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Daisy
Well,this is awkward.
Celeste has gone upstairs without a word, leaving me on the main level. Am I supposed to head into the lanai now? If so, she could have subtly herded me that way.
I’d offered to wash dishes, and she went upstairs, and it’s been long enough for me to realize that she’s not coming back. Does she expect me to just retreat when I’m done with the dishes?
Weird and awkward.
Let’s face it, this whole thing is weird and awkward, and if I really was just passing through, I’d hightail it back to my shed. But while staying in the house wasn’t what I had in mind, it is useful.
Useful and dangerous.
Damn.
I look around. It’s a proper country kitchen with plenty of room for cooking and preserving and parties that stretch into the night. I swear I can hear echoes of the past, voices getting loud with drink and laughter, cards slapping on the table, the room filling with humid night air and the smell of late-night fried chicken.
I run my fingers over the chair back, worn smooth by decades of touch. There isn’t an appliance or a piece of furniture here that isn’t older than me. Same goes for the wallpaper, lemon-bright yellow faded to a muddy mustard and stinking of cigarette smoke. A sunny yellow rectangle and empty nail shows where a calendar must have hung for years.
I tiptoe into the living room and look around. The basement crawlspace hatch beckons, but there will be time and opportunity for that. Celeste mentioned the house needing repairs, which it obviously does. I resisted the urge to offer help. Too soon. Too suspicious.
I have things to do here. Plans to set in motion. I need a bit of time, though, to adjust to this new situation. To make the best possible use of being in the house, with access to my target.
My gaze strays to the sofa and armchair. Both are ancient, their fabric worn shiny. They’re as misshapen and spring-shattered as walk-in medical clinic furnishings, but I’ve been sleeping on the ground, and my knees weaken at the thought of stretching out on that sofa.
And you will be just as comfortable on the lanai lounger, without the fear of Celeste looking at you like you’re a transient leaning against her car.
True enough. I walk to a crooked bookshelf devoted to things other than books. Celeste has piled papers and unopened mail between the dusty knickknacks. I touch a plastic cat, smiling as I lever its tail, making its eyes move back and forth. Letters lean against it, and my play dislodges one addressed to Ms. Celeste Turner. As I return it, I thumb through the others in the stack. Junk mail, mostly addressed to Maeve Turner.
A creak sounds overhead. I drop to one knee, so if she comes down, she’ll see I’m just checking out the books. There’s only that one creak, though. Then all goes silent.
I scan the single row of books. Half are old historical romances, and I pull out one showing a windswept redhead in the arms of a shirtless kilted man. I imagine curling up on that lumpy sofa with a yellowed paperback that smells of mildew and cigarettes, losing myself in the tale of a dashing Highlander and his spirited, reluctant bride. Memories of my own youth wash over me, whipping through pages of books like this, pulse racing as my eyes widened at the hidden delights.
I move along the shelf to a small collection of children’s classics. My smile widens as I tug out a copy of Black Beauty with a cover that has very clearly been gnawed by tiny toddler teeth. Crayon scribbles decorate the first pages. Then, in painstakingly careful letters: “Property of Celeste Turner.” The penciled words actually say: “Propurte of CeCe Turnr,” but someone has used a pen to correct it.
The doorbell rings, and I topple backward, book flying to the floor. The chime box is right over my head, and the jingle rings like a brass bell at my ear. I grab the book and rise as I wait for Celeste to come down the stairs. I’ll ask to borrow it before I retreat and leave her with her guest.
Instead, the bell sounds again, and as I turn, I realize I’m in the sightline of the front-door window. A man stands on the other side.
An image flashes. The man outside the shed in the storm. A denim-clad leg and boot tracks in the mud.
The man smiles and waves. The upstairs toilet flushes. Damn. I shouldn’t answer Celeste’s door, but I can hardly flee while this guy is looking straight at me.
I open the door, chain engaged.
“Hello?” I say.
The guy is around forty with silver-templed dark hair. Handsome. Dark-blue eyes and a trim build. One glance tells me he knows Celeste—he looks equally out of place here with his pressed trousers and golf shirt and blazing white smile.
“Hey, there,” he says. “Is Celeste around?”
The bathroom door finally creaks open above, and her shoes tap-tap toward the stairs. She sees the door still chained and waves for me to open it.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I was just—”
“—being safe,” she says, and she waggles a finger at the man as he enters. “As well you should with this one.” She kisses his cheek. “I thought you weren’t coming over today.”
“Surprise!” He spreads his hands.
