Pleased to Meet Me

by J. L. Salter

  She squinted. “All I see is rain.”

  “Well, you have to train your eyes. Anyhow, there’s sunshine behind this storm. Eventually this front will pass, the clouds will clear, and we’ll see daylight again. Assuming it’s before nightfall, that is.”

  “You seem to have a pretty laid-back philosophy about all this.”

  “Doesn’t do any good to complain or worry. The wind will blow it off when it gets ready.” His hand swept toward the east. “It is what it is.”

  His cabin was small with just him, but definitely not spacious enough for two humans and a meddlesome rooster. Every time Cody moved, the woman lurched to see why and Beethoven squawked and inspected the female’s movement. Cody couldn’t even cross the room without bumping into one of them. Furthermore, he’d found it embarrassing to use his own chemical toilet, even with the newly-rigged curtain...so, by late morning, he’d made a discreet trip to the downwind edge of the front porch.

  Wasn’t sure if his guest even noticed, but she did have a bit of a smirk on her pretty face when he re-entered.

  “Close quarters,” she observed. “We keep bumping into each other.”

  “Why don’t you find something to occupy yourself so you don’t spend the whole day watching me monitor the weather with Beethoven?”

  Hearing his name, the rooster flapped wildly and crowed, “Er er er errhhh.”

  “Not sure what to do without access to the Internet,” she replied. “And I don’t suppose your windmill powers up a television.”

  “No use for TV,” he said, taking his regular chair. “Even if I had a set, we couldn’t get reception from the nearest transmitter tower on the far side of the mountain.”

  “And I don’t guess the cable company has you on their work orders yet.”

  He chuckled deeply. “Not even.”

  “I think I’d go out of my mind with nothing to do.”

  “There’s plenty to do, including the plans I’m working on for the new cabin.” Again, he nodded toward his drafting table.

  “How long have you been tweaking those plans?”

  “Made my decision last spring, after about six months here,” he said, pointing toward the cabin floor, “that I needed a different structure if I planned to stay up on Hardscrabble. So I guess I’ve been working on the plans for about a year.”

  “Seems like a long time for the paperwork.”

  “Well, there’s more to work out than just drawing four walls. For one thing, I’m trying to design a better solar collection system and find ways to increase my battery storage capacity. Eventually, I want enough electrical wattage to power a larger fridge and freezer.”

  Her face showed the question.

  “I’d still keep that cave-cellar cut into the mountainside as natural cold storage, but it would be nice to have more ready access to certain consumables without humping all the way back there.”

  She’d tuned him out. “So what else is there to do inside during nasty weather?”

  It bothered him that she was so easily bored. “I have books, remember.” He aimed his firm, bristled chin toward the south wall.

  “Oh, right. How could I forget?” She rose to examine the shelves more closely. The rooster was equally curious. “You said history, biography, and all sorts of fiction.”

  “Among other subjects.”

  “I see you have them organized...somewhat.”

  “Not like a library’s Dewey system, but either by type of book or by the subjects.”

  “Hmm. It seems you have a particular interest in UFOs ...among other things.”

  He nodded without comment.

  “Ever seen one?”

  “Well, let’s define our terms.” He stood and moved toward the bookcases. “A UFO is merely a flying object that you can’t identify. It doesn’t necessarily mean a saucer from outer space.”

  “Okay, I understand. And, by the way, I also remember that much.”

  “Good.” He pointed to his own head and smiled. “That said, I have an excellent view of this valley and those smaller foothills to my west. And several times, I’ve seen things that were not conventional aircraft. Not clouds, not swamp gas, not weather balloons either. And not the result of my hysterical imagination.”

  “So what were they?”

  “Unidentified.” He grinned.

  “And how would you tentatively categorize them?”

  “I’m willing to bet some are American military hardware—experimental and top secret.”

  She nodded. “And the rest?”

  “Aliens visiting to snoop out what the American military is testing.”

  His disheveled guest looked shocked. “You’re serious?”

  He held his reply for a long count. “It’s one theory.” He pointed to the books. “Read those reports and decide for yourself.”

  “Maybe I will.” But her eye caught a different grouping—his poetry books. “They say you can learn a lot about a person by the books he or she collects,” she intoned.

  “That’s an odd theory for you to remember.”

  She nodded. “It is. But I think it’s true. If I had the time to examine all these titles, I’d probably get to know you pretty well.”

  But you won’t be here that long. “So what kinds of books do you collect?”

  “Not sure, but I doubt I have many UFO titles. Probably some of this poetry,” she said, tapping a few spines, “and maybe some biography.”

  “How about history?” He pointed toward a section of several shelves.

  “General history feels right, but I doubt I have much specialized stuff like your military history.”

  “It’s great reading. You should try it.” He walked over and touched one end of a shelf. “Start with one of the unit histories, like Band of Brothers...and you’ll be hooked.”

  His attractive guest gazed at the shelves without touching any books. Her hands were folded behind her back, slightly above her shapely bottom. “I’ve got nowhere to go and no way to get there, but I’m hungry.” She sighed heavily and stroked her tummy. “I hope you’re not one of those mountain men who only eats once a day.”

