Page 18 of If All Else Sails
“I believe you called it a murder cottage earlier.” An accurate description. I might have laughed if circumstances were different.
“I said it’s a niceproperty. This house needs some work. Murder cottage fits.”
She glances around the room, but I know she doesn’t see what I do. She can’t.
The couch where Josie sits is where I used to watch old westerns with Uncle Tom. A bird feeder once hung outside the window behind Josie. Whenever cowbirds showed up to feed, my uncle would run outside and chase them off with a broom.
Cowbirds are obligate brood parasites, he would say, and I can almost hear his voice now. I didn’t ask what the words meant, just nodded along like I understood.
After a few years I asked my science teacher, though I mispronouncedobligate. Mrs. Sorenson explained that these kinds of birds lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, often out-competing the host babies for food.
“So, they’re like baby bird assassins,” I said, and I couldn’t understand why Mrs. Sorenson laughed until tears leaked out of her eyes, then later sneaked a red Jolly Rancher out of her prize drawer for me.
Josie can’t see any of that when she looks around the room.I’m sure what’s visible to her is the lack of repair, resulting from so many years of deferred maintenance. Uncle Tom took excellent care of the boat, while the house was more of an afterthought.
A hot defensiveness rises in my chest. Or maybe that’s just the busted air conditioner. I woke up sweating, and I’m not sure I’ve stopped. Even when I turned the thermostat down to the high sixties. It says it’s working. It’s wrong.
I need to get an HVAC guy out here ASAP.
Is Josie too warm? Has she noticed the cottage isn’t much cooler than outside?
By the looks of it, yes. Her cheeks are flushed, a deep pink rising from the collar of her shirt as she takes a sip of water.
Josie is still scanning the room, and I have a sudden urge to tell her about my plans for this place. How I hired an architect to draft two sets of plans. One set expands the existing cottage, flipping the footprint so all the living areas have the water view and adding another bathroom and a few bedrooms. The other set is for a brand-new build, one that would take the place of the cottage.
But Josie wouldn’t want to hear about my plans. Or this place. I’m honestly surprised she’s still here.
Which reminds me: I need to get her out of here now. Before she realizes how bad things are. Or how bad I smell.
Actually, considering the way she helped prop me up just now, she probably knows about the latter.
“Don’t feel obligated to make small talk,” I tell her. “Now that you’ve completed your brother-ordered welfare check, will you be on your way?”
“About that.”
Uh-oh.
She picks up the empty water bottle and turns it over and over in her hands. No nail polish. When did she stop wearingit? I’ve long used the different colors she chose as a way of navigating my memories of her.
The unfortunate first time we met, Josie’s fingernails were bright purple. I remember fixating on them, both because something about the color intrigued me and because it kept me from staring too long at her big brown eyes.
When I made the mistake of going with Jacob to her graduation dinner, her nails were a deep navy. Chipped. I remember noticing the color when she covered her mouth, laughing at something Jacob said.
Over the years, there’s been a whole rainbow of nail colors: hunter green, pale blue, silver. Almost like a mood ring, though Josie is always smiling.
Except when it comes to me. I seem to have the effect of throwing a blanket over her fire.
The last time I saw Josie, her nails were a pale pink—the color of her lips if she wasn’t wearing makeup. The color looked good on her, but it made me a little sad because I always liked the bright, fun colors. They seemed like her, while the pink seemed almost like a giving up. Or a growing up maybe. Like she was putting the bright side of herself on mute.
The last thing Josie needs is to be muted.
“Here’s the thing,” she says now, pulling my gaze away from her unpainted nails to her face. Her expression is guarded and carefully blank. Instantly, I’m on high alert. “Jacob wants me to stay.”
“I don’t want you to stay.” Only when this comes out of my mouth do I realize how rude it sounds. I couldn’t be a worse communicator with Josie if I tried.
“Of course you don’t,” she says, toying with the water bottle and looking suddenly exhausted. “AndIdon’t want to stay.”
I already knew as much, so I don’t let the words hurt.
