19. Mike
MIKE
S ylvia checked on me.
I’m ridiculously pleased by this. When she’s gone, I lie back in the bed and grin at the ceiling like an idiot.
That she came changes everything. That she might give me a forehead kiss is cause for celebration.
That we’re joking about wild monkey sex and showering together is reason to throw a parade.
Her appearance gives me a reason to fight against this stupid virus that has worn me out.
It means she cares, even if it’s just a little bit.
And I’m enough of an optimist to believe that means there’s hope for us having a second chance.
Maybe the lady doth protest too much.
That surge of hope even has me doing as instructed. With more effort than should be required, I get out of bed and head to the bathroom again. I take that shower, making it hot, and scrub down. It feels good to be clean, a sure sign that I wasn’t. Brushing my teeth is a revelation.
Again, I’m amazed. Sylvia saw me like this and didn’t run screaming out the door.
If anything deserves a reward, that’s it – and my sweaty laundry shouldn’t be her problem.
I take the sheets off the bed along with all the dirty clothes and pile them into the washer, breaking every rule of laundry just as I do most weeks
It’s true that I haven’t exactly made the house a home, but I’m not a pig either.
All those years of biology have given me a healthy respect for micro-organisms. You could eat off any surface in this house, even in the bathroom, even after the week I’ve had.
Lauren who once accused me of joining Costco just for the discount on large volumes of household cleansers.
It was not unjustified.
The place might be austere, but it’s not dirty.
I find a clean pair of briefs and some shorts, a T-shirt, and then a hoodie, too. I practically need a nap after this marathon, but I head back to the kitchen instead.
I’m still a little unsteady on my feet, so I feel a lot better when I make it to the chair at the kitchen table.
My phone has charged enough that I can listen to messages.
The oldest one is from Sylvia – as I listen to it, I wonder if the sound of her voice will always make my day.
She could give me directions to hell and I’d smile all the way there, just recalling the sound of her voice.
I have it so bad and right now I just don’t care. I can’t even think that’s a bad thing.
Because Sylvia came to check on me.
There are a bunch of messages from Dierdre and one from my Dad that I decide can wait, then I hear the Subaru parking outside.
I open the door for Sylvia and she smiles as she looks me up and down. “Better?” She’s carrying a lot of stuff.
“Much better. Give me that.”
“Not a chance. You go over there and sit down before you fall over. ”
“Yes, boss.”
“You’re too big for me to pick up,” she says, pretending to be stern but there’s humour in her tone. She studies me as she unpacks a cooler, stacking food containers on the counter. “Your face looks thinner.”
“And my shorts are too big. I must be down a few pounds.” I shrug because it doesn’t matter. I’ll gain it back soon enough. “Looks like you might fix that.”
She’s unpacking enough food for a small army and my stomach growls at the sight. Yes, my mouth is watering, even before I realize all of this must have come from the café.
“Didn’t anyone check in on you?” She’s visibly outraged by this and her indignation warms my heart. There have to be worse things than being under Sylvia’s protection.
“Dierdre from the office. She came over Wednesday and hammered on the door because I didn’t show at work or pick up my phone. When I answered, she took one look at me and sent me back to bed.”
“And that’s it?” She shakes her head when I nod. “You could have called me.”
“I was too busy to call anyone.”
Sylvia looks up.
“Lots of bathroom time this week. I can tell you every single grout line that needs replacing. I compiled a list.”
“Your phone was dead. How’d you make a list?”
I tap my temple.
She smiles, then sets a bowl of hot soup down in front of me. It smells stupendous.
“Merrie,” I say because there are no other humans who can make chicken soup smell this good.
Sylvia nods, then drops into the chair opposite me. “Is that the washer I hear?”
I nod and take a spoonful of soup. It’s as good as I expected, and then some. I feel its warmth slide down my throat and close my eyes in appreciation. “She should put this on the menu. Take-out for the walking wounded.”
“She might.”
I look up at her tone. “What’s that about?”
Sylvia is frowning a little. “I completely called the chicken thing wrong. I don’t understand. There’s no place in town to get rotisserie chicken. I was sure Merrie’s roast chickens would sell like mad, that if she limited them, she’d sell out every night.”
“But no,” I guess.
“But no,” she agrees.
“I have zero objections to whatever resulted in this.”
“It’s a good time to get sick. There’s a huge supply of chicken soup at the café.” She nods at me and smiles a little. “Good planning on your part.”
