Chapter Eight Lee
Chapter Eight
Lee
Less than twenty-four hours later I’m in Maine, and no one is more surprised about that than I am.
Although perhaps cab is the wrong word. The battered, sunshine yellow VW Beetle does have the words BUD’S TAXI painted on the side of it in peeling red paint, but on the other side of the car, BUD’S FUNERAL SERVICES is written in a more sombre black, and while I’m a great supporter of the side hustle, I have to admit it doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.
Bud himself is an enormous bear of a man with a rough red beard, who was waiting at the airport for me, holding a sign with my name on.
The sign was on pink cardboard and the individual letters of my name had been cut out of magazines and surrounded with a border of purple glitter.
I think it was supposed to be festive but it looked like something Barbie might create, if Barbie was a serial killer.
‘Wow,’ I murmured, eyeing it – and Bud – with a good deal of suspicion.
‘I didn’t make it,’ Bud grumbled, thrusting the sign at me and reaching out for my cases with a hand the size of a dinner plate. ‘Phoebe did.’
‘Oh,’ I nodded, and the name rang a faint bell, though I wasn’t sure why. When no further information was provided I asked, ‘Is Phoebe your… daughter?’
Bud looked at me, and I could have sworn that for a moment his face took on a panicked expression. ‘No,’ he replied finally.
‘Ah,’ I said, none the wiser. ‘And Nico sent you?’
‘You got his email about it.’
That was true. He’d also described the man exactly and that was the only reason that I got into the back of the potential murder-mobile that, Bud informed me with a hint of pride, was the only taxi in Roseport, the town where I’m apparently meeting Nico.
Those were the last words we exchanged and we have now been driving for over an hour in total silence.
If I wasn’t still slightly worried about Bud plotting my untimely demise (and then efficiently arranging my funeral afterwards, I guess), I would be very happy about it. There’s nothing worse than small talk.
Ten minutes later we drive past a sign that says WELCOME TO ROSEPORT in swirling calligraphy. Underneath this greeting is the information that I am also entering the HOME OF THE WORLD’S SECOND LARGEST POTATO.
Bizarre potato pride aside, I feel my shoulders relax. Okay, perhaps Bud is not driving me to an abandoned pig farm to bring about my grisly end, and now all I have to worry about is seeing Nico. Then again, maybe the pig farm doesn’t sound so bad?
I clutch my handbag, which has all the information on divorce and annulment options that I managed to gather when I couldn’t sleep last night.
I rub my tired eyes. How is it even possible that it’s been little more than a whole day since I found out Nico and I were married? What am I now doing on the other side of the world, having blown up my perfectly nice relationship? Am I having some sort of mental health crisis?
Gran and I haven’t talked since our argument. I left her a brief note explaining that I’d been called on a last minute work trip to the States and arranged for our next door neighbour – a very sweet retired GP with a massive crush on Gran – to check in on her while I’m away.
I text her now. Not a long message like I’d usually send – we even exchange voice notes fairly regularly – but a curt Arrived safely.
Her response is immediate and just as brief. Okay.
It seems I’m not the only one with hurt feelings about how we left things.
Thankfully, I’m distracted from my worrying by Bud, who exhales a grunt that seems designed to get my attention.
‘Downtown,’ he says with a gesture of his hand.
This appears to be the extent of the tour.
Clearly, we’ve hit the middle of Roseport now and I exhale a little huff of surprise. What on earth is Nico doing here?
In the dim twilight, it looks exactly like the kind of small American town you see in Hallmark movies. I press my fingers to the glass, a smile pulling at my lips.
‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ I say, which garners another grunt – this one of approval, I think.
We pass a white clapboard church with a single tall steeple, set behind a picket fence, facing the town square.
A bandstand, which is currently lit with candles and lanterns, is occupied by a group of older people in brightly coloured Lycra doing a yoga class.
At least I assume that’s what they’re doing as they all move into Eagle pose with various levels of success.
More than one of them lifts a hand to wave at Bud as we pass (only further compromising their balance).
He rolls the window down to stick his burly arm out and return the greeting and I’m sure I hear a distant blast of Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ coming from the speakers on the bandstand.
‘Hey, Bud!’ one big voice yells. ‘You owe me fifty dollars. Patriots suck!’
‘Fuck you, Ern,’ Bud growls, and his friendly hand gesture rapidly transforms to a middle-fingered salute as we crawl past.
‘Namaste,’ the yoga class chorus.
We drive along the main street, where a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of buildings line the sidewalks, all pushed up against each other with signs offering ice cream and yogurt and taffy and oysters (thankfully not all from the same place).
The odd window is lit, but it’s mostly quiet, with very few people around.
Old-fashioned black, iron lampposts spill small pools of gold light over the pavements.
Bud has left the window down and the air is cool and sweet.
I can’t believe this is real; it’s like being on a film set tour.
I half expect the buildings to be totally flat, propped up by wooden joists.
After a moment, we turn off onto a long, curved street.
Here the houses are big and more private, set back from the road by well-tended lawns, hidden behind high hedges.
