The Widow's Cabin

by L. G. Davis

  When they return to the kitchen in time for the food, they’re both smiling from ear to ear.

  “It all smells wonderful. Why did I ever try to keep you from cooking dinner?” Mrs. Foster throws back her head in laughter. “One day, when you open up that restaurant or bakery, I’ll be one of your first customers.”

  I give her a smile and distract myself with serving the food. Thinking about the future doesn’t come easy to me, not when there’s such a huge obstacle between me and everything I want. It’s safer to only focus on surviving the present.

  “Clark, is this better than lasagna?” I ask.

  He nods and shoves a spoonful of food into his mouth, his eyes dancing.

  Mrs. Foster and I smile at each other. Right now, in Mrs. Foster’s cozy kitchen, I feel normal. I feel free even though at any moment, my joy could be stolen from my heart and replaced with pain and fear.

  But the few minutes that I have to enjoy the moment, I pretend we’re a family, me, Clark, and Mrs. Foster. In my mind, I pretend she’s the mother I never had and Clark’s grandmother. The way she talks to him and the way she touches him makes it easy for me to fool myself.

  I’m about to serve the dessert I whipped up when the doorbell rings.

  Mrs. Foster frowns. “That’s odd. I’m not expecting visitors. Who would visit at this hour?” She wipes her mouth and pushes back her chair. “I’ll be right back, dears.”

  I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s close to eight. The time has gone by so fast.

  I secretly pray that Mrs. Foster won’t invite the person in. I want to remain in our safe bubble a little longer.

  While Clark continues to eat, I strain my ears to listen to Mrs. Foster speaking to the person at the door. The male voice sounds angry.

  I’m unable to catch the words because the man is barking them out at a high speed and Mrs. Foster is lowering her voice.

  I jolt at the sound of the door slamming. Everything is silent until suddenly, someone throws something at the kitchen window.

  Clark drops his spoon and we both turn to look. Our eyes meet those of an angry man with long, greasy hair and tattoos on one side of his neck.

  “Mommy, I’m scared.” Clark runs over to me and hides his face in my chest.

  “It’s all right, baby,” I say.

  The man sneers at me, then flips me off before stumbling away as if he’s drunk.

  Who is he, and what did he want from Mrs. Foster? What did she do to anger him so much that he had to extend his anger to me?

  Before I can come up with answers, Mrs. Foster returns to the kitchen. She’s not the same woman who had left and the sparkle in her eyes has disappeared.

  I want to tell her what the man did at the window, but she’s upset enough.

  “Who was it?” I ask, desperate to know.

  “Nobody.” She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel as if she had washed them. “No one at all.”

  When she turns around again, her eyes are wet. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m rather tired already.” She forces a laugh. “Old age is certainly catching up with me. Please feel free to stay and enjoy your dessert. I apologize for being such a terrible host.”

  With that, she kisses Clark on the top of the head and squeezes my shoulder. Then she shuffles out of the kitchen. With her shoulders hunched, she looks much shorter.

  It feels uncomfortable to be eating dessert without her around, so I tell Clark we should go. He doesn’t want to leave, but I don’t give him a choice. I do my best to explain to him that Mrs. Foster is not feeling well and she needs to rest. In the end, he groans and folds his arms across his chest. He definitely likes Mrs. Foster more than me, but I can’t find it in me to be jealous of the older woman.

  Back at the cabin, when I close my eyes to sleep, I see the man from the window again. I feel the fury in his gaze and wonder whether he’s a danger to me and my son.

  Anyone has the power to cause trouble for us at this point.

  15

  Iwake up shortly before midnight, unable to sleep.

  Frustrated, I slide out of bed, careful not to wake Clark, and sit on the edge of the bed. His gentle breathing is interrupted by an occasional snore.

  I want to get back into bed, put my arms around him, and make him a silent promise that everything will be all right. But I’m cautious about making promises I might not be able to keep. I take it one day at the time, only making promises that don’t expire beyond a day. It’s safer that way and it protects Clark from further disappointments.

