Not Mine to Take

by C B Cox

  “Soon as it’s done, I’ll pop right over, Mrs. Madison.”

  “Hope. It’s Hope,” I say, cringing at the use of a surname I’ve come to despise. I wish I’d had the foresight to stick with my maiden name and used a pen name for my books.

  “Yes, Hope… I’m sorry. Don’t worry everything will be fine. Promise.”

  He’s smiling like a lottery winner. Bella wags her tail.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help. Would you like a coffee? It’s the least I can do,” I say, gesturing inside. “Won’t take me a minute.”

  “Gee, thanks. Usually, I would. Only… Well... The thing is… I have to get back. Maybe some other time?”

  “Okay. Another time.” I’m disappointed, but I don’t know why.

  He gives me one last smile. “I’ll see you around … Hope. You too, Bella.” He waves and strides off.

  When he’s out of earshot, I say, “Men, Bella, they’re downright weird. I don’t think the ones around here, know how to behave around women. What do you think?” Once more, I’m smiling and shaking my head.

  I decide on coffee. Bella joins me in the kitchen. I put the coffeepot on the hob. Stand and stare out of the window. I ponder Curtis Jackson’s comments. Consider his remark about Levi poaching and stealing. Remember Eliah Wiley’s comments about two ‘young bucks’ having had their disagreements. Perhaps the psychological scars of boyhood feuds still run deep? Why would Curtis follow Levi onto Tern Island, though? It’s not as if either of them have hunting rights to the island? Are there any hunting rights? I make a mental note to check with my attorney.

  I’m mulling over my encounter with Curtis Jackson when the coffeepot comes to the boil. With a dry cloth, I snag the pot and settle it on a trivet. I don’t want to burn the brew.

  Then I remember…

  Lemon drizzle cake…

  I take my coffee and cake and retreat to the rocker on the porch. Both are sublime. I relax back against the wickerwork. Rock. It’s late afternoon. The air is oppressive. It seems to be charged with positive ions. The sky has taken on a mysterious purple hue. I sense a storm brewing. I’ll enjoy my afternoon sojourn until it arrives.

  A thunderstorm will clear the air.

  Dorothy is a wonderful baker. Her cake is light and tasty. It reminds me of the time when my Mom taught me how to bake. In the school vacation, we’d batch bake cupcakes and pastries and make bottles of zesty, eye-squinting lemonade to sell for dimes and dollars to neighbors and unsuspecting passersby. I was irresistible in my pink gingham dress. Dad would accuse Mom of exploiting my Shirley Temple locks and dimples. She didn’t care one bit. She was determined to bring her painfully shy daughter out of her shell. “We’re making the most of your God-given talents,” she’d say, straightening my dress, fluffing my curls, winking. She coached me how to perfect my sales pitch and how to upsell, from lemonade for a dime, to cupcakes for a dollar each. It worked. By the end of the day, we’d sold out. We’d return home happy and the production line would start all over again. The proceeds donated to a local animal welfare charity. Happy days.

  When I grew out of gingham dresses and pigtails and became too self-conscious to sell cupcakes from the yard, Mom encouraged me to submit my short stories to the local newspaper. As a teenager, my early stories always seemed to have a serious theme. I’d write about young women overcoming peer pressure, bullying or dumping meathead boyfriends for sweet young geeks. They seemed to strike a chord with the editor. He gave me a regular weekly column and a two-page monthly spread. For two years until college took me away, Hope Davis was hot property in small-town New England. I failed to write anything of any substance for three years at college. After a series of poor career choices, I found myself motivated to pick up where I’d left off. I slipped into writing romantic fiction with ease.

  A spot of rain lands on my ankle and breaks me from my reminiscences.

  The sky is leaden. It’s getting dark. The wind has strengthened and changed direction. I grab my laptop, stride into the kitchen and set it down on the counter. Bella follows me. She’s not keen on thunder and sulks off to her bed. I return to the porch. I adore a good storm. Bella, she’s a scaredy-cat.

