Elsie
Chapter Five
I’d opened every window in every room and yet the house still smelled overwhelmingly of must.
Despite it being only mid-September, there was already a chill to the air signaling the brisker days to come, which normally I loved.
But this house had a way of being colder than the actual temperature outside—a quaint side effect of being built before modern day wall insulation—which meant I was freezing.
On the plus side, I’d walked away from my morning excursion with a caffeine buzz and newfound inspiration for my novel.
I hadn’t known what story I was going to tell when I fled my life to come to Colbridge, but apparently Will Hughes served as the perfect muse. For the antagonist, that is.
Something about his unwavering scowl and scoffs of impatience really set my creative gears in motion.
Adjectives screamed out to me as my hands ached to put pen to paper and describe him.
Or fingers to keyboard. Whatever platform, as long as I could purge my subconscious of the overwhelming feelings that encounter left me with.
The truth was, I didn’t hate him. I didn’t even know him. In fact, I probably should thank him for giving me my first bit of inspiration I’d had in weeks. Before he fired me up with all this emotion, I’d been like a dried-up well when it came to creativity.
The three-month deadline I’d set for myself loomed over me. Not only did I not have funds to stay longer than that, but I simply wouldn’t let myself waste any more time.
I could sulk, cry, write—do whatever I wanted for that long, but I wouldn’t waste another minute of my life past that.
I was twenty-six, goddamn it. I needed a proper plan of action.
If I hadn’t produced a novel in that amount of time, or at the very least, a substantial start—then I would call it quits.
On my writing career. On Colbridge. And pretty much on all hope of not becoming my mother’s clone in general.
No. I’m not thinking about the backup plan until I absolutely have to. How could I ever finish anything if I had already planned to fail?
But despite having been a writer for most of my career, it was far different to come up with ideas out of thin air than it was to write a local news story or a college essay with clear cut prompts.
Still, I needed to start somewhere. What better way than putting myself directly into the story.
Writing about my own experience from a fictional lens point.
It was basically journaling. I never had to do anything with it.
It would just be my practice manuscript.
And I was itching to write about the handsome, angry man who was trying to run my poor, down-on-her-luck heroine out of town.
Grabbing my notebook and emotional support Pilot fine point gel pen, I situated myself out of the cold house and onto the porch swing that was bathed in a glorious patch of midday morning sunlight.
With one leg resting underneath me and the other being used to kick off the ground, I started scribbling, jumping right off into the meeting with the hero.
Ellie (because that name wasn’t too on the nose) had been in town for only a morning before a man decided to try her last nerve.
If it had been at any other point in her life, Ellie might’ve taken it tongue in check.
She’d always be unusually adaptable to the tumultuous circumstances of life.
But now? Well, unfortunately she’d already hit her limit for bullshit, and she wasn’t going to be taking any more of it in the town she’d chosen to be her refuge.
Not even from someone as handsome as Hugh (Again, maybe on the nose, but it wasn’t as if anyone would ever read it).
He was attractive, like all the best villains are—in an infuriating way that only highlighted how unfavorable the rest of him was.
His hazel eyes might’ve been alluring, if they weren’t set against the deep scowl that she had a feeling never strayed too far from him.
His build might’ve been strong and solid, but the indifference that radiated off him in thick waves was off-putting enough to quantify as his own personal repellent.
“Why are you here?” he asked her, staring her down like a wolf cornering its prey, only to find that the fox it had cornered had a bit more bite to it than he’d been expecting.
He didn’t deserve to know, Ellie thought to herself. He didn’t deserve to know her backstory was the pathetic story he probably assumed it was.
How her true love’s words the night before she left were still echoing around in her head.
“I don’t know if I still love you.”
Ellie had laughed.
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
“No,” I said, slamming the notebook shut. That was enough writing for the day. For the week. For the century—
“No, what?” a voice answered, causing me to jump to a standing position and let out a pathetic yelp.
