“It’s okay, Phil,” Cara intervenes, but gently. “Our meal is comped anyway, except the tip, and I’m covering that. Everything’s fine, Sam will fix it, right?” She finally looks up at Sam and notices that, while he still appears amused, a wrinkle of concern creases his forehead. “Sam, could you bring Phil a new entrée? Please?”
Sam claps a cheerful hand down on her shoulder. “Sure, boss. Anything for you and your culinary connoisseur here.” His fingers tighten, squeezing her gently, and he returns to his kitchen.
A new plate comes out for Phil, and Cara doesn’t tell him that she’s pretty sure it’s the exact same one. They finish the meal without speaking, and Phil refuses dessert.
They ride back to the campground, still without speaking. His silence makes her nervous, and she desperately tries to think of where else they can go so she doesn’t have to be alone with him. She suggests going out for a drink in the village, but Phil insists on going back to camp. She pedals as slowly as she can to delay the inevitable.
Once they are inside the tent, Phil lets loose his fury, though he’s discreet enough to whisper so other campers can’t overhear. “How dare you treat me like that in public? You embarrassed me! Was that supposed to be funny, letting the chef mock me like that? I’m your fiancé. You need to show me more respect.”
“You were making a scene. That’s where I work. The waitress, the cooks, everyone could hear you. They’re not just my employees, they’re my friends.” She keeps her voice calm, trying to placate him.
“Oh, since you’re friends with the chef, I have to eat bad food? What else do you do with him?”
“What the hell do you mean?” Her irritation is starting to show, and that’s not good for her. She knows she shouldn’t rise to his bait. She should let him calm down before things get worse, but she is getting angry too, and sometimes she can’t help but snap back. She should be able to control herself better by now.
“I’m saying I think you’re fucking the chef. You’re supposed to be mine. Should I just go kill myself now so you can fuck on my grave?” He is glaring at her, anger writ large across his face. This is a dangerous moment, and she needs to be careful.
“Phil, can you please calm down? I love you. Just you, I promise, okay?” She reaches for his shoulder to soothe him, but he bats her hand away and then hits her hard across the face. She isn’t expecting it, not yet at least, and she falls backward to the air mattress.
Phil follows her down, climbs on top of her, and puts his hand on her throat. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t choke her yet. But the threat is there, and she is afraid to move. She forces herself to remain calm, to breathe slowly, to avoid provoking a worse reaction. There are two ways this can go.
“You and me, Cara. We belong together. I love you. You’re my angel. You have to stop making me hurt you.” His other hand begins fumbling with her pants, pulling at the waistband.
She waits patiently, reassuring herself that his right hand is the one on her throat. He is never able to tear her pants off with his left. He gives up and briefly tightens the fingers of his right hand, and she lets out a strangled gasp. The sound she makes is enough to change things. He stops and stares at his hand as though he doesn’t know why it’s there, loosens his grip, and starts to cry. He lies against her, weeping, apologizing, and begging for forgiveness, and she finds herself once again comforting him and hating herself.
The next day Cara leaves Phil sleeping. She bikes to the staff house to wash up because, while she could shower at the campgrounds, her bathroom is much nicer and she wants to clean the feeling of last night away before work. Paddy had offered her time off for Phil’s visit, but she turned him down. That was probably a good decision.
Midmorning, Phil shows up with a box, a smile, and an apology. This is his usual behavior. “I’m sorry we fought last night. I don’t want to ruin my vacation out here by having you mad at me. You know how much I love you, right? I can’t live without you Cara, I just can’t.”
She opens the box to discover her favorite candies. “How did you know I would like these?” She is genuinely surprised he would remember. She’s not surprised, however, that he brought a gift; this is what he does. He thinks he can buy her goodwill. It’s not the gifts that keep her in the relationship though. It’s the fear of what will happen when she’s finally strong enough to leave.
“I didn’t, but I went to Darling Chocolatiers and the woman at the counter said she knew you and you’d like them.” He is beaming, proud of himself for doing something right, and she needs to smile and be grateful and appease his ego. That’s how this works. If she can keep him happy, he won’t hurt her, and he won’t hurt himself.
