1. Lila
LILA
E very worry is left behind as I step into the pleasant warmth of the bed and breakfast's entrance. All this tension and anxiety must be from lack of sleep. I brush the water from my jacket and wipe off my rubber rain boots on the worn welcome mat. The cabin looks like a quintessential grandmother’s home. It's just like the pictures I saw online.
The smell of apples and cinnamon hits me the moment I stop in the foyer. I inhale the comforting scents deeply and listen to the crackling of the fire on the far right. The dim lights and warm glow make every touch in the place feel homey.
I roll my suitcase to the sofa and stop, spotting a crockpot on the entry table and white ceramic mugs next to it.
Hot cider. I know it in an instant. I’m quick to shrug off my jacket, looking behind me as I hang it over my suitcase, searching for the owner. I almost put the jacket on the old sofa; it’s a dated floral print, but the throw neatly folded over the back of it looks plush and inviting. My jacket is coated with a thin layer of mist from the light rain outside, so I wouldn’t dare put it there.
I look around the corner and see a small dining room with a wooden table and chairs. In the center of the table is a stack of pale blue cloth napkins and a set of white salt and pepper shakers that look like owls. But not a soul is there either.
It’s quiet, but welcoming.
The cabin itself is small, and someone must’ve heard me come in.
I shake off the cold from the outdoors, feeling the soothing heat from the fire and go to the crockpot before searching out anyone. I need something to warm me up. Just a moment to myself while my nerves settle. I’ve been on edge every minute of this trip. I know part of it is my fear of flying. It’s a stupid fear. I’ve heard every statistic, and I’ve been told over and over that flying is safe. But I’ll be damned if I could breathe for even a second of that six-hour flight.
The heavy smell of cinnamon greets me as I lay the glass lid down on the table and pick up the ladle, pouring a serving and then another into one of the mugs.
I’d give anything to shake this overwhelming apprehension that seems to be clinging to me.
I close my eyes, letting the heat of the cider travel through my chest and the taste of apples and cinnamon tickle my tongue. I smile into the mug, taking another sip before slowly sinking into the sofa and letting the flames of the fire warm me.
I roll my head to the side wanting to ease the tension, but it only makes me that much more tired. Already I’m exhausted from this trip, and it’s only just begun.
I wish I could have stayed longer in Seattle. It’s absolutely gorgeous, although opposite in beauty to this island. Where Seattle has intricately designed buildings that tower over you and the old streets lined with planted trees and cobblestones, here the nature is untouched. It’s not arranged to complement the city structures; the mountains and forests are the sights here. The few houses I saw earlier were tucked back into the thicket and seem to blend in.
That could be due to the hour though. We arrived in the evening as the fog was settling in. Funny how the fog in Seattle seems to dim the city's beauty, but here it only adds to the island's atmosphere.
I take another sip of the cider, watching the flames lick along the logs. My nails click as they tap rhythmically against the mug. Of the two places I've been today, I prefer the island. It has a sense of ancient tradition, the land feeling mostly unsullied.
I grew up in Philadelphia, and seeing the beautiful city of Seattle blew me away. But this remote island is like no other place I’ve ever been. It calls to me in a way I can’t explain.
“Miss Travers?” a small voice calls out from behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. I stand so quickly I nearly spill the cider, feeling embarrassed once again that I’ve made myself at home and didn’t bother seeking anyone out.
“Yes, here,” I answer, setting the mug down on the coffee table and turning to face an elderly woman. She pushes a pair of thin-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose as she walks around the back of the sofa to greet me. “Mrs. Joslin?”
“Call me Ada, please,” she answers me.
At first I smile and tug my sweater down, ready to get to my room and pass out from the long day, but something in her expression catches me off guard.
There’s a smile on her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes and the way she wrings her fingers nervously makes me question the pleasant tone of her voice. “Are you checking in?” she asks.
I find it odd. Obviously I am. What else would I be doing here? I hesitate, trying to remember if today is the first day I booked. I turn halfway, still facing her and trying not to be rude as I lean down to dig inside of my purse for the papers. I fucking hope I didn’t screw this up. I don’t need to start this trip off by being kicked out of the one bed and breakfast for miles and miles.
“I believe it’s today,” I say although it comes out sounding like a question.
“Yes, of course,” Ada says with confidence and an upbeat lilt that wasn’t there before. I peek up at her, the papers in my hands crinkling as I unfold them. They confirm I’ve booked the entire week; today’s date is the first day of my stay.
She tucks her hands into the pockets on the sides of her pale pink flannel pajama shirt and nods. “Do you need help with your bags?” she asks me warmly, but there’s a chill to her expression.
“Is everything alright?” I ask her as I shove the papers back into the pocket on the inside of my purse.
“Yes, yes. I just wasn’t sure if you’d had a chance to see Mr. Kulls yet?”
“The interview is tomorrow,” I reply and she nods slowly. I called before booking and spoke to someone here, possibly Ada, although I don’t remember. I wanted to make sure the bed and breakfast was close to the estate. It turns out that it’s the only bed and breakfast, so I didn’t have much of a choice.
“Am I all set to stay?” I ask her warily.
“Of course, dear, of course,” she answers with much more pep in her tone. “Right this way!” she says as she grabs the handle of my suitcase before I can and starts walking off. I look behind me at the mug of cider and then grab my jacket before it falls off my luggage.
For a woman so short she walks quickly, and I have to hastily increase my stride to catch up to her.
“Breakfast will be ready when you are,” she says as we pass the small dining room and head down a narrow hallway. The walls are speckled with photographs tucked in a variety of colored and shaped frames. She turns her head to look at me, and my eyes are ripped away from the photo of a young boy and to her gaze instead. “Simply call the number on the phone in your room or come to the front, and I’ll have breakfast served for you.”
She stops at the last door on the very end and takes out a key, unlocking the door and then handing the key to me. It’s an actual key, long and heavy. I think it’s made of cast iron, and it catches me by surprise. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask,” she says and her voice is soft and comforting and the small smile on her face is genuine. Her pale blue eyes are sincere, and I almost second-guess her hesitation in the foyer.
“Thank you, Mrs.- Ada,” I say and then peer into the room, taking the handle of my suitcase.
“I’ll be right down the hall,” she says and then turns to walk off. I watch her for a moment and then let out a heavy sigh. Traveling is meant to be stressful. And that’s what I’ll chalk this up to.
The sound of the wheels rolling is muted as I drag the suitcase onto the plush cream carpet and close the door with a soft click. I lock it out of habit and then drag the heavy bag to the bed. My purse falls off my shoulder and onto the crook of my arm as I struggle with the damn thing. I stare at the bed and then to the suitcase. There’s no way I’m getting it up there.
I don’t have the energy for anything other than to slip into my PJ bottoms and a baggy t-shirt. My makeup can just wait till the morning, and brushing my teeth can wait, too.
As I crawl into bed I nearly moan at the thought of sleeping peacefully. I’m finally on land and in a beautiful cabin tucked away on this gorgeous island. I close my eyes and the moment I do, I remember the man from earlier.
My heart stills and my eyes pop open as I pull the comforter up tighter around me and try to forget. I need to sleep, and that’s just what I do. But the vision of the man comes back over and over as I drift to sleep. I can’t keep him away although I can’t quite see his face or any identifying features at all. Each time there’s something different about him or the mountain that makes me question whether or not he was real.
But I dream of him. Of climbing through the forest and standing at the edge.
In my dreams, he was waiting for me. And instead of fear, I only feel… wanted.