  The dark sky is pregnant with rain. The humidity is oppressive. It’s imbued with a subtle, earthy aroma. Everything becomes still: the calm before the storm. A low rumble of thunder rolls over the treetops and vibrates through my chest. The wind holds its breath. I’m holding mine, too. A tangled arc of blistering silver splits the air, and the deluge begins. Raindrops – as large as acorns – pelt the dry earth. Within two minutes, deep puddles form in the hollows and ruts.

  I squeal in anticipation. Count the seconds between the spears of lightning and the claps of thunder. For five whole minutes, I’m in the eye of the storm. I count the gap between the claps. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty. The storm drifts west along the coast. It’s stolen the daylight. The faltering day has a pink hue. The air feels charged.

  It’s time for bed.

  Bella joins me. I imagine a relieved expression across her chops. She hates storms.

  I’m bushed, but my mind is wide awake. I collect a paperback and start to read. At first, I’m carried along with story. Every word means something. After half a dozen pages, my eyelids become heavy. My concentration dulls, then fails me. I drift off with the clouds. My eyes close.

  The book falls to the floor.

  I wake to a loud crack. Rear up from the bed. Somewhere beyond the door, timber creaks. I sit up. Bella’s ears flick. She raises her jaws from her paws. Sullen doggy eyes settle on the door. I crank my head right and listen hard. The silence is absolute. No rain. No wind. No sound at all from the nocturnal critters beyond the window. I hear another creak, less voluminous than before. It’s coming from the staircase. I realize I’m holding my breath. I suck a long, silent breath.

  Bella nuzzles into the comforter, closes her eyes. Sighs.

  I explain away the creak as the house settling after the storm. Needing to pee, I swing out of bed, tiptoe onto the landing and peer downstairs into the darkness. I fold my arms tight around my chest. Everything is just as I’ve left it. There’s nothing untoward.

  Now who’s the scaredy-cat?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Day 21

  Bella has no enthusiasm for a walk, or a swim. She has no enthusiasm for anything. I’ve never known her to turn her nose up at a Scooby snack. I console myself with the thought that there’s a first time for everything. She lopes around the porch. Perhaps the storm unsettled her? I relegate the notion that she’s missing Charles to the back of my mind. He never contested custody of Bella. Even he wouldn’t stoop so low. Why is she still loyal to him?

  Christ’s sake woman, she’s a dog. She doesn’t know any better.

  Even though Bella’s not eating, I’m as hungry as hell. I rustle up coffee and make an egg and mushroom omelet.

  Satiated, I wash and put away the crockery. I fling open the refrigerator door and decide we’ll have salmon for dinner. There’ll be a fillet each. Bella will devour hers in less than a minute. I’m sure of it.

  Since Bella’s not up for exercise, I set about the housework. I need to use up some pent up energy. Last night’s storm has cleared away the oppressive heat and humidity. Outside, everything gleams and sparkles. The least I can do is to bring some order to the interior of Tern Lodge.

  I change the bed linen. The heady scent of lavender wafts around the bedroom as I shake the sheets. I use lavender, often. A few drops to help me sleep. As I stuff the dirty linen into the basket, I realize to my horror that I haven’t done any laundry since arriving. I’m so used to taking it back to Staten Island for Rhoda to tend to, that I haven’t given it a second thought. So, I set about sorting the contents of the dirty linen basket into two piles.

  Downstairs, I load the washing machine and select the DELICATES setting. I take a drink of crisp, cool water from the faucet.

  When the cycle finishes, I drag the rotary clot
hes dryer from the closet, position it in the hole by the side elevation. I enjoy pegging out my laundry. It doesn’t feel like a chore. A sense of achievement swells through my chest. I laugh at myself. I don’t need a housekeeper to follow me around, or a rich husband to keep me in the lifestyle I’ve become accustomed to.

  I’m an independent woman. Charles Madison, you’re history.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I shower. Drink coffee. I’m ready to do some writing.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard.

  My mind goes blank. The words elude me. The nuances of my story fail to coalesce inside my head.

  Maybe if I write freehand?

  I look for a pencil. Can’t find one. Check under the notebook. Lift and look under the laptop. Study the floor around the desk and beneath the chair. Is it on the porch by the rocker? Did the storm blow it through the gaps between the porch floorboards?

