“I’m sick. I can’t get out of bed.”
“Well, what do you want me to do? I’m on my way to meet Lisa at Barre.”
“Can you tell Ollie I can’t come down? And I need medicine. Do we have medicine somewhere?”
“There’s Tylenol in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”
“And Ollie?”
“I’ll tell him,” she adjusted the bag, “He’s not allowed in the house, Mia. I don’t feel comfortable with someone I don’t know here.”
“I know. He won’t come inside the house.”
She sighed and reached for the doorknob. “I’ll stop to grab soup on my way back.”
That single gesture was both a shocking revelation and the very thing we both needed to put us in the right direction. Since I’d arrived, I’d followed by her rules, kept to myself, and not once made this time difficult for her, or at least I’d tried. Was this her way of giving a little back in return? “Thank you,” I tried to say, but it came out as a hoarse whisper.
After Diane left, I’d fumbled with the new charger, trying to stick the end into the phone, and waited impatiently for the phone to drink enough energy to light up. The Apple logo appeared, and I sat up in the bed, both sweating and shivering as my head pounded.
I immediately texted Ollie.
Me: I’m sorry.
His response was instant.
Ollie: Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Let me take care of you.
Little did he know, it was my fault. I hadn’t dressed for the weather yesterday, walking around without a jacket, taking pictures.
Me: You’re not allowed inside the house.
Ollie: Then come out here, and I’ll take you back to the inn.
Even if I could get out of bed, Diane was bringing me back soup. As much as I wanted to be with Ollie, I needed to see where this would go with Diane and me. Perhaps this was part of me finding myself again, believing I could right my wrongs.
Me: I don’t want to.
Little bubbles appeared, disappeared, and appeared again at the bottom of the feed, then the phone rang in my palm, Ollie’s name jumping across the screen.
I answered, and Ollie rushed out and said, “I don’t like text anymore.”
“Diane’s bringing me back soup,” I explained. “This is huge, Ollie. I think she’s coming around.”
“The ice queen is defrosting? That’s good, love. I want this for you.”
I forced my feet over the bed and onto the floor, then walked toward the bathroom to find medicine. “Yeah, it’s weird. I guess we’ll see how it goes.”
“You sound terrible.”
My eyes landed on a bottle of Tylenol, and I snatched it. “I feel worse.”
His heavy sigh vibrated through the phone. “I hate this. I hate that you’re sick and there’s nothing I can do,”—his car engine roared— “Each time I drive away from you, it feels so wrong.”
“Where are you?”
“Sitting outside the house in the car. Had to turn on the heat.”
“I’ve been taking pictures.”
“You have?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah, I missed it. Thank you for leaving me my camera,” I said, then popped a few pills and ran my mouth under the water from the sink to wash them down.
“You need more film?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I have a roll left.”
“I’ll get you more today. I need something to do.”
“This is weird.”
“What is?”
“Talking to you through a phone,” I rolled back into bed and pulled the sheets up over my shoulders, “we’ve never done this before.”
“I don’t like it, but I’ll take what I can get.” Then he paused, and a drawn-out pause played out between us. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”
“Not yet.”
“You don’t have to look alone, love …”
A WEEK HAD PASSED since I’d arrived in the states. It was everything I’d imagined. Thankfully, Mia’s dad lived in a rural area, and I hadn’t crossed many people.
During the last few days, Mia has been sick, and I hadn’t been able to see her. The phone had been a brilliant idea, giving me a way to at least talk to her during this time. Her court date was in one week. After everything she’d endured, regardless if she decided to mention she was kidnapped or not, the judge should approve the expunging of her record. If not, that was what a lawyer was for. I’d found a reputable one in the states thanks to my agent, Laurie. Mia completed her sentencing. Roger Richardson, the lawyer, stated the worst that could happen was to pay a fine for missing her court date. The check was pretty much already written out.
“Today is the day. I can feel it in my bones, boy,” the old bell-hopper shimmied in his spot with a grin on his face. For the most part, I’d been keeping to myself, but Bud was here from ten at night until seven in the morning with the spirit of old St. Nick and the looks of Beetlejuice, with an extra kick in his step. He was a chipper fella, taking pride in managing holding the door open for guests and offering to carry bags.
Last week, the first morning Mia pushed me away, I’d walked across the main road and into a corner store that evening. Being in a foreign place, and my only home within Mia threatened, my once high, durable belief had cracked. I’d purchased a six-pack and had started on it on the walk back. The chilled temperatures couldn’t touch me at the time, and I’d sat over a bench when Bud appeared, whistling an old tune I didn’t recognize at a quarter until midnight. He’d mentioned I looked lost. At first, I hadn’t said anything, until he went on, speaking about the many people who go through the doors lost and come out rejuvenated. That the Old Mill Inn was an R&R, and he’d seen the healing properties with his own eyes, which was comical because Bud was blind in one eye.
“I better meet Mia before you head back to Dublin.”
“Surrey,” I correct with a shake of the head. “I’m not Irish, Bud.”
Bud leaned forward with his hands clasped behind his back. “What’s that?”
“I’m. Not. Irish!” I repeated loud and slow through a laugh, then pulled an Irish accent from thin air, “Ah, feck it.”
“You look like you’re going for a run. I like this look better. You don’t look like a hood rat for once. I don’t know what is the fashion these days. Since when did wearing rags become a thing?” Bud pointed out, eyes addressing my attire. I wore new trainers, athletic shorts, and a hoodie with my hair stuffed inside a cap. “You getting the girl out of the house?”
“That’s the plan.” Mia had finally come down from her room yesterday morning but stayed behind the invisible barrier at the door. Her fever was gone, but her hesitant demeanor indicated she wasn’t ready just yet. “I’m nervous,” I finally admitted, keeping my eyes past Bud and on the turning mill behind him.
“Ah, a woman will do that to you.”
“Well, wish me luck.”
“Luck for the Irish?” His eyes twinkled, and my head fell back. “I know. I heard ya. Surrey. English, boy. But luck is for fools who live inside limits. And you’re a dreamer, and dreamers are worthy of anything but the ordinary. Wish for magic. Love should be nothing less than magical.”