  “No, I eat more than that, but my meals might not fit a pattern you’re used to.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Meaning?”

  “For supper this evening, I’ll just re-heat the Mulligan from yesterday.”

  “Stew? Sounds good. Wish I’d gotten here last night in time for supper.”

  “You did, but you were out cold.”

  “Oh.” No flicker of recollection. “So what about today’s lunch?”

  “For mid-day, I sometimes work on a cheese log, but usually have a sandwich.”

  “This isn’t some sort of exotic sandwich made of possum innards, is it?”

  Big hearty laugh. “No, but I can arrange that if you prefer.”

  She put a hand to her throat like she’d choke. “No, a traditional sandwich will be fine. What kind?”

  “I have some cured ham I’m working on, but today I had a hankering for peanut butter and jelly.”

  “PBJ? Really? That sounds so…”

  “Ordinary?”

  “I was going to say civilized, but now that I think of it, peanuts are pretty wild.”

  “So we’ll be two for lunch?”

  She nodded. “Shall I help prepare?”

  “Sure. But I’d better slice the bread. I’m betting you’re used to the loaves already sliced.”

  A slow smile spread across her lovely face, making it seem softer and warmer. Her eyes sparkled bright blue as she explained, “I don’t even have to strain for that memory. I’m positively accustomed to sliced bread, except for French bread loaves I eat with spaghetti.”

  “And there’s another specific memory.” He held up his partial loaf of dark bread. “I haven’t had good spaghetti in a year or more.”

  “Do you like it?”

  He nodded, licking his full lips.

  “Then I’ll make you some.”

&nbs
p; He mulled that over. “When?”

  “Uh, when we get down the mountain.”

  “Where?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know. I mean, I guess I meant it generally. You know, once I figure out where I belong and I can cook up a batch…”

  “And run a serving up the mountain to my cabin?”

  “No, I mean...I don’t know. I just meant I’d love to cook for you, since you like spaghetti, and I have a notion that I’m good at making it…” Her eyes clouded.

  “I know. I understand. Wasn’t trying to press you. I was partly probing your memory, but also making a point. Once you get off this mountain, whether you have spaghetti or Maine lobster, you’ll probably never see me again.”

  Tears fell to the plank floor, causing special interest from Beethoven, who apparently thought they might be edible.

  “And I definitely didn’t want to upset you.”

  She caught some of the tears with her forefingers. “I’m not even sure why I’m crying. I’ve hardly been here eighteen hours and most of that was sleeping.”

  He felt as though he should hug her, but dared not.

  She sat at the table again. “And yet it somehow feels like I’ve always known you.”

  Impossible. “I think a lot of factors are at play. You’re exhausted and confused about whatever happened yesterday. You’re eager to get down the mountain and back home…”

  “But I don’t even know where home is.”

  “Not at the moment, maybe. But soon you will. When we get you to town, most everything will probably clear up.” He pointed westward. “Somebody’s down there waiting for you. And when the storm stops, they’ll be looking for you. In fact, we’ll probably meet them somewhere on the mountain along that road.”

  Not only was their proximity claustrophobic during the intense storm, but it was terribly awkward having to deal again with emotional humans. That had been one of many reasons to leave what people thought of as civilization and head back to the serenity of Hardscrabble. Maggie was a companion who’d never played the tears card on him.

  He was uneasy about how to handle this emotional woman. Did she want his help to try to remember her own identity and background? Or would she rather be left alone? She didn’t seem the kind of female who enjoyed solitude...yet, somehow, Cody had a notion the mystery lady did spend a lot of time by herself.

  It was irritating to have his routine disrupted by both her and the storm, but being around an attractive woman also stirred some memories, certain longings. Even though they’d only been in each other’s company for less than a full day, he had a vague instinct she might willingly respond to any reasonable overture he may have presented, or at least that she would consider it. However, he had already determined there was danger in tipping the delicate balance between a reluctant host and a guest with impaired memory...however temporary their proximity may be.

  No. Just wait for the weather to break, go inspect the road, then get this trouble out of your cabin and back down the mountain.

  No telling who was down there waiting on her. She might be a special envoy from the governor’s office. Whatever she was—and whoever—she certainly did not fit in here. He was not sure how many additional adjustments would be necessary to accommodate her special needs. He’d already rigged a curtain in front of the toilet, and now she was asking again about a shower.

  Cody had already explained it a dozen times. “Let’s see how soon the weather breaks. If it clears and the road’s okay, maybe you can get that shower down in Boar Mount.”

  She seemed more a bored society maven than a true fanatic about hygiene. Apparently sulking, she propped her elbows on the table. “So what else do you do, Cody,” she said nodding toward the bookcase and drafting table, “when you’re confined indoors during a storm?”

  He couldn’t help grinning. “I can remember some possibilities from my college days in the co-ed dorms.”

  She blushed. “Well, even though I don’t know who I am, I guarantee I’m no longer a co-ed.”

  “Suit yourself, but I still plan on doing it.”

