Chapter 10 estrenar
estrenar
That man in the garden . . . he’d said he was locked in. Trapped. And I hadn’t believed him. Had I left him there when I exited the garden and the door was gone? Was he really trapped?
I poked at my congealing macaroni.
Men didn’t just disappear, and neither did doors, and neither did gardens.
It was impossible.
“How many times will I keep telling myself that?” I mumbled to my awful dinner. I’d even taken a long, hot shower, done a face mask, and put on my most favorite and softest pajamas. They were a duck-printed button-down and matching shorts, and I still was in an awful mood.
The storm hadn’t helped, either.
As soon as it had rolled in, it left in a blink, doing enough damage that tomorrow I’d spend half the day cleaning up the debris.
But mostly my mood was because of that door.
And the garden. And the man who, I hoped, did in fact leave, even though I knew in my gut he hadn’t.
I kept replaying in my head the moment when he disappeared, wondering if it could have been a trick of the light or a particularly good illusion—I’d left through the door, and at that moment I had felt the wind shift.
I’d thought it was just the storm coming in, but now that I thought about it, the shift had felt odd.
Wind from the wrong direction—from behind me—causing the door to slam closed.
And then when I turned around, there was no door at all.
Of course there wasn’t. The garden I had seen the first time was in the Hedges, not the Wildflower Garden.
While they weren’t on opposite sides of the estate, they were far enough away that I wasn’t sure how the garden could be in both places.
Actually, I knew it couldn’t be.
Maybe I had hallucinated all of it. The door, the garden, the man with the storm-dark eyes. That would have been a breath of fresh air.
Wouldn’t it?
Frustrated, I dropped my fork into my TV dinner and snatched up the Magic 8 Ball. “Is he real?” I asked and gave it a shake.
The die tumbled in the blackish liquid. If it landed on something positive, would I believe it?
If it landed on something negative, would I take it to heart?
What if the 8 Ball didn’t know, either? The die bobbled deep into the dark liquid and slowly surfaced.
My chest felt tight as I hung on the words it’d give me—
Suddenly, the front door gave a hard rattle.
I glanced up. The wind from the storm?
But then there was the jingle of a key ring, a soft hiss of a curse word, and the doorknob twisted.
A man pushed the door open wide.
I jerked to my feet, chair legs screeching against the hard-wood floor, Magic 8 Ball tight in my grip.
He was tall, dressed in a soft white Henley that stretched tightly over his broad shoulders and light-wash jeans over scuffed white sneakers.
Short dirty-blond hair and an angular face, damp with rain.
The sound of the storm rushed into the cottage, loud and rumbling. His brown eyes locked onto mine.
Surprise flickered across his brow. His mouth dropped open.
I shrieked. He gasped.
I threw the Magic 8 Ball.
His reflexes were fast—and my aim was poor—so he ducked as it sailed over his head and into a thicket of soft weeds in the soggy yard.
“What the hell?” he cried, whirling back at me in astonishment. “You could’ve killed me!”
I batted back, “And you might be here to kill me!”
He seemed utterly offended at the thought. His face pinched. “Why would I do that?”
I stared at him.
He blinked, confused. Then he said, “I stay here.”
“Over my dead body,” I retorted, and then winced because that was not the best choice of words. “Leave or—or I’ll call the very nice fire department!”
He blinked again at that and finally took in the state of the cottage.
The kettle on the stove. The shoes by the door.
The panties drying on the clothes rack over the sink.
The cold TV dinner at the table. His surprised anger quickly fell into realization.
“Oh. Oh, right,” he murmured, his gaze settling on me again, as if I were the odd thing here. “You’re the head gardener, aren’t you.”
“And you are trespassing,” I stated firmly.
He held up his hands and took a step back. Then another. All the way out of the cottage. Then he dropped his duffel on the porch and went to retrieve my Magic 8 Ball. “Sorry … I usually stay here when I’m home. This thing’s pretty heavy,” he added, hefting the black orb.
I eyed him skeptically.
He held out my Magic 8 Ball. “I’m really sorry. Lala didn’t tell me she put you up back here.”
“Lala …? Oh.” Everything clicked then. “Oh!” Eula had said that people stayed in this cottage sometimes. “You’re one of her great-nephews.”
“The good one,” he supplied as I took the Magic 8 Ball back. “Usually.”
“Says the man who just broke into my cottage.”
“Is it really breaking in if I have a key …?”
I narrowed my eyes, and he realized his mistake.
“Right, sorry,” he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. “I—can we start over?”
“No, no, this is going great,” I replied. My words dripped with sarcasm.
He winced. “I’m Oliver, and most days I’m not nearly this rude.” He offered his hand to shake. “Hi.”
I looked at his hand first, and then up to his face.
His eyes were the color of melty caramel, the light from my kitchen catching gently in the blond five o’clock shadow, and his warm smile melted my suspicions of him pretty readily.
Oliver—as in Eula’s great-nephew Oliver.
I guess that meant he probably wouldn’t murder me.
He just wasn’t here often enough to know I’d been here for a month already.
So I took his hand to shake it. His fingers were soft and strong.
I knew mine were hard and calloused, and I wondered what he thought of that.
Then I wondered why I wondered. I didn’t wonder. I wasn’t wondering at all.
Silly, I chastised myself.
“I’m Sophie Drear,” I said.
“It’s a pleasure,” he greeted me. His eyes flickered across my face, lingering so long it began to make me blush, and then he let go of my hand. “I came here as soon as I heard that Lala had sent herself home.”
I inclined my head. “And decided to retire?” I studied his face, watching it shift with amusement.
“You’re sharp, Sophie.”
“Just observant,” I replied, hugging the Magic 8 Ball to my stomach. I didn’t really feel very much like being kind, especially not after he barged into my cottage unannounced. Besides . . . “Is Eula expecting you?”
“What do you think?” He winked. “No wonder Lala hired you. Nice pajamas, by the way,” he added as he grabbed up his duffel. “I like the ducks.”
I glanced down at myself, remembering my attire—worn duck-printed pajama shirt and shorts—and blushed with embarrassment. They really didn’t leave anything to the imagination, not like there was much. I awkwardly folded my arms over my chest. “Thanks . . .”
“Good night, Sophie Drear,” he called as he retreated into the rain again, and back toward the house.
I watched him go. What a strange man. Then I inspected my Magic 8 Ball to make sure it was all right. The die inside bobbed up and down. SIGNS POINT TO YES.
I scowled at it.
“No. Absolutely not,” I told it, and waited until he was but a shadow over the Moon Bridge, and then I closed the door, locked it just in case, and went to bed.