“Hey, chocolates.” Sam walks by the desk on his way to Paddy’s office with a stack of binders. It is a menu planning day, so he and Paddy are going to be drinking whiskey together for a while. He peeks in the box. “Oh, marzipan. I know those are your favorites, but who can eat that crap?” He turns to Phil, his voice friendly as though last night’s scene in the restaurant never happened. “I keep telling her there are way better options, but why would she listen to me? I’m just a guy who devotes my life to good food.” He takes one from the box anyway, pops it into his mouth, makes a face, and saunters into the office.
Cara watches him go, and when she turns back, Phil’s face is clouded with rage. “Really, Cara? Really?”
Cara knows she will be walking on eggshells for the rest of his stay. Fortunately, a guest approaches with a question, and she spends her shift focused on working and managing things. Phil passes the time sitting in a lobby chair, purportedly reading a book, but actually just staring at Cara. She is relieved that when Sam comes out of his meeting, Phil happens to have gone to the bathroom, and he misses seeing Sam stop to chat and put an arm around her shoulders to give her a half-hug.
“Don’t worry about last night,” Sam says. “Your boyfriend was just showing off. Not sure why he thought you’d be impressed though. He should know you better than that.” He grins at her, and, for the first time since Phil’s arrival, she feels a tiny thread of happiness.
Somehow, though, the rest of the day is fine. Phil is different, more like the man he was early in their relationship when they were happy and he didn’t have his savage mood swings. After work, she takes him to a late lunch in the village and then for a hike up to Lesser Lake. They go out for pizza and beer and watch the sunset over Lake Superior. He suggests hitting the local bar, but Cara has realized she can’t take him to The Digs. She is good friends with the bartender, who happens to be a man, and she doesn’t want another episode of Phil’s jealousy. If she tells Phil the bartender is gay, he won’t believe her and will accuse her of lying to cover up an affair. Plus, she knows that Sam and Sato have their darts league tonight, and she definitely doesn’t want Phil and Sam to run into each other when alcohol and sharp projectiles are involved.
Even though she’s never imagined Phil getting into a physical altercation (other than with her, which doesn’t count because other than one awful time when he ended up cracking one of her ribs, she has never fought back), she does worry he might start something with Sam. That might be nice though, because Sam is big and tough—she’s seen him working out, she is fully aware of how muscular he is (oh, and how lovely those muscles are), and he could probably beat the crap out of Phil. She would enjoy watching that, but she’d pay dearly for it later.
That night, in the tent, they have consensual sex for the first time in months. He is attentive and sweet, and it reminds her of how much she once cared for him, and what does it matter if she is maybe imagining that she was with someone else? Does it matter that she pictures a pair of bright blue eyes looking down on her? And does it matter that she pretends a different voice is whispering endearments in her ear rather than Phil’s voice telling her he’s sorry for accusing her of cheating, that it’s obvious she wasn’t since she is ‘too tight to have been getting it regularly’? And afterwards, as they lay entwined in eac
h other’s arms, does it matter if she hopes it’s the last time she will have to do that?
Cara wakes up the next morning when something heavy thumps down hard on the mattress next to her. She checks to see what it is, and there lies Phil, fully dressed and collapsed on top of the covers with his body twisted in an awkward position. For a second, she thinks he is just messing around but then she finds a piece of paper that had been placed next to her. With shaking fingers, she picks it up and reads:
Please remember me as I was yesterday, my angel. Always remember our perfect love.
Fearing the worst, or perhaps the best, she reaches out and rolls him over. He is still alive, but fabric, which she will later discover was torn from the bottom of a t-shirt, is wrapped tightly around his neck and twisted into a knot in the back. She can see where he had held it securely until he passed out. Fortunately for him, the noose has loosened enough that he did not, in fact, strangle himself. Cara isn’t sure if she is supposed to be happy or sad about that.