To the right of me, directly next to the porch, stood a man dressed in grass-stained jeans and a plaid button up leaning against a lawn mower.
“Who are you?” I asked the creep standing in my yard, eavesdropping on my private conversations with myself.
“Wayne,” he said. Half of his face contorted in confusion, as if I were the idiot for asking.
I laughed incredulously.
“I’m gonna need a bit more information here, Wayne.”
“I’m the landscaper.” He quirked a brow.
“Landscaper? I didn’t hire a landscaper.”
“You didn’t. Will Hughes did.”
“He what?”
“Yeah, he’s had me mow the lawn here the last five years. Since he got too busy to do it regularly enough and he didn’t want Mr. Briggs tripping over the weeds.”
Oh. That made more sense.
“Well, I’ve just rented the property, so I’m sure Will wouldn’t want to waste his money having you do the upkeep for someone he doesn’t know.”
And doesn’t like.
The landscaper shrugged.
“I got paid to do it, so I’m doing it. And if I were you, I wouldn’t get in the way of a free lawn mowing.”
Fair enough.
“Okay, I’ll just—” I pointed lamely at the front door, “leave you to it.”
“Alright,” he said and started up the loudest engine known to man.
Lovely, I thought. Another gift from Will Hughes.
With all the windows open, the noise of the lawn mower was deafening. Still, I pushed through with writing, having been accustomed to busy newsrooms and college common rooms to get work done.
But when the chorus of American Pie started blaring from a speaker outside, I groaned and closed my notebook for good. The engine, combined with the landscaper’s off-key singing, was too much of a distraction even for me to get anything done.
The afternoon drew on, and after a handful of eighties hits, the scent of grass and the thought how can he still be mowing the lawn? It’s really not that big—the racket finally ceased.
I exhaled in relief, figuring he’d finished his business and would be on his way. Certainly, it would be the last time I ever saw him. I hardly doubted Will would be too happy once he realized his mistake and paid for a service I’d supposedly benefit from.
If only he knew.
I opened my notebook once more, ready to dive back into my story when—
“What are you doing?” I jumped, clutching my chest at the sight of the landscaper standing in the house.
I’d been vaguely aware of the back door opening and closing before he was standing right there, walking through the kitchen.
“Using Mr. Briggs’s bathroom.” Again, his face quirked up in confusion.
“It’s my bathroom,” I countered.
“I always use it when I work here. You’re not denying a man the right to empty his bladder, are you?”
“No!” I sputtered. “But you could have knocked!”
“Why would I, when I know the backdoor doesn’t lock?”
“It what?”
“Yeah, it’s been busted for at least a year now. No one’s ever bothered fixing it, what with Mr. Briggs’s being gone and what not.”
“How could they rent out a house that doesn’t have working locks?” I said shakily, thinking about the supposed murder that took place here.
Maybe if someone had fixed the lock, it wouldn’t have happened!
And here I thought a small town in Massachusetts would be safe.
“Hey, lady, listen,” he said. “If you have a problem, take it up with Will. He handles stuff like this.”
Stuff like what? Complaints from aggravated women?
I most certainly would not be taking anything up with him.
“Besides,” he shrugged, “it’s not like you need a lock here in Colbridge. It’s the safest town in the US, save for that murder business the ladies love to chat about.” He chuckled deeply.
I gasped, finding it deeply disturbing that the man tending to my lawn was finding humor in the crime that occurred in this very house.
“You know what!” I told him. “Fine. Fine. I will take it up with Will Hughes. At the very least, he can point me in the direction of someone to fix the damned doors!”
Maybe he’d even inspire a new scene for my story, at least.
“Yup, you do that, lady,” the landscaper said before slamming my bathroom door shut behind him while humming the tune to Jessie’s Girl.
Screw it, there wasn’t anything valuable in here to worry about leaving him alone. Grabbing my bag and the keys (even though I apparently didn’t even need them!), I headed back out into the heart of Colbridge, searching for the only man capable of solving my problems.