Chapter 15 Viking-Style Funeral Send-Off
Viking-Style Funeral Send-Off
Lainey woke up alone in Elliot’s bed beside a cold pillow and below a wet dog nose that was sniffing her forehead with the strength of a Dyson vacuum.
Waffle extended his chin for a scratch. She dutifully complied as she sat up and finally let her feet meet the stone tile.
The dream was officially over, and she was due for a shower.
She wasn’t sure if Elliot wanted to see her when he returned from his run or if she was supposed to go about her day pretending like nothing’d happened between them.
She’d never done the let’s-bang-it-out-of-our-system thing before.
Was mutual denial an essential element of this one-time experience?
At some point in her deliberations, she decided that if she was going to pace in circles anyway, feeling like the sexual equivalent of a single-use plastic water bottle, she wanted to be holding a chainsaw.
Now that she’d seen the stag, she couldn’t unsee it.
All morning, Lainey sat on her stool, carving with slow, deliberate movements.
With her headphones on and the gentle breeze off the lake lifting strands of her hair and cooling her skin, time melted around her as she worked.
Until a shadow approached at the corner of her eyeline, crowding into her view of the lake.
Brown fur galloped in her direction—Waffle—with a man in jeans and a worn slate-gray T-shirt trailing behind—Elliot.
She killed the chainsaw and set it on the ground in front of her sculpture.
“Definitely a stag,” he commented, pointing at the wooden creature in front of her. His voice reverberated inside her like a plucked string.
He stood so close to her, seemingly unaffected by last night. Was it possible it was nothing but a horny and achingly detailed lucid dream that’d been so realistic she could still feel his breath on her collarbone as he murmured, I knew it would feel like this. I knew it from the second we met.
“Did you eat today?” he asked, casual. Cool. Her jealousy over his apparent nonchalance bore a physical weight.
She shook out her shoulders, taking stock of her body as she considered his question.
“I forgot.” She had a tendency to do that when she got lost in a project, and today she’d woken up with an immediate instinct.
Gran had always called that look in her eyes her “spark of inspiration,” but to her, creativity had never felt like a power source.
It was something buried in the cavern of her chest. A hidden secret waiting to be unearthed.
For her, creating didn’t fuel. It took. The making was a choice.
A belief that the thing rooted deep inside her had the potential to exist as something tangible if she had the courage to make it so.
The drive was invigorating but also bad for her executive functioning and chronic condition. When she failed to take care of her body, her body had a tendency to retaliate.
He handed her the water bottle in his hand. “Drink.”
It was as if the prompt had reminded her body it was dying of thirst. She drank so quickly, water dribbled down her chin.
“I have a surprise for you.” He tilted his head toward the woods between his property and hers. Or she supposed it was all “theirs” for the time being.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You pulled cabin three out of the lake?” she asked.
“Uh, no.” He stared off in its direction, as if he could move the cabin fifty feet from the shoreline with his eyes. “I’m halfway considering giving that bad boy a nice shove and sending it off with a Viking-style funeral.”
“Ooh, I’m very in favor of that plan. This might surprise you to hear, but I’m pretty decent with a bow.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all, actually.” He moved his body right up to the edge of her stool. Near enough to send a tiny zip of electricity running up her back.
“The surprise involves me making you dinner,” he told her, inching closer until his thigh notched between her knees. “In a cabin that houses zero turtles, but has a floor and walls and a fully operable plumbing system for the first time in probably a decade.”
She lifted her chin. “Walls. Wow. Five-star accommodations.”
“Only the best,” he responded, then he lowered his face to meet hers. “Have dinner with me.”
He said it just like that. Not quite a question. Not quite a demand. But the invitation seemed to carry more significance than just eating separate dinners near each other like they did every other night.
She hadn’t been able to pin him down, the way he moved so easily between anxiety and confidence.
She was seeing it now. It was vulnerability.
It was honesty. He didn’t conceal his feelings or hide parts of himself.
Sometimes Elliot was shy and nervous, and sometimes he knew exactly what he wanted.
She supposed everyone felt that way, but most people she knew—including herself—blustered enough to hide their weak spots. Not Elliot.
He waited for an answer, holding her still with that will-shattering gaze of his.
