Fire and Water

by Amanda Kayhart

  But two glasses of wine helped take the edge off, and it didn’t take long before a calming drowsiness overcame her. Resting her book gently in her lap, Diane lacked the energy to make it up into the bedroom, and she closed her eyes in the reading chair, already dozing off for the night—until a disturbing sound sparked her awake.

  Her eyes popped open and snapped around the room, hearing a loud scuffle outside.

  “Oh, God,” Diane whispered. She sprung from her seat.

  Panicking, Diane paced the living room and snatched her phone. She thought about calling the police, but being in the middle of nowhere, by the time any officer could arrive, who knows what would happen. She needed to do something. Protect herself—somehow. Her eyes zeroed in on the fireplace, and the collection of tools beside it. Racing to them, Diane grabbed the fire iron with two shaky hands, and crept across the floor, heart pounding, adrenaline racing through her veins. Going on the offensive was probably—no—most definitely, idiotic, but she’d lost enough the past year, there was no earthly way she’d now have her peace of mind stolen by a trespassing hoodlum.

  Sneaking out the back door, Diane stepped outside and waited as her pupils widened, adjusting to the darkness. Everything was quiet. Lightning bugs blinked in the distance. Padding quietly down the back steps, Diane tightened her grip on the poker, her hands slick with sweat. With a sliver of moonlight to guide her, she stepped across the cool grass, already dampened with dew. She’d hoped and prayed for a plump raccoon or possum, and not a criminal she’d have to bludgeon to death on her friend’s front lawn.

  Rounding the side of the house, Diane stopped in her tracks seeing the motion lights already illuminating the front yard. She swallowed, building up the confidence to protect herself. Pressing against the side of the garage, Diane counted to three, steadied her grip, and cut the corner, ready to strike—except for who she was up against, never gave her the chance.

  “Woah,” the woman said, latching onto Diane’s wrists and pushing her backwards. She pinned Diane against the garage door, her hands and weapon locked above her head. “Take it easy.”

  The strong, graceful voice was not what Diane expected. Nor was finding herself forced into submission, rendered powerless against the woman’s strength. She pressed into Diane. Her dark bronze eyes locked on her. She held a stern, unyielding look—magnified by her sharp chin and cheekbones—and Diane recognized her immediately from the incident at lunch. Diane stared back, breathing hard, smothered by the scent of honeyed smoke, perfuming her captor’s clothes.

  “What are you doing here?” Diane grunted, twisting her wrists under the woman’s grip.

  “I could ask you the same damn thing,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Not that it’s any of your concern,” Diane grunted, her tone laced with annoyance, “but this is my friends’ house. They’re letting me stay here.”

  “The Frosts?”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Do you?”

  “I just told you—”

  “Do you think it’s acceptable attacking concerned neighbors?”

  “I didn’t—that’s not—” Diane huffed and shook her head. “This is ridiculous. Can you let me go?”

  “Are you going to hit me?”

  Diane rolled her eyes. “Clearly not.”

  The woman surrendered and backed off. She made no effort to soften her features, however, standing in silence, her lips flattened with irritation. Diane set her weapon down on the pavement. Maybe she overreacted. But she shouldn’t apologize for trying to protect herself. Diane eyed her as she stood with her arms crossed next to her Mustang, and Diane’s attention drew to the ink on her left arm, the light above the garage falling on her and brightening the swirls of gray and black, and the delicate pops of pink cherry blossoms she’d missed before. The tattoo was beautiful. Especially the distinctive phoenix and its detailed tail feathers, rising up her sculpted bicep.

  Diane cleared her throat and tucked a loose strand of hair over her ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to threaten you,” she said softly. “This is my first night here, and I was a little startled hearing someone, or something, prowling outside.”

  “This place hasn’t been used in a while,” the woman said, her eyes drifting over the house. “I thought someone was trying to steal from it.”

  “Are you the neighborhood watch?” Diane smiled, trying to smooth over the misunderstanding with a friendlier tone.

