Riverbend (2 page)

Please, God, don't let him hurt the baby.

He slammed her against the wall, smashing his fist into her face.
She felt blood from her nose mixing with tears she could not control. But she did not cry out. She did not beg him to stop as she sometimes did. This time they were coming. She must hold on until they got here, until they could see what he did to her.

He shook her now so that her teeth rattled inside her head. “What? You're not bothering to lie to me tonight?” He punched her face again, slamming her head against the wall. He tossed her on the floor and straddled her before slamming her head into the floor over and over. Then he was up, leering over her. He kicked her in the side, hard, with the toe of his boot. She cried out from the pain. She moved her hands over her stomach. She couldn't get a breath. Had he cracked her rib?
Please, God, protect the baby.

He was on top of her again, slamming her head on the rug.

Next, she heard a loud thump. Was it the sound of the door being kicked in? Yes. That was it. There were footsteps, too. Running feet. They were here. Finally someone would see what he did. Her sight was blurry now, her eyes swollen almost shut and stinging from the blood that dripped into them. But she no longer felt the pain. It was as if she were out of her body now and merely a spectator. And then suddenly Marco was no longer on top of her.

Through her dim vision, she saw there were two of them, dressed in blue uniforms and carrying long black sticks. One of them smacked Marco on the head with his club. Marco cried out and held his head in his hands.

“Check his pants pocket,” she managed to croak out.

One pulled Marco's arms behind his back while the other searched his pockets. “Meth,” he said, opening the package.

One cop handcuffed him as the other one read him his rights, just like in the movies.

“You piece of shit,” said the shorter cop to Marco. “You're going away for this and the drugs.”

“The lying whore had a man in here,” said Marco. “Everyone knows I have every right to kill the bitch.” He turned to look at her. “You'll pay for this if it's the last thing I ever do.”

She turned her face away as the cops shoved him towards the door.

An EMT was above her now. He was tan and had blond hair
bleached almost white from sun. A surfer, maybe. The pain had found its way back to her consciousness. She moaned as he examined her.

“Bastard broke her arm. And a rib too, I think.”

“I didn't have a man here,” she whispered.

“It's all right. Don't talk.”

“I'm pregnant.”

His eyebrows went up and down. There was alarm in his eyes but his voice was soothing. “Okay, kiddo. You're gonna be fine. The ambulance will take you to the hospital.”

“I don't have any insurance.” Her throat was so dry. If only she had some water.

“Don't worry about it. We'll figure that out later.”

“Am I dying?”

“No, you're gonna be fine, kid. Just hang in there.” He was gently probing her stomach, his fingers pushing into the extra flesh.

“I'm sorry I'm so fat,” she said, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes.

“Shush now. Just stay still. It'll be all right soon.”

“Hold my hand until they come?”

“Of course,” he said, taking it between both of his. Her hands were the only part of her body that didn't hurt.

“Jesus, what an animal,” she heard him say as she felt herself drifting away.

And then it all went black.

Chapter One

2013

ANNIE SWUNG THE TWELVE-POUND KETTLE BELL
over her head, then allowed it to drop between her knees before thrusting it towards the ceiling once more. Sweat soaked through her workout top. Twenty more swings of the torture device before she could stop. Just twenty more.
You can do it
, she thought.
Don't be a baby
. She counted down, mouthing the numbers. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen. Could she finish? Her thighs ached. The callouses on the palms of her hands, thick now after a year of regular kettle bell exercises, were raw and tender. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen. Her gaze skirted to Tommy. He'd finished his one hundred swings two minutes ago. And he wasn't even sweating. Thirteen, twelve, eleven.
Ferdinand
, she thought, swinging the kettle bell over her head. Yes, that was it. Tommy looked like that lazy, flower-smelling Ferdinand the bull, from the children's story Alder was so fond of when he was little. Her hands were sweating. She tightened the grip around the handle. Ten, nine, eight. No one should look like Ferdinand right after something this difficult. A feeling close to hatred filled her. Seven, six, five. Why did he make her do this? What had he said last year?
Your extra weight is a shield against men.
Four, three, two.
Let me train you.

One. She grunted and tossed the kettle bell on the floor. “I hate you,” she said, wiping the sweat dripping into her eyes.

