by Freya Barker
I take in his appearance: dress pants, shiny shoes, button-down shirt, doused in a cloud of aftershave that just now hits my nostrils, but seems to keep the bugs on his side of the table. He’s not exactly dressed for manual labour of any kind, so I’m guessing he doesn’t mean grabbing a paint roller or say, climbing up on my roof.
“The coffee was good timing.” I smile and hold up my cup in salute.
“Looks like a lot of work,” he says, looking over my shoulder, mild distaste on his face. “Must cost a sweet penny,” he adds, his eyes sliding back to me. His gaze is assessing.
I’m not about to bite at this obvious fishing expedition and just smile over the rim of my cup, despite my growing unease at his intense scrutiny.
“I should take you out for dinner,” he says suddenly, the smile back on his face, but forced.
Oh crap. Don’t get me wrong, I’m at a point in my life where the prospect of a decent man interested in wining and dining me would be really nice, but I’m not a complete idiot; I know Kyle is neither interested or nice. He’s a shark in pretty packaging.
“I don’t know...” I hedge, not wanting to ruffle any feathers, and I uneasily shift in my seat.
“Here’s my thoughts; if you’re determined to make a go of this place, networking is the way to go, and I happen to know everyone in town. I could help. Get word of mouth going. Get you hooked up with the right people and tell you who to steer clear of.”
My eyebrows shoot up at the last thing he says.
“Steer clear of?”
He leans over the table and into my space. “Always good to know who your enemies are, especially when they’re just next door.”
Well, that I can agree on, but this conversation has gotten really uncomfortable, and with my head a little clearer, thanks to the coffee, I should get back to work.
“I’m afraid I’m swamped with work, as you can see,” I explain, getting up from my seat. “I simply don’t have time for socializing.”
“Then call it a business meeting. I don’t care, just have dinner with me,” he pushes, standing up as well.
“Sorry—I’m still settling in and really need to focus on getting my place up and running.” I straighten my back and force myself to look him straight in the eye; instead of cowing under the glare he shoots my way.
“Very well,” he bites off, clearly unhappy with my rejection. “I will leave you to it then. Have a good day, Lilith.” Without another look, he marches back to his car, his back ramrod straight, and his steps determined.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I call out after him, but he just slams his door shut and speeds off down the driveway, wheels spitting up the gravel.
Throwing a wistful look after the disappearing car, I turn back to room three, where a gallon of paint and a roller await me.
-
By the time lunch comes around, I have the first coat up on the walls, despite the slow start. I do a quick rinse of the tray and roller in the room’s bathtub, leaving everything to dry in the sun outside.
The fridge in my own kitchen is well stocked with fresh food since my last run into town, but I still grab for the muffins I baked last night, sitting on the kitchen counter. I damn well deserve it after the morning I’ve had. My secret hope is that the work will offset my love of food, if not help me lose a few pounds. Like maybe fifty.
I always thought I had a weight problem, ever since I was a teenager, but looking at pictures from that time, I have to laugh at myself. All I can see now is a normal girl, slim even, with major self-image issues. Something I probably inherited from my mom who, to this day, is completely preoccupied with her weight, even living in beautiful Belize with husband number five.
There was a period, just after David left me, when I was almost skinny again, insofar that is possible with my pear shape, but that was short-lived. Since then, I’ve been working hard on learning to love myself and my body for what it is, not for what it could be or maybe even should be. It’s hard work. Especially since society, as a whole, judges by external appearance and is quick to slap a label on you.
That’s how my tattoos started, and the coloured hair. It was a midlife rebellion, if you will. Not really a crisis, but more like an affirmation of my own identity. Something I’d lost in the years of being a daughter, then a wife and a mother. A middle finger up at uninvited expectations put on me. I have to admit, I enjoy the confusion my colourful appearance creates. The way it makes people slightly uncomfortable because they can’t quite figure out where to place me.
