Jackson #2
Beryl came to work for the ranch when Kate was pregnant with Odessa and could no longer keep up with the demands of cleaning bunkhouses, prepping lunches for the ranch hands, and running the house by herself.
But she quickly became so much more than an employee to us.
It had been a few years since my mom died at that point, and I don’t think my brothers and I realized how badly we needed a maternal presence in our lives again until Beryl showed up.
Now my kids call her Gran.
Without a moment to waste, Beryl starts on her morning routine, because within the next fifteen minutes or so, a herd of noisy, clumsy ranch hands will clamber into the spacious kitchen in search of coffee, bagged lunches, and whatever else they can get their hands on.
She tucks a batch of yesterday’s blueberry scones into the oven to warm them, leaving one out for Rhett, who prefers them cold, and sinks into the empty chair next to my son.
The sitting isn’t long. Never is for her. She swears that’s what keeps her feeling young and agile at her age.
“Rhett peed on the toilet seat again.” Odessa’s attitude enters the room before she does, and when she appears around the corner, her hands are firmly placed on her skinny hips.
With wavy, chocolate-brown hair that falls all the way to her lower back and giant doe eyes, she’s the spitting image of a young Kate. “It’s disgusting.”
Rhett turns to me with a guilty expression.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Bud, we’ve talked about this.”
“Sorry,” he says. He’s not sorry. We’ll be having this conversation again tomorrow.
Eyes cutting to where my daughter’s filling a bowl with Cheerios, I ask, “How’d you sleep, Princess?”
“Pretty good.” Milk splashes into the bowl and a few drops ricochet to land on the counter. Odessa swipes her arm across the mess and continues.
“Good enough you’re still up for a drive to the horse auction with me?”
I already know the answer. Odessa’s been obsessed with horses since she was a baby, and riding since she learned to sit on her own.
She loves horses even more than I did at her age.
With her birthday next month and a horse auction that happens to fall in the middle of her spring break, Kate and I agreed this was the perfect time for her first horse.
Her eyes light up. “You were serious? I get to come?”
“Best place to find you a new horse for your birthday, right?”
With an excited shriek, Odessa promptly turns toward the door, abandoning the carton of milk and bowl of Cheerios on the counter. “Let’s go!”
“Hold up,” I say through a laugh. “I gotta check on the training horses before we hit the road. Eat your breakfast.”
Rhett’s metal spoon clangs on the table. “I want to go.”
I suck my teeth. “Sorry, bud. Just me and sissy this time. You’d get way too bored sitting in the truck that long.”
He twists in his chair, gripping the smooth wooden back, to glare at his sister, who sticks her tongue out at him.
When Odessa sits down to eat, she’s beaming ear to ear, and over the rim of my coffee mug I give her a discreet wink.
Kate and Beryl have made more than their fair share of comments about Odessa becoming less of a daddy’s girl when she gets older.
That she won’t always want to hang out with me, and I should prepare myself for that, but I’m happier living in blissful ignorance, with a smidge of intense denial.
Besides, if she goes through a phase in her teen years where I’m suddenly uncool, I’m going to be grateful as hell for every chance I get to spend time with her now.
And sure, I won’t be able to get a word in edgewise with Odessa talking my ear off for the entire ten-hour drive, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Besides, I’m used to sitting down and shutting up. I’m married to Kate, after all.
The front door slams then, wafting brisk morning air down through the house, and chaos descends upon the kitchen.
Ranch hands tromping through in cowboy boots and winter woolies, grumbling and elbowing each other and grunting their thanks to Beryl as she fills travel mugs with steaming black coffee and reminds the grown men to take a bottled water with them.
She’s a mother hen tutting after them like they’re a group of preschoolers in need of direction.
Somewhere in the madness, Kate slips into the kitchen.
She’s dressed in a pair of my old blue jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, hair pulled into a messy bun that wobbles on top of her head with every step.
My wife typically only wears makeup when we’re going out, but I can tell she rouged her cheeks to combat the pallor of morning sickness.
Instinctively, I stand and brush past a couple of our long-term ranch hands to get to her.
Stepping in close to her, I quietly ask, “How are you feeling?”
“Like one of those scones is either going to be my saving grace or the death of me.” She licks her lips. “And I can’t wait to find out.”
“Sit.” I kiss her temple. “You’re in no state to be fighting off these guys to get one.”
“I’m always in a state to fight these animals.” Her hand shoots up in preparation to swat someone at just the right second to unintentionally threaten my younger brother on his way to the coffee machine.
Denny ducks, cursing under his breath. “Damn it, Kate. What did I do to get this treatment first thing in the morning?”
“Gotta keep you on your toes, Denny,” Kate retorts. She gives me a sly grin, then says, “You’re right. That took all my energy. Go win me a scone, handsome.”
Goods secured, I step in behind where Kate’s sitting at the table and quietly place her breakfast down next to the mug of black tea she’s cradling in both hands.
Mid-conversation with Denny and Odessa, she tips her head to look at me.
The wisps of hair sticking out at every angle from her bun flutter through the air, and she squints at the sunlight silhouetting me.
“Come say goodbye before you head out?”
“I’d never go anywhere without saying goodbye first, Kit.”