Over the Fence (9 page)

I’d heard her car a few moments ago, so I went inside, gathered up the bags and placed them on top of the fence. Then I sat down and sipped on my beer. My legs felt a little wobbly and I tried to remember just how many beers I had actually consumed, losing count after four. It must have only been four—maybe five—couldn’t be six—could it?

A few minutes later, her screen door opened and I heard her footsteps outside.

“Nat?”

“Hey, Chefgirl.”

Okay, that sounded a little slurry
.

“Are you okay?”

I felt the oddest warming sensation at the concern in her voice. No one ever worried about me anymore. “Yeah, I’m good. Better now that you’re home.”

“Oh . . . I . . . um . . .”

I chuckled. “I’m hungry, and I’m trying not to dig into the leftovers you gave me. Those are to make co-workers jealous and promise me huuuuge favors for tastes. Big ones. Yep.”

Okay, definite slur.

She giggled, and I beamed at the sound. She was home and we could spend some time together. She made me so happy.

“Is that what you do with them?”

“No. Unless there’s something I really want. Then I may consider a trade . . . but to be honest, it hasn’t happened yet. Nobody’s had anything remotely equal to your fucking awesome leftovers.” I smacked my hand on the table for emphasis. “Not even fucking remooootely . . . close.”

“How many beers have you had?” She laughed, now sounding incredibly amused.

“A few.”

“I think more than a few . . . Still having a bad day?”

I leaned my head back. “Nah, it’s better now. You’re home.” I grinned in the direction of her voice. “I went shopping for us.” I pointed to the top of the fence. “It’s up there.” Then I laughed, realizing she couldn’t see me pointing. Maybe I should show her. I stood up on my slightly wobbly legs, climbed the chair and moved the bags around. “Here, Kourtney. It’s here.”

I heard her climb the ladder and I held tight to one of the rather large bags. She tugged one to her side and I watched it disappear, grinning while I waited for her to get the other. I felt the tug on the bag and held on. She tugged harder. “I think the other one is caught on something, Nat,” she called patiently.

Smiling, I reached up and grabbed onto her hand. “Gotcha!”

Her unexpected shout of laughter surprised me and I started laughing with her, only to sway a little before losing the grip on her hand. I tipped myself off the chair and landed on my ass on the deck, with a loud thud. I continued to laugh as I sat there, my ass now throbbing in pain.

Kourtney stopped laughing. “Are you okay?”

I snorted. “Well,
fuck
, that’s gonna leave a mark. My ass is gonna be black and blue tomorrow.” I looked to the top of the fence. “You may have to perform CPR, Chefgirl.”

Now she snorted. “On your ass? I don’t think so.”

I sniffed dramatically. “I’ll have you know I’ve been told it’s a nice ass. More than once.”

She began giggling again. “Modesty becomes you.”

I rubbed my aching butt. “Seriously, I may need medical attention here.” I smirked. “You know doctor stuff; maybe you could . . . kiss it better?”

Once again, she snorted.

Seriously, she was snorting over kissing my ass? Some people would happily kiss it.

“Heads up!”

Startled, I looked up and snagged the item that was sailing over the fence. Confused, I regarded the package containing one of the thick steaks I had bought. “What’s this for? It’s not cooked yet!”

“Raw meat works to bring down the swelling on a bruised eye. Maybe you could sit on that and it would do something for your ass—and your overinflated ego.”

Wordlessly, I looked at the steak, then glared at the fence. “You know, Kourtney with a K, my other girl doesn’t give me lip the way you do; I could go back to her. She’s always waiting.”

“Other girl?”

“Yeah. She’s pretty hot stuff. Warm, soothing, always there when I need her, with none of this back-talking shit. You’ve probably seen her at the grocery store.”

“And does she have a name?”

I bit back a laugh. “Yeah, she does. Marie Callender.”

There was silence for a minute.

I could tell she was trying not to laugh when she spoke. “Nathan?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know how to say this . . . but your
other
girl?”

