Going to the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee and pour myself a cup when it’s done. I sit at the table and listen to the shower going on in the next room. Rubbing my hands down my face, I try to talk my dick down. Last night was not good. I didn’t plan on putting everything out there, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. When I left, I knew I had either fucked up beyond repair, or made her see things from my perspective.
Yet, sitting here even now, I don’t know which one it is I accomplished. Reclining farther back into the chair with my mug of coffee, I hear the sound of footsteps coming my way. I watch her walk into the kitchen, wearing a pair of low heel brown boots, dark wide leg slacks, and a cream, almost-white sweater with a thick, colorful scarf wrapped around her neck. Her hair is up in a tight bun, and her face is almost completely free of makeup. “That was fast.”
“It never really takes me long to get ready,” she replies, and her cheeks pinken as she looks away from me toward the coffee pot. “Do I have time to make something to eat?” she asks.
“Yeah. We’re just going to the lodge. It’s only ten minutes from here.”
“The lodge?” she asks, taking a loaf of bread out of the cupboard. I keep forgetting she’s been gone and doesn’t even know how much things have changed since she left.
“The old cannery at the end of the road. A man named Stan Wince bought it about seven years ago and built a lodge on the property. They have a conference room they allow her to use when she’s in town meeting with clients.”
Her head turns my way and tips to the side, as she asks, “The ghost cannery?”
“Yep.”
“Wow.” Her eyes widen. “I wonder if the guests at the lodge know they’re sleeping right next to a burial site.”
“Not sure Stan puts that in his brochures, babe.”
I smile, and she mutters back, “That’s probably smart. That place was creepy.” She shivers, and I fight back a chuckle.
When we were kids, we used to go out there at night for that exact reason. The place was creepy. The buildings were mostly empty, except for beds, some personal items, and documents left behind. The story goes that back in the late 1800s, the Filipino workers who came in by boat to work the cannery got the plague, and even though each of them signed a contract stating that upon their death, their bodies would be sent home, there were so many of them who died that the company decided the best course of action was to put the bodies in wooden barrels and bury them back behind the bunkhouse where they lived. To this day, the natives still say the area is haunted by the men who were lied to and kept from their families.
“Do you want some?” She holds up a slice of bread, bringing me out of my thoughts, and I shake my head.
“I’m good, baby.”
Nodding, she turns away from me and puts the slice of bread in the toaster then goes about fixing herself a cup of coffee in a travel mug covered in pink roses.
“How much does your lawyer charge?” she asks, stirring milk into the cup after spooning in three scoops of sugar.
“She works case-by-case. If she has time to take you on, she’ll work with you on payments.”
“I have some money saved up, just not a lot right now,” she says softly, coming over to where I’m sitting. She absently takes the cup of coffee I made myself back to the counter and pulls down another travel mug, one that matches hers but is covered in small while flowers with a bright yellow lid, and then pours my coffee into it. She finishes by topping it off with some coffee from the pot.
“Just talk to her and go from there,” I suggest.
“I will.” She gives me a small smile, handing me the cup. “I don’t have any boy ones. Sorry.” She shrugs, and I lift my chin, taking the cup from her before she moves back toward the toaster. “How’s Aubrey?”
“Pardon?” I question, watching her pull down a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard.
“Aubrey, um… how is she?” She pauses with a butter knife in her hand and looks at me over her shoulder. “Is she okay?”
“She’s good.”
“Good,” she says quietly, turning back to the counter, where she proceeds to slather her toast.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m not sure.” She lets out a breath then turns to face me. “I don’t know her well, so I don’t know if I was just imagining things, but when she left here the other morning after she helped me clean up, she seemed in a hurry to leave. I just…” She shakes her head and her face goes soft. “I didn’t know if I said something to upset her, or if she was just in a hurry to get home because you guys were back.” She shrugs, taking a bite from her toast and leaning back against the counter.
“What were you talking about?” My girl is shy and has always been that way, which is why she doesn’t have many friends. Most people don’t understand that about her and assume she’s being standoffish or even rude, when that isn’t the case.
“I just told her she should come hang out and bake with me one day. After I said that, it felt like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”
“She’s shy. Sometimes it takes a bit for her to warm up to people,” I reply softly, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but wanting her to understand she shouldn’t take offense.
“I can tell she’s shy, but I don’t think it was that.” She pauses, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “We were laughing, and it seemed like she was having fun until I told her she should come back.” She jerks her shoulders up. “After that, it just seemed like I said something wrong.”