Chapter Eleven
The second house turned out to be much more to David’s liking: a split-level in a residential area not far from downtown.
Admittedly, some of the decor was dated, but the rooms were spacious, with good lighting.
The fenced-in backyard, currently empty, was about the right size for a few trees, a shed, perhaps a small vegetable patch, without being so large as to make upkeep unmanageable.
Inside, the appliances and carpets were new, and the living room boasted quite a nice fireplace.
Yes, the quartz countertops were a bit garish, but he could live with that.
The wood paneling, on the other hand, would definitely have to go.
No matter; David liked a good home-improvement project.
A proper one, that is—no nonsense about frescoes or decoupage.
After a thorough inspection of the premises, he thanked the owner and held a hushed conversation with Leonard Flood on the sidewalk outside.
Though he did like the house, and the asking price was reasonable, he found himself held back by something he could not articulate, some sense that the property, though perfectly acceptable, was still somehow not quite right.
Flood seemed to sense his hesitation. “No need to make a decision right this minute,” he reassured David. “Take a few days, think it over, look at some other listings. If it’s meant to be, it’ll still be here when you’re ready, and if not, you’ll find the right place.”
Yes, David decided, that was the most sensible approach. He thanked Flood, shook his tentacle, and departed.
—
Back at Midnight Cottage, David poured himself a drink, a double shot of good bourbon.
Briefly, he considered drinking it outside on the deck, or at the picnic table just down the path toward Mr. Bednarek’s cottage, then thought better of it.
He’d once taken his then-boyfriend to the latter spot for a picnic lunch, only for some wretched little creature to come darting out of the trees and make off with half of the deviled eggs.
At the time, he’d taken it for an overgrown ferret, but now supposed it must have been the so-called Most Weasel.
Instead, he settled for the living room sofa, leaned back into the comfortable cushions, and slowly sipped the liquor.
Thinking it over now, he felt foolish at having gotten cold feet.
Purchasing a home was a major commitment, certainly, but it was high time he left Midnight Cottage, and there’d been nothing the matter with that house.
Perhaps a little positive visualization was in order.
Closing his eyes, David tried to imagine his ideal life, or at least as ideal as was attainable in the near future.
He envisioned himself, several weeks from now, sitting on the sofa—admittedly rather like this sofa—in the living room of his new house—also rather like this living room, but the point was, it didn’t have to be.
Forget the living room, he decided, and instead imagined himself in the kitchen, gloriously alone, free of interruptions as he made his morning tea. Reading the newspaper alone in the back garden. Waking up alone in an airy bedroom with big east-facing windows.
Or perhaps not alone.
That thought came to him as a surprise. He hadn’t allowed himself to seriously consider the possibility of dating in some time.
#74: As with most things, Meredith is to blame.
He ruined all of David’s relationships: Eduardo had made eyes at him, and Omar had sneered at him, which had somehow been worse, and Jintao…
well, all right, Meredith had had nothing to do with that one.
Jintao had been nice enough, but there’d been a blandness and predictability in their interactions that had left David simply bored.
Then, of course, there had been the unpleasantness with Jean-Marc, which had caused him to officially give up on dating.
David was still a touch bitter about that. He didn’t fall for anyone easily. Things going wrong with casual boyfriends had been more an annoyance than a heartbreak. But Jean-Marc was another matter altogether.
He’d been about as close to perfect as David could imagine, or at least perfect for him.
He was David’s exact type, tall and muscular, a former rugby player.
In fact, Jean-Marc had briefly played lock for the Swiss national team.
He was just a bit older, silver starting to show at his temples and in his beard, crow’s-feet crinkling when he smiled.
His dark eyes held a hint of bronze, and when he’d leaned in close behind David and spoken French to him…
Things had been going well, very well. David had finally invited him to spend a weekend at Midnight Cottage.
Then, after one drink too many, Jean-Marc had wandered into the kitchen while Meredith was in the midst of some late-night baking.
From the next room, David had heard the surprised yelp, the distinct sound of someone being struck with a wooden spoon, the indignant cry from Jean-Marc, and Meredith’s voice calling sharply: “David!”
