When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae (8 page)

Platform bed with a Shaker headboard. King-sized. No surprise, the guy had to be six-six.

What did surprise her was the computer in the corner. Not a junker, either. She wondered what he used it for. The computer desk was dark hardwood with two drawers, one deep enough to hold file folders.

It crossed her mind to climb the rest of the way into the loft and go try the desk drawers, look inside. But the idea was followed swiftly by a decisive twinge of guilt, and she backed hastily down the ladder and returned to her book.

She couldn’t read it. But she sat there anyway, looking at the open page.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next morning, for the first time, she got up before him and made their breakfast.
 

She’d watched him twice now, so knew what to do. Lit the gas stove using the matches on the counter. Scrambled six eggs in the cast iron pan. Then lit the broiler to brown the toast.

He came downstairs and saw what she was doing but didn’t say anything. He went outside and turned on his generator. He ran it for awhile several times a day to keep his refrigerator cold. And the chest freezer in the basement.

They ate in the living room, near the woodstove.

“I’m going to town this morning.”

She nodded.

“You can ride down with me if you want.”

“Thank you.”

“The pay phones are working.”

She’d been wondering how she was going to get word to Paul. Let him know she was okay.

She’d thought about asking if she could email, but then he would know she’d been up in his loft. She felt herself redden slightly and wished again that she hadn’t done that.

♦ ♦ ♦

First stop, gas station. For the truck, and for the cans he used to fuel his chainsaw and generator. Then she waited in his truck while he went to the bank. And then the supermarket plaza. She was ready for that, and handed him a twenty after he’d parked. He shrugged and took it, then went inside to buy some food.

While she stood in line at the pay phone.

She saw him come out of the store and head back toward his truck just as she was inserting her quarters and dialing Paul’s office.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Libby! What in the hell—where have you been? I’ve been trying to call—”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. My cell battery died. But I’m alright.”

“You should have come up with Maisey. You should have—I was all set to drive down there myself, you know. I’ve been sick, sick—”

“I’m alright. I’m staying at a neighbor’s.”

“Hang on a second.” Someone had walked into his office, apparently. She heard some voices, Paul’s and someone else’s, not distinct enough to make out what they were saying, then he must have decided to hit the hold button because the Cal4 hold music came on.

She guessed new hold music wasn’t part of Dormet’s acquisition plans.

An acoustical version of
Here Comes the Sun
. Serious ear worm material.

“Libby?”

“I’m here.”

“So what did you say? You’re staying at a neighbor’s?”

“Yeah, he’s—”

“Is that where you’re calling from? Is that this number?”

“No, no, this is a pay phone—”

“Hold on a sec. I’ve got someone asking me again—Randy, slow down, you brought the wrong thing. No. Not those. The mock-ups—the agency dropped off mock-ups this morning. Well, they said they were going to drop them off. Aren’t they here? Aw, for—hang on. Libby?”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, same old same old. Look, can I call you back? What’s your number there?”

“There’s no phone. Where I’m staying, I mean—this is a pay phone.”

“Aw, look, Libby, I’ll come and get you. After work. We’d only need to stay here another day or two. They promised me the power’ll come on at my place by Friday at the latest. Where did you say you are?”

“No, no, Paul, there’s no need. Really—I’m all right.”

He’d begun talking to someone else again. She was guessing the same person who’d been in his office before, judging by Paul’s exasperated tone of voice. “They’re not here? Did you call them? You need to call them. I’m supposed to have them for Josh at our two o’clock—Libby?”

“Paul, I need to go. You’re busy—and I need to go.”

“Call me back.”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll call you back. Not today. Soon.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Go get Randy or whoever he is and, you know. Do your thing.”

“Got it. Love ya, babe. Glad you’re okay.”

“Bye.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Back at his cabin, she saw Dean glance at her duffel bag, gaping open on the floor next to the couch.

“I have books,” he said. “You didn’t have to bring books.”

“I wasn’t sure . . . thank you.”

She stood just inside the door, this time, as he hoisted the chainsaw into the back of the truck, then climbed in after it with one of the gas cans and refueled it. Then he jumped down, lifted the gas cans out, and carried them back to the shed behind the cabin. A moment later he was holding the passenger door open for Bo, and driving off again.

12

Saturday morning.

She was down to her last paperback. Reading while she waited for the water on the top of the woodstove to heat. For washing the breakfast dishes.

Bo had learned that if he came over while she was reading and laid his head in her lap, she’d scratch his neck. There was a place under his collar that he adored having scratched, and he’d stand there for as long as she was willing to keep at it, so relaxed and blissed out that his back would sway slightly from the movement of her hand.

Dean was out at the generator and she’d just reached the place in her novel where the heroine has to escape from the hold of a merchant ship, so she didn’t notice at first that he was standing by the entrance of the kitchen. But then she became aware of him, and looked up, and she realized he’d been there awhile.

It was because of Bo. He was standing, watching Bo, how he had his head in her lap.

She didn’t say anything. She was becoming used to not speaking. It would have sounded too funny, her voice rattling on and what if he never answered?

So she just started reading again, still scratching Bo’s ears, and Dean turned and went back outdoors.

♦ ♦ ♦

He roasted a chicken for dinner that night.

She watched him work, then went in and filled her plate when she saw him start to fill his. They ate, as usual, near the woodstove. Then, about midway through the meal, he set his fork down kind of suddenly.

