Lena had always loved a noisy room, a noisy street, a noisy train. She loved knowing people were all around her and they were busy. It made her feel she was part of things. Quiet was very hard. When she was quiet, and had nothing to think about, nothing to distract her, then doubts could creep into her mind. Was she eating right? Wearing the right clothes? Exercising properly? Should she change the way she talked? Did people really like her? She believed in being tougher than the rest of world to survive — but was that why she still hadn’t found somebody she could stomach for more than a couple dates?
Leaving Brooklyn to go to school in Lexington had been a big shock for her. She had been thinking, "I've got to get away from Mom’s constant nagging to get married and get pregnant, got to figure out who I am." Lexington was a real city, with real people, but it was a huge change from congested Bay Ridge and the crowds of Catholic mothers and slicked-back guidos who had filled her happy childhood. There were quiet places, and strangers said hello on the sidewalk when it wasn’t too crowded, and you had a chance of getting to a supermarket checker right away. Oh, it had its sources of awkwardness. People said “Bless your heart” because they were too polite to raise a middle finger. She got quick glances followed by averted eyes if she talked or laughed too loudly, and if they didn’t like her Brooklyn accent, they pretended they didn’t understand. But it was just calmer. There was time to think.
Now, as she broom swept her apartment one last time before handing off the key to Paulie, the big-bellied landlord and starting the long drive to Kentucky, Lena realized that she just needed to think. She couldn’t duck it anymore. If she was too fat, she just was. If she was really loud, that was just part of her charm. Overall, if some people didn’t like her, fuhgeddaboudit; there were other people. She just needed to be the real Lena, not the fake Lena that everyone was used to, and that meant getting away from all the bullshit.
At the moment, that meant moving back to Lexington. Afterwards, it could mean anywhere and anything.
“You didn’t give a copy of this key to any strange men?” Paulie demanded ten minutes later. “I know what you young girls are all about. I don’t want to come up here one day and find some young punk sleeping on the floor surrounded by beer bottles.”
“I should be so lucky, to have a man who wants the key to my apartment,” Lena said. "Besides you, of course." She patted him on the cheek, inches from the cigar.
“Yeah, well, bon voyage-ee,” said Paulie.
Once she got to Jersey, Lena stopped off for a goodbye lunch with Ellie, who was on bedrest now, apparently having a baby the size of a bison calf. When they had met at the University of Kentucky – a place Lena had originally picked to get the hell away from her mother's bizarre style of nagging – Lena had never imagined that her roommate, and not long after, best friend, would marry a Brooklyn boy and move to Jersey and get knocked up.
After a confab with Ellie, Lena started driving toward Kentucky in earnest. Luke had found and fixed up a cheap 1998 Hyundai Accent for her, which he estimated would last about a year if she gave it TLC. Once she’d hit the Jersey Turnpike southbound, she cranked up the radio.
Not.
The radio didn’t work.
Well, that sucked.
Deprived of tunes, she had nothing but thoughts.
She thought about her final visit with her parents. They were only in their late forties, but they were both heavy drinkers, and looked older, and every time she saw them, it weighed upon her mind whether she would see them intact again. But she couldn’t solve that problem. She could only avoid being a drunk herself, and she needed to do a better job of that, she thought.
Her mother had laid a huge guilt trip on her.
“Why are you going? Your family’s company still isn’t good enough for you?”
“No, Ma. It’s nothing about the family at all. It’s about me. I don’t even know who I am.”
“Humph. Get married. If you have a man and a baby, you won’t worry so much about who you are. You’ll be his wife and the baby’s mother. When I was seventeen, I already met your father and you were in my belly.”
“Yeah, Ma, I know that. You only told me ten thousand times this week.”
“Then I should make it ten thousand one. Moving around, moving here and there. You know it won’t fix anything. You have to put down roots, you have to settle.”
“Sure, Ma. But not here, okay? Not here!”
That went on for hours, and then came some kielbasa and onions, and her dad giving her the greasiest smacking kiss on the corner of the mouth he had ever given her, and that without taking off his wool cap or washing the machine oil off his meaty hands. “You go,” he told her in Polish. “Your mother and I will live. I understand. You are a beautiful girl, and somewhere else they will notice better, right?”
“Yes, Tata. That’s right.”
“A beautiful daughter. Come, a drink.”
He poured them two shots of Wyborowa. “Na zdrowie!”
“Na zdrowie!” Lena repeated.
“That’s right. Keep pouring. You’ll make her into a drunk like you,” said her mother.
