by Mary McNear
As she was puzzling over this, Sasquatch made the leap from the bed to the window seat, and she watched as he batted, half-heartedly, at a moth on the other side of the screen. If she were honest with herself, she knew why she’d shied away from closeness in the past. But she was averse to examining things too closely. She’d worked too hard to lock painful things away. And what was more, she’d gotten too good at it. Still, it was there, now, if only for a second: a memory of herself at sixteen, curled up in her bed, shivering violently, though the night was not cold. Oh, Poppy, don’t dredge that up now, she told herself, impatiently. She cranked the window shut again—it was getting chilly in the room—and concentrated instead on thinking about something pleasant. Sam.
She saw him every day, at Birch Tree Bait, and she never got tired of it. She loved watching him, she realized, especially with his kids. Cassie and Hunter and Tim were always at the store, and Sam was so great with them. With the twins, he was tough, but fair. With Cassie, he tried to be tough, but he just melted when it came to her, and it broke Poppy’s heart. But it wasn’t just the way he was with his kids that was appealing; it was the way he was with everyone. He was the kind of man who didn’t just take care of things; he took care of people, too. Justine, Linc, Byron, locals and tourists alike, he managed them all, through the course of every busy day, with the same patience and ease and unwavering humor. He was the glue that held them all together. And in Birch Tree Bait, he’d given people not just a place to buy ice, or fishing hooks, or postcards, he’d given them a place—a comfortable, relaxed, easy place—to touch base, connect with their friends, or just hang out. Poppy had heard it said, in fact, more than once, that people couldn’t remember what they’d done before Sam had reopened the new, improved Birch Tree Bait.
And there was more about Sam . . . he loved Butternut Lake, loved it as much as anyone she’d ever known, and he loved being outdoors, loved being physical. And as for his physicality . . . well, he was sexy. He was incredibly sexy. Sexy enough so that Poppy found herself fantasizing about him. How would it feel, she wondered, to touch him, to hold him, to run her fingers over his bare skin, and equally important, how would it feel to have him run his fingers over her bare skin. Oh, God, she thought, I want him. I just want him. There was no other word for it.
She looked at Sasquatch, who was lying down now, licking one of his paws. “What do you think, Sasquatch?” she asked, seriously. He stopped licking and seemed to consider her question, but no answer was forthcoming. If anything, though, his blue-green eyes seemed faintly critical. And who could blame him? She’d woken him up out of a sound sleep. “I’m sorry,” she said, petting him. “And I know, it’s ridiculous. Who falls in love for the first time at twenty-nine?”
CHAPTER 13
So, no boathouse roof tonight,” Everett remarked, facing Win from the other side of the couch.
“Not tonight,” she agreed. There had been a sudden cold snap earlier in the week, and then, this morning, it had begun to rain, a gray, leaden rain that had brought to Win’s mind images of forgotten beach towels dripping on laundry lines, and forlorn plastic bailing jugs floating in the bottoms of canoes. But tonight, the rain had seemingly transformed itself; it no longer felt melancholy but comforting and familiar as it dripped from the cabin’s eaves and ran in rivulets down its dark windows.
“I think I’m going to go to bed early,” Poppy said, appearing in the living room doorway. “You two”—please don’t say “have fun,” Win prayed—“have a good night,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning, Win,” she added, and then she was gone, and Win and Everett were alone again. A log popped in the fireplace, all the louder for the silence in the room, and Everett shifted on the couch. Win, for her part, tried to think of something to say. She didn’t mind the not talking; she didn’t think he minded it, either. But seeing him this time felt different; it wasn’t just him stopping by to bring a forgotten box or a “thank you” bottle of wine. Tonight was planned.
The morning after their Fourth of July on the boathouse roof, he’d waited until she’d woken up before he’d left. He was heading back down to Minneapolis later that day to work on a project. I have your sister’s cell phone number, but I don’t have yours, he’d said, as he’d folded up the bedding on the couch. Could I . . . ?
Oh, of course, Win had replied, giving him her number. She’d wondered how soon she would hear from him, but, as it turned out, it was only the next day that he’d called to say that he was thinking of going back up to his cousin’s cabin in a couple of weeks, and he was hoping he could see her again then. She’d said yes, and invited him for dinner that night.
It had been a success. She’d made a beef stew, and, at the last minute, she’d dug up her grandmother’s Irish soda bread recipe and made that, too. She hadn’t wanted it to seem like she and Everett were on a date—they weren’t, were they?—but having Poppy there with them had helped, even if she hadn’t been particularly conversational. (Ever since Poppy had babysat for Sam’s kids a couple of days earlier, she’d been floating around the cabin in a state of dreamy preoccupation.)
After dinner, Poppy had offered to wash the dishes—which was a breakthrough, of sorts—and Everett had offered to build a fire in the living room, and then they’d sat down on the couch, where they were now, alone, and, for the time being, silent. What are we doing? Win thought. Are we friends, or are we more than friends? The night’s clues, so far, at least, seemed elusive. After all, if they were friends, why couldn’t they think of anything to say to each other? And if they were more than friends, why were they sitting so far apart on the couch?
