Return to Us

by Christy Pastore

  “Maybe it’s you who needs the strength.”

  “Maybe.”

  The strength I needed was to keep from asking her to leave her life in East Harbour behind and move in here with me. The two of us didn’t spend time defining our relationship, but I was ready to drive this relationship towards the next level. While I was ready, I wasn’t sure it was what she wanted.

  I released the hold I had on Tinley, returning my attention to the meal. Tinley was driving this machine, and I wasn’t about to crash and burn.

  “Oh crap, Matthew—the sauce.”

  Crash and Burn. Streaks of red splashed over my counter and walls. Tinley grabbed a handful of paper towels while I moved the sauce from the burner.

  This is not a sign.

  It was a damn shame to wake Tinley, but I had to leave and I didn’t want her to wake up to an empty bed. This film was taking longer than expected, which is part of the reason I bought this house. I longed for privacy, and I didn’t want to continue living in a hotel suite. I needed my own space, where my cast mates weren’t knocking on my door at all hours and inviting themselves over on a whim.

  “Hey, beautiful,” I murmured against her shoulder. “I have to work today, but I will be back to make you dinner.”

  She pushed straight up onto her palms. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to.”

  She sank to the bed, rolling onto her back. “Matthew, I had this fantasy that you and I would lay in bed all day watching Netflix,” she said, tucking the sheet under her breasts. “Until I needed something sweet then I would whip up some pumpkin bread or banana walnut bread all the while I planned on quizzing you about your middle name and your family.”

  “You can always text me your questions,” I pointed out before kissing her lips.

  “That is not the same.”

  She leaned forward, drawing her arms around her knees. She looked beautiful, all that blonde hair, wild and unruly spilling over her shoulder. My willpower was cracking the longer I stayed.

  “I know, and I promise that I will make it up to you.” I stood, pushing my arms through my jacket. “Feel free to make that pumpkin or banana nut bread though, it sounds delicious.”

  “You’re abandoning me and you’re asking me to bake for you?”

  STIR CRAZY WAS MY current mood, and it was just after noon. Most of my misery was due to the fact that I couldn’t find my phone. For the life of me, I had no idea where the damn thing was hiding. I’d had it with me on the plane, but its whereabouts now—unknown.

  And since I couldn’t find my phone, I couldn’t look up any of the recipes. On top of that, Matthew didn’t have a computer in sight that I could find. He really needed to personalize this place.

  I bundled up in my belted Burberry puffer coat. Maybe a walk in the brisk mountain air would provide some clarity. As I shoved my feet into my shearling lined boots, it was impossible to believe that I was halfway across the continent and in Montana no less. I didn’t know anything about this state, but I had a strong desire to learn. It was hard not to fall in love with the surrounding beauty.

  The cold air hit me, spreading through my body like a shot of tequila. These cold temperatures wouldn’t reach The Harbour for at least another few weeks.

  I started down the driveway and decided to take a right and go down the mountain rather than climb. It was quiet, like really quiet, aside from the whooshing of wind rustling through the trees and the occasional screech of what I could only imagine came from something of the giant bird species.

  I walked about two miles before coming to a clearing. Down below was an aspen grove nestled near a pond. How could there be a level meadow in the middle in the mountains? As I continued down the path, a cabin came into view, an authentic log cabin.

  I stopped for a moment to take a drink of water. At the sound of wood snapping my heart jumped in my throat. From the sign I’d seen on the trail earlier I knew I was in grizzly, wolf, and cougar country.

  “Great, nice job, Tinley, you’ll be mauled by a wild animal and they’ll drag your body up the mountain and no one will ever find your remains.”

  I screwed the cap back onto the water bottle. A low hum filtered through the air dragging my focus around the wooded area.

  A white Ford Fusion sped past me from behind. I didn’t hear the car approaching. It was so quiet—eerie even. As I came up over the hill, the car was stopped in front of me, and the driver’s side window was rolled down.

  “Are you following me?” I called out.

  Ignoring my question, the driver brought a camera up and began snapping pictures.

  Glaring, I stood rooted to my spot. “Stop photographing me!”

