The Watcher

by Amber Douglas

  Chapter 2

  Celeste woke up with a buzzing in her head to the sound of a ringing telephone. Groaning, she got up and nearly tripped over the beer bottle lying at her feet, empty. She managed to reach the phone and answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Chris from KC Heat and Cool, how y’all this morning?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “I was jus’ calling to let ya know, we got in the equipment earlier than I thought, so if’n it’s all right with you, we’ll schedule the install for tomorrow?”

  “And tomorrow is Thursday?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Um, okay, that’s-that’s fine.”

  “No problem?”

  “No problem.”

  “All right, see ya then. Have a good ‘un.”

  She hung up, thinking she needed a dictionary in order to translate half of what the Southern people said. She headed back to the kitchen to make herself some food. She happened to glance at the grandfather clock in the hall and saw it was half past two in the afternoon. She splashed water on her face and got to work.

  When she was done with her plate, she washed it and put away in the cupboard. When the kitchen was last updated, they failed to put in a dishwasher since “there was none in the house for decades. Why do we need one now?”

  Celeste had to shake her head at the strange mentality. She stared around the dining room, trying to form a plan in her head for the day. She got up from the table and opened the tiny broom closet off the dining room.

  She dragged out the vacuum cleaner and chose to tackle the main parts of the house first. “You clean from top to bottom” as her mother had always said. Celeste followed her example. It was nearly dark when she finished the foyer and front parlor. The upholstery was tired and worn, but at least it was clean.

  Exhausted, she ordered pizza and sat down to watch television. Forty minutes later, she was munching on a stuffed-crust beef-and-onion pizza. There was a special on about famous houses and Celeste was secretly relieved the old farmhouse wasn’t on the list.

  Thursday came too soon for her taste. The technician, Chris, arrived with another technician whom he introduced as Paul. The two men immediately got to work and Celeste felt a twinge in her chest as soon as she saw Chris.

  “How long will this take?”

  “Oh, roughly eight hours.” Chris’s eyes twinkled. “Why? Got a date?”

  “Somehow I see it taking longer than that.”

  “The ductwork should be in decent shape.” Paul interjected.

  “I’m sorry, the what?”

  Paul looked taken aback for a split second. Then he launched into an educational lecture. “The ductwork are the main lungs of the house. The AC unit distributes air to the vents throughout the house via the ductwork. If it’s in good shape, you should get airflow, no problem. If not, we’ll have to take a look at what’s wrong.”

  “Meaning, crawl up into the attic.”

  “If the ductwork is dirty inside, we’ll need to vacuum it out.”

  “Extra cost to you.” Chris clarified which a grimace.

  I just wish I could tear this house down and start over. But I don’t have the money. “Okay. Do what you need to do and let me know how bad it is.”

  Paul headed away down the hall. Chris lingered behind a second, then followed. Celeste headed back to the kitchen, thinking she would attempt to make herself busy while the men worked. She could hear them quietly talking about the unit, planning on how to get it out. She had to roll her eyes. Just rip the damn thing out already.

  Curious, she peeked her head around the corner as she heard metal ripping and a crash. Drying her hands on a towel, she found herself rushing to the foyer. The AC had come out covered in spider webs, dust, and in pieces.

  Suppressing a cough, she waved the dusty air away with the towel. “That was unexpected.”

  “That wasn’t done correctly.” Chris told her, pointing to the empty space. “It wasn’t done to code.”

  “Code?”

  “Building code. It ensures consumer safety.” Paul answered her, coughing into his sleeve.

  Chris straightened up. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything ‘bout the house, other than your daddy growing up here?”

  She slowly shook her head, mentally kicking herself for not paying attention when he talked about the house and how it had been in the family for generations. “Sorry. No.”

  “Well,” he pointed to the half-split joists underneath the AC. “We’ll need to beef up the structure, maybe sister the joists, place sumpin’ underneath it.”

  “Extra cost to me?”

  “No ma’am. Included in installation.”

  Celeste felt strangely relieved at that. She didn’t want her ten thousand dollars going to waste. She headed back into the kitchen and spent the next three hours washing the dishes and putting them away.

  She heard footsteps behind her. “Think I can talk ya into a glass of ice water?” Celeste turned around and her breath caught. He had ditched the uniform and his thin cotton undershirt was plastered to his rock hard abs with sweat. His face was a little red and had the same sheen.

