Page 59 of The Cabin
I just laugh. “Hey, a woman who can eat like she enjoys it is a good thing, in my book. Don’t be lookin’ to me for judgment on that score.”
She sighs, seeming relieved. “I guess I just don’t want to seem—”
“Seem however you are. If you’re hungry, eat. That’s it.”
She smiles. “Thank you.”
I just wave, because there’s nothing for her to be thankful for. I take seconds myself; offer her more bread, more wine. By the time we both put our forks down and sit back, the pasta is nearly gone, and most of the bread. We’re savoring the last few sips of wine, along with the sunset.
I don’t know what to say. How to start a conversation. It’s been so long, and I’m out of practice.
The food gone, the last sips of wine finally gone, I can feel Nadia getting restless.
I stand up. “Thank you for dinner,” I say.
She stands up too. “Thank you for the wine and the bread.”
Silence.
“I should, um…” she starts.
“Nadia, listen.” I have no clue what I’m about to say. Something dumb, probably. “Don’t be polite. Just say what you mean.”
“I don’t want to be rude.”
“I’d rather rude honesty than anything else.”
A nod. “In that case, I think it would be best if we say good night, now.”
I grab my bowl; there are two pieces left. I laugh, and take one. “Here. No point leaving one piece left.” She grins and takes it. “Now, I’ll say good night. See you around.”
I don’t look back, just take my bowl and the empty bottle and she goes inside.
Again, I wonder if I should tell her I knew Adrian. That Adrian gave me his last book. But how do you start that conversation? When’s the right moment? In his letter to me, he specifically said she wasn’t ready yet.
Damn you, Adrian. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You should’ve picked someone else.
I don’t even know what this is. Other than two fucked-up, broken people living next door to each other.Watercolors & John DenverFor the first time I can remember since Adrian died, I manage to sleep. Maybe it was the full belly, for once. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was…well, I can’t even say conversation because I didn’t really talk with Nathan all that much. It was just a shared meal between friends. But I have to admit that it did something to soothe the yawning gape of loneliness in me.
So, I fall asleep quickly, and I sleep in. It’s…well, there are no clocks in the cabin, on purpose I think, so I have no clue what time it is. Midmorning, judging by the sunlight streaming in the windows. I get out of bed slowly, lazily. Change into, well, not pajamas, but loungewear, you might call it. Cozy, soft leggings, a T-shirt, and a zip-up hoodie. Barefoot. I stare at the coffeemaker on the counter in the kitchen, which seems to mock me.
Adrian used to find it hysterical that I was so bad at making coffee. I’ve never understood it myself, but I’ve long since accepted it as a fact and learned to live with it. Mainly because I always had Adrian to make it for me, or coffee shops.
Now, out here, I just have to learn, I guess. Finally.
I attempt it—remembering Adrian’s formula. Two scoops of grinds per ounce of water. Not too coarse, not too fine. Add water. Turn it on.
Simple.
Only, I must have over-ground it or miscounted, because when it finishes brewing, twenty minutes later, it’s so thick you could cut it with a knife, so black and so strong you could strip paint with it.
Dammit.
Exasperated, I go out onto the porch, half wondering if I could somehow persuade Nathan to make me some without having to come right out and ask.
I find, sitting on the porch in front of my door, a large green thermos, like my dad used to take hunting on the weekends. There’s no note, but it’s full of Nathan’s amazing coffee.
Anyone can make coffee, but there is, as he said, an art to making good coffee. And this? It’s the best coffee I’ve ever had. I’ve had Italian espresso pulled by master baristas in world-famous coffeehouses, and this is just…magnificent. Bold, but not overpowering. I add a little sweetener, stir it up, sit on the porch and sip.
His truck is gone.
I refuse to let myself wonder where he is—it’s no business of mine.
I leave my coffee to cool—it always drove Adrian nuts that I like to let my coffee cool off of scalding. I head up to the loft and peruse the books; I choose a Lee Child thriller. Something different—I usually read romances or something similar, easy beach sort of reads. My job is stressful enough that I don’t want to be stressed by my pleasure reading.
