17. Lucy
17
LUCY
I wake Friday morning to voices.
Or maybe just one voice.
The clock reads eight a.m. I’ve slept through the afternoon and the night, and I’m not sure what bodily function is screaming the loudest—bladder, hunger, or thirst.
There’s a bathroom attached to this room, blue and white to match the decor. I don’t figure Court to be one to examine paint swatches, so I assume he used a decorator.
But then, I didn’t expect him to have romance novels either.
It’s a great relief to empty my bladder. As I wash up, I smooth down my wild hair. I need to check on Matilda before I do anything else, so I tiptoe down the hall toward the living room.
Court is in a full business suit, pacing around the sofa and coffee table. This room is masculine, with brown leather sofas and dark wood. The only color had been the shiny Bridgerton shelf, which had stuck out, but now is gone. He’s goat proofing his place.
I like him a little more than I did before.
He waves at me as he continues his conversation, something about sponsoring a festival in Colorado. That sounds fun. And we could visit. Would he go? I’ll have to ask.
I open one side of the French doors to the balcony, and Matilda trots up to me. I take a step out, then hop as I step on something small and hard. Goat pellets, the food kind. They’re spilling out of a cloth bag in the far corner.
Rookie mistake, leaving the bag in Matilda’s space. She can chew through most containers. “How much did you eat?”
Judging by the poop, more than she should have.
I try to pick up the bag to move it inside, but it’s way too heavy. Instant pains shoot up my belly.
There’s a broom in the corner that wasn’t there before, and the teeth marks on the handle tell me Matilda took an interest in that, too. Court is being so kind to take care of her, but he needs a serious primer on goat habits.
I use the broom to sweep up the poop, then realize he’s bought some sort of diaper system. I puzzle out what to do with it when he opens the door. “Just dump it in there and turn the top.” Then back on the phone. “Why don’t you send the proposal to my assistant Devin?”
I tilt the dustpan into the top of the strangely shaped bucket lined with plastic. Oh, the evil plastic. But I’ll do it this once since he asked. I turn the top in the direction of the arrows, and the plastic seals right up, leaving an open space for the next deposit.
Huh. Maybe if we could get compost-degradable bags, it wouldn’t be so bad.
There’s a water spigot out here, so I rinse off the stiff broom bristles and the dustpan. The water quickly slides off the balcony beneath the wrought-iron railing. Uh oh. I shut it off and peer over the edge. The water falls all the way to the sidewalk below where people are walking.
“Hey!” someone shouts and peers up.
I quickly step back.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to run water up here like that,” I tell Matilda.
She plops down on the wet concrete.
It’s pleasant on the balcony with the fans and the mist. I think of sitting out with her, mainly to keep her out of the bag of pellets, but my stomach growls again.
I’m stuck. I’ll have to bother Court.
“Don’t eat any more pellets, Matty,” I tell her, shaking my finger.
She pays me no mind, lolling on the wet floor.
I step back inside the apartment. I’ve only taken a couple of squishy steps when I realize my damp feet are leaving dark footprints on the glossy floor. Shoot.
“Don’t worry about it,” Court says, pocketing the phone. “My housekeeper will be here this afternoon. Are you hungry?”
“I am, but first, can we bring in the bag of pellets? I’m so grateful you found some, but Matilda’s eaten through the side of the bag, and she’ll gorge herself sick.”
“Really?” Court hurries to the door. “Oh.” He pulls in the bag, leaving a trail of pellets both outdoors and inside near my footprints. “I should have checked.”
“She’s fine. I’ll milk her shortly.”
“I have some pitchers. Take whatever you need.” He stands near a round wood dining table at the end of the kitchen. “I had some food delivered. For you, too, not just the goat.”
“Her name’s Matilda.” I slide past him to the refrigerator. It’s enormous and bright and filled with every fruit and vegetable I could imagine.
“I got eggs. You eat those, right? The wandering chicken kind. I figured you wouldn’t eat the others.”
“You mean free-range?” I bite back my smile.
“Yes, that. And three kinds of tofu. I didn’t know if you liked it silky or firm. I didn’t even know what it meant.”
“It’s all fine. I’m not picky.” I pull an apple out of the fridge and wind up shoving it in my mouth before I can even wash it. I’m too hungry.
“There’s a sticker on it,” he says, stepping forward to peel it off. “They’re organic.”
I nod and take another bite on the way to the sink. Only with something in my belly do I manage to pause to wash it. Then I stand there and gobble it down to the stem.