“Do you, uh, want me to go?” Everett asked now. “It’s getting late. If you’re tired . . .”
“I’m not tired,” Win said. “And even if I were, I wouldn’t necessarily be able to sleep. I’m an insomniac.”
“So am I,” Everett said. “What kind are you?”
“What kind?”
“There are three main kinds of insomnia,” he said. “And the reason I know this is because one of the things I’ve done when I’ve had insomnia is research insomnia. That’s when I found out you can have sleep-onset insomnia, sleep-maintaining insomnia, or early morning awakening. They’re all pretty self-explanatory,” he said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Which kind do you have?”
“The first one. The ‘sleep-onset insomnia.’”
He nodded. “I’m more of a sleep-maintaining insomniac myself.”
“Were you always an insomniac?”
“Always. When I was a kid, it drove my parents crazy. They’d wake up at 3:00 A.M. to the sound of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers theme song on TV. What about you? Is this a lifelong thing?”
She shook her head. “No, just in the last few years.” Just since Kyle was diagnosed with cancer.
“What have you tried to fall asleep?”
“Everything,” she said, simply. “Everything short of narcotics.”
“So . . . warm milk?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Have you ever tasted warm milk? It’s disgusting. But yes, I’ve tried it. I’ve tried warm baths, too, and cool temperatures in my bedroom at night, and white noise machines set to a rainforest setting, and . . .”
“And watching infomercials?”
She frowned. “No, not those. I mean, people don’t watch them on purpose, do they?”
“I do. When I can’t sleep.”
“Does it work?”
“Better than anything else I’ve tried.”
“And you don’t find it annoying watching someone chop vegetables with a Ginsu knife?”
“A Ginsu knife? When’s the last time you watched an infomercial?”
“When I was a kid, probably.”
“Win, there’s a whole brave new world of infomercials out there now,” he said, reaching for the television remote on the coffee table. “May I?” he asked, aiming it at the TV.
“Go right ahead.”
He turned the TV on, presse
d “guide,” and scrolled through the channels. “It used to be that you had to wait until late at night to watch these,” he explained. “They were sort of like the graveyard of television programming. But not anymore. Now there’s a whole channel devoted to them.” He clicked on it, and sat back on the couch, closer to Win now than he had been before.
“Oh, this one is a classic,” he said, gesturing at the screen. And Win, amused by his enthusiasm, turned her attention to it, and she had to admit, it was strangely compelling. The infomercial was for a spray on powder which, when matched correctly to the color of someone’s hair, could be used to cover his or her thinning hair or bald spot. There were endless shots of someone spraying what looked like fuzzy brown spray paint over shiny bald spots, and endless testimonials from customers who swore the product had changed their lives. When it was over, Win turned to Everett and asked, incredulously, “But how do you take it off? Does it wash off in the shower? And what if someone touches it? Does the color come off on their hand? And wouldn’t someone notice, up close, that you don’t have a full head of hair but just some kind of spray powder on your bald spot?”
“Those are all good questions, Win,” Everett said, “but unfortunately, I can’t answer them. I’ve never used this product before.”
“But you’ve used other products you’ve seen on this channel?”
“I’ve ordered a couple of them,” he said, a little sheepishly. “But I don’t recommend it.”
“It’s not going to be a problem for me.”
“You say that now, but after a few more hours of watching these, you’ll want to order something. And I’ll be the only thing standing between your credit card and that 1-800 number at the bottom of the screen.”
“We’re not going to watch more of these, are we?” Win asked. But they did. Win, at first, was understandably critical of the products for sale. She didn’t see the need, for instance, for the wearable towel. (Was it really that difficult to just hold a towel around yourself?) But gradually, she began to see the logic in the products advertised. Because while she personally would not want to practice putting in the bathroom, for avid golfers who spent a lot of time in this room, why not put a miniature putting green in there? And what about the food chopper that promised to transform the way you cooked, ate, and, of course, chopped food? Win suddenly had no idea how she’d lived without it for so many years, though part of this product’s appeal might have been the host. He was somewhat hyper, but at the same time, he was so maniacally persuasive that Win could only shake her head admiringly.
“I know,” Everett agreed. “If he ever quits his day job, he would make a fantastic cult leader.”
But Win’s greatest moment of weakness came during an infomercial for a blanket with sleeves. All the people wearing them looked so cozy, so warm. “I need one of those,” she said, suddenly.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Where would you wear it, though, other than your bedroom? Because, honestly, Win, if I were you I wouldn’t even be seen in it in the living room.”
“Why not? Didn’t you see that whole family wearing them to some sporting event?” she asked, gesturing at the TV. “I go to the high school football games up here sometimes. I could wear it to one of those.”
Everett shook his head. “Not if you wanted to keep your job.”
Win was soon distracted by another infomercial, though, this one featuring a piece of material that could be attached to your bra to prevent your cleavage from showing. There were other infomercials, too. But she started to lose track of them. It was getting late, and, even with what she now knew was her “sleep-onset insomnia” she was getting drowsy. Everett, too, looked sleepier than usual. It seemed suddenly too bright in the room, and Win got up to turn off the overhead light, leaving just the lamps on the end tables on. Then, as the fire died down it got chillier in the room, and she left to turn up the thermostat, and ended up bringing a couple of throw blankets back with her.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but when she woke up, in the gray light of dawn, she was touched to see that Everett had given her the couch to sleep on, and had covered her with a throw. But where is he? She propped herself up on one elbow and drowsily looked around. She saw his outline in one of the armchairs.
