How To Tame Beasts And Other Wild Things (9 page)

              “Yes, air. Thank you for being mine today.”

Balthazar

Pregnant every time you see her, yet she never will give birth.
 

The Full moon

After our boiled fish dinner, I take the boys out to the meadow to catch fireflies in jars. The full moon hangs heavily in the inky sky as my boys dance around. Their attention spans mirror mine. Short. All I can focus on is the idea of Matilda’s naked skin against mine.

              Later. We agreed later.
One woman, two arms… She’ll be either my salvation or my ruin.

              Matilda stayed back at the house to finish the dishes after Duke and Alfie had left. What is she thinking about the idea of us? Is there any possibility of it, considering the nature of our relationship?

God, to have her bare skin against my lips, on my tongue. To taste her kiss, her curves, her desire.

I think about how she found my Keats, and then I found her. Naked in my tub, reading the poems I’d initialed that made me think of her. Only her. And, oh, what a riddle she is. Is she solvable? She has her Paris life along with the obligation placed on her by Everit: to find me a nann
y…
and a suitable wife. Her fucking father.

When I walk inside, Matilda is nowhere to be seen. After carrying my sleepy boys upstairs, I ready them for bed, read a few fables, then close the door to their fast-asleep, cherubic faces. As I stand in the hall, I hear Matilda talking to someone , behind her closed bedroom door. She’s quiet when she speaks, also thoughtful and pensive-sounding. Not the gay, light Tinker Bell I know her to be.

“He’s managing.” She laughs softly. “There was no food in the pantry or fridge. No toys. He threw away all the things I’d bought for them. Yeah, I got the money you deposited. I will.” She laughs again and I punch a hole through an imaginary wall. Then another.

“It might not be as easy as you think,” she continues. “I haven’t interviewed anyone, but next week, I will. Don’t be a jerk. Yes, I can. I’ve asked around, but haven’t found anyone that would make sense. He’s a bit rough around the edges. It’ll take a unique person. He’s not for everyone. Yes, I know. No one is.”

I press my ear against the door.
Everit fucking Pearl, what do you care?

“I’m fine. I love the animals, and oh god, I love the twins. I’ll keep you posted. Mmmhmm. Goodnight.”

Which way to move. Down the steps, or into her room? Away from her, or into her?

Matilda Pearl, is this the real you?
I knew that Lavinia was a kiss-ass to Everit. But Matilda? I was sure she was cut from a different cloth. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far.

I head down the steps. This is why I don’t do relationships. Maybe the nanny-come-wife is a good idea. No one said it had to be a sexual relationship. The deal was marry someone who’ll make a good mother to the twins, and then the farm is mine. What the hell do I care what said woman looks like. Hell, come to think of it, the less attractive she is, the better. A marriage of convenience. Temptation? Why even consider it? Temptation equals trouble. How is it I forgot that today? I’ve got a right hand, a shower, and a death grip. That’s all any man needs. Love? The fuck is love?

Matilda comes down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I’m sitting, and plunks down in front of me. Then she spreads my knees and cozies in.

“Hey, you want to mess around?” Her eyes brighten as a smile plays on her lips.

I scoot back as my stomach sinks. “This isn’t going to happen between us.”

              “Uh oh. What now?” She sulks. “Are we back to beastly brit? Did I rub you the wrong way earlier?”

I stand and walk to the fridge to grab a beer. “You won’t be rubbing me at all,” I tell her.

She lets out a giant breath and slams her palms on the kitchen table. “Okay, since we’re adults, it would be good if we could move past whatever code it is you’re speaking in. Just let it rip. I can handle it.”

“Sure. Fine.” I pop the top off my beer as I lean against the sink. “Set up some nanny interviews. Get me a troll who happens to be great in the kitchen, great with kids, great at cleaning and organizing, and great at not complicating my fucking life. I’ll marry that woman the day you find her.”

She flips me off. “What a pig! Who the hell do you think you are? Chauvinist.” She snickers. “I thought there was more to you, but I guess—”

              “I don’t care what you thought. No need to think anything about me.”

She pushes out of her chair and saunters toward me. “What happened? Just tell me what I did wrong.”

“You be sure to keep your daddy in the loop as you interview trolls. I’m planning on keeping up my end of the deal. This farm’ll be mine before we know it and you’ll be on your merry way back to Paris.”

