Chapter 11 George
GEORGE
I stir the hot liquid in the cup and try to think optimistic thoughts. I don’t have high hopes for the coffee “crystals,” but there is no way I’m facing the first day of my writing retreat without coffee. I lift the mug to my lips—here goes nothing.
Ugh. That is not coffee. I set it back down. And stare at it.
Okay, no, it isn’t Zabar’s, but I’m probably being too particular. I’m in rural Vermont; I need to adjust my expectations. I try again and—nope! Good God no. I don’t know Zoe’s cousin, but honestly, if his taste in coffee is anything to go on, it is just as well we aren’t going to meet in person.
I pour the rest of the offending brown liquid down the drain and turn to the note I found propped against the toaster (right behind a set of keys, by the way, because… yeah.) Hopefully, this will tell me where the nearest Starbucks is, at least.
Hi, George (forgive me, Zoe told me to just call you George, but it still looks weird to me, given that we don’t know each other and what with you being George Knight and all)
I don’t feel particularly George Knight at the moment, but something about the straightforward and unassuming way Owen writes makes me smile nonetheless.
… I promise not to mess anything up at your place.
As for mine, help yourself to any of my food – I’ve got a few frozen meals I made stashed away.
You’re welcome to those. There’s firewood around the side of the house.
And if you need anything from town, head over to the general store, and Ruth will set you up.
I know Zoe gave you my email and number, so you have those if you need to reach me.
Enjoy the place—mi casa es su casa and so on.
— Owen PS: Sorry to be a pain, but if you wouldn’t mind watering my Christmas tree, I’d be much obliged.
At the bottom of the page, there’s a little map doodled with the cabin and the route—turn right and follow the one road—into town.
A town square is drawn and a small collection of buildings with labels, including the general store, the post office, the “letters to Santa” mailbox in front of the post office, and the library. And sadly, not a Starbucks in sight.
After Googling “how to water a Christmas tree” and following the instructions (and feeling shitty about the decided lack of holiday cheer I left to greet Owen at my place), I pause to examine the branches.
They’re decked out in an eclectic array of ornaments, some of which look like they date back decades.
They are each unique, and they look like they probably have their own stories to tell.
There are also a few handcrafted wooden ornaments.
There’s a wire tucked behind the tree with a switch.
I flick it on, and a spiraling string of soft white lights glows to life.
As trees go, this one is warm and imperfect, and it pinches my heart in a way I don’t want to examine too much.
It even has a little gift under it, wrapped in simple brown paper, but with a lush red velvet bow on it.
The wrapping seems to tell a story—this is a gift from someone who cares.
Humble and special at the same time. A gift someone has given Owen that he is saving to open, I suppose.
Although now Owen won’t be here on Christmas.
Maybe he’s forgotten it’s there. I briefly wonder if I should let Owen know about it.
But what if he left it on purpose? What if it’s something he doesn’t want to think about?
Didn’t Zoe say Owen is getting over a breakup? Maybe it’s from the ex.
Yeah, I’m better off leaving the whole thing alone. Either way, its presence under the tree adds to the general cozy atmosphere of the place.
That and the pine-y, woodsy scent coming off the tree itself. Though the whole house sort of has that smell. Probably the whole state of Vermont does.
I continue to poke around the open living room. Like the cabin as a whole, it’s small but cozy. There are high ceilings, to allow for the sleeping loft, I suppose, but also making room for plentiful windows which fill the place with natural light.
The place is also hiding, I notice as I continue around the room, various knick-knacks and treasures, with more to be discovered the more you look.
On the mantle (because what’s a cabin in Vermont without a wood-burning stove and a fireplace?) I find a little handcrafted wooden box.
I pick it up to examine it, running my hands over the smooth, polished finish.
There’s no obvious way to open it, but there are several grooves, and when I push against one, a piece slides away, revealing a secret compartment.
A puzzle box. Hmm, interesting. I set it back where I found it and continue poking around.
There’s a curved wooden bookcase mounted to the wall near the entrance, filled with old paperbacks and knick-knacks.
Two photos sit on the middle shelf. One of an older man beaming into the camera and standing, it seems, in front of this very cabin.
