Meet Cate

© Copyright 2015 Fiona Barnes

     Meet Cate

This book is a work of fiction. While some characters have been modeled after people, most are imaginary. PTSD and its characteristics are real, however, and expressed in what the author hopes is an honest portrayal based of one man's diagnosis.

The author is not a doctor and holds no degrees. The information contained in this book is not meant to diagnose, treat or advise. If you're unsure how it pertains to you, please see a competent mental health practitioner.

The following are used with permission:

Lyrics from the song
Waking Dream
, by Andrew Barnes (2015).

Rick O'Shea's character, from the novel
Dex Territory,
by Mark Aberdeen (TWB Press, 2014).

The author wishes to thank:

Andrew Barnes & Paul D. Barnes, Sr., for the names
Dippin' Doodads and Stardust (coffee).

Dave Garbo, of Garbo Lobster, for permission to use his building on the cover.

Cover design by Fiona Barnes.

All Rights Reserved. For permission to reproduce this book in whole or in part, contact the author: [email protected] or write P.O. Box 7507, Groton, Connecticut, 06340-7507.

ISBN:
1503278697

ISBN-13:
978-1503278691

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Other books by the same author:

The Survivor's Guide to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: A Love Story

Beach Christmas Life: The Posts (Volume I)

Meet Cate

To Rosie,

I never truly appreciated how
much
you meant until you were gone.

Dedicated to my family.

The only reason for anything, ever.

For me, writing fiction involves long hours of incredibly fulfilling creativity and longer hours of not-quite-so-fulfilling editing. So many of my friends offered encouragement, support, free reading, grammar expertise, coffee and chocolate. Some even inspired characters, and more inspired plot twists.

Therefore, I'd like to thank:

Mark Aberdeen, Casey Brown, Brittanie Anne Johnson, Cathy Johnson, Lisa LaSota, Jessica Lynn, Lorraine McGee, Tina Nordlund, Cyn Reyna, Joann Sauer, Joey Sdono, Janet Sherman, Gary Sherman, and Dawn Turner, as well as Caitlyn Armistead, author of
Crossing The Line
(2015) and Kathryn Fox, author of
Stolen Memories
(Amazon, 2013)
.

Teresa Terrel introduced me to 00 flour, as well as offering an expert level of patience and graceful friendship.

Finally, t
his author wishes to acknowledge Nici Trotter for all of her incredible support.

To
all
who inspired me, whether with gracious friendship, exceptional kindness, humor or brilliant ideas:
thank you
. If you'd like to earn a mention in my next book, consider daily offerings of delivered chocolate.

I have an incredible team of technological people behind me. Most importantly, Russell Sauer, who introduced me to Linux. Thank you.

There are a few special people I'd like to thank for their seemingly effortless support of my first title,
The Survivor's Guide to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
:
Lisa Allain, Paul D. Barnes, Sr., Sarah Douchette, Heidi Duff, Brittanie Anne Johnson, Arline Keeney, Joann and Brad Kerr, Jan Sauer, Dana Shelton, Nicolette Trotter and Pam Wright. To all who bought, read, and reviewed−I have no words. Thank you.

Paul D. Barnes, Sr. (the father of my children and a firefighter with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) always allows me to use anything we've talked about, ad nauseam. He only wants to further the understanding of PTSD. Sometimes, clearly uncomfortable, he'll say, "As long as it helps somebody−" He may not ever understand just how many people he helps when I share what was often meant to be private between us. Paul allows me to pull inspiration from every mannerism, argument, each bad day and every word that leaves his mouth. His support means everything to me.

I wouldn't have published a word without the incredible encouragement of my family. As always, our children, including the furriest one.

Paul Jr., for only being a quick phone call, or text, away.

Rose, for always being there.

Becky, with all the love in our hearts.

Jessica and Chris, for the patient listening and the beautiful support.

Julie, with love and best wishes from all of us.

I love each of you and I appreciate you more.

And to the two at home still: for understanding my need to work.

For the music, for listening. For the reading.

Thank you for your knowledge and your input.

For the photo that started it all.

For sharing your own success.

For believing in me enough to ask me to write more.

I love how you see me, and I love you.

Lastly, but certainly not the least important, to my readers. Thank you for giving me a home. You're not, "just a reader," as a friend of mine once said, you're the reason I spend my days doing what I love.
Thank you.

