No Place I'd Rather Be

By Cathy Lamb

The discovery of a family cookbook changes the life of a beleaguered woman in this novel by the author of The Language of Sisters.

Two years ago, Olivia Martindale left behind her Montana hometown and her husband, Jace, certain it was the best decision for both of them. Back temporarily to protect her almost-adopted daughters from their biological mother, she discovers an old, handwritten cookbook in the attic. Its pages are stained and torn, their edges scorched by flame. Some have been smeared by water . . . or tears. The recipes are written in different hands and in different languages. In between the pages are intriguing mementos, including a feather, a pressed rose, a charm, and unfamiliar photographs.

Hoping the recipes will offer a window into her grandmother’s closely guarded past, Olivia decides to make each dish, along with their favorite family cake recipes, and records her attempts. The result, like much of her life to date, involves a parade of near-disasters and chaotic appearances by her doctor mother, her blunt grandma, her short-tempered sister, and Olivia’s two hilarious daughters. The project is messy, real—and an unintended hit with viewers.

Even more surprising is the family history Olivia is uncovering, and her own reemerging ties to Montana, and to Jace. Generations of women have shared these recipes, offering strength and nourishment to each other and their loved ones. Now it’s Olivia’s turn to find healing—and determine where her home and her heart truly belong.

Praise for Cathy Lamb

“This finely pitched family melodrama is balanced with enough gallows humor and idiosyncratic characters to make it positively irresistible.” —Publishers Weekly on Henry’s Sisters

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kensington Books
• Release date: Aug 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781496709820

Cathy Lamb

Cathy Lamb lives in Oregon. She is married with three children. She writes late at night when it’s just her and the moon and a few shooting stars.

Book preview

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Prologue

November 1945

Kalulell, Montana

Gisela Martindale, future grandmother of Olivia Martindale

Her hands shook as she held the cookbook. It was old, the leather cover cracked, the pages blackened by fire around the edges. Blood stains were splattered on more than one recipe, words smeared by tears and tea on others. The pink ribbon that tied it together, once bright and clean, was ragged and worn.

The recipes within it had been handed down through five generations of women, starting with her great-great-grandmother. They were written in four languages, across three countries.

Inside was her family’s history, with hand-drawn pictures of family members, old and young, some who lived a long time, others who didn’t, whose deaths were a crime. There were pictures of a village in a far-off, distant land, people on horseback, donkeys pulling carts, women with kerchiefs and shawls in the middle of a town square, city homes with red doors and lush gardens, herbs and vegetables, red geraniums, sumptuous cakes and cookies. There were recipes written in the midst of tragedy and stifling fear, and recipes written with a light and joyous heart. She knew the stories behind every one of them.

Between the pages, she had left the pressed and dried pink rose; two heart-shaped, gold lockets; a charm in the shape of a sun; a white feather; red ribbons; recipes taped onto back pages; the photographs and the poems.

One day, she would cook from it again. One day. When the book itself didn’t make her feel like crying, breaking down, dying. She pressed the ancient cookbook to her chest, the tears racing from her green eyes down her cheeks, light streaming in from the only window in the attic.

She tucked it into the bottom of a cardboard box. On top of it she folded a simple, white lace wedding dress and veil; a dark blue dress and matching blue hat with flowers on the brim and a white ribbon, which she would never wear again; and a white nurse’s uniform, also stained with blood.

She added a tin box, on its lid an old-fashioned picture of ladies in fancy dresses dancing at a ball, that had been hidden beneath the floorboards in another country for many dangerous years. Inside were two red and purple butterfly clips, two charm bracelets, the lost letters from lost people, colored pencils, and a small silver treasure that had survived two attacks. She brought the treasure to her mouth and kissed it.

She pushed everything down, gently, her tears soaking into the nurse’s uniform, the cookbook, the blue hat. She taped and sealed the box, extra tight, too much tape, way too much tape, as if the grief and terror of her past life would stay locked inside if she could cover it in enough tape.

When she was done, she pushed the box to the far corner, the darkest corner. The rest of the attic was empty. They didn’t have much. She, certainly, did not have much. In fact, she had next to nothing.

But the log home that they had built together was finished. It had a view of the winding Telena River and the snowcapped Dove Mountains. When he had asked her what she wanted in their new home, she had cried when she told him why she always needed to see in all directions, why she needed many windows. He had held her hand and told her he understood. Their home was filled with far more windows than a traditional log cabin would have.

She had also told him why she needed a red door and why she would always plant red geraniums in the summer. He had painted the door red and built flower boxes at every window for her red geraniums.

He told her he would build her a gazebo in the summer, and he told her why. Dear man, he knew her well.

It was a new life she had now in Montana, thousands of miles away from where she had been, from what she had seen, from what she knew.