“You probably think I’m not very sociable.”

She dipped her fork into the well of melted butter that had formed on top of her mashed potatoes, then dragged the tines to channel the butter around. “You’ve been very kind. I don’t expect to be entertained.”

“I appreciate you chipping in. On the driveway. And the dishes.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

“I’m out of practice.”

For a second she wasn’t sure what he meant. Out of practice doing dishes? She’d only been helping on them for a couple of days. Then she realized he was referring to being sociable. Or entertaining, maybe. But she didn’t really know how to answer that, so she ate a bite of potato instead.

After dinner he washed the dishes while she read some more.

“Wine?”

She started. “Excuse me?”

“Glass of wine. I’m offering.”

She paused, confused. Because one of the reasons this had worked, until now—one of the reasons she didn’t tell Paul, yeah, please, drive down, get me, I want to come stay with you—was precisely because Dean had kept a good distance. In every meaning of the term. She looked away nervously.

“It’s not poisoned. Quite the opposite. It’s a very drinkable Burgundy.”

He was holding the bottle and two glasses.

“No. No, thanks. I don’t care for any. Thanks.”

He looked, for a split second, like he might argue, but then shrugged. Like when she’d refused his first offer, last week, the offer to stay with him. And he carried the bottle back to the kitchen.

She heard the cork squeak as he pulled it from the bottle, and a minute later he sat down in the overstuffed chair opposite me, took a sip, smiled slightly and said, “Don’t say I didn’t tell you. Very nice.”

A misanthropic, pick-up driving woodchuck living in a log cabin. With a wall of books. And a state-of-the-art computer.

And a wine cellar.

She turned back to her novel.

He was wearing slippers. Leather, moccasin-style. He slid an ottoman over and lifted his feet up onto it.

She looked up. “Okay. I’ll have a glass.” In a few minutes it would be too dark to read, anyway.

“Help yourself.”

She went into the kitchen. He’d left the second glass next to the bottle on the counter.

♦ ♦ ♦

“I . . . really appreciate you . . . taking me in, this way.”

There was nothing to talk about. What were they going to talk about? It wasn’t like she dared jump in with a bunch of chitchat: so what did you pay for this place, how long have you had Bo, where’s your family. Something about this, the way he lived—that habit of privacy he kept wound around himself, his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “Uh. It’s good, isn’t it?”

The wine.

“Yes. Very good.”

He nodded.

She took another sip.

“So, Libby. Why did you buy that place? The Stowe place?”

“I’m going to farm it,” she said.

“You can’t farm that. It won’t grow anything. That place—it’s been used to death.”

She nodded. “I know. I’ll bring it back.”

♦ ♦ ♦

He’d moved to the floor and was scratching Bo’s head.

Since the cabin was surrounded by forest, dusk passed quickly into night, and the room was now dark save for the wavering bit of firelight. She’d noticed during her inspection of the cabin that he had a couple of oil lamps—one on his kitchen counter, another on the stand beside the couch—but he never bothered lighting them. He didn’t need to. He moved around the place in the dark like someone who had been living somewhere for a long time.

She took another sip of wine. Bo appreciated the attention he was getting and sighed heavily with pleasure.

She’d begun to feel more relaxed. She supposed the wine helped. And she’d told him what she was doing with her place. So, maybe . . . “You’ve lived here a long time, then.”

“Seven years.”

“Did you build it?”

He nodded.

“I’ve never seen a log cabin quite like it before.”

“Most of them are kits.”

“Kits?”

“Companies sell plans and the logs. You hire a contractor who puts them up for you.”

“This one’s not a kit?”

“No.”

“It’s almost gothic-looking.” She tilted her head back. The ceiling’s high peak was nearly invisible in the dark.

“I like the lines. I lived out west for a long time. The lines remind me of the mountains.”

“What mountains?”

But he didn’t answer. “More wine?”

♦ ♦ ♦

Dean hadn’t lied about the wine. It was very drinkable, and with a glassful gone, she was feeling awfully content and relaxed. “Ah, it feels good to be warm,” she said, tucking her bare feet up under herself on the couch.

“We can’t live without it.”

“No. I suppose not.”

They were talking. And it felt okay. It felt easy.

She gestured around the room. “So tell me. Why do you live like this?”

“So I’ll be ready if there’s an ice storm.”

“No, really.”

“That’s the reason.”

“Not answering only makes me curiouser.”

“Curiouser isn’t a word.” He stood up and put another log in the stove. She watched him push the log into place with the poker iron, and then the sparks chasing each other toward the flue. And then suddenly she knew she was going to take a chance on something.

“Dean.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to ask you . . . I mean . . . not ask exactly. About my property. Kind of.”

“Shoot.”

She took a sip of wine. Then a deep breath. “I haven’t . . . mentioned this. To anyone else.”

If her opening piqued his curiosity, he didn’t show it.

Bo, now asleep on the rug, groaned heavily.

“I’ve seen something very peculiar. A couple of times. In the field, behind my house.”

He nodded.

“A person. Sort of. Not a human.” She watched his expression. It was kind of hard to tell, the light was so dim. But he didn’t seem put off, as far as she could tell. “He was—about this tall.” She held her hand a couple of feet above the floor. “And he spoke to me.”