“Showtime.”
He slows to a walk and starts measuring his heart rate. That’s my cue to jump out of the back of the Austen holding a bag of fresh muffins Nan made the night before.
“Hi Turner!”
Startled by my sudden appearance, his face whips around. Seeing me, he frowns. Not an encouraging start, but I persevere.
“Hi. Hi, so…I got these for you.” I hold up the paper bag, which he stares at with indifference. Sadly, he looks disinclined to take it. This is not at all awkward.
“Can we talk?” He responds to this with another blank stare. “Please, it’ll only take a minute.”
Exhaling tiredly, he pulls the pods out of his ears…and waits.
“Yeah, so…uh, I just wanted to apologize for the other day. I shouldn’t have said that. I really…I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean it. I mean, I really did think you were gay. But that was obviously a mistake on my part. Not that you gave off any gay vibes or anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. I love gay people––” Yikes, this is not going well. “That’s all on me. I have no excuse. And I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. Here”––I thrust the muffins at him and he unwillingly takes them––“Nan made them. Anyway, I apologize from the bottom of my heart.”
Still no change in expression. Man, this guy is tough.
I wait. I wait some more. For him to accept. For him to say anything at this point. For him to show some freaking mercy. I’m freezing my butt off out here.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I jog in place, and his critical gaze rakes up and down my thermal onesey PJs, the one with smily faces on it.
“That it?” he finally bestows upon me.
This is not how I saw this going in my head. “Umm, yeah, I guess.”
Then he hands me back the bag of muffins and walks inside.
“The heck is he doing…” I murmur to myself. Because that’s what I usually do when I’m spying, surveilling, whatever. Turner’s out back, going back and forth from the woodshed, for the last twenty minutes.
Leaning closer to the window over the kitchen country sink, I crane my neck to watch him come out swinging an ax. For a man who despises me, he looks way too comfortable swinging an ax.
We haven’t so much as shared a passing glance since the day of my botched apology a week ago. He does his best to ignore me and I return the favor.
I hear him, though. I hear him loud and clear. I hear him get up at 4 a.m. I hear the door bang shut when he goes for his daily run. I hear the shower running, and I hear the Expedition peal out of the driveway when he leaves for the farmhouse. But he’s a paying guest, so I keep my mouth shut and pull the pillow over my head.
I thought about apologizing again, but that’s out of the question. Every time he’s anywhere near me, his electric fencing goes on and I don’t want to get zapped again. I’m done with his attitude. I apologized repeatedly. If he doesn’t want to accept it, too bad so sad.
Absently, I turn on the sink and the water sputters. Great. Something else to fix. After weeks of dealing with clogged toilets, thermostat issues, and a young couple staying in the Miller cottage keeping the neighbors up with their sexscapades, I’ve decided that this cannot go on much longer. My intellect will not allow it.
Which is why I’ve made a plan to check if the town newspaper, The Gazette, is hiring––as soon as possible.
A chill runs through me and I’m reminded to add wood to the fireplaces. This house was originally built in the 1800s and even with all the renovations Nan and Dad made over the years, it’s still drafty.
Grabbing my sister’s down coat and the leather carrier, I throw it on and walk out back to fetch some wood. Turner is still there––except now he’s shirtless. Give me a break. Even with the sun out, it’s in the 30s, which for April is completely normal. In contrast, I have so many layers on I look like the Michelin tire man.
He places a piece of wood on the stump, raises his arms above his head, muscles tensing and rippling, and comes down hard on it. Tossing the two pieces aside, he sets up another one.
“Put it away, Turner. No one here is interested.” Walking past him, I reach a neat pile siting against the side of the woodshed.
“You’ve been staring at me from the kitchen window for the past half hour”––he brings the ax down hard, grunting as it impacts the wood––“so I beg to differ.”
Heat blankets my face while I clutch my jacket like an uptight heroine from an 18th century novel. “It’s more gross fascination. Like being at the zoo. Or a freak show.”
I don’t know what it is about this man that brings out the worst in me. Or is it the best? Whatever it is, my practically nonexistent ability to defend myself rises like a phoenix from the ashes whenever he speaks.
Turner stops and leans on the handle of the ax, chest heaving as he takes deep breaths. I look away, out yonder, but as a suspicious length of silence grows curiosity gets the best of me and I’m forced to look at him again.
A slow sinister smile transforms the brute force of his face into something not at all unappealing. And this is where things take a turn for the worse because a creeping sensation of dread fills my chest. God help me, I can’t be attracted to him.
“Difference is…you can’t touch those animals.”
He’s got me so on edge I start to walk away. Then, realizing I came out here for a reason, I make a quick U-turn. Aaand come up short when I find him standing right behind me, holding two pieces of wood.
My gaze moves up his chest, covered in a light dusting of dark hair, nipples pointing from the bite in the air. It slowly move over his Adam’s apple and his tense jaw. By the time I reach his face, his expression is back to being as serious and intense as always.
Watching me intently, he places the wood in the leather carrier.
“Thank you,” I force myself to mutter, because it always pays to be kind.
The quiet chuckle I hear come out of him as I walk back inside sets my teeth on edge though.
After lighting the fireplace in Dad’s office, I get busy looking through the bookings for this calendar year. If you like winter sports, this is the place to be. Skiing, skating, ice hockey, hiking––we’ve got it all. And if sports aren’t for you, there’s always sightseeing and shopping. I can’t recall a single winter that we haven’t been packed, attracting guests from Boston, New York, even as far as Japan, and this year is no different. We’re sold out until the end of March.
Carrying two coffee cups, Dad walks in having returned from his trip to the hardware store. “Everything look good?” he asks, placing one on the desk.
He knows the answer to that; Maggie always ran a tight ship.
“We’re completely sold out for the winter.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. The Austen should’ve been rented out.
Nodding, he sits in his favorite wing chair by the fireplace. It brings back memories––most of them not very pleasant.
I can still see his face when he sat me and Jackie down to tell us Zelda was not coming back. I can still remember my disbelief. How I accused him of being a liar. That it was his fault she’d left. How I defended her. Shame makes me hot under the collar.