But someone she actively thought about including.
She’s putting a human face on her reputation, and it’s made her undeniably likable.
Which I’m actively trying to ignore.
After what happened with the last woman in my life, I’m fucking over them and have entered into a committed relationship with my fist instead.
No matter how much the part of me that craves a place to belong is lapping up every bit of her thoughtfulness this week.
She knocks on the cabin door, calls, “Housekeeping. I have your towels, Mrs. Pinsley,” and waits.
And waits.
And waits.
And waits some more.
“You can knock again,” I tell her as I start to wonder if I need to be prepared for a medical emergency here too.
But at that moment, the door cracks open, and a weathered old face peeks out.
“Hello, dear,” the grandmotherly woman says. She’s roughly the same height as Margie-Margot, a little plump, a little wrinkly, and a lot smiley in her purple T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. “You brought company.”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Pinsley. I have your towels. Would you like me to bring them inside?”
“Oh, yes, please. That’s so sweet of you.”
“My pleasure.” Margie-Margot steps into the room, sliding a doorstop beneath the door to keep it from shutting her inside without a witness. I know the rules here are for the protection of the staff more than for the protection of the guests, and I’d assess Mrs. Pinsley as low threat, but rules are rules, and while Margie-Margot’s breaking them, she’s doing it smartly.
And kindly.
“How’s the novel coming?” Margot-Margie asks Mrs. Pinsley while she disappears deeper into the chalet.
“Good. I wrote three hundred words yesterday.”
“That’s amazing! Good for you.”
“But then I got to a scene where I needed a strong man to arrive, and I wasn’t sure what he looked like, so I got stuck.”
“That’s the story of my dating life.”
Mrs. Pinsley giggles. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a handsome man.”
“I’m ridiculously picky.”
“What about him?” The older woman points at me as Margot-Margie comes back into view inside the cabin with an armload of used towels that make me wonder how many showers this old lady takes in a day. “It takes a confident man to wear my favorite color in his beard.”
Margot-Margie smiles in my general direction. “He doesn’t talk enough for me to know if he’s handsome or not.”
“Ooooh, that’s so smart to not decide if he’s handsome until you’ve heard him talk. My Peter was a talker. Atalker. Youcouldn’t get him to shut up, and he had opinions on everything from baseball to tampons. As if the man ever used a tampon in his life. But oh, he had opinions. And no idea how much he talked. He used to talk nonstop about how much I talked, and if that doesn’t say it all, I don’t know what does.”
“They never really know how much they talk,” Margot murmurs.
“But you found one who doesn’t talk enough?”
“He’s not mine. The retreat center loaned him to me for the day.”
“Because of the handsy guy in chalet three?”