She bent over the box, her thick, brown hair falling forward, and cried until she could cry no more. Then she dried her tears, pushed her clawing, scraping nightmares back into a far corner of her mind, as she had pushed the cardboard box back into the far corner of the attic, and went downstairs. She put a smile on her face for her new husband. She loved him so.

The taped box, and the old cookbook, stayed right where she left them for decades.

Until it rained one winter day.

Chapter 1

January 2010

Kalulell, Montana

Olivia Martindale

Do not drive in blizzards.

Especially in Montana, at night.

It will make your heart pound as if it’s trying to escape from your chest, your foot on the accelerator shake, and your mind leap in a thousand panicked directions. It’s dangerous, it’s life-threatening.

It’s stupid.

I am stupid.

We left Oregon early this morning. To be honest, I rushed us out of Oregon. I had my reasons. The reasons scared me to my bones and made them rattle. Suffice it to say: We needed out. Immediately. As soon as I had written permission, we left.

It was cool in Oregon, raining and misting, sweater weather only. We drove east, then north, and all was well, until we had a flat outside of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I hauled out the jack and changed the tire, but we got behind. It started snowing lightly when we started up the mountains; became worse at the top; and, coming into Kalulell, the snow turned into a blizzard. My phone was dead, so that added to my teeth-grinding anxiety.

But I was close to home, close to the log cabin with the red door that my granddad and grandma had built together, in 1945.

I saw a familiar sign announcing Kalulell. It was almost covered with snow, but I knew I had only a few miles to go. The snow fell faster, thicker, and my wiper blades could not keep up with it. My tires, even with chains on, slid sporadically over the ice. The wind that whistled around my car as if taunting me, the sideways snow that made me feel upside-down, and the fact that I could hardly see ten feet in front of my face yanked my fear up to stratospheric levels.

I gripped the steering wheel with tight hands and tried not to have a panic attack. I breathed deeply, then panicked when I couldn’t breathe deeply again. I tried to breathe shallowly, then panicked when I thought I wasn’t getting enough air. Maybe I was having a heart attack. Oh dear, oh no, I could not have a heart attack now. Not now.

I had to fix things first. I had to protect them.

Growing up here in Montana, I learned how to do a lot of things. I can break a horse, no matter how rebellious. I can work outside all day on our property. I can chop wood for hours, I can milk cows, and I can ski on one foot. One time I faced down a bull because I knew I couldn’t sprint to the fence fast enough. He turned away.

But I don’t drive in blizzards. Call it a personal hysteria button.

I reclenched the steering wheel, my black cowgirl boot shaking on the accelerator, and saw another sign. I looked away. I knew what lay beyond that particular sign, in a place where the grass was green in the summer, the buttercups a golden blanket. I also knew what was on top of that hill, way across the meadow, with a view of magical sunsets. I felt a thump in my heart and wanted to cry.

Stop it, I whispered to myself. Stop it now, you baby. Buck up.

But I didn’t buck up. I couldn’t. And that’s the problem when you return to a place, a place you called home, and things happened that were shattering and you leave and it’s easier because you don’t have to be reminded of the things you don’t want to think about when you’re gone, but then you come back, and there it all is, like mini lightning strikes to your soul.

Through the swirling snow I could see the outline of a familiar white fence, which meant that the river was now on my other side. Fence on the left, river on the right. The river would be filled with snow and ice, dangerous and fast, a gray, slithering snake.

I had driven alongside this fence more times than I could count, and it was a comfort to me in some ways. I knew where I was. And yet seeing it made breathing hard and I tried to inhale and the air seemed to get stuck in my lungs.

The wind hit my car with a howl out of hell itself, and I felt it shift, snow covering my windshield. Through my silly tears the white twirled all around me, like a snow tornado. It was then that I hit a patch of ice. We skidded, like a marble across a wood floor, careening to the right, then the left, back to the right. I thought of the raging river snake below us.

I braked, we spun in a final circle, I screamed.

They woke up and screamed along with me. They had had more than their share of screams in their young lives, and this was not fair. They did not deserve any more screams.

We tipped, a horrible jerk over the edge of the road, the front of my car pointing down toward the broken ice in the churning river, a skinny tree trunk smashed into my right side.

We were going to die.

Oh no. We were going to die.

* * *

I had left my job as a sous-chef two weeks ago, after I threw a chicken at my boss.

What are you doing, Olivia? Carter shrieked, turning toward me in his state-of-the-art, cold and sterile stainless steel kitchen.

It wasn’t a live chicken—that would not have been kind to the chicken—but a whole, plucked chicken. Clearly I was losing my mind. Probably because of the phone calls I had been getting. The underlying threats. Stop yelling at Brayonna, Carter.

What? His face, sweaty and flushed, scrunched up in fury. What?

She burned the crème brûlée, Carter. That’s it. It’s a dessert. Only a dessert. No one was hurt. No one was in danger. She doesn’t deserve to be yelled at.