“That was my great scheme,” I say and she smiles. It’s like I just stepped into the sun from a darkened cave, maybe woke up from hibernation. I stare at her for a minute, dazzled, and her smile fades.
“Go on. It’ll get cold.”
“It’ll still be great.” I just eat for a few minutes. She sits there and watches me, probably wanting to make sure I eat it all. I do.
“More?”
“Not yet. Thank you.”
“Grilled cheese?”
“Not yet.” Our gazes meet and I know I’m not the only one thinking about that forehead kiss. I clear my throat and look away, still yearning.
I do feel about ten billion times better than I did an hour ago. It’s thanks to Sylvia so I have to let her in on our great local secret .
“About the chicken,” I say.
“Mmm hmm?” She’s moving food into the fridge and I just watch her for a few minutes. Efficient but graceful. She’s wearing shorts tonight, which gives me a great view of her legs, and that’s irresistible. I push aside my thoughts with an effort. “I’m guessing you haven’t found Junior’s yet.”
“Junior’s?” She turns to look at me.
“This guy in Port Cavendish who does barbeque. Chickens on Thursday, wings on Friday, ribs on Saturday.”
“How do I not know about this guy?”
“He wasn’t there when you were here.”
“Where is this place?”
“That’s just it. It’s not really a place. I mean he has a place but it’s not a restaurant.”
Sylvia is looking at me as if I’m insane, and it’s a reasonable response.
“I’m not explaining this well.”
“No, you’re not.” She softens that with a smile. I indicate the chair opposite me and she sits down, waiting.
I start over. “There’s a guy who people call Junior. He lives in Port Cavendish.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“He has a huge smoker. Commercial unit. He used to take it to music festivals and agricultural fairs, but that business is mostly in the late summer and early fall. He says he got tired of all the driving. So, he parked the smoker in the little industrial park there. Last year, he started making ribs every Saturday, ‘just to keep his hand in’. No website. No store. No socials.”
“Just word of mouth?”
I nod. “No advance sales either. You’ve got to go down there and line up, first come first serve.
I think it worked because he started in July and people could smell the ribs when they were at the beach.
They followed their noses from the beach parking lot, and ended up getting dinner on the way home. ”
“And then he added wings, and then he added chickens,” Sylvia says with a nod. “What else is on the schedule, just so we know?”
“I don’t think anything else. He works three or four days a week, sells out every night in an hour and likes what he does.” I shrug. “There are worse ways to make a living.”
“Then that explains the chickens.” Sylvia nods. “Merrie did wonder why it was so hard to get the three-pound ones that she wanted.”
“Junior must buy a lot of them every week.”
“Are they good? His chickens?”
I nod. “Very. Probably different from Merrie’s. I think he brines them, then they have his secret barbeque sauce on them.”
“Ah, the marketing power of the secret sauce,” she says, her eyes sparkling.
I could stare at her all night long. “Go with what works,” I manage to say.
“What time does he start selling?”
“Four.”
She winces. “Maybe I can head down and get one for Merrie before we get busy with dinner service one Thursday. She’ll want to try it.”
“I could try…”
“Mike.” She’s adorably cross with me. “You do too much for everyone.”
“But I owe you.”
“No, you don’t. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.” She smiles at me. “I’ll give you a rain check on that sandwich.”
“I’ll take it.” I probably sound too glad of crumbs from her table, but I don’t care. (Just so you know, I’m still hoping for the forehead kiss.)
“Do you have another set of sheets? I’ll make up the bed before I go.”
I tell her where they are, and suddenly feel very tired.
It’s more than physical exhaustion. Maybe surviving the plague removed my tolerance for any kind of garbage.
There’s a barrier between Sylvia and me, and I want to tear it down.
I want to win her trust again. I want to be without secrets.
I want…Sylvia. Not for now, but for good.
She’s halfway out the kitchen door when I ask.
“What was in the letters, Sylvia?” I know immediately that I shouldn’t have asked, not just by the way she goes still, but what’s done is done.
And I want to know.
It’s time to get to the bottom of this.
She turns in the doorway, folding her arms over her chest, her expression guarded. “You really never got them?”
I shake my head.
Something changes in her expression. Is she disappointed? “So, you assume I’m lying about them.” Ah, that’s it.
“No, I don’t, but it makes no sense. If a couple of letters were lost, why are you so angry with me about them? Why didn’t you just call?”
She stares at me. “A couple of letters? How about sixteen?”