“You were hungry,” he says. “Can I make you something?”
“I’m okay.” I hold on to the stem.
“Trash is under the sink. You probably compost, don’t you?”
“I’ll give it to Matilda for a treat. Did we get away clean, or did you hear from the building management?”
He clasps his hands behind his back. “We got away clean. We make good criminals.”
I picture him running down the hall, Matilda on his heels. “Maybe in a comedy.” I set the apple core on the counter. “So, am I moving somewhere else?”
“Not yet. Devin is working on it. It will probably be Monday.”
“Oh. Am I staying here, then?”
“Until some farm thing is over. They filled up a lot of the spots you would have liked. The goat is limiting.” He lifts his hands. “Not that she’s a problem.”
I smile inwardly. He’s acting differently this morning. A lot less salty. Almost… concerned.
“There’s a farm expo this weekend. Caroline mentioned it.”
“Right. That must be the holdup. Will you be okay if I head to the office? I didn’t want to leave until you were up and about.”
“I’m okay. We’ll be fine.”
“Good, good. Like I said, Maggie will be here later, so don’t be alarmed when she comes in. And I’m a phone call away.”
“Did you get your car back?”
“It’ll come today. They’re driving it here and taking back their car. Devin arranged it.”
“Okay, good.” The apple has made me even more hungry, but I don’t want to devour half his refrigerator contents in front of him.
He takes a few steps back. This entire exchange has been awkward and different.
“Are you okay, Court?”
“I’m good,” he says. “I’ll check in with you later.” Then he practically bolts out of the kitchen.
I sit at the table and listen as his front door opens, then clicks shut. His apartment is eerily silent and immaculate. The kitchen is cappuccino colored, dark cabinets, light countertops, marbled tile. You could do a cooking show in it with the double ovens, wide steel sinks, and industrial-sized fridge.
A central island has the stove, a griddle, and a cutting board. Pristine pans hang above it in an artful display.
But even so, it doesn’t compare to Grandma BeeBee’s kitchen, always smelling of garlic and earthy potatoes and something baking all the time. Her cabinets were cluttered with cloth-covered bowls and jars ready for canning or pickling. There was always fruit in baskets and fresh cookies on a plate.
This kitchen is pretty and expensive and clean, a lot like my parents’ had been. But it isn’t full of life. It isn’t home.
I could fix this, but I won’t be here longer than a few days.
Even so, maybe I could soften the edges. A bowl of oranges in the corner. A few potatoes in a basket. Maybe a jar with cookies. I wonder if he has ingredients.
A quick look through the cabinets and inside an expansive pantry tells me that Court has never cooked a day in his life. There’s no flour, no oils, no spices of any kind.
He has the utensils, including oven mitts with the tags on them, and all the accessories.
But everything is pre-made, packaged, or ready to eat. I’m guessing he has takeout often.
But I do have milk, butter, and eggs and every vegetable under the sun. He’s bought bread and peanut butter.
Peanut butter cookies! I can make those with nothing but egg and a sweetener. I dig into the fridge. Yes, there are dates! I can make date-sweetened peanut butter cookies!
I preheat the oven and hum to myself as I set to chopping and mixing, pausing to cut an avocado in half and scoop the inside directly into my mouth with a spoon.
Soon, the cookies are scooped onto the inaugural use of the nonstick pan and possibly the first pre-heating of the oven.
I mash the second half of the avocado with sprouts and scoop it into celery. I’m eating better than I have since I gave up my yoga job.
My phone buzzes. It’s Summer, asking how I’m doing.
Me: I had to leave the farm. They were using goats for meat!
Summer: Oh no!
Me: Court came and got me. I’m at his place until they find another farm.
Summer: You can’t stay there?
Me: It’s a high rise and no goats allowed!
Summer: But this could be it! You two could fall in love and live happily ever after!
Me: Not without Matilda.
Speaking of which, Matilda starts bleating outside, and I’m not sure what to do. I open the door, and she trots inside, heading straight for the bookshelf where the books were.
Court has changed several things, not just moving his books. The jacketed albums are gone as well. Does that mean it’s okay for Matilda to be inside?
I hurry her down the hall to my room to get her diaper put on. “It’ll be like having a baby here!” I tie the liner and cloth to her. “Let’s go back!”
I pat her rump to send her back down the hall to the kitchen. She trots ahead of me, enjoying the space to move, then takes off in a full run.
And that’s when I hear a scream.