Lorraine had been her mama’s name; she’d taken it when she’d left—or rather, when she’d escaped that place—shortening it to Rainy. She’d taken her hair, as well, but that had not been by choice. The Ives women had hair so deeply black it reached toward blue. It grew straight and thick like a horsetail and she hated it, but because it reminded her of her mother, she couldn’t bring herself to cut it. Grant was always touching it, running his fingers through the strands until her eyes rolled with pleasure. It was heavy, and the most she could do to get it out of her face was wear it in a braid, which hung between her shoulder blades like a sword.
For breakfast, Rainy made fried eggs and toast. She lounged at the table in her robe, drinking her coffee and passing bits of crust to Shep, when Grant called.
“What’s on the schedule for you today?”
“Oh, you know, thought I’d fire up the gun and blow some metal.”
“I love it when you talk welding to me, baby.”
“You home tonight at the normal time?” She carried her plate to the sink, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. She heard his hesitation and knew what was coming.
“Happy hour with the office.”
She didn’t mind, but he acted like he was doing something wrong whenever he went somewhere without her. Rainy knew he felt like that because she’d moved here for him, leaving her own social life behind. But the truth was that she was glad to leave it; none of those relationships had meant what Grant meant to her. She listened to him as she watched the yolk of her egg spread like paint across her plate.
“I figured since you had Viola’s baby shower tonight...”
Shit. Rainy almost dropped the plate. She’d forgotten, even after Braithe’s reminder last night. She put everything in the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water scramble the stains.
“You forgot about it, didn’t you?” Grant’s voice was teasing, but the reality was there; she was forgetful, too lost in her art to keep in touch with the real world.
“Yeah, I did. I better run to the store. So much for working today, huh?” She could hear the disappointment in her own voice. She was uncomfortably behind schedule on the hive—three weeks behind, if she were honest with herself.
“Baby, this is how it’s going to go down, are you listening?”
“Uh-huh.” If there was a phone cord to wind, Rainy would have wound it around her finger. She was familiar with this particular timber of his voice.
“You’re going to wear that black dress I like—”
“It’s a baby shower,” she reminded him.
“You’re an artist, so you get to wear black. When you get there, you’re going to talk to Viola and Samantha—they’ll look for you, too, because they like you more than any of the others—”
“That’s not true,” Rainy cut in again.
“Hush, this is my story.”
She stifled a laugh while Grant kept talking. “You’ll wander over to the drinks table and make yourself a double without anyone noticing, then, bravely, you’ll manage small talk with Tara, who will ask where I am even though she knows, then she’ll make a comment about your dress and how she’s not brave enough to break the rules of fashion to wear black to a baby shower.”
Rainy lost it at this point, the laughter escaping her throat in ripples. That was exactly what Tara would do.
“Braithe will, of course, rescue you. She’ll see what I see with the dress, and she’ll grab your arm and make you go with her to the drinks table.”
She knew all this was true. Grant couldn’t have written a better script.
“After a few shots with the Baby Tigers, you’ll be ready for the big rocking chair presentation—”
Rainy groaned at this part. Shots with them wasn’t what she was groaning about, though; it was the rocking chair she’d made for Viola. Rainy loved making art; she just didn’t love being around for people’s reaction to it. The oohs and aahs, the questions that came about the process, she hated all of it. She didn’t want to talk about what she made.
“Anxiety,” a therapist had once told her, “comes in all shapes and sizes.”
“You’ll grin and bear it, and it won’t be as bad as you thought because Viola will be so, so happy. You made her a chair with your bare hands, like a beast.”
They were both laughing now, Grant unable to continue. When they caught their breath, Rainy was the first to speak.
“I love you, and I love that you can do that.”
“S’why you keep me around, baby.”
She got dressed, dreading her afternoon. The promise of a quiet workday forgotten, she resolved herself to another night of vapid social fanfare. There would be even more of them there tonight. Her only consolation was how much she liked Viola. Supporting her on her special night was easy; making small talk with twenty-plus women was not.
But instead of going to the store, she changed into a pair of coveralls and headed straight to her studio. Then, shivering, she turned on the gas fireplace, standing close to the blue-orange flames. She rubbed her thumb along the ridges of her necklace, stroking the same spot absently. There was something bothering her, something just out of reach.
For the next few hours, she got lost in her work. When it was time to get ready for the party, she hastily threw together the ingredients for her mother’s couscous salad recipe and went to get dressed. Hopefully, no one would notice that she hadn’t brought the sparkling apple juice. She stared into her closet. Her options ranged from black to gray. Instead of the black, she chose a gray dress so fair it was almost heather, and dug out an earthy cardigan to throw over top. A for effort, she told herself, shrugging. The dress was expensive, but it looked snobby instead of stylish.
Slipping her feet into orange Birkenstocks, she walked back and forth in front of the mirror, sizing herself up. She sent a text to Grant, telling him whoever got home last had to drag the garbage cans to the curb, and she ran for the truck.
Viola and Samantha lived in a ranch house halfway down Tiger Mountain. It took her ten minutes to pull up and another two to gain the courage to enter. Their three-bedroom house was ablaze with orange and cream balloons, dancing in the corners and around the fireplace where a gold-lettered sign was stretched from one side to the other: Baby Makes 3! Rainy swallowed a memory: balloons. Not orange and cream, but blue and yellow. Her head began to swim.
“The sign is dumb, right? Baby makes three what?” Viola said, taking the bowl from Rainy and making a face. “I told them it was stupid, and they looked at me like I was being too emotional.”
“You probably were.” Rainy didn’t have to check Viola’s face like she had to do with other people; Viola always got her jokes.
“Anyway, you look great,” Viola said, eyeing her dress. “You look like a dove in an exotic bird shop.”
Rainy didn’t have time to ask Vi what that meant because Samantha was walking toward them. Samantha—who Viola called Tata—was wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a black T-shirt on top of severely ripped jeans. The only thing missing tonight was the beanie, and she guessed Viola had something to do with that. Samantha was the stereotypical Pacific Northwest hipster with a hint of goth, and she wore it well.
“How come Tata gets to wear jeans?” Rainy widened her eyes, letting her mouth fall open in jealousy.
“Because Tata didn’t sign up for the Tiger Mountain Desperate Housewives’ Club.” Samantha smiled widely at Rainy, lifting her hand for a high five. As soon as Rainy’s hand met hers, she turned toward Viola. “They want you in the kitchen. It’s about the cake.”
“For what? They can’t do anything themselves?” Both of Viola’s hands were pressed against her belly as she spoke.