I’m notmuch of a coffee drinker, but after the exhausting day I had yesterday, then stumbling out of the strange bedroom into the strange kitchen, well, this day calls for some caffeine.
If George Knight’s note is to be believed (and why wouldn’t it be), there ought to be some around here.
Hello, Owen!
Welcome to Chez George! Which makes it sound like a restaurant. Which it decidedly is not. There is not much food, but you are welcome to what you can find. I’ve also left you takeout menus from some of my neighborhood favorites. Help yourself to coffee.
Maybe Spanish will do us better: mi casa/su casa and all that.
Funny, I wrote almost the same thing in my note to him.
Anyway, “help yourself to coffee” seems pretty unambiguous, right? But I’ve searched the cabinets and found no coffee—instant or grounds—and besides, there isn’t a Mr. Coffee in sight.
The counters are neat and fairly empty. There’s the array of takeout menus Knight has left me, fanned out on the granite. And then there is… this other contraption. Which, if I’m honest with myself, looks a lot like a scaled-down version of something I’ve seen in a Starbucks. My reflection in the chrome shows my dirty blond hair sticking up at odd angles, which feels about right.
There is no way the guy expects me to make myself coffee withthat, right? Besides, if you were going to make that kind of coffee, you’d need some kind of super fancy grind-them-yourself coffee beans, and I haven’t seen anything like that.
Iopen the fridge, just sort of scoping the place, since the note also said I’mwelcome to any food. It’s pretty bare, just some milk and some fancy cream cheese. The freezer has a little more to offer, boasting ice cubes, a couple cartons of gelato, and… several bags of whole gourmet coffee beans. Oh.
I glance back at the gleaming metal beast on the counter.
Maybe I don’t need coffee that bad.
CHAPTER 11
GEORGE
I stirthe hot liquid in the cup and try to think optimistic thoughts. I don’t have high hopes for the coffee “crystals,” but there is no way I’m facing the first day of my writing retreat without coffee. I lift the mug to my lips—here goes nothing.
Ugh. That isnotcoffee. I set it back down. And stare at it.
Okay, no, it isn’t Zabar’s, but I’m probably being too particular. I’m in rural Vermont; I need to adjust my expectations. I try again and—nope! Good God no. I don’t know Zoe’s cousin, but honestly, if his taste in coffee is anything to go on, it is just as well we aren’t going to meet in person.
I pour the rest of the offending brown liquid down the drain and turn to the note Ifound propped against the toaster (right behind a set of keys, by the way, because… yeah.) Hopefully, this will tell me where the nearest Starbucks is, at least.
Hi, George (forgive me, Zoe told me to just call you George, but it still looks weird to me, given that we don’t know each other and what with you being George Knight and all)
I don’t feel particularlyGeorge Knightat the moment, but something about the straightforward and unassuming way Owen writes makes me smile nonetheless.
… I promise not to mess anything up at your place. As for mine, help yourself to any of my food – I’ve got a few frozen meals I made stashed away. You’re welcome to those. There’s firewood around the side of the house. And if you need anything from town, head over to the general store, and Ruth will set you up. I know Zoe gave you my email and number, so you have those if you need to reach me. Enjoy the place—mi casa es su casa and so on. — Owen PS: Sorry to be a pain, but if you wouldn’t mind watering my Christmas tree, I’d be much obliged.
At the bottom of the page, there’s a little map doodled with the cabin and the route—turn right and follow theoneroad—into town. A town square is drawn and a small collection of buildings with labels, including the general store, the post office, the “letters to Santa” mailboxin front of the post office, and the library. And sadly, not a Starbucks in sight.
After Googling “how to water a Christmas tree” and following the instructions (and feeling shitty about the decided lack of holiday cheer Ileft to greet Owen at my place), I pause to examine the branches. They’re decked out in an eclectic array of ornaments, some of which look like they date back decades. They are each unique, and they look like they probably havetheir own stories to tell. There are also a few handcrafted wooden ornaments. There’s a wire tucked behind the tree with a switch. I flick it on, and a spiraling string of soft white lights glows to life. As trees go, this one is warm and imperfect, and it pinches my heart in a way I don’t want to examine too much.
It even has a little gift under it, wrapped in simple brown paper, but with a lush red velvet bow on it. The wrapping seems to tell a story—this is a gift from someone who cares. Humble and special at the same time. A gift someone has given Owen that he is saving to open, I suppose. Although now Owen won’t be here on Christmas. Maybe he’s forgotten it’s there. I briefly wonder if I should let Owen know about it. But what if he left it on purpose? What if it’s something he doesn’t want to think about? Didn’t Zoe say Owen is getting over a breakup? Maybe it’s from the ex.
Yeah, I’m better off leaving the whole thing alone. Either way, its presence under the tree adds to the general cozy atmosphere of the place.
That and the pine-y, woodsy scent coming off the tree itself. Though the whole house sort of has that smell. Probably the whole state of Vermont does.
I continue to poke around the open living room. Like the cabin as a whole, it’s small but cozy. There are high ceilings, to allow for the sleeping loft, I suppose, but also making room for plentiful windows which fill the place with natural light.
The place is also hiding, I notice as I continue around the room, various knick-knacks and treasures, with more to be discovered the more you look.
On the mantle (because what’s a cabin in Vermont without a wood-burning stoveanda fireplace?) I find a little handcrafted wooden box. I pick it up to examine it, running my hands over the smooth, polished finish. There’s no obvious way to open it, but there are several grooves, and when I push against one, apiece slides away, revealing a secret compartment. A puzzle box. Hmm, interesting. I set it back where I found it and continue poking around.
There’s a curved wooden bookcase mounted to the wall near the entrance, filled with old paperbacks and knick-knacks. Two photos sit on the middle shelf. One of an older man beaming into the camera and standing, it seems, in front of this very cabin. That mustbe the uncle Zoe told me Oweninherited the place from. The other is of Zoe. I squint at it. Actually, I think I remember taking this one myself. She’s wearing what could only be described as a “sexy priest” costume—oh, right. This is from the “gender neutral Tarts and Vicars” party Luca insisted on us throwing. About a month before Luca insisted on moving out.
