I was having a cooking renaissance, starting with my baking, which the old folks at Dove House enjoyed (most specifically Mr. Dennison, who was a total flirt, and Mrs. McMurphy, who still thought I was a Nazi spy but that didn’t stop her from liking my cookies).
But also, I was learning to cook for one, something that had once caused me to fall into the pit of agony I’d dug, but now I’d decided to take as a challenge.
First, there were things that I could freeze, and if I ever gave an extra hour (or two, as I was wont to do) to Dove House and came home fatigued, I could have a readymade meal that was also delicious.
Second, there were casseroles, which often tasted even better as leftovers.
In trolling for things to add to my whimsical beachy bedroom (that was coming around, I’d bought the mattresses and also found some fabulous prints for the walls that were whimsical and beachy without being trite or cutesy), I’d gone off course and started looking up recipes.
And I found one I couldn’t wait to try. A hash brown casserole that, with its ingredients, could be nothing but scrumptious.
However, I was going over to Josie and Jake’s that night to have dinner with them and the kids. Jake was gearing up to let his oldest son go off to college and Josie had told me he was holding up, but mostly so Conner wouldn’t sense his dad was not fired up to watch his first son leave the nest. She was looking for ways to distract him at the same time give him more time with his son, which meant, in Josie’s eyes, dinner party.
I was looking forward to it and not only because I liked Josie (after my meltdown we just kept getting closer) but also because I liked her husband and kids and wanted a chance to get to know them better.
Not to mention, Conner’s girlfriend, and Alyssa’s daughter, Sofie was going to be there and Josie told me they were adorable together (she’d even put the emphasis on it). Sofie was a singer and had had some singing thing the day of the house sale so I hadn’t met her, or seen her with her boyfriend, so I was looking forward to that too.
But I was going to Dove House the next day and I wanted hash brown casserole for dinner the next night (perhaps with a nice pork tenderloin, which would also keep and be great for sandwiches). And since Dela hadn’t found more volunteers, my three days a week at three hours a day were becoming four or five hours a day, and because I knew how much work there was to do, I’d at least pop in for an hour or two other days.
That plus doing my own cleaning, laundry, errands, grocery shopping, continuing to augment my wardrobe, wandering my new environs, hanging with my new friends and decorating my new house meant I was busy and on the go pretty much constantly.
And being busy and on the go pretty much constantly, I was in a rush that day to get the shopping done, get to the flower shop to buy a bouquet to bring with me to Lavender House (where Josie, Jake and family lived), get home and get everything put away before I had to head out. I’d asked if I could help Josie make dinner and she said Ethan was her helper but I could be an alternate sous chef while drinking wine and chatting.
That sounded fun and I didn’t want to miss that opportunity.
So I was also ready for dinner at a friend’s.
This meant I was in skinny jeans that were a dark wash but also had a subtle glimmer of silver. These I’d paired with a fabulous silvery-green blouse that was gathered at the waist and wrists, with full sleeves and no collar, but it had buttons down the front which could, or could not (as the case right then was) be opened to bare a little somethin’-somethin’.
My hair was blown out, bangs wispy against my eyelashes. Makeup done in browns, taupes, greens and peaches. All this much more color and flair than the neutral-only palette my mother ingrained in me, but it highlighted every good feature I had, making my hazel eyes and rounded cheekbones stand out beautifully.
And last, on my feet were the spike-heeled, criminally elegant, unbelievably trendy silver pumps that were the first thing Josie had shown me when she and Alyssa guided me back to me.
Me being dressed and ready to roll, even grocery shopping was something that would end up being most fortunate.
And this began when I turned into an aisle, eyes scanning the shelves for anything I needed or just wanted in my pantry, and I felt the hairs stand on end at the nape of my neck.
I looked down the aisle and froze when I saw my daughter, Olympia, with her stepmother, Martine.
I took in my pretty girl and then trained my gaze on Martine.
It had not been lost on me that my husband had a type.
Thus Martine Moss was a younger version of me.
And standing there staring at her in her fabulous outfit (but for once, mine was so much better) with her thick dark hair a cloud around her pixie face, her big green eyes round and pinned on me, this fact yet again did not escape me.
What also didn’t escape me was that her mouth was hanging open.
As was my daughter’s.
Honestly, as I’d wanted to do every time I saw Martine, my first inclination was to walk right up to her and slap her across the face.
But I’d never done that.
This time, I didn’t do it either.
I also didn’t do what I might normally do, which was cause an unholy scene.
What I did was stroll their way, stop and look to my daughter.
“Hey, honey,” I said quietly.
With visible effort, she shifted her astonished face to bored and mumbled, “Mom.”
I looked to Martine. “Martine.”
She also shifted her stunned expression but hers hardened and she said nothing.
I let that go and looked back to my daughter. “Good to see you, Pippa.” I tipped my head down and smiled. “Like your shorts.”
She just glared at me.
I took that and kept smiling at her. “Looking forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks.”
“Whatever,” she muttered, casting her gaze to the floor.
I took that too and said softly, “Enjoy your day, sweets.” She didn’t look at me so I looked to Martine. “You too,” I said and wanted to twist myself into a knot in order to pat my own back that it came out (almost) like I meant it.
Then I turned to the aisle and started pushing my cart away.
I stopped when Martine snapped, “Seriously?”
I kept facing forward but twisted their way. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you honestly believe we’re gonna fall for your crap?” she asked, and she’d twisted too.
Not her body.
Her face.
I stared at her and with tardy but blazing clarity something struck me.
Not once. Not twice. Not rarely. But nearly always.
She goaded me.
She did not simper and shrink away. Even if I was only in the mood to lob spit balls, she returned fire with poisoned arrows. She had stolen my husband, and from the beginning she never hesitated once to go after me.
And right then, when I was about to walk away, she wanted me to bring it.
She wanted me to look like a bitch in front of my children. She wanted them to think I was a whackjob.