All the better for waking up with you.
I’m too shy to say it out loud because the other bikers are rustling into the crawlspace, too.It might be a while before I can forget the ruthless efficiency with which they dispatched poor Jake Farmer.
“Mmm-huh.”There is no way I am going to open my mouth and blast Shadow with my morning breath.And I need to use the bathroom.
Rolling off the edge of the cot and crawling to the panel—the flashlight battery is dead and there is no way I could find it in the dark anyway—I go outside.Only when I am sure none of them can inhale the whiff from my stale mouth do I reply.
“I’m feeling good, really I am.I’m going to the marina to fetch the ingredients from Mr.Pruitt.”
“You go do that, Miz Luna,” one of them says from inside.The panel slides shut with a click.I hear the deep rumble of their voices behind the panels.When I press my ear against the wood, I can hear that they are discussing how long it will take for the Landslide residents to find Jake’s body.Ugh.
The inn has only four double bedrooms with bathroom en suite.The rest is shared accommodation.Two sharing, four sharing, and two eight-sleeper dormitories with bunk beds.I think I should put blackout drapes in one of the private rooms so that Shadow and I can sleep there.
When I look at the office notice board, I see that Shadow has already made “X”s on the calendar, blocking out the beds and days he has allotted to the people who wrote us letters.
I wonder what it is that brings tourists to Landslide?What is the appeal that I missed when I first arrived?
And now I never want to go back to my manic city life, because that would mean leaving my heart behind.
Time for me to get back home and spark up my phone and read some online reviews about the chalet inn.Shadow promised the residents that the connectivity for thirty percent of the time would be up and running.I bet Tinder is doing excellent business off these lonely men.
The kitchen is communal, large enough to cope with at least ten people bustling around during suppertime.After opening and closing a few cupboards, I find the round black jar of Bovril.It tastes weird, but there is something in it that replenishes my blood like no steak ever could.
Muohta is waiting for me by the hatchback, curled into a ball and using his tail like a pillow.
He woofs to let me know the car is safe.I’m touched he stayed by me all night, because I know how much Mu enjoys snoozing on the couch close to his bowl of kibble.
That rising feeling of excitement isn’t because I am going home.It’s exhilarating to know I can use my phone again.
I missed the damn device, I really did!
I have my homecoming ritual down pat.Kick off shoes in the entrance hall.Pour fresh food and water for Muohta.Run upstairs and flick on the hot water faucet so the gas has time to heat up.And now—drum roll please—turn on my phone.
I forget the running hot water as I flip through my apps, changing my status to “currently not available” and updating my messages.
By the time I remember the faucet is open, the bathroom is steamy and the walls are dripping with moisture.
Damn.In a frenzy of communication, I decide to chat with Tallie as I shower.
“Hey, stranger.I thought you had gone off the reservation and joined a cult.”I smile at my friend’s casual greeting.It’s hard to believe I have been gone for less than two weeks.
“Please excuse the shower sounds, Tal.I’m multitasking.Oh my God, girl.It is so nice to hear a friendly voice.”
“Your dad called me a few days back to verify the message you left on his answering service.He sounded… I dunno, curious?”
I’ve lived for my art for so long, I can understand my dad’s concern.I’ve always been driven when it comes to achieving my ambitions.But now those goalposts have shifted.
“I’ll call him right after.Hey, just checking that none of my clients have been in touch.”
All of my mosaic installations come with a lifetime guarantee of quality craftsmanship.I’ve had a few clients take me up on my restoration promise, but it has never been because of a fault in my work.It’s usually due to external damage.
A bottle of champagne thrown at a cheating husband’s head.
An exploding bottle of ketchup.
I’ve even had to meticulously clean spilt blood off a lobby wall after two prizefighters got into it at a press conference.
“Nope.And your website says that you are no longer accepting commissions.Thanks for the letter by the way, although I don’t think much of your stationary.”