  I rise to my feet and it suddenly occurs to me that something actually woke me up. It wasn’t a nightmare. I tiptoe out of the room and close the door behind me, heading to the kitchen.

  It’s late, but the only thing that would calm me down is baking. I planned on waking up early anyway to bake Clark’s cake. Since I’m already awake, I might as well do it now. I gather all the ingredients I need and jump right in.

  A snapping sound catches my attention. It’s coming from outside. The blinds are closed and I’m afraid to peek.

  Standing still at the stove, my ears strain to listen to more sounds, and every muscle in my body is on high alert.

  I’m dreaming. I’m making it all up. It’s not the first time I imagine something that’s not there. The missing cupcake comes to mind.

  I did it as a kid. Whenever I was particularly stressed, hallucinations followed.

  “Get out of your head, child,” Mrs. Harris, one of my many foster parents, used to snap when I told her I was afraid of the monsters in my head. “That head of yours will get you in trouble one day,” she’d say.

  When I don’t hear anything else, I exhale and get back to my baking, burying my hands into the silky flour.

  Within minutes, the mixture is ready, and the aromas of vanilla, chocolate, and mint make me smile.

  Maybe I should have waited to bake the cake with Clark, to create another memory together, but he also loves surprises. He’ll love the cake.

  But that’s not enough. I’m taking him out, too. Going out fills me with dread, but it’s his birthday. He begged me to take him to the park, and I felt terrible to hear my son beg to be outdoors. Toys no longer interest him as much as the freedom to be a child.

  A memory from the past comes to me.

  On Clark’s third birthday, Brett and I took him to Disneyland. To my horror, we discovered that Cole was also there, staying at the same hotel, for the same period of time.

  I had asked Brett not to share our plans with his dad. It was a chance to be just the three of us, and I wanted to enjoy my family without Cole’s constant shadow.

  Somehow, he knew. Janella had told him, he said, and he wanted to surprise us. He didn’t get the reaction he expected from me. The whole weekend was ruined. Cole ended up stealing the show, buying gifts for Clark that cost a fortune, like a toy train that Clark loved so much he took it almost everywhere with him. It’s the only toy he brought with him from Fort Haven.

  I’ll do whatever I can to make this birthday special. I’ll give him another missing piece of his childhood, a happy memory to keep him going.

  The silence around me is so thick. It confirms that the sounds I heard earlier were not real.

  While the cake is baking, I sit at the kitchen table with the notes I made about Cole.

  My eyes scan the page, where I scribbled down my conversation with Marjorie. I did call her back after she hung up on me, but she didn’t pick up. I took that as a sign that I was right, and she had lied for Cole.

  I’m not done digging.

  Another call I want to make is straight to the source. He loved his hotels even more than he had loved his own son. The answers could be where his heart is.

  I circle the phone number of the housekeeping department of the Fort Haven Black Oyster Hotel.

  Since I’ll be taking Clark out of town to a park we’ve never been to before, I’ll find a payphone and make the call.

  I don’t plan to speak to Cole, but
I have someone else in mind who might be able to give me the answers I need. I’ll destroy him before he gets a chance to get to me.

  I’m far more terrified of him than I am of the cops.

  Another sound makes me gasp. I straighten up so fast my back cracks. Before I can figure out what the sound is, the blinds start to glow as though someone is pointing a bright light at the window, car headlights perhaps.

  Someone is out there. It’s Cole. He has found me.

  As I push to my feet, fear chills me to the bone.

  I run to the switch, flick off the light, and press my back against the wall. The room remains illuminated by the light outside seconds before the lights go out again. Just as my eyes are adjusting to the darkness, whoever is outside turns the light back on.

  My mouth grows drier with each second.

  He’s out there playing some kind of game. The lights continue to go on and off until they finally stay on for longer than a minute.

