Chapter 9 George
GEORGE
I wake up cozy and warm, and there’s an amazing smell. All clean and woodsy, but not fake woodsy, like woods woodsy. Like how I’d expect a lumberjack to smell. Mmm, lumberjack.
It’s also… Silent? Which is weird, but maybe I’m still partly asleep because my Egyptian cotton sheets also somehow feel like flannel—which is probably a remnant of the lumberjack dream I think I must have had.
It’s also bright. So, so bright. It never gets this bright in my bedroom because the building next door blocks out—oh shit.
I open my eyes and find myself staring at a skylight, framed on the edges in snow.
It’s only a couple feet above my head, and I can make out the crystal structure of individual flakes frozen to the glass.
Boughs of evergreen trees jut out at angles, weighted down with snow. And behind that, open sky.
I’m in Vermont.
At my “retreat.”
I roll over and groan.
I liked it better when there was an imaginary lumberjack.
Damn, that light is bright. I pull the covers over my head.
If the lumberjack were real, he could bring me some coffee.
Goddamn fictional lumberjack. Goddamn Vermont. Goddamn Zoe.
Okay, clearly coffee is in order. Loads and loads of coffee.
Which I am going to have to get up and get for myself.
I’m halfway down the spiral metal staircase, clinging to the banister for fear of falling and breaking my neck with no one to find me for days, when I realize we didn’t discuss food or meals or anything.
For Owen, in New York, of course, this is no big deal.
I’ve left my amazing cappuccino maker, and there are a half dozen restaurants within a block of my place.
But where and how does one acquire sustenance in Moonlake Village, Vermont?
Well, that is a question for after coffee. Surely, Owen has coffee. Maybe not like my high-end beans or, obviously, prepared to perfection like the quill-pen-topped cappuccino my favorite barista likes to make me, but something that will wake me the hell up.
After that, I can figure out the rest.
Like… writing my goddamn manuscript.
After.
Except after I wander into the cabin’s homey little kitchen, I can’t help but notice there is no coffee maker sitting on the counter. Which is going to make brewing the coffee challenging. Okay, no panicking, it’s probably just inside one of the cabinets…
I open the top one next to the fridge. Pasta, oatmeal, a jar of honey. I try the door below. Mixing bowls, muffin tins. Then another upper cabinet. Plates, bowls, some really interesting mugs it looks like Owen might collect. But no coffee maker. Then, in the last cabinet, behind a sack of flour…
Well, I found the coffee. And it’s instant.