I could do tons of things with this cabin. If I hire anothermanager, they could live in it. Or I could use it for a bridal suite, since Falling Stars would make an amazing wedding venue. But if I tell Wesley I want to throw weddings at his house, he might flip the table.
“Because I want it,” I reply evenly. His lips press together. I mimic him, sensing I am close to a resolution here, close to winning.
He tries to silent-treatment me into giving up. It almost works, but my discomfort with long silences prompts me to react strangely and I throw both of us off by giving him a wink.
He stares at me, wide eyed, like I’ve grown another head. “What the hell was that?”
“A wink?”
“Winking is weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“That’s a bizarre thing to do, shutting your eye at someone.”
I shrug. “It can be kinda hot, I think.”
Wesley is visibly uncomfortable, but the wink is effective. “Fine, you’ve got a deal. I get the animal sanctuary, you get your hotel. Which is a terrible idea, by the way.” He’s already getting up and leaving.
“Is not!” I sing at his retreating back, counting the donuts remaining. He ate three. I’m taking that as another win.
•••••••
IT’S THREE DAYS AFTERwe struck a deal and we haven’t agreed on a single thing since. Also, the manor is trying to kill me. All I want to do is love it, and it responds by raining plaster over me and moving the broom and dustpan so that they’re neverwhere I last put them. Every time I open a window to get rid of the thick dust-and-lemon-Pledge cloud that hangs at nose level, I hear a rattle and glance over to watch the sash juddering back down. I’ve had two pairs of rubber gloves disintegrate on me somehow, but luckily the hoard replenishes itself and more pairs of gloves reappear on the living room mantel. Along with a bottle of ointment, which has helped heal the blisters that stupid shovel gave my fingers.
Wesley is going room by room upstairs and getting rid of broken stuff first, or stuff that’s rusted, expired, ruined from water damage, etc. After the obvious trash is dealt with, he sorts through whatever’s left. I, however, choose to tackle the hoard all at once, which results in a million piles whose purposes prove difficult to keep straight. We keep ramming into each other at the front door and in the yard, arms too full, each refusing to offer the other one assistance if an item is dropped. I rubberneck at whatever he tosses in the dumpster, but if I pick through his half of the house in addition to mine, this clean-out is going to take years.
Whenever I brush past Wesley, the image of him beneath the iron archway in my dream flickers to life, those eyes probing mine like I might offer the answer to a long-held question, or I remember him in the dark woods beside me, a solid protector, and it’s annoying. I don’t want to associate soft feelings with this person who scowls at me all day.
“What do you want the sunroom for?” I can’t resist asking at one point, as we’re passing each other in the foyer.
“Why’s my picture on your phone?” he shoots back so quickly, he had to have been already thinking about it.
I grumble as I skulk away and he takes off up the stairs. I amincredibly glad I called dibs on the first floor, because I can’t imagine what running up and down the grand staircase is doing to his calves.
Actually...
I try to steal a glimpse, but he’s too fast for me.
The next time we bump into each other, it’s because he’s got a busted armoire and can’t fit it through the door. I could help, but he didn’t helpmewhen I was trying to roll up a rug and he watched me wrestle with it. So I lean against the wall and cross my ankles, observing.
“Hmm. Having some trouble there, partner?”
He grunts, shoving harder.
“Please do take care not to scratch the door frame.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why not? We need a new door frame, anyway.”
“Okay, well. If you scratch it, you’ll be responsible for putting the new one on.” I don’t know why I’m feeling particularly argumentative today.
“Try worrying about yourself,” he suggests. “You’re going about this so inefficiently, it hurts.”
“I’m beingthorough. What would Violet say if she saw you treating her belongings like this? So callous.”
I think the reminder of Violet is going to stick him where it hurts, but he doesn’t care. “I informed her myself of exactly what I was going to do with her belongings. I told her several times, after she told me I’d inherit it all. At any rate, I don’t see her here. She doesn’t have to deal with this mess. We do.” I notice how he glances furtively up at the ceiling, as if the ghost of Violet Hannobar might be bobbing around up there, keeping an eye on us. Maybe she’s the one who tripped him on the stairs earlier when Ihollered up that I’d discovered his little secret (it was the remnants of a bacon sandwich, to which he’d sputtered, red faced, that it was vegetarian bacon; I took a bite and spat it back out, confirming he was telling the truth).
He’s taking forever with the armoire. He has to stop for a break at intervals, sweat rolling down his ruddy complexion, flecking his shirt. “Need some help?” I ask. I’m an angel.
