12. Luke
12
LUKE
S afe.
Safe .
I’m outraged by a single word. Safe! Who wants to be safe?
Sheep are safe. Savings accounts are safe. Staying inside the house and hiding from the world is safe. Who would have expected Daph to want that?
Not me.
I thought she’d be fearless, diving into this new experience like a skydiver, ready for all the sensation and all the thrills.
But she prefers safe . I can’t make sense of it. She should be audacious, ready to take on the world, demanding that her every wish comes true. She could be a superhero, a warrior queen, a vigilante for justice, or just plain courageous.
I could have been the asshole and pointed out that Justin the Marvelous hadn’t been that safe a choice after all, seeing as he’d mucked around on her, but I hadn’t been able to do it.
Daph’s expression softened when she talked about him and her voice dropped low. She wasn’t able to look me in the eye, so lost in sweet memories.
Still in love.
I saw that tear.
That sight was a knife to my heart. Does she really still yearn for that loser? Or is it the contrast with me that’s making him look good?
Safe. I want to snarl at someone, howl at the moon maybe, rev the engine on my bike and go roaring out of town.
No, I want to convince Daph to come with me.
By the time I reach the motel, I’m getting soaked. I leap up the stairs, needing a really hot shower. Time for some clean clothes and maybe a fresh perspective. Last night was awesome in every way, but surely that can’t be it? I’m not nearly done with Daph.
Is she done with me? My reaction to that is instinctive and immediate, but that doesn’t mean I’m right.
I have to wonder what I’ve done to spook her. Shaken her awake? Frightened her with the prospect of really living? Maybe she can’t deal with a lack of control. But I’ll never be anyone’s pet poodle. I can’t really understand why anyone would want to control their partner or companion.
I meet my own gaze in the mirror and allow the scary thought.
Maybe Daph’s not really The One.
I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it. I know she’s the only woman for me.
But maybe I’m the only one who’s falling fast and hard. That’s not difficult to believe, since I’m an all or nothing, all-in kind of guy. I leap before I look, every time, and follow my impulse, wherever it leads. No one would ever imagine that I’m a safe choice, the cautious one, the sure bet. On the other hand, I’ve done a lot and seen a lot in my time so far. Mostly, I’ve had a great time. No one could accuse me of sitting back and waiting for anything.
Would I wait for Daph? Absolutely.
Could she fall for me the way I am? I have no clue.
The trick is that I’m going to have to convince her to take a chance on me, and I see that it’s not going to be an easy sale. (Thank you, Justin.) I’m going to have to dig in and make a conscious effort to win her over. I can’t assume that things will fall into place, not this time, it’s too important. I have to believe I can make a favorable impression in comparison to Jerk Justin.
I mean, the bar is low.
But Daph’s expectations are high. What have I done to challenge them? Hired her and seduced her in less than forty-eight hours. Jumped right in like this is one-and-done.
No wonder she thinks there’s no future in this. I even told her that I was going to leave. Why would she expect me to hang around?
That wouldn’t be logical .
I need to court her. It’s an old word but a good one. We need to date and talk, cultivate some romance instead of just satisfaction. I need to show her that I’m not a one-hit-wonder with one foot out the door. I need to prove to her that it’s not just about the sex—even though the sex was amazing.
Can I do it? Can I win the war without my most reliable asset? I’m pretty sure I could convince Daph to invite me home again, but that’s not nearly enough. I need her to trust me. I need to prove that I have the stuff to go the distance.
Maybe, we need to abstain until she’s sure.
If ever there was a thought to shake me up, that’s it—but it also echoes with truth.
What she distrusts are words. Promises. Lies. What I need to provide is tangible evidence of my reliability. (Yes, that has to be Taylor laughing again.)
Fortunately, I’m not a guy who backs away from a challenge. If Daph sends me away, I’ll go, but until she does, I’ll argue my case as well as I can.
While I strategize that campaign, I have stuff to do. Merrie is coming today, but first I want to tell Una the good news.
