8. Ellie
Eight
Ellie
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that Annie had stolen the sheet.
The second was that she had left me one corner, which suggested either generosity or poor technique.
The third was the fork beneath my pillow.
I pulled it out carefully.
Chocolate clung to one of the tines.
For several seconds, I lay there holding it above my face while the ceiling fan turned overhead.
There were mornings that began with dignity.
This was not one of them.
Beside me, Annie slept on her stomach with one arm tucked beneath the pillow and most of the sheet wrapped around her legs. Her hair covered half her face. One bare shoulder rose and fell with each quiet breath.
She looked different asleep.
Less careful.
There was no small line between her eyebrows. No awareness of the windows, the door, or the phone she had left facedown in the other room.
Just the woman who had alphabetized cheese, bought three pies, and apparently believed forks belonged in bedding.
I placed it on the nightstand.
Annie moved.
Her hand reached across the mattress, found my waist, and pulled me closer without opening her eyes.
That answered the sheet question.
Poor technique.
I smiled into the pillow.
This was dangerous.
Not the sleeping beside a beautiful woman part. That was mostly warm and inconvenient.
The dangerous part was how quickly the cottage already felt familiar.
Her leg over mine.
My shirt somewhere on the floor.
The sound of waves through the cracked window.
The fact that I knew she preferred the cooler side of the pillow and became strangely possessive of blankets after midnight.
I had known Annie for four days.
Four days was not enough time to develop habits around another person.
Apparently, my body had not received the memo.
Her phone buzzed in the other room.
Annie’s arm tightened around me.
It buzzed again.
She opened one eye.
“No.”
“Good morning.”
“No morning.”
“It’s already happening.”
A third buzz.
Annie buried her face against my shoulder.
“I don’t live here anymore.”
“Where do you live?”
“In this bed.”
“With the fork?”
She lifted her head.
“What fork?”
I held it up.
Annie stared at it.
“That could belong to anyone.”
“It was beneath my head.”
“Then technically it was yours.”
“You brought pie into the bed.”
“You ate the pie.”
“I’m not denying my role.”
She took the fork and placed it on the nightstand with great dignity.
“Problem solved.”
“Very mature.”
“I’ve had coffee.”
“You haven’t moved.”
“I’ve had the memory of coffee.”
The phone buzzed again.
Annie’s face changed.
Only slightly, but the softness disappeared around the edges.
“Rachel?” I asked.
“Probably.”
“You should check.”
“I don’t want to.”
“She may have deployed the Coast Guard.”
“Rachel prefers private aviation.”
“That feels less reassuring.”
Annie sighed and rolled onto her back.
The sheet slipped lower.
My attention followed it.
She noticed.
Her mouth curved.
“Good morning,” she said again, in an entirely different tone.
“That’s manipulative.”
“Is it working?”
“Yes.”
I leaned over and kissed her.
Morning kisses were different from nighttime ones.
Slower.
Sleepier.
Less interested in pretending there was anywhere else to be.
Annie touched my face, and for a few minutes the phone stopped mattering.
Then it began vibrating continuously against something in the other room.
We both froze.
“That sounds urgent,” I said.
“It sounds dramatic.”
“Same thing in management?”
“Often.”
She climbed out of bed and pulled on the expensive T-shirt she had given me the night before.
It fell to the tops of her thighs.
I watched her walk toward the door.
She glanced back.
“My face is up here.”
“I’m aware.”
“Professional instructor.”
“I’m off duty.”
She disappeared into the living room.
I found my shorts beneath the bed and followed.
Annie stood beside the kitchen counter reading her phone.
There were nine missed calls.
I could see that much without trying.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nine calls is usually something.”
“Not with Rachel.”
Another message arrived.
Annie read it and laughed.
“What?”
“She wants to know why I’m not at the cottage.”
I looked around.
“You are.”
“She called the house phone.”
“There’s a house phone?”
“Apparently.”
“Why didn’t we hear it?”
We both looked toward the living room.
A beige telephone sat behind a decorative wooden sailboat.
Its cord was not connected to anything.
Annie lifted the receiver.
“Excellent security system.”
“Maybe it’s decorative.”
“Who decorates with telecommunications?”
“The same people who put surveillance seashells in the bedroom.”
“Fair.”
She typed a reply.
“What are you telling her?”
“That I was asleep.”
“Truthful.”
“With my phone on silent.”
“Mostly truthful.”
“At the cottage.”
“Extremely accurate.”
Annie looked at me.
“I’m learning.”
She sent the message.
The phone rang immediately.
She closed her eyes.
“Do you want privacy?” I asked.
“No. She’ll behave better if there’s a witness.”
“That is a concerning sentence.”
Annie answered.
“Good morning.”
Rachel’s voice was loud enough to escape the phone.
“Are you alone?”
Annie looked directly at me.
