I padded through my living room to mykitchen and started my rice cooker, then dug out some beef from the back of my freezer. I put it in the microwave to defrost a little first.
The dog climbed into my recliner near the window and stared out the window toward Dutch’s house. I patted his head. “That might be some unrequited love, pal.”
He sighed mightily.
I laughed and stopped at my record player to put on a stack of records. The funky beats to an old Billie Eilish album dropped first. I cranked it up to block out thoughts of my new neighbor while I did a few house chores.
Watering the abundance of plant babies I owned turned into a quick pruning session. When the microwave dinged, I changed into cooking mode.
Once the meat was cooking, I danced around the kitchen and made an impromptu creamy tomato sauce for myself, then divided up the meat. One to season the hell out of, and one to keep plain for my new roommate.
While stirring, I skimmed the town Facebook group to make sure no one was looking for a dog. I probably would have heard it through the grapevine, but I had been a little tunnel visioned with the café for the last few days.
“Oh shoot,” I muttered to myself. I quickly sent Jenna off a text. Obviously I wouldn’t be over there to work. She generally kept the Haven Café open through any storm, but even she texted me back that she’d decided to take the day off.
I checked the snow totals. Edie Green, our resident historian, had already put up the numbers. She was more reliable than the weatherman. I whistled. No ordinary storm even for our lake effect area. Twenty inches was too much for even the hardiest New Englander.
Instead of stressing about it, I decided to add meal prepping to my to-do list. I danced around my kitchen as Billie Eilish changed over to an old Madonna album I’d inherited from my mom. I’d taken most of her albums from her teen and early twenties. I was pretty sure once my oldest brother had been born she’d forgotten how to have fun.
Keaton had been a hockey hopeful from the minute he’d put skates on. By the time I’d been born he was already showingtalent in the Junior Ranger program. The earliest memories I had were in the rink cheering Keaton on. Lance had played as well, but his heart hadn’t really been in it. He liked to play pickup games, but he didn’t have the singular focus like Keaton did.
I was pretty sure ice literally was in his genetic makeup.
My mother had sat me on the benches with coloring books, markers, and crayons to keep busy. Instead of being bored, I’d taken to art in the same obsessive way Keaton had with his footwork.
Being a defender meant he needed to know everything about timing, angles, and getting his team to the net.
I enjoyed hockey, and could hold my own with the family nights on the ice, but I didn’t breathe it like Keaton did. Even after he beat the crap out of his body one too many times, and the orthopedic surgeon couldn’t put his knees back together again, Keaton still found his way to the rink to watch.
The kids begged for tips and tricks.
Begged for time on the ice.
He usually said no, but every once in a while he said yes, and they all lit up—including my brother.
Those were the good days with my brother. We encouraged him to get into coaching, but he was too bitter about losing out on his NHL dreams. Instead, he’d turned his attention to embracing summers on the lake investing in party boats and water crafts and disappearing off and on during the winter months.
He was currently in one of his foul moods since it was playoff season—which was when he had his career ending injury.
Personally, I kept my distance. I knew how to ignore him when I needed to. I didn’t need that energy around me when February was eternal enough without him being a bitchface.
I shook the mood off.
The Madonna album switched out to Puddle of Mudd and I bounced around the room, the dog giving me weird looks from the chair he’d commandeered. I shimmied between my pot of homemade sauce that was simmering and the vat of chicken stock I was making to go with the leftovers from the day before.
I’d learned to be frugal and how to make cooking fun. I’d grown up with sandwiches and on the go food until I was old enough to stay home on my own while my mother played team mom. Her sole focus had been to get my brother to the NHL, the rest of us had come in a distant second.
That meant I’d taught myself to cook with the Cooking Channel and social media videos. When Liberty had come along, I’d made sure she wasn’t ignored. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been interested in learning to cook, but she did do dishes with only a few threats.
She still dropped in to get fed when she pulled herself away from the owls and bats she specialized in rehabbing and rescuing. If there was an animal to rescue, my little sister would find it and nurse it back to health.
I picked up my phone and checked in on my sister. With this kind of weather she’d probably be at the rescue looking after her babies. She was even worse than I was at replying to a text, but maybe I’d get lucky.
While things were cooking, I wandered around my house watering the rest of my plants and tried not to let my gaze drift over to my bay window. Dutch could fend for himself.
I didn’t need to worry about him.
A cold nose bumped my hand. I looked down at the dog. “Snowball?”