“Now is that the right attitude?” asked Tommy.

“I really don't care.”

“You're done for today, anyway.” He laughed. “We'll work on that attitude tomorrow.”

“It won't be any better.” She grimaced. “I'm sore already. What's wrong with you?”

“Go big or go home.” Tommy grinned in the way Annie thought of as charming when he wasn't training her. But right now he was a smug bastard—a smug machine of a bastard that looked like Ferdinand with his big brown eyes and tranquil manner.

“I want to throttle you when you say stuff like that.” She looked at herself in the wall-to-wall mirrors of the community center. Staring back at her was someone svelte and petite when only a year ago she'd been thirty pounds overweight, not easy to hide given her small frame. Tiny, everyone called her now instead of just short. The only thing recognizable from the plump person she was a year ago was her mane of curly blond hair. Her unruly hair never changed. As usual, it was wild about her face despite the fact that she'd tried to tame it by putting it in a ponytail.

“You love me every time you look in that mirror. Admit it.”

She smiled. “Maybe a little. But I still hate every moment of it.”

“I know you hate it but you've stuck with it. And it's not easy to diet when you're a chef. Not many people could do what you've done. I'm proud of you.”

“You're just trying to butter me up.”

He shook his head, looking serious. “I'm not, actually. I admire you.”

She blushed, feeling embarrassed. “Well, it's better when Lee works out with us. At least I have someone to complain with.”

Tommy laughed, putting her kettle bell on the shelf next to the bigger ones. “I find it suspicious my wife scheduled a conference call during our regular workout time, don't you?”

“I most certainly do.”

She wiped her face and neck with a towel from her gym bag, still looking in the mirror. Her face was still red. It probably would be for another thirty minutes. Lee always said Annie's skin, fair and often flushed, reminded her of a ripe peach. Right now it looked more like a tomato.

Gathering up their bags, they walked towards the door. “You
sign up for the online dating site yet?” He said it gently and casually, like they hadn't talked in length about it many times before.

“I've been busy.”

“Not all men are bad, you know.”

“I guess.”

“I just want you to have what Lee and I have.”

“Pretty unlikely.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don't know.”
Because I'm not beautiful like Lee. And there are no men out there as good as you. And because I'm afraid to choose another man who will hurt me. And there's Alder to think of.
“I have work I love and good friends and my son. Isn't romantic love too much to ask for?”

“Absolutely not. You can't tell me you're not lonely. I know because I was there once. For eight years. Then, out of nowhere, came Lee.”

Neither of them said it, but Annie knew they were both thinking the same thing. Lee's first husband had committed suicide, leaving her pregnant and in debt. She'd been as low as a person can be. But on the other side of that grief was Tommy. And they were a happy family now.

“Boom, my life was transformed,” he continued. “That's how it's going to happen for you. Although it might happen faster if you'd be a little proactive. You're not going to find someone hanging out with a bunch of married people all the time.”

“John and Linus aren't married.”

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “You know they would be if Oregon passed a Gay Marriage Law.”

“I know. I'm just kidding.” At the door, she swung her bag over her shoulder. The morning was warm already, the sunlight too bright for her blue eyes. She slipped her sunglasses on as they crossed the street. “I look at you two and I think I should try and be more open to the idea. But it's hard, given my two mistakes.”

There had only been one man between Marco and now. She'd met him while living on the coast and working at a mediocre restaurant as an assistant chef. He was a logger from southern Oregon named Reuben: tall and handsome and rugged. The physical attraction she felt for him was stronger than any rational thought,
especially given how long she'd been alone. She quit her job and followed him to this little town, moving into his small trailer with Alder at her side.

Welcome to River Valley
, the sign at the beginning of town read.
Population, 1425
. And that lack of population meant there was no work for a chef. After several months, Rueben's cruel tongue killed all the initial attraction she'd felt for him. She'd chosen another mean man. He didn't beat her with his fists but lashed with his tongue instead.
You eat like a pig. It's like sleeping with a wet noodle. Your boy's a freak.
She'd made a terrible mistake. But she'd blown through her savings by then and took a job at the grocery store, hoping to save enough to move away after a short time.