  My heart is lodged inside my throat now. I want to scream, but I don’t want to wake Clark. Luckily the bedroom is on the other side of the cabin, or he would wake up from the bright light.

  Cole is dangerous. Maybe I should call 911. But what if the cops arrive and I end up being the one going away in handcuffs?

  I can’t let them take me away. I can’t leave Clark.

  I run to the block of knives and remove the largest one. The light on the other side of the window is still shining bright.

  What is he waiting for? Is he enjoying taunting me before he shows me his face?

  Panic brings my body to life, and I run through the entire cabin, checking that all the windows are closed. Then I look in the bedroom to make sure Clark is okay. He’s still fast asleep. But for how long?

  I return to the kitchen and force myself to move to the window. He’s taunting me again, switching the light on and off again. Then they stay on.

  A car door slams and my stomach clenches. He’s coming to get me. I’m already imagining him kicking down the back door.

  I need to protect my son from him. My hand tightens around the handle of the knife, and I hold my breath as I open the blinds a few inches.

  He’s standing in front of a pickup truck, surrounded by light. The light is blinding me, making it hard for me to see his face. But I feel his eyes on me. In one hand I have the knife, and in the other, my cell phone in case I’m forced to call 911.

  He starts walking toward the kitchen window. My mind tells me to let go of the blinds, but I can’t get myself to. My hand feels paralyzed. When he emerges from the harshness of the light and comes close enough to the kitchen window, I catch my breath.

  It’s not Cole.

  It’s the man with the tattoos, the man who had looked at me through the kitchen window of Mrs. Foster’s kitchen. He’s looking at me the same way now.

  This time, he gives me that creepy sneer, then turns to walk back to his truck. He slides behind the wheel and starts the engine. Then he drives off.

  The knife slips from my hand and I jump back before the tip slices my bare foot. Weak with fear, I crumple to the floor, my hands covering my mouth.

  Who is he? And what does he want from me? It’s exhausting to think I will have to worry about someone else now on top of Cole. I don’t think I have the energy.

  Mrs. Foster is probably the only person who can tell me who the stranger is, but the way she looked after he showed up at her house, it’s probably not something she wants to talk about.

  But he scares the hell out of me. Without saying a word, he threatened our safety.

  I make sure the doors and windows are locked again, feeling crazy because I know they are. Then I open the kitchen blinds and gaze down the path where his truck disappeared.

  My eyes are still blurry from being assaulted by the bright lights, and my heart feels like it’s cowering in a corner of my body, afraid to come out. Not even baking can help how I’m feeling right now. I switch off the oven. The cake will be ruined, but I can’t finish. The magic is gone.

  The only thing I want to do is lie next to my son.

  I slide into bed and tighten an arm around his warm, little body. I’m holding him, but he’s the one that’s holding me together.

  16

  Almost a week after the stranger showed up at the cabin, I’m back to work. He never came back, but he left me on edge and unable to sleep much at night, always waiting for the sound of tires on the path outside.

  What hurt the most was the fact that I was so tormented to the point that Clark’s birthday didn’t go as planned.

  I managed to finish the football chocolate cake. I sang to him and we danced around, but I wasn’t there at all mentally, and he felt it. Everything was ruined again. I couldn’t fake being happy and excited, and I found it hard to focus on him when my emotions were in turmoil.

  Clark asked me several times if I was all right. It killed me inside. I had failed him yet again.

  I’ve been waiting every day for the man to return, but he never did.

  Until now.

  He’s standing in the doorway of Lemon. The same greasy hair brushes his shoulders, the same sneer stretches across his lips as our eyes meet.

  I’m tempted to run, but I can’t do it again. I can’t let Tasha down.

  Exhaustion is pressing down my shoulders. In addition to being constantly terrified that Cole might find us, I also have to be afraid of someone I don’t even know.

  “Great,” Tasha says next to me. “Just what we need today.”

