Chapter Four
Rick
Itoss and turn all night. I’m not used to having someone under my roof, and I can’t get the way she fell asleep reading out of my head. I’d only gone up—again—to ask if there was anything else she needed. I’m not used to guests, and I’ve forgotten how to act.
Which is why when I’m making French toast for breakfast the next morning and she walks into the kitchen, I’m gruffer with her than I should be. I don’t function well on so little sleep, and it will be a relief when the snow stops and the roads are cleared.
“Good morning,” she says, leaning against the counter. “Thank you for the blanket.”
“It’s not a big deal.” I look at her out of the corner of my eye. I heard the shower turn on and turn off fifteen minutes later. Now she’s barefoot and wearing black leggings, a light grey sweater, and her long, damp hair is wound into a bun at the back of her head. She smells like roses, and she put on mascara and lip gloss. I don’t know who she dressed up for, but if she did it for me, she could have saved herself the time. “Here. Eat.”
I thrust a plate with three pieces of French toast on it at her and tilt my head toward the table where I already put out syrup and butter.
“Thanks.” She sits and adds butter to the slices, no syrup. “What do you do all day?”
I flip my pieces over and adjust the heat under them. “What do you mean?”
“Like today? If I weren’t here. What would fill up your day?”
“Nothing.”
She pauses with a bite of French toast halfway to her mouth. “You can’t mean that.”
“Why? I’m not allowed to do nothing?”
“I suppose, but you don’t seem like the type.”
“Goes to show how much you know,” I mutter. I plate my slices and sit across from her. I try not to eat standing up or simply slapping together a sandwich whenever I’m hungry. When I first moved to Old Harbor, I said I’d cook meals for myself, not fall back on prepackaged foods, living the life of a pathetic moron who couldn’t keep his wife. I taught myself the basics, even if that means every time I eat pasta for dinner I miscalculate and have enough leftovers to last me for days.
“So, after breakfast you’d wash dishes, and...go back to bed?”
It sounds like a good idea to me, but I say, “Blizzards are an exception. I can’t do anything today.”
She looks down at her plate then back up at me, her lips pursed against a laugh. “You put me through all that on purpose.”
“I’m contrary that way.”
I drizzle syrup onto my French toast.
“Hmm.”
I wait for her to say more, but she only finishes her breakfast and washes her plate, setting it in the strainer to dry. She dries her hands and pours herself a cup of coffee in the mug she used last night. I wasn’t around when she washed it. At least she’ll clean up after herself.
While she sips her coffee, I finish and wash my plate. On a day like this, there wouldn’t be much I could do with or without company. If she weren’t here, I’d probably work. Just because I don’t go to my office in Cedar Hill anymore doesn’t mean I no longer have a job. Work isn’t going anywhere, and I ask, “Do you want to go up?”
“Up?”
“Up to the top? I’ll show you around, and then you can go whenever you want. I can’t very often. My hip and leg will always give me trouble.”
She brightens. “Sure. Am I okay like this?”
“Socks would be good. The steps are cold.”
We stop by her room, and I peek my head in as she finds a pair of socks in the suitcase that’s sitting open on the chair in the corner. The bed hasn’t been slept in. She didn’t move after she fell asleep on the couch.
After she tugs on a pair of thick socks, I open the door I told her to keep closed. There was no point in outfitting the whole lighthouse with heat, and the air’s chilly. There’s enough light shining through the small windows to see by, and the white snow is blinding.
“You go first. If you trip, I’ll try to catch you.”