  “Doing what?” Her eyebrows arched in alarm.

  “Taking a nap. What were you thinking about?”

  Chapter Seven

  Somewhat later, the woman who couldn’t remember her own name had scrutinized the spines along many shelves of books, but had not actually selected one to start reading. “Cody, how old are you anyway?”

  No hesitation. “Just past thirty-two. Why? How old do I look?”

  “Oh, about that…maybe younger. Hard to tell with the thick beard.”

  “So how old are you?”

  “Don’t know.”

  When Wilder shifted in his easy chair, Beethoven jumped down from his temporary roost on the back of a kitchen chair and waddled over to check whether any activity interested him. “Maybe we can figure it out. I used to be pretty good at this.”

  “At what?”

  “Guessing people’s age, weight, and occupation.”

  Can’t picture a big demand for that talent. “Why?”

  “Worked one season with a county fair outfit.”

  She suppressed her smile. “Okay...shoot. But not my weight.”

  Wilder examined her so closely it felt like he was peering into her soul. Or perhaps peeking under her clothes. No, he already did that. That she could not remember the experience was slightly embarrassing but also warming in an unusual way. “Well?”

  As he scrutinized her, high and low, he began a running commentary. “Few wrinkles, nice skin, trim body...you stay in shape. Pale arms but tanned legs—and that throws me more than anything. Seems like high and low would have the same tan.”

  After briefly studying her own limbs, she shrugged. “I’ll explain when I get back that specific memory.”

  Beethoven ruffled his feathers, then cocked his beaked head back and forth as though unsure which eye would collect a clearer image.

  “I think your bird is making his own carnival guesses.”

  “There’s more science to it than you probably imagine.” Wilder scratched along one bristly cheek. “I believe you’re older than you look...and you look about early-thirties.”

  “Why do you assume I’m older than that?” Not anything she wanted to hear.

  “Something I’ve noticed in pampered rich women—many tend to look younger.”

  “I doubt I’m pampered,” she said coolly, “but you figure I’m rich?”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  “Well, if I am wealthy, then I can reimburse you for whatever it costs to help me back into town.”

  “No expense other than a little extra feed for my horse. But, like I already told you, we can’t go down ‘til the weather clears.”

  Nothing to do about the weather, but the age thing still bothered her. “What tricks do you have for figuring out how old I am? Now I really need to know.”

  “Do you follow sports?”

  “Not particularly, at least I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Are you at least aware of the major league sports and the biggest events in each? Like Super Bowl, World Series, World Cup, et cetera?”

  “Oh, you mean do I follow sports headlines for the big events? I suppose so. I’d like to think I’m well-informed.”

  “Okay, what’s the first Super Bowl winner you remember?”

  She scrunched up her face to aid her recollection. “Not positive, but I think it was the San Francisco team.”

  “Hmm, the Forty-Niners. That won’t help much because they’ve won at least five titles. Would’ve been easier if you’d said the Chicago Bears.”

  When she shrugged, the rooster approached, stood on one leg, and checked her closely with each eyeball.

  Wilder retrieved a thick paperback from his bookcase. “Hold on. This sports almanac will help. That game with the Forty-Niners. Who’d they beat that year?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  He wrote down five different years. “Well they beat th
e Bengals in ‘82, the Dolphins in ‘85, Bengals again in ‘89, Broncos in ‘90, and the Chargers in ‘95. Any of those ring a bell?

  “Not really.” She could see he was disappointed. “Wait. I remember a TV commercial. The two quarterbacks were buying some kind of cola from a vending machine.”

  Wilder stared at his book. “Don’t think this covers commercials. Do you remember which quarterbacks?”

  “Who was the one in San Francisco?”

  “Joe Montana for most of those games and Steve Young for at least one.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.” But she really wanted to keep the inquiry going. “Oh, wait. One of the quarterbacks was later in a movie...that film about a crazy pet detective.”

  “Marino!” He said it so abruptly that Beethoven crowed in response. “Dan Marino.” He rechecked his list. “The Niners beat the Dolphins in the January 1985 Super Bowl.”

  “I remember reading that they’d filmed the commercial both ways, since they didn’t know which team would win.”

  Wilder nodded, smiling. “Now I recall that commercial. Okay, that’s the first Super Bowl you took notice of. So how old were you when you saw that game or heard about it?”

  “Still in school. My friend and I had a crush on Dan.”

  “I don’t guess you recall which grade.”

  She shook her head.

  “Let’s approach it from a different angle. What was your favorite subject that year?”

  “English.” No hesitation. “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Hmm. English will be tougher because those courses kind of run together. What was your worst subject that year?”

  “Algebra.” Her eyes opened wide. “Hey, I remembered.”

  He nodded with a sly smile. “And in this state, algebra’s usually taught in ninth grade.”

  She waited expectantly as he scribbled on his note pad.

  “Okay, if you were in ninth grade during the year of the 1985 Super Bowl and assuming you were either fourteen or fifteen in that grade…” He subtracted a few more figures. “Then you’d be somewhere between forty-two and forty-four now.”