puffed up so fast, she was surprised he didn’t float off the ground. “The Kitzlochlamm.” The consonants were so guttural Libby was afraid she’d have to Heimlich him. “Named for the mystical ravine with crystalline geysers hidden behind ancient rock.”
“That sounds intriguing.” Uncle Richard put a hand to his back. “Perhaps a soak wouldn’t go amiss.”
“This is the pinnacle of home spa technology,” Mr. L promised, leading him away. “I fear it will make your own plumbing appear inadequate.”
“I hope your uncle knows he means literal plumbing,” Libby said as the door closed behind them. “He wasn’t trying to emasculate him.”
“Eh. His ego can survive a few dings.” Hildy bent to address the goat. “And now we can have fun with these precious babies. This must be Ginger?”
The brown goat twisted out of reach before doubling back to lunge for a mouthful of Hildy’s skirt.
Libby hmmed in agreement. It sounded as likely as anything else. “I’ll take—it from here,” she told Jefferson, covering her stumble by confidently holding out a hand for the rope. Was “Ginger” a boy or a girl? She couldn’t think of a way to discreetly check without getting kicked in the face.
Behind the house, the other goat was still tied to the patio furniture, next to an overturned chair.
Hildy frowned. “I thought Poki was white.”
Everyone turned to look at the black-and-white-spotted animal dragging the table across the flagstones.
“It was a privacy issue,” Libby explained.
“For the goats?” Jefferson asked, in the tone of someone pretty sure he’d misunderstood.
“I felt it was important to maintain healthy boundaries. In terms of social media. We don’t like to expose them to the public too much. Technically they’re still minors.”
Hildy nodded. “Goat years must be like dog years.”
“You could say that. They’re definitely in their teenage phase right now.” Libby raised her voice to make herself heard over the bleating. “Acting out. Typical adolescent behavior.”
The goat seemed to take offense at this description, forcing Libby to dodge a flying hoof.
Hildy squinted at the goat’s hindquarters. “I could have sworn Poki was the boy.”
Libby started to nod, before noticing the dangling udders.
“Did they give you the wrong ones?” Hildy asked. “That happened to my step-aunt, with her Pomeranian. It was a lot harder to tell with all the fur.”
“Animals are funny that way.” Libby tried to casually pet the black-and-white one, but it nipped at her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. They’re very sensitive.”
“Have you tried antidepressants?”
Jefferson frowned at Hildy. “For the goats?”
“They had to do that for Mitzi. The Pomeranian. Her therapist recommended it, to help with the separation anxiety.”
“Your aunt’s therapist?” Jefferson asked.
“Mitzi’s. My aunt has a different one.”
“They do prefer peace and quiet,” Libby said, as the brown goat rammed the leg of the table, shrieking in outrage when it didn’t budge. “Why don’t you two go inside and get some sleep? I’ll get them settled for the night. I’m sure they’ll be calmer in the morning.” She crossed her fingers behind her back.
Hildy looked from Libby to Jefferson. “You stay, JJ. Maybe you can get some action … shots. If you remember how to use your zoom lens?”
“Good night, Hildegarde,” he said through a sigh.
The swish of the door closing was the last sound for several long, sticky moments—if you ignored the bleating. At least the presence of barnyard animals kept the scene from feeling too romantic, despite the moonlight and softly waving palms, with the gentle lullaby of the surf in the distance.
Libby’s brain provided a helpful series of what-ifs. What if she and Jefferson were alone out here because they’d met under normal circumstances, and gotten to know each other, and started dating, and she’d brought him to Tutu’s house as her boyfriend, and now they were going for an evening stroll? Preferably holding hands. Or maybe his arm around her shoulders? Definitely no goats.
Except her real self would never have met Jefferson, so in a twisted sense she owed “Lillibet” for bringing him here, even though pretending to be someone else was the thing keeping them apart. If that qualified as irony, Libby decided she wasn’t a fan.
“Where do they sleep?” Jefferson started to untangle the black-and-white goat from the outdoor table. His mind was clearly on practical matters, not torturing himself with romantic hypotheticals.
“Don’t worry about it.” She turned in a circle to keep from getting tangled in the other lead. “You’re a guest.”
“Seems like you could use the extra pair of hands.” He came to stand beside her, pivoting when the goats started to crisscross. “These two hooligans look like trouble.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into them.” Libby cringed at the sound coming out of her mouth. She should have rehearsed her fake laugh. “We can tie them up over here.”
“They spend the night in the open?” Jefferson asked, following her across the lawn.