“Aaaah, phoo,” said her father, and poured more shots, this time three.
****
By the time she’d crossed Delaware and was into Maryland, thinking continuously about her parents’ visible aging and erratic behavior, she’d decided to quit drinking. This had the opposite of its intended effect: by the time she hit the DC traffic, slow and now bored, she began craving a beer. She fought the urge to exit and have a boozy lunch at Applebee’s.
Hours later, by the time she’d passed into Virginia, it had started to rain. The sky was gray, and her mood was black. Thinking all the time was a lot harder than listening to crappy music would have been.
She thought of calling Laverne, her new boss, to say she was on her way. She’d gotten a good read on Laverne during the Skype interview, though, and the woman wasn’t much for chit-chat. She was all about find motivation by believing in yourself. “The power is in your hands, Lena," she said. “Walk like you mean it. Talk like you mean it. There is no doubt in the face of the miracle that is you being the you you choose to be.”
This was good advice, in fact, and Lena knew that she needed coaching in how to maintain her self-confidence. Laverne talked like a poet; maybe they'd sit and (eye-roll) write poetry together as a team-bonding exercise.
“The power is in my hands,” Lena repeated aloud as the drive bored her. “I'll walk like I mean it. I'll talk like I mean it. There is no doubt in the face of the miracle that is me being the me that I choose to be. Oh, Christ, I want a goddamn beer.”
An hour later, somewhere in western Virginia, having exhausted herself with thinking long before sunset, she called ahead to the Carlisles, and told Ellie’s mom Valerie that she was still eight hours out and had run out of steam.
“Oh, dear,” said Valerie. “You should check into a hotel, Lena. You mustn't drive when you're tired.”
“You’re right, Val. I’ll stop for dinner and get a room and see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh, that’ll be fine. I’m making a baked ham for us. Harper is coming for lunch; I hope that’s all right.”
Harper had gotten her the job, and had talked about how they had been besties, even though Lena had never really felt comfortable around her because she was so flawlessly beautiful. Well, now they were going to be besties; Harper was the only friend her age she had in Lexington.
After she hung up with Val, thinking ruefully about Harper’s perfect ass in comparison with her own slightly wide one, Lena had a flash of memory.
Harper had a brother — what was his name? Jack? They had met once at a party. She had been drunk and not gotten his name, but she had told Ellie what? A second later, it came back to her what had happened a year or so ago.
“Ellison! Ellison, listen!” She had pointed across the room, where Harper’s brother was talking to some skinny dude. “Look at that guy. I’ll just bet he has a sweet dick.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ellie had said. “You can’t really tell with clothes on. I hope he doesn’t hear us talking about him like this.”
“Look, he has the face of a fucking movie star. He must have a sweet dick. I’m telling you, Ellison. His new nickname should be Sweet Dick.”
Why had she gotten so drunk that she would say something like that? Had the young man heard her? She couldn’t quite summon up an image of his face, but she had thought he was incredibly handsome. Educated Southern men were more reserved than Brooklyn guys, and there was something really sexy about a man who thought before he spoke. She didn’t really know too many men like that. What had happened to Jack after college? And how in the hell would she find out if he remembered her, or worse, if he remembered her being drunk and talking about his dick?
That night in the hotel room, when she finally connected to the WiFi, she looked at Harper’s social media page for pictures of the Wheeler family. Their mom was there, but she looked pale and sick. And there was just one picture of the brother, not called Jack, but Jaxon. The face wasn’t like her mental picture: it was better. Harper wasn’t the better-looking of the siblings. Her brother was. The deep dark eyes, the thick, rich hair, the dimpled chin were all crazy sexy, but he looked so deeply serious and uptight that she couldn’t imagine having fun with him. No, attitude mattered more than looks, but still, she looked at the picture a long time before entering a fitful sleep.
The next morning, Cracker Barrel sold Lena a hearty breakfast called “Uncle Herschel’s Favorite.” Full and fortified with a go-cup of black coffee, she drove just over the speed limit and made it to the front gate of the Carlisles’ place just after 1 p.m. They lived right next to the stable and rolling pastures that Ellie’s dad managed for some gazillionaire rich guy who only saw his horses from the corporate suite overlooking the racetrack at Keeneland. Everything was mostly as she remembered — the white split rail fence rolling out to the horizon, the paved road ending just past a wide-open Tudor driveway gate, a long worn dirt road with patches of grass rolling around the side of the medium-sized two-story house with its wrap around porch. She parked the Accent in one of a few spaces that tire treads had carved into the grass on the side of the house, next to a pair of pickups, one tall and dirt-spattered blue, the other pink with a breast cancer ribbon painted on it. Leaving her luggage in the car, she headed around to the front, where she was met by Val and Mark Carlisle, Ellie’s parents, and Harper Wheeler, trim, tanned, and gorgeous. They led her to a group of rocking chairs on the porch and offered her a mint julep.
