Page 71 of Every Good Thing
And someone ran through my garden with a golf cart, ruining my cucumbers and my plan to pickle them.
My “vacation” from Saddletree has only made me more stressed.
“Growing pains,” Mr. Wickers says, tipping his coffee mug as we meet on the wraparound deck outside my house overlooking the pond.
I invited Trisha to talk dining room business, Alice Harvey about Ben’s van idea, Dot and Cherry for moral support, Jaye because sets were in transition (and for Dot), and Mr. Wickers because, why not?
“It’ll pass,” he adds on. “All relationships have to iron out the wrinkles.”
“The studio is extremely apologetic about the snafus,” Jaye says as Ruthie hands her a teacup and splashes lemonade into it.
“Jack and I could do without the spotlights shining into our bedroom at all hours,” Alice says, tidying her skirt around her knees, “but we’re not ones to complain.”
Ben has. With our bedroom at the back of the house, closest to the outer trail, we’ve dealt with the lights, too. And the noise. Between that and Ben’s nightmares, it’s a wonder we sleep at all.
“Don’t everyone get your panties in a bunch. Dr. Jim Hunter is saving humanity from crazy-ass witches out there,” Dot says as if it’s real. “They’re filming the most elaborate scenes in the woods first while the weather cooperates. Soon, they’ll move to the house for the tamer stuff—out of sight, out of mind.”
I doubt it, I think, but don’t say.
“Am I right, Jaye?” Dot turns toward her, though they’re close, like first daters in a movie theater. A magical spark fires when their eyes meet—lips upturned, eyes narrowed, cheeks blushing—as if Cupid has sprinkled love dust over their heads. Or banged their heads together.
“Absolutely right. We have some on-location days coming up. That’ll give everyone a break, too,” she adds with gentle enthusiasm.
“That’ll be nice,” I sigh. “Ben’s been…” I don’t know how to finish my sentence. Irritated. Quieter than usual. Livid. He blames his frustrations on me—all bitter fruit from the same poisoned tree I let take over our home. I broke out Avery’s “surefire seduction lingerie” for Ben the other night—it misfired, and I’m still stinging from his rejection. For the first time in our marriage, he told me he was tired—tired.
With his working interview taking place as we speak, I’m hyped up on high anxiety.
Even so, I report my progress. We discuss the new software I’ve purchased with Ben’s help, and make plans with Trisha and Mr. Wickers to learn it. Cherry agrees to design a logo, and Dot volunteers to take Alice and me van shopping.
Then, we agree to Friday afternoon meetings for future updates on our progress, which I promptly add to the family calendar.
When the meeting’s over, Ruthie and I walk the group downstairs, saying goodbye at the barn’s entrance. Mr. Wickers and Trisha leave together, and so do Dot and Jaye. My heart flutters, hoping that my sweet friends find love like me.
But my shoulders slump. Ben and I aren’t exactly ideal models for happily-ever-after right now.
“Mom, ready to feed the animals?” Ruthie tugs my hand.
“First the animals, then us. Deal?”
“Deal. I’m starving.”
“Hmm, what’re you fixing for dinner?” I ask with a playful smile before glancing down the empty driveway and feeling disappointed that Ben’s not home yet.
Ruthie taps her chin. “Waffles? No, wait… French toast?”
“Dinner, not breakfast—”
“Hi.”
My shoulders jerk in surprise before twisting around and laughing at the man standing there. It’s Matt Kirby. The Matt Kirby. I’m taken back in time to Mom and me in the shag-carpeted, wood-paneled living room where we’d binge-watch TV shows, his especially, to take her mind off how terrible she felt. Matt Kirby made cameos in my restless dreams back then, a calming presence amid the chaos. Few things made Mom giddy, but this would have.
“Hi,” I repeat dumbly, taking in his boyishly handsome features. He looks exactly the same as on TV, from his thick, neatly styled hair to the light expanse of stubble along his strong jawline.
His hand magnetizes to mine, and he cradles it there softly. “I’m Matt. You must be Lena.”
“Um, yes. I’m Lena.” His blue eyes are mesmerizing. I drop his hand, fearing that I’ve held it too long. “This is Ruthie.” She gives him a light wave, unimpressed. “I’m a big fan.”
“Oh,” he says, as if he never hears that. “Well, the Hunter series is—”