That I interfered in the middle of his swearing tantrum enflamed him and his ego. "It’s not just a dessert, Olivia. It’s my famous crème brûlée. He stabbed his finger at me. This is my restaurant and everything must be done flawlessly, perfectly. If she can’t do perfect, she’s out."

All of the other chefs were suddenly quiet, standing still over bubbling pots, gas-fired stoves, bowls full of cake batter and soups, thick steaks and shrimp, fresh fruits and vegetables ready to be sliced. Outside the double doors we had customers waiting, people who had sat on waiting lists for weeks, tonight a special event for them.

You yelled at Ethan tonight, too, Carter, because you said his sauce wasn’t creamy enough. You berated him until he cried and left.

"It wasn’t creamy enough, he seethed, then slammed down a wooden spoon. Not. Creamy. Enough!"

It’s sauce. It’s not life. Of all the things to get upset about. Crème brûlée. Sauce. It made me want to cry. These are not things in life to melt down over. You knocked Georgia’s hat off her head tonight because you said she didn’t add enough butter. It’s butter. That’s all it is. Chill out.

No, Olivia! His voice spiked as he charged over to me. It’s not. Butter makes or breaks my recipes, so it makes or breaks my reputation. No one can blemish my reputation! He threw a dish towel to the floor. And stay out of this! Who asked you what you thought?

I always say what I think, and what I think is that it’s only butter. From a cow. I had had it. I knew it at that moment. Carter demeaned people constantly. Everyone hated him, except his henchman, Ralphie, who smirked at me. Every dictator has a right-hand henchman who doesn’t think for himself. I don’t hate anyone, but Carter was one of the meanest people I have ever met. I think that’s why I picked up an egg and threw it at him. He ducked and I missed, which was disappointing. I take pride in my aim—being a Montana girl I knew how to shoot a gun and a bow and arrow—so I threw a second one. Got him. He dodged to the left, then to the right. I pelted an egg at the smirking, nonthinking Ralphie, too. Target hit.

What the hell, Olivia? Carter lurched left. I got him again.

I wasn’t angry. Some part of my mind couldn’t believe what I was doing. The other part thought that a man who could actually turn into a frothing Tasmanian devil over crème brûlée deserved to have eggs thrown at him. Did he not read the newspaper? Did he not see what happened to people? Now, that was worth melting down over. I myself had had a total meltdown two years ago. It had had nothing to do with crème brûlée.

You need to stop yelling at people, Carter. You need to treat people like humans. Don’t be a frightening prick.

He gasped. I do treat them like humans unless they’re screwing up my restaurant! What? Ethan can’t make sauce right after I’ve shown him twice? Brayonna still can’t make crème brûlée without burning it? Are they stupid?

No. For some reason I thought I should throw a potato at him, so I did, and he ducked and swore, but I had anticipated the duck, so the potato smacked him. I chucked one at smirking Ralphie, too. Dead center. He said, Ooph.

Carter’s was now a popular restaurant in Portland. I had worked for him as his sous-chef since I left Montana, two years ago. I was in charge of the kitchen when Carter wasn’t there. I was in charge of the menu, including all of the specials, and often worked twelve-hour shifts. Carter would not admit it, but his restaurant was not doing well when I arrived on the scene. In fact, he was close to going belly-up.

He and I sat down and revamped the menu. We cooked together. I showed him my recipes. We made them and he loved them. I had the restaurant remodeled. We had an excellent review in the paper, then another one, and it was word of mouth from then on out.

I think of it as American fine dining, elegant and plentiful, with a splash of Italian and the colors and spices of Mexico. I needed the job when Carter hired me. I had nothing. He gave it to me and I was grateful, but he was a temperamental and explosive chef, and my frayed nerves couldn’t take him anymore.

I’m out. I turned to the other people, my coworkers, who were equally fed up with crazy Carter, and said, I’m sorry.

Two people closest to me reached over and gave me a hug, then more came. Please don’t go, they whispered. I can’t handle Carter without you . . . don’t do this . . . Leave now, come back tomorrow, please, Olivia . . . I can’t take his screaming with you gone. . . .

Olivia! Carter yelled at me, his finger waving, egg dripping down his white chef’s coat. If you leave here, you can never come back! If you come back tomorrow, I will close the door. If you come back in a week, probably I will keep the door shut. If you come crawling back in a month, I will think about letting you back in, so do not leave. I have made you the chef you are. You owe me!

I laughed. So did a bunch of other people. It was so patently false that in response I picked up an onion and pitched it at him, and then, my finale, because he had yelled and yelled at me for months, carrots. He dodged and ducked and swore as one after another hit. Ralphie was hiding behind the island. I managed to land an onion on him anyhow. Again: I take pride in my aim.

I heard the other chefs smothering their laughter.

I took off my hat, and the net, my brown hair tumbling down my back. I grabbed my bag, all of my recipes that I’d collected in a notebook, and my knives, and I walked out through the front door, waving at the waitstaff, their faces confused.

