The small mattress in the corner reminds me that I was her exception, the only one who ever joined her. Some days after school and dance practice and dinner and dishes, I’d come out here to watch her make things while I did my homework. The memory is so clear I almost see the younger version of myself, back pressed to the wall, legs crossed on the thin mattress, Trapper Keeper balanced in my lap, number two pencil in hand, one long braid hanging over my shoulder. We didn’t even talk much. She knew I needed to get my work done, and I suppose I knew she needed the quiet to think. I rarely asked her about what.
The scents of Mama’s hobbies collide, fragrant and varied, trapped in the unstirred air of this room all these months. I venture over to the shelves, still neatly lined with Ball jars, vivid with the colors of her fruits and vegetables. I kick off my shoes like this is holy ground and pick up a jar of her strawberry preserves. I was in the eighth grade when she won the blue ribbon for her preserves at the county fair. I was ten when she started making soap, selling it at the diner to make extra money to cover my ballet class.
Were these just hobbies? Things on the side to make extra money? Rituals that kept something sweet or fresh always on our table? There was a sadness that hung around Mama when she was out here that she rarely showed beyond that door. I don’t know if it was a privilege or a burden that I saw it when I was here, diagramming sentences and learning about the Civil War.
Did she come in here to ponder what my father took from her? What she’d lost? Mama always sacrificed for my improbable dreams. Not many actually make it the way I have, the way I am, but Mama always believed I would be a star. Her dreams, in comparison, were so modest. Be a good wife and mother. Make a home. Have a happy marriage. The irony of my dreams, so farfetched coming true, and her simple hopes being crushed doesn’t escape me.
I pull down a jar of pear preserves. Strawberry won the ribbon, but pear was always my favorite. The Ball jar top untwists easily under my fist, the little lid popping back to free the scent of pears. I dip one finger into the sticky mixture, tasting the nostalgia of early mornings, biscuits smeared with preserves. Maybe it’s been so long, or maybe this was a bad batch, but it leaves something slightly bitter on my tongue. Was it always there? Did I never notice? Did Mama stuff the isolation, the unhealed pain, the unrelenting loneliness into these Ball jars so that she could smile for the world beyond this shed? Is this where all her hurt went? Was I too young and self-absorbed to detect it before?
The wind chimes tinkle and the door opens, bringing no light now that the sun has set. I don’t know how long I’ve been out here, but the frown on Rhyson’s face tells me it may have been too long.
“You okay out here, Pep?” He leans a shoulder into the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.
“I’m fine.”
I prop a hip against the worktable, watching his confident stride toward me. What must it be like to be Rhyson? So sure. So strong. I can’t take my eyes off him, and he’s not even trying to seduce me. As soon as he’s close enough, I’m reaching for him, my arms slipping around his waist, my head dropping to his chest.
“You finished your soap operas, I presume?”
“You do not get to tease me about that.” A chuckle vibrates in his chest, rumbling against my cheek through his t-shirt. “Aunt Ruthie and I were bonding.”
“Over soap operas?” I lean back, smiling at my beautiful man.
“Whatever it takes.” He reaches down to drop a kiss on my lips, the smile fading. “Bristol just called.”
My smile fades, too. Work. LA. Real life. Scandal. Secrets. Crack the door and it all floods in.
“And?” The question lands on his chest since I won’t lift my head to look at him.
“I promised Kilimanjaro I’d meet with them face to face when they came to LA to talk about a deal with Prodigy.” He cups my neck, caressing the skin under my hair. “They arrive tomorrow and leave the next day.”
“Of course you should go.” It’s so stupid to have tears in my eyes. I blink several times until they dry up, coughing a little to cover the tremble in my voice.
“You’re coughing.” His hand slips to the small of my back. “Should you be out here at night?”
“Rhys, I’m fine. I just coughed. I . . . it’s okay.” I run my thumb over the fullness of his bottom lip. “I’m fine. I want you to go back to LA. Kilimanjaro will be great on Prodigy, and I don’t want you to lose them.”
“I’ll be back in a couple days.”
“You don’t have to.” I lower my eyes to my toes, feet bare on the little rope rug Mama placed at the work table.
“I had a surprise getaway booked for us after the tour.” He smiles at the shocked expression I know is all over my face. “Yep, but those plans were foiled.”
“No one says foiled,” I say absently, still processing the vacation I missed. “Where were we going?”
“I still have it tucked away, so I’m not telling you. I’ll surprise you with it when you least expect it. Just you and me.”
He leans down to brush his lips over mine. When he would pull back, I grip his neck, deepening the kiss, my tongue insisting, searching his mouth. The thought of losing him for even just a few days after so long without him squishes my heart in my chest. I fist his thick hair, my hands wandering down to squeeze his ass.