by Lisa Sorbe
Of course my mother would make me pay for her old car yet buy my sister a brand new one. I shouldn’t be surprised. Penelope got a new Jeep Cherokee last summer.
I’m not going to engage this conversation any further.
“Well, do with it what you please. I left a spare set of keys with Kendra. I’ll let her know the girls will be stopping by.”
And with that I say good-bye, ending the call without any protest from my mother.
I reach for my coffee, noting how quickly the drink has lost its steam. With a throaty chuckle, I lift the mug and take a sip.
Outside the greenhouse windows, the snow continues to fall.
Ben hasn’t said anything about moving out now that Lenora’s gone. It’s been three whole days since the funeral, and he hasn’t so much as moved his stinky running shoes from the mudroom to wherever it is that he plans to live next.
Because I’ll be damned if he’s going to continue to live here.
Sure, his morning breakfasts are pretty amazing (yesterday it was biscuits and sausage gravy, something I served at the diner I worked at in high school but never indulged in) and I don’t know what the man does to his coffee, but I could drink an entire pot of his morning brew and still want more. And even though Asha is a big hairy goofball, and I have to constantly pluck fur from my clothes or risk walking around all day looking like a Swifter Sweeper, she really is sweet. Not to mention, her antics succeed in keeping me entertained when the internet is down.
Like right now.
“Roll over.”
I make a circular motion in the air with my pointer finger and then, when that doesn’t work, proceed to drop to the ground and…roll over.
Asha jumps on me and slobbers on my cheek.
I laugh and push her off, which only makes her next attack more intense. She growls a playful growl and pins me down, pushing her nose into my ear.
“Stop! You win, you win!”
That she seems to understand, because she hauls off me and plops down by my side, like we’re going to take a nap.
Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of that these days.
Because there’s nothing else to do.
In fact, all of these lazy days and four-hour afternoon naps are the reason my sleeping pattern is off and, now, I’m up before the sun.
And starving.
In fact, the only things it seems I have any desire to do since arriving in Minnesota are eating and sleeping.
I head to Lenora’s bathroom to shower, not bothering to flip on the light as I make my way through her bedroom. There’s something so personal about the space where people sleep, and of all the rooms in her house, this is the one where I feel the most…uncomfortable. I can’t decide whether the weight feels more like sadness or guilt or resentment. But I don’t dwell on it, because to give in to that sensation sitting heavy in my chest would be akin to facing the darkest part of myself. So I step in her shower and scrub my body as fast as I can, frowning at the laminated note stuck just under the shower head that reads TURN WATER OFF, before grabbing a towel and scurrying back to my room where I whip my hair up into a messy bun and trade my yoga pants for jeans. My Cal State sweatshirt stays on, having already trapped the heat from the shower in its fibers. Forgoing my usual makeup routine (because really, who is there in Lost Bay to impress?), I opt instead for a few quick swipes of mascara before slicking on a heavy layer of Chapstick.
Then I follow my sweet tooth straight to the kitchen.
It’s about eight-thirty by the time Ben makes his way downstairs, freshly showered and carrying with him that same sweet-smelling pine scent that seems to follow him everywhere.
I stick my nose in the pancake batter I’m whisking and take a deep breath.
“You slept in,” I say, coming up for air and giving the mix one last stir.
Ben yawns before answering, and I point at the coffee pot with my elbow. It’s sort of funny, if you think about it. The easy way we’ve fallen into cohabitation by way of something as simple as eating breakfast together. Aside from that first morning, the one where I grilled him about his relationship with Lenora, we haven’t spoken much while eating. Our time at the table has been spent mostly in silence, with him passing the butter before I even ask or me holding my hand out for his plate when he’s finished so I can bring it to the sink.
“It’s my day off. Figured I’d catch a little extra shut eye.” He fills a mug and takes a sip.