  “Um, yeah.” She tore her eyes away and opened the cupboard. She had the trick of reaching up by hiking one knee on the counter, holding onto the shelf and hauling herself up. With her five-foot-two stature, it was the best she could do. She heard a chuckle behind her and he was beside her reaching up, neatly plucking the glass from the shelf.

  “I got it.”

  “I’m sorry I’m short.”

  “Don’t be, darlin’. I’ve known country mamas shorter than you and more terrifying.” His blue eyes twinkled.

  She crossed her arms. “What about city mamas?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, city mamas don’t hold a candle to country mamas. Trust me on that one.”

  She brushed past him to the fridge and opening the freezer, mentally cursing herself for not making ice. “Sorry. I don’t have any ice made.”

  “Hey, don’t worry ‘bout it.” He turned the tap and no water came out. “What’s wrong with the water pressure?”

  “Oh it’s not that. Here, watch.” Celeste edged by him, aware of how close he was to her. She gave him a sheepish grin as she pumped the tap. On the fourth pump, water shot out, nearly splashing them. “Oh, I guess it is.” She said, laughter bubbling up. She eased the tap and he held the glass under it, filling it up. He threw back his head and downed the entire glass. He refilled it and repeated the process.

  Celeste watched him, wondering where it went. “Need some more?”

  “Nah, I’m good, thanks. I know someone who could fix that water pressure problem.”

  “Put it on the mile-long list of things to fix.”

  “Well, when we get through, you can strike this item off.” He set the glass down beside her on the laminate counter. “Thanks.”

  He strode off, returning to work. Celeste put a hand on her chest, feeling her heart slamming away under her sternum. He’s a professional. He’s on call. Don’t even think about it. She set his glass aside and continued washing the rest of the dishes. Her family had inherited a cast-iron set and she struggled to remember what to do with them after they were scrubbed. Dad said something about seasoning them. He said to use oil. But I can’t remember what kind.

  Taking a deep breath as she held a skillet over the stove, which hadn’t been operated in a few years, she turned it on. When the flame didn’t show, she turned the knob higher. She yelped as the flame licked out, nearly scorching her and making her nearly drop the skillet which she set gingerly on the counter. Running footsteps sounded in the hall as she swore a string of words.

  “What happened? Y’all right?” Chris’s voice was alarmed.

  “Fine. Just another thing to fix.” She muttered. She winced as she felt a stinging heat on her forearm. “Or maybe not.”

  “Let me see.” Chris held her arm and turned it over. There was a small red patc
h of skin on her inner right forearm. His calloused hands were gentle on her skin. “Where’s your first-aid?”

  “I say this too many times. I don’t know.”

  He sighed patiently. “Wait here. I got one in the van.” He headed out, and Celeste cursed herself again for not asking Chris or Paul what to do with cast-iron sets.

  “Where’s Chris?”

  “Getting a first-aid kit for me.” She showed him the red patch, now getting darker. His brow furrowed.

  “Girl, what were you trying to do?”

  “I was trying to remember how to season a set of cast-iron. Dad told me once, and it sucks that I’d forgotten.”

  “Oh. You heat up the pan slowly and you use lard. Rub it all over.”

  “What the hell is lard?”

  “Where you from again?”

  “New York City.”

  “That explains it.” Paul raised his eyebrows. Celeste was about to make a comeback when Chris strode into the kitchen carrying a plastic Red Cross first-aid kit. Paul silently left as Chris set it on the counter.

  “Now, let’s see here.” He rummaged around and came up with a soothing burn ointment. “If my momma was here, I’m sure she’d have sumpin’ to say.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, what were ya tryin’ to do?”

  “As I told Paul, I was trying to remember the process for seasoning cast-iron. Apparently, since I’m from New York, I don’t know anything.”

  Chris looked wounded. “Aw honey, we won’t hold that against ya. I’ll show ya how to do it when we’re done. That a’right?”

  “Yeah.” She relaxed as his finger rubbed the ointment on her skin, his touch light as a feather. “Thanks.”

  “Quite welcome. Now, don’t go having any more accidents otherwise we’ll never get this done.” His smile was warm and charming.

  She nodded obediently, then clenched her jaw at being admonished like a little girl. He released her arm and strode back to the foyer, whistling. She watched him go, noting that his pants had slipped a little on his slim hips. The waistband’s logo of Batman peeked out. She had to turn away, restraining herself from saying something.

  Two hours later, Paul got a call on his phone. He rushed out the door, saying it was a family emergency and that he would be back. Celeste watched him go with interest.

  “Family emergency?”