Now, Lee was waving to them from the front door of their restaurant, Riversong. She held a magazine in her hand. Was she bouncing on her toes? She was.

“I bet the article in
Food and Wine
came out,” said Tommy.

Her stomach turned over. “I wonder what it says?”

“I'm guessing it's good, given her face.”

“Yeah, and she's bouncing.”

“She doesn't bounce,” said Tommy. “Ever.”

“Right?”

Lee ushered them inside, closing the front door behind her and locking it. They wouldn't open until this evening. The restaurant was cool and dark, the tables bare of anything but crisp white tablecloths and empty vases.

“I'm afraid to look,” said Annie.

“Don't be. It's as good as you can imagine.” Lee, normally cool and reserved, was grinning as she opened the magazine and spread it out on one of the tables.

“Is there a photo of us?” asked Annie. “Do I look fat?”

“First of all, I can't believe that's the first thing you're asking,” said Lee, shaking her head. “And second of all, you're not fat.” Lee tapped her finger on the full-page photo of the two of them standing under the blue awnings in front of the restaurant. “See here. You're smaller than me.”

It was true. Lee, several inches taller than Annie, was narrow in both hips and shoulders, but Annie was smaller, more petite. She let
out a long breath. “All right. Fine.”

Tommy put his arm around her still sweaty shoulder. “You need to see yourself as you are, sweetheart, not as you used to be.” He picked up the magazine. “Who gets to read it first?”

“Read it to us,” said Lee, sitting at the table and crossing her legs.

Tommy sat next to her, his melodic voice pleasant in the empty restaurant.

“We're the best restaurant in a town no one's ever heard of,” joked Annie Bell, Riversong's Head Chef. Opened just two years ago and nestled in the quiet southern Oregon town of River Valley, Riversong is now known as one of the finest places to eat in the Pacific Northwest. “When we first opened,” mused Manager and visionary, Lee Tucker, “I looked down the main street of our little town and watched cars driving right through, everyone headed somewhere, anywhere but here. And I thought, we'll never pull this off.”

She needn't have worried. During peak tourist months, getting a reservation in the sixteen-table restaurant is akin to winning the lottery. Patrons travel to the little town of River Valley just for the cuisine, aptly named Italian-Oregon fusion by Bell. Using all locally grown produce and proteins, Bell changes the menu seasonally while drawing upon her Italian culinary background to create truly unique dishes. “Whatever's locally in season is what I use for all our entrées,” said Bell. “If it isn't grown here, it isn't going in my food. Our proteins come almost exclusively from 4-H projects from our town's kids. We know they're grown the old-fashioned way, without hormones or chemicals.”

Truly partners in every sense of the word, Bell and Tucker, both with young children, not only work together closely at Riversong but are also best friends. “Riversong's a family-run business. It's not unusual to see us here before opening with our children playing in the front while we work in the kitchen or office,” says Tucker, referring to Bell's ten-year-old
son and her two-year-old daughter. “That's what I call a good work environment for mothers,” she added with a laugh.

Annie Bell insists this is the secret to their success. “Lee runs this place with love. I cook with love. Our customers feel it when they walk in and they taste it in every bite.”

Keeping with the family tradition, Tucker's husband, Tommy Hernandez, a local singer/songwriter, plays Thursdays through Sundays with his band, Los Fuegos, in the bar after the dinner hour ends. A gem in this little town no one's ever heard of, he covers not only his own songs (think big name country artists, and they've almost all recorded one of his songs) but many other folk and country hits. When you hear him play guitar and sing, you'll forget you're in Oregon and think you've been somehow transported to Nashville.

This food writer had such a good time with these good people that I didn't want to leave. I'm looking for another excuse to make my way to River Valley again this summer. Whether you have to beg, borrow, or steal, get yourself a reservation sooner rather than later. And stay to hear the band. Ask Cindi the bartender (spelled with an i, not a y, she'll be sure to tell you right away) for one of her hand-shaken margaritas. Just make sure to give your car keys to the hostess and stay at the Second Chance Inn next door where they deliver a basket of fresh Riversong scones and a poem to your door at 7 a.m. But not to worry, they won't knock, just in case you're sleeping off that margarita.