  Her eyes are on my tormentor, who is now making his way toward one of the tables in the back. Once seated, he reaches into his back pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He pulls one from the pack and lights it.

  “Hell no.” Tasha charges toward the table. I can’t hear what she’s telling him, but her expression says it all.

  To my horror, while still keeping his eyes on her face, he turns the cigarette upside down and presses the glowing tip into the table. Smoke curls upward as it burns through the tablecloth.

  “Get out of here now.” Tasha nearly shouts as she yanks the tablecloth off the table.

  The man stands and looks past her in my direction. When he finally walks out, I start to panic. What if he waits for me outside?

  He’s definitely out to get me. Why else would he come to my workplace?

  I thought of bringing him up in conversation with Mrs. Foster when I dropped off Clark, but she was on the phone and I was late for work. My plan was to ask her about him this evening.

  “If he weren’t Mrs. Foster’s son, I swear I would have called the cops on him.” Tasha’s chest is rising and falling as she makes her way back to me. “It’s hard to believe that someone like that could come from such a gentle and kind woman.” She hugs the folded tablecloth to her body.

  “Mrs. Foster has a son?” The revelation sends a ripple of surprise through me. I don’t understand. She clearly told me that she doesn’t have kids.

  Tasha hands the cover to one of the other waitresses. “Yes, his name is Ronan. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.” She frowns at me. “I assumed you did since you and Mrs. Foster are pretty close.”

  “I did see him…once. But I don’t know him.”

  “Well, it’s in your best interest to keep as far away from him as you can.” At the sound of someone coming through the door, she turns away from me. “Let’s talk in a bit. My favorite guests have arrived. I’ll serve them personally.”

  It’s Martha and Julius, a couple in their nineties who come to Lemon every single Monday at the same time. They also order the same meal every time, potato and tuna casserole, which they eat while holding hands.

  It’s very sweet. But I can’t find joy in anything today.

  Tasha leaves me standing by the bar, trying to process what I heard.

  I finally pull myself together and serve a group of teenagers.

  “One grilled cheese sandwich, one hamburger with fries.” I write everything down so I don’t ma
ke a mistake again. My head is a mess.

  I find Tasha in the kitchen, passing on her order to Raphael. “I didn’t know Mrs. Foster had kids,” I say.

  “Well, you saw him. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wants to pretend he doesn’t exist. Word around town is that he killed his twin brother.”

  “Oh my God. That’s... That’s scary.” My mind goes back to the night he parked in front of the cabin, sending me a warning I didn’t understand. “Why isn’t he in prison?”

  “He was never found guilty. The story is that a few years ago, he went boating with his brother, Daniel, and only he returned. But apparently, the police had never been able to find enough evidence to nail him. He did just come out of prison for something else, though. Assault, I think.” Tasha pours iced tea into several glasses and places them on the silver tray. She balances it on her flat palm. “I feel sorry for Mrs. Foster. He really made her life hell. People are hoping he’ll commit another crime just so he’ll go back to prison and leave her alone.”

  Tasha walks away, leaving me staring after her, shaken by what she’s told me. I get it now. His mother wants nothing to do with him, and he’s taking it out on me. On one hand, I’m relieved that he has nothing to do with my past, but on the other, he might end up blowing my cover. If he continues to stalk me, he might discover things I don’t want him to know.

  The rest of the day passes in a blur, and when I go to pick up Clark, I find Ronan’s truck parked in front of the house across from Mrs. Foster’s.

  He’s sitting inside, smoke from a cigarette curling in wisps out the window. His gaze is focused on the house. He may not be welcome in his mother’s home, but that won’t stop him from spying on her.

  What if he does something to her? If he’s capable of killing his own brother, she might be in danger. But then again, what can I do to protect her from him? The only person I have the power to protect is Clark.

  I’m glad Tasha told me because now I can remain alert. If he shows up at the cabin again, I might call the cops. For the first time, I wish that I had made friends with Officer Roland.