A weird tingle vibrates through my upper back, pushes up into my neck. Not counting the day of Lenora’s funeral, Ben has worked every day since I’ve been here. And whatever it is that he does at the veterinary clinic where he works, it keeps him there a long time. Aside from breakfast, I usually don’t catch sign of him again until well past seven. Granted, I make sure I’m in my room by then, but I can hear the grind of the garage door when he comes home, make out the heavy tread of his lead feet as he tromps up the stairs. And of course Asha, who is my shadow during the day, ditches me the moment she catches wind of him.
But today…
Shit. He’s going to be here all day long.
I glance his way and note that, despite the extra sleep, he looks exhausted.
A sliver of pity pierces my heart, though I quickly grab a pair of mental tweezers and pluck it out before it begins to fester.
I tuck the bowl in the crook of my arm and move to the stove, having to sidestep Ben as I do.
Damn, he smells good.
He cranes his neck, looking over my shoulder as I pass, his chest brushing up against my back. “Pancakes, huh?”
“Obviously.”
Ben laughs, not at all offended by my snark. “Nora used to make pancakes on Sundays, too.”
I know. When I was a kid—and before I even knew the meaning of a carbohydrate—I’d eat stacks and stacks of them during our Sunday breakfasts together. All of that sugar made me wired, of course. But Lenora always found ways to burn the energy out of me—swimming and kayaking in the lake, drawing up maps and sending me running around her acreage in search of the “treasure” she’d buried a few days before I came to visit. Sometimes she’d set up little digs and we’d pretend to be archeologists searching for magical relics that would save the world.
But I’d forgotten that today was Sunday. With nothing to do and no place to be, I’d lost my sense of time.
I need to get a life.
“Man,” says Ben, still reminiscing. “I don’t know what she did to make them so fluffy, but her pancakes were the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Hmm.” I spray the pan with cooking spray and use a ladle to pour the first cake. Then, quickly, before it starts to bubble, I sprinkle a pinch of cinnamon along the top.
Ben’s eyes are on me the entire time. His gaze is always so intense, yet it sits on me like a feather, a soft brush that tickles the skin on my arms, the back of my neck. I reach up and rub at the goosebumps prickling along my forearm before using the spatula to flip the pancake.
“You make them like her.”
I carefully rub my fingers together, sprinkling more cinnamon along the side that’s now facing up. “Huh?”
Ben waves his mug, motioning toward the stove. “The cinnamon. She used to sprinkle it just like that, from the edges to the center. So intense.” He screws his features into a serious face, which isn’t all that different from the face he normally displays. But his lips curl into a smile before long, and he chuffs out a laugh. “‘Too much cinnamon and it’ll burn your tongue, Benjamin.’” His deep voice rises to falsetto. But there’s no mockery in his tone, no condensation in his words. There’s a wistfulness to the memory, a sentimental nod to the woman who’s no longer with us.
But is it just an act?
That’s what I intend to find out.
“Well, I’m making extra, so grab a plate. We’ll see how mine compare. It’s been ages since I’ve made anything in the kitchen.”
While Ben sets the table, I finish up at the stove. Asha is glued to my si
de, as if worried that I’m going to drop some batter on the floor and will immediately be in need of her cleaning services. And I just might. I wasn’t kidding about the cooking thing. It’s been years since I’ve had access to a kitchen like Lenora’s. The one in my L.A. apartment is practically non-existent, with a compact fridge, a tiny sink and, like, no counterspace whatsoever. Before that, I lived in a dorm room with two other girls, and the only things I made were microwavable. And before that, I lived with my mother and Cliff, where I was usually too uncomfortable to leave my bedroom much less use the kitchen for longer than it took to throw together a quick snack.
No, the only time I ever cooked or baked anything was when I was with Lenora. And now, as I flip the last pancake, I realize how much I missed it.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I say, sliding a few cakes onto Ben’s plate. “I haven’t made these since the last time I was here. And that was with Lenora’s help.”
Ben drops a pat of butter on the top and slides the blob around with his fork, allowing it to melt before pouring syrup over the stack. I mimic his actions, trying not to be obvious as I watch from across the table. When he takes a bite, I swear I hold my breath, like his reaction to my meager little breakfast is life or death.
And I don’t know why it feels that way. But for some reason, I want him to like what I made. These pancakes I threw together from scratch and memory.
