by Lisa Sorbe
Ben shrugs like he could care less, and lifts his bottle to his lips. Taking a long pull, he lets his eyes roam the bar, pausing briefly on the deer head before returning his gaze back to me.
I bite my lip, and then blurt out the question I’ve been wondering since Roman broke the bitter news. “Did you know?”
Ben’s forehead wrinkles. “Know what?”
“About the will. About what Lenora had planned for me.”
“Ah. You mean the part about you not getting your half until you’re thirty-five?” Ben sighs and looks down, studying the bottle in his hand. When he raises his eyes to mine, his expression is hard. “No. I didn’t know.”
“And,” I push, “she didn’t let you in on the fact that she wanted me to assist you with your,” I make quotation marks with my fingers, “little project? That in order to get my inheritance before I’m thirty-five, I have to stay here for one entire year helping you?”
“Again. No.” Ben downs the rest of his beer and glares. “And it’s hardly a little project. Though, I suppose to someone like you…” He lets his voice trail off.
What Ben left unspoken isn’t lost on me, however. When it comes to deciphering things unsaid, I’m a pro.
Still, I press. Because I’m angry. Because I’m feeling bitchy. Because I want his world to be just as upended as mine. “And just what exactly do you mean by that? Someone like me?”
Ben doesn’t shy away from my tone. In fact, I think my attitude emboldens him. “I know your type,” he says. “And someone like you wouldn’t know the first thing about being selfless. Someone like you couldn’t so much as fathom giving your time away for free. Someone like you has no idea about the world outside of your own little bubble. Hell, someone like you, Lenora, couldn’t even make the time to visit your own grandmother when…” He stops abruptly and shakes his head. “You know what? Forget it.”
“Well,” I smart back, “someone like you could use a lesson on how not to be such a judgmental prick.”
Ben barks out a laugh, one so full of bitter hilarity that it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Or maybe it’s just the cold.
Because I don’t care what this asshole thinks.
I don’t.
“Look, sweetheart,” Ben says, his expression melting back into one of indifference. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em, okay? And you? You’re all surface.”
I huff again and look away. Chevy is still engrossed in his book, and Mimi is nowhere to be seen.
And in the silence between songs, the wind continues to moan—either in sympathy or victory, I can’t tell.
Lenora doesn’t live that far from town. Though, with the weather and my souring relationship with Ben, the drive to her place seems to take hours rather than minutes.
The conditions are near whiteout by the time we approach her driveway, a long winding strip of pavement already covered in a few inches of snow. Ben palms the wheel, pointing the truck up the drive, and the crunch of snow under the tires might as well be my shattered soul, what with the mood I’m in right now. The thought is depressing, albeit no less than my circumstances, and I suddenly wish I’d had the forethought to ask for a bottle of scotch or something before Ben hurried me out of Jasper’s because, in his words, “the weather’s coming.” Granted, I’m sure Lenora has a fully stocked liquor cabinet, so I should be able to find something to numb the slight hysteria that’s been creeping back in since leaving the bar.
One year in Lost Bay.
One entire year.
The driveway is long, close to a quarter mile, and shortly after turning onto it we disappear into a thick grove of evergreens, their boughs enveloping us like a skeletal canopy before opening up to a wide front yard.
And there, at the end, is Lenora’s majestic log cabin.
Or more like its shadowy outline, because I can barely see the large, two-story home through the veil of white that’s obscuring my vision. It’s crazy that Ben can even drive in this, can even find and stay on the road. Then again, maybe he’s driven this path thousands of times over the years, wooing my grandmother while swindling away her money.
I cast him a dirty look, noting the expression of concentration on his face as he maneuvers through the snow. Pulling up to the attached, two-stall garage, he shifts the vehicle into park and, without a word, hops down from the truck. His shadow seems to float through the blizzard, a ghost that just won’t go away. A low rumble meets my ears briefly as the garage door rolls up, and within seconds Ben is back in the truck’s cab, running his hands through his hair and shaking the snow off him like a dog.