  The woman’s eyes shifted to Diane. “Maybe I live here, and I deserve to know what’s happening across the street.”

  “That’s understandable, but—”

  “So, we’re clear,” the woman stepped forward, “I don’t like visitors coming here, throwing their attitude around.”

  “Throwing their—” Diane frowned, crossing her arms in displeasure. “Are you serious?”

  “You’re the rude one from lunch.”

  “Which I’ve apologized for.”

  “Yet it seems you’re making a habit of it.”

  “A hab—you’re the one—” Diane sputtered. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You know what, while we’re at it, I don’t like locals creeping around in the dark, treating me like a criminal.”

  Their eyes held.

  “I don’t like you,” the woman said.

  “Fine,” Diane said, her voice growing exceedingly prickly, “I really don’t like you, either.”

  She cackled. “I don’t care if you do or not.”

  What is with this woman? First, the attitude at the food truck. Now, she trespasses on her property without permission, and gives Diane grief for it? This woman was clinically insane. Diane’s tongue lashed her bottom lip with agitation. Whoever this woman was, she needed some serious etiquette classes in interacting with other humans.

  “I have the Frosts’ number,” the woman said, turning abruptly down the driveway, “I’m going to call them in the morning and make sure your story’s straight.”

  “Great!” Diane said, raising her arms and slapping them on her hips as the woman drifted away. “Tell them Diane says hi,” she yelled. “And their house is lovely!”

  “Will do.”

  “It was wonderful meeting you,” Diane yelled louder. But her sarcastic scream got no rise out of her neighbor, as she fell out of the reach of the flood light, and disappeared across the street. Alone again, Diane collapsed against the garage door and let out a frustrated groan.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Diane was restless. After last night’s encounter, she couldn’t get comfortable. Couldn’t sleep after warding off her intruder, images of those intense, metallic brown eyes, glowing prominently in her mind. Waking up exhausted, the first thing Diane craved was a good, strong cup of coffee, and a filling breakfast to accompany it. With the house barren of food, Diane remembered a quaint spot she’d noticed on her way into the islands yesterday and, after showering and dressing quickly, she pulled into the parking lot of Harbor Café, just before eight o’clock in the morning.

  Turning the engine off, Diane gave her appearance, a coral cotton top and olive shorts, a glance over. Her hair had volume and held its shape nicely, falling above her shoulders. At least she didn’t look like a sleep deprived ragamuffin. Grabbing her bag full of writing materials, Diane admired the clean, white building with navy trim, as she made her way inside, finding a good-sized crowd already filling the tables.

  Waiting at the host stand to be seated, Diane listened to the welcoming clatter of plates and silverware, and scanned the bright interior, tastefully decorated with local art, colorful buoys, and mounted fish. Through the large picture window in the back, there was a glimpse of Champlain in the distance, showered in sunlight. As expected for a Monday, it was mostly an older crowd, and she politely eavesdropped into their conversations, hearing talk of property taxes, grandchildren, and baseball—a rather heated discussion between Red Sox and Yankee
fans.

  “Morning,” a younger woman said, clad in jeans and a navy polo shirt, the café’s nautical logo over her breast. Her wavy blonde hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, keeping the thick strands away from her fair and freckled face. “Table for one?”

  “Yes, please,” Diane replied, adjusting her canvas bag on her shoulder and scouring the tables. “Perhaps in a quieter spot?”

  “Certainly.” The woman grabbed a leather bound menu and guided her towards the back, placing her next to the window with the bayside view.

  “Wonderful,” Diane said, hanging her bag on the chair and taking a seat. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she said. “My name’s Nikki and I’ll be your server. Can I get you started with coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Diane said eagerly. She plucked her reading glasses from their case to find what to order.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Exploring the menu, the smells of freshly ground coffee, hot pancakes, and greasy bacon saturated Diane’s senses, aromas reminding her of family gatherings, big home cooked meals, and lazy Sundays after church. A calming peacefulness rushed over her, and with the sunlight spilling through the window and warming her skin, Diane felt the stress of the previous day melting off her shoulders.