“Yes. We—let them be free-range.” At least until Keoki got back and told her otherwise. “So they don’t get claustrophobic.” A terrible thought struck her. “Do you—know much about goats? From your work?”
It was Jefferson’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Mountain goats are an invasive species in the Tetons. People, uh, hunt them.”
“Oh. The poor things.” Libby hopped sideways to avoid a head butt to her calf. “I mean, balance is obviously important. Ecologically. And internally.”
Jefferson paused in case she wanted to throw in a few more inanities about her digestive tract. “Your goats are lucky.”
“We try not to stifle their individuality.”
“They seem very un-stifled.” He dodged a pair of dancing hooves while tying his goat to the trunk of a palm tree, then held out his hand for Libby’s rope. “What else?”
“Hmmm?”
“Is there a nighttime routine?”
“Oh. That. Usually I start with their affirmations. You’re so pretty, you have the softest fur, et cetera. And then a bedtime story—nothing too scary—and finally a song.”
He blinked at her. Libby tried very hard to hold on to her poker face.
“But that’s only if they’ve been good. There’ll be none of that tonight,” she told the goats with mock-sternness. Libby looked back at Jefferson with a smile that turned into a startled oof when one of the goats rammed her in the thigh.
The sneak attack sent her toppling into Jefferson. He caught her by the arms, steadying her before she could take them both down. She was pretty sure he could feel her heart thundering, especially since her chest was pressed against him. If this were a middle school dance, they’d be declaring their coupledom for all the world to see.
“Bad goat.” He spoke over Libby’s shoulder, still holding on. The brown one made a noise that almost sounded apologetic.
“I think they like your voice.” Libby touched her fingertips to her breastbone, knuckles grazing his shirt. “You feel it right there. The rumbliness.”
Jefferson’s throat moved as he swallowed. Libby’s gaze traveled upward from his throat, past the strong jaw, lingering on his mouth.
“Libby!” screeched a voice that was neither low nor soothing.
The goats bleated in alarm, and Libby used their distress as an excuse to lurch away from Jefferson, turning to check on her alleged pets before acknowledging her roommate.
Jean stood at the back door, annoyance radiating from her narrowed eyes to her tapping foot.
“I better see what she needs,” Libby mumbled, hurrying toward the house.
She was ninety-eight percent certain Jefferson was watching her walk away. The heat of his gaze was almost enough to offset the chill in her best friend’s eyes.
* * *
Inside the kitchen, Libby offered a tentative smile. “The goats are here.”
“It looks like they machine-gunned the front yard with poop. Did you try to milk them or something?”
“Uh, no. I wasn’t going to walk up and start squeezing their—teats.” Libby half mumbled the word, less out of modesty than being iffy on the pronunciation. “Also I thought one of them was a boy.”
Jean grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
“I put a plate in there for you,” Libby told her.
Her roommate’s nod was perfunctory. “I’ll take it with me.”
“Upstairs?”
“I have to go back to the resort.”
“What? Why?”
“A shift came open, so I grabbed it. I’ll get time-and-a-half. And until you have a job with an actual salary, somebody needs to step up and pay the rent. I don’t want to be homeless because you suddenly went boy-crazy.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, what’s not fair is that this situation affects all three of us, but you act like it’s just you. What you want. Your dysfunctional hormones.”
“You think I don’t care about Keoki’s restaurant? Why else would I be running around pretending I’m going to illegally marry a strange man who thinks my teeth are weird?”
Jean shushed her with a finger to her lips, frowning at the ceiling. After a few beats of silence, she turned back to Libby. “And me?”
“What do you mean?” Libby sensed a trap.
“Think about the doors this would open for my career. Johnson Media must have a crap-ton of artists on their payroll. I could do graphic design, illustration—for serious money.”
“You want a steady job?”
“Not necessarily. But I wouldn’t mind making bank for some freelance work, so I have more time to spend on my own stuff. You heard what Hildy said. A magazine cover. Can you imagine?”
“That would be incredible. And of course I want to help.”
“Great. You can start by not screwing this up.” Jean stalked out of the kitchen.
“What did you mean about the dysfunctional thing?” Libby asked, half a step behind.
Her roommate sighed. “This is not the time.”
Libby accepted the subject change because she wasn’t in a place to push her luck (and didn’t really want to know). As they passed the living room, she glanced through the open doors, eyes landing on the giant nude. “Should we change her clothes?”