Damn you Phil, she thinks. For a brief moment she considers tightening it back up, and waking up in an hour, but the moment passes and she unties the cloth from his neck. Damn you, Phil.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Whispering Pines, July 2013
Email from Amy O’Connell to Fabio Basile:
Want to hear the latest ridiculous guest story? You know you do.
So this afternoon, Cara is at the reception desk while I was working on some marketing stuff (wrote up three blog posts for the inn to share over the next week). This angry guest—and since I can’t say his real name for privacy reasons, we’ll call him Mr. Jackass—comes up and he is furious. He tells Cara that a very expensive necklace has been stolen from his room. Keep in mind, we do have safes in the room, so guests can lock up their valuables. Also, keep in mind this is a remote island, and there is literally never any need for fancy jewelry.
Cara is her usual calm professional self. I’ve never even seen her raise her voice to a guest. She starts asking him about it, and he describes a gold-and-diamond necklace worth many thousands of dollars (probably an exaggeration). I could tell she thought he was going to accuse the housekeeping staff, but then he says, “And you and I both know who’s responsible for this.” Cara very nicely told him that she has never had problems with any of our employees and we will do a thorough investigation. That’s not enough for Mr. Jackass though. He accuses Tyrell, of all people, even though Tyrell wasn’t even at the inn this afternoon—he was leading a bunch of people on a hike.
I wish you could have seen her. Cara always has the sweetest face, so people think they can walk all over her, but she was just like, “Oh, no, we have the utmost trust in Mr. Waters. He came highly recommended, and we have never had any complaints about him.” Waters, is, obviously, Ty’s last name, and you can tell Cara is holding back her fury when she talks like that. Well, Mr. Jackass seems to be one of those coming-out-of-the-closet racists, and he starts talking about how, “Well, you know how those people are,” and she said, “Look, we are aware that this is Minnesota, and Mr. Waters revealed in his interview that he is a Packers fan, but we chose to overlook that particular flaw because of his many good qualities.” She said it so innocently and so calmly, it was awesome. Mr. Jackass’ face turned a little redder—see, she was going to force him to say what he was implying.
So then Mr. Jackass is all, “I don’t care what football team he cheers for, even though the Vikings are better”—Minnesotans have to get that in—“but come on, you know what I’m talking about. You know, people like him.” So Cara takes in a sharp breath like she’s suddenly offended and she says, “Mr. Jackass! Really! I don’t care what your political beliefs are, we do not disparage our disabled veterans here. Mr. Waters gave his leg in service to our country.”
Now Mr. Jackass is on the spot. Tyrell wears pants when he’s working, so you don’t necessarily notice that one of his legs is metal. And Mr. Jackass probably didn’t know Ty was a vet because why would he? But since Cara’s informed him of that, he needs to respond.
“I didn’t realize he was a vet, and of course I’m thankful for his service,” Mr. Jackass says carefully, “but it doesn’t change the fact that my wife’s necklace was stolen from our room, which means it has to have been someone who works here who took it. Some stereotypes exist for a reason, and he’s the only one who is . . . you know.” But notice he still can’t bring himself to say ‘black.’ So then Cara, still maintaining a look of professional confusion says, “Oh. I know what you’re getting at, Mr. Jackass, and I must inform you that this is 2013, and we don’t discriminate against homosexuals in our hiring choices. I also feel compelled to inform you that my beloved uncle, who has owned this property for nearly thirty years, is gay himself. This island has always been welcoming to the LGBT community. And I have never heard any stereotypes about gays being jewel thieves.”
So now Mr. Jackass is starting to get pissed. There are several other guests in the lobby, and they’re all listening, and so far it sounds like he hates Packer fans, the military, people with disabilities, and gays. (He’s right to hate one of those groups—GO COWBOYS!). Well, meanwhile, as all this is going on, I’m sitting there in the staff office eavesdropping while updating social media, and guess what appears on our Facebook page? A selfie, posted by Mr. Jackass’ daughter, taken in their room right then at that very moment, and it says, “Just chillin’ with my chocolates @WhisperingPinesInn @DarlingChocolatiers #familyvacay,” and it’s her sitting on the bed, wearing one of our robes and THE MISSING NECKLACE! That’s right, his teenage daughter had it the whole time. So I printed out the image, walked over and said, “Excuse me, sir, I think I’ve figured out who took your necklace. Would you like me to call Deputy Mills and have him come up here and arrest the guilty party?” I held the picture so Cara could see it and he couldn’t.
