Page 40 of Christmas at the Ranch
I’ve tried to learn about it by reading books. My favorite isAll About Loveby bell hooks. I have it with me here, but I opened it to a passage that scared me even more, one about how the practice of love offers no place of safety. It means opening oneself up to the possibility of loss, hurt, pain.
But he does make me feel safe. He makes me feel special, he makes me feel seen. He makes me feel like I’m exactly where I belong now. When he looks at me, theworld stops spinning, I swear. When we touch, I feel like I’m…an actual firework or something. I can’t imagine not feeling this way about him. It feels like a part of who I am, who I’ll always be. And if it causes pain, so be it. I can take it, to be with him.
But of course, I still have reality to contend with, even if I feel like I’m living in a dream. For example, yesterday, my dad and Cousin Reuben went into town and came back talking about some business venture they’re planning. They had been out at some restaurant called Gill’s, they said. A fish place. And the owner had given them some boxes of free fish-and-chips to take home for the group. They dumped the boxes on the counter and said the housekeeper would come in and throw them away later before the chef started to cook us some “real food.” Which I just thought was such a rotten thing to say. It smelled SO good. Plus, I for one am tired of what my parents call “real food.” It’s either too rich or as insubstantial as a puff of air. So, I packed up some of the boxes of fish-and-chips and took them with me over to Wilder’s, where Tate was waiting for me. And he wasthrilled. He said Gill’s was his favorite, and that I was going to love it, too.
But first, we went to visit Mistletoe and Star, who are both doing well. Mistletoe is a wonderful mother, and I will never get enough of watching them snuggled up together, sleeping in their stall. And Star is so cute. You’d never know she was a preemie. She’s always up and about, eating well, and has the softest little nose.
After we visited the horses, we took our food up to the hayloft and had a little picnic, sitting on a cozy plaid horse blanket on top of a bunch of hay bales, which wasalmost a bed. (More on that later, but I’m already blushing.) The food was so good, even cold, so I can see why Tate loves it so much. I sucked on a lemon after, because I said I wanted to kiss him but didn’t want to taste like tartar sauce—and he said he didn’t care, that I was perfect always, no matter what.
It went beyond kissing. Before I knew it, we were both half naked on top of the blanket and I didn’t want to stop. Do you get what I mean?I didn’t want to stop.It probably goes without saying that I’ve never done it before. I assume he has. J.T. said something about a previous girlfriend the afternoon we all hung out. It was just a passing mention, not designed to make me uncomfortable, but Tate just seems so assured about everything. I’m sure he has experience. Still, I was afraid to ask. And eventually, he was the one who said to slow down. I honestly don’t think I would have. But then again, we were in a hayloft and maybe that’s not the right spot. Except…where? I’m serious. Because I think I want to. Actually, IknowI want to. Because I feel sure that no matter where it is, or when it is, it’s going to be perfect.
What isn’t perfect is when I got back, my mom and Aunt Bitsy didn’t hear me come in. They were in the kitchen talking about me. And about Tate.
“I wouldn’t worry, Cass,” Bitsy was saying. “She’s just having a little bit of holiday fun with a local. She won’t look back once she’s in the city again.” My mom said something about how I’m not the type to have fun, which almost made me laugh—except it’s true, I’m not.
I snuck up the back steps, feeling determined to prove them wrong. I am not going to leave Tate behind. And Iwill never care that my snobbish family thinks he isn’t good enough. I feel more comfortable with Tate, at Wilder’s, than I ever have anywhere in my life. I already know that feeling is not something I’m just going to be able to walk away from.
Eighteen
The next morning, my fifth in Evergreen, when Bruce arrives at the newspaper office, I’m downstairs early, waiting for him with a freshly brewed pot of coffee.
“Before we can go on, we need to talk,” I tell him.
“Oh,no,” he exclaims. “I was afraid this would happen. You got food poisoning on your first day! Please, don’t quit on me. One last chance?”
I laugh. “It wasn’t the terrible cookies,” I say. But then my expression grows serious again.
I ask him to come sit with me at my desk. I turn on my computer and do a search on my dad. I open the news items and explain as I click through them that this is my family—and that Gill of Gill’s Fish n Chips n Bait n Tackle is in financial ruin because of us.
“You really do need to check in on the Evergreen Business Owners’ group chat every once in a while,” I conclude. “There are definitely some news leads there, Bruce.”
Bruce leans over me and reads the article about myfather and his corporate fraud crimes, then sits down in the chair beside me and lets out a long sigh. He’s deep in thought for so long I wonder if he’s going to ask me to leave or say anything at all.
When he finally does speak, all he says is, “This is unfortunate.” My heart sinks. “But not for the reasons you think it is. I feel for you, Emory. This is a tough burden to carry.”
He nods his head at my computer, thenx’s out of the story. “My grandfather was the mayor of this town years ago, and he embezzled money from a local treasury. Especially in a community this small, it was a lot to live down. But I made a name for myself becauseI am notmy grandfather. I imagine you are not your father. Either way, I plan to judge for myself.”
“Even though I faked sick on my first day?”
“You had your reasons and came clean at the first opportunity. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more to discuss. All is forgiven.”
We spend the rest of the morning working on our review of Carrie’s, settling on “inventive” and “surprising” for the spicy Ring of Fire donut, and “unique” and “savory” for the meat cookie—which we agree in both cases is the truth, leaving our journalistic integrity intact.
When I tell him about my dinner at Young’s Chinese, Bruce is delighted. “Why don’t you give me eight hundred words on the secret menu and its origins by lunchtime? It sounds like the Youngs gave you a lot to work with.”
I’ve almost forgotten how exciting it is to beworking on deadline in a newsroom. I knowThe Evergreen Enquireris a long way fromThe Globe and Mailnewsroom—both literally and figuratively—but I still feel that same sense of purpose and urgency.
I have an hour-long fact-checking conversation with Mrs.Young, who is more than happy to expound at length about her favorite foods, and the inspirations behind the secret menu. She also tells me about a holiday special they’re running for those who may not want to cook their own Christmas meal. I transcribe my notes, then start to write—and before I know it, a first draft is finished, and it’s noon.
I stand up from my desk and stretch my arms above my head. “Bruce?” He looks up from his computer. “I think I’m going to go over and pick us up some lunch,” I say. “From Gill’s.”
He nods and says, “Best of luck, Emory.” And then he goes back to his work.
The sign for Gill’s Fish n Chips n Bait n Tackle is still the same as I remember: an old tin fishing boat featuring a hand-painted rendering of a speckled lake trout. When I walk in, I can’t help but expect to find the fish-and-chips shop just as it was the decade before—but, I remind myself, Evergreen has moved on.
Time hasn’t been standing still, even if it did in my mind. So many things here have changed. Including Tate. Including me.
But even so, Gill’s does end up matching my memoryof the time Tate and I came here together, after the first time I tried the fish-and-chips with him in the hayloft. The walls are still decorated with old-timey fishing lures and hung with netting. This time of year, there are little red and green Christmas balls strung through the netting, too. It still smells like freshly gutted fish, which you would think would be a bad thing, but really isn’t; in here, it’s fresh and briny. There’s still a fridge with containers of bait, shelves lined with tackle for sale.
