My Very Best Friend (28 page)

Gitanjali said, “A peace to all who here. Let us be the loving—”

“Not much blood!” Kenna said triumphantly. “I don’t have to treat anyone.”

“I have to go to bars more often,” Malvina gushed. “I think I’ve been missing out, indeed.”

The Arse shoved and pushed the screeching, spitting Slut out, vowing that Rowena would “regret this, bitch.”

Rowena pushed her red hair back, straightened her shirt, then said to the owner, her cousin, “I apologize, Kevin. Lost my head, that I did.”

“No problem, luv. I understand.”

“Here. I’ll get the table and chairs back up.”

We helped clean things up and tossed the food in the trash so the waitress didn’t have to do it. Rowena grabbed a mop, and when all was well again, the Gobbling Fighting Garden ladies sat down.

We had a few drinks, even Lorna, who had come stomping in a few minutes later, face flushed. Lorna and Malvina danced only after Lorna had had too much to drink, which Malvina encouraged.

When Lorna slurred out, “London. Spaghetti. Curtains and Candy. I spy a girl with a married dandy,” I knew the fun would begin for them.

As my cottage was almost done, I would need to buy a few pieces of furniture to hold me over until I could make Toran fall in love and lust with me or until the blond bomb showed up and ruined everything and I had to run her over.

I worked in the morning, then put on my jeans with the rope belt, a blue T-shirt with science beakers on it, and my white blouse over that. No one would notice the slight blueberry stain on the collar.

My first stop was an antique shop.

Antiques have stories. As a storyteller, I relate to them. Who owned them? What were the owners’ lives like? Did they meet their soul mate? What did the owners endure that life threw at them, like a sword to the gut? Who did they love? Who did they hate? What was their greatest accomplishment and most glaring failure? What quirks and idiosyncrasies did they have?

I bought a sleigh bed, the curves elegant slopes. I also bought a dresser for my bedroom. The dresser had a mirror, but it also had handles in the shapes of horse stirrups. Humor in an antique! I bought a wardrobe with long, carved doors. It reminded me of the wardrobe in Narnia, the books that Clan TorBridge-PherLotte read together.

I bought three side tables for the family room. Where would I put my tea and books if I didn’t have tables?

I bought an antique sideboard for the entry with legs that were carved in a swirly design, and I bought a tall, wide oak bookshelf that I would use in the kitchen for my cookbooks, candles, and extra plates and glasses.

After those purchases, I headed to a more modern furniture store. I bought a long, blue plush couch in an L shape. I bought two chairs in red, the type that seats two people each, both with ottomans.

The store owners said they’d bring the furniture to me. Next stop, the light shop. I needed lights. I like lights. I bought eight lamps from Light Us Up.

Two had crystal bases and white shades, which I’d use for my bedroom; two had bases with a Scotsman and a Scotswoman in traditional Highland dress, which I’d use for my library; two were tall and normal, with white shades; and two were small with red shades and a bagpipe base that I would use in the kitchen.

I envisioned myself reading and writing in one of the red chairs, a blanket over my lap, glasses on, tea in hand, Silver Cat plus my other four cats wandering around, wearing my bunny slippers that Bridget gave me.

I thought of that image.

I groaned.

Frumpy Boring Cat Woman, that’s who I was.

That’s who I am.

Meow. Hiss.

Boo.

I decided to picture myself in a red negligee sitting on the red chair waiting for Toran to do a strip tease in front of me. His red and black kilt would go flying, his tartan sliding off his massive chest. He would toss me over his shoulder and carry me upstairs while singing a smooth, Scottish romance song about “his woman.”

Much better.

Dear Charlotte,

As you know, I was called to Molly Cockles last night because of the ruckus.

After a short chat, Rowena’s husband, Gareth, and his girlfriend, Chrissy, who also goes by the name Bubbles, as you know, but who Rowena calls The Slut, have decided they will not be pressing any charges against Rowena.

I did inform Gareth that Rowena told me he is behind on his child support. I told him he needed to pay up immediately, and that I personally would be notifying the office for child subsidies that he was in arrears. Gareth wrote a check when I was there. I asked if that brought him up current, and he said no, so I ripped the check up and we went through the process again. And, indeed, a third time.

I further told Chrissy (Bubbles) that though Rowena did dump the table on her, and there was a squabble, she started it by taking a woman’s husband away from her, the father of her children, and I could not possibly charge Rowena, as she was provoked. I told her I had no patience for home wreckers.

I must say that I thought it was sisterly of the rest of you ladies—even Lorna Lester!—to get on the bar as backup singers for Rowena when she sang, “I’m Going to Rip His Manhood from Him.” I had never heard that song, and I was told later she made it up on her own. Impressive, though violent, poetry.

Sincerely,

Chief Constable Ben Harris

A friend of your parents. May your father’s soul rest in the palm of God.

PS I am going to invite Gitanjali to dinner once again. She did seem to be pleased with the china cup and saucer with the hand-painted flowers that I bought her, so I decided to take the advice you gave me in the village the other day, about how she loves elephants, and buy her a full tea set with elephants. I drove to Edinburgh and found the perfect one. It only took seven hours of searching, but I do believe it will bring a smile.

Dear Chief Constable Harris,

I would have to agree with you that Rowena does have a special talent in making up poetic, though violent, songs. Which is why I enjoyed singing the songs she wrote for us on a napkin, including, “I Want My Ex-Husband to Lose His Function” and “That Man Has a Wobbly Dick.” The lyrics were so simple, all could join in, and many did.

