Page 30 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
But once I have it, I groan. Right. No cell service.
Somehow I manage to shove open the car door, sending a cascade of snow onto my lap right as I try to step out. The headlights crook at a sixty-degree angle, shining into the trees instead of level on the ground. The hood belches out a hiss of steam.
“Wonderful,” I mutter. I can see the headline now: “Promising Novelist Found Frozen in Alaskan Tundra: Bones Picked Clean by Wolves. Moose Laughs at Her Demise.”
Buck up, Janssen,I tell myself.You’re not going to die in front of a jeering moose tonight.
Unfortunately, I’m going to have to walk the rest of the way to Sebastien’s.
I thought fate would look prettier than this.
The snow falls faster.
I swear at fate under my breath. Then I grab my purse and Sebastien’s book and limp down the road.
SEBASTIEN
She sweeps in on thecoattails of a snow flurry, and there’s nothing I can do about it. One moment there’s a knocking at my door. The next, I’m gawking at her face. And then all of a sudden, she’s in my house, this sanctuary that’s supposed to be mine alone but she has now, somehow, breached. My palms turn clammy at her closeness, my breathing running double time with her so unexpectedly near.
“H-Helene,” I stutter as we stand just inside the front door. She looks like a snowplow swallowed her, then spat her back out. “What are you doing here?”
“I, um, was working at the bookstore. And the novel you ordered came in.” She fumbles in her bag and pulls outThe First Fifteen Lives of Harry August.“Surprise?”
As if that explains what she’s doing at my house. At this hour. After everything that happened on theAlacrityand spending the last few days at the hospital with Colin and Adam and their families, the last thing I am capable of dealing with is Helene and the curse.
Seeming to sense my unease, she adds, “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to jump you or anything. I get that you’re not interested. But I just thought I’d bring you your book, as thanks for returning mine.”
The thought of her jumping me—of her body on mine—sends my pulse racing even faster than it already is. This can’t be happening.Shouldn’tbe happening. I have to get ahold of my faculties, take back control of this night.
To distract myself, I frown at the book in her hand. The bluejacket is creased at the corners, and the binding is damp. I’m particular about the condition of my books. Even the ones I keep in my coat remain in mint condition; they look better that way on the shelf, after I’m finished reading.
But then I look over at Helene and notice she’s putting all her weight on her right leg, while her left foot is cocked up off the tiles. And the beginning of a bruise is forming on her cheek.
Worry overtakes my other emotions. “Are you hurt?”
“I might have crashed my car into a snowbank.”
“What? Why didn’t you lead with that?” I usher her inside.
I know this is a terrible idea. But what else am I going to do? Turn her out into the night, injured and without a way to get back into town? There are bears and wolves out there, and my house is the only one for three miles in any direction, and Ryba Harbor is an hour away. Ingoodweather. From the looks of it out there, a blizzard’s coming in.
It’ll be all right,I tell myself. I’m leaving Alaska on the first flight out tomorrow morning. I have a ticket and a plan. Piñeros will be a great captain in my place, and my lawyer will take care of transferring my half of theAlacrity’s ownership to Adam. A professional moving crew will pack up my belongings here and put them in storage for me. I can handle giving Helene a little first aid, calling a tow truck, and sending her on her way.
I lead her into the living room, self-conscious of how indulgent it appears: exposed wooden beams, a picture window with views of the snow-dusted landscape, a wrought-iron chandelier made to look like antlers. There are overstuffed leather couches, flannel throw blankets, and a stone fireplace at full blaze. But it isn’t ego that drove me to build a house like this; it’s just that my existence consists mostly of waiting for Juliet to arrive and then losing her again. Having a comfortable home is the small solace I allow myself in a life defined by going without.
But now she’s here, in my private retreat, and I don’t know how to handle it.
“Whoa,” Helene says as she takes in the living room. “This is like a five-star lodge in a glossy travel magazine. I didn’t know crabfishermen made that much money.” But as soon as the words are out of her mouth, her hand flutters up to cover the faux pas. “Oh god. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“It’s fine,” I say, sparing her. Crab fishermen do make good money, but notthisgood. But I don’t want to talk about where my money comes from, because that would mean either lying or explaining how someone amasses wealth over centuries. And I definitely don’t want to do the latter.
“Sit anywhere you like. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
Helene looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. I do a quick mental check—Iwasspeaking English, right? I’ve been known to accidentally switch from one language to another sometimes, usually when there’s a word or concept that’s more accurately expressed in another tongue. Like descriptions of snow in the Sami languages of the Nordic. Or the adjective for the chewy, bouncy quality of noodles in Mandarin.
But no, I’m certain I spoke to Helene in English.
“Sorry,” she says, “I was just caught off guard with you being nice to me.” She’s still standing on that one leg, like she doesn’t believe I’ll actually let her sit down.
