Page 10 of Breaking the Ice

“I was a winger on my college hockey team,” I tell her. “I was top pick for the draft my senior year before a knee injury benched me for good.”

“Oh.” Is it me or does she look annoyed by my answer?

Trying for a safer topic, I ask, “How long have you lived in Maple Falls?”

“My whole life.”

“I grew up in Michigan,” I tell her. Even though she doesn’t give any indication she cares, I add, “Grand Rapids.”

Silence. I stop walking at my SUV. “Do you want me to drive you to your car?”

She keeps moving. “No.” Then she points ahead of her. “I’m just over there.”

Getting into my ride, I follow closely behind her. I have a feeling Ellie might try to lose me if I’m not fast enough. She stops at a generic-looking sedan and gets in. It takes her nearly five minutes before she backs out.

Once we’re on our way, I let my mind wander. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have only lived in one place my whole life. While I liked Grand Rapids well enough, I didn’t let the door hit me in the backside when I left town. I was ready to see the world the minute I graduated from high school.

I moved to Southern California right after college and quickly became absorbed in the culture, which is like nowhere else in the world. Somehow living in LA makes you feel entitled to beautiful days and beautiful people. It’s a place where looks matter and where you dine is considered a near religious pilgrimage. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed my time there, but I’ve recently started feeling it’s losing its luster.

Regardless of my earlier concern that Ellie would try to leave me behind, she drives slowly. Like below the speed limit. I follow her through an inviting downtown area that boasts signs for a farmers’ market and an upcoming Maple Festival. The more I see, the more charmed I am by Maple Falls.

Ellie turns left at what appears to be the only grocery store in town. A short way later, she turns right into a driveway leading to an older-looking green house. She motions for me to park next to her in front of a double garage.

Getting out of my SUV, I ask, “Is this the cottage I’m renting?”

Her face scrunches up in disbelief. “No. This is where I live with my mom. Your place isn’t even close to this nice.” She takes off down a cobble stone path that leads behind the house toward a wood chip trail that’s been overtaken by weeds.

I don’t see the cottage right away which makes me wonder if Ellie isn’t leading me on a wild goose chase—like Hansel and Gretel being taken deep into the woods by their father.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” I call out.

She ignores me and keeps walking. When I finally see the bungalow, I realize that while not impressive, it appears sound enough. The biggest boon is that it’s in the middle of nowhere. There will be no media circus surrounding me here, primarily because no one could ever find it.

Stopping at the front door, my landlady declares, “Look at the filth on these windows. Still think you’re up for the job?”

I shrug my shoulders. “They don’t look so bad.”

She sticks a key into the front door and opens it. “Oh, they’re bad. You should see the ones in the back.”

A sense of déjà vu hits me hard as I step into the small house. I can count on one hand the times I’ve felt this kind of familiarity being somewhere I know I’ve never been in my conscious life.

Ellie crosses her arms in a belligerent fashion and demands, “Not fancy enough for you?”

“Not at all. It’s very nice.” That’s a bit of an overstatement, but I’m not going to explain my sixth sense reaction. Most people don’t buy into that kind of stuff.

Walking into the kitchen, Ellie announces, “I was going to go to the market today to buy you some of the basics, but now that you’re here you can do that for yourself.” She pulls out a bucket and puts it in the sink before squirting soap into it. “It’ll be easier for you to wash the windows down first before using window cleaner on them.”

“My mom used to do that too,” I tell her. Could we be on the verge of bonding over household chores?

“Have you washed any windows since you were a kid?” She’s back to sounding like I’m an incompetent annoyance.

“I don’t think so. Most guys aren’t great housekeepers.”

Ellie opens the cabinet beneath the sink and removes a big sponge. Submerging it in the bucket, she disparagingly says, “You probably hire someone to do it for you.”

“Is there something wrong with hiring people to do things you’d rather not do?”

She turns her back toward me and tends to the bucket. “I suppose not if you can afford it.”

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