That must be the uncle Zoe told me Owen inherited the place from.
The other is of Zoe. I squint at it. Actually, I think I remember taking this one myself.
She’s wearing what could only be described as a “sexy priest” costume—oh, right.
This is from the “gender neutral Tarts and Vicars” party Luca insisted on us throwing.
About a month before Luca insisted on moving out.
Right.
Maybe I should check out the outside now. Be good to get the lay of the land before I settle in to work. I grab my coat from the peg where I hung it last night and hurry out the door.
Outside is blindingly white, the ground covered with snow and bare trees and evergreens for miles set off starkly against it.
It’s frigid, but apparently not cold enough to snow.
Instead, a sort of freezing drizzle falls from the sky.
I pull my coat (light wool and totally inappropriate for the weather) tighter around me.
Around the side of the cabin, I find a mound covered in a blue tarp. Pulling this back, I discover that Owen has left me enough wood to get me through three winters. Or at least I assume so, not really knowing how much wood one needs for such things.
Did Owen chop this wood himself? Visions of my elusive dream lumberjack float back to consciousness, this time with particularly well-defined biceps and lush, thick hair the color of Zoe’s.
Okay, yes, I’m probably overdue for a hookup—just to take the edge off. But I doubt I’m going to find much action up here in the middle of nowhere, and besides, I am supposed to be working. Meanwhile, where truly is the harm in indulging in a little lumberjack fantas—
A mournful howl cuts the silence of the surrounding woods. Probably just a dog. Definitely, I tell myself, definitely a dog. But just to be sure, I’m already halfway through the nearest door.
It’s the side entrance to the detached garage, which isn’t a garage at all.
It’s a large, open room, lined with shelving along two sides, racks full of lumber along the third, and a workbench along the front, against the roll-up door, which is presumably no longer in use.
There’s an impressive collection of power tools, but my eyes go to the shelves, the floor, the workbench, every last corner, all of which are filled with every kind of wooden creation imaginable.
There are furniture pieces being crafted from scratch, an antique table that appears to be in the process of restoration, a whimsical sculpture of an elephant and a mouse that fit together in interlocking pieces, a couple of birdhouses, a picture frame engraved with an intricate pattern, a collection of sanded pieces that I recognize as the parts to another puzzle box similar to the one I found inside, and innumerable other projects in various stages of progress.
It’s like walking into my own mind, if my mind were filled with cedar and saws instead of paragraphs and plots.
Owen is an artist.
Zoe’s ringtone jangles into the silence, and I vaguely remember shoving my phone into my coat pocket on the way out the door, just in case something terrible happened and I needed a St. Bernard to dig me out of the snow or something.
“Hello?” I say, bringing the phone to my ear, still half mesmerized by my discovery.
“Hey, I hope I’m not interrupting you at some crucial writing moment,” Zoe says. I can hear her typing in the background. Probably finishing up another holiday listicle for FlashPop.
“No, no,” I say dryly. “I’ve already finished the manuscript, and I’m halfway through the next one. I’m thinking of calling it Steele Magnolias or maybe Steele-y Dan.”
There is a brief but loaded silence. Her fingers have evidently paused on the keyboard.
“You are working on the book, George, right?”
I’m gearing up to think about working on the book. That’s close. Ish.
“Of course I’m working on the book, Zo. That was the whole point of this little arrangement, wasn’t it?”
“Okay, good.” The tension melts out of her voice, and she resumes typing. “I was just calling to make sure you got yourself settled after last night.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You didn’t have trouble locating the toilet, or anything, did you? Or the kitchen sink? They do have sinks in Vermont, you know. Just in case you were wondering.” Mirth laces her words. Okay, enough of this.
“I’d love to stay and let you make fun of me some more, but I really should get back to my draft.”
“Okay, babe, don’t let me stop you! Kiss kiss.”
“Give my regards to the big city.”
“Will do.”
And then she’s gone, and I’m alone in the silence of the workshop. I really do need to get down to work. I can only justify procrastinating for so long.
Although. I haven’t eaten yet. And it doesn’t make much sense to start writing on an empty stomach…