“Lenora and I used to make all sorts of things when I’d come to visit.” I ramble while he chews, my nerves making my tongue flap. “But baking was my favorite. Pies, cakes, brownies, cupcakes. She had such a sweet tooth, I swear. Not that I minded, as a kid. You know, back then I could eat anything I wanted and never gain a pound. But now…” I shake my head and cut into my stack. “I took cycling classes back in L.A. that kicked my ass. Although I doubt very much that I’ll find any of those up here—”
But Ben isn’t listening. Or, at least, I don’t think he is. His eyes are shut and he interrupts me midsentence with a moan.
A moan that’s absolute music to my ears.
I pause. “Good?”
He presses the side of his fork deep into the pile and shrugs. “It’s edible.” I shoot him a look, and he laughs. “All right, all right. Best pancakes I’ve ever had, next to Nora’s.” Spearing another chunk with his fork, he swirls it around in some syrup before popping it in his mouth. He makes another overexaggerated face while chewing, this one for my benefit, and I can’t help but laugh.
Out of nowhere, a little bubble of happiness balloons in my chest, and I smile the first real smile since I got here. With smug satisfaction, I dig into my plate, happy to have done something. L.A. is a city where you don’t have time to rest if you want to survive, much less sleep if you want to thrive. I’ve spent the last six years of my life scrambling to stay afloat; it feels as if I’ve been treading water for so long that I can barely keep my head from going under. My mind is usually racing as fast as my body does on a busy night of waitressing at Molly & Dee’s. I can’t remember the last time I slowed down, rested, took a moment to just breathe.
These last few days have had me climbing the walls. I’ve toyed with the idea of taking Lenora’s Land Rover into town and seeing what Lost Bay has to offer. So far, I’ve only seen the outskirts, and it’s had to have grown in the decade since my last visit. Like maybe now it has a coffee shop and yoga studio…or some quaint little clothing boutique where the owner makes everything by hand or refurbishes vintage clothes, giving them a new life.
I haven’t even messed around with my camera or plotted a new video for my channel. I usually try to post weekly, even if it only ends up being a short five-minute piece featuring a sponsored product. But the last four days have been blurry, a whirlwind, and with the way my life has shifted so drastically, I doubt very much I’ll be able to plan, shoot, and upload something any time soon. Nor do I really feel the inclination to.
“So,” Ben says, his voice all business. He sets his fork down on his empty plate, pushes it away, and folds his hands on the table. “If you have some time tonight, I was hoping we could discuss some of the plans I had for The Land of the Lost. Since you’re a part of it now.”
I frown, finishing off my own meal. “That what of the what?”
“The Land of the Lost.” Ben holds out his hand and I pass over my plate. Setting it atop his, he rises, crosses the kitchen, and gives them a quick rinse in the sink before stacking them in the dishwasher. When he returns, he’s holding the coffee pot. “It’s what we—I mean, I—am calling the project I’m working on. He refills both of our mugs and then sits down, propping his elbows on the table. “At least for now, that is.”
I lean back in my chair and arch a brow. “So you do plan to include me?”
“Well, I really don’t have a choice now, do I?” Ben’s smile isn’t exactly sweet. He pulls his coffee mug closer and takes a sip. “Unless you want to opt out?”
His question is a challenge, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the bastard was taunting me. I cross my arms over my chest and smile sweetly. “Not at all.”
You wish.
“Well, all right then,” he says, a hint of sarcasm coloring his words. It seems Ben is just as fluent in the language of things left unsaid as I am.
Asha whines, like she senses the sudden tension in the air.
Ben looks my way, eyes bright with a sudden thought.
He opens his mouth, and I’m instantly suspicious.
“Feel like taking a walk?”
I think Ben is trying to scare me away. Trying to make me hate Minnesota so much that I’ll turn tail and run. Back to L.A. where life is sunny and warm and full of life. Where there isn’t snow and ice and wind so fierce it practically peels the skin off your face.