I went home to my small, one-bedroom apartment in downtown Portland. The girls, six and seven years old, were in bed, my bed, as I was now on the couch in the family room, and I paid the babysitter. She has tattoos and piercings and is sweet and loves to do crafts with the girls.

I took a shower, unfolded the couch into a bed, piled on the blankets, and opened my computer. I had some savings. Not a lot. The attorney had cost a bucket of money. My car had broken down, too, which was expensive. I missed the truck I had had in Montana. I had to sell it to pay the attorney. I made another payment to the hospital. A few months ago I had had to spend four days there for a bleeding ulcer that hit an artery. My deductible was $6,800. I would be making payments for months.

I was a single mother. It was still hard for me to grasp that after six months. But I might not be their mother forever. There were complications, problems, issues. Terrifying things. And now I had no job. Fear, strangling and tight, curled around my entire being.

The next morning, early, I got another call. The woman’s words terrorized me.

And that’s when I knew we had to leave, to escape, immediately.

* * *

The car teetered on the edge of the icy road, as if we were on a multi-ton seesaw.

What’s happening? Stephi yelled.

Aunt Olivia, what’s going on? Lucy said.

The car wobbled, up and down, again. My windshield wipers were still on, but they were hardly making a dent in the snow coming down like a white, cold blanket, ready to smother anyone who stood too long in one place.

I knew what was below us. I knew what would happen when the car tilted down a few inches in the wrong direction. Don’t move, I choked out. Don’t move. The car stopped, the engine growling.

Don’t move? Stephi said. Oh no oh no. Oh no.

Right. Stay still.

I’m scared, Lucy said. So scared. Help, Aunt Olivia! Help me!

I know, baby. But don’t move.

I could hardly see. The wind battered the car. I didn’t want to open the door, because I didn’t know if I would drop down the side, between the road and the car, and disappear. But I couldn’t stay in the car with them and risk plunging down the cliff into the river. I had a vivid image of the car filling with freezing water and ice as I struggled to yank the girls through a window. I shoved down bubbling hysteria, knowing hysteria would not help this situation.

We teetered again, and I jammed my teeth together so I didn’t let loose a bloodcurdling scream. I opened the door to the car, slowly, so slowly, to see if my half of the car was still on the highway. If it was, I would carefully climb over the seat and haul the girls out. I would not think about how the three of us would survive in a blizzard once we were out. At least we would have a chance. The river offered no chances; the river snake would drown us.

Snow flew in when I opened the door, and the girls whimpered. I wanted to whimper, too. How far over the edge were we? How much pavement was on my side? Should I have the girls climb out on their own and stay where I was to balance the car out?

The wind whooshed through the car and the girls screamed, the noises blending together. Then the car rocked up and down. We were going down the cliff and into the river. At that cataclysmic moment, between life and death, I thought of her.

* * *

She had breathed into the phone the morning after I’d quit my job. Heavy. Deliberate. She lowered her voice. I have a surprise for you, Olivia.

I would not like the surprise, I knew that.

Want to know what the surprise is?

No. I hated her calls. I gripped the lid of the blender. I was making the girls a fruit smoothie with raspberries, bananas, and strawberries.

She giggled. Surprises are fun. She sang the word fun. Fun and exciting.

I waited, my throat tight.

You’re going to lose, Olivia.

I closed my eyes.

You lose, she singsonged. I win, win, win.

Don’t call me again.

Why? I like talking to you.

I don’t like talking to you.

She laughed and laughed. Olivia, you have no idea what’s going to happen soon. None. But I know and I like it. You won’t like it. You won’t like it at all.

What are you talking about? I walked away from the blender, passing a mirror I have in the nook. My green eyes, cat eyes I’m told, that tilt up at the corners, looked stricken.

It’s a secret. I like secrets.

Last time, what are you talking about? I felt my whole body clench, as if waiting for a blow.

What am I talking about? she whispered. What am I talking about? That’s easy. She giggled again. Revenge, Olivia. I’m talking about revenge.

I hung up on her laughter. She thinks she’s so funny.

I don’t find her funny at all.

Her sick rage echoed in my ear.

Her harsh words cut through my heart.

Her hissed threats clogged my throat until I could hardly breathe.

I gripped the counter in front of me, the silence a sickening contrast to the evil conversation I’d had. Outside my apartment the gray clouds rolled, the rain pouring down, blurring everything.

I had to get out of Oregon.

I had to go where she could not find me, find us.

I knew exactly where to go.

I called my attorney.

In two weeks, with permission, with hands that trembled, I began to pack. Then I gave away our furniture.

I would keep them safe. I would hold them close.

I would never let her come near them again.

* * *

That’s why I had to survive this car accident. Because of her. For them.

