For the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, I tackle the bedroom. While I do leave the French doors shut to keep out the noise and debris from Sam’s work, I take down the formerly white curtains that are now covered in cobwebs.
I catch Sam’s eye a few times as he walks past, but I try very hard not to stare.
The sheets and comforter that I pulled from the closet are worn and have a few holes, but they’re soft and cozy. They’re also rather musty, as I discovered when sleeping on them last night, but a good wash will fix those and the curtains.
Sam is now at the front section of the deck when I head out with an armful of bedding.
On my way back up from starting a wash, he calls down to me, “You should wear better shoes around here.”
I have on ankle boots with two-inch heels. It is a little odd to be doing hard cleaning in these shoes, not to mention in the linen pants and patterned blouse right out of the dry-cleaning bag. Both of which will probably end up in the trash after today.
“I told you. I don’t have much here.”
“Oh. Right.” Sam lifts a large bucket and relocates it to another spot. “The deck is going to be wet with stain for a while, so stay off of it.”
I nod and go back upstairs.
After a thorough shower and an hour of primping, I decide to continue with my bravery and attempt to cook the steak and shrimp I bought this morning. Because my culinary skills have been limited to microwave meals, I’m thinking that I should have bought a cookbook, too, but this can’t be that difficult.
Except it is because I burn the steak, filling the entire room with smoke, yet I’ve managed to leave the inside undercooked. And I stupidly forgot to remove the shrimp shells, which I didn’t notice until I had a mouthful of them. I dump my inedible food into the trash.
Wine and bread, I decide, are a suitable dinner, so I open the windows to air out the place and curl up on the sofa with a glass of red wine. It’s cold tonight, but I have to get rid of this smell, and I have no idea how to start a fire in the fireplace. I tear off a piece of sourdough, drink wine, snuggle under a blanket, and stare at the fireplace screen. I’m still crazy enough that I can picture flames. It’s a fun side benefit of my mental issues.
Midway through my second glass, there’s a knock at my front door. Immediately, my stomach drops, and the glass in my hand begins to tremble. I see the imaginary flames in the fireplace double in size and burst toward me. It’s her. She said I was dead to her, but my mother has come after me. I shake my head and clear my thoughts. It cannot be her, and I will not live in a state of constant paranoia.
Sam is at the door with a stack of laundry in his hands. “Are you trying to burn the place down?”
“It’s out. It’s out. I promise.” I look back at the fireplace.Shit. Was that real? No. There are no flames. But maybe there were?My voice is shaky. “I’m sorry.”
“What were you trying to cook?”
“Oh.” He means my burned dinner. My heart rate starts returning to normal. “Steak and shrimp.”
“I can smell it downstairs.” His breath is loaded with alcohol.
“It didn’t go well.” I shuffle my feet. “Did you know that shrimp have shells? They’re clear. It’s kind of deceptive, if you ask me.”
“I did actually. You know”—Sam waves a hand around behind him—“Maine and all.” He doesn’t full on sway, but he’s not acting as though he’s on solid ground either.
“I know. Trust me. I’m embarrassed.”
He holds out his laundry to me. “Here.”
I blink at him. “You…want me to do your laundry?”
“Really?” He rolls his eyes. “They’re for you. Some T-shirts and sweats and jeans. They’ll be too big for you, but you said you don’t have much, so…you might need something to sleep in or whatever. And you can’t go around scrubbing floors in dresses and stuff.”
My face heats up as he gestures to the long dress I have on. I take the stack of clothes from him. “Thank you. This is very sweet.” I fidget with the tag on one of the shirts. “I’m going to order some clothes online tomorrow.”
Sam nods and starts to leave, but then he looks back. “You doin’ okay?”
I nod back. “Yeah, I’m doing okay.”
That night, I sleep in a Red Sox shirt that is three sizes too big, yet it fits perfectly.