Jean had taken to dressing up the Lillibet portrait in different outfits, mostly (Libby assumed) for her own twisted amusement, though Hildy also found the ritual delightful, like a supersized paper doll.
Tonight, however, painted Lillibet was still wearing the seaweed bandolier and panties she’d had on that morning. With a huff of impatience, Jean retraced her steps to the kitchen, returning with a frilly white apron wadded up in one hand. Dragging the ladder into place, Jean climbed high enough to reach the sandy bikini, stripping it off and dropping it to the floor. With the same care she would have used to throw a pair of dirty socks in the hamper, Jean tossed the apron at the portrait.
“There,” she said, jumping down the last few rungs.
“Have you gotten any sleep in the last twenty-four hours?” Libby asked, struck by the lack of manic energy.
“I’m fine.” Jean was already on the move. Libby followed her up the stairs, feeling like the big dopey sidekick who didn’t get it.
“Tutu told the story about Malaekahana tonight,” she said to Jean’s back. When in doubt, pretend everything’s normal.
“Where the dude tries to murder his kids?”
“She made it an allegory about women in the workplace. So Hildy could get in a little dig at her uncle about taking over the family business.” Libby waited for Jean to give her a gold star for promoting their cause, but all she got was a grunt as Jean stepped into her temporary bedroom.
“That’s good, right?” Libby pressed, shutting the door behind her. “And I think everyone had fun—”
“Especially you and Ranger Dick?” Jean interrupted. “Did you show him a good time?”
“Jean, nothing happened.” Nothing explicit, anyway. You couldn’t put someone on trial for heated looks. “I was really good.”
“As in, you spent the whole evening with Hildy, hashing out the details of your new job?”
“It was a party! Not a business meeting.” An unpleasant memory surfaced. “Speaking of paperwork, Mr. L’s lawyer apparently left some documents he wants me to go over.” As a person more familiar with waiting tables than signing contracts, Libby’s first thought had been that her pretend husband was signaling for the check, until the true meaning of his urgent hallway pantomime landed.
Jean rifled through her gym bag, sniffing a bra before dropping it on the floor. “Well? What do they say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because you were too busy playing Dirty Heidi in the backyard with Vanilla Ice?”
There was too much to unpack in that Mad Libs of a sentence, so Libby avoided the whole thing. “We could look at it now?”
“I have to go to work, Libby.”
“Right. I know. I just feel more confident when you’re here.”
Jean’s cheeks puffed as she exhaled. “Listen.”
Uh-oh.
“I can’t always be there to hold your hand. At some point you’re going to have to deal with things on your own.”
Libby blinked against the sting in her eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not—” Jean broke off, pressing her lips together. “I’m trying to be an adult. I have to put on my own oxygen mask first. Especially if this plane is going down.”
“Is that what you think is happening?”
Jean shrugged. “Hopefully not. But it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve crapped out before the finish line.”
“Me?” Libby was aware that she hadn’t exactly girl-bossed her way through life, but since when was that her fault?
“One day you’re going to have to ask yourself, What do I, Libby Lane, really want? More than anything else.” Jean underlined the last part with a swipe of the hand. “And then go for it. All the way. Let the chips fall where they may.”
In typical Jean fashion, she didn’t wait for a comeback. Libby caught up with her halfway to the stairs.
“I am doing that,” she started to say, only to fall silent at the sound of a door opening at the end of the hall. Libby cringed at the scuffing footsteps, even before Mr. L’s voice hailed her.
“Libblibet,” he said, holding up a file folder.
“Lillibet,” she corrected under her breath.
“I have the papers for you to sign.”
Jean had moved closer, trying to peek at the densely printed page in his hand. “What is it?”
“Our prenuptial agreement. Very straightforward.”
Not the word Libby would have chosen, but she kept the snort inside. Her eyes met her best friend’s. Libby could tell Jean expected her to beg off.
“Is there a problem?” Mr. L asked. “I am merely protecting my business interests.”
“No,” Libby said, so firmly he flinched. “I promise not to come for your faucets. Do you have a pen?”
From the pocket of his suit jacket, he produced an ornate silver writing implement that probably cost as much as he was paying Libby to marry him.
Not that a prenup was the same as saying, I do.
She opened the folder, fumbling with the cap until she realized it screwed off. It wasn’t easy to write without a desk, especially with what turned out to be a fountain pen. The gesture lost some of the intended drama when Libby had to go over the first letter of her name four times. Still, she got it done, sending Jean a defiant look as she scratched the final e on the last page of a contract she hadn’t read.
How was that for follow-through?