I grimace as wet flecks hit me, and when Ben catches my expression, his face lights up, the smile brightening his features a stark contrast to the frown darkening mine.
“Wow,” I say, brushing the droplets from my cheeks, “look at you. I didn’t know Oscar the Grouch knew how to smile.”
Ben drives into the garage, throws the truck into park, and cuts the engine. “Oscar the Grouch, huh?” he chuckles. “Alright, okay. Well, Barbie,” he counters, “just the thought of you stuck out here in the frozen tundra is damn near better than winning the lottery.”
I snort. “Well, Barbie happens to be beautiful, so thanks for the compliment. And I’m sorry, but haven’t you already won the lottery?”
My tone is dark, accusing, and I shove open my door and hop out before he can respond. Reaching behind my seat, I tug on the handle of my suitcase and pull it from the cab. On the other side, behind the driver’s seat, Ben’s face appears as he grabs the strap of my camera bag. Throwing it over his shoulder, he reaches back in for my laptop case. “Barbie may be beautiful,” he says, “but she’s fake as hell.”
I puff out a “Whatever, asshole” under my breath and slam the door.
It’s not lost on me that Ben just pulled into Lenora’s garage like he’s done it before. And while I could use the argument that he’s just being polite, that he doesn’t want me to have to haul my luggage around in the snow, I don’t think that’s the case.
I skirt the edge of his truck, taking care not to brush against the pile of snow teetering along the rear bumper, and cast a curious glance at the covered vehicle in the next stall.
Ben catches me staring. “Nora’s Land Rover. She stopped driving last winter, but I kept up the maintenance on it. Should suit you just fine while you’re here.” He flips his keys around in his hand and turns to the door. Unlocking it, he steps inside and holds it open, raising his eyes to the ceiling as I pass.
I should say thanks, but I don’t. Because expressing gratitude in any form would be lost on this guy. He’s already made up his mind about me.
Stepping into the mudroom, I note that not much has changed. An old wooden bench stained red butts up to the knotty pine wall, and above that sits a row of metal hooks, the majority of which are occupied by coats and jackets and long wool sweaters. I spot a dark leather bomber jacket on one of the hooks near the end, and even from the limp way it hangs I can tell it’s way too big to be Lenora’s. Glancing down, I notice a worn pair of men’s running sneakers alongside a boxy set of snow boots.
Neither of which would have fit Lenora’s size eight foot.
I push through to the kitchen, which also still looks the same. Horribly outdated appliances and fixtures, laminate countertops and an array of mismatched dishware stacked atop the open kitchen shelves. Across the room is the green house Lenora added on when I was around eight or so, and the snow pressing up against the glass gives the room a surreal, underwater feel. But it’s clean and cozy, something that’s also familiar, and the scent of cinnamon and cloves still clings to the air enough that the smell hits me the moment I enter.
Ben tromps straight through the kitchen and I follow, up a staircase into the lofty second story where a large space divides three bedrooms and two bathrooms. A red oriental rug lines the hallway, and after we pass what I remember to be Lenora’s room, we stop in front of two doors, each directly across f
rom the other. Ben opens the one to the left without a word, without a glance at me, and I realize as I trail in after him that he’s treating me like a guest. Like I’m an outsider to this house, to my grandmother’s home.
Which is, as it stands, my house now.
But I’m too tired to argue. Too tired to wonder why he knows this house so well, that this is the room I used to stay in when I came to visit all those years ago. Right now, all I want to do is fall into the queen-sized bed in the corner and sleep.
Sleep, sleep, sleep…and then wake up and realize this was all a dream.
“I figured you’d want your old room.” Ben hesitates. “Or if you’d prefer Lenora’s, you’re welcome to it. It has the attached bath,” he adds, not meeting my eyes. “More privacy.”
I think about Lenora passing away in her sleep, in her bedroom down this very hall, and shudder at the thought of crawling into the bed where she died.
“No, this is fine.”
Ben swallows, then nods. “You can still use her bathroom. It’s bigger than the guest.”
