Page 12 of Tender Heart
Clearing my throat, I head upstairs and stoke the fireplace in the bedroom. Footsteps close in behind me as I shut its small glass door.
“I’m sorry I’m in your home,” she offers. The words are tentative. Like she either doesn’t believe them or that one sentence took more bravery than she could muster. I turn back to see her shifting on her feet like she’s about to bolt, and I know it’s the latter.
She’s like a porcelain doll. Pretty to the point of elegant beauty, but meek and timid. One of those introvert types.
This might work out, after all.
I walk back downstairs, but this time my shadow stays put upstairs. I take the opportunity to put together lunch for later, pulling out a baking dish and seasoning some veggies before covering the bowl with a plate and placing it back in the fridge.
A throat clears behind me.
I wash my hands in the sink and dry them on a tea towel. She moves into the kitchen, hands shoved into her back pockets. The scarf is gone; she must be warmer.
“I really do need to get back to the mainland for supplies,” she says, eyes pleading.
Not ready to engage, I simply point at the calendar by the bookcase. Turning toward it, she figures out what I’m indicating. Walking to the wall by the bookcase, she runs a fine finger over the dates. Her mouth pops open when she realizes my meaning.
Every fortnight, I go back as proof of life for my sister, and sometimes for supplies the island can’t afford me.
The only other reason I will leave this island of mine is if Iris makes me. Which is only a few times a year.
“But that’s almost a fortnight, Callum.”
Something snags close to my heart at her using my name. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
“Shit,” she utters under her breath. Realizing I heard, her cheeks flush crimson.
I fight back the smile wanting to split my face at her discomfort from using a curse word. Is shit even considered a curse word?
Hell, how would I know? Curses are normal words to me. At this point, with conversation being a rarity in my life, I’m sure she’d do better at holding one than me.
I make myself busy, checking the windows are in fact closed and sealed, with no drafts slipping through. Her gaze follows me as I move around the house, tugging each one to check. And, momentarily, I feel bad for not being more accommodating. I could have very well ended up with a much worse lodger.
Nope.
Not going there.
We’re not going to have long conversations, take in sunsets, or become damn friends. She’s at least fifteen years younger than me. The last thing I need right now is more complication in the shit show I call my life. Passing the fridge, I tug it open andsnatch out the coffee from the small freezer section and dump it onto the counter.
The small label that sayscoffeecatches her eye.
She’s a writer. Smart enough to work out the gas stove, I’d guess. With that thought, I hightail it out of my own fucking house and into the frigid gusts outside. I don’t bother closing the door behind me.
The pretty twentysomething can do that, too.
Five
EVIE
After days of living off Callum’s leftovers, which he graciously leaves in the fridge without a word, I’m at my wits’ end. I haven’t been able to write a word since that first night I arrived. Apparently, all this nothingness is not conducive to productivity. I need to get to the mainland.
I wander around the lighthouse, exploring. It’s not as cold as it was when I first arrived. The sun is actually warming my face. There are other outbuildings tucked away near the tree line. I cross the swaying grassy area. The weathered wooden doors are all shut tight. No doubt the warped frame is keeping them bound in place.
I pull on the long metal door handle of the first building. It doesn’t budge. My imagination takes hold, coming up with what these mysterious shacks could hold.
The steady rhythm of an axe hitting wood floats over the island. Callum is out in the sunshine as I am. His chores keep him occupied. So much so, I rarely see him unless I go out looking for him. Which I have done all of once and never again. I don’t understand the no-speaking thing. Has he been alone so long that communicating is something he doesn’t participate in anymore?
But then, I saw him talking with the harbormaster. I think his name was Emmett. So it’s just me, then.