  “Yeah. He’s got kids and his ex is…a little on the nutty side. Putting it nicely.”

  “Oh. How many kids?”

  “Five. He’ll probably be back in a few hours, when we’re wrapping up.”

  Celeste didn’t reply. She merely nodded and returned to the kitchen, forgetting that she had completely cleaned it a half-hour ago. Trying to make herself busy again, she headed upstairs, carefully skirting the loose steps. She was vaguely aware of eyes watching her in her tight slim jeans and when she glanced behind her, she thought she saw Chris glance away suddenly, his cheeks coloring.

  Celeste opened the door to her bedroom and crossed the room to the hamper, secretly grateful there was a washer and dryer in the utility room just off the kitchen. She gathered her hamper and dragged it behind her down the rickety steps again. Her foot slipped on the bottom step and she stumbled, a firm hand was on her shoulder.

  “Y’all right?”

  “Fine, thanks. I should’ve fixed the stairs as soon as I came here. They’re a hazard.”

  He was staring at the steps, frowning. “How long they been like that?”

  She shrugged. “Years. Probably more than a couple decades. Just like everything else in this house, one more thing to fix.”

  Chris nodded in understanding. “Well, if you need help with anything ‘round here, don’t be afraid ter give me a holler.”

  Celeste frowned at the lingo as he knelt down, digging out a container of caulk from his workbag. “A holler. Sometimes I feel like we’re speaking two different languages.”

  He grinned up at her, unscrewing the lid to the caulk container. “Don’t you worry none. After ya lived here a bit, you’ll pick it up right smartly.”

  Celeste returned to her task of doing laundry. She dragged the hamper further into the utility room and dumped it into the empty washer. She heard him whistling under his breath as he worked. She glanced up at the clock and was startled to find it was nearly five in the afternoon. Outside, the sun was behind the mountains. Vaguely, she entertained the notion of inviting him to stay for dinner. No, he’s still at work. Even if it’s my house.

  After she had put her clothes in the dryer, she heard him zipping up the workbag. Is he done? Celeste cautiously peeked her head around the corner. She saw him examining his handiwork, his shirt still damp in the humid air of the house. She found herself leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, watching his muscles flex as he bent over to pick up a plastic bag, the place clean of tools and trash.

  She remembered his blue eyes as soon as he came in, and – she found herself staring into them. She felt her face go hot at being caught. “Is it all done?”

  “Absolutely. Now, all I gotta do is turn it on.” With the way he said the phrase “turn it on” made Celeste’s heart flutter in her chest. He’s turning me on. He was about to go out the door when the lights went off all at once.

  Celeste clenched her teeth and swore inwardly. She heard him click on a flashlight, the thin beam illuminating his face. “Now ain’t that odd. I coulda sworn…”

  “Listen.” Celeste faintly heard the sounds of dogs barking. “Is the front door closed?”

  He shone the beam towards the front. “Yes ma’am.”

  Heart pounding, she walked to the door and turned the lock. No sooner had she done that and turned away when something slammed against the door, nearly knocking her back. Chris was by her side, arm around her shoulders.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Someone’s dogs.”

  “That ain’t – that ain’t natural.” Chris stammered, eyes locked on the door. “You have a gun?”

  “What?”

  “You from New York, right? You have guns around here?”

  “Just the ones I inherited. I haven’t cleaned them yet.” Celeste heard her voice hitch. The arm around her tightened.

  “Don’t worry, hon. Just don’t worry-” He paused when the dogs were silent.

  “What are they waiting for?” Celeste whispered.

  “I don’t rightly know.” He whispered back. Chris cautiously crept forward until he peeked outside the front door window pane. “There’s someone out there. They called the dogs away.”

  Celeste suddenly remembered the old man who had come by her house with his Rottweilers. A cold shudder passed through her and she wrapped her arms around herself. The only sounds now were their breathing.

  “They’re gone.” At that statement, Celeste felt both immense relief and utmost terror. The dogs gone meant that they could come back any moment. “I’m going to find the breaker. See what I can do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Lock the door after me.” His blue eyes met hers and she nodded. He unlocked the door and crept outside, holding the flashlight up. Celeste shut the door and locked it, forcing herself not to panic. Minutes passed. She saw the light again, illuminating his silhouette. She opened the door and saw the despair on his face.

  “I know why the lights went out. Someone disabled the breaker box.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, you have no electricity here at all. None.”