“Ah.” Smiling, she walks over to the fridge and grabs a bottle of champagne. “You overheard my call? Eavesdropper.” She points the champagne bottle directly at my face.

              “Every word. Good to know what you think of me.”

“I didn’t tell him anything I wouldn’t have said to your face.”

The cork flies, I catch it in-flight then whip it to the ground.

“Not one thing. You are rough around the edges. There was no food here. The kids had no toys. And I was planning on interviewing some nannies, but mostly to show you that I was, well…” She kicks the cork across the room then moseys over to the screen door. With her back to me, she takes a guzzle from the bottle, then turns to face me.

          “I guess there was a piece of me that thought you and I could…um…consider…something along the lines of me being an option if we felt like we had something down the line. I realize I’m talking
way
down the line. I’m trying not to be presumptuous. Was there anything else I said that set you off?”

I grunt out a laugh. “You’re obviously not very impressed with me. Not sure why you’d want to consider us. Most people would not go for someone like me… I think you said something along those lines as well.”

“Maybe I’m not most people,” she says, approaching me with a smirk on her face. “Maybe I didn’t tell him everything about you because I didn’t want him wondering what I had up my sleeve.”

She’s so close I could kiss her. So close I’m able to inhale the sweet scent she wears that seems to match her perplexing, violet eyes.

“Which is what, exactly?” I ask, gazing at her nipples, which are greeting me through her white cotton dress.

“To be that girl,” she says softly, looking down to the floor. “I don’t want my dad to know that, he could ruin everything. He always does…”

I shake my head. “I think we should cool it. I think my original thoughts on how things are complicated were spot-on. I don’t know why, for one damn second, I didn’t go with my gut.”

“Maybe you went with your heart?” she whispers as she turns away.

Maybe she thinks I didn’t hear what she said. But I heard it, all right.

“My heart is useless,” I bark, making sure she hears me. “It’s a shredded piece of nothing worth listening to. So, if I did, for one weak moment, pay attention to it, I’m clear—it was a very bad idea.”

“Okay. If that’s what you want, then fine by me.” She marches away, then digs through a basket of scrap paper and pens as though she’s going to nest in it. Seconds later, she sits at the dining table with the champagne bottle in front of her, as she scribbles notes.

“I’ll set up interviews to nab you a troll. Trust me. I’ll find you the perfect person. You’ll never need to consider your heart because she’s not going to be nice. Hopefully she’ll be somewhat friendly with the boys. Strict in that old-school-nanny way that won’t allow for face licking or running around naked. You won’t have to worry about her catching turtles…or bringing home animals or bathing in your bathtub. She will certainly never be sliding naked down those steps over there.”

She grins as she looks toward the staircase. Then, as quickly, she gets back to making notes as if she’s my damned secretary. I don’t miss that she gazes at my chest as she narrows her eyes while thinking her next thoughts. She stops to take a long swig of champagne then slams the bottle down, making bubbly fizz over the top until she drags her tongue up the side to catch the overflow. She glances at me as she licks around the tip, giving the champagne bottle a fucking blow…
Oh hell, don’t even go there, girl.

As she folds her notes into a tidy rectangle, I want to take hold of her, kiss her, shake her, and tell her I was wrong. But I’m cemented in place, a stubborn jerk.

She plucks the lantern off the hook next to the screen door and sets it on the ground along with her champagne. “Well, on that note. I guess I have got my work cut out for me! I’ll be busy as all get-out over the next few weeks. You’ll need to do your own cooking and cleaning. Hopefully Alfie is around to watch the boys. I’ll stay out at the lake in the studio. I’d hate to get in your way or you to get in mine.”

Taken aback, guilt blooms in my stomach as she scurries around and gathers up supplies as though she’s going out there to hibernate for the winter. She says nothing else as she Sherpas herself up to the hilt.

I stay quiet. Maybe wordless is more fitting. Yes. Wordless. Except for the lit-up billboard in mind that reads
IDIOT
in flashing, red lights.

Matilda walks out of the screen door, and
thwack
! The door slams. Hard and sharp. Even the door knows I’m an idiot as it yells at me. A second later, she opens it. “Sorry ’bout that. Goodnight!”

I brace myself for it…
Thwack
! It slams even harder this time since she’d put some muscle behind it. It’s followed by the screaming cries of the boys.