I stifle a groan as I pull my leg up, trying to step over a pile of snow that’s drifted across the path like a fluffy wave frozen in mid-motion. The snowshoes I’m wearing are long and wide and awkward, and even though we’ve walked at least a mile, I haven’t gotten used to their weight. Nor the way that they drop out from under my heel every time I take a step.
“It’s a good thing you and Nora wear the same size, eh?”
Ben is a good twenty feet ahead of me, walking backwards, and even though a scarf is wrapped around the lower half of his face, I can see the smirk in his eyes. He knows how much I’m hating this.
He turns around without waiting for my reply.
Yup. Real lucky.
My own scarf is stuck to my face, the wool sticky and wet from my breath. Breath that’s becoming more rapid every second we’re out here.
Snowshoeing is hard.
Of course, Ben makes it look easy. Not to mention, his snowshoes seem to be newer than Lenora’s; they’re not nearly as long or cumbersome. He easily covers more ground faster than I can, and it’s taken an enormous amount of effort this last half hour just to keep up.
Asha is the only one who seems to show concern for my struggle. She’s been galloping back and forth between us the entire walk, her large paws gliding over the top of the snow with ease and urging me forward with little head butts to my shins. In this environment, she looks more wolf-like than ever—though a goofy one, tongue lolling and lips skinned back from her teeth in a grin rather than a leer. She dives into snow banks on purpose, sticking her muzzle deep into the drift and coming back up wearing a face full of fluff.
It would all be pretty comical—if, that is, I wasn’t sweating like a pig beneath Lenora’s heavy down coat and wool stocking hat. It’s the strangest feeling, the contrast of being so hot on the inside when, outside, it’s so cold you can’t feel your toes. I have the urge to peel my coat off, but something in the back of my mind tells me that might not be the best idea.
So instead I push forward, squinting against the bleached sky, the images of Ben and Asha blurry smudges against the horizon. A gust of wind blows, slivering the air with small flecks of snow from the evergreens above, and it feels like I just got sma
cked in the face with sand. Icy flakes land on my cheeks and gather in my lashes, stinging my eyes to the point that I have to shut them against the onslaught and continue the next few steps blind. If I’d known that Ben’s little walk was actually tromping around the forest on snowshoes the size of my arm, I’d have told him to shove the damn things right up his—
“Ooh!” My right foot catches the end of the snowshoe of my left and, arms pinwheeling, I pitch sideways, teetering… teetering… until the next thing I know, I’m facedown in a snowdrift as big as an SUV.
The silence is thick, every sound from the outside world muffled by the cocoon of snow curling around my body. When I try to push myself up, my arms plunge through the drift into nothing, and with every worm-like shimmy I make, I only seem to dig myself in deeper.
I’m just about to start hyperventilating when a sharp tug under my arms takes my breath away and, before I know it, I’m flying up, up, up…the sensation making my stomach drop.
“Real graceful, California.”
Ben’s arms are around me, my back to his front, and his sasquatch hug has me dangling about a foot from the ground. With a laugh, he gently drops me back to my feet, and when they make purchase, I shuffle forward a few steps, carefully avoiding the Lenny-sized hole now embedded in the snow bank. With effort, I make a sort of three-point turn, brushing myself off as I go.
Ben’s still laughing when I turn around, and when he sees my face, the jerk actually tilts his head back and roars. I don’t doubt that I look hideous; I can feel chunks of snow caked in my hair, stuck to my eyebrows and lashes…
I peel my scarf off my face, not even bothering to hide my irritation. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. The girl who’s never snowshoed before fell flat on her face. Real hysterical.”
Ben ignores me, pulling down his own scarf because all of his heady laughter has him gulping for air. “I…I…” He can’t even spit a word out, he’s laughing so hard.
Huffing, I turn and head back the way we came, the only indication I’m going in the right direction the tracks we made getting out here. I’m directionally challenged and a control freak, which makes being out here in the middle of nowhere a—yep, you guessed it—super swell combination. Add in the fact that I had to be (Lord, I hate this word) rescued by a man who’s a complete ass has me more agitated than the stupid snowshoes on my feet.