“Everett,” she said, softly, testing to see if he was awake.
“I’m here,” he said, and something about his choice of words made her smile.
“I fell asleep,” she said, stating the obvious.
“You did. You missed some real winners, too,” he said, of the TV’s now dark screen.
“Did I?” She smiled. “Like what?”
“Well, let’s see. There was one for a vacuum-cleaner-like attachment for cutting hair.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “I think I went to high school with someone who used one of those. Or maybe,” she said, trying to suppress a yawn, “maybe he just had a really bad haircut.”
She sensed rather than saw him smile. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the sky was pale gray, shot through with the pale pink of early dawn. Inside, the fire had been reduced to a few glowing embers.
She pulled the throw closer around her. “What time is it?”
She saw him look at his watch. “Depending on your perspective, it’s either really early or really late.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
He shook his head. “No. I wasn’t tired, though. I was thinking.”
“What about?” she asked, and when he didn’t answer right way, she said, “Everett, that’s not fair. You know way more about me than I know about you. It’s your turn to talk now.” And then, with uncharacteristic boldness, she slid over on the couch, and patted the space next to her. “Come on. This is practically your couch by now, anyway,” she teased. “You’ve spent more nights on it than I have. The least I can do is share it with you.” He got up, came over, and lay down beside her, careful to leave a space between them. And she studied him in the pale light filtering in from the windows. He looked different. There was the same fair skin, the same light brown hair falling in the same light brown eyes. But there was something else, too, a sadness she’d never seen in him before.
“Everett, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “Nothing new, anyway. But . . . do you remember when you asked me, that first night on the boathouse roof, if I’d ever lost anyone I’d loved?”
She nodded. “I remember. You didn’t answer me.”
“Well, I have lost someone,” he said. “I was thinking about her.”
“Who was she?” she asked, softly.
“My sister.”
“You had a sister?”
“I did. Her name was Flora, after my grandmother, but everybody called her Birdy. She was only four when she died.” And when he saw the expression on her face he answered her unasked question. “Cancer,” he said, simply.
She drew in a breath. At four years old? It was almost too awful to imagine.
“I was twelve when she was born,” he said. “My younger brother was ten. She was a surprise for us. She was a surprise for my parents, too, I think. They were both in their late forties already. But she was the best surprise,” he said, and his expression was suddenly animated with the memory of her. “She was . . . she was fascinated by birds,” he said, with a smile. “That’s how she got her nickname. My mom noticed one morning, when Birdy was about a year old, that if she positioned her high chair so she could see the bird feeder outside the kitchen window, she would sit there for an hour. Maybe more. Just chasing Cheerios around her little tray table and watching the birds outside.”
“By the time she was three,” he continued, “she wanted to be an ornithologist. She couldn’t pronounce the word, of course, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to be one.” He shook his head in wonder. “I mean, how many three-year-olds even know what an ornithologist is?”
“Very few, I imagine,” Win said. But she felt a tightenin
g in her chest. She knew what was coming next.
“She got sick the winter after she turned three,” Everett said. “I won’t tell you all the details, because, in a way, you already know them. Your husband and Birdy were different ages, and they had different kinds of cancer, and different treatments, too, but the experience we had, you and I, the experience of loving them, and of watching them go through that, the sheer terror of it, and the incredible unfairness of it . . .” He stopped for a moment, took a breath, went on. “I can’t tell you anything about that you don’t already know.”
She knew what he meant. She watched Everett, carefully. She got the feeling that he was trying, hard, to compose himself. She didn’t press him. But a moment later, he said, “At first, we liked her chances. She had a rare form of childhood lymphoma, its survival rate was only 50 percent, but we thought, why not? Why shouldn’t Birdy survive? And what kind of world would it be if she didn’t? It looked good, too, for a little while. She was in remission, for several months, and then . . .” He shrugged. “When my parents found out, they didn’t know what to do. They were afraid to tell her. But she already knew. She was so brave. She was comforting them. She said, ‘It’ll be all right,’ and ‘Don’t worry about me.’” He stopped again, and it was only then that Win realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled.
“We brought her home from the hospital,” he said. “And had a little hospital bed set up in the living room, right in front of the picture window. And then my dad and my brother and I went out and bought every single bird feeder we could find and we hung them there, in a row, outside that window. There were a lot of birds there,” he said. “We still hang a new one up there, every year, on what would have been her birthday.”
He leaned back against the couch, as if exhausted from the effort of telling her all of this.
“Oh, Everett,” she said, and she almost—almost—said I’m sorry, but she caught herself. How many times had people said that to her after Kyle died? Too many times to count. And how many times had hearing it made her feel better? That was easier to answer. None. So instead she reached out and gently, very gently, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and then she leaned over and kissed his smooth, cool forehead.
