“Sorry for keeping you up. And thanks for letting me crash in here.”
Her hand wriggles under the covers and lands on my elbow with three pats. “You’re welcome.”
She pulls her hand away, and it takes all of my restraint not to snatch at it, halt its casual retreat, and bring it to my lips.
A fresh gust of wind batters rain against her windows like birdshot.
“Jeez. I hope that trash can doesn’t overflow,” Greta says.
Lightning flashes, revealing Greta on her side. We’re facing each other, less than two feet of space between us. We’re both wide awake now.
I swallow hard.
Think of something boring. Basic.
“That towel at the bottom was a good idea,” I say, lamely. “The sound of water dripping is annoying.”
Greta’s giggle threads through the darkness. “I picked that up from my Aunt Tilde.”
Good topic. As a topic, aunts are pretty safe.
“Your Aunt Tilde?” I prompt.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice going soft and wistful. “Tilde was my dad’s sister. She was.The. Best.”
Was.
Shit.
Thataunt.
“The one who died of COVID,” I blurt like an idiot. Because Josh mentioned it when I was still in Boston. That his girlfriend’s seed money was coming from an inheritance. But that was before I even knew Greta as a person.
As Greta.
“Yeah.” I hear her swallow, and it’s the sound of sadness. “She was really special. That’s who left me Russell.”
At the sound of his name, the dog lifts his head, making his tags jingle in the darkness.
“Come up here, boy.” Greta pats the space in between us, and though he’s little more than a chunky shadow, the Corgi’s weight is impossible to miss as he waddles over and flops in between us.
“But I thought you’d had him since he was a puppy. You have pictures of him before he… he—”
Greta snorts. “Supersized?”
“Your word, not mine.” I chuckle.
“Poor Russell. We’re not fat shaming you,” Greta coos. The covers shift, and I realize that Greta has wriggled a hand outside of them and is petting the dog. “But I remember when you were just a tiny baby. I’d go over to Tilde’s every chance I got. That’s when she took those pictures.”
Those pictures are now on the fridge door in the lodge, a baby-faced Greta holding the orange and white fluff ball up to her face.
“I wish I had more photos of my aunt, but she always wanted to be the one behind the camera.” When she speaks again, I can hear the smile in her voice. “She used to take me camping, and I think I learned as much about photography as I learned about pitching a tent, leaving no trace, and spotting bald eagle nests.”
“How old were you?” I’m picturing the girl in the photos. Greta was probably just starting college in those.
But she surprises me. “The first time she took me camping? I was probably five or six.”
“No way. Just the two of you?”