“Honestly, it doesn’t matter.” I sigh, wondering why this conversation is happening at all. I’m tired and I just want him to leave. Go to his own house, where I won’t have to deal with him. For a while, at least.
I think about Lenora’s will and the implications that piece of paper has on my life.
Ben reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably. “Well, I think it’s best if you use Lenora’s. The guest bathroom is sort of…full. At the moment.”
“Full? Full of what, exactly?”
I have a sneaking suspicion. Have had one since I walked in here not even five minutes ago. But I want to hear him say it. Need to hear him say it. Because I can’t believe it. Can’t even entertain the notion that has slipped into my head and taken root in my brain. Ben—
“My stuff.”
—lives here.
It’s true, what they say.
That the deepest circle of Hell burns cold, not hot.
And Lost Bay?
It’s the goddamn pit.
The first thing I think of when my eyes pop open the next morning is food. All I ate yesterday was a measly piece of pie, and the hunger pains currently rippling through my system are causing my stomach to contract in horrendous bouts of nausea.
I push the covers back and immediately regret it.
The room is cold. Like, my nose is frozen and I’m pretty sure I can see my breath cold.
The long-sleeved tee and yoga pants I threw on last night before crawling into bed are no match for the chill in the room, and I wouldn’t doubt it if my bare feet were already frost bitten. With stiff movements, I rifle through my suitcase, throwing the warmest sweater I can find over my shirt before slipping into a pair of ankle socks that do nothing to ward off the cold creeping up through the floorboards.
Desperate, I reach for Ben’s coat, which I slung over the arm of a rocking chair last night before getting dressed for bed.
But the coat feels like ice when I slide it on.
I puff out a little moan and squeeze my eyes shut, trying my very best to keep it together.
I hate Minnesota.
I hate the cold.
I miss L.A. and the sun and the heat and…Daniel.
With that thought, I reach for my cell phone, only to realize it’s dead because I was too exhausted last night to remember to plug it in.
Mutha…
Already in a foul mood, I let loose a colorful string of curse words that would easily make a sailor blush but probably make Lenora proud, and tug my charger from my laptop case. After plugging it in, I set up the phone on the nightstand and wait impatiently for the screen to come to life. But it’s so dead that it takes longer than usual, and the queasiness settling in my stomach becomes too much too ignore.
I abandon delicious thoughts of messages from Daniel in lieu of food and, wrapping my arms around myself, make my way downstairs, hoping to God there’s something edible in the refrigerator.
Right now, I could eat a horse. Or a cow. Or a…
Wolf!?
There’s a freaking wolf at the bottom of the landing.
Pointed ears twitching my way, lips skinned back from its teeth in a leer, almond-shaped eyes wide, its splayed stance telling me that it’s just as surprised by me as I am by it.
A low growl rumbles deep in its chest, waking me up from my stupor.
The shock hits me so hard I gasp, my stocking feet sliding on the hardwood floor as I skid off the last step. Even though my first instinct is to scream, the terror of being face to face with a wild animal—in my own house—steals my voice. My legs wobble as I back up, ankles tangling together and tipping me over onto the floor like a flailing skater going down on the ice.
The thing pounces, because obviously I’m easy pickings, and I shriek as the heat from its muzzle brushes my cheek. A wet, spongy tongue glides against my ear before flicking out to taste my neck.
It’s the neck, I think, my thoughts as wild and crazed as the animal bearing down on me. They always go for the neck first!
And just when I’ve succumbed to the fact that I’m about to die—how the hell did it even get in the house in the first place?!—I hear the strangest sound.
“Asha!”
A soft whine of annoyance vibrates in my ear before the suffocating weight lifts, leaving behind a flurry of hair that sticks to my skin, my tongue, the corner of my lips. Nails click across the floor, almost merry-like, prancing rather than clawing. Skipping rather than attacking.
Which…doesn’t make any sense.