The last time I went to Una’s place, a few weeks back, I didn’t use her driveway. I rode into the provincial park to the east of Empire and approached from behind, coming through the forest to avoid the town. This time, I walk up to Daph’s place, take a right at the two-track leading into the woods, and go for a more conventional arrival. I’ve scored a big black umbrella from Bruno and am enjoying the soft patter of the rain. It’s tranquil in a way that I’m not.
Una’s driveway is an unpaved two-track that hasn’t seen a vehicle in a long time. The grass is already long on either side of the worn pathways, both beaten down so hard that nothing grows in them. One is wider than the other so it must be her footpath of choice. In between, there are small pink flowers emerging like little stars. Right now, they’re glistening with raindrops. The path bends a bit, making its way around larger trees that obviously weren’t worth felling, even when the house was built. As a result, the trees quickly close behind me. I could be a million miles from anywhere, if not for that worn path leading me deeper into the woods.
There were trilliums in bloom the last time I was here, gleaming white in the shadows of the forest on either side. They’re finished now and something yellow has come into bloom instead. The trees are in full leaf now and the shadows on the forest floor are speckled with sunlight. I hear a lot of birds calling, then see that there are feeders hanging from the trees at intervals, all close to the path. A blue jay screams at me for interrupting his meal, then flies away, leaving the feeder swinging in his wake. I don’t take more than half a dozen steps past the feeder before I hear claws on metal, and look back to see that he’s perched there again, gobbling seeds as the feeder swings like a metronome from the force of his landing.
Una’s house could be something out of a fairy tale, in that it’s a log cabin, hewn out of the surrounding forest. The foundation is fieldstone, a collection of rocks in various sizes, undoubtedly collected from the local fields. The roof is ribbed metal and steeply pitched, one guarantee that snow will always slide off. There’s a tendril of smoke rising from her fieldstone chimney, a reminder that she’s off the grid and proud of it. It could be a cottage and maybe it was once.
When we were kids, we always speculated that Una was a witch, that she ate children and mixed potions, that she cast spells turning people into frogs and toads. The dares were plentiful to go knock on her door alone at Halloween, despite the fact that she never had a bad word to say about anyone. Bruno and I took the dare one year and discovered that she had full-sized chocolate bars for trick-or-treaters. After that, we were Team Una (although we did debate the merit of continuing the rumour to score more chocolate for ourselves.) I don’t remember Sylvia being around then, but maybe there was a phase in my life when I didn’t care about girls. (Impossible. She must not have been here.)
Today, Una is sitting on her porch, sheltered from the patter of rain. Her porch is closed in and extends across the entire front of the house. I can see her there through the screens, the sunlight making the fat braid cast over her shoulder even more silver than it is. She’s frowning at something, and as I get closer, I see that she’s knitting—or she’s counting stitches and not liking the answer very much.
“Back twice in as many weeks,” she says by way of greeting. “There must be something in Empire that’s caught your attention.”
Is it so obvious that she’s right? I don’t know what to say and she smiles, indicating that I should come in. I leave my umbrella at the door, then sit in the other chair and wait. She counts the row again, then puts the work aside with a grimace.
“What can I do for you today?” Una’s eyes are pale blue and her skin is fair. She looks both delicate and powerful, a woman confident in what she knows and who she is, a woman who has looked in the mirror and come to terms with the battle she must wage.
“I thought you had chickens,” I say, indicating the empty coop.
“I did. A coyote took the last one, just after you were here.”
“You could get a couple more.”
She shrugs, looking tired for a moment. “Not now. I have to save my strength for the next while.” Then her eyes brighten and she fixes me with a look. “But you didn’t come to talk about chickens, did you?”
I didn’t come here to talk about cancer either.
I shake my head and give her the copy of the property transfer and title from Daph. She straightens her glasses and peers at it with as much concentration as her knitting, then eyes me.
“What’s this?”
“Just what it looks like. You own your house again.”
