The Pioneer Woman (8 page)

“What time do you want me there?” I asked. I'd do anything for Marlboro Man.

“Can you be here around five?” he asked.

“In the evening…right?” I responded, hopeful.

He chuckled. Oh, no. This was going to turn out badly for me. “Um…no,” he said. “That would be five
A.M
.”

I sighed. To arrive at his ranch at 5:00
A.M
. would mean my rising by
4:00
A.M
.—
before
4:00
A.M
. if I wanted to shower and make myself present-able. This meant it would still be dark outside, which was completely offensive and unacceptable. There's no way. I'd have to tell him no.

“Okay—no problem!” I responded. I clutched my stomach in pain.

Chuckling again, he teased, “I can come pick you up if you need me to. Then you can sleep all the way back to the ranch.”

“Are you kidding?” I replied. “I'm usually up by four anyway. That's when I usually do my running, as you well know.”

“Uh…huh,” he said. “Gotcha.” Another chuckle. Lifeblood to my soul.

I hung up the phone and darted to my closet. What does one wear to a ranch early in the morning? I wondered. I was stumped. I had enough good sense, thank God, to know my spiked black boots—the same boots I'd worn on basically every date with Marlboro Man thus far—were out of the question. I wouldn't want them to get dirty, and besides that, people might look at me funny. I had a good selection of jeans, yes, but would I go for the dark, straight-leg Anne Kleins? Or the faded, boot-cut Gaps with contrast stitching? And what on earth would I wear on top? This could get dicey. I had a couple of nice, wholesome sweater sets, but the weather was turning warmer and the style didn't exactly scream “ranch” to me. Then there was the long, flax-colored linen tunic from Banana Republic—one I loved to pair with a chunky turquoise necklace and sandals. But that was more Texas Evening Barbecue than Oklahoma Early-Morning Cattle Gathering. Then there were the myriad wild prints with sparkles and stones and other obnoxious adornments. But the last thing I wanted to do was spook the cattle and cause a stampede. I'd seen it happen in
City Slickers
when Billy Crystal fired up his cordless coffee grinder, and the results weren't the least bit pretty.

I considered canceling. I had absolutely nothing to wear. Every pair of shoes I owned was black, except for a bright yellow pair of pumps I'd bought on a whim in Westwood one California day. Those wouldn't exactly work, either. And I didn't own a single shirt that wouldn't loudly broadcast *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* I wanted to crawl under my covers and hide.

I wandered into Betsy's room. Five years younger than me, she was away at college and deeply into grunge and hippie attire, but maybe I'd
luck out and find a T-shirt she'd left behind that didn't have Kurt Cobain's or Bob Marley's face on it. Maybe. I opened her closet, looked inside, and magically, there it was, bathed in a glorious light: a faded denim button-down shirt—big enough for her, in all her scrawniness, to wear open and sloppy with her dirty Birkenstocks, but still small enough for me to tuck into my jeans and somewhat look the part. I tried it on and sang praises to the heavens. It was the perfect solution. This left only the shoes.

As fate would have it, I looked up and saw Betsy's brown Ralph Lauren waffle-soled hiking boots she'd gotten for Christmas three years earlier. She'd forsaken them for her too-cool-for-school hippie/grunge Birkenstocks, and they'd sat on the top shelf of her closet for ages. They laced up the front, were chunky, and were a size smaller than my feet; but considering my options—spiked black go-go boots or bright yellow pumps—these were the most appealing. I laid out my clothes, set my alarm for 3:40
A.M
., and ran downstairs to place two spoons in the freezer. I was going to need them.

My parents were talking quietly in the den. They were always talking in the den, it seemed. “I'm getting up at four,” I announced, waving. “Then I'm going out to the ranch to do something having to do with cattle. Wish me luck!”

My parents waved back, smiling. “Have fun,” they said. Then I returned to my room and climbed under my covers, readying myself for the morning.

