Chapter Twenty-Four
To Call My Own
Jordan
‘Is this what I think it is?’ I plant my hands on my hips and look up at the cabin.
It’s obviously a helpful swap-out for the very deep lighthouse conversation, but it is a lot smaller than it appeared in the photos, kind of like when a Tinder profile picture has been taken at an opportune angle, only for the real thing to disappoint. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m pretty sure.’ Rod points to the wooden sign just off to our left. DAWSON FAMILY CABIN. Bingo.
As we crunch our way through the grass and dirt, down the overgrown path up to the cabin, I deeply regret my choice of Chaco sandals. Rod smartly swapped his Birkenstocks for a pair of sneakers he had hiding in his car. I feel some kind of mulch sneak its way between my toes. Brilliant.
The earthy after-rain smell that lingers in the air gets stronger
as we pick our way towards the front door.
The cabin is surrounded by a deep clearing, lots of greenery all around, including lush trees and shrubs, some blossoming with flowers and fruits.
Its exterior is more than a little bit chapped, the wood pockmarked, the three posts out in front of the cabin carved up with names and drawings.
The windows are so grimy they look like they’ve been frosted so you can’t see inside, albeit in a very pleasant, cute shade of sickly brown.
Although not as badly as the lighthouse stair-steps, these creak in complaint as we ascend them to get onto the porch.
The whole thing screams shaggy and unkempt, leading me to believe that – despite the lore – this place has definitely gone overlooked for a hot minute.
‘Where’s the duck?’ I ask Rod while I pick pieces of what feel very much like woodchips from off my feet.
‘You’ll see. Look.’ He taps the plaque posted to the right of the door.
It’s as neglected as everything else, but I can make out the words.
True to Rod’s answer to my question, this cabin was built by the founders of Whittaker, Massachusetts, a couple called Sidney and Daisy Dawson.
The copper duck inside was a wedding gift from Sidney to Daisy, after the two were married right in front of the cabin, right on the path we’d walked to get inside.
That dang duck. The Lonely Planet blogs I’d read hadn’t lied.
‘So they got married, and he got her …’
‘A duck,’ Rod finishes, holding back a smile.
‘It’s town lore. Some inside joke that only the Dawsons will ever know, probably.
Their kids grew up in this house, so maybe the kids, too.
Helen, who owns the ice-cream place, she’s a Dawson, but if you asked her, she’s got no idea.
Doesn’t matter, though. People are obsessed with the duck. ’
‘I couldn’t tell,’ I quip, and my sarcasm earns me an eye roll as Rod reaches for the doorknob.
With a dramatic squeak, the old door swings open, and Rod continues his tour guide spiel.
I like this Tour Guide Rodney. I don’t mind the backwards ball cap sitting on his head all effortlessly sexy, or the deep rumble of his voice.
He’s also a very emotionally mature tour guide, but that part, I leave to think about later.
I’m not here to get into the semantics of what I do and don’t feel. I’m here to rub this goddamn duck.
‘Anyways, I looked it up after you asked me.’ So he did care about my stupid questions. ‘And it told me that the duck is supposed to symbolize community, everlasting love. If you touch it, those things will come your way.’
Rod and I peruse the old, dirty plastic panels hung up around the walls of the empty cabin, each one a different phase of the Dawsons’ lives: a blurry photo here, an artifact from the original cabin there, all captioned in teeny Times New Roman font.
The Dawsons settle down on one panel, and on the next, they’ve got three kids and a town to their name – technically, Daisy’s maiden name, Whittaker.
And at the very end of it all, sitting on a little pedestal at the back of the cabin, is a duck. The duck.
Maybe the end goal wasn’t to rub the thing, but you can tell that’s what folks have done.
Its back is turning gold, in contrast to the rest of its oxidized, greenish-mint body.
It’s about the size of an actual duck, with the detailed facial features etched into copper. A mallard duck, if I’m not mistaken.
‘There you have it,’ announces Rod. My eyes cut his way, and he’s standing with his arms crossed, off to one side like he’s going to give me a moment to have a heart-to-heart with the hunk of green copper. ‘Your duck.’
‘Aren’t you gonna touch it?’ I prompt him, raising an eyebrow.
‘I don’t believe in that kind of thing.’
‘What, luck?’
‘Sort of.’ He blanches a little bit, but shakes it right off. Great, right from Tour Guide Rodney to Battle Fortress Rodney. ‘Don’t really believe in touching it and suddenly finding true love.’