Cate felt frustrated. Her quiet home soothed as she searched the tidy, cozy kitchen for her secret ingredient: peppermint extract. She spun clockwise in a slow circle, taking inventory of each flat space: island (no), sink (hopefully not−thankfully, no), the tall cabinet that doubled as her pantry (nope), the efficient four-burner stove that sat against the wall (no) and the small refrigerator that wasn't much taller than Cate stood, at five foot one and three quarter inches (again, no).

"Ah-ha!" She said aloud, finding it behind the egg carton that sat on the speckled Formica-topped counter, between the stove and sink, below the cabinet that held neatly arranged bags and cans of food.

Adding an unexpected dash of peppermint to her award-winning chocolate chip cookie recipe was Cate's secret trick at Christmastime. Now she measured a healthy dose of extract into the tall stainless steel mixing bowl of wet ingredients, the sharp blast of cold pinching her nose. She hummed
Kickstart My Heart
by Mötley Crüe as she worked, careful not to disturb her family in the next room. If Cate had her way, the ceiling would be raised and Crüe would echo off beams two stories above her.

She blew an errant chestnut curl back toward the pile on her head, her mouth twisting with the movement. Her runaway brown hair, wild and wavy, fell to her waistline if she didn't pin it up in the kitchen (and everywhere else). Cate's blue eyes were intent as she followed the recipe. It was written neatly but chicken-scratched over with notes and additions until it was barely legible. She stabbed at the paper with her pointer finger.

"Two−no, four, eggs," she corrected, under her breath.

Cate quickly cracked the eggs into the bowl. She broke each yolk with a tiny whisk as she worked, then mixed it deeper with an elderly wooden spoon. The mixture was a pleasant caramel brown, rich and full of sugar. Cate poured in about a cup of the flour mix−eyeballing it−from the only other stainless steel bowl she owned.

When the wooden spoon broke in half from the intensity of its quick turns through the thick mixture, Cate's eyes flew heavenward and her mouth formed words she wouldn't repeat aloud.

Leaning down, Cate reached to open the dark lower cabinet. She pulled another wooden spoon out of an old Folgers can she'd covered in colorful magazine cutouts of food, recipes, and pictures of Oprah. As she straightened, Cate slammed the cabinet shut with her knee, causing the interior piece of the door to fall inward with a loud bang. Cate's eyes rolled heavenward again; she was on a first-name basis with God.

You see this?
she thought to Him now.
All of this is going to change−and soon. When I have a TV show, and cookbooks, there will be no more cabinet door issues...
Cate wasn't complaining as much as she was manifesting.

Lowering herself carefully to the faded linoleum floor, Cate held onto the edge of the Formica countertop in the small space. She lined up the piece that had fallen from the door and hammered it back into place with her fist. Closing the door gently, Cate waiting for the whole thing to fall apart again (as it often seemed to). Satisfied, she jumped back to her feet and returned to humming, rolling into Def Leppard's
Pour Some Sugar On Me
, swaying to music only she could hear. By the end of the song, Cate was done mixing the flour and had turned to the island and extra-large wooden cutting board to chop two cups of walnuts. When they were dust, she poured them into the mix. Adding a double bag of Nestle Tollhouse milk chocolate chips, Cate stirred more gently this time. She dreamed of a stand mixer for moments like this.

Lifting two kitchen spoons from the clean wax paper where they waited, Cate dropped the dough-caked, long wooden spoon in their place. She dripped oversized spoonfuls of chip-filled dough onto parchment paper neatly covering two antiquated cookie sheets. Then she slid them into the pre-heated oven, setting the timer for eleven minutes. She dropped the contents of the wax paper into the deep steel sink, added the first of the two dirty bowls, and began to scrub.

Mötley Crüe & Def Leppard forgotten, the only chorus she heard now was the noises of the house around her. The refrigerator hummed and four paws padded toward her, clicking across the linoleum floor. Cate smiled at two manly cries of defeat from the living room to her back, where her children and her husband, Tom, played PlayStation. Her life might be quiet, but it made her whole.

Cate pulled two cookie sheets from the double oven on the wall, placing both on the dark quartz countertop before the interviewer, Brenda.

"Let them sit for two minutes," she warned with a quick smile.

The pretty redhead nodded. “So your children are grown? How many do you have?”