Through the open door, I could see that my car, on my side, was still on the pavement. How much pavement I didn’t know, the snow near blinding. It couldn’t be much, as we were rocking back and forth. Unlock your seat belts, Lucy and Stephi. I’m coming to get you.

The car tilted forward again. Stop! Don’t move. Wait! The car leveled out.

Aunt Olivia!

Wait . . . wait . . . okay. Do it now! Unstrap. My voice was sharp. They unbuckled, and I started to crawl over the seat. Wrap your arms around my neck. Stephi, over here. Lucy here. Hold on. Do you hear me? Hold on as tight as you can.

They sobbed, but they did it, brave girls, their blond curls in my face. Don’t move! I snapped as the car moved again. I closed my eyes. When we stopped moving, I swung them onto my lap and opened the back door. The door opened so easily, too easily. The snow blew in, cold prickles on my face.

Give them to me.

I jumped at the man’s voice, not two feet from me. Through the blur of white I saw him. A tall man, huge shoulders, thick black jacket. He reached in and grabbed us, all of us, his arms long and strong.

Our eyes met, now inches away, over the girls’ blond heads, and for a second, only a second, as we had no more time than that, I saw his utter shock. I felt the same shock. I knew him. Knew that body. Knew that voice.

Let’s go. He lifted us up.

I put a boot down on the icy pavement, then the other one, as he pulled us out of the car, away from the edge of the road, the blizzard whipping around us. My car groaned behind us, shifting forward, then back, then toward the river. The girls screamed as the car tumbled over the side, smashing into the roiling river snake below.

I let him pull the girls from my arms.

Put your arms around my neck, he told them.

Aunt Olivia! They reached for me, their expressions scared as this huge man took them away.

Hold on to him! I’m coming with you.

Grab my jacket, Olivia. We bent against the snow and headed toward his truck, his lights on. He opened the back door and dropped the girls in, shut the door, then opened the driver’s door and pushed me in, gently. I scrambled over to the passenger seat as he got into the driver’s seat and shut the door against the blizzard. The warmth, the feeling of safety, was immediate for me. I was with him. All would be fine. We would be fine. I collapsed against the seat and tried to breathe. That was a miracle. He was a miracle. He returned my gaze, calm, reserved.

Who is that? Stephi whispered to me, but loudly, staring at him with her huge, dark eyes.

What’s going on? Lucy said, pushing her blond curls back. Her eyes were the same as her sister’s: chocolate brown.

Strap in. Everything’s okay, girls. I reached my hand over the seat and held their hands. Tears of utter relief rolled down my cheeks as I looked at their sweet faces. I turned back around to face him, wiping my tears off. Thank you. Thank you so much.

You’re welcome. He put his hand out, and I held it with my other hand, all of us now linked. You okay?

Yes, I’m fine. So not fine. I was horrible. I was in shock. We had almost plunged into a river, in a blizzard. We had almost died. I’m fine.

Aunt Olivia. That man. Who is that? Lucy asked, pointing.

Is he a stranger? Is he stranger danger? Stephi said. We’re not supposed to get into cars with people we don’t know, Aunt Olivia.

No, it’s bad. Lucy leaned forward. Are you a bad guy?

He turned around and smiled at the girls. No, I’m not a bad guy. I’m Jace Rivera.

Yes. He was.

Jace Rivera.

Definitely a good guy.

He smiled. I smiled back. I tried to catch my breath, tried to stop trembling and envisioning my girls drowning in the life-sucking river snake.

Hello, Jace.

* * *

Thank you again, Jace. It’s not enough to say thank you, I know it isn’t.

No problem. Glad I was there.

Me too. I shivered, one of those whole-body shivers. A shock shiver. I knew I was probably as white as a ghost. A ghost who had almost pitched forward down a cliff into a river filled with snow and ice.

He looked slightly pale, too, in his jeans, cowboy boots, and black sweater.

Jace and I sat in front of the two-story fireplace in my grandparents’ log cabin. I had been so happy to see that red door and my granddad’s lasso wrapped around one of the wood beams, so happy the girls and I were alive, that I made a strangled sound in my throat when we arrived.

My grandma had moved in with my mother to our two-story blue farmhouse, which also had a red door, where I was raised, about a half mile away, after my beloved, smart, brave granddad died two and a half years ago of multiple strokes.

Jace and I both clenched coffee mugs between our hands, a fire roaring. Rock from our property had been used for the façade so it had a true Montana-y look. We sat across from each other, in the wood furniture my grandparents built, the cushions wrapped in light blue denim, thick and comfy. We used the black trunk with gold buckles, which belonged to my grandparents’ grandparents, between us as a coffee table.

We’d brought the girls in, fed them, and I put them to bed with a hug, a kiss, and an I love you. I was grateful my mother and grandma had stocked the fridge for us. They had gone right to sleep after Lucy said, He looks like a giant. Is he a giant? and Stephi said, Is he a superhero? I always knew they were real. But he doesn’t have a cape, only cowboy boots. He needs a cape.