  I’m on my hands and knees searching for it, when I remind myself I’ve got heaps of pencils upstairs. But I love this one. Not the pencil part, but the heart-shaped emoji eraser on the blunt end. Martha gave it to me. It has sentimental value. Don’t ask me why.

  You must have taken it inside. I tell myself.

  I turn the lodge upside down, metaphorically, not literally. I search every drawer, drag cushions off and put my hand down the back of the sofa. I pat down the pockets of my shorts.

  “Where the hell did I put it?” I say aloud. No one answers, because I’m alone. How could they?

  I can’t think. It was here. I’m not going crazy. Have I put it in a safe place, the way you do? A place so safe it’s impossible to remember. And then I do, remember. I visualize his face angled to the floor.

  Levi Wiley.

  I’d noticed him gazing at my desk, yesterday. The way he squeezed his hands. I’d interpreted it as anxiety. Shyness. He seems a sensitive soul. I consider him, odd. Perhaps him squeezing his hands is a prelude to him stealing things? It could be a behavioral tick? I remember he was here the day before I misplaced my hair-grip.

  Did he take it? How could I have been so trusting?

  Curtis said Levi was a thief. I didn’t believe him at the time. Now, I’m not so sure. It’s only a pencil. If only he had asked, I would have gifted him one. A knot forms in my stomach and tightens. Levi is a virtual stranger, and yet I’d invited him inside.

  I feel myself filling up. People only seem to exist to let me down.

  Silent, angry tears roll down my cheeks. The saltiness stings. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. I wipe away the tears. Black smudges of mascara cover the back of my hands. I massage my temples, my neck, and draw long breaths. I’m doing it again.

  Get a grip.

  “This is ludicrous. You’re having a meltdown over a freaking pencil! What kind of loser are you?” I yell. I won’t allow Charles to be right. I’m not crazy.

  Christ’s sake, it’s just a goddamn pencil… Grow up, woman.

  Levi Wiley is a child trapped inside a man’s body. I have no right to think of him as a common thief because a guy I hardly know says so? So what if Levi squirrels away trinkets? He’s only a boy.

  Leave it.

  The day is ruined. I decide on a walk. Bella elects to stay put in her basket on the porch.

  As I enter the woods, the overpowering scent of pine runs to my nostrils. I step under the somber, cool embrace of the canopy. I look up. The canopy is thicker than I first thought. I find myself surprised by how dry the ground is. A raindrop lands on my neck and runs down my spine. I shudder. Goosebumps bristle along my arms and legs.

  I sense a presence of what, or who, I’m not sure. I quicken my stride. A saunter becomes a march. At the edge of the woods, I slide to a halt and raise my hand across my brow against the glare of sun. I’ve forgotten my sunglasses. I glance back. Scan the ranks of pines. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but I don’t see it.

  I shuffle off across open ground towards the cliff top.

  At the cliff top, I hunker down and dangle my feet over the edge. Scan the ocean. Yachts of all shapes and sizes punctuate the smooth blue-green baize of the ocean. White sails and primary-colored spinnakers billow in the breeze. I wonder what day it is?

  Is it the weekend? Maybe, there’s a regatta taking place?

  I’ve lost track of time.

  It occurs to me that I’m cut off from the outside world. I’ve no phone. No means of transportation. I have company, yes, but can a person consider Eliah and Levi Wiley, company? Then there’s Curtis Jackson. The guy who promised he could fix my truck. I can’t even remember how many days or weeks ago that was? And it’s still not repaired.

  These men are strangers, yet I’m treating them like I’ve known them all my life: trusting them with my possessions, inviting them into my home. I have a trust issue. I trust too much.

  The reality is Eliah Wiley is managing my diet. When did I become so pathetic that I can’t even choose my own groceries? And it’s possible Levi Wiley is stealing from me. What else is missing that I haven’t noticed? Then there’s Curtis Jackson: making a huge deal over getting an almost new vehicle to start. Surely, I could have organized a repair quicker?