“Alex is in her senior year at UConn, Nic's touring, so yes. Just the two.”

“I think I've got everything I need then.” the woman smiled at her, tapping perfectly manicured nails on the table next to a spotless iPad. She made Cate itch, she was so well put together. Cate's worn Levi's and lucky red Coca-Cola shirt, thin from repeated washings, covered her trim frame. She was only puttering around the large set today. She'd been
someone
long enough to understand comfortable said more than being who you weren't, a thousand times over. Still, she shook with silent laughter when the photographer stepped behind her to snap Cate swapping cookies from baking sheets to cooling racks. He'd showcase her bare feet from that angle, and the hair that rioted down her back in a fishtail braid.

She'd done this interview as a favor. Cate would
get dressed up later, when they went live. Even with hair and makeup done, she'd never match the polish Brenda had.

“Oh!” the pretty interviewer asked, “Why did you name it
The Show
?”

Cate laughed. “That was Melissa, my producer,” she said easily. “I only care about the cooking.”

Brenda smiled; she could see that. It wasn't a bad thing.

Cate reached for a small Ziploc bag to wrap up a half-dozen oversized cookies for Brenda and the camera guy to take with them. If they stayed to watch the show, the cookies would smell delicious in the audience, and Brenda would get to see Tom Schneider. That was a fair trade-off for the finding the patience to resist eating the cookies with a surprise peppermint twist. Personally, she'd rip the bag open in the audience. Cate smiled to herself.

The two women said their goodbyes and Cate began cleaning up, something she rarely left for her staff. Even after all this time, she was still so grateful to have her own show. She used it as a platform to teach viewers how to cook from a beginner's point of view−healthy (almost), natural (most of the time) and delicious (always). She also gave her audience tips for holidays and parties, her second love.

In her spare time, which was happily little, Cate was compiling her newest book,
A Look Back with Cate
.

“It's all marketing,” Melissa had told the shy Cate, originally. “We'll get you a ghost writer.”

But Cate had shook her head, thought back to her goals, and decided if she were going to write a book, she'd do it the way she lived her life−no shortcuts. So she bit her lip and went for it.

The first book (Cate's solo attempt) was a compilation of recipes and stories and photos. With its bright cover and brilliant pictures, the pretty book had been swamped with pre-orders before it even hit shelves.
Cate Cooks
hit the
New York Times
Best Seller List, and sold out of copies at Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue in New York City.

Sweeping into her very first signing, nervous but in a pretty new knee-length dress, Cate was  surprised to find her fans kind and excited to see her. They stood in line for hours, in the rain, to shake her hand or tell her a story. A few passed her their own recipes, and one sweet little girl brought her a trinket to keep. Most wanted pictures, including some of the men who bought the book for their wives and girlfriends. Proof, Cate smiled, of love−or hunger.

"The next time, we're doing tickets," Melissa whispered at one point, tossing her pin-straight long blonde hair over her shoulder.

Cate had ended the day exhilarated and amazed.

Walking backstage to her dressing room, she noticed the posted schedule for the week on her door, as well as several handwritten notes–she could have the Joking Boys on her show? That would be hysterical. What would she make for them? They required baking, she decided, no−meat and potatoes. She'd have to ask Nic; he was easily their biggest fan.

Thumbing through the notes, she came across one written in blocky caps.

You're ruining things! Stay away from me!!
Cate read under her breathe, as a chill raced down her spine. She turned the note over. There was no signature, and it wasn't addressed to her–but it
was
pinned to
her
door.

Standing in the wide, warm hallway, Cate was cold. Who wrote this?Who had been so close they could pin a note to her door? She was alone on the stage with her guests. She didn't know her entire staff (even after two years at almost a top rating, she couldn't know everyone well) but she did try. A cameraman? Staff? Audience? Someone not even having to do with the show?

Glancing around quickly, she pressed in the code, then gently pushed open the large castle-like door. The room was flooded with light from glorious floor to ceiling windows. The space felt empty; there didn't seem to be anyone lurking. Still, there was a private dressing room off the side, closets, and a toilet–should she call security?