You saved all three of us, Jace. I couldn’t have gotten them out of the car if we hit the river, and even if we didn’t go all the way in and I did get them out, we would have frozen out there.

A muscle was moving along his jaw, and he became whiter.

Are you okay, Jace?

Olivia, unless you want me to have a heart attack, I don’t want to talk about what happened.

Right. Okay. Please do not have a heart attack.

It’s going to give me a nightmare tonight. In fact, I’ll probably have nightmares for weeks, so let’s let it go.

Are you sure I can’t get you a drink? I, personally, feel like having eight drinks. I feel like swimming in scotch.

No, thank you. Those dark eyes held mine. Jace had a hard face. Hard jawline. Thick, black hair. You wouldn’t look at him and say he was handsome in a model-like sense. He had a scar on his left temple. He had another small scar on his chin. He’d spent years outside in Montana. His face showed the weather, the sun, the snow, the wind. He was solid, strong, brave. Jace was sexy. He was huge. Six four, built like a tractor, strong shoulders, grippable and muscled. He didn’t talk a lot, but he always had interesting things to say.

He smiled at me, a small smile, filled with what wasn’t being said between us, and I could feel myself tumbling backward into that familiar despair. The guilt rushed in. I was ashamed of myself for what I’d done to him. He hadn’t deserved it.

I was an awful person.

He saw me tumble, I knew it. He knew me so well. Too well.

How have you been, Olivia? His voice was low, quiet.

How had I been? Pretty much all over the spectrum, from floundering around on the bottom of life to finding hope and joy and love in Stephi and Lucy, then back to numbing grief, then to absolute terror from the calls I was getting from her and what the future would hold. I’m . . . I’m fine. I’m good and fine. Good. All lies. How are you?

He stared back at me for long seconds. He knew I was lying. I’ve been fine, Olivia.

I’m . . . yes, I’m . . . Gall. I could hardly concentrate around Jace. He had always done that to me. I’m . . . uh . . . er . . . happy and glad. What?

He nodded, and I studied my hands. The fire crackled and we listened, waiting for the other to talk. Jace had been driving home when he saw my car ping across the road like a pinball, then watched it spin and crash. He hadn’t known it was me, as I’d sold the truck I’d had when I was here.

So. Lucy and Stephi, he said. They are?

My daughters. I’m in the process of adopting them. I wrung my hands. That sounded too hopeful. I want to adopt them, but things aren’t going well.

I saw his colliding emotions fly across his face before he shut down: Shock. Pain. Disbelief. Acceptance. We sat in that silence, then he cleared his throat.

You want to adopt them from foster care?

I want to adopt them through the state, but I can only if their mother’s and father’s rights are terminated, which they have not been. The girls were living with their grandma. She passed away. Annabelle and I were friends. I wrung my hands. We were still friends. It was as if Annabelle was still with me. She was in that place in your soul where friends go who die but you still love them and talk to them and think of them.

I’m sorry about your friend, Annabelle, Olivia. I really am.

Thank you.

Why would their parents’ rights be terminated?

It’s a long story. It’s a miserable and chilling story.

I’d like to hear it when you want to tell it.

Okay.

Too much for tonight?

Yes. It’s complicated. It’s an epic disaster.

They seem like nice kids.

They are. They are such nice kids. I adore them.

You’ve always had a big heart.

Big heart. I tapped my head. Screwed up here, but I’m trying.

You’re not screwed up, Olivia.

Oh, yes, I am.

I could tell what I said upset him, but his eyes stayed steady on mine. How long are you here for?

I don’t know. I’m hiding. Holing up. Escaping. And seeing you is breaking me in half.

You’re not staying, then?

No. Probably not. Maybe. I don’t think so. How could I? Yes. I loved it here. But it wasn’t possible. No.

He was waiting for more information. Evaluating. Listening. Patient. Kind.

Okay. He sighed. I wanted to cry. The fire crackled again, sparks flying.

He stood up. I stood up, too.

Jace—

Yes?

I didn’t know what to say. So I said what I’d already said before, many times. Thank you so much.

You’re welcome, Olivia. He pushed his black hair back, then ran his hand over his face. I cannot believe that happened.

Me either.

I may not sleep for years.

I may be up for years, too.

He had aged a little, not much. It was in the creases by his eyes, the older expression that he wore, the reserve. He was even tougher, that I saw with no doubt.

Call me when you want to talk, he said.

I will. He should have been furious at me. He had every right.

Should I expect a call? Jace towered over me. He stood too close. I wanted to reach out and hug him. Wrap my arms around him and squeeze and feel safe and warm. It wouldn’t be fair to him, so I didn’t.

I don’t know. Voice weak, small. I am such a mess, and he makes me messier. We have an insurmountable problem.

Whenever you want to talk, I’m here, Olivia.