  Celeste suddenly thought he needed to get home. “Don’t you need to get home? I’m fine here-”

  “Bullsheet.” She was surprised to hear him swear in a low voice. “Someone’s dogs nearly knocked in that door. What’s gonna happen to you if I ain’t around?”

  Celeste was close enough to him to smell his sweat and masculine musk. For a split second, she entertained the notion of him staying here. The words spilled from her mouth before she stop them.

  “Why d
on’t you stay here tonight? I’ve got plenty of extra bedrooms.”

  “I’ll do just that. I even wouldn’t mind some dinner-”

  “But you said I had no electricity.”

  “But that range is gas. We still have that and running water.”

  Remembering her earlier incident with the set of cast iron, she sighed. “All right. I’ll uh-I’ll start on dinner.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll wash up.” He headed upstairs to the bathroom, taking the flashlight with him. Celeste darted after him, passing the bathroom and ducking into the nearest bedroom. Her grandfather had kept some of his nicer clothes in the other closets and she felt around until her hand was on the closet door. She opened it and tentatively reached in, feeling the soft cotton shirts.

  Her mind flashed back to when she was a child and hiding out in this very same room during a thunderstorm. Her grandfather had come in, his lined face smiling soothingly. He had crossed the room and opened the trunk at the foot of the bed. “Cellie, here’s a little something for when you are afraid.” Celeste had watched him bring out a candelabra and stuck three candles in it. He rummaged around until he found something else. A matchbook. He opened it up and struck a match in front of her, lighting the candles.

  “Remember they’re in here.” He had said, motioning towards the trunk. “Just in case.” Celeste returned to the present, turning around and feeling her way to the trunk. Her shin collided with it and she let out a groan of pain. She felt around the edges and her fingers found the locks. The trunk’s locks clicked and she heaved the large lid up, wondering at how her frail grandfather could do it so easily. Celeste felt around and smiled when her hands touched the cold silver candelabra. The matchbook and candles were snuggled next to it.

  She repeated the motions and the candelabra candles burned bright, illuminating the room. She swept it around, her heart sinking at the amount of dust that carpeted the furniture. She bit her lip and returned to her task. The candles illuminated her grandfather’s long-sleeve button-down cotton shirts, neatly hung according to color.

  She picked one out that was a gray and pale blue striped shirt, taking it off the hanger and draping it over one arm. She hesitated at getting a pair of jeans, unsure if she should cross that boundary. Even in survival, there are boundaries. I’m sure of it. But another little voice in her head spoke. What are boundaries worth if you don’t survive? Sighing, she took a pair of her grandfather’s neatly-hung denim jeans and draped those over her arm as well.

  She carefully closed the door behind her and walked down the hall to the bathroom. She could hear the shower running, and she knocked on the door. “Chris?”

  The door opened slightly. “Yes’m?”

  “I uh, I have some clean clothes you could borrow.” She handed them through the crack in the door, trying to be careful not to see him. “I hope they’re in your size.”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  “Call me Celeste.”

  “Thank you…Celeste.” Her heart seemed to flutter slightly in her chest like a butterfly when he said her name. She turned away and headed downstairs, vaguely thinking she should set up candles around the house. Her memories of her father digging out candles surfaced from the cobwebs of her mind, and she went to the same places, feeling jolts of delight at discovering the candle stashes. Quickly, she lit a few and placed them around the kitchen and the dining room, the soft yellow light illuminating the formal dining room.

  Celeste set the candelabra down on a side table and got to work setting the table for two. Dinner by candlelight. It would be romantic, if not for the fact someone was out there trying to kill us. Not how I imagined my first date to go. At that last thought, her hand froze over the silverware drawer. Date? When did she start thinking of Chris in that way? Sure, he said he was single. No girlfriend, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have lady friends who would’ve been itching to be more.

  She shook her head and was getting the silverware out, her back to the door of the kitchen. She didn’t hear any sounds, just the firm hand on her shoulder, making her yelp with fright, her mind flashing to the old man and his dogs. The silverware clattered from her hand onto the counter.

  “Sorry. Y’all right?” His eyes looked green in the yellow light.

  “I will be once I stop having a heart attack.” He chuckled and turned away, walking over to the range stove. Celeste’s heart raced when she saw the handgun in his left hand. Is he going to kill me? “What’s that for?”

  He blinked. “Oh, this? Just in case. I had this in my bag.” He cocked his head at her. “Ya know how ta shoot?”