In the end, Cate walked in. She put the note aside and went to change. The random piece of paper wanted to nag at her; Cate wouldn’t let it. When she'd started this new life, others had lectured her studiously. Fans would be jealous, they had said. People would threaten but not harm−usually. Melissa, the show's executive producer; Cate's agent, Sylvia; even Tom; as well as others who would know or be worried had said any concern should be reported. Usually, the people would turn out to be harmless. Crazy, they'd warned, but harmless. Cate decided to forget. Her gut told her she knew whose work this was. And she thought she knew why.

When Bela knocked on her door to retrieve Cate for hair and makeup, Cate let her in and went back to the TV station she was watching. The Honorable Judge Milian never failed to amuse or calm her, she thought, as she sipped a giant mug of soothing black tea made with honey and milk.

Cate was processing, something she did best alone.

She couldn't know everyone who didn't like her, or everyone who was jealous. She was thinking of a few, though. Her ex-husband, Tom, topped the list.

When he'd left her years before, she'd been thrown. Her children had been lost and confused. Even their black lab, Merry, who'd been a soft puppy at the time, seemed thrown. Tom had been retreating further and further into his own world and Cate could no longer reach him.

When he left, she and the children spent about a month actively grieving and questioning. After the first year, Cate stopped blaming herself and went back to dreaming. She taught her children to follow her lead, and together they saved and scrimped enough to buy a house and renovate it. They added a soundproof studio for Nic that doubled as a dance studio for Alex, an office and state-of-the-art kitchen for Cate, and a wide, graceful front porch for evenings spent relaxing together.

Cate gave cooking lessons, wrote magazine articles and had long lunches with Sylvia, tossing out ideas. Melissa and Cate spent long hours on the phone, over dinner and anywhere, fine-tuning the idea Melissa eventually took to the network. When the news was announced, Cate was in New York, meeting with the publisher Sylvia had chosen. She was about to sign the contract for her first book.

"Hold on!" Sylvia, the wizened, grandmotherly-looking woman had said. She was only as tall as Cate, small in stature but with a brain of steel and a mouth of not just dirt but mud. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, sat back on her head in a neat bun.

"What?" Cate had mouthed, irritated. She was nervous already. This deal was her future−her chance to provide for her children. She wanted to set the example that she could do anything, therefore teaching them they could. For herself, she wanted to rise from the failure she felt her marriage had become.

Sylvia had proudly announced that Melissa was signing a deal, as she spoke, for season one of a new cooking show starring Cate as the chef. Cate sat back in the leather chair, in the office of the publisher, John, and looked the well-dressed man in the eye. He had the whitest shirt she'd ever seen. He cleared his throat.

"That certainly changes things," he started and Cate frowned.

"We'll talk with you after we sign those papers," Sylvia told John. "We'll expect the advance to double."

John didn't even blink. "And we'll expect you to deal only with us. In the meantime, the cover needs to be re-worked," here he nodded to his assistant and then beamed at Cate, "to add your new celebrity status."

Cate had raced home in her beat-up Jeep Wrangler and tore through the house in search of her children. They were above the garage, in the sunlit studio. Alex was banging on the drums. Nic was sitting at the long mixing table, his head bent in pure concentration. His hands adjusted knobs and dials, blending sounds into music. Cate ignored the recording light and slammed open the door.

"Guys," she breathed.

"What?!" They both stopped dead, unsure.

Cate took a minute to catch her breath from the run up the stairs and everything that had happened that day. She hadn't called from the city, the train, or the Jeep because she wanted to see their faces when she told them her news. Instead, she'd passed the time on the phone with Melissa, excitedly talking budgets, sets, and schedules. Now that the two most important people in her world were in front of her, expectant, Cate struggled to compose herself.

"Mom,
what
!" Alex, the petite miniature of Cate, expelled. She gently placed the sticks down on the tom before flying out of the booth and across the large room. Her bright skirt, covering yoga pants, flew around her dancer's legs. Over a cropped tank she wore a button-down that she'd probably stolen from Tom's closet long ago. It decorated her slim frame beautifully.

"You're okay?" Nic's serious blue eyes held concern, even as he guessed his mother's news. His waist-length blonde-streaked hair was in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck. He was never without the Air Force hat he wore backwards while he worked. Jeans and a clean white t-shirt finished the ensemble. His feet were bare, like Cate's usually were.

"Melissa did it. We've−got−a−show!" She collapsed on the floor in a pile of giggles, her beautiful children pouncing on her in disbelief, the dog prancing and barking happily around them.