The Space Between Sisters

by Mary McNear

  “How about I buy you a drink, then, and we toast your closest friend?”

  “No, thanks. I have to meet someone,” she lied, getting down off her stool. He slid off his, too.

  “Where are you meeting them?” he asked, standing too close to her.

  “At my place,” she said. She tried to extricate herself from between the two bar stools, but he moved in and closed off her path.

  “Your place, huh? I’d like to see that.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, aiming for firm, but missing it and hitting rude instead. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she added, trying to step around him. Once more, he blocked her way. Her heart, of its own accord, had started beating faster. Stop it, she told herself. She took a steadying breath and looked around. Was anybody noticing this? His friends were. A couple of them had followed him over from the pool tables and were watching his exchange with her. Far from disapproving, though, they seemed to be enjoying it. The other customers at the bar—there were at least a dozen of them by now—were looking pointedly away. Poppy searched out the bartender, but he was filling a pint glass from a tap and she couldn’t catch his eye.

  Okay, stay calm, she told herself. This man’s a bully. He can smell fear a mile away. And he likes fear. And even as she was thinking this, he was smiling at her. It was an ugly smile. “You need to move right now,” she said, meeting his cold eyes head-on. “If you don’t, I’ll call the police.”

  “Ooh, the police,” he drawled, “I’m scared.” He stepped back and held his hands up, as if in surrender. “They might arrest me for . . . talking to a girl.” He looked at his friends and they laughed. But he’d created a little space between them when he’d stepped back, and Poppy used it now to slip by him.

  “Hey,” he called after her. “What about that drink?” His friends laughed again. Poppy kept walking, hoping she’d shaken him off. But damn, the man was fast. Before she’d even reached the door, he’d gotten in front of her again, and was leaning, leisurely, against it as if he’d been there all day.

  “How about if I drive you home?” he asked. He smiled, what he probably thought was a winning smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

  She tried to beat back a wave of panic. “Get out of my way,” she said. “I mean it.” She knew she sounded scared. But she couldn’t help it. He smiled his ugly smile, and she tried to push past him. Amazingly, he let her.

  “Aw, come on, you’re not being any fun,” he said, following behind her as she pushed through the screen door. Poppy ignored him, and headed for her car. She wished, fervently, that she’d parked closer to the bar, but she was relieved to see there was more activity in the parking lot now than there’d been when she’d arrived. “You’ve been drinking,” he called after her. “Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

  She picked up her pace. Don’t look back. She reached into her purse and felt for her car key, then ran her thumb along its edge. It was hardly a weapon, but, then again, what were the chances of him assaulting her while it was still light outside, in full view of other people?

  “Hey, if you won’t let me drive you home, at least let me follow you there. Just to make sure you get there safe.”

  She unlocked the car door and yanked it open. She practically dived inside, but it wasn’t until she’d slammed the door, and checked to make sure that all the doors were locked, that she allowed herself to look back at him. He was standing outside the bar. His friends had come out, too, and were hanging around him, some of them with their beers in hand. He saw her watching him, and he pantomimed revving a motorcycle, and then pointed to one parked just a few spaces over from her. Was that his? Would he follow her if she left? She felt suddenly sick, and turned away. She knew what she needed to do. She needed to start her engine. She needed to pull out of the parking lot. She needed to get away from here. But she couldn’t. She was too afraid. She tried to think clearly. She tried to assess the situation, but she couldn’t. She didn’t trust herself to. He’d tapped into a fear that defied rationalization. He might be a harmless jerk, trying to liven up an otherwise dull evening. Then again, he could be truly dangerous, someone who, if she left now, would follow her.

  Either way, it didn’t matter. She was shaking all over, shaking so badly that she knew she couldn’t drive. She actually thought, for a second, she might hyperventilate, or worse, faint. That was when she took her cell phone out of her handbag, scrolled through her contacts, and called one of them. After three rings, he answered.

  “Poppy?”

  “Sam, I—”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I might be in trouble,” she said, pulling in a little breath.

  “Where are you?”

  “The parking lot of the Mosquito Inn.”

  There was a pause. She could almost hear him thinking, What the hell are you doing there? But what he said was, “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing, yet. But this guy’s bothering me, and I think, if I leave, he might try to follow me home.”

  “Are you in your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are the doors locked?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s just . . .” She looked over at him, and he grinned back at her. “He’s just standing there, watching me. He’s got some friends with him.”

  “Okay,” he said, and she could sense movement on his end of the line. “I’m coming. I’ll stay on the phone with you, and if he comes any closer than he is already, I’ll call the police.”

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to breathe normally.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  Afterwards, she couldn’t remember exactly what Sam talked to her about during the ten or fifteen minutes it took for him to drive there. But he kept up a one-sided conversation the whole way. Occasionally, she would hear a background sound; Sam slamming his pickup door shut, Sam turning on the engine. Mostly, though, it was Sam talking about things. Little things. An obnoxious customer who’d come into the store today, a