We drive for a few more minutes and eventually we come to a building that is perched slightly away from the rest. There’s a stone wall with a sign built into the corner with a light above it, proclaiming THE HUMMINGBIRD INN in slightly tarnished gilded letters.
Underneath is another, hand-painted sign: UNDER RENOVATION.
As we pull off onto the drive, the view opens up and Bud’s headlights throw out an arc of light, briefly illuminating the building. Three storeys tall, white clapboard, blue shutters at the windows, a wide porch and some sort of climbing plant around the door.
It looks lovely, but it’s quite clearly closed. There are huddled shapes on the porch that must be covered furniture, several of the windows are boarded up, and there’s a tall ladder propped up against one wall; a work bench sits out on the front lawn.
‘Er, sorry, Bud, are you sure this is the right place?’ I ask, but he’s already out of the car, heaving my giant suitcase out the boot. I cling to the handle of my carry-on.
A groan sounds from behind me and I turn, realising it’s the front door being wedged open.
A woman appears, sweeping a torch over us.
She’s in her early sixties perhaps, tall and angular with bright red hair.
She wears a purple silk kimono over a brightly clashing floral jumpsuit and she gives me a thorough once over.
‘Oh, honey, you’re gorgeous!’ she exclaims, delighted, coming towards me with her fingers outstretched. She keeps the torch trained on me, momentarily dazzling, so that I feel suddenly like I’m under interrogation at a black-ops site. ‘And your energy is so bright!’
‘Um, thank you?’ I manage, blinking and taking her hand, which is warm and soft. Rather than shaking it, she pulls me in for a lavender-scented hug.
‘I’m Magda,’ she says when she lets me go, and I try not to look too flustered, smoothing down my shirt.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, still unsure who she is or what’s going on. ‘I’m Lee.’
‘Thanks, Bud,’ Magda calls over my shoulder, giving the taxi driver/funeral director a broad wink. ‘You did good. We’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Later, Magda,’ Bud grunts, pouring himself back into the car and pulling away in a spray of gravel.
This is when I notice a girl standing behind Magda.
I don’t spend a lot of time with children so I have no idea how old she is, but she’s quite small.
Her fair hair hangs in two long plaits, and there’s a smattering of freckles across her nose.
She observes me steadily through brown eyes, magnified behind her glasses.
‘This is Phoebe,’ Magda says brightly.
‘Oh, you’re the one who made the sign for the airport.’ I try a smile.
Phoebe treats me to another long, measuring look. ‘You don’t look much like a wicked stepmother,’ she says finally. ‘Except for the shoes.’
I glance down at my heels, currently sinking into the gravel driveway.
Probably not the most practical choice, but if ever I needed my emotional support footwear it’s today.
‘Um, thank you?’ I say again. I know I’m not the most socially aware person in the world, but it definitely feels like the greetings I’m getting from people in this town are… weird?
‘Phoebe, honey,’ Magda says, shooting her a look. Some sort of silent communication seems to happen between the two of them. ‘Why don’t we go inside?’
I glance at the building. ‘I don’t think I can stay here,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it closed?’ All of a sudden it seems very dark. The ghoulish glow from Magda’s torch is the only light as the sky has rapidly deepened to a sombre navy, the first stars blinking awake.
‘Oh, you’re not staying here,’ Magda beams. ‘Ordinarily we’d love to have you of course, but the whole place is getting spruced up right now. It’s long overdue!’
‘Right,’ I nod. ‘So… sorry, I’m a bit confused. Is Nico here? Nico Hart? I’m supposed to be meeting him.’
‘He’ll be here soon,’ Magda says, and now the brightness seems forced.
Something fishy is definitely going on. Have I escaped Bud’s clutches unscathed, only to be kidnapped by this unlikely duo?
Suddenly the big empty house looks more menacing than magical.
I try to remember the self-defence moves Gran showed me.
The little one doesn’t look like much of a threat, but perhaps she’s a biter.
I eye them both warily, taking a step back.
‘Okay, I think I should maybe go and find my hotel—’
‘There isn’t another hotel,’ Phoebe says. ‘You’re staying with me. Me and my dad.’
A strangled laugh escapes me. ‘That’s kind of you, but no, thank you,’ I take another step back. ‘I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I’m looking for my friend. I’m just going to…’
I grab the handles on my cases and hastily turn to walk away, but as I do, my heel sinks further into the gravel, and my ankle twists. I let out a hiss of pain, and stumble forward, my knee buckling. Throwing my hands out, I close my eyes, bracing for the impact of hitting the ground.
This is going to hurt.
Before that can happen, a pair of strong hands wrap around my upper arms. Instead of falling onto the gravel driveway, I hit the warm, firm planes of someone big and male. There’s a smell I know, a gorgeous, spicy smell mixed in with sawdust, and I peel my eyes open, exhaling a huff of relief.
‘Nico,’ I breathe.
His fingers tighten on my arms and he looks down at me. In the light from the torch his profile is gilded, beautiful.
‘Lee?’ Nico’s eyes widen. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’