I am pleased by the wide variety of plants and flowers growing here in Scotland. It is an endless state of interest and entertainment to me. I have bought three books on Scottish flowers and I can hardly wait to read and study them each day, along with their Latin names.

Did my advice for your hydrangeas prove helpful?

Charlotte

PS I am sure that Gitanjali will be well pleased with the elephant tea set.

It was time for me to move into my cottage. Stanley I and Stanley II were finished, and they had done a remarkable job.

I had cleaned it all day, vacuumed and dusted, and arranged all the furniture.

I would move in tomorrow, my mattress arriving in the morning.

Toran and I hardly spoke at dinner.

We hardly spoke the next morning.

I was miserable.

He helped me move my suitcase and a couple of boxes to my house. I had trashed the suitcase I’d duct taped. I carried Silver Cat. She slept on my bed and followed me around the house and even up to my office next to Toran’s.

Toran stood with his hands on his hips and took it all in, the new kitchen with the white cabinets and white tile backsplash, the refinished floors, the white wainscoting, the antiques, the blue couch, the lights. “I like it.”

“I do, too.” I will miss you.
I have adored every minute of living with you, Toran.

“You designed it well. I like the paint colors, yellow and white.”

“Me too. Cheerful.”
I am aching. Can you see my aches?

“Lots of light here.”

“Let there be light,” I muttered.
Please. Let’s have dinner together. And breakfast and lunch and brunch and snacks and chocolate.

“I like the way you kept the beams as they were in the bedrooms upstairs.”

“Yes. My mom liked those beams. She liked the tree it used to be, though she felt bad for the tree.”
How am I going to live here without thinking of you every minute?

“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “You’re all set.”

“Yes.”
I wasn’t set. Living with Toran was the best time of my life.

He took a step forward and hugged me. I hugged him back.

“Thank you, Toran, totally, truly and terribly.”
Shoot. Alliterations!

He seemed slightly confused about the “terribly” part.

“Aye, luv, anytime. See you soon at the farm.”

He turned and left.

I miss you already.

I thought, maybe, perhaps, could I have seen a shimmer of water in his eyes? Was I imagining that? Or was it a pathetic, desperate delusion?

I couldn’t see too well, though, as my tears had turned my eyes into little lakes.

Toran had been a part of my life and thoughts since before I could truly think, analyze, synthesize, and evaluate on my own. We were together as babies, toddlers, children, teenagers. We grew up together.

I have always loved him. The love changed, as I loved him when I was a kid to a teenager, and now as a woman, but it has always been there. Loving Toran came as naturally to me as . . . as . . . gardening.

Toran was my garden. My heart’s garden.

I should have been happy in my bright home. Instead I curled up on my blue couch and had a sloppy cry. Silver Cat curled up beside me.

She meowed. I meowed back.

With Toran’s permission, I had brought the brown box with Bridget’s letters with me. That night I settled on the iris comforter he had bought me. I read my letters to Bridget that she’d saved. I chatted about not liking school in Seattle, missing my father, college, my garden, and my research on gene therapy. I had asked her many questions about her life. My letters sounded so shallow and silly next to hers.

I felt like I was breaking inside as I read more, a part of me crumbling, dying.

For her, for my best friend, Bridget.

March 3, 1973

Dear Charlotte,

I had the baby. She was early. I thought she was going to rip me in two. Only at the end did the nuns give me something for the pain. Now I understand why girls scream during birth.

The baby is a little girl. I named her Legend. Remember all the legends your dad told us? That’s why I chose that name. I used to pretend, Charlotte, that your father was my father. He was my legend.

They let me hold her for three hours. One of the nuns took three photos. One of only my baby, one of me holding my baby in bed, one of me holding my baby by the window.

Then they came and took my baby! Took her, took her! I told them that I changed my mind and I wanted to keep my baby. They tried to take my baby from me but I fought and kicked and screamed, and they brought in two men and they held me and stole my baby and I kept crying and kicking and screaming and they said calm down calm down calm down and I said bring me back my baby bring me back my Legend and they said no she is gone she is with her real family you can’t have that baby you can’t take care of it stop it stop it stop screaming Bridget.

Stop screaming Bridget.

Stop!

I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore and they gave me a shot.

Shot. Shot. I was shot.

The baby had Toran’s blue eyes.

Love,

Bridget

March 6, 1973

Dear Charlotte,

I want my baby I want my baby I want my baby I kept screaming I want my baby I want my baby I want my Legend they kept saying to hush up hush up hush up.

Hush up, Bridget. Be quiet, Bridget. Stop crying, Bridget. Shut up, Bridget.

I can’t be quiet. I want Legend. Where is she? I never said they could take her.

Love,

Bridget

Bridget, sweet Bridget. Where are you? Please come home
.

I loved my home.

I loved that I was walking across the wood floors that my grandparents and parents had walked across before me. I loved how I could have Scottish Scrambled Warrior eggs, my father’s recipe, with onions, diced tomatoes, and garlic, at the same dining table where four generations of Mackintoshes had sat. I loved the armoire with the honeysuckle vine my granddad made my grandma.

I loved the yellow on the walls, the new windows that were so clear I felt like I was outside. I loved the pitched roof of my sky blue bedroom with a beam that reminded my mother of a tree.

I loved how the cottage looked outside. The stone was cleaned up, the door was bright red again, the shutters white.

It was the home of my soul, the home of my clan and my family.

But there was no Toran here. Even when Toran wasn’t home at his house, I knew he would be coming home soon.

He called me that night. We talked for two hours.

I felt better when I hung up. Then I felt lonely again, hopeless, sickeningly desperate, and nervous. I assured myself I could be an independent feminist and brainlessly in love with a man.