Page 7 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
He’d agreed readily, and we’d made a little camp on the braided rug near the fireplace. For dinner, we’d finished off the last of our peanut butter and jam. Then we’d played chess on Wyatt’s tablet until we were too tired to think.
Now I needed coffee. Getting to town would be a major production, so I kicked myself free of my sleeping bag and used the flashlight in my phone to plot a course to the kitchen. Surely my mother had coffee. It would be stale and likely taste like the sole of my sneaker, but it would be caffeinated.
In the kitchen, I flipped the switch and turned on the overhead fluorescents. This was the only room that showed significant change since I’d lived here. The counters and cupboards, the flooring, even the paint color (the kitchen and bathroom were the only rooms with plaster walls rather than log paneling) were all the same, but all the appliances were white. When I’d lived here, they’d been an 80s-era set in a dull, darkbrown my mother had insisted was ‘burnt sienna.’ Those old workhorses had apparently finally given up.
The countertop appliances, like the coffeemaker, were newer as well. And instead of the rack of hooks under the cupboards to hold the cooking utensils, they were all gathered in a blue crock with a cheerful daisy painted on the front. New canisters matched it, each one with a word at the bottom in white script:Flour, Sugar, Coffee, Tea.
I went to the one labeledCoffeeand peeked in. The grounds inside were in a plastic bag, its top twisted closed. I opened it and gave it a sniff. Oh yeah, that was stale.
No matter; still caffeinated. And sugar could cure a lot of ills—I checked the sugar canister and saw it was half full. Hard as a rock, but I could scrape off a couple spoonsful. Okay, then. I went to the coffeemaker, found the filters in the cupboard directly above it, where they’d always been, and got busy making some artificial energy.
As I filled the carafe, an ancient habit flared up, and I lifted my eyes to the window over the sink. I’d stood here many mornings, watching the fog swirl around the guest cabins nestled among the trees. This morning, all I saw behind the white curtains with tiny sunflowers—also new—on the other side of the glass was plywood, and I remembered that the house was so dark not because it was before six in the morning but because the windows were boarded up.
When the coffee was brewing, I opened the junk drawer and pulled out the hammer. In my bare feet, I went out the kitchen door, stepped onto the small back porch, moved the metal glider that had been under the window all my life, and got to work prying the first window free. I’d need to grab a ladder from the toolshed to get the topmost nails out, but a good start could be had while I stood on the porch.
I had the bottom and most of one side loose when the back door screeched open, and Wyatt stumbled sleepily onto the porch, barefoot and wearing basketball shorts and the ratty Dragon Ball Z tee he loved to sleep in. His hair was mussed, and for this first moment of the day, he looked like my baby boy, without a care in the world.
“Mornin’ lollipup,” I said, greeting him with a silly nickname I hadn’t used for years.
It made him laugh. “Mornin’.” He shivered and pulled his arms into his tee through the sleeves. “You weren’t lying about the chilly mornings.”
I gave him a dramatically intense look. “I wouldneverlie to you about something so important.”
“You’re a dork,” he smirked. As another nail squealed free of the board, he added, “You’re getting an early start.”
“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep, and I need some sunlight.”
He looked around; fog coated the floor of the woods and swirled around the trees all the way to their brushy tops. “Sunlight?”
“It’s there. It’s supposed to be sunny by noon today, and by then, we’ll have the windows clear.”
“Can I do that for you?” Pushing his arms back through his sleeves, he stepped close and offered to take the hammer.
“No, I got it. It feels good, actually, to be doing something physical after sitting behind the wheel for most of a week. If you’re ready to get busy, you can pack up our little living-room campsite.” As Wyatt nodded and grabbed the screen door again, I added, “There’s coffee in the pot—but beware, I found it in a canister, so it’s stale. I do not vouch for flavor. There is sugar, though.”
“Milk?”
I laughed as I worked another nail free. “I think I saw some powdered creamer in the cupboard above the pot, next to thefilters. If there’s milk in that fridge, we don’t want it. In fact, if there’s any food in there at all, we are going to deeply regret opening that thing. It’s been without power for years. Might be better to junk it and get another one, just in case.”
Considering the state of the house, abandoned suddenly, of course the fridge was full of rotten food. Having been sealed so long, the stench would be waiting to knock us unconscious at the first chance. Then the whole cabin would reek of decay and ozone for weeks.
“Can we afford a new fridge?” Wyatt asked.
Technically, yes. We could, but we shouldn’t. It would put a dent in my savings, which was meant to support us and pay for repairs on this property so I could either get the motel up and running again or get it in shape for sale. Which of those choices I preferred would depend largely on how things went once everybody knew I was back. Either way, my cash on hand needed to last for months.
I could use my credit card; I’d been guarding it with my life for the past year, and it still had almost no balance. But who knew what kind of expenses lay in wait ahead of us as we worked on this place? It felt like a bad idea, not to mention a bad omen, to start sucking up my credit on our first day.
“You know what? The two biggest cabins have kitchens with full-size fridges. Those will all be empty. We’ll use the hand truck we rented and haul one of them up here. We can take the one we’re afraid of to the dump on the way to return the truck.”
“We’renot afraid of the fridge,” Wyatt teased. “I’mcurious. Who knows what kinds of things have been growing all this time. It’s like a science experiment!”
“Look, Bill Nye. If you want to do science, I’ll get you some baking soda and vinegar, and you can make a volcano like in grade school. Leave the demon fridge alone.”
“No fun,” he sighed and turned back to the door. “You want a cup?”
“Please. Lots of sugar. And start a grocery list. After I get this window done and we’ve had our terrible coffee, we’ll free the car and head into town.”
“Excellent!” The pure delight on my son’s face as he went into the house warmed my heart and my mood, and again I remembered that for Wyatt, this was all new. More than that, it was our destination. We’d arrived at the end of a long, scary road, and for him, Bluster held no ghosts or demons. For him, Bluster was hope.
