Page 55 of The Cabin
The hero is tall, strongly built, and a carpenter.
A little on the nose, buddy.
I read on:…I couldn’t make coffee for shit. This is from the heroine’s POV. I worked early and stopped for coffee on the way, and so rarely make my own coffee. On the weekends, my husband used to make it for me, but now, it was just me. And I couldn’t and wouldn’t make it for myself. It’s not like making coffee was hard or complicated. It was the principle of the thing, really.I think about my pour-over inside. I wonder if she’s had coffee, yet. If she’s awake. A cup of fresh coffee would be a nice way to introduce yourself as a neighbor.
I’m considering this when I hear her front door open. She’s wrapped in a blanket. Sits in the rocking chair, but with her knees under her. I’m standing up, at this point, thinking. I’ve got my mug in my hands, having just refilled it, so it’s steaming.
She glances this way—it’s far enough I can’t really make out her exact expression, but I can feel her longing for coffee from here.
I head back inside and make a fresh batch. I carry the pour-over in one hand and my mug in the other. Head over across the grass between the cabins. I can feel her tensing as I approach. I stop at the base of her steps.
“Uh, hi.” I clear my throat. “Wondered if you might like some coffee.”
Her eyes are green, a deep, dark shade of jade. They search me. “I…yeah, actually, that would be amazing.” She seems embarrassed. “I don’t…I have stuff to make coffee but I…every time I make coffee, it tastes like dirt.”
I lift the Chemex. “Well, grab yourself a mug.” I set a foot on the lower step. “Mind if I come up?”
She hesitated. “I…yeah, sure. Yes. Please. I’ll be right back.”
Rising, she floats inside with the blanket trailing behind her like a superhero cape. Returns momentarily with a big ceramic mug, intentionally lopsided to mold against the hands. She offers me the mug, giving me something that might be the wayward ghost of a smile—tiny, faint, hesitant.
I hold the reusable copper filter in place and fill her up. I then dig in the pocket of my flannel shirt for packets of stevia and a spoon; in the story, she fixed her coffee black, with a little natural sweetener.
She takes the packet and spoon with a quizzical grin. “Thanks?” A question, by the tone of her voice. As in, how do you know how I like my coffee?
I shrug. “I drink mine black,” I say. “I had sweetener but not milk or cream. So.”
It’s not like I could come out and tell her, you know how I know how you take your coffee? Your dead husband wrote a story that seems to be about you and me getting together.
And also, it’s true. I don’t have milk or cream at the cabin, just packets of stevia, mainly because I was thinking about trying to make a cake or something and couldn’t find bags of it at the local supermarket, only a small box of individual packets.
She pours stevia into her coffee, stirs, sips. Her eyes slide closed, and she groans. “Oh my god, so good. Thank you.” A single small hand slips out from under the blanket; the other clutches the coffee without letting go of the blanket, keeping it pinned under her chin. “Nadia.”
I take her hand. It’s tiny, warm, delicate. “Nathan.”
“Well, Nathan. Thank you for the coffee.” Her eyes go to the sun peeking up over the top of the trees. “It’s very beautiful here.”
I turn and lean my elbows on the top rail, mug clutched in both hands. “Sure is.” I inhale deeply. “Peaceful.”
“Have you been here long?”
I shrug. “Couple weeks.”
A long silence. I don’t know how to fill it.
“How long are you staying?” she asks, breaking it, finally.
“Um. Open-ended.”
“Same here.”
I have a thousand questions, and none of them is anything I can ask.
“These cabins look like they were built by the same person.”
“They were,” I say. “Local fella named Roger Klupinsky.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Sure are. He was a real craftsman.” I knock on the beam, reach out and tap the join where the upright meets the overhang of the roof. “These joins are seamless. The floors, too. Everything is just this amazing craftsmanship you don’t see anymore.”
“Sounds like you say that with professional knowledge.”
I nod. “I’m a carpenter.”
“Houses?”
I shake my head. “Movie sets, things like that. I also do some carvings on the side, and that’s what I’ve been doing mostly, lately. Taking time away from work.”
“What do you carve?”
I glance at her. “I got a couple over in my cabin. I can show you some?”
She nods, smiles. “Sure.”
“Be right back.”
I leave my coffee balanced on the railing, amble over to my cabin. I’ve got four completed, and I grab them all. Bring them back to her cabin. I line them up on the floor near her feet, step back and sit on the top step.