I couldn’t say anything else because my tears were tight in my throat and throttling me. He turned, broad and tall, black haired and harshly handsome, all man.

’Night, Olivia.

I couldn’t say it. It reminded me of too many nights when he had said the same thing to me.

The door closed behind him, and I collapsed on the couch.

I should have apologized to him. Again. I should have. I couldn’t. I’d done it already, but another apology was due, and I knew it. I felt lower than a slug for what I did to him. I always would.

* * *

After Jace left, I crawled into the king-sized bed in my grandparents’ bedroom on the first floor. My granddad, Oliver Martindale, was six three and needed a large bed. He used to say all he ever wanted was a twin-sized bed so he could be close to my grandma, Gisela, all night long.

I smiled, tearfully, at the memory, then burrowed deeper into the quilts and blankets, my body and brain now in post-shock from what had nearly happened to my girls. It was pitch dark, the moonbeams glowing through the tall windows.

My grandparents’ two-story log cabin is charming and homey and I love it. I told myself to concentrate on the cabin, not the almost-disaster, so I could sleep. The cabin, along with our blue farmhouse, sits on one hundred acres.

My grandparents stayed in a trailer, on their land, while they built their log cabin. Luckily it did not take too long with the help they had. The trailer did not have electricity or plumbing, which my grandma said was a real romance killer. You don’t know how much you love a toilet until you don’t have one.

They built the cabin together with the help of my granddad’s parents, and other friends and neighbors, some of whom are still around and close friends of our family. In fact, the Martindales go generations back, in terms of friendships, with many people in Kalulell. My grandparents, for example, were friends with Jace’s grandparents.

It’s a medium-sized cabin, with windows all over, far more than what you would see in other log cabins. It’s like the logs are there to prop up the windows. The windows let in the huge, blue Montana sky in all directions; the Dove Mountains; and the Telena River, which is about thirty yards from the house.

The ceiling in the family room is two stories high. Upstairs there’s a loft, which opens to the downstairs, separated by a hand-carved wood rail. There is also a bedroom, which was my mother’s as a girl, and the bedroom my sister, Chloe, and I slept in when we had sleepovers with our grandparents. There is also a separate den, and a bathroom, all with oversized windows. The den was where my granddad, the town doctor, worked after hours. We have kept his medical journals and books. There’s a small attic above the den with one window.

On the main floor is the kitchen, which has been remodeled more than once, most recently five years ago. The cabinets are white, the backsplash is white beadboard, the counters are all butcher block. A huge window over the white apron sink looks straight out at the snowy mountains.

The dining room table, which seats ten, was made by my granddad with wood from trees on our land. The dents and scratches come from sixty-five years of Martindale family dinners; patients who were laid flat on it for medical care, including stitches and tourniquets; and the baking prep my grandma did there. As a teenager my mother carved her name beneath the table when she was forced to help my grandma cook a Thanksgiving dinner one afternoon, when she really wanted to help my granddad at his medical clinic instead.

The family area, dining area, and kitchen are essentially one room. Another full bathroom and the master bedroom look toward the river.

The front door is red, and in all seasons but winter, two red Adirondack chairs are out front on the deck and four others are on the back deck. Red is my grandma’s favorite color, so my granddad painted the door red. The red door and the red Adirondack chairs match the red geraniums my mother, grandma, sister, and I plant each summer.

Red geraniums are the family flower, so to speak, that all the women in my family grow, so it’s important it’s that flower on the deck and in the window boxes.

When as a young girl I asked my grandma why red geraniums are the family flower, she said, Because, dear Olivia, they are. Her face tightened, saddened.

But why? Why not tulips or daffodils?

It’s a long story. She pushed her hair back. It was thick, and brown then, like my mother’s, like mine and my sister Chloe’s, but mixed with white.

I love stories! Will you tell me?

No, dear. She put a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t understand why it shook. I didn’t understand why her eyes flooded. I still don’t. It’s not a story I want to talk about now.

Okay, Grandma. I was so sad that I had made her cry that I cried. She held me close. This has nothing to do with you, my precious, Olivia, my dear Cinnamon. Only things I don’t talk about anymore.

And that was it. We went horseback riding an hour later, and she talked to me about how to survive in the wilderness if I was ever lost. She also told me what to do if a bear charged me. So I don’t know why red geraniums are the family flower, they simply are.

An old wagon wheel leans against the cabin because my granddad’s relatives came west on the wagon train from Missouri, and that’s what’s left of that journey. Two cowboy hats—one my granddad’s and one my grandma’s—are nailed to the right of the door, and there’s a weather vane with a sun on top of the roof.

My granddad always said my grandma was his sun, hence the sun weather vane.