I’m learning who I am and what I stand for—and that’s the only thing that should matter.
My phone rings, just as I’m washing the crumbs from the two muffins I consumed from my hands. Quickly drying them on the towel, I don’t stop to check the display before answering the phone.
“Lilith!” My mother’s voice twitters over the line.
“Hi, Mom.”
It’s been months since we last spoke. She’s always been a demanding and judgmental woman, blaming David’s extramarital affair, and subsequent leaving, squarely on my shoulders. Apparently, since I’d let myself go, it was no wonder I hadn’t been able to keep his attention. Oh yes, mother is a prize.
She doesn’t even know I’ve moved up here. Mostly because I’m not in the mood for my mother’s version of waterboarding, a relentless flow of words in her case, which leaves me gasping for air in the end. It’s no surprise I try to keep contact to a minimum by ignoring most of her calls, and in the next second I’m reminded why.
“I just had to call you to tell you about this wonderful new diet I’ve discovered. I’ve gone from a size ten to a size six in two months. You should give it a try, who knows, you might even be able to draw the attention of a nice man.”
The woman clearly has a sixth sense, as my eyes shoot guiltily to the remaining muffins, and I feel the bile crawl up my throat. Aside from my obviously poor dietary choices, I’ve managed to alienate every single man I’ve come in contact with since moving up here.
Clearly, I’m still a work in progress.
Roar
“Son-of-a-bitch, that hurts!”
I look up from the table where I’m dipping this morning’s catch in my beer batter.
Today is their last day here and I took Jamie out on the boat, while his father stayed on the dock, his injured leg elevated. Between us, we had a decent catch and in an attempt to soothe any remaining ruffled feathers from their encounter with the rock, I suggested a fish fry for lunch.
“Cold water,” David tells his son, who just burned his hand slipping the battered fish in the hot oil. “Just stick it in the lake, the damn water is probably colder than what you get from the tap.”
Jamie follows his father’s suggestion, while I slide the rest of the fillets in the cast iron pan over the fire pit. Don’t ask me why, but the fish always tastes better when cooked and consumed outside, by the water’s edge. You don’t need anything else, just a couple of beers, a little salt and a slice of lemon, and a pile of golden-fried, battered perch or walleye. Meal of champions.
I pull the fish from the oil and let it drain on sheets of newspaper I dumped in the middle of the picnic table. Ace, who is chilling in the shade underneath, sticks his head out in hopes of catching crumbs.
“Dig in,” I invite the two men, who don’t waste any time doing just that. I pull a few cold ones from the cooler and join them.
No plates or utensils required, and after I’ll just burn the newspaper in the firepit and throw a bucket of water over the picnic table. Don’t want to leave any food scraps behind. This is bear country and they tend to be hungry, this early in the season.
I take a long tug of my beer and am about to reach for my second piece when I hear the crunch of tires. We all seem turn at the same time and watch as my new neighbour climbs out of her old Jeep, a large Tupperware container in hand. I think we’re all staring, at least I know I am. Instead of the camouflage pants I saw her wearing before, she now has o
n some kind of long, flowing top over bright floral tights. The colourful material looks painted on her sturdy legs, and beside me David emits a soft whistle.
I watch as Ace barrels out from under the table and nearly knocks the newcomer off her feet. My mouth is already open to call him back, when I watch her crouch down and greet him.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, as she approaches the table a little tentatively, my dog at her heels. Her gaze bounces over all three of us before settling on me. “I never had a chance to thank you properly the other day. I hope you don’t mind, I just followed the signs here.” She looks at the lake and a small smile forms on her full lips. “It’s beautiful here.”
Nobody has a chance to respond before her focus is back on me.
“Anyway, I baked some muffins last night, and thought maybe you’d like some for lunch.” Her eyes land on the remaining pile of fish in the middle of the table and the pink colour, already on her cheeks, deepens to a deep red. “But I see you’re already eating. I apologize for barging in.”