  “Is Matthew with you? Are you two dating?”

  My eyes popped wide, and my free hand curled into a fist. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

  Fucking paparazzi.

  Paparazzi in Montana. He took his finger off the camera long enough to maneuver the car forward.

  “Tinley, just tell me if you and Matthew Barber are dating. Gimme the deets.”

  I was not in the habit of dealing with aggressive paparazzi and I didn’t know this guy at all. If I wanted to share some positive news with the press I’d go to One Park Avenue or Hollywood and Tinsel dot com.

  “And your assumptions are based on what information, exactly?”

  “Flight attendant tweeted that she saw you and Matt boarding a private jet. It didn’t take much effort to get the information”

  “Come any closer and I will rip that camera from your fucking hands.”

  He refused my warning, but instead of smashing his face or the camera I kicked up and ran for the cabin. The low hum of the engine trailed behind me. My lungs burned, as I pushed myself to get to the cabin.

  I tucked the water bottle into my pocket and then grasped the door handle. “Please be unlocked or at least have someone there to help me.”

  The door pushed open, and I ducked inside slamming my back against the wood as it closed.

  “Wolf, mountain lion, or elk?” a deep voice asked.

  Standing in front of me was a gentleman, a silver fox wearing a plaid shirt and dark denim jeans holding an axe.

  I swallowed harshly. “Worse, paparazzi.”

  “Hmm,” he groaned, wiping off the handle of the axe.

  “You belong to that country singer who lives up here?” His western drawl was sonorous, very reminiscent of Sam Elliott’s.

  I pushed off the door. “No, I don’t belong to anyone, but I am staying with the movie star who lives up the mountain a few miles from here.”

  “I see,” he said, smoothing his thick horseshoe mustache with his thumb and index finger. “Are you one of those progressive feminists?”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure about all that, but I pay attention to women’s issues.”

  He stared at me for a beat before taking another axe into his hands and polishing the blade. “You aren’t an axe murderer, are you?”

  That question earned me a laugh. “No, just your regular old mountain man.” He walked towards me, extending his hand. “Charles Melby, miss.”

  “Tinley Atkinson,” I replied, giving him a firm handshake. “What is all this?” I asked, taking in the smell of pine and sawdust. Several styles of axes decorated the space, and rounds of wood were anchored to the walls some with bullseyes painted on them and others without.

  “This is my hunting cabin.”

  “Hmm,” I said, moving to stand near the pool table. “I don’t know any hunting cabins that are this—fancy.” Exposed brick lined the walls, above beautiful wainscoting painted hunter green. It reminded me of a rec room that you might find in a country club. “You have a fireplace, and a flat screen TV. Plus, you have leather couches, and not the lumpy dumpy ones either, nice and tufted.”

  “Lumpy dumpy, that’s a new phrase,” he said, handing me an axe. “Come on over here.”

  “What are we doing?”

&n
bsp; With his hands on my shoulders, he positioned me behind a black line. “This is called axe throwing. You see that target?”

  I nodded, and studied the three large wooden blocks anchored to the wall.

  “You want to put the blade of the axe somewhere inside those rings.”

  He demonstrated with a few throws and showed me how to hold the axe. “You want a loose grip,” he instructed. “Hold the axe in the bottom of your hand. Gripping the axe too tight will actually mess up your throw.”

  Eyeing my target, I drew my arm up and over my shoulder. Focusing, I propelled the axe forward, with a flick of my wrist. It bounced off the wood and dropped to the floor.

  “Good form, you released a little too early,” he advised. “Give it another try.”

  After taking off my coat, I picked up the piece of weaponry made of steel and wood and tossed it at the intended target half a dozen times. Finally, I landed the axe right of center.

  “Excellent throw,” he said, clapping his hands together.

  “That was a rush,” I said, admiring my handy work.

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest, and nodded. “This calls for a cold one. Do you drink beer, young lady? Or do you prefer wine?”

  Axe throwing didn’t feel like a wine drinking activity. “I’ll have a beer. Do you have Stella?