  I accept that I can’t blame anyone for my broken cell phone. I killed it during a fit of temper. That said, if Charles had left me alone when I’d asked him to, it would never have happened. I’m hardly sleeping. I’m experiencing nightmares in 4K HD. I never used to have nightmares. I never had nightmares so realistic that I can’t distinguish them from reality. At night, the lodge creaks and groans. It reminds me of the life and people I’ve lost.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Then there’s the novel I’m attempting to write. It’s why I’m here. This novel is supposed to be the salvation of my career. That was the intention. I hoped it would kick start my future as the ‘ex’ Mrs. Charles Madison. I started well. Really well. But I’ve lost direction. The sentences stumble onto the page, half-formed. Don’t mention the paragraphs. I’ve had days when I haven’t written a single word. Have I lost my talent for storytelling?

  Perhaps Charles is right after all? For most of my adult life, I’ve not had to fend for myself. Am I crazy for thinking I have the strength of character to live on an island as isolated as Tern Island? Or any isolated location? Look what happened to me when I shut myself away in a dingy condo. I wasted away. Made myself ill with self-pity and depression. Spewed out a second-rate novel. A novel that might have cost me my career.

  I’m not the independent woman I thought I was.

  Am I pathetic, or being pathetic? It’s a big question. One I need to answer, soon.

  The putt-putt of an outboard motor interrupts my negativity. I close my eyes against the stinging sensation threatening to let loose a tsunami of tears. The boat looks familiar. I think it’s the one I saw moored from the jetty a few days ago. I’m not sure. Just like before, I watch a solitary figure cast something overboard. Whatever it is, it lands in the water with a splash and disappears under the surface in less than a second. More lobster pots, perhaps? The figure swivels and directs his gaze at me. If he sees me, he doesn’t react. He turns away. The engine note rises. The boat scoots off towards the cove and disappears from view.

  Life goes on with zero concern for me. I’m the interloper: the alien in their world.

  I must try to improve my mood. I came to Tern Island on my own volition, to clear my head. So far, all I’ve done is work myself into a lather. It’s crazy. I’m letting hurt, insecurity and paranoia get the better of me. I’m letting little things get me down.

  I resolve to change. To let go of the past. To relax more.

  I stand. Brush dirt off of my butt, a little harder than necessary. I need to give myself a huge kick up the derriere. Moping around will get me nowhere. I don’t need Charles. I probably never did. I don’t need anyone.

  I will have a great summer on Tern Island.

  I will finish my novel.

  I will get healthy in body a
nd mind.

  Above all else, I will relax.

  Back at the lodge, I give up trying to write. I tidy the chaos I’ve left behind from searching for the pencil. I polish the furniture, sweep the floor, put a second load of washing into the machine and bring in the laundry from the dryer outside. For a millisecond, I consider ironing the contents of the basket. Elect not to. I chuckle at the realization that I’ll never be a domestic goddess.

  When it’s time for dinner, I poach the salmon filets, steam rice and broccoli. I congratulate myself on my healthy choices. I leave Bella’s portion to cool. Grab a huge wineglass from the cupboard and brim it with chardonnay. It’s half of the whole bottle. I move to pour some back, but stall the glass at the neck.

  “Why the hell not, you deserve it,” I say, slaking my thirst, downing half.

  Bella joins me on the porch and my heart melts as I watch her wolf down the salmon meal. It’s her first significant meal in two days. She toys with the dry dog food. Charles would bounce off the ceiling if he knew I was feeding her ‘human food.’

  Screw him.

  She’s my dog, and she enjoys it. I think I ought to change her dog food. Perhaps she doesn’t like the stuff Eliah sends?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Day 24

  It’s a new day. My walk takes me to the other side of the island. The north-east side of the island isn’t as dramatic as the south. It’s predominantly grassy meadow on a gentle slope toward the ocean. Charles wanted to level the land and install a swimming pool and tennis court, but the authorities were having none of it. He gave up at the first hurdle. I’m glad he did. I don’t come here as often as I would like. I should. It possesses a certain charm not found anywhere else on the island.

  I wonder how the grass stays so short. As far as I know, no one ever cuts it. Then I remember – deer and wild pigs roam freely in the woods. I’m such a city girl. I’d be hopeless as a park ranger, trekking guide or explorer. I laugh out loud.