Chapter Nineteen
Martina
I can’t stand eating in silence. So I talk. I talk about Charlie, but not too much. And Asher and Charles. I also tell him about my niece.
“Why do you call her Bug?” he asks.
“Her real name is Darla. Asher named her after our mom. Ever since she was little, she’s been fascinated with insects. She’s a real lifesaver when there’s a roach or spider in the house, which happens a lot in Florida. I’m petrified of bugs, but she has no problem with them.”
“And Bug’s mother? Is she in the picture?”
I shake my head. “She gave up all parental rights. In fact, she wanted to have an abortion. Asher talked her out of it. He said he wanted to raise the baby all on his own. He was twenty-seven and our dad had just died. I think he was secretly hoping for a boy since he was already stuck with me. But the moment she was born, he was entranced. He loves that kid so—” It dawns on me what I’ve been rambling about. “Aw, dang it, there I go again. Sorry.”
He waves off my concern. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”
I almost spit out my wine. “Are you kidding? Dallas, I absolutely have to walk on eggshells around you. You’re the most mysterious, closed-off, confusing man I’ve ever met. You live in a remote cabin with a secret room. You have a tragic past. A cell tower you installed so you could work up here for, what… ever?”
Without a single display of emotion, he pours himself another glass of wine and tops mine off. “So about that secret room.” He looks at me like a parent scolding a child. “You’ve been in it.”
Guilt washes through me at the invasion of privacy. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was bored with you being gone half the time. But in my defense, you never explicitly said I couldn’t go in there. And, might I say, you’re one super talented dude. Your artwork is amazing.”
He glances over at the door. “Nothing in there is mine.”
“Not yours? Then who—” When realization dawns, I stop cold, not needing to put my foot in my mouth any more than I already have.
I sit back in my chair, feeling ten shades of regret. All those sculptures and paintings were created by her . His dead wife. The woman in the picture whose name I still don’t know.
“I’m… jeez, wow. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy like that.”
“It’s fine.” He stands, taking our empty plates to the sink and starts washing.
I turn. “The water still works?”
“Water and toilet. I’m on well and septic, and the water pump has a battery backup. It’ll work just fine. It just won’t get hot.”
“Well, that’s a relief. On both counts. For a second I thought we’d have to go outside to do our business like Bex.”
His shoulders shake in silent laughter. They do that a lot. I get the idea he doesn’t like to laugh, but that sometimes it just happens spontaneously.
After he cleans up and I package the leftovers, I stare at the massive amount of food. “What should we do with it now that the fridge is out?”
He goes into the hobby room and comes out with two large coolers. “We’ll put all the refrigerated stuff in here and then fill them with snow. We’ll just have to keep doing it a few times a day and drain out the water. As long as we don’t open the freezer, everything in it will keep for a few days. You never know, maybe the weather will break and I’ll get my propane delivery by then.”
Sudden sadness washes over me. If the weather breaks, that Luther guy will be up here with a tow truck. He’ll take me into town, I’ll rent a car, and that’ll be it.
Will Dallas even think about me when I’m gone? Or will he just regret me?
“You okay?” he asks.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
He hands me one of the coolers. “You want to fill this up halfway with fresh snow? Ice would be better, but I don’t want you anywhere near the pond.”
I try not to smile. He’s worried about me. He’s protecting me.
While scooping snow into the cooler, I take note of its consistency. It’s heavy and wet and seems to clump in my hands. My cold lips curl up into a sinister grin. I pack snow tightly between my hands, forming a snowball, then I place it on top of the rest of the snow inside the cooler. I take it back inside, set the cooler down, open the lid, take my weapon out and launch it at Dallas, hitting him square in the back.
He spins and looks down at the chunks of snow, amused. “Did you just throw a snowball at me?”
“I did indeed,” I say, with zero regrets. “And you now have the distinct honor of being the first person I’ve ever hit with one.” A thought occurs. “Hey, why don’t we go outside and work off some of those calories? We can have a snowball fight.”
He thinks about it then turns away. “I’ll pass.”
