He peeked under the table, taking another look at her foot, then popped back up. “You look like you wear a size seven. In babies.”
“Oh, please! I wear a size nine!”
“Compared to me, you’re barely visible. I’ve always been tall for my age. Used to hate it when I was younger. In fact, my socks are so big, you could probably just wear one of my socks and that’s it. Pull it up to your neck, and it’ll work as a swaddle.”
She started laughing again, her long, elegant neck curving as she tilted her head back.
“You’re funny.” She lowered her head and regarded him through hooded eyes. “I like big and tall men… Hey, let me ask you something. You think that bear is messing with my car?” She started cackling again. He was certain the wine was getting to her, as silly as she was behaving.
“Only if you left him a snack.”
“I’m pretty sure I got everything that was edible out of there. I wonder what else is roaming around in that wilderness. Have you ever heard of Skinwalkers?”
“Why? You think one of them is interested in your car, too? A little joyriding in the storm?”
She smiled and shook her head. “If they are interested in my car, maybe they’ll call me first and ask if I’d like to extend my warranty.” He tried not to smile at her little joke but bombed. “I heard some people believe they’re here in Alaska.”
“Wherever you have Inuit and Native populations, you’ll find that kind of myth.”
“Plenty here in Alaska. Martha is Navajo.”
“I know.”
“I never asked her about Skinwalkers.”
“Some of the Navajos believe in that. Some don’t.”
“Hmm… well, what about you, Jack? Do you believe that?”
“Navajo lore says, a skin-walker, a yee naaldlooshii, is a witch or evil spirit that can turn into an animal. I have a few Navajo associates. Askuwheteau comes to mind. He lives about twenty miles from me. Good man.”
“Askuwheteau? I’m sure I pronounced that wrong.”
“No, you said it right.”
“Let me get stereotypical and ask you if he’s some type of healer?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Actually, he is a medicine doctor.”
“No way!” She chuckled. “For real?”
“Yeah… if you believe in that sort of thing.”
“I think I might… I mean, I do. It’s not so crazy to me.”
He picked up his fork and dug into his sweet potato. He could hear her sipping her wine, and the music playing low in the background—“Make You Feel My Love,” by Bob Dylan.
“You think it’s crazy? The idea of it?”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to speak his mind and ruin their dinner. That might lead to discussions about Chad, and how he felt like he’d seen him several times after his death.
“You do think it’s crazy. The supernatural is silly to you?” she probed.
“Not silly. I just don’t know if it holds water.”
“But what if it does?”
“And if it does, Kim, what can I do about it?” She flattened her lips and grimaced. “I can’t shoot a ghost. Can’t bring them back from the dead. Can’t take ’em fishing with me, now can I? I can’t beat up a ghost, watch a movie with one, or play baseball with the damn thing, either. It’s pointless whether it’s real or not. They can move how they move, and we can move how we move, and nobody can do anything about it. Nothing changes.”
“That’s cynical of you.” He didn’t care about being cynical. He just kept on eating. “I’m not sure if ghosts are real, either. I just think it’s highly possible. Does it scare you?”
“Does what scare me?” He swallowed a mouthful of sweet potato.
“The idea that ghosts could be real?” First Skinwalkers, then this. She just doesn’t stop.
“I’m too busy with real life shit, Kim, to worry about mythical creatures.”
He finished up his fish, patted his lips with the napkin, and suppressed a burp. “Wine?” He pointed to her empty glass.
“Yeah. That would be nice.”
He got up from the table, grabbed her glass, and replenished it in the galley, then handed it to her before returning to his seat. They didn’t speak for several minutes, but he could feel her gaze on him.
“You make me a little uncomfortable, Jack.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“I make you a little uncomfortable?”
“No. I make myself a little uncomfortable. Look, Kim, we don’t have to discuss anything.” He tossed up his hands. “After dinner, you can lock yourself away in the guestroom.”
“No, let me finish. In a good way. You make me uncomfortable in a good way. And I don’t want to not discuss anything. I enjoy talking to you.”
“You want to discuss things on your terms.”
“My terms?”
“Yes. You’re more comfortable talking about things that are removed from you—things that have nothin’ to do with you. Safe things. Skinwalkers, ghosts, and bears breaking into your car for a Scooby snack instead of why in the hell you’re here in my house.”