Matilda

Until I am measured, I am not known.
Yet how you miss me when I have flown.

Time

August flies by with hot days and sweaty nights. Every one of which I spend out in the studio. Balthazar and I mostly avoid each other, though from time to time, I do watch the boys for him. I miss them. It’s selfish. The requests come to me via Aesop, who I was able to house-train and be my personal messenger. Carrier pigeons—ha. I have a carrier miniature donkey.

I’ve interviewed my fair share of women, all of whom have been too lovely, too pretty, too everything to consider. There must be a troll out there somewhere. Maybe I’ll call central casting and move someone from Hollywood out here for a month. That’ll teach Mr. Get Me A Troll Wife!

              As I’ve just settled down with a cup of tea, prepared to continue a sewing project, Balthazar shows up.

“Hey,” he says, standing outside my screen door.

“Hey,” I answer without looking up from my sewing.

“I’ve got a favor to ask.” He sounds as serious as a heart attack.

Apparently, I’m good for something. I guess he and my dad have more in common than either of them would ever suspect. Though my dad doesn’t call them favors. He calls them obligations. That works, but only for him. And only for now.

When I glance up, he’s scratching just above his eye patch.

“What do you need?” I tap my foot, uneasiness stirring in my gut as I wait for his request.

“I’m going to a seed convention in Chicago this weekend. Alfie can’t watch the boys. Any chance you could?” He bites his bottom lip, waiting for my answer.

Damn fool that he is. That I am. It sends my libido zinging. I lay my face in my palms as I rest my elbows on the table. “Of course I can.”

“Thanks. And, uh”—he clears his throat—“Sunday night, when I get back, I’m hosting the guys’ poker night. Could you please stay for that too?”

“Oh, you mean stay upstairs and out of your way when you guys gamble and get drunk?” I grin. “Where is that wife when we need her?” I chuckle as his face reddens. “Just kidding. Yeah, that’s no problem.” Does he feel all of that sugar I’m dipping my answers in? Probably not. I’m guessing there are no feelings in him at all—for me, anyway.

“I appreciate it,” he says softly, raising his eye up to meet mine.

“My pleasure.” I stand and walk to the screen door, the only thing that separates me from him. The energy between us doesn’t appear to notice the screen as it rockets back and forth, connecting us. Is it just me? Does he feel it? I place one hand against the screen to test us, since I can’t touch him. “I miss all the time I was getting in with those monkeys. I miss them so much,” I whisper. I wish he’d ask me for more favors. To watch the kids. Other things too, but those are wishful at best. I’m ready to forgive him if he’s willing to meet in the middle.

“Yeah, we”—he clears his throat—“they miss you too.” He leans his forehead against the screen, exactly where my hand is.

Oh, yeah. I caught that.
So maybe
you do miss me, you stubborn beastly brit.
Don’t worry. I won’t call you on it. But I will gloat.

“These are for you,” he says, reaching around the side of the door and coming back with a pair of tall, leopard-printed rubber farm boots and a basket of apples.

              Every damn time I think I have this man figured out, he surprises me with some out-of-character gesture. I love and hate this about him. Love when it’s in my favor, hate when it’s one of his swipes. And why, exactly, does he do those things? I suppose it’s some form of protection for himself and his boys. I get it; he has a family. He has bigger things to think about than I do. Kids. It’s not just him and his needs; it’s theirs too. That changes things.

              “Oh, wow, thanks—haven’t had a pair of rubber boots in years. And uh, maybe the boys and I will make caramel apples while you’re gone. We’ll save you one—um, I mean, if you’d like that?”

“The feed mill just got the boots in. They made me think of you,” he says, looking down. I swear he blushes again. “You roll nuts over them?”

“Do I roll nuts over what?” I giggle.

“The caramel apples. What else would you roll nuts over?”

My thoughts turn filthy. “Oh gee, I don’t know.” I chuckle as he laughs into his hands. “Yes, I can do nuts.”

We nod, stuck in a stare.

“Okay, then. Please save me one. I leave Friday morning. Early. You want to stay at the house Thursday night or… Well, you do what you want, what feels right. The door’s open, lights always on for you, pretty eyes.” He clears his throat and looks away.

              “Okay. I’ll have Aesop let you know.”