‘You mean you don’t believe in true love.’
I touched a nerve. I curse myself and wince as soon as I realize it, busying myself with a snaggle in my ponytail.
This time, when he goes white as a sheet, he doesn’t just push it aside and move on.
He lifts his hat off his head, shoves a hand through his hair, clears his throat.
‘Just haven’t totally bought into it after everything. ’
I exhale when I realize that this interaction is, in fact, salvageable. ‘Yeah. Me, neither.’
‘Really?’ He perks up a bit, not in excitement, but in surprise.
‘Do I seem like someone who would?’
No answer. That’s all the confirmation I need.
I guess it’s easy to say everything’s so romantic and pretty and cowboys and whatnot in the South, just because that’s where I’m from, and that’s how things are.
I still get it quite a bit from my Reapers teammates, a remark, a joke here and there.
But things are only like that when life doesn’t get in the way. Then, all bets are off.
‘Well, if I touch this duck,’ I cleverly recover, plastering on a smile, ‘maybe that’ll get me started on my down payment towards true love.’
I expect a ‘yeah, right’ from Rod, maybe another bit of fantastic lore like someone kicking it twenty minutes after touching the duck, something of that nature, but instead, he steps forward. His shoulder brushes mine as he meets my eye. ‘I guess,’ he murmurs, ‘it can’t hurt to try.’
We place our hands on the duck. It kind of feels like the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
The duck is oddly warm, definitely a bit sticky, and I know my palm is going to have that disgusting metallic smell afterwards.
What the hell am I thinking? Touching a copper duck isn’t going to save the kind of bad juju I have going on.
I remove my hand with a laugh. ‘This really feels like a stupid summer camp activity.’
‘A little bit, yeah.’ Rod chuckles, glancing back at the duck with a roll of his eyes as he follows suit. ‘Do you feel like everything has changed now that you’ve touched it?’
His tone is definitely jesting. I should probably give him a tacky little answer, return his sarcasm, but I find myself caught on what he’d said before, instead. It can’t hurt to try. I wonder how much he meant that. I wonder what he meant that about, if he did.
‘Well,’ I begin wryly, and there’s a sarcastic reply prepared, sure enough, but all at once, my intrusive thoughts take over. ‘Considering this was supposed to be benefits only, but now the duck is forcing us to hang out together, I think it’s workin’ its magic.’
For a moment, Rod is stunned, and rightfully so. This was never supposed to be anything other than casual, and maybe the last week or so had started to push that line, but there’s no reason we should now. He should laugh, not take anything I said with a grain of salt, and move on.
Except he surprises me in return, because he scratches the back of his neck, and then takes a step closer, right over the line we’d been pushing, like it’s no big deal.
The half-a-head or so he has on me means he has to look down just slightly.
It reminds me of the moment we shared in the barn way back at the beginning of the summer, but this time?
This time, there’s a layer more to the interaction, a layer beyond the physical attraction. And it’s not just the duck.
‘I kinda wonder if – maybe – that’s not such a bad thing.
’ His voice is a low hum, the tour guide rumble now quiet, reserved, just for me.
My body automatically drifts closer to his.
If I get any closer, it definitely becomes real.
All I have to do is close my eyes, and the connection between us – the weird tendrils of emotion that have grown – will do the rest. His warm brown irises bore into mine, his brow relaxing as he regards me gently, yet with awe.
One of his hands takes mine in his. Our fingers lace their way through one another.
My heart pounds, sounding the alarm. Big, big feelings. Watch out.
I don’t do this. I’m not made for falling. I am certainly not made for throwing my heart into someone else’s care to risk it being stomped underfoot.
‘I should be getting back.’ I let my hand slip from his, check my watch to add some urgency. It feels like a good way to save myself from a potential mistake. Rod’s eyebrows draw again, and his shoulders seem to tense. ‘I told Rebecca I’d help her with some bills and stuff.’
The bills can definitely wait, but Rod doesn’t need to know that.
‘Sure,’ he says. He tucks his hands into the pockets of the unnecessary hoodie he’d thrown over his camp shirt. ‘I’ll, uh, I’ll see you?’
It comes out as a question. Neither of us are sure of exactly what is going on, what to expect. The line is blurrier than ever, and in my mind, that’s a hell of a lot worse than crossing it.
‘Yeah.’ I smile tightly. My pulse is still sprinting, thudding when I head for the cabin door. ‘Thanks, Rod. For everything.’