  He ran this thumb along his chin. “No, but I have Amstel Light, Bud Light, or any of the Big Sky Brew, you might like the Shake-A-Day, it’s a pale ale.”

  “Okay, I’ll try that one,” I replied, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  “Cheers.” Charles handed me my beer and motioned for me to take a seat. “So, you . . . and the movie star—are you two an item?”

  “We haven’t put a label on whatever we are, but the paparazzi want to.” I took a long drink from the bottle. It wasn’t terrible.

  “Oh, Charles,” a sweet feminine voice called out. “I’m back from the grocery.”

  “Brenda, come meet our guest,” he hollered back, pushing to his feet.

  A woman wearing a blue sweater and dark jeans entered the room. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness,” she cried out. Her thick brown hair was curled into soft waves. Minimal creases appeared around her espresso colored eyes. When she smiled, it lit up the whole room. “Are you who I think that you are?”

  I laughed. “That depends. Do you think that I’m Tinley Atkinson?”

  She nodded. “My goodness, a real-life television star in my home.”

  “Now, Brenda, don’t bawl all over yourself.” Charles stepped to his wife’s side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “She’s a bit of a celebrity nut.”

  Brenda patted his chest. “Stop it, you’ll embarrass me. My goodness, I was such a huge fan of your mother, dear. She had the most beautiful voice. I even saw her on Broadway once.”

  My eyes popped wide. “You did?”

  She took me by the hand. “I sure did. She was so full of heart and gumption.”

  “That was my mom.”

  Charles smiled, shooting a glance in my direction. “Okay, okay, Brenda, stop fussin’ all over the poor girl, she’s had enough of that for today.”

  Brenda looked up at Charles. “What did I miss?”

  Charles recounted the story from the beginning about how I’d trespassed onto their property. He gave me a wry grin.

  “I didn’t see anyone in a white car when I pulled into the driveway.”

  I swallowed another swig of beer. “Well, I should get out of your hair, since the coast is clear. I’ve lost my phone. Could you tell me the time?”

  “Almost two,” Brenda answered. “I was just about to make some cookies, apple oatmeal and pumpkin snickerdoodles.”

  “Sounds delicious. What’s the occasion?”

  Charles picked up and axe and flung it at the target. “Oh, she has her book club tonight. There’s going to be twenty women squawking about romance in the main house.”

  “Hush, Charles,” Brenda said, rolling her eyes. “We’re reading The Good Girl by Mary Kubica. Have you read it?” She walked me to the door.

  I shook my head, taking my coat from the hook. “No, I’ve mostly been reading scripts for the past few months.”

  “I’ve been watching the show,” Brenda informed, picking a piece of lint from her sweater. “I’ve been a fan ever since I can remember.”

  I pulled my coat on over my shoulders. “Thank you both for being so kind, and letting me hide out here.”

  She squeezed my hand. “You are welcome here anytime.”

  “Next time, we’ll play a game of pool,” Charles added.

  I walked back across the meadow to the trail. The temperature had cooled and the clouds had moved in, casting a shadow over the land. My eyes were trained on the trail, and I hustled back to Matthew’s house. I hoped that photographer hadn’t found out where Matthew lived, although this was a small community and it was entirely possible that news travelled fast around here.

  Tinley: I found my phone!

  Matthew: Congratulations. I didn’t know that it was missing.

  Tinley: I felt so disconnected from the world.

  Matthew: There’s always television, and I have a radio in the gym.

  Tinley: I can’t figure out how to work the remote.

  Matthew: Okay, hit the TV button, not the power button.

  Tinley: It worked! I promise that I am not an idiot.

  Tinley: How’s it going?

  Matthew: One of the actors showed up drunk.

  Matthew: They won’t let us leave until he shoots his scene. I’ve been sitting in my trailer for two hours.

  Tinley: Frustrating.

  Matthew: Tell me something good.

  Tinley: I met your neighbors.

  Matthew: I live on the side of a mountain. The closest house has to be ten miles away.

  Tinley: The Melby’s. You need to meet them. Charles, he taught me how to throw an axe.