“Sit.”
The order comes from David, who is observing the woman with obvious amusement as she instantly sits down at the other end of my bench. Ace finds his spot underneath the table again.
“Roar here knows how to cook a great fish fry. Have a taste.” He gestures at the grease-drenched newspaper on the table. “By the way, I’m David and this here is my son, Jamie. We’re just vacationing.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, reaching out to shake David’s outstretched hand. “I...I’m a neighbour. I mean, I just moved up here recently. I’m Lilith Talbot.”
“Pleasure to meet you too, Lilith, now dig in.”
She smiles at him before turning her gaze to me, an unspoken question in her eyes. I just shrug my shoulders and reach into the cooler, pulling out another cold one and handing it to her.
“Roar? I thought your name was Doyle?” she asks, after expertly twisting the cap off her bottle and taking a hefty swig of her beer.
A bit of a surprise, I half expect her to ask for wine instead, or at the very least a glass, but she seems as comfortable as the rest of us, drinking straight from the bottle.
“Doyle’s my last name.”
“Oh.” Her eyes go back to the dwindling pile of fish, and I watch with interest as she hesitantly reaches out and grabs the smallest piece, popping it in her mouth all at once.
“Short for Riordan, right?” David pipes up.
“It is.”
“Your girl, Patti, mentioned that you were always this communicative, even in high school, and that’s why they started calling you Roar,” he chuckles at his own joke. “She’s right, you don’t talk much. You’d make a lousy lawyer.”
I pretend not to notice the sudden flash of interest in the woman beside me and instead smile at the older man.
“I talk... when I have something useful to say,” I counter, and David barks out a laugh.
“Fair enough,” he concedes, before lifting the lid on the Tupperware container and pulling out one of the muffins. “Wouldn’t mind trying one of these before we hit the road.”
The next ten minutes, I listen as the conversation centers around the motel, while scribbling on a scrap of newspaper. David seems quite impressed that a woman alone would venture into these regions to run a business. Personally, I still think it’s a fool’s errand, but I have to give it to her, she’s got balls just to try.
When Jamie and David leave to pack up their car for the trip home, Lilith excuses herself as well. I automatically follow her to her vehicle.
“Thanks for the fish,” she smiles, giving my dog, who seems enamoured, a final scratch behind his ears. “I’ve never had it like that before, but it’s really good.”
“Old family recipe. Muffins were good,” I add quickly, handing her the empty container back.
“Thanks.”
She climbs behind the wheel, closes the door, and rolls down the window.
“You don’t look like a Lilith,” I tell her, my hand on top of the door. I watch a timid smile form on her lips.
“Only my mother still calls me that. Most people call me Leelo, like my dad used to.”
“Leelo,” I repeat, the name easier on my tongue. “Suits you much better.”
I step back and watch as she drives off, her colourful arm resting on the door like a beacon.
FIVE
There is no logic in the random pattern of a butterfly, just an enticing effect.
Leelo
“He’s bad news.”
Mrs. Stephens shakes her head adamantly.
“You want well clear of him.”
It started with my call this morning.
I’ve spent the past few days trying to get the bathroom in number three in order, but have run into a snag I can’t seem to fix myself.
As if regrouting the loose tiles around the tub wasn’t challenge enough, I come to find out the showerhead sprays water in every direction but down. Sure, I probably should’ve checked first, before I spent a day and a half making the room pretty, but I really don’t want to pull those tiles down again. The tap worked fine but when the little lever for the shower was pulled, the bathroom turned into a full on carwash. And I couldn’t turn it off. I tried everything, I grabbed the pipe wrench I found in the storage space, along with a bunch of other tools, I tried to tap that lever back into the off position, but it wouldn’t budge and finally gave the showerhead a good whack. Not sure what I was thinking, but I was getting desperate. Next thing I know, the whole damn thing breaks off, bringing with it a section of pipe that belonged in the wall.