  The unsettling encounter with her cantankerous neighbor was behind her. It was a new day, a fresh week, and the first full day in Vermont, and Diane felt a swell of optimism returning inside. After placing an order of over-easy eggs and home fries, she dug out her yellow note pad and favorite fountain pen, took her first sip of coffee, and settled comfortably into work.

  Tangled in the messy middle of her story, Diane plotted the next chapter and fleshed out more of her main character—a woman reclaiming her life on her family’s farm after she was kidnapped as a young girl. In many ways, Diane sympathized with her character’s story—the struggle of putting one’s life back together after a traumatic loss. Over the last two years, Diane took refuge in her fiction. She drew on her character’s emotional endurance to lift her up as her marriage collapsed. There were many sleepless nights after a fight with Nora, Diane found herself staying up late, siphoning the strength to carry on as her words fell on the page.

  At times, the story suspended inside Diane was the only thing keeping her afloat.

  Yes, Diane had other valuables in her life. Her career was going well, and she loved teaching; both her parents were high school educators, and she took pride following their professional footsteps. Entering higher education was a practical and viable choice after all—one Nora easily associated herself with. But writing? Writing was wild and unpredictable. Deliciously inane. And it stoked something different in Diane. A passion. A need. A craving. Her book ignited a bold, intrinsic desire in her like nothing she’d ever known.

  Now, if only she could keep a consistent creative spark and finish the darn thing.

  Diane sighed and picked up her pen.

  Nikki returned shortly after with Diane’s order. Sprinkling salt and pepper onto her food, and a good douse of hot sauce for a fiery kick, she dug into her meal. Her morning was off to a delightful start. The food was fantastic, the coffee steaming, and the ideas started flowing onto the page. But the rumble of horsepower, and the surge of 80s punk music, pouring into the open café windows, ruined everything. Diane dropped her pen with a hearty groan, knowing exactly who to blame for the sudden and inconsiderate burst of chaos—yet again.

  From how Kelly Ann described it, Grand Isle was the perfect location for her sabbatical. Enduring years living in a crazy, congested city in Florida, Diane looked forward to all the things a rural sanctuary had to offer. The slower pace. The genuine kindness of strangers. The intimacy and friendliness. In her short time there, Diane knew this place had every aspect of a small town she wanted. All except one. A big, annoying, frustrating one: the inability to hide and avoid certain people.

  Particularly the salty ones.

  Diane grumbled and stabbed her eggs.

  Strolling through the door in a pair of worn blue jeans and a black razorback tank, her neighbor slid off her sunglasses and waited up front. Grabbing her coffee, Diane sucked in a long sip and kept her sights set on her work—totally not checking her out. Not that there was anything wrong with that. She could feel utter aggravation towards this woman and find her equally pleasant to look at. She could allow her eyes to slowly wander across the café and appreciate how her hair tied back exposed her muscular shoulders, even if Diane felt a sharp pain in hers every time she saw her. But in all honesty, the thought of finding herself attracted to anyone so quickly after her divorce was unnerving—especially to someone so . . . so . . . Diane shook her head. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. Diane had work to do, breakfast to eat, and she wasn’t going waste another precious second on that infuriating woman.

  “How you doing today, Michelle?” Nikki asked, pouring her some coffee.

  Diane stopped. Her eyes landed a few tables over. Michelle. She rolled the name around in her head a few times. It suited her.

  Nicely.

  Diane dragged her attention back to her work.

  “Hey, Nik,” Michelle said. “Can you hook me up with the usual? And is Sawyer around? He wanted to see me.”

  “Bacon and a short stack, coming up,” Nikki said. “And yeah, he’s out back helping his mom with inventory. Do you want me to fetch him?”

  “Oh, no. Don’t bother him,” Michelle said. “Tell him I’ll swing by the truck later.”

  “Sure thing,” Nikki said.

  “Thanks.”