I peer up through the shield I made with my arms and squint, watching as a distorted, upside down view of Ben ambles in from the kitchen. The animal is nothing but a tornado of fur as it leaps at him, a swirling mass of teeth and muscle. And then, much to my horror, the beast—which almost reaches Ben’s hip when on all fours—stands up and props its two front paws on Ben’s shoulders. But instead of crying out in terror, he responds to the attack with a laugh. A low, subdued chuckle that fills the foyer and tickles a spot just behind my sternum.
As reality slowly seeps back in, the smell of coffee hits me, along with the mouthwatering scent of bacon and eggs. And I suddenly—foolishly—realize my life was never in danger.
As nonchalantly as I can, I push to my feet and strike a casual stance, one that suggests I was just down on the floor to do sit ups or practice yoga. Or, you know, maybe trying out a new dance move that required falling to the ground like a crazy woman.
Bump and grind, slip and slide.
Crash and…burn.
Ben’s face is one of mock amusement, and it matches the expression on the animal perched next to his side, head cocked and tongue lolling out as if to say, Damn, I got you good, didn’t I? Let’s do it again!
Yeah, let’s not.
I wave my hand at the fur ball. “What’s this?”
The animal barks, then whines before looking up at Ben, as if waiting for an answer.
“She,” Ben says, “is Asha.”
Asha licks her chops and mewls.
“Is she… I mean… She looks like a wolf.”
“Arctic wolf,” Ben says. “With a little husky and malamute thrown in. According to her DNA test.” He shrugs, like doing a DNA test on a dog is no big deal. Like having a dog who is part wolf is no big deal. “She was a stray.”
I hug my arms to my chest, though the debacle of meeting Asha has warmed me up some. My blood is still pumping rapidly through my veins, but my heartrate is slowly dropping back down to normal. “Lenora never mentioned having a dog. I take it she’s yours?”
“You could say we shared custody.” Ben doesn’t elaborate, and I doubt I’d get a more concrete answer out of him if I tried.
He nods my way. “And I’m glad to see you’re still enjoying my coat.”
“Well, it’s freezing in here.”
Ben shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. Personally, I think it’s perfectly pleas
ant. What do you think, Asha?”
Asha head bumps Ben’s thigh and he reaches down, ruffing her ears. The sweet gesture is at odds with his voice which, of course, is filled with his usual distaste for life.
Or maybe it’s just his distaste for me.
I peer down at the dog, not buying its sweet act. Not all, to be fair, but most canines in L.A. fit into a purse. Or a pocket. And wear sparkly studded collars or fancy pleather jackets lined with rhinestones. A few Chihuahuas that come into the bar have a more expensive wardrobe than I do. And let me tell you, the majority of them are spoiled, yappy little shits that won’t hesitate to bite if you get too close.
I’m not used to animals this size.
Despite her apparently sweet demeanor, something tells me Asha wouldn’t tolerate being stuffed into a tutu.
My thoughts are slowly coming back together, and my surprise at finding Ben downstairs is almost on par with my shock at meeting Asha. “I thought you’d already be at work—”
“Ben!”
A breezy female voice cuts over mine. Disembodied, it floats out from the kitchen a few seconds before the woman it belongs to—a gorgeous raven-haired beauty with pink cheeks and eyes the color of a ripe green apple—pops her head into the foyer. She’s wearing a white hat with a pom pom on the top, and the light color against her dark locks makes her eyes pop even more. “Thanks for the coffee but I have to go— Oh!” She sees me and smiles, slipping fully into the room and gaping at Ben. “Is this Nora’s granddaughter?”
Now I’m Asha, my gaze sliding to Ben as if looking for confirmation.
Am I? Huh, huh, huh?
Before Ben can answer, I cross the foyer and stick my out my hand, morning breath and bedhead be damned. “I am. And it’s Lenny, actually.”
Time to nip this Lenora thing in the bud. Since, from the sound of it, I’m going to be here awhile, anyway.
“Natalie.” She shifts her travel mug into the other hand before grasping mine, her gaze roaming over my face. “Wow.” She pauses, cocking her head. “You look just like her. Same eyes.”
Ben sighs a heavy sigh, and though I can’t see him, I don’t doubt that he’s rolling his.