I darted out of bed to the sound of the screaming alarm. This had to be a joke.
It was nighttime
. Were these people crazy? I took a shower, my heart beating anxiously at the prospect of meeting Marlboro Man's parents on their turf. Wrapped in my towel, I slipped downstairs and retrieved my frozen spoons, which I carried upstairs and laid on both my eyes. I wanted none of that annoying puffiness. And within twenty-five minutes, I was thoroughly made up, blow-dried, curled, dressed, and out the door—dressed to the nines in my denim button-down shirt, Gap boot-cut jeans, and Betsy's brown lace-up Ralph Lauren waffle-soled hiking boots—
though something told me they weren't necessarily designed for outdoor durability. I hopped in the car and headed toward the ranch. I almost fell asleep at the wheel. Twice.

Marlboro Man met me at the road that led to his parents' house, and I followed him down five miles of graveled darkness. When we pulled into the paved drive, I saw the figure of his mother through the kitchen window. She was sipping coffee. My stomach gurgled. I should have eaten something. A croissant, back at my parents' house. A bowl of Grape-Nuts, maybe. Heck, a Twinkie at QuikTrip would have been nice. My stomach was in knots.

When I exited my car, Marlboro Man was there. Shielded by the dark of the morning, we were free to greet each other not only with a close, romantic hug but also a soft, sweet kiss. I was glad I'd remembered to brush my teeth.

“You made it,” he said, smiling and rubbing my lower back.

“Yep,” I replied, concealing a yawn. “And I got a five-mile run in before I came. I feel awesome.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, taking my hand and heading toward the house. “I sure wish I were a morning person like you.”

When we walked into the house, his parents were standing in the foyer.

“Hey!” his dad said with a gravelly voice the likes of which I'd never heard before. Marlboro Man came by it honestly.

“Hello,” his mom said warmly. They were there to welcome me. Their house smelled deliciously like leather.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm Ree.” I reached out and shook their hands.

“You sure look nice this morning,” his mom remarked. She looked comfortable, as if she'd rolled out of bed and thrown on the first thing she'd found. She looked natural, like she hadn't set her alarm for 3:40
A.M
. so she could be sure to get on all nine layers of mascara. She was wearing tennis shoes. She looked at ease. She looked beautiful. My palms felt clammy.

“She always looks nice,” Marlboro Man said to his mom, touching
my back lightly. I wished I hadn't curled my hair. That was a little over-the-top. That, and the charcoal eyeliner. And the raspberry shimmer lip gloss.

We needed to drive down the road a couple of miles to meet the rest of the cowboys and gather the cattle from there. “Mom, why don't you and Ree go ahead in her car and we'll be right behind you,” Marlboro Man directed. His mother and I walked outside, climbed in the car, and headed down the road. We exchanged pleasant small talk. She was poised and genuine, and I chattered away, relieved that she was so approachable. Then, about a mile into our journey, she casually mentioned, “You might watch that turn up ahead; it's a little sharp.”

“Oh, okay,” I replied, not really listening. Clearly she didn't know I'd been an L.A. driver for years. Driving was not a problem for me.

Almost immediately, I saw a ninety-degree turn right in front of my face, pointing its finger at me and laughing—cackling—at my predicament. I whipped the steering wheel to the left as quickly as I could, skidding on the gravel and stirring up dust. But it was no use—the turn got the better of me, and my car came to rest awkwardly in the ditch, the passenger side a good four feet lower than mine.

Marlboro Man's mother was fine. Lucky for her, there's really nothing with which to collide on an isolated cattle ranch—no overpasses or concrete dividers or retaining walls or other vehicles. I was fine, too—physically, anyway. My hands were trembling violently. My armpits began to gush perspiration.

My car was stuck, the right two tires wedged inextricably in a deep crevice of earth on the side of the road. On the list of the Top Ten Things I'd Want Not to Happen on the First Meeting Between My Boyfriend's Mother and Me, this would rate about number four.

“Oh my word,” I said. “I'm sorry about that.”

“Oh, don't worry about it,” she reassured, looking out the window. “I just hope your car's okay.”

Marlboro Man and his dad pulled up beside us, and they both hopped out of the pickup. Opening my door, Marlboro Man said, “You guys okay?”

“We're fine,” his mother said. “We just got a little busy talking.” I was Lucille Ball. Lucille Ball on steroids and speed and vodka. I was a joke, a caricature, a freak. This couldn't possibly be happening to me. Not today. Not now.