I walk the cooler over to him, set it down, then put on the warmest clothes I can find, which consist of another one of his sweatshirts, his beanie cap, and the coat I keep borrowing. “Suit yourself. I’m going out.”
“To have a snowball fight with yourself?” he asks over his shoulder.
I roll my eyes. “You’re a party pooper, Dallas Montana.” I pat my thigh. “Come on, Bex. Let’s you and me go have some fun.”
He barks once and trots after me. At least someone is as excited to play in the snow as I am.
I make a large snowball and throw it at the front door in spite, watching it clump to the ground. I’d like to say it came to rest on a welcome mat, but there isn’t one. Dallas isn’t exactly the roll-out-the-red-carpet kind of guy.
I get it. He wants his space. He wants to stay up here and chop wood and read and learn a gazillion languages and, what… stare at all his wife’s creations? Is that what he was doing in there for hours? How depressing. I mean, I know the feeling. After my own losses, I’d sleep with a shirt or a blanket that smelled of them. I was devastated when the scents began to fade. I wanted to keep the memories alive. Over the years, my therapist—and quite frankly, Asher—have taught me how to do it in a much healthier way.
I look back at the house, wondering if he’s ever sought out therapy. I doubt it. Not if he’s been living out here ever since. But I know one thing, if anyone was ever in need of a therapist, it’s him.
Movement flashes in the window and I catch Dallas watching me. I’m not even sure he’s aware that I see him even though I’m looking right at him. Is he daydreaming? Zoning out? Wishing me gone?
I push the thoughts aside and go back to making another snowball, but instead of tossing it at the window—no need to tempt fate and risk breaking it now that we’re without power—I keep adding more snow and it gets bigger and bigger.
I’ve never made a snowman before, but I assume this is how it starts. Too large to hold in my hands now, I put the snowball on the ground and then use my hands to scoop the surrounding snow onto the snowball. But all I end up doing is making it look like a lame, asymmetrical blob. Come on, how hard can it be to build a snowman? Kids do it.
It makes me wonder if Charlie has been playing in the snow. He’s not that far from me. A few hours at most. Surely it’s been snowing there too. He must be even more mesmerized by it than I am. I hope someone has taken him out, maybe even built a snowman with him. I know he’d love it.
But Anita is grieving. Is my son sitting in a corner, forgotten, as his stepmom mourns his father?
My need to get to him is strong. But knowing there are many relatives to care for him does offer me comfort. Surely someone will step up and make sure he’s being well taken care of. Most of her family didn’t even know Charles. They won’t be as distraught as Anita. This gives me confidence that he’ll be alright. My kid is resilient. Adaptable. He’ll be okay. I just wish I could talk to him, assure him I’m here and close and will be with him as soon as I possibly can.
A war rages inside me. I love my son. More than anything. But going to him means leaving here. And over the past days, despite everything that’s gone wrong, I’ve found it to be magical. I’ve found him to be magical. I glance back at the window to see he’s still standing behind it.
Why is that? Why am I drawn to a man who has shut himself off from the world? One who clearly doesn’t want a relationship. One who deals with a houseguest by not being in the house a lot of the time. One who isn’t interested in the future, only in holding onto the past.
Maybe because he reminds me a little too much of the person I once was .
The door opens. “You call that a snowman?”
“Hey!” I bark. “If you’re not going to help out a girl whose only experience to draw on is building sandcastles, then you don’t get an opinion.”
He’s still for a moment. I can tell he’s thinking about it. Come on , I implore with my mind.
When he shuts the door, my heart sinks. But I don’t let it deter me. I’m going to build this godforsaken snowman if my hands freeze off in the process.
A minute later, however, I have company. Dallas has outfitted himself like he’s ready to go into the Siberian tundra. I chuckle, having never seen him in a scarf, but he’s got one wrapped around his neck and mouth, and tucked into the back of his coat.
He holds a second scarf out to me.
I try to wrap it around my neck as he has his, but it’s a futile effort.
“Jeez,” he pouts. “Do you southerners not know how to do anything?”
“Hey, now, that’s hardly fair. I’d like to see you try and put on a wetsuit and go surfing.”