No more spray, but the gurgling sounds coming from behind the freshly grouted tiles was ominous. I managed to locate the main water valve and shut the thing off, but it was clear I was in over my head on this one. My budget was going to have to stretch to facilitate a plumber.
It was at that point I decided I needed a friendly face and a change of scenery before I suffered a complete meltdown. I was close as it was. I’ve been teetering on the brink of total failure since I got here, and my dream of independence was suffering serious blows.
Mrs. Stephens answered the phone on the first ring, and after listening to me sobbing incoherently for five minutes, she cut me off and told me to get myself in the car and over to her house where she’d have fresh coffee and Danish waiting.
The Danish did it.
I towel dried my hair, put on some dry clothes, and followed the directions to her place in Wawa.
Sitting here across from her at the kitchen table, with a belly full of hot coffee and pastries, I feel a little better.
“But he’s in real estate, surely he knows someone?” I push, but Mrs. Stephens will have nothing of it.
“Kyle Thompson is a slimy weasel who just sees dollar signs,” she dismisses, as she pushes back from the table and grabs a phone off the counter.
“How busy are you?” I hear her say to whomever she just called. “I have a friend with faulty plumbing who needs a hand and you’re close. It’s at the Whitefish Motel. It’s urgent”
I have no idea who she’s talking to, but in no time she’s rushing me out the door, telling me help will be there in twenty minutes.
On my drive home, I manage to get myself back in a positive mind frame, thinking perhaps I’ll be able to put that vacancy sign up this weekend after all, when one glimpse of a familiar pickup truck in front of the motel has me groan out loud.
I haven’t seen Roar Doyle since I inserted myself in his fish fry. It seemed safer. The way he said my name last week, as I was leaving, had given me butterflies in my stomach. Then I’d beaten myself up over it all the way home.
Sure, he was tempting. Big, manly, and handsome in a rugged way, with his ruddy beard and hazel eyes, but he was also barely civil, bordering on rude. I’ve been put down enough in my life; I really don’t need another man to make me feel inadequate. And I certainly don’t need to start drooling over someone who’s already taken.
<
br /> I clearly don’t have the best judgement when it comes to men, which is why I steered clear.
Yet there he is, his tall frame standing beside the truck with legs spread and arms folded over his chest, a scowl on his face, looking very annoyed.
“I’m sorry,” I start, getting out of the Jeep. “I had no idea Mrs. Stephens was talking to you or I would’ve—”
“Where is it?” he interrupts and instantly my hackles go up.
“Unit three,” I tell him. “But listen, you don’t need to...”
I don’t even get a chance to finish my sentence before he turns his back and starts pulling a toolbox from the back of his truck.
“Key?” he asks, his hand out, as if I haven’t even spoken.
Fine. This is good. He’s hammering home what an ass he really is. It’ll be so much easier to get the memory of that soft rumble, repeating my name back to me, permanently erased from my mind. Prick. I fish in my pocket and pull out the master key; slapping it in his palm and without another word he walks away.
I stand there for a minute, contemplating whether I should make myself scarce or follow him. I finally opt for the latter, since he’s got my key.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
The barely whispered curse from the bathroom makes me wince, but still I shore up my courage and step through the door. He’s standing with his big work boots in the bathtub, eyeing the hole in the wall where the shower used to be. It, and the length of broken pipe attached to it, lay at his big feet.
“I...” I start again, hoping to explain what happened, but he interrupts again.
“Your pipes are completely corroded.”
“What does that mean?” I know what it means; I just need to hear him say it.
I swallow down the bile crawling up my throat as I wait for him to bring the hammer down on my pipe dream. I already know there’s no way I can afford to do a major overhaul of all the plumbing. Didn’t take long for my lofty plans to take a nosedive.
“Means Sam should’ve tackled the whole place when he had the work done about eight years ago. He did the house, the bar, but only some of the units from what I recall.”