“I’ve quit drinking,” Lena admitted, “but damn, that looks good.”
After talking about the details of the trip, and explaining her decision to quit, Lena finally excused herself for a bathroom visit to get rid of the pee that had built up from three tall cups of coffee. She freshened up, paused for a moment by the open bathroom window to watch a beautiful chestnut mare being exercised in the yard behind the house. The smell of manure dug into her nose when the breeze paused. How could people smell that day in and day out? The world would be better if you couldn't smell anything but good food and perfume.
She went back down and met her hosts on a closed-in back porch — complete with a closer view of the horse and its smell — where the four of them sat for lunch served by the soft-spoken Mark. “You ladies just talk,” he said. “I got this.” A lot older than his wife, Mark was slightly pudgy and gone grey, but he had an athletic frame and a rugged, windblown look that made him seem like a retired leading man. Val, in her mid-40s, had crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth but was fit, bright-eyed, and lively.
“So tell us about Ellison,” said Val as they worked on cucumber sandwiches, potato salad, and lemonade.
“She’s just gorgeous,” Lena explained, and gave as much detail as she could, including showing pictures taken on her phone the day before.
“I’m driving up next week to help out, so you might be the lady of the house for a while around here,” Val said with a wink.
“Oh, uh… Cool,” said Lena. Although this house was fairly roomy, and the beautiful horse farm was friendly to guests wandering its grounds, she didn’t want to impose upon Ellie's folks longer than she had to. “Hey, Harper, is that your pink truck?”
“You betcha,” said Harper, sipping lemonade. “You know my aunt Kay had breast cancer, right? Didn’t I tell you?”
Lena didn’t remember anything about Harper other than her hot brother. “Oh, right, yeah, you said.” Had the aunt survived? She didn’t want to get that wrong. “So you wanted to get involved to support her.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely. Aunt Kay’s survival proves the real value of courage and commitment to survive. That’s why I had my truck painted like that. I volunteer for breast cancer charities. Have you been screened? I’ll set you up a mammogram appointment with my friend Pauline. She…”
“Okay, great, maybe in another decade or so.” Lena cut that off. She didn’t want to talk about mammograms or breasts in front of Ellison’s father. Judging from Val’s physique, he liked breasts just fine. She had to change the subject fast. “Oh… how’s Jaxon doing?”
Harper pouted. “Oh, he’s a good soldier.”
“He’s in the military?”
“No, no! He works hard and sticks with it, but it’s hard for his business to get going. The helicopter and balloon tours are so great. You ever flown over the Daniel Boone Forest?”
“No!” Lena blurted. “I’m, uh, I’m scared of heights. I mean, not scared like I think I’m going to die, but scared I’ll throw up. I get airsick, you know?”
“Do you get vertigo?”
“Yeah, I get that too.”
Harper repeated her pout. It was a pretty adorable pout, a world-class, well-traveled pout; she was a pout expert. “Well, I just wish Jaxon could get the right kind of help. He’s a great pilot, and he’s an expert balloonist, and he really loves showing off how beautiful it is here in the Bluegrass, but he’s just not getting enough business. I wish I knew how to help him.”
Lena couldn’t help wrinkling her nose. “A balloonist? You mean he makes balloon animals?”
“He flies hot air balloons. Look.” Harper pulled up a photo on her smart phone. There was Jaxon Wheeler, wearing a tight t-shirt that showed off his muscular frame, and he was standing in what looked like a giant basket. “Up above that, there’s a hot-air balloon.”
Lena looked away from the picture. That guy looked as tasty as chocolate chip ice cream on a ninety-degree day.
“Thanks for asking. Why don’t you call or text him?”
“Oh, I don’t know him. I just met him that one time when I was drunk, you know.”
Val smirked. “Which time was that, dear?”
Lena smiled. “Good point. No, Harper, I was just asking because I saw you had a picture of you guys together on Facebook, that’s all.” Yeah, that was it. She wasn’t fantasizing about him at all. Nope, not Lena.