“Okay, Hodges,” she agreed, a smile blooming on her cheeks. “I’ll see you later for dinner?” Elliot didn’t move. She was determined not to squirm.
“It’s five p.m. You really have no concept of time when you’re out here, do you?”
She eyed the position of the conspiratorial sun. She supposed she was starting to feel a bit worn down—off—and there was a dull heaviness building at the front of her skull that she wasn’t exactly thrilled about.
She stood from her stool, which reminded her that she’d also forgotten to pee. After requesting fifteen minutes to get her shit together, she agreed to meet Elliot at cabin one for dinner.
She ran up to the house for the world’s fastest shower, then stood in front of her closet, dumbfounded.
A fitted skirt was trying too hard. Coveralls was trying too little.
She opted for a billowy cotton dress that provided the requisite amount of sexual plausible deniability that the evening required.
Her palms tingled as she wandered down the dirt path between the properties.
The trail was worn and familiar, a route she’d traveled hundreds of times, but as she walked, something in the air felt crisp and new.
The sun slanted low in the sky, dipping the tips of April’s naked trees in warm amber.
It was the kind of late-spring night that smelled like the beginning of summer.
The kind that teased meandering boat rides and lazy days at the beach.
These were her favorite days. These and the sweaty ones, smack dab in the middle of summer, when there was nothing to be done but stretch yourself out on a dock and wait for the sun to set. Those were the only days Timber Creek made sense to her.
The shimmering twinkle lights bracketing the cabin silhouetted Elliot and Waffle. Elliot was in olive chinos and a button-up with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. The cotton dress had been the correct choice.
“What do you think?” He adjusted his glasses.
She blinked. The lights continued to shimmer behind her eyelids even when they were shut. “It’s beautiful,” she offered.
“I know you like outdoor spaces. We can get chairs. Whatever you want.”
She pressed her hand against the wall to remove her shoes. “Cool.” She wasn’t sure why she should care about a cabin at a resort that didn’t belong to her, but she appreciated Elliot’s passion for the customer experience.
She followed him inside to the main living area.
“It’s definitely small, but it’s not that much smaller than Forest’s Bridge if you really look at it.” Waffle followed them as Elliot guided her through the space, his hand gentle yet firm at the curve of her spine.
There were parts that looked just as they had the last time she’d come over to help him with renovations—the rough-hewn log walls and exposed wood ceiling (now weatherproof, thanks to their roofing skills)—but now the corner sink was surrounded by a small kitchenette of laminate cabinets and an apartment fridge that was a bit too small for the space.
There was an empty spot where the range would go, and in its place on the floor were empty boxes and a toolbox.
Warm-toned vintage rugs covered almost every inch of bare floor.
There was a small pine table with mismatched wooden chairs and a red couch at the center of the room with a dog bed off to the side, where Waffle turned around six times as though he were searching for the pea under his mattress before plopping down to rest.
“This cabin is more open, so we have more freedom with how we configure it.”
“Shots fired at Vincent,” she said with a wry tone, sitting herself down on the couch. He pulled a glass bottle out of the mini fridge. “I don’t really—”
She started her usual spiel about alcohol, how it didn’t agree with her body—especially today, as she’d been flirting with migraine pain since she woke early to a wet snout on her forehead—but Elliot cut her off with a head shake.
“It’s sparkling water. Which is the only kind of water they offer at Grocer’s Daughter, by the way.”
Lainey snort-laughed. “Tell me you were not gullible enough to shop at Grocer’s Daughter.
” Grocer’s Daughter—a fine foods store owned by Lois Novak, the bored daughter of Albert Novak, inventor of the candy mold for Swedish Fish—was the most “them” store of all the “them” stores to ever “them.” Its hours were astonishingly irregular, opening sometime in the spring on intermittent weekdays at times completely dependent on the outcome of Lois’s morning Vinyasa yoga practice.
It was the kind of place where a request for truffle butter popcorn was met with “Which one?” The store wasn’t for Timber Creek, but rather its interlopers. The likes of her and Elliot didn’t belong within two feet of its mushroom cultivation chamber.
“We, Elaine Davis, are celebrating, and that means an overpriced roast that I’m cooking within an inch of its life in an Instant Pot because I still need to get the range hooked up.”