Page 50 of Wildest Dreams

Then we hear a noise rustle through the underbrush at the edge of the property.

Bertha.

Of course.

All three of us see her at the same time, but only two of us keep our cool.

Marina screams like banshee, which only pauses Bertha for a second.

Pierre grabs Marina by the arms. “Shut up!” he says, but she doesn’t listen. She’s starting to hyperventilate between yells.

Still holding her with one hand, he reaches into his pocket, grabs his key, and hands it to me. I take it and sprint uphill to the house, only looking back when I unlock the back door. Bertha, knowing that I’ll be returning with chicken, turns her attention away from Pierre and Marina, lumbering towards the deck. At this point, all I hear is Marina sobbing.

As soon as I’m in the house, I run to the fridge and grab a chicken, ripping the plastic off as I run back outside. Bertha is at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

I hurl the chicken across the yard towards the tree line, away from Pierre and Marina. Not until Bertha slinks away does Pierre loosen his grip on Marina. She screams bloody murder in his face, then runs towards her car.

“You’re all crazy! I can’t wait to get out of this shithole town! You’re going to hear from my lawyer, you little bitch!”

Pierre waves at her as she gets into her car and screeches away, then joins me on the back porch.

“Well,” he says, “at least she’s not going to show up here anymore.”

We hear water slosh, look down to see Bertha easing into the water in the fading daylight, then burst out laughing.

“You’ll want to wash your hands,” Pierre said once our giggle fit is finished.

“No, I’m gonna go.”

“Kendall, you’re covered in meat grime. You need to wash your hands. Come on.”

I turn and go back into the house. In the frenzy of grabbing the chicken, I didn’t even look around or allow myself to think about where I was. I haven’t been back here in years. Patsy always takes care of things for me when it comes to this property. My artsy photos are still on the walls, but she must’ve removed all the personal photos of Tucker and me. The house is cold without those human touches. I look at the couch and remember sitting there, crying for hours, after Tucker told me about Whitney and said he was leaving me. I remember vomiting in the kitchen sink from the visceral reaction of it all. I remember the feelings of humiliation and deep, profound betrayal.

All this must be written on my face because Pierre rubs my back, then kisses the top of my head.

“Come on,” he says, leading me to the sink.

I snap out of my trip down memory lane and wash the chicken slime off my hands.

“Are you okay?” Pierre asks.

“Yeah,” I lie. “It’s weird. I haven’t been here in a while. Everything is almost exactly the same.”

“Kendall, this is your dream house,” he says. “You told me as much. You should be living here, not in a studio apartment over your office. Don’t let your ex-husband take this away from you. This house is amazing. I have half a mind to stay here myself.”

“Don’t say that,” I say with a trembling voice. “I’m finally comfortable with things as they are. Just don’t talk about the future like we have one. I can’t handle that.”

“Understood,” he says. “But I have an idea. I want to do something for you before I leave.”

“Okay,” I say with uncertainty.

“Let’s make this place your home again. All-new furniture, new bed, new everything. The only things that stay are these stunning photos you took.”

I look at him, puzzled.

“It won’t cost you a dime and you won’t have to lift a finger,” he says. “It’s my gift to you.”

“Okay,” I say as he tucks me under his arm, squeezing me so tight I feel like nothing can ever hurt me again.

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