“Yes.”
I covered my mouth.
Rachel continued.
“You answered too quickly.”
“I’m standing in my kitchen.”
“That was not my question.”
“I was asleep.”
“At nine-thirty?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“You don’t sleep past seven.”
“I’m growing.”
Rachel said something I could not make out.
Annie turned away, but I could see her trying not to smile.
“No, I did not go out last night.”
I raised my eyebrows.
She held up one finger.
“Technically, Rachel, dinner came to me.”
That was apparently the wrong answer.
Annie moved the phone away from her ear.
“Everything is fine. I’m safe. I ate. I slept. I remain unphotographed.”
The last word caught my attention.
Rachel’s voice softened.
So did Annie’s expression.
“I know,” she said. “I promise.”
A pause.
“Tomorrow.”
Another pause.
“I said tomorrow.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
Then she looked at me.
“I might stay an extra day.”
My stomach performed an embarrassing little lift.
Rachel responded immediately.
Annie winced.
“I’ll call you later.”
She ended the call.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I pointed toward the disconnected telephone.
“You lied in front of a decorative landline.”
“I did.”
“That feels serious.”
“She’ll recover.”
“You’re staying longer?”
“One day.”
“Because of the cheese?”
“The cheese made a compelling case.”
I smiled.
Annie crossed the room and slipped her arms around my waist.
“Also, I haven’t tried the coconut pie.”
“That would be irresponsible.”
“Exactly.”
She kissed me.
I tried not to let one extra day feel like a gift.
It did anyway.
We made breakfast out of whatever had survived the night.
Cold chicken.
Bread.
A bowl of strawberries Annie had forgotten she owned.
Coffee from a machine so complicated she read the instructions twice before pressing the only button.
While we ate, I checked the time.
“I have to go to the shop.”
Annie looked at me over her cup.
“Work?”
“Captain Pancake needs breakfast.”
“Hank can feed him.”
“Hank measures dog food by instinct.”
“Is that bad?”
“His instincts are generous.”
She considered this.
“Can I come?”
The question sounded casual.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
“You want to?”
“I have nothing else planned.”
“That isn’t the same answer.”
She looked at me.
“Yes. I want to.”
“Then come.”
Reef Rascal was louder than usual when we arrived.
A pink inflatable tail blocked the entrance. Silver streamers hung from the awning, and someone had taped a sign over the chalkboard.
HAPPY 8TH BIRTHDAY, LEXI!
Beneath it, in Hank’s handwriting:
MERMAIDS MUST SIGN WAIVERS.
Annie stopped on the path.
“What is happening?”
“Mermaid birthday party.”
“You really offer those?”
“Against my better judgment.”
A child wearing a purple swimsuit and a plastic crown ran past us carrying a glitter-covered pool noodle.
Another followed with a snorkel in one hand and half a cupcake in the other.
Annie watched them disappear behind the building.
“I thought mermaids were more organized.”
“They’ve had sugar.”
Inside, Hank stood behind the counter with silver glitter in his beard.
Captain Pancake wore a shell necklace and an expression of deep resignation.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
Hank looked toward the children.
“Craft table.”
That explained everything.
“Where’s Gina?”
“Food poisoning.”
Gina usually handled birthday parties because she enjoyed children, crafts, and chaos.
I enjoyed two of those things under controlled conditions.
Hank pointed toward the back.
“Eight mermaids. One parent. Thirty minutes until pool games.”
“Why is there only one parent?”
“She went for ice.”
“Is she coming back?”
Hank’s silence was not reassuring.
A little girl entered carrying a plastic tiara.
She looked at Annie.
Then at Annie’s white T-shirt and denim shorts.
“You’re not dressed.”
Annie blinked.
“For what?”
The child held out the tiara.
Annie looked at me.
I looked at Hank.
Hank wiped glitter from his beard.
“You brought help.”
“I brought a guest.”
“Same number of arms.”
Annie accepted the tiara.
“What exactly would helping involve?”
The child answered before anyone else could.
“You can be Queen of the Surface.”
Annie looked down at her.
“Is that elected or hereditary?”
The girl frowned.
“Birthday.”
“Of course.”
Ten minutes later, Annie stood behind the craft table wearing a plastic tiara and supervising eight children decorating seashell frames.
She had accepted the role with surprising seriousness.
“No,” she told one girl reaching for the glue gun. “The Queen of the Surface cannot authorize that.”
“Why?”
“Labor laws.”
The girl considered this and chose stickers instead.
I filled a plastic pool near the rinse station while pretending I was not watching.
Annie knew how to hold a room.
She listened to every child as though opinions on mermaid-tail colors were urgent policy matters.
She remembered names after hearing them once.
When Lexi became upset because her frame looked different from the example, Annie declared it an “exclusive coral design” until three other children wanted one too.