He’d been in the kitchen in a flash, where he’d found a furious Jean-Marc pressing a hand to his face and backing away from an equally furious Meredith brandishing a mixing spoon at him.
“Tell your boyfriend,” Meredith had hissed, not taking his eyes from Jean-Marc, “to keep his hands to himself.”
David had physically thrown Jean-Marc out of the house and his overnight bag after him, and refused to speak to Meredith for the next three days.
Wiping a stray drop of bourbon from his moustache, David set his empty glass on the coffee table.
That thought exercise had rather gotten away from him.
Banishing any lingering memories of Jean-Marc from his mind, David resolved to revamp his online dating profile.
Perhaps in a month or two, he would be waking up with someone in his bed.
Perhaps next summer, a beach vacation to—well, he didn’t much care where exactly, so long as there was a beach.
Cool blue water, hot white sand, a suite in a luxurious seaside hotel where he and the as-yet-hazy vision of his future boyfriend (Maitland Cartier’s nephew?) would return from a walk along the coastline and fall into bed together.
A large bed, big enough for him to lie in comfortably, with crisp clean sheets.
He frowned. That was not quite the direction he’d meant to go in.
Nor did he like the fact that even in this imaginary future, he still could not escape Meredith’s presence, the idea of him buzzing at the edge of David’s awareness like a persistent swarm of gnats.
But he was sinking into the imaginary mattress, head resting on one of the enormous fluffy pillows…
—
David woke to Bianca whining and pawing at his side, and fumbled in the dark to turn on the nearest table lamp.
He must have dozed off for a moment. Perhaps more than a moment—the sky outside the bay window was dark, the moon obscured by thin drifting clouds.
Surely he couldn’t have slept away the whole afternoon.
Uneasily, he recalled the warnings of the plumber that morning, now wishing he’d listened a bit more closely.
But even if the time-twisting effects of the Wood could leak out at its edges, there was no way they could carry all the way to the cottage without undergoing some dilution.
It was true, much to David’s annoyance, that every clock in the place tended to run ahead or behind no matter how often one reset them (an endeavor he’d long since given up as futile), but only by a quarter of an hour, at most. No—he’d simply mistaken the time, or else his watch had gone wrong, that was all.
Still, something nagged at him, the feeling of something forgotten. Ah, yes, he’d neglected to leave the plumber’s invoice in Bednarek’s mailbox.
“I expect you want to go out, do you?” he asked Bianca distastefully. “Come on, then.” He flipped on the exterior lights, took her outside, and reached for his phone to check the time.
It was after ten, and his screen was filled with missed calls and texts from Meredith.
Damn him. If he hadn’t gone on rambling about drawings and dry wine and other such nonsense, David wouldn’t have silenced his phone and forgotten.
(Deep down, he was annoyed with himself as well.
As reluctant as his agreement to their plans had been, he had agreed, and he didn’t back out of commitments.)
David opened his messages.
I’ll be done a bit before ten
you still coming?
David?
I’m locking up the shop now
…see you at the rat cellar then?
He’d called three times; the last text had been only a few minutes ago.
On my way now, David responded hurriedly.
He grabbed Bianca, rushed back inside, exchanged the Chihuahua for his car keys, and scrambled behind the wheel of his van.
He had nearly reached the end of the lane when his headlights illuminated the silhouette of Mrs. Jupiter walking toward the main road.
David slowed and rolled down the window. “Evening, Mrs. Jupiter. Care for a ride into town?”
“Much obliged, Mr. C.” She opened the door and heaved herself up into the passenger seat. Anticipating his next question, she said, “Drop me anywhere you like. I’m going to the Night Market, but I don’t mind a bit of a walk.”
The Night Market set up in an empty lot downtown where the city had razed a long-abandoned haunted schoolhouse, not far from the Rat Cellar. “The Night Market it is,” said David, and then, for the sake of conversation, added, “Stocking up on herbs?”
Mrs. Jupiter straightened her large tapestry bag in her lap. “My regular shopping, and I intend to consult with a few colleagues as well.” She lowered her voice. “There’s something amiss in the Midnight Wood.”
They’d reached the edge of town now, and David slowed as he turned at the first intersection.