“Maybe you could help me potty-train the boys, since you’ve trained that donkey so well. He’s in the house most days, lets himself out to do his business, then knocks—”

“I know.” I beam. “Two times to come in. Three times to go out. I taught him that.”

He sucks his bottom lip. “Figured as much. I’ve never met a potty-trained donkey who counts and delivers messages. You sure you haven’t been in the circus?”

I laugh as I weave my hair into a braid, to occupy my hands, which are dying to open the door and touch him. “Did I ever say I wasn’t?”

“I guess you are now. I suppose we’re your monkeys and your circus.”

We’re?
“I’ll take you. All of you,” I say quietly.

He smiles and turns to walk away. “Okay, Matilda Pearl,” he answers over his shoulder with a laugh.

I could love this guy. I really could. I wave and watch him the whole time he heads down the path back to his truck. “Goodbye, Balthazar,” I whisper.

Slipping my feet into my new boots, I marvel at the fact that we just had a civilized conversation filled with flirty undertones. My foot bumps something in the toe of the right boot. I slide it off and tip it upside down, catching a crinkled piece of paper in my fingertips before it lands on the ground.

When you need me, you throw me away.

When you’re done with me, you bring me back.

Balthazar. What will I do with you? What? “An anchor,” I say aloud, answering his riddle.

After finishing sewing my projects, dog beds for the shelter, I stack them near the screen door. Since I’m watching the boys this weekend, I figure we can take the beds to Tully and horse around with the shelter dogs in the play field. Around the time I start thinking a bath and a glass of champagne sound nice, rumblings of thunder roll outside. I’m not sure if I’m superstitious, but I always have one of those black-cat-crossing-my-path feelings when I think about bathing as it’s storming.

As I stare out of the screen door, cracks of lightning paint the sinister-looking sky. Within minutes, the earthy scent of nature zips up my nose as the heavens open and it begins to pour. I sprint to the other side of the house, trying to figure out where to hide. The lake’s surface dances with showers that look like knives caging me in. Everything inside me stills. I can’t run to the farmhouse now—can’t even move. My throat constricts as my heart beats louder than the thunder and the pouring rain combined.

I should love these Midwestern storms, everyone does.
Everyone
may not have been locked inside an old, tin-roofed chicken coop one summer by their wicked older sister as thunder cracked around it then lighting smacked the roof. I thought I’d died that afternoon when I hit the ground, eating a buffet of chicken shit as my face slapped the shavings. Lavinia got all the praise in the world when she’d “rescued” me. Lavinia… The smartest, the bravest, the prettiest, the everything-est. Her shine was so bright that even my invisibility was invisible.

I flatten myself to the floor in order to slither under the dust ruffle of the bed. I envisioned a different night for myself. It was going to include hot soup, a warm bubble bath, champagne, and a book I just found this morning in the bookmobile. Keats poems. I figured I’d mark up the pages just as Balthazar had.

Breathe, Matilda. Breathe.

Crack… Crack… Crack!

Breathe.

Thwack. Thwack. Jiggle.

What the?

“Matilda?”

I wish I weren’t dreaming about him rescuing me. Why would he do that? He has no idea I’m terrified of thunderstorms. How would he know? Why would he even rescue me? Though he did say that they’re my circus.

“Matilda! Where are you? Open the fucking door!” he shouts.

The locked screen door shakes, until it pops open just as I slide my head out from under the dust ruffle and see Balthazar soaking wet.

“I’m under here,” I squeak out.

“Bloody hell. C’mere,” he says as he drags me out from under the bed by my elbows. “What the hell’re you doing? Haven’t you heard the news? It’s a bloody tornado fest out there tonight. You want to be in this damn house as it’s flying to Kansas?”

“I’m… I was hiding.” I wipe the tears from my face.

“Come on. I’ve got the twins strapped in their car seats in the truck. We need to get back to the house.”

I step away from him as though he might murder me. “I can’t go out there.” I dart from his grasp, pressing myself to the wall farthest away from him.

He stomps over to me. “Flaming hell! Come on!”

“I’m terrified of thunderstorms… I can’t. Please don’t make me.” I grab a painting on the wall, hoping it will anchor me.

“Get over here!” He throws me over his shoulder.

The screaming of the screen door and a wall of cool earthy air smack into me, and everything goes black.