Page 29 of Free to Breathe
My house is set about as far back on the property as Ali’s. Once a smaller barn, it could have held anything from large quantities of tack and carriages to smaller herds of animals such as sheep or cows. To keep my vision of an open space focusing around the kitchen and without modifying the T-shaped foundation, I built upward. My house almost replicates an actual barn. To be honest, it really is too much space for one person, but when I built it, I had hoped that someday, I’d eventually find someone to bring into it.
It’s amazing how time slips away so quickly.
In the rubble of the old building, I managed to salvage a fair amount of wood which was used by the builder to make interior doors and shutters, adding warm honey wood floors and trim to the pristine white walls dotted with pictures of my family in eclectic silver frames. Unlike my workspace, where everything has to be meticulous, my home is more relaxed. I prefer to let whatever moves me to fill my space. I might have blue flowers in a red vase, just because. I found a fuzzy throw of a cute dog that I just had to have, and now, it’s thrown across my favorite leather chair.
My bedroom is much the same way. Built into the eaves, it includes every woman’s dream closet, and a bathroom that boasts a soaking tub for two, but the bed is awash with pillows that are there merely because they grabbed my attention. In front of my bed is a beat-up leather couch I found for a steal at a Pottery Barn outlet. Since more often than not I end up curled on it at night, I cared more about its comfort than I did what it looked like.
For me, the most important thing in my bedroom is the Edison lights I strung from the beams. Every night, they cast a muted glow throughout the room so I’m never alone in the dark.
Not by choice. Never again.
The only room where I spared no expense is my kitchen. Here, everything is top-of-the-line. I have custom cabinets with fitted drawers that are bins containing different types of flour, the largest being all-purpose and cake, of course. I have drawers filled with different sugars, and another filled with all other baking supplies like baking soda, vanilla extract, salt, and other smaller items I need quick access to. Other drawers were built with dividers so I could line up my pastry bags, decorating tips, and cookie cutters. All of my pans have a special location so they don’t get scratched. Even all of my lids have a home.
We won’t talk about the cost of my knives.
The last time Phil was over, trying to beg some dinner off me when Jason was working, he decided to put one of my babies in the dishwasher. I told him if he did that again, I’d ask Ali to stop his paycheck for a month to buy me a new one. The look of absolute horror on his face had him backing slowly away from me. “But it’s just a knife, Cori,” he’d whispered. My reply was that he was wearing shoes that I’m sure cost just as much. “But these are Gucci!” he’d screeched.
“And those are my Guccis, Phillip. Get that through your thick skull, or get out of my kitchen!” I demanded.
Needless to say, Phil will now clear the plates. He’ll even wash my pots by hand. But he won’t go near my knives. I feel like I won an enormous battle.
Holly has no room to talk. We joke that a third of the insurance on the mansion is because of the cost of her camera equipment, a third on Em’s dresses, and a third on my knives. Ali just shrugs it off. Since her obsession is running gear, and now, along with Cassidy, baby clothes, spending several thousand dollars on a knife doesn’t faze her. Cassidy demands to know how to handle the knives properly and then lectures the others if they’re doing it wrong.
The only reason it drives Em absolutely batty is that I’d just as soon buy my clothes at Target so I can afford another knife. As she scores designer outfits when I need them, and I shop for cute pieces to fill in the gaps online at Luxury Garage Sale, I still hold my own when I need to. Most of the time, I’m wearing ratty jeans and some kind of shirt that can withstand the abuse of frosting. Target holds a lot more appeal in those situations than the Valentino I wore the other night.
I’m about to make my way into the living room when my phone rings. I grab it from where it’s still attached to the wall charging, and Ali’s name is on the display. Punching the button for the speaker, I ask, “What’s up, buttercup?” before taking another sip of my coffee. Yum. It may be a two-cup day with the caramel before I switch to regular coffee to avoid the calories.
“What happened last night? I heard you had a visitor in the kitchen after hours.” Concern laces her voice. Before yesterday, Ali was the only member of our family who knew I had any sort of issue with Colby. I’d shared some of it with her when she wanted to call him after running into him at a party about a year ago. Hearing the acidic comments her significant other aims at Colby, I often wonder how much she’s shared with Keene.
“It was fine. I handled it.” As best as I could. What I wanted to do was take the airbrush of food coloring and spray it into his beautiful gray eyes. Bastard.
“Is the kitchen a hazardous waste zone? Do I need to bribe the cleaners to come in to get out the dye…or the blood?” It seems like Ali swallowed a mouth full of wiseass this morning. I’m grinning, even as I’m shaking my head.
“No, counselor. There’s no need to defend me in any murder charges. When I say I handled it, I mean as an adult. Though I did have to throw his ass out,” I admit.
“Jesus.” There’s a pause where I can picture her rubbing her forehead. “Do you want Keene to talk with him?”
I can’t help the huff of laughter. “Because I’m Keene’s favorite person?”
“You’re one of them, sister. Don’t you dare think otherwise,” she retorts. “Red whipped cream in his face or not, he loves you.”
“Right, Ali. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that he and Phil are going to go out for a night together.” Keene and Phil have this odd relationship. They respect the hell out of each other, but there’s just something I can’t put my finger on with those two. And then Ali hands it to me, like an early birthday gift. One I’ll treasure and use accordingly.
“Fuck no. Keene’s petrified of Phil talking about sex. Didn’t you know that?”
And cash me out, I’m done. I’m outright laughing. I barely manage not to pull my coffee up through my nose. “You know there’s no way I’m not talking about blow jobs or double penetration at our next family dinner just to set Keene off, right?”
Ali’s now screeching with laughter as well. “Oh my God. Keene would walk out, I swear, Cori. You saw him on my birthday. He just can’t take it. You know Phil will do something graphic with Em’s old mannequins or some crap, and my man will be traumatized for life.” Snickering, she says with mock sadness, “I’ll never know the feeling of that hand slapping my ass ever again.”
Our mutual hilarity can probably be heard in Norwalk, where the satellite office of Hudson Investigations is located. Even as I’m wiping my tears and gathering myself, I know Ali’s going to redirect the conversation back to Colby.
“Are you ever going to tell me the full story of what happened?” Nailed it.
“Soon.” Like tomorrow. Once I know the full extent of what I’m facing. “I promise.”
“Good. I’m holding you to that. Oh. Hold on a sec.” Ali puts me on hold to answer a call. I use the time wisely to finish off my first cup of coffee. I’m contemplating my second when she comes back on the line. “Sister, it is time to return the favor I owe you.”
Reaching for the jar of salted caramel and the spoon, my brows lower. “What favor is that?”
