Page 11 of Sunshine
Turning back to the cottage, I frown. Climbing perennials, mostly Sweet Autumn Clematis, untamed by Gran, make the cottage look neglected and abandoned, but as I inspect the bones of the veranda, I decide the actual condition isn’t so bad. It’s just overgrown, not ramshackle. There’s no give to the porch steps, no sagging boards, or wiggling railings. Nothing a good day’s hard work won’t cure. I note the railings and boards look newer than I remember. Gran obviously had some work done.
I squint at the semi-circle stained-glass window above the rounded wooden door—flowers surrounded by greenery, handmade by my grandmother. Is it crooked? Is the door off the hinges? I look down. The porch is slanted and becoming more so by the minute.
I scrub a hand over my face before grabbing for the wall. It’s not the window, not the door or even the porch—it’s me. I’m crooked.
It’s been a long day of travel but that’s not the problem. The problem is, I can’t recall my last meal.
I grab my bags, brush away the overgrown greenery and head straight for the kitchen. I know there’s fresh eggs and milk in the fridge because Jay informed me and that’s all I need right now.
Instead of cooking though, I find a gift basket of baked goods and other staples from Jay’s mom. That’s how people are here. They take care of each other—even strangers. Like when Gran was suddenly saddled with a ten-year-old kid who had a chip on her shoulder. So many people pitched in getting Gran what I needed, offering anything they could to help us during the adjustment. Even pushing Paige and I together since it was summer, and I needed a friend. I doubt I would have made any friends otherwise.
I eat one of the granola bars from the basket, then make my way through the small cottage, carefully pulling off sheets to reveal much of what I remember of Gran’s cozy home. Besides a pile of mail at the front door beneath the mail slot, a little dust and a general stale smell, it’s still the same. And two of those things can be remedied, even while travel weary.
I scoop up the mail, opening the door wide enough to let the fresh sea air in and start flipping through the letters absently. There are typical advertisements and credit card offers, several letters from a company called Wolfe Construction and some handwritten envelopes. One on mauve stationary with the Bridges Hospice logo stamped on the corner. It’s where Gran spent her last few months—something I don’t want to think about right now. I tuck it beneath the other envelopes, likely all condolence cards, and put them in the little drawer of the occasional table by the door. I drop the letters from Wolfe on top of the table and toss the rest of the junk mail in the trash can next to the table.
It’s dark in the cottage as the sun sinks lower into the sea, so I throw open the curtains letting long shadows imprint on the dusty pine slat floors. Opening the windows to air the place out further, I forget the mail and spend the next few hours getting lost scouring the cottage. Earbuds in, I sweep, dust, scrub floors and wash the linens.
When I’m done, I dust my hands together and stand in front of the open door, enjoying the ocean breeze. “That’s better,” I sigh. Only now it looks as if Gran will dance out of the kitchen doorway, cheeks pink, slippers slapping loudly against the pine floor and ask if I need a nip of something to relax me.
“You’re always so uptight, Tessie-girl,”she’d add, pulling me to dance.I’d groan, but dance with her, complaining the whole time. I wouldn’t complain now though. I’d sing and dance with her all night long no matter how exhausted I was.
Plunking myself downonto her floral chair, I lean back and grab the book Paige gave me from my purse. If I don’t distract myself I’m going to fall apart, and Tess Harlow does not crumble. And as I learned on the plane here, a good erotic romance distracts in the best possible way.
I’m just diving into chapter eight, when something touches—no,scratchesat my toe. I scream, jumping up and knocking the chair back with a clatter, the book flying to the floor. “Please don’t be a mouse, please.” I close my eyes tightly a moment as I send the wish into the universe and when I open them, a flash of white flaps out of the room.
I grab the first thing I see, a large knitting needle. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but I feel better with it in my hand.
“Okay, whatever you are, I’m coming, so you’d better get the hell out the way you came in.” Glancing at the needle in my hand I add, “I’ve got a gun.” I move slowly toward the kitchen and then around the corner.
What the…
I blink.
A large chicken stands, head cocked, side-eyeing the dustpan on the floor by the back door. The medium-sized doggy-door still swings, the wordsJakeandRoosters Only, written in what can only be described as ‘chicken-scratch’ over it. I hold the knittingneedle higher and blink a few more times, thinking I must be delirious. But nope, it’s still a chicken, and now it’s pecking at my dustpan.
How do you get rid of a chicken? I was prepared—as prepared as one can be—for a rodent, maybe a small bird, but a chicken?
Can chickens be rabid?
I take a step forward and the bird bobs its head, blinking its beady eyes, the large red head comb and chin wattle wag with each bob.
“You’re a rooster,” I state as if the bird wasn’t aware. “Shoo! Shoo! Go home now…” I glance at the doggy-door and add, “Jake.”
Jake—the hopefully not rabid rooster—eyes me but doesn’t move, and I instantly recall my grandmother in the hospice talking about her friend Jake and how I’d need to make sure he was well taken care of because he’s not like a normal chicken—he needs love. I’d brushed it off as morphine-induced crazy-talk, but now as I stare at the pure-white-feathered mother-clucker I understand she was actually coherent. As coherent as someone can be who has a pet chicken. Is chicken the species, or the female version? Like a cow? I give my head a shake at my ridiculousness. No, a female is called a hen… Arg, and none of this is important when you have a rooster loose in your damn house.
“You need to leave right now,” I say sternly and take a quick step toward the bird before I lose my nerve. Jake suddenly straightens, thinning out, and looks around me. And before I can decipher what that means, he shoots down the hallway toward the bedrooms, running on his yellow stick-legs.
“Jake, you Olympic sprinting, cat burglaring rooster, get back here! This house isn’t big enough for the two of us! Gran may have indulged you, but I will not!”
Then, as I turn to follow the wayward bird, I hear footsteps thumping into the house. I jump, a squeal escaping me as I turn to see a man. A big scary man.Okay, he’s only scary because he’s big, in the cottage, and shirtless with tattoos.
He sort of looks like — I look to the floor where the romance novel lies, cover facing up — Tank Long, the bare-chested dominant biker from Harley and Hearts—the beard, hair, tattoos, and the size all similar. My eyes cut to the stranger.
My mind races, bouncing between how similar the intruder is to the sexy cover model I’ve been lusting after all day, the fact that there’s a rooster doing god knows what in the bedroom down the hall, and that I’m in the middle of nowhere with a bare-chested stranger —no matter how sexy. And then oddly, despite my racing thoughts, time seems to slow.
This is Gary’s fault! Because my condo, my beautiful, safe, condo, had a doorman, and neighbors and a thick fire door with a deadbolt and a swing bar door lock and, and — I look down at the knitting needle gripped in my fist — and a baseball bat in the hall closet. And those are all things that the large and intimidating man currently in my house wouldn’t have gotten past.
My still-whirling mind jumps on to remind me again just how secluded I am, in the country, where I livealone—I glance down the hall at Jake who’s left the bedroom, looking completely unconcerned as his head bobs with each long stride—except for a rooster. Gah! A goddamned rooster!
