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She leans over the railing, looking down at me, and I wonder if she feels it, too, that heat that seems to blanket us whenever we’re making contact—whether it’s physical, verbal, or just eye contact like this across an open space. Do I want my room to be next to hers so that we can sneak into bed together in the middle of the night? Yes, absolutely. Is that the best way to make sure this week doesn’t end in disaster? Probably not.
“I’m going to give you the blue room,” she says, and grins. “It’s a nautical theme, so I expect you to speak like a pirate all week.”
“Aye, matey, give me a wee breath and I’ll bring yar duffel upstairs.”
She laughs, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her where her room is, but Melissa comes out of the suite at the end of the hall upstairs and pulls up short, staring at us like we’re breaking a rule by speaking while unsupervised. Carey shrinks back into a room down the hall.
Well, at least now I know where she’ll be sleeping.
The back door opens, and Rusty comes in, tracking mud across the kitchen tiles. I wave my arms wildly and, once he looks up, point to his boots. He full-body winces, like he knows if his wife sees this, he’s a dead man. For the next two minutes, we’re silently and hysterically searching for a mop to clean up the mess. Finally I find it, in a small closet down in the cellar, and I’m halfway up the stairs with it and a bucket when I hear her—the silent treatment has officially ended far, far too soon.
“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Not ten minutes we’re in this house and you’re already tracking in mud?”
“Come on, hon,” he says as I step out into the kitchen. “We’re cleaning it up. It was an accident.”
“You better thank your lucky stars it wasn’t carpet because I am not paying for any more of your messes.”
His reply is probably ill-advised. “Who even puts carpet in the kitchen?”
While they argue, I quietly mop up the muddy footprints and meet Carey’s sympathetic gaze when she comes into the room, probably to find out what they’re yelling about this time.
With the floor clean, Carey and I check out the fridge, the pantry, and the cabinets to figure out where everything is. All are fully stocked.
She looks over at me, eyes wide. “Are we supposed to cook for them?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not. They can feed themselves.”
“Have you seen Melly try to cook?” she asks me quietly, brows up.
“Maybe Rusty … ?”
Carey gives me a look that communicates she can’t believe I just asked that, and our attention is pulled away when Rusty opens the fridge and pulls out a beer.
Oh, no.
“Russell Clarence Tripp,” Melissa barks, starting back up again. “It isn’t even two in the afternoon yet, what in God’s name are you doing?”
“Relaxing?”
“We are not here to relax.”
“You gonna make me a fucking honey-do list, Melissa?”
Carey’s eyes are drawn over my shoulder, away from the kitchen, and when she looks back at me, she lifts her chin like, Nearest escape?
I nod. Lead the way.
We find a cabinet full of board games, dominoes, cards, and dice and decide on cards in the family room. We can still hear Melissa and Rusty going at each other, but out here it’s more muted and, after a few minutes, I think we’re both able to tune them out. Carey hands me the cards to shuffle, and then makes herself a little shelf to prop her cards against, using some hardcover books and a ruler.
“Clever,” I say, grinning as I start to deal our hands.
“I’m the cleverest.”
“Well,” I say, teasing, “I’m not sure you’re the cleverest. I had a dog—”
“You don’t think it’s possible I’m more clever than the cleverest dog?”
I hold up a finger. “—who knew how to open the fridge and get a beer out for my dad.”
“Okay,” she concedes, picking up a card, “that’s pretty clever. But could he open it?”
“She could not,” I admit, “but she was still the best dog anyway.”
“We had a dopey old Rottweiler named Dusty when I was growing up,” she says, “and one time we were headed to my granny’s house in Billings, and we were in my parents’ station wagon. I was only four or so—at that age I think my parents just threw me in the back with the dog. Anyway, there was a cake back there and I was supposed to hold it on my lap for the whole drive, but Dusty and I shared it instead. Surprising no one, we both threw up in the car. I was covered in blue vomit from the frosting, my parents had to stop at a convenience store on the way, and I ended up wearing a too-big Iron Maiden shirt to my granddad’s seventieth birthday party.”
