Page 93 of Every Good Thing
We aren’t anymore, not like then. But it’s my fault. Her dream is too big for one person. She’s been in a rut caused by stress and overwhelm. I’ve failed to offer the support and encouragement I used to. Throwing tasks at her isn’t the same as helping. I haven’t given her enough credit. She’s a good boss, capable of change, not a frazzled woman running a dog park.
This Lena—my Lena—wouldn’t be a difficult employer.
“Oh, and I’ve decided on a new car,” she says, nibbling on a fry.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want a new car,” she returns. “I’m a farm girl. I want a truck. A Chevy Colorado, I think. Something big and rugged. What do you think?”
I smirk, imagining it. “Yes, that would suit you. Plus, the safety features—”
“Ugh, Ben. Don’t ruin it. Tell me it’s badass.”
I comply, chuckling. “Want to go for a test drive before we pick up Ruthie?”
She gasps. “Yes!”
The pot-bellied salesman at the dealership eyes Lena in a way I don’t like. At all. He speaks in mumbled Carolinian when I ask about the vehicle’s features. When I ask him to repeat himself, he jokes about “cleaning the wax from my ears.” Lena doesn’t interject or speak for me but signs the information so that I understand. Randy turns red at his obvious idiocy—I hope that means he won’t ridicule anyone else for having trouble hearing.
“It’s still a good day,” she says when he leaves to retrieve the keys.
I have to agree. Lena drives the truck like a professional, whipping around corners and merging in and out of traffic. She loves the truck.
But when we return to the dealership, she hands Randy the keys with a firm “No, thanks” before pulling me to the Jeep.
“I thought you liked it,” I say.
“I love it, but I’m not buying it from that guy. Did you see how he looked at me when we got here?” She shivers. “Creepy.”
I laugh. This is my favorite Lena—my Lena. Present, funny, loving, and the only woman in existence who knows what I need without words. She seems to understand that this is what I need today.
Not career advice.
Not rehashing my hearing options.
She doesn’t even mention our therapy session, though I displayed minimal effort and need to do better.
We pick Ruthie up from preschool, and she shares a dramatic account of her day while I hold her mother’s hand across the front seat. I long for home and a quiet evening with Lena curled up on one side of me and Ruthie on the other as we watch TV.
But arriving home, any plans for a relaxing evening are upended.
Cars line the country road, haphazardly parked along our outer fence. A camera-toting crowd assembles at the foot of our driveway, blocking the path. I lay on the horn, whipping the Jeep around Officer Bennett’s patrol car, already stationed where I want a gate. The studio’s few security guards stand with him, keeping a weak barrier.
“What’s going on, Dad?” Ruthie asks.
“Paparazzi… it’s a funny word for pushy photographers,” I say.
“That is a funny word,” Ruthie says after failing to say it properly. I don’t correct her. It’s not a word that should be in a four-year-old’s vocabulary. “Take Ruthie home. I’ll deal with this.”
Lena obeys, crawling into my seat when I exit. The Jeep peels down the lane as I approach Bennett.
“Hey, Ben.” He shakes my hand. “Got ourselves a nuisance here. They’re mostly behaving, but the security team caught a few wandering the property earlier and called me for backup.”
With Bennett at my side, I approach the line and demand their attention.
“I’m Lieutenant Ben Wright, Wilmington Police. This is private property. Remove your vehicles before I have them towed. You have ten minutes to comply.” I hold up the timer on my phone. “Step on our land after that, and I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
The group confers, assessing their surroundings. With the Harveys’ cornfield towering across the street and our pastures taking up this side, there’s nowhere to park without infringing on private property. Country roads don’t have shoulders to pull onto or nearby parking lots.
