Geneva keeps to herself a lot, either tucked away in the office across from her room, or on the screened porch. If she isn’t on her laptop, then there’s a tablet or book in her hand, and usually earbuds in her ears.
The only time we really see each other is when the governor does his daily update. For an hour a day, we sit on the couch and hear him assure the state that everything will be fine, before rattling off the number of infections and deaths, then adding any restrictions or changes to the law.
After, we usually go our separate ways, and find our own methods for passing the time.
Chapter Three
Genna
Waking to see the sun illuminating my bedroom puts a smile on my face. The last week of rain and being trapped inside was starting to get to me. We still have another week where we need to quarantine to make sure we don’t already have the virus, and maybe it’s strange that I haven’t been afraid or focused on that. Like most terrible things, it seems to trigger that section of my brain that brushes it off because surely that couldn’t happen to me. It’s ridiculous, but it’s how it is.
Sharing the house with Patrick hasn’t been a problem, and sometimes when I can’t sleep and it’s the middle of the night, I’m glad there’s someone else nearby. It makes things less creepy. It’s nice to be surrounded by forest, but the sound of the wildlife at night, especially coyotes howling, can be unnerving.
Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, I head outside after breakfast. Lounge chairs circle the covered pool, and they look comfortable, but I head to one corner of the yard where a small picnic table sits near a stone fire pit.
There’s a notebook in my hand and my plan was to write like I’ve done every day since I’ve been here, but it gets tossed onto the table in favor of my phone. It’s a beautiful, sunny day and what I need to write next isn’t exactly cheerful. Maybe it’s a good time for a day off.
Two text messages wait on my phone. One is from the owner of the house, letting me know the pool guys will be out in the next few days to open and clean the pool. They’ll be coming by occasionally to maintain it, and a landscaping company will also be here to cut the grass when needed. The owner asks that I observe the social distancing guidelines set by the government by staying inside when any of the workers are outside, and I text them back with an agreement to comply.
The other message is from my therapist turned friend, Brenda, checking in on me. We talked briefly before, and she knows where I am and the strange situation I ended up in with the unexpected houseguest, though I didn’t tell her who he is. I’ve seen enough to know giving away the location of a celebrity isn’t a good idea, and I don’t want to invade his privacy.
I’m not in the mood to talk right now, so I shoot her a text back, assuring her I’m fine and I’ll keep in touch. I’m not sure what I’m in the mood for. A restlessness eats at me and gets me to my feet.
Aside from the attached garage where Patrick and I have parked our cars, there’s one other outbuilding on the property, a shed tucked back into a corner of the expansive yard. Half expecting it to be locked, I wander over and try the door. It opens with a creak. Inside is a mix of random items; some pool accessories, assorted tools, a couple of bicycles that have seen better days.
Against one wall, there’s an area stacked with outdoor games and toys. A badminton set, a volleyball, and oh wow, is that a Washer Pitch game? I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid. The wooden boxes are lightly coated in cobwebs, but all the washers seem to be present when I take it outside and dust it off.
Music floats out of the window, drawing my attention for a moment. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it from Patrick’s end of the hall, but usually it’s just a few chords or a short melody. He must be practicing today. Or as bored as I am.
I set the boxes up on opposite sides of the yard and grab the sack of metal washers. With the first toss, I know I’m a little rusty, but by the third, I’ve managed to get the washer into the box, and I grin at the satisfying clunk sound it makes. I’m just getting warmed up when the sound of an engine draws me around the house to see a large truck with a pool cleaning company logo splashed on the side pulling into the driveway. Damn, that was fast.
Two men hesitate when they get out of the truck, and I wave. “I’m heading inside. Give me just a second.”
They nod, and I rush back to scoop up the game, deposit it on the picnic table, and grab my notebook. It sucks that I have to go back inside, but hopefully they won’t take too long.
Most of the windows are raised, and I love the feel of the house today. Open, airy, and happy. Some of that is probably provided by the music flowing down the hall. The sound of an acoustic guitar pauses and then starts again, this time accompanied by a voice that stops me in my tracks.
Holy shit.
I recognized Patrick from his appearance on late night television, but I can’t remember if I actually listened to him sing. It’s hard to believe I wouldn’t remember that smooth, deep voice. It’s beautiful.
He goes from one song to another, and I sit on the edge of the couch, just listening to him. When he stops, I want more. It occurs to me that he has an album out, and a quick search on my phone later, it’s added to one of my playlists.
I’m distracted by the music app and it isn’t until he speaks from right beside me that I realize he’s in the room. “Is the music bothering you? I can play with headphones next time. I thought you were outside.”
“No, it’s fine. I was just…” Looking up your album so I could hear more. “Waiting for the pool guys to finish.” For some reason it’d feel weird to tell him I was hunting for more of his music.
Patrick ambles over to the window to peek out and the sun illuminates the colorful tattoos that sleeve his arm. They’re beautiful. “They’re power washing the pool. My guess is they’ll be a few hours.”
Well, damn. “Guess I’ll just watch some TV then.” I tuck my feet beneath me and flip through the options while he walks into the kitchen. I’ve just settled on a show called Lucifer when he comes back through the room, a bowl of dry cereal in his hands.
“Is that the show where the devil helps a cop solve crimes?”
A little embarrassment tries to wash over me, but I fight not to show it. “Yeah, it’s probably weird, but I’ve heard good things.”
He sits on the opposite end of the couch that extends into a chaise lounge, stretching out his legs and resting the bowl on his lap. Good god, the man is long. “I like weird.”
The show is good. So good we don’t hesitate to start a second episode after the first finishes. Then a third. By the time it’s over, the sun has moved across the sky, dragging most of the day with it.
“Pool guys are gone,” Patrick observes, looking out the window. His head tilts a little. “Is that a Washer Pitch game?”
“Yeah, I found it in the shed. There are a lot of games and stuff in there.” The people who rent out this place are clearly accustomed to having it reserved by families. The large finished basement also holds an assortment of toys and board games.
A grin inches across his face. “I loved that game when I was a kid. Do you want to play? I’ll try not to beat you too fast.”