To my surprise, she slaps the document into her lap and glares at me. “You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to make something right, and that became part of it. Aren’t you pleased?”
Her expression changes, softening as she casts a glance over the interior of the porch and the chairs there. They’re wicker chairs that have been painted bright blue, and they have patchwork cushions on them. The inside of the roof is unfinished and the floor is just sanded wood, worn from footsteps and rain. The rain falls steadily on the roof, making me feel that I’ve stepped out of time.
“Of course, I’m pleased,” she says gruffly. “This is my home.” Her eyes narrow. “This is about Patrick, isn’t it?”
“No,” I say and it’s true. “It’s about me, figuring out where I stand.”
She watches and waits, but I don’t admit any more. I want her to be surprised when Sylvia arrives. I also don’t want her to have a chance to call Sylvia and convince her to stay in Toronto.
Maybe I am a meddler like Patrick.
“I could refuse,” Una says finally. “I could decline to be in your debt instead of Patrick’s.”
“But you aren’t in my debt. It’s a gift, free and clear. All yours.”
“You didn’t think that might hurt my pride?”
I didn’t and it probably shows.
Una laughs at me and pushes to her feet. She pats my arm. “I’m not going to turn you down, but you have to tell me what I can do for you in exchange.”
“Nothing.”
She snorts as she passes me, on her way to the door. “Don’t refuse so quickly, Luke. You never know when you might need a friend.”
It’s good advice and I’ll take it. “You didn’t say you were offering friendship,” I say lightly. “That changes everything.”
She grins and I see a younger woman in that expression, a mischievous girl more than happy to issue a challenge. “All right then,” she says. “I always make a cup of tea for my friends when they visit, so you’d better come in.”
I do, and even though it’s linden flower tea, I drink the entire cup.
The things we do for friends.
When I get back downtown, it’s after noon. Daph has parked her dad’s car in front of the diner. There’s no sign of her, so I’ll guess she’s at work. I have a second set of keys, so I open up the place to do something useful—well, more useful than talking to a woman in love with a loser who isn’t me. The diner smells like dust and solitude with a base note of old grease.
But I’m charmed all the same.
I love that I remember this place when it was bustling, full of kids ordering a plate of fries after school or an ice cream. I remember the whispered confessions in the booths and the squeak of the vinyl seats that sounded almost—but not quite—like farts, and how we boys cackled at that. I remember spinning on one of the stools at the counter and am saddened that they’ve been removed and likely sold.
And I particularly love that it’s one of two properties in Empire that Patrick doesn’t own anymore. His price was higher than anticipated, given that it was just for two places of the five listed, but I would have emptied my accounts to make this happen. I’m still in good shape financially, thanks to years of royalties that accumulated and weren’t spent, but the inflow of cash is a lot less than it was. As landlord, I’ll need to invest in this place even for it to pass the health code. Maybe that will clean me out. I don’t much care.
I’ve never owned real estate before. Never felt the need. But this, this kind of feels good. It feels like a solid choice, permanence, roots and a plan. An investment in the future, maybe, or at least a step toward figuring out what that future is.
At least so long as Meredith doesn’t take one look and run screaming back to the city.
To avoid that, I hang my jacket on a hook by the door and leave the umbrella to drip there. I fill an ancient pail with hot water in the industrial sink and try to make this place a little cleaner before she arrives.
Thank goodness Daph thought to get the utilities turned on again.
No one has entirely emptied the place, even after all this time. It looks like Leon and Dotty assumed the diner would be taken over and run by someone else. They left some cleaning supplies and unmarketable chattels like this huge old metal pail on wheels. The tables and chairs are gone, probably sold, and everything that remains is ancient. Turning on the lights does the place no favours, but it can only look better when it’s cleaner.
I get to it. Floors first. I think the linoleum tiles are set in a black and white checkerboard but it’s past time to find out for sure. The detergent is wickedly effective and I consider that it’s probably been banned during the time the diner was closed. It’s good, though, and I have to appreciate how quickly I make visible progress.
That’s motivating.