  Matthew: You threw an axe? Damn, I would have given anything to witness that.

  Tinley: And I drank a beer.

  Matthew: What? I am missing all the fun.

  Matthew: I gotta go. The director wants to shoot a different scene. It’s about fucking time.

  Tinley: Have fun.

  Matthew: Unlikely. The only fun I can think of is being naked with you.

  Tinley: You know what I hate?

  Matthew: I can’t see you hating too many things.

  Matthew: I’ll give it a shot though.

  Matthew: Eating leftovers.

  Tinley: Hate is strong feeling for leftovers. More like, I prefer not to eat leftovers.

  Tinley: The hate list is special.

  Tinley: I created a Pinterest board of things that I hate. It was merely just for me to attach snarky comments. It backfired on me because Pinterest started recommending more of the things I hated. The whole thing ended in a mess of flavored Clearly Canadian, felt accessories, denim on denim outfits, wicker furniture, and turkey bacon.

  Matthew: Turkey bacon is the worst. It’s not real bacon.

  Tinley: Thank you!

  Matthew: Things that you hate . . . go.

  Tinley: I hate mommy baking bloggers. I get sucked into making this “super delish and super simple recipe” because she swears by it and it ends up tasting like complete garbage every damn time.

  Matthew: A question. Why are you using recipes from a mommy blogger?

  Tinley: Kids are genuinely picky eaters. When these blogs say, “My kids beg for it” and “I make it all the time” that must mean that it’s phenomenal. Kids should be trusted when it comes to matters regarding sugar.

  Matthew: At least when it comes to taste.

  Tinley: Exactly. This pumpkin bread is overloaded with nutmeg it’s so bitter.

  Tinley: There is no way a child would want to eat this all time or at all.

  Tinley: Another thing I hate about these blogs is that I have to scroll down through a story leading up to the recipe. Like the dumbass thing their
hubby did that doesn’t relate to the recipe just something that happened the same day. Even worse, the interjection about something cute their kid said.

  Tinley: Then, 64 month-old Halcyon came into the kitchen and asked for the fifth time (for those of you keeping count) if I knew that I was the best mommy in the whole world. Here’s a picture of Halcyon making her own mini blueberry loaf. We bought this vintage baking set from a small shop while were vacationing in Vermont. (Link to that story, and my apple cider recipe here.)

  Matthew: Okay, seriously the name Halcyon. I cannot stop laughing.

  Matthew: In Greek mythology, Halcyon is a mythical bird who could calm the seas.

  Tinley: I know.

  Matthew: How?

  Tinley: A few summers ago, I had an art exhibit featuring The Queens and Princesses of Greek Mythology. I went down a rabbit hole studying all things Greek and Roman mythology.

  Matthew: Sounds Intriguing.

  Tinley: Some of it is. Other parts are really boring.

  Tinley: And in other news, you need more flour, eggs, and sugar.

  Matthew: Noted.

  Tinley: A bag of baking essentials arrived.

  Tinley: Your assistant, Wade, is nice.

  Matthew: He’s good at his job, too.

  Tinley: There was also a recipe from the Smitten Kitchen for Pumpkin Bread.

  Matthew: Good. My mom swears by this website.

  Tinley: I’m already pinning tons of recipes.

  Tinley: Thank you.

  Matthew: My pleasure, darlin’.

  Matthew: You know Wile E. Coyote is one of the most tragic characters in history.

  Tinley: How so?

  Matthew: He lives in the desert with a mindless bird. He’s forever doomed to chase this bird.

  Matthew: Wile is a coyote, coyotes are faster than roadrunners, yet he never catches him.

  Matthew: He is a skilled architect and yet, succumbed to trying to catch this fucking bird.

  Matthew: Not only that, but he knows the contraptions from ACME should work, which by the way ACME aka Amazon Prime. Think about it.

  Matthew: He is a genius, yet the laws of physics thwart his plans always. ACME fucks with him, and this genius coyote fails at survival of the fittest. He never stops chasing this damn bird, risking life and limb. He can’t stop no matter how much it hurts him.