  “My grandfather taught me.” She said stiffly. “He said I needed to know how, just in case.” She turned her back on him, gathering up the silverware and heading into the dining room, quickly setting the table, trying to breathe steadily.

  “So, what’s for dinner?”

  “Providing the refrigerator still works? I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” She knew the food in the fridge would spoil if power wasn’t back on. Then again, there wasn’t much in the fridge to begin with.

  “Hm. I think I can whip something up.” That made her stop and stare at him as she came back into the kitchen.

  “You cook?”

  He frowned at her. “All us country boys do. What, you thought men worked in the field and women took care of the house?”

  “And women were expected to play the role the sweet little obedient wife? Yes.”

  He snorted. “Sweet lil’ obedient wife, my ass. My country momma could whip my hide with a belt if I misbehaved.”

  “That’s child abuse.”

  “Nah it ain’t. I turned out right fine. Not like your pansy-ass city boys.”

  Celeste closed her mouth, pressing her lips in a line. She had dated a gangsta wannabe in New York, ran away from home to be with him, only to return with a police officer who informed them she was a witness to a gang war and that the kid was now dead. Celeste had stayed in her room until her grandfather came to visit. He had sat beside her on the bed, smoothing her hair as she told him everything. He had held her as she broke down crying and asked him, “Why can’t I find a nice man like you are, Papa?”

  “I’m a country boy, Cellie,” he had replied, “and country boys are required to have respect. That means, they won’t put you down, they won’t tell you what to do, and they will love you no matter what happens. That’s the way I loved your grandmother. Even after she’s gone, I still love her. Find someone who will respect you, and you will be happy. I guarantee it.”

  His voice brought her back to the present. “What were thinking fer dinner?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of anything, really. Takeout, maybe. Chinese, if they have it here.”

  Chris merely chuckled. “I’ll think of something.” He opened the fridge and got out the milk and eggs. As he was gathering his ingredients, he launched into a rendition of “I’m From The Country.”

  He fired up the gas range and set the cast iron skillet over it. He paused to examine it. “Oh that’s right, ya haven’t seasoned it.” He opened the fridge and cocked his head. “An’ ya don’t have any lard. But…” he pulled out the small package of bacon, “this’ll do. Yep, this’ll do right fine.”

  “What are you cooking bacon for?”

  “Ter season it. You get lard from pig fat, an’ pig fat is made from grease. Use that ter season the cast iron. Simple and easy.” He picked up where he left off in singing.

  Celeste watched him with interest as he whipped up some ingredients in a bowl. He expertly operated the gas oven and waited for it to heat up. He turned to her. “Where are your cookie sheets?”

  “Um. You would have to ask me that.” Where did Grandma hide them? A memory of Christmas one year flashed in her head, the young Celeste standing on a stool watching her mother root in the kitchen for the sheets as they were making chocolate chip cookies. “Oh, here they are.” She pulled out the sheets from under the microwave l
edge. “What do you need them for?”

  “Biscuits.”

  “You’re making biscuits.”

  “Don’t hafta sound so incredulous about it. My momma taught me how to cook.”

  Celeste merely shook her head, now becoming aware of how he filled out the jeans nicely when he leaned against the counter. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to the elbows. His muscles worked as he kneaded the dough on the counter. Celeste watched his fingers fly, shaping the dough, kneading it from a sticky mess into a floured rolled-out layer. He grabbed a small glass and used that as an impromptu biscuit cutter.

  He neatly lined them up on the sheet and when all the dough was used up, he put the sheets in the oven and glanced at his phone. “Okay, in about twenty minutes, they should be done.” He washed his hands and cleaned up the flour mess on the counter. Celeste was sure he had left some mess behind, but upon further inspection, that wasn’t the case.

  The bacon was done and he stuck a piece in his mouth while he got out the remnants of a sausage package and spread it out in the heated skillet while humming to himself. Celeste’s stomach rumbled as she smelled the sausage cooking. After it was done, he sprinkled flour over the sausage pieces and when he poured the milk in, Celeste finally realized he was making biscuits and gravy.

  “You know what would go great with dinner?”

  “No.”

  “Music.”

  Celeste’s heart dropped. “Oh, we don’t have any electricity. How-?”

  “I noticed ya got a Victrola over there.”

  Celeste glanced behind her into the dining room. “Oh that thing hasn’t been played in years.”

  “Luckily it’s a hand-crank. Watch.”