Near the river is a gazebo my granddad built, with

Reviews for No Place I'd Rather Be

[teachlz · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

MY REVIEW OF " NO PLACE I'D  RATHER BE" by Cathy LambKudos to Cathy Lamb, author of "No Place I'd Rather Be" for writing such a descriptive and intriguing story of  family, life, and love. The recipe of  family and love, is based on an old family cookbook, where the ingredients include, history, secrets, tears, blood, sweat, tradition, faith, despair and hope. Symbolically this recently found cookbook registers several generations of family that have  recorded struggles to survive under adverse circumstance. Family pictures and drawings and special recipes for favorite family foods are written in this book.The genres for this book are fiction, historical fiction and a dash of romance. The timeline for this story is mostly in the present with visits to the past to explain the times and characters.Cathy Lamb describes the characters as complex and complicated. Olivia Martindale, famous chef returns home to her family in Montana.  Olivia is accompanied by two young girls, sisters, that she hopes to adopt. The girls come from an abusive mother and father, and Olivia wants them to provide them with a safe home full of love and safety. I really like Olivia's family. Olivia's grandmother holds many secrets, but is the voice of reason. Olivia's mother is a physician, who tells it like it is. She "shoots" from the hip. Olivia's sisteris courageous, quirky and fun.  I especially like Kyle, Olivia's nephew, that has a big heart. When the family is upset, they bake and cook, and whip up  intriguing creations. Cooking and the newly discovered cookbook helps to bring the family together.It is difficult for Olivia to come home to Montana.  She has been separated from her husband Jake. Olivia has secrets of her own.I appreciate that Cathy Lamb brings up historical references to the persecution of minorities. The author also discusses issues such as bullying, drug abuse, mental illness, autism and children on the spectrum.  I love that Cathy Lamb describes family, love, hope and faith.   I would highly recommend this novel as a captivating and enjoyable layered  story. I received an advance review copy from NetGalley and the Great Thoughts Ninja Review team for my honest review. 

[susan0316 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I just finished this book and all I can say is WOW - what a fantastic book. As always, Cathy Lamb has presented her readers with a complex book about family and love and acceptance. It was a book that caused laugh out loud moments as well as tears. I was so involved in this book that I cancelled lunch plans today so that I could finish it.Olivia returns to her family in Montana after a 2 year absence with two little girls that she hopes to adopt. The girls had lived a neglected life with their drug-addicted parents who were now in jail and Olivia wants to protect them. Olivia's family is a loving but eclectic group of people - her sister (I loved her sister and their relationship), Kyle, her sister's Asperger's son, her mom, the doctor and her grandma the herbal healer and her husband. Olivia is a chef and her family believes that the family who cooks together, stays happy. (Trust me, don't read this book hungry!). When Olivia finds an old recipe book in the attic, it causes her grandmother to start talking about her past to her family, something that she has never shared with them.Overall, this is a story about a strong family of women (with a few men thrown in) who cook together and love each other no matter their faults and support each other. The author does a wonderful job of bringing in other subjects - bullying at school, sexual abuse in the work place and autism to name a few. The readers learns to know and to love the women in this book and to laugh and cry and cheer with them at their successes. I hated to leave them all behind in Montana at the end of the novel.I received an advance review copy of this book from the Great Thought's Ninja Review Team. All opinions are my own.

[cathygeha · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

No Place I’d Rather Be by Cathy LambHaving collected family history, snippets and recipes then put them onto a CD to disperse to family I was eager to read this story. This book does tell the history of a long line of brave women who shared down through the years one book in which they preserved not only recipes but so much more. Tucked away and found decades later then cooked from by those remaining in the current era the recipes brought back missing memories and tastes of the past for the woman who hid it away so many years before. As the recipes were made and talked about so were the people from the past and their histories. Olivia returns home to Montana with two young once abused foster daughters looking for security that she turned her back on two years before. She still loves her husband but feels that they have a problem too big to deal with - I have to say I felt she was a bit immature in her behavior and couldn’t really understand why perfect Jace waited for her so long. Olivia’s grandmother who tucked the cookbook away with other items was strong, serene and a healer with much pain in her past. Olivia’s mother was a physician that was outspoken and blunt (where did her personality come from?) and Olivia’s sister was almost a caricature with superhuman abilities in her overlarge frame and outspoken voice. Kyle with Asperger’s was a wonderful young man that I wished the best for. The family interactions were interesting, the little girls precious, the romance drawn out then it seems time had to be made up for and I am not sure why but at times I felt the book was a bit preachy or teachy…not much…just sometimes. Anyway, this book had many topics discussed within it: abuse, war, racism, bigotry, bullying, natural healing, mental illness, family, loss, cooking, misogyny, harassment…and more. All in all it is a feel good book with a happy ending for all but. Thank you to NetGalley and Kensington Books for the ARC – this is my honest review.3-4 Stars

[fictionalblonde · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I cannot get enough of this authors books and this one was a great one from start to finish. The characters as usual were fun, quirky and lovable. The plot was well written and grabbed me from the beginning to the last page. As usual Cathy Lamb delivered a great book!