“What?” I could feel my lips twitching.

“She’s a total tramp. She’s warm and soothing to a lot of guys. A few women, as well.”

I gasped in mock horror. “Chefgirl, are you talking smack about Marie?”

Her voice dropped. “Only telling you what I’ve heard. The guys think she’s easy, and she’s pretty cheap most of the time. Rumor has it you can often get a ‘twofer.’ Maybe I give you some lip, deservedly so, I might add, but I’m a little more exclusive.”

I threw my head back, hooting in laughter.

My girl was fucking hilarious. I loved it when she teased me.

On her side of the fence, Kourtney joined in my amusement. The second bag disappeared over the fence, then I heard a gasp as she discovered the contents inside the two huge bags. “Exactly how hungry are you? You don’t expect me to cook all this at once, do you?” she asked, horrified.

I shook my head, still laughing. “No, Kourtney. I wanted to contribute. You’ve cooked so much for me. Throw it in your freezer and cook it when you want.” I climbed gingerly back up on the chair. “The steaks are for tonight, though,” I said, pushing the package over the top. “I am not putting that Grade-A beef on my ass. I want you to cook it for me. It’ll work its way to my ass eventually.”

“Oh, my God! You’re so rude! Do you not have a filter at all?” Kourtney gasped, but then another fit of her warm laughter drifted over the fence. I loved making her laugh—even with my rude comments. She just got me. Nobody had ever gotten me the way she did.

“Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay—seriously?” Her tone was warm and reflected her genuine worry.

“I am now. Thanks for the laugh.”

“Sorry about your, um, ass.”

I snickered. She was adorable. It sounded as if she was embarrassed simply saying the word. “I’ll survive . . . unless you’re offering that kiss . . .”

“Dream on, Nathan.”

She walked away from the fence. “And stay off the chair after you’ve had a few beers . . . please.”

I sighed, rubbing my sore ass.

Good advice.

The smell drifting over the fence was driving me crazy. “Soon, Chefgirl?”

She sighed in frustration, but her voice was amused when she answered. “Get your fork ready, Nat. It’s almost done.”

“Not my fault you make it smell so fucking delicious I can’t wait, you know.”

Kourtney laughed. “I’m going as fast as I can, Tomcat. Your incessant ‘are we there yet’ queries won’t cook it any faster,
you know
. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Pretty fucking close, if you ask me. You got me eating salad, and other . . . green things. If that’s not a miracle, I’m not sure what is.”

Her warm laughter filled the air, and grinning, I got up, went inside and grabbed the bottle of wine I had bought. It was one of my favorites when I was in the mood for wine and I thought Kourtney would enjoy a glass with her dinner. I had even bought a special glass; one of those flat-bottomed wine goblets so I could give it to her easily. I had my doubts a stemmed wine glass would make it intact being slid across the fence top. Those suckers were wobbly enough on a flat surface. I had mostly sobered up, but wasn’t totally sure my coordination skills were up to pushing a tippy glass around. I approached the fence and carefully climbed on the chair, waving my hand frantically over the top. “Are we there yet?”

A subtle giggle close to me indicated Kourtney was up on the ladder. A plate appeared, and reaching out, I touched her hand, pleased when her fingers didn’t immediately pull back.

“Hi, Kourt.”

“Hi, Nat.”

“I got you something.”

“What?”

I grabbed the plate and carefully pushed the glass her way. “You mentioned once you liked red wine. I thought you’d enjoy a glass with your steak.”

She seemed surprised. “You remembered that?”

I wanted to tell her I remembered everything she had ever said. However, I knew better than to be too forthcoming. “Yeah,” was my simple reply.

For a minute there was silence. I heard her climb another step, allowing her to reach for the glass. I glimpsed the pale skin of her forearm and saw her hand wrap around the glass before disappearing back over the fence. I heard a relieved sigh and I knew she was off the ladder. “Safe now?” I teased as I reached for my plate. “Back on solid ground?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Nat. I appreciate the wine.”