  Diane chewed her lip and glanced back over. She didn’t want to start the day with another angsty interaction with her. She had enough of that yesterday. But watching Michelle relaxing with her coffee and paper, enjoying her morning, pleasantly unaware Diane’s blood was still boiling from the previous night, she couldn’t resist. Diane yanked off her glasses.

  “Are you going to interrogate me here, too?” Diane asked.

  Even as the words fired from her mouth, Diane wasn’t sure what came over her. Or why, in such a short time, Michelle seemed to press her every button. This was so unlike her. Diane was anything but a confrontational person. Whatever the reason, this woman provoked something explosive inside her.

  “No,” Michelle said, dragging the word out with a dramatic effect. Her eyes glued to the small community newspaper. “I’m assuming you’re eating breakfast.”

  “You were interested in everything I was doing last night.”

  “I told you.” Michelle flipped the page. Took a drink of coffee. “I was checking on my neighbor’s house.”

  “A knock on the door would have sufficed.”

  “What is your deal?” Michelle’s eyes snapped across the aisle, the newspaper buckling in her fingers.

  “I don’t have a deal,” Diane growled. “I’m trying to enjoy myself here without being monitored by neighborhood security.”

  Michelle snickered.

  Diane dropped her arms on the table. “Why is that funny?”

  “Nothing,” Michelle said, returning to her reading with a smirk. “But I wasn’t the one who started the scrutiny between us, if you recall.”

  Diane’s cheeks flushed. Michelle was right. It was Diane who couldn’t keep her eyes to herself, ogling Michelle like a psychopath as she ate her lunch. And again last night, as Diane got her first, up-close view of those tattoos, sweeping her eyes all over her under the flood of revealing light. But that didn’t give Michelle the right to trespass on her property, or give her the evil eye now. Frustrated, Diane slid her glasses back on and resumed her work. Getting into some idiotic feud with a local was not on her Vermont bucket list.

  “Let’s enjoy our breakfast in peace and not bother one another,” Diane said. “All right?”

  “You’re the one who started bothering me,” Michelle chomped into a piece of bacon after her breakfast arrived, “but okay.”

  Returning to her notepad, Diane
tried to focus, but her attention was lost. She rapped the pen on the page, glaring out the window. Without the slightest consideration, Michelle swept into the room and smothered Diane’s feeble muse with her smug attitude and smile. If their bickering kept up, Diane would never get her momentum back. She closed her note pad quickly and put her glasses away for good, gulping down the last of her coffee. This was ridiculous. There was a perfectly peaceful lake house waiting for her, and its spacious back deck was the best spot to revive her writing spirit. Placing a stack of bills on the table, Diane left without another word, throwing the whole frustrating distraction behind her.

  ***

  Sprinkling a final helping of mulch along the walkway, Diane stepped back, studying her freshly planted rows of cherry red geraniums and sunny marigolds. The warm buds were a striking contrast to the heads of cool blue hydrangeas, trimming the house. Satisfied, she stripped off her sun hat and wiped her sweaty brow. The temperature increased exponentially as the afternoon progressed. She didn’t mind. The hottest New England day couldn’t compare to the Deep South. Besides, Diane’s house in Florida wasn’t conducive for yard work, with only a small brick patio for her lemon trees, and she’d missed getting dirty and sweaty, planting flowers. Diane loved gardening. If she could, Diane would’ve spent all day playing in the earth—even if it brought pain to her knees, and sunburnt shoulders. Making a trip to the local nursery was a fitting reward after her remarkably productive morning.

  Writing outside on the deck, Diane made substantial progress, more than she had in a long time. Words flowed from her fingers, and she was sure a smile never left her face the entire morning. She felt renewed. Reinvigorated. And what a surprise. Leaving the café upset and unnerved, Diane thought her motivation was undoubtedly dead. But blazing through the next two chapters with five thousand new words, it was the most productive day she had in months. Diane was elated—even if she owed it all to Michelle, her burst of creative energy spurred on by sheer, unadulterated spite.