Taking her hand, I shake it. When she makes a face, I realize my hand is dirty and probably sweaty. Gross, compared to hers, with the painted fingernails and scented moisturizer. “Seems like you already know my name.”
“Sorry.” She laughs, pulling her hand back and waving it in the air dismissively. “I, uh— my uncle’s cabin is up here? He… heleft it to me. I drove out here to take a look at it. I was thinking of turning it into a rental, or something. I know he was great at building, and I can’t wait to see what it looks like. He said if I needed anything, I could come talk to the neighbor.”
“Oh, did he?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and realizing why she looks so familiar to me. Now that she says it, I recognize the freckles, that copper hair and fine, straight nose.
I didn’t know Jasper that well. He came through now and then in his beat-up old 4Runner, and talked to me about building his cabin. I hooked him up with some of the suppliers I used while building mine. Once, I was able to borrow a tool from him instead of throwing away fifty bucks on my own.
He seemed like a good guy. Good neighbor. Kept to himself.
And if heleftthe cabin to her, that must mean he’s not going to be coming up here anymore.
“I’m sorry.” I clear my throat, run a hand over my head, trying to remember the last time I saw his 4Runner come bumping through here. Then, I glance at her sleek sedan and frown, wondering how she’s managed the roads in it. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“He was sick,” she says, arranging her face carefully, turning to look out the windshield. “And he— well, he said you were friendly, so I’m sure he liked you. I’m sorry to you, too.”
I almost want to laugh. This song and dance of grief and sympathy is familiar to me, and so is the look on her face that says the last thing she wants is for another person to tell her that they’re sorry for her. So, I drop the subject.
“So, what do you need?” I ask. I’d assumed she needed directions, but before she can answer, she’s leaning back, waving her hand in front of her face and sputtering.
“Ugh,” she says, glancing left and right, then at me, “thebugs. And there hasn’t been a gas station in ages. I have to pee so bad. I don’t get why Jasper spent so much time out here.”
Whatever was open in my chest just a moment ago slams firmly shut. Something in her demeanor, in the way she’s said that, reminds me of the snotty rich students I went to school with. Her smile and the fact that she knew Jasper cut through it at first, but when I take a step back and look at her nice car, the pale pink luggage in the back seat, the expensive smell of rose and leather rolling out through the window, I realize something.
Just because she knew Jasper doesn’t meanIknowher.And just because he said I was friendly doesn’t mean I actually am. I’ve been around her type before, and I want nothing to do with the entitlement, the grating, unearned air of suffering.
And then something else she said surfaces in my mind. In learning of Jasper’s death, and feeling sympathy for her, I’d almost missed it.
I was thinking of turning it into a rental, or something.
When Jasper first moved out here, I’d worried about the kind of neighbor he might be. The entire reason I’d bought this little plot was to get away from people, and if Jasper was the partying type, or into something even worse than that, it was going to ruin my peace. I’d braced for the first meeting with the new owners, until I realized it was just him, a tent, and his plan to build a cabin.
Just like when I first moved out here, except about a decade later than I did. And him with a lot more experience than I had.
And then it was quiet.
But if Jasper is gone, and she’s turning the cabin into a rental, that could mean different people week after week. It could mean college kids riding up here, drinking and driving on the tough mountain roads. Tourists wandering through the woods without any idea what they’re getting into, no protective gear or understanding of the local wildlife. I’ve seen horror stories from other parts of the state, especially now that Montana is getting more popular as a vacation spot.
I could have to contend with fishing expeditions coming up here and chasing away all the fish, or bachelorette parties playing music too loud and getting drunk. More girls pulling over on the side of the road to ask me for directions.
The thought of it makes me shudder. So does the idea of Jasper building his special place, just for this girl to rent it out to the highest bidder. Maybe she didn’t fully understand what it meant to him, or maybe she just doesn’t care.
“Cabin is right up the road,” I say, stepping back from her car and turning to look at the wood I left on the ground. All this time talking to her was just daylight wasted, and now the sun is almost fully set over the mountains. I’ll have to finish bringing this wood into my shop tomorrow morning. Hopefully the weather holds.
“Oh,” she says, blinking in surprise. “Okay. Thanks.”
For a second, I want to apologize for the shift in my demeanor — Warren has made it clear that my bedside manners could use some work — then I remember the bug comment, and the comment she made about there not being other cars on this road.
People driving like that is what gets people killed.
Her face mirrors mine, closing off, and I decide that’s for the best as she turns to the wheel, rolls up the window, and peels off, kicking up gravel as she chugs the rest of the way up the road. I can’t believe that sedan even managed to get her up some of these washboard roads, and I don’t like the idea of her trying to get back down.
But I turn to my shop, reminding myself that it’s not my problem.
With everything turned off and cleaned up, and a pile of wood I’ll have to take care of in the morning, I return to the cabin, wash up, and pull out a cut of fish I caught the day before. It’s been marinating in lemon and olive oil, and my stomach growls just thinking about it.
Dona follows me into the kitchen, meowing around my feet, and I pull out her dinner for the night — this special refrigerated wet food Warren gets for me every couple of months. I couldn’t stomach the idea of feeding her pellets, not when I was eating fresh fish and meat, vegetables from the garden, right in front of her.
“There you go, sweetheart,” I say, petting her as she buries her face in the bowl.
