Page 1 of Harvested By The Mountain Man
Chapter 1
Hannah
“Just one more page, mommy,” Ivy says. I’m holding a book that has exactly thirty-two pages, and we have already negotiated for the last four.
“Two,” I say, because I’m a pushover for good-night bargains and I like the way her eyes light when she wins things she didn’t expect to win. We’re reading Cinderella. I’d tried to steer her toward the hedgehog one, the story where the prickly creature saves a village with his cleverness, but there were pumpkins on this cover and that was the end of that argument.
I start the next page, balancing the book on my knees and lowering my voice for the fairy godmother. Ivy presses her palm to the page like she can absorb the story better that way. She’s admiring the new gown the fairy godmother has created out of thin air.
“Do you think the dress itches?” she asks.
“Probably,” I say. “Anything that sparkly has to be itchy.”
“What about the shoes?”
“Those are definitely delicate being made of glass,” I say. “And slippery.”
She considers this as I watch her mind absorbing the tale. “If I had a fairy godmother,” she says, matter-of-fact, “I’d ask for the kind of shoes that don’t hurt. And a pony that knows how to count.”
“Those are good requests,” I say. “Very practical. Your godmother would be proud.”
We keep going. I read the part about magic transforming mice into coachmen and a pumpkin into a carriage. Ivy makes a small surprised sound every time the picture changes. I have the words memorized, but tonight they sit in my mouth like a truth I don’t know how to tell. Happy endings are a page turn away in books like this. In real life, sometimes the clock strikes midnight before you ever get to the dance.
Ivy points at the prince. “Does he really love her? He doesn’t know her very well.”
“That’s a very smart question,” I say, stalling for time. “Maybe he loves how he feels when he’s with her. Sometimes you know people fast.”
“Like when I met Miss Carla at school and I just knew I wanted her to be my teacher forever?”
“Like that,” I say, because that answer is kinder than the ones I hold close. People can love you fast, and they can leave you fast too. The mind is a funny thing. It holds the memory of a slammed door longer than the sound the door made.
We reach the last page. Ivy sighs with satisfaction at the twirling gown, the glowing castle, the happily-ever-after stamped in a cursive font like a promise. I close the book and wedge it onto the crowded shelf. There are crayons in the gap where it used to reside, along with a plastic bracelet and a sockthat has been missing its partner for two laundry cycles. Life here has edges, yes, but it’s mostly soft. It’s mostly ours.
“Can we go get pumpkins tomorrow? I want two – a big one and a small one … just like you and me” Ivy asks.
She says tomorrow the way other people say Christmas. I tuck the quilt around her shoulders and smooth the hair from her forehead. “We can do that,” I say. “We’ll go to the ranch out in the valley. They have hayrides and hot cider.”
“And goats?”
“Yes,” I chuckle. “Very hungry goats.”
She giggles, satisfied. “Okay. Goodnight, Mommy.”
“Goodnight, Goose.” I kiss the warm spot above her eyebrow and switch on the small moon-shaped nightlight. Stars scatter across the ceiling in a faint spray of plastic glow. I stand in the doorway for a minute, listening to her breath settle into a slower pattern.
In the kitchen, the sink is full of dinner dishes. The counters are clean in the way you clean when you’re tired. They’re wiped but maybe not completely clean. I load the dishwasher and stare through the window over the sink. The sky outside is the color of blackberry jam. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. Somewhere closer, a car door closes hard and a porch light clicks on. It’s a neighborhood soundtrack I’ve grown used to, an ordinary chorus of people living their life, doing their best.
My phone vibrates on the counter. Marcy’s name brightens the screen with a confetti of text bubbles before I can even unlock it.
MARCY: How’d bedtime go? Did the princess get the prince or did our girl unionize and demand fair wages for pumpkin mice?
I smile and hit call.
“Hey,” she says, picking up on the first ring. “Tell me you survived Cinderella.”
“Barely,” I say. “I made it itchy. The dress, the shoes, the whole situation.”
“Good. Someone has to add grit to the narrative.” I can hear clattering in the background on her end, the cheerful chaos of three boys and a Labrador. “So what’s your beef tonight, Mama Bear?”
