His lack of respect immediately pushes me another inch closer to the edge.
Dave steps out of his car, whipping off his white-framed sunglasses. “Hey, babe. Davie, the love of your life, is here. Miss me?” He flashes his stark white veneers and opens his arms, like he expects me to run to him.
I exhale slowly. This is going to be a long day.
CHAPTER FOUR
I need a shower. Or maybe a rope. All I know is I feel dirty from the ambient scum wafting off Dave and his designer jeans—jeans he’s gone out of his way to mention cost five hundred bucks.
I really don’t know what I ever saw in him. The guy wasn’t even good in bed, and I won’t go into details about his “cooking apologies,” which was always his way of trying to make peace after he did something awful, like stand me up. “Come over to my place and let me make it up to you, babe. I’ll cook you a dinner that rivals the best restaurants in the world.” The meal usually consisted of an overcooked porkchop with canned cream of mushroom on top.
Nothing like Bard’s cooking. On the Fourth of July, Bard always makes a beautifully grilled steak topped with fresh herbs and hand-churned butter. His favorite sides to prepare are his famous garlic and truffle scalloped potatoes or hand-rolled gnocchi with fresh pesto.
Did I mention that Bard is Bardolf Keiman? He won the prestigious Meilleur Ouvrier de France the year before he came to work for Grandma. I believe the winning dish was Estonian quail, glazed with citrus honey and served with caramelized endive. Impressive.
Why anyone would abandon a budding culinary career like his to come here, I don’t know. But according to an article I read, one day Bard just upped and walked away from his position at a restaurant in Paris.
Then he showed up here.
And grew a beard, bought a lifetime supply of flannel shirts, and gave up technology.
The rest is history, including my love of his food. Fresh mushrooms, wild onions, tubers, and game hunted right on this land. Bard even makes his own cheese from the milk we get down the road. Eggs are delivered weekly from the Landers across the way. Anything else we need is bought at the farmers’ market on Saturdays. Grandma’s rules. Live off the land. Trade with your neighbors. Buy local food so you know where it came from. An odd position to take for someone who hated her community, but I think she disdained the outside world more. Processed food was never allowed.
Maybe that’s what drew me to Dave, Mr. Cheese in a can. I grew up here on the estate and was homeschooled by Jove, my male tutor-slash-daytime-nanny. Imagine a serious man with buggy eyes. Definitely an owl in his prior life. Still, Jove was kind and patient, and he never said a mean word.
But I always knew Jove was with me because it was his job. He obeyed whatever Grandma said because she paid him, and that meant I wasn’t allowed to deviate from “the program.” Wake at seven. Eat breakfast in main house with Grandma. Lessons until three. Chores until six. Dinner with Grandma. One hour of free time. Then to bed by nine.
I performed all “nonacademic tasks” on my own because Grandma insisted I be self-reliant. On Sundays, I was allowed to hike, read, do whatever I wanted as long as I didn’t leave the grounds or wander around the main house. That was never allowed.
So when it came time to go off to college, everything felt exciting and new. I met Dave in my bio class that first week, and he introduced me to the underground bars, dance clubs, and every hole-in-the-wall café in the city. Dave was my personal tour guide in a foreign world.
After two years, I was halfway through my degree, and he was already on to his side dish. Thankfully, by then, I’d realized that the big world out there wasn’t such a scary place. Yes, it did have its elements, but I fell back on my self-reliant upbringing.
After I finished my degree in English, I planned to go to grad school. That was when Grandma broke the news. She’d had to cash in my trust fund to pay our property tax.
That money might not have paid for much when it came to grad school tuition, but it would’ve helped. I think what hurt most wasn’t that she did it without asking—because I would’ve gladly given it to save our home—but how ashamed she felt for needing it.
“Lake, babe. Need you a minute,” Dave yells.
I’m outside, sorting through crates of old rusted hand tools, when Dave waves from the back door. I came out here to get away from him and the army of men hauling junk to the trucks out front.