Chapter Four
Martina
The forest is beautiful even though I’m growing ever fearful of a coyote, wolf, or bear pouncing out from behind a tree. I’ve lived my entire life in Florida. I’ve never been in snow before. It’s almost magical. I mean, if it weren’t for the fact that my car is totaled, I’m still not with my son, and, oh yeah, Charles is dead.
I think of my son, Charlie, and wonder if he’s even capable of understanding death. Does he know his dad isn’t coming back? Or does he assume he’s just at work and at any second, he’ll bound through the door, scoop him into his arms as he always did and throw him into the air.
Thinking of the two of them together is so bittersweet now. Their relationship was never an issue, it was our marriage. Anita has been a godsend for Charles—or she was—stepping in as the perfect wife where I always seemed to fail. I’m not even jealous when I think of how she’s become one heck of a stepmom to Charlie.
I sigh, knowing Anita must be going through hell having just lost the love of her life.
Tears brim my eyes and threaten to freeze in the falling temperature. I loved Charles. He was my best friend. Even after the divorce. We were amazing friends, just shitty spouses.
“Everything okay?” Dallas says up ahead.
I walk faster, realizing I’d slowed to a crawl. I blink away the tears, hoping he’ll think they’re from the piercing cold and not because I’m somewhat of an emotional wreck. Catching up to him with my head on a swivel as I scan for predators, I ask, “What did you study at Yale?”
“Finance.”
“Impressive.”
A shrug of his shoulder tells me he doesn’t think so.
“You’re not big on words, are you, Dallas Montana?”
He scoffs at my use of his full name, and I’m not sure if that means it irritates or amuses him.
“Okay, Chatty Cathy. What did you study at FSU?”
“Graphic design.”
“So that would make you a…” His voice trails off.
“Graphic designer,” I say with all the intended sarcasm.
“Touché.” His head shakes. “And what exactly do you do?”
“All kinds of things really. Websites. Branding. I’ve even done some book covers. And I’m not a Chatty Cathy, by the way. It hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park, you know, following you, freezing my ass off, tripping over roots and almost faceplanting into trees, all while Bigfoot may be lurking just around the corner.”
“This is the forest,” he quips. “There are no corners.”
“Must you be so precise?”
“I’m in finance. As a group, we’re nothing if not precise.”
“Touché.” I chuckle. “So where do you do all this financing?”
“Family business.”
He really is a man of few words. I go to dig a little deeper when something comes into view. A car. No, a truck. Oh, please let it be his truck. As we draw closer, I notice the pile of snow accumulated on the hood. It must be close to a foot. But his truck is massive. Surely we can drive out of here.
A few steps more and I see his cabin. It’s much smaller than I expected. Especially for someone who probably comes from money, having gone to Yale and all. He said he’s been here for years. Surely he means he’s vacationed here for years. This can’t be his… home .
By the time we hit his porch, there’s a small drift against his front door and I belatedly notice the wind has picked up. Being that my nose, fingers, and toes barely have feeling left, it’s surprising I’m even upright.
He climbs the steps, and I stop, turning toward his truck. “Where are you going? Can’t we drive to town?”
He kicks the drift away from the door and opens it, nodding back toward the vehicle. “I’m not going anywhere in the dark with this kind of accumulation. Between that and the ice underneath the snow, we’re better off waiting until tomorrow. Now do you want to warm up or not?”
I glance back at the truck, wondering if he’s lying and making excuses to get me to stay. The strange thing is, if the guy is some hermit who hasn’t had sex in a while, he’s surely not acting like he wants to get me into bed. More like I’m a nuisance.
My frozen hands can’t even grip the phone I moved to my pocket. “I’ll warm up while I call for help. Maybe a snowplow can come and get me.”
By the look on his face, I can tell he thinks I’ve got lofty expectations. But he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t understand how determined I am to get what I want. And right now, I want to get to my son.
I feel the warmth even before I get through the door. It hits my face like a welcome breeze on a summer day. Once I step inside, I push back my hood and let the heat envelop me. As my fingers and toes begin to thaw, I vow I’ll never again complain about the hot, oppressive summers in Florida.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold.”
His eyes are transfixed on my forehead. “Let me clean that up for you.”
I reach up and feel dried blood.
Dallas goes over to a large iron stove fireplace thing in the corner of the room, strikes a match, and lights what’s inside. “This will warm you even more.” He pulls one of the two kitchen chairs over near the fire. “Sit here.”
He disappears behind a door— bathroom? —and a moment later comes out, drags the second kitchen chair over next to me, and sits. He shows me an alcohol wipe. “This may sting a bit.”
“I’m a big girl.”
When he touches it to my cut, I wince. He rubs gently then puts a small Band-Aid on it. Then he holds his hand out. “Let me see your wrist.”
I’m actually surprised he remembered after everything that happened. I lay my arm gently on his open palm. “I’ll bet all you Ivy League guys think you can pass for doctors.”
He doesn’t find my joke funny. “No. But it appears I’m all you’ve got.”
I roll my eyes at his impassive expression. His soft yet strong fingers press on every bone and tendon in my hand and wrist. He manipulates each finger, then twists my wrist carefully back and forth, watching my face for signs of pain.
“It’s sore, but not painful,” I say.
“I think it’s just bruised. I don’t even see any swelling, but that might just be because we were out in the cold. We’ll keep an eye on it.”
He lowers to a knee and starts removing my shoes.
“Um.” I pull my foot away. “What are you doing?”
“Your shoes are soaked. They need time to dry. We can put them by the fire.”
“Oh.” It seems I hadn’t noticed my shoes at all. Or maybe I plain forgot when he started playing doctor with me.
“You can stay here and make your calls. I’m going to bring in another pile of wood so it can start drying out.”