Cara then says, “Thank you, Amy. Yes, we have a zero-tolerance policy for theft on our property. This person should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Given what you said about the value of the necklace, this is a felony case. Don’t worry, we do have a holding cell on the island, and they’ll be transferred to jail on the mainland in the morning.”
Mr. Jackass puffs up real big, all proud of himself, and announces loudly to everyone in the lobby. “Good, I’m glad you’ve found the thief. This is supposed to be a safe family- friendly place. Maybe you’ll be more careful in your hiring decisions next time. And I do expect some sort of compensation for my troubles.”
Cara’s not as loud as him, but her voice carries pretty well. “Fortunately, sir, we’ve discovered it wasn’t hotel staff who stole your jewelry, it was a guest of the inn. That guest will, of course, be permanently banned from the property. Here, do you recognize this woman?” and she hands him the printout, where I’ve put a bright red arrow pointing to the necklace on his damn daughter.
What do you think, Fabio? Did he apologize for accusing Tyrell? Did we all laugh about how he learned a valuable lesson about discrimination and making assumptions? Or did he slink away in embarrassment with Cara calling after him, “Wait, do you still want me to call the police on your daughter?” Yeah, it was the second one.
Don’t worry, the story doesn’t end there. Just about every guest who witnessed the interaction slipped Ty a tip throughout the course of the night. He had no idea why all the sudden people were giving him money and telling him ‘good job,’ but he sure was happy about it. He made like $200 bucks, and he spent some of it on cookies for all the desk staff, which I will never turn down. Do you see why I love this place?
Chapter Forty
It was Phil again, chasing her, appearing not as he was in life but in death, his face cherry-red, his eyes open and unseeing. That Phil, dead Phil, reaching for her, hands stretching towards her throat. And she tried to escape, tried to run, but her body was too slow to move, and his hand crept toward her and she couldn’t scream . . . and a loud ringing jolted Cara awake.
; She took a deep breath to calm herself down enough to answer the phone. It was a noise complaint, of course. Nobody else would call her at one thirty in the morning. She felt a surge of annoyance. Usually, Paddy handled all of the late-night calls, but he had a cold and had asked her to transfer the phones to the staff house rather than to him.
She looked across the room at Amy, who hadn’t even moved when the phone rang. Her cousin’s ability to sleep through anything aroused a brief surge of resentment, an unjustified reaction that probably stemmed from the lingering effects of her nightmare. She couldn’t blame Amy. If Cara had four younger siblings, she probably would have developed the same skills. And it didn’t matter. The caller was complaining about what was most likely a drunken bachelor party, and Amy wasn’t the right person to help her break it up. For this, she needed Tyrell.
But when she knocked softly on the door to the men’s bedroom and opened it, she saw Ty’s bed was made and empty. Damn it, he must be out for the night. Sam was home though, and he was, fortunately for Cara’s peace of mind, alone in his bed. He sat up, fumbling for his glasses.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Sorry, I was looking for Ty.” She made sure to only look at his face and not at his shirtless torso. “We’ve got a bachelor-party situation going on at the inn.”
“Oh. I don’t think Ty’s here,” he mumbled. “But if you give me a second to get dressed, I’ll come help you.”
By the time he stumbled, blinking, into the living room, Cara had already pulled a jacket over her pajamas, put her shoes on, and tied her hair back in a ponytail. She waited by the door, somewhat agitated. She hadn’t yet shaken off the fear and anxiety of her nightmare. All she really wanted to do was curl up in bed and cry herself back to sleep.
That Last Summer (Whispering Pines Island Book 1) Page 16