He throws his head back, laughing. “You surf.” He waves a hand up and down my body. “ You .”
“Stop it,” I say, batting away his hand. “Anyone can surf. I’ve even started Charlie in lessons. My friend’s dad has a condo in Cocoa Beach. She has a daughter Charlie’s age. We take the kids there one weekend a month.”
He drapes the scarf around my neck, pulls it snug, and wraps it a second time. Our faces are close. Our breath mingles. He stares down into my eyes. “Seems dangerous.”
I momentarily wonder if he’s talking about surfing, or… us.
“It’s not. Believe me, there are plenty of instructors and lifeguards.”
“Can he even swim?”
“Since he was eighteen months.”
His head bobs up and down. “Smart.” He lowers to his knees. “You’re doing it all wrong. You don’t bring the snow to the base of the snowman, you need to roll the snow, picking up more along the way.” He packs the snow tightly and shows me.
It’s not an unwelcome sight watching his backside as he leans over and pushes the ever-growing snowball around the yard until he’s happy with the size. He rolls it back to me. “I’ll make the middle and you make the head.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I move over near the side of the house to make sure I’m getting fresh snow.
“Marti!”
I look up.
“Don’t go around back.”
I want to tell him I’m a big girl. I know the boundaries. How could I not since he put the logs there yesterday? And since, he’s added even more as if he thinks I’m incapable of getting the point. He doesn’t have to worry. After what I went through, I’m not going near the pond ever again. Yet, there’s a warmth that flows through me knowing he’s trying to keep me safe.
It could be for his benefit more than mine, however. The last thing he needs is another dead person on his hands. I think of poor Abe, sitting frozen in his cabin. What did Dallas feel when he saw him? I probably would have had a panic attack. I’m glad I didn’t go.
“Is this big enough?” I ask, carrying back a… snowman head?
He laughs. “Did you ever see the movie Beetlejuice?”
“Um, a million years ago, why?”
He holds out his hand. “Give me that.”
I hand it over and he places it on top of the middle section. And then I understand. This snowman has the smallest head in the history of snowmen. I stomp over, remove the head, and return to the side of the house to make it bigger.
“Here,” I say when I’m done. “Mr. Snowman architect.”
Rolling his eyes, he takes it from me and secures it to the top. “Not bad.”
I smile triumphantly. “Can you find some sticks for his arms?”
“On it.”
While he’s doing that, I go into the house, rummage through a cooler, and pull out a carrot stick for our snowman’s nose, trying to remember what typically gets used for eyes. I’m not sure I ever knew.
I come outside holding the carrot. He sees it when I approach. “Just make sure you put that in the right spot.”
Heat crosses my face when I comprehend his insinuation. Dallas doesn’t crack many jokes, so when he does, it hits me in all the right places. Especially when said joke is accompanied by a wink.
Then I see he’s used rocks and small pebbles for eyes and a mouth. “Good thinking,” I say, right before jamming the carrot in the middle of the snowman’s face.
I pull out my phone. “I have to get a picture of this.”
“You sure you want to waste battery?”
Holding my ground, I insist, “Dallas, this is my first snowman. As in ever. I’m not going to let this momentous occasion go by without photographic evidence of its existence. Now get over here. I’m great at selfies.”
“I think I should just take one of you.”
“But you helped make it. Seriously, get on that side of him before you realize what a bitch I can be if I don’t get my way.”
He holds up his hands. “Wouldn’t want to see that.” He takes his place by the snowman, who is about a foot shorter than I am.
“Smile,” I say, holding out my right hand to snap the photo while doing bunny ears behind the snowman’s head.
I look down at the picture to make sure it’s in focus. Dallas isn’t smiling. He’s not even looking at the camera. He’s looking at me. And the intensity of his gaze definitely came through the lens. Despite the fact that he ran out after we had sex. And regardless of the unpleasant words he uttered last night, his eyes paint an entirely different picture.
He wants me.
Whether or not he can admit it, his eyes don’t lie.
So regardless of who he thinks he’ll be making love to—I decide I want it just as badly. Because despite Charles’s death, or maybe because of it, I’ve found myself never feeling quite so alive.