Most of my body still feeling like a popsicle, I slump forward and hold my hands out, getting them as close to the flames as I can without burning them. A glance around the cabin reveals it to be the opposite of everything I expected.
The entire side wall is covered in—I squint— wine bottles and books? As in there must be a hundred bottles of wine and at least triple that number of books. So I was right about him. This long-haired, Ivy League hermit is turning out to be quite the interesting character.
My eyes take a brief moment to peruse the rest of the room. It’s large, kind of like a hotel suite, with a small kitchen along one wall, a love seat and coffee table along the other, and a queen size bed whose headboard is made up of one of the large bookshelves. It actually looks quite artistic.
There are two doors to the right. The bathroom he went into earlier, and what I assume to be a bedroom. I look back at the bed, wondering why it’s out here if there’s a bedroom behind door number two. There’s another door next to the front door which must be a closet. The entire place is about the same size as the large dorm room I shared with two other girls at FSU.
The front door opens, and a gush of frigid air comes inside with Dallas, his arms loaded with wood that is still dusted with bits of snow. As he piles it in the corner, I finally get out my phone now that my fingers have regained feeling.
My bottom lip trembles when my favorites screen appears and I see Charles’s name and photo underneath the cracked glass. I wonder how long it will be before I’ll be able to delete it. My brother Asher’s name is on the same screen, along with his daughter Bug’s.
The only other name that ever reached my ‘favorites’ designation is Suzanne, my friend and neighbor who I often swap babysitting duties with when one of us needs to run errands. Her daughter is right around Charlie’s age.
I swallow my grief for the thousandth time since Anita called me yesterday morning to give me the news. Scrolling through my contacts, I find her number and tap it. There are three beeps. I try again. The same thing happens. I look at my service bars to see there are none.
I hold my phone up when Dallas brings in his second load of wood. “I thought you said you get service here.”
He doesn’t speak until he’s meticulously piled every last bit of wood next to the previous load. He gets his phone off the small kitchen table. “No bars.” His head shakes. “My tower must be down again.”
I tilt my head. “ Your tower?”
“Sometimes when too much ice builds up, I have to climb up and knock it off. And I can’t do that when it’s dark. It’ll have to wait until morning.”
I stare him down. “Again, your cell tower?”
“When I bought the place a few years ago, there wasn’t any cell service. I needed to be able to work remotely so I had one put up.”
I belt out what must sound like a ridiculous laugh. “You just had one put up?”
Of course he did. Don’t all Yale-educated geniuses have their own cell towers?
“Kind of convenient that your tower is down and there’s ‘too much’ snow to use your truck.” I use air quotes when I say too much to get my point across. “It’s a big truck, Dallas. You can drive me out of here.”
“Maybe if it were a few hours ago, but now, no way. You see the snow. You saw the ice. Hell, you almost broke your neck slipping on it. Almost lost your life when you slammed into the tree. Yeah, I have a truck. But I’m not risking your life trying to drive you the fifty miles to get—"
“You said thirty.”
“It’s thirty miles to Luther’s auto shop. It’s fifty to get to anywhere that’ll do you any good. There’s a hotel/restaurant/gas station that caters to tourists. Listen, I’m not going to put you in danger. Sleep with the knife. Or don’t sleep at all. Whatever suits you.”
I don’t really have any options here but to trust the guy and hope I wake up intact and alive. “Fine,” I huff and nod to the doors on my right. “But only if you let me take the bedroom and you stay out here.”
He points to the bed. “Marti, this is the bedroom.”
“What’s in there?” I ask, motioning to the door next to the bathroom.
“Nothing.” He turns away and I can’t see his face. “A hobby room of sorts.”
“Great. So you only have one bed? I’ll take the couch then.”
“If you want to wake up in traction,” he says. “It’s not nearly big enough.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
He shrugs. “The bed’s a decent size. You stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine.”
I huff. And huff. And huff some more. “You can’t be serious. Oh my god, this is straight out of some twisted romantic comedy or something. If you think I’m going to share the bed with you so you can get naked and try to charm me with that… thing in your pants,”—I glare at him—“think again.”
He looks down at his crotch. “That thing?” He eyes me like I’m crazy. “Listen, Martina , it’s not like we have a choice. But if you want to give the couch a try, by all means, be my guest. But while you’re ruminating over that, I’m going to whip something up for dinner.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You a vegan or anything?”
“No. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know. You look like a vegan.”
“What the hell does a vegan look like?”
He shakes his head. “I just told you. You . Try to keep up. But maybe that’s too hard for someone who went to one of the nation’s top party schools.”
My jaw drops. “So now I’m a vegan and a lush? That’s pretty funny coming from a guy who’s hoarding enough wine to get through the apocalypse. You really know how to treat your houseguests, Dallas.”
“You’re not a houseguest. You’re a… lost puppy.”
I stomp my foot. It echoes off the plank flooring.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Jeez, fine. You’re a strong independent woman who clearly doesn’t need help from anyone, least of all the likes of me.” He sticks his head inside the refrigerator. “Steaks okay with you?”
“I suppose,” I pout. “After all, don’t all dogs like meat?”
He turns and rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated with me. As if I had any control over the circumstances that led me to being right here. Then he grabs a hair tie and pulls back his hair, securing it at the back of his head before he starts cooking.
And despite having a hundred reasons my mind should be somewhere else, I can’t help but follow his every movement as he cooks dinner.
When he catches me watching him, I get up and walk over to the decorative wall, running a finger across the sealed corks of a few wine bottles. I like to think of myself as a wine connoisseur, but only of inexpensive wine.
I find myself thinking, or perhaps fantasizing, about Dallas sitting on that bed, book in one hand, glass of wine in the other, his long hair loose and falling to one side of his face as his eyes travel across the words on the page. And suddenly… I’m jealous of a book.