Broken Hearts (Hearts 2)

I braced myself for some platitude, some “Home is where the heart is” crap, but he only nodded and said, “It is.”

It occurred to me, on this rocky edge of the world, that the only place that had ever really felt like home was that pond and the willow tree next to it when I was a kid.

It was the only place where I wasn’t scared, and I could be myself. Inside the house, we’d all balanced on our tiptoes, afraid of our mother’s mood swings and mental state. And the senator’s house had been the opposite of a home. I’d renovated and decorated myself and my comfort right out of it.

Down there is nice, I thought, looking at the cottage and the man who’d brought me there.

But that was an uncomfortable thought too.

“It looks like your carrots could use some weeding,” I said, pointing to the corner of the fenced-in garden where the feathery heads of carrots were just beginning to unfurl.

“You know.” He laughed. “I’ve been waiting until the weeds got a little bigger because last year, I pulled out all the carrots and not the weeds. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.”

I started pulling one-handed, and he protested for a second but quickly gave up and went over to do some work with the tomato plants.

“You know, the fence is broken back here,” I said. The chicken wire had been bent back and I tried to bend it forward again, but it was rusted from the salt air and stuck. He needed a whole new section of chicken wire.

“I know. The deer around here are very clever. The hole isn’t big enough for them, but the pine martens are having a fine time.”

“You need a dog?”

“A dog I would like,” he said. “But the cats might not.”

“Why don’t you get one?”

“Not sure, to be honest. Not getting what I want has become a very strange, very Catholic habit.” He laughed when he said it, but he seemed so sad.

“I know that habit,” I said. “And I’m not Catholic.”

If I got out of this nightmare, what I wanted would be the only thing that mattered. I wouldn’t be anyone’s pawn, anyone’s wife. I’d be me on my own. I’d finish my degree. I’d get in the classroom, and fuck anyone who stood in my way. Even thinking that made me feel better.

Braver.

“When I get back home,” I said. “Nothing is stopping me.”

“Good for you, lass,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll see about that dog.”

I held out my left hand and he looked at me for a second and then laughed, a good hearty laugh. “We’re shaking on it?”

“We’re shaking on it.”

Grinning at each other, we shook, and for all the lies and pretenses, it felt like we were friends.

“Well, Poppy, you’ve done all my chores,” he said, his hands on his hips, a little twinkle in his eye. “What will I do with the rest of my hours?”

“We could fix this fence.”

“Not today, lass. Are you hungry?” At the mention of food, my stomach answered for me and he laughed. “Brilliant! It’s such a nice day; I’ll bring us a picnic.”

“Let me help—”

“Sit, lass. Sit.” And then he was gone, heaving open the heavy door and vanishing into the church.

The wind pulled at my hair and I remembered this trick as a girl: twisting my hair and tucking it into my shirt. I lay back against the green grass, a rock nudging me under my uninjured shoulder blade but not bad enough for me to get up.

“Taking a nap, are you?” the priest asked, coming back down from the church to sit next to me. He did it carefully, holding the tray he carried at the same time. There was egg salad flecked with black pepper and crackers with seeds and juicy slices of cucumbers. He pulled two brown bottles and a white cloth stained pink from his pocket.

“The first of the strawberries,” he said, setting the cloth down on the stone between us. “They’ll put a pucker on your face, but I can’t resist.”

I put one in my mouth and shook head to toe from its tartness. He laughed and twisted the top off one of the bottles before handing it to me. Sweet hard cider washed away the sour from the corners of my mouth.

The father dipped a cracker in the egg salad and then placed a cucumber slice on top before putting it in his mouth. He grunted and reached for another one. “Better get in there before I eat it all.”

I did what he did and within minutes, the bowl of egg salad was done, and we were eating the last of the cucumbers. My cider bottle was empty, and I could feel the cider in my knees. The muscles in my face ached from smiling.