Chapter Seventeen
Martina
No way am I going back to sleep. That scream. It was the most guttural, painful sound I’ve ever heard.
Was he dreaming about them?
I try not to think of my own demons. About the times I, too, had horrible, gut-wrenching nightmares. When fear kept me awake and sitting next to Charlie’s crib just to keep watch and make sure he was breathing.
I get up, knowing it’s not even dawn. But it doesn’t matter. I’m fully awake. The hum of the generator and the relative warmth of the cabin tell me we haven’t lost power yet, so I get dressed and start on a pie.
For a bachelor living in the middle of nowhere, Dallas has a lot of basic staples. Flour, two kinds of sugar, baking soda, vanilla extract, and a stock of canned goods that could rival any mom-and-pop grocery store.
Finding some pumpkin pie filling among the cans, I decide to make two pies. I stare at the can and wonder why a guy who doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving has a can of pumpkin pie filling. The near-expired date on the can clues me in on the fact that he had no intention of ever using it. It makes me wonder if anyone else ever comes up here and buys him groceries. His mother perhaps.
With the pies in the oven, I get to peeling potatoes. I make extra of everything knowing that when the power goes out it will be easier to eat leftovers than to cook a brand-new meal. I walk to the fireplace, studying the flat cooking surfaces on the top. There are two of them. A careful touch for barely a second proves it’s super-hot. I’m sure we can even boil water on it if necessary. He thought of everything when he got this place.
When Dallas still isn’t back by the time the pies are out of the oven, I start to worry. It’s freezing outside, and the snow is wetter than before. How can he stay out in the cold so long?
I guess it’s true that you acclimate to your surroundings. In Florida, we get used to the oppressive heat and humidity. Here, Dallas has gotten used to the cold. I’m sure his collection of boots and outerwear helps.
When I think of him, I try not to get too hung up on what he said last night. The words that stung me to my very core. The guy is obviously battling some major demons. I, more than anyone, know he needs patience and understanding.
Instead of dwelling on why I know that, I busy myself with other things. I make sure my phone and laptop are plugged in for when we lose power. I clean up the potato peelings and the spilled flour. I play with Bex. I browse Dallas’s collection of books.
I do everything I can think of to keep my mind off the one thing I really want to do—go in that damn room.
I glance at the door then at Bex, who’s lazing in front of the fireplace.
“He didn’t specifically say I couldn’t go in there,” I say aloud.
Bex’s tail thumps at the sound of my voice.
“What do you think? Should I?”
He momentarily lifts his head off the floor, making eye contact as if scolding me.
“Oh, what do you know? You’re just a dog.”
I pout, staring at the stupid door.
“Screw it. I’m doing it,” I say, pushing off the couch.
I peek out the window to see if there’s any sign of Dallas, which in itself tells me I shouldn’t be doing what I’m about to do. But I justify it by surmising it’s his own fault. If he wouldn’t up and leave every ten minutes, I wouldn’t be here by myself, going bored out of my mind.
I half expect the door to his hobby room to be locked. It’s not. And I’m not sure why my heart rate shoots through the roof when I open it, but it does.
Because you shouldn’t be in here.
Once inside, I look around, confused. This is it? Maybe I built it up too much in my mind, expecting this room to be some sort of sacred ground filled with pictures of his wife and son. But it’s not. It really is what he said it was—a hobby room.
It’s filled with art projects. Sculptures. Paintings. Paper Mache and other small crafts.
Damn, the guy is multi-talented for sure. I guess he does have a lot of hobbies other than learning languages.
I pick up a few crafts and study them. It seems he prefers abstract art as they don’t really resemble anything. But they’re beautiful all the same. The paintings are the most interesting to me. Again, abstract, using a myriad of colors to create almost a visual language of shapes, lines, and forms.
Movement outside the lone window in the corner startles me. I rush to make sure everything is how I found it, but in my haste, I knock something over. “Shit.” I place it upright, close the door, then race back to the kitchen.
Bex’s nails click against the floor as he scurries over to greet Dallas.
“Hey, bud. Have you been out?” he asks the dog.
I crane my neck around the side of the refrigerator. “Twice.”
He removes his hat, coat, and boots. His nose is bright red. He must be freezing. I pour him what’s left of the coffee I made hours ago.
“Drink this by the fire. You shouldn’t stay outside that long. You’ll get frostbite.”
“I’m fine.”
“Tell that to your nose. It looks ready to fall off your face.”
He pulls a kitchen chair close to the fire and sips his coffee, looking over at the cooling pies. “You were serious about this Thanksgiving thing?”
“Of course. Just because we’re stuck here, doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate.”
“I’m not stuck here.”
“Okay, fine. Just because I’m stuck here.”
He stands and comes over, looking at the massive pile of peeled potatoes resting in a pot of water. “Expecting company?”
“I wanted leftovers. It’ll be easier to reheat them than to whip up something new.”
“Smart.” He puts his cup in the sink. “I’m going to shower, then…” He looks at the hobby room.
You’re going to hide some more? I almost blurt.
“Dinner will be ready around two.”
He nods, then without another word, he’s behind another closed door.
Closing doors. Yes, that’s exactly what Dallas Montana does best. He closes doors and runs and hides. I stare at the bathroom and wonder just what he’s running and hiding from. His memories. Or me.