“Okay, I'll just go home now,” I said, covering my face with my hands. I wanted to be someone else. A normal person, maybe. A good driver, perhaps.

Marlboro Man examined my tires, which were completely torn up. “You're not goin' anywhere, actually. You guys hop in the pickup.” My car was down for the count.

Despite the rocky start, I wound up enjoying a beautiful day on the ranch with Marlboro Man and his parents. I didn't ride a horse—my legs were still shaky from my near-murder of his mother earlier in the day—but I did get to watch Marlboro Man ride his loyal horse Blue as I rode alongside him in a feed truck with one of the cowboys, who gifted me right off the bat with an ice-cold Dr Pepper. I felt welcome on the ranch that day, felt at home, and before long the memory of my collision with a gravel ditch became but a faint memory—that is, when Marlboro Man wasn't romantically whispering sweet nothings like “Drive much?” softly into my ear. And when the day of work came to an end, I felt I knew Marlboro Man just a little better.

As the four of us rode away from the pens together, we passed the sad sight of my Toyota Camry resting crookedly in the ditch where it had met its fate. “I'll run you home, Ree,” Marlboro Man said.

“No, no…just stop here,” I insisted, trying my darnedest to appear strong and independent. “I'll bet I can get it going.” Everyone in the pickup burst into hysterical laughter. I wouldn't be driving myself anywhere for a while.

On the ride back to my house, I asked Marlboro Man all about his par
ents. Where they'd met, how long they'd been married, what they were like together. He asked the same about mine. We held hands, reflecting on how remarkable it was that both his and my parents had been married in excess of thirty years. “That's pretty cool,” he said. “It's unusual nowadays.”

And it was. During my years in Los Angeles, I'd always taken comfort in the fact that my parents' marriage was happy and stable. I was among the few in my California circle of friends who'd come from an intact family, and I felt fortunate that I'd always been able to declare that my parents were still together. I was happy that Marlboro Man could say the same. It gave me some sense of security, an assurance that the man I was falling more in love with every day had parents who still loved each other. Marlboro Man kissed my hand, caressing my thumb with his. “It's a good sign,” he said. The sun was beginning to set. We rode to my house in peaceful silence.

He walked me to the door, and we stopped at the porch step, my favorite porch step in the whole world. Some of the most magical moments had happened there, and that night was no different. “I'm so glad you came today,” he said, wrapping his arms around me in an affectionate embrace. “I liked you being there.”

“Thanks for having me,” I said, gladly receiving his soft, sweet kiss on my cheek. “I'm sorry I wrecked with your mom in the car.”

“That's okay,” he replied. “I'm sorry about your car.”

“It's no big deal,” I said. “I'll be out there at five
A.M
. tomorrow with a crowbar and get to fixing those tires.”

He laughed, then wrapped his arms tighter for a final, glorious hug. “Good night,” he whispered. You beautiful man, you.

I floated into the house on clouds, despite the fact that I no longer had a car. I noticed my dad was in the kitchen. I flitted in to say hi.

“Hi, Dad!” I said, patting him on the shoulder. I grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge.

“Hey,” he replied, taking a seat on a barstool. “How was your day?”

“Oh my gosh, it was great—I loved it! We went….” I looked at my dad. Something was wrong. His expression was grave. Troubled.

“What's
wrong,
Dad?” My face felt flushed.

He began to speak, then stopped.

“Dad…
what
?” I repeated. Something had happened.

“Your mother and I are having trouble,” he said.

My knees immediately went weak. And my secure little world, as I'd always known it, changed in an instant.

 

I
STOOD THERE
frozen, unable to feel my feet beneath me. My cheeks turned hot and tingled, and the back of my neck tightened. My heart skipped a beat. I suddenly felt sick. All standard reactions to finding out that the longest, most stable personal relationship you'd ever witnessed wasn't so stable anymore.

In trouble? I couldn't believe what I was hearing. But they're just pulling into the home stretch. They'd raised four children, after all. They'd made it through the fight. Their youngest, my sister, was in college, for Pete's sake—the hard part was over and done with.