I let out a slow breath.That sounds like the first real thing she’s said in this conversation, and it makes sense. She feels a rivalry with me and with Kim, for occupying the other parent’s attention.
“Ivy,” I tell her, “you’re still one of the most important people in my life. You always will be.”
“For me, too,” Kim says. “You and Luke will always be our priority.”
Ivy looks doubtful, and it breaks my heart.
“However,” Kim says, sounding resigned, “this isn’t about our choices or about Christopher.This is about your deceitful and reckless behavior. It needs to change, Ivy. And until it does, we’re going to have to have you supervised at all times, because we can’t trust that you won’t do this again.”
Ivy sinks in her chair like a stone, and I nod. “Your mom’s right.”
“Fine,” Ivy says.
But it isn’t. Not even a little bit. And I don’t know what we can do to make it be again.
Twenty
Kim
After all that happened with Ivy, it takes until the next morning—when Blake and I are sitting at the back patio table having brunch—before I feel like my body is no longer a tight knot of exposed nerves.
Being back at the ranch helps. Being surrounded by the familiar chaos and the vast space of acres of land—space to breathe, space to think. And especially knowing that Ivy’s safe, even if she has refused to emerge from her room since we got home last night, despite efforts by both Blake and me.
I look at Blake, who has stopped eating his veggie omelet to laugh at the antics of Daphne the goat, who has somehow gotten herself up onto the roof of the feed shed and is taunting one of the ranch hands who is trying to coax her down with a broom.
I smile, warmth spreading through me at the sound of that laugh.
We’re all safe and we’re all home. My whole family.
“I feel like I should go help him,” Blake says. “Maybe if someone got up on a ladder from the other side—”
“Then Daphne gets really excited about the game and starts bleating in a way that somehow summons all the other goats to converge on the shed and join in until the shed roof collapses,” I say. “Trust me. It’s better to leave it to George and his broom.”
Blake considers this. “I believe you. I also believe I need to see this goatpocalypse in person.”
“You’re welcome to. Just be prepared for George to turn his broom on you. He’s fierce with that thing.”
Blake laughs again. God, it’s so good to be with him here.To wake up in my bedroom with him, to take a tour of the ranch just after sunrise, to introduce him to all my employee friends as well as my animal friends. Some of the human friends were a little starstruck to finally meet the Pless part of Watterpless, having long since gotten over being starstruck by me, but the animals, in true form, only cared about getting breakfast, not so much about how famous the hands were that dished it out. Luke joined us partway through and eagerly showed off his favorite animals and demonstrated how to properly feed Susan, the chicken with the broken beak.
Blake took it all in, warmly greeting each person and animal, nodding at my (or Luke’s) description of each canine health issue or feline dietary need, helping to clean up when the roving pack of dogs managed to rip into a big bag of dog food that Amber accidentally left sitting out on one of the golf carts.
He seemed to enjoy it all, but I got the sense that he was a bit overwhelmed. I don’t blame him—it’s a lot, and hearing about ranch life from the kids isn’t the same as the day-to-day living of it.
I try not to worry that he’ll be too overwhelmed.That the reality of this ranch, of our life together on it, won’t match up to the dream.
I take another bite of my own veggie omelet, a sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice. One of our phones resting on the table buzzes—his this time. Mine went off just a few minutes ago and ten minutes before that.
Blake grimaces but doesn’t reach for it. Honestly, we probably should have left the phones inside rather than letting them stress us out with every call or text, but I know myself well enough to know I’d be just as stressed with it out of sight. “One of these times we’re going to have to actually answer these things,” he says. “I really don’t want to see the SWAT team Camilla will send out if she thinks I’ve disappeared.”
I laugh, but there’s not much humor in it. “Any chance anyone will believe Costanza ate our phones?”
Costanza, who is lying on the patio by my feet, licking at some spot on the concrete, lifts his head when he hears his name, and I scratch him behind the ears.
“Probably several people in wardrobe would, after that incident with my leather bracers.”
Now I’m the one grimacing. We weren’t really paying attention one day in my trailer between scenes—busy with, um, other things—and Costanza chowed down on those bracers like they were steaks. He was shitting buckles for the next three days.
Kelsey thought this was hilarious, but many of the other wardrobe assistants—and Sarah—were less amused.