I surveyed my heaping plate in anticipation. Then I frowned. “Kourtney?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do I have two steaks? One of those was for you.”

“It’s only one and a half. They’re huge—I’d never be able to eat more than half. Somehow I knew you would have no problem with the added portion.”

“You don’t eat enough.”

She snorted. “I eat plenty, Tomcat. Not everyone is a bottomless pit like you.”

I carried my plate to the table and dug in, closing my eyes as the first bite hit my taste buds. “It isn’t possible to eat enough of this deliciousness.”

“Enjoy your dinner.”

“No doubt of that, thank you.” I took another huge bite and ate steadily, enjoying every morsel. Damn it, my girl could cook. I wondered what Kourtney would think if she knew I now thought of her as my girl. I decided to keep that little bit of information to myself for the time being.

“How’s the wine?”

“It’s lovely. You chose well.”

“It’s my favorite,” I stated, without thinking. “My mom used to drink it, too.”

“Oh.”

“Otherwise, to be honest, I don’t know much about wine. I know one good red and one good white. She always said I should know that in order to impress a date.”

“Sounds like a smart woman.”

I sighed. “I thought so.”

Kourtney was quiet for a moment. “Is your mom not . . . here . . . anymore?” she asked hesitantly.

I shut my eyes as the sudden pain seared in my chest. I had to swallow several times before I could answer her, and even then I could only tell her the partial truth.

“No. I have no family.”

“Oh, Nathan, I’m sorry.”

I looked toward the fence. She sounded sad. Almost as if she was crying again, like the day I bought her the lilies.

Wanting to lighten the moment, I chuckled. “She would have loved you. She was never able to get me to eat vegetables on a regular basis. Or even on an irregular basis.”

“Why do you eat them for me?”

I looked down at my almost empty plate, mystified. I had no idea.

“Maybe because
you
made them, Chefgirl? Because you share your company and food with me every day—it seems rude not to.” I thought for a second. “Besides, you make them taste
real
good. She always cooked the living shit out of them. Not sure there was much nutrition value left when she was done.” I sighed as a small reminiscent smile crossed my face. “But man, could she cook a mean pot roast.”

Kourtney laughed and I was pleased to hear the sound. I didn’t want her sad. I finished my dinner in silence, savoring each mouthful.

“What about you, Kourtney? You said you cooked for your dad and brother after your mom died. Did they eat their vegetables like good boys?” I teased, in hopes of discovering something about her. “They must have loved having you cook for them. Lucky bastards.”

Kourtney was quiet for a moment. “They ate what I cooked, but I don’t think they saw it quite like that.”

I snorted. “How could they not?”

“I never . . .”

“Never what?”

“I never did much right in their eyes. I wasn’t the daughter or the sister they wanted. I never measured up. No matter how well I cooked.”

The pain in her voice was so prevalent; I turned in the direction of her sad tone, my body itching to find a way over the top of that fence. The urge to comfort her was overwhelming. Even though I knew she wasn’t ready for it, I wished I had bought a ladder so I could get to her.

“Kourtney . . .”

“Don’t,” she pleaded with me. “Don’t say it.”

I shook my head in frustration. She was shutting down.

“Nathan, do you miss your family?”

“Every day.”

Her voice was low and angry. “I don’t miss mine. Not one bit. In fact, every day I don’t have to be subjected to them is a good day.”

I was speechless.

“Do you have good memories?” she asked. “Laughter and happy times? Fun-filled holidays?”

They were from a long time ago, but I did have good memories. “Yes.”

“Hold onto them. The last happy memory I can think of, I was eight. After that, life was pretty wretched.”

“Did you want to talk about it?”

I heard her stand up. “I don’t even want to think about it. Are you done?”

Without another word, I picked up my plate and walked over to the fence. I could hear her climb the ladder and I pushed my plate over the top.

“Kourtney . . .” I beseeched her in a quiet voice.

“What?” The word sounded tired—exhausted even.