  Celeste watched him as he strode over to it, the clothes reminding her suddenly of her grandfather smiling as he had opened the small cupboard under the record player, pulling out an old record, blowing off the dust. He had tilted it and carefully slid the record into his gnarled hands. Celeste had watched as a little girl as her grandfather had cranked it up, set the needle with a surgeon’s precision and the scratching soon gave way to sweet violin. She had heard a squeal of laughter as her father danced with her mother. Before she had known it, she was scooped up in her grandfather’s arms and he was dancing with her.

  The same music floated out and before she knew it, she was in his arms, dancing. His voice was in her ear. “I’m impressed. You know how to dance to this.”

  “Papa used to dance with me when we were here. Grandma was already gone when I was a kid, so we would frequently visit. Papa was my mom’s dad.”

  “So why they’d go to New York?”

  “That’s where Dad lived before. After they had me, all they ever talked about was this place. Papa had told my mom once that when he was gone, she would inherit everything. Then he died a few months later. My parents, some years later.”

  “Sorry to hear.” His voice was a low murmur. Celeste was vaguely aware of her head on his shoulder, his arms around her, gently swaying to the music now. He suddenly untangled himself with a low curse.

  “What-?”

  “Dinner. Don’t want to burn now.” He dashed off and yanked the oven door down. Celeste saw the biscuits were a perfect golden brown. Without thinking, she handed him an oven mitt from the drawer and watched as he pulled the sheets from the oven, placing them on the counter. “Could ya get a coupla plates?”

  “Sure.” Celeste did so, and he broke two biscuits in half, placing them on her plate, and repeated the motion for himself. He ladled out thick gravy from the bubbling skillet and poured it over the plates.

  He carried the two plates over to the table, ignoring her protests. He set them down on the table and pulled out a chair for her. She sat down and then he seated himself at the head of the table. She immediately dug in, cutting off a piece of biscuit dripping gravy and tasted it. The taste brought back another memory, standing on a chair, dipping a spoon into some gravy that her grandma had made.

  “It’s just like her recipe.” She said after she swallowed. “It’s just as delicious.”

  “Thank you.”

  Celeste had noticed something as she went to take another bite. He wasn’t eating. “What’s wrong?”

  “Normally, I would say grace.”

  “Oh. I don’t.”

  Chris didn’t say anything. She watched him close his eyes and cross himself, then he picked up his fork. Dinner was mostly silent except for the record player spinning the record, the soft country music floating through the room.

  Celeste had no idea how hungry she was. Either that, or it was delicious. At any rate, her plate was licked clean before he was halfway through. His eyebrows went up as soon as he glanced at her empty plate.

  “You were hungry.”

  “Probably.”

  “There’s more if you want it. I doubt the fridge would last ‘til mornin’.”

  Celeste nodded at the reality of it. “Could you fix the electricity?”

  He sighed. “I’ll do it in the mornin’. Don’ wanna go out there, not with that stalker out there.”

  She got up, taking her plate with her. “You can take any of the rooms. I’m staying in the master.”

  “Any reason you told me where you were sleeping?” The candid question caught her by surprise. His blue eyes were innocent. “I mean, I automatically assumed.”

  “I was taught by my mother how to let a man know if he was welcome in the bedroom or not. And since I’ve known you for barely a day, you’re also welcome to take the couch if you prefer.”

  Celeste went into the kitchen and washed off her plate. She set it on the counter as she thought about what to do for breakfast in the morning. She came back into the dining room only to tell him she was going to bed. She went upstairs, swearing under her breath at the day’s events. First the AC. Then the dog attacks. Now a strange man sleeping in my house. What next? The house burns down? Her heart twisted at that last thought.

  She had so many happy memories when her grandparents were alive, showing her how to do simple things like making fires in the fireplace, canning vegetables from the garden, raking leaves in the fall, building snowmen in the winter. The house used to smell like basil and cinnamon in the summer and pumpkin spice in the winter. Celeste made her way into the bedroom, cursing at herself for not bringing a light. She had made her way up out of memory. She felt something warm behind her.

  “Need a light?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She accepted the single candleholder from him, noting it was one that had been kept in the kitchen hutch. She motioned with it towards the guest bedroom where she had acquired the clothes from. “You can take that bedroom. Good night.”

  “Good night, Celeste.”

  Celeste went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She walked over to the dresser and pulled out her cotton nightgown. Not wanting to shower in the dark, she pulled it on and crawled under the covers, blowing out the flame. She could hear him humming to himself as he rustled the covers. Soon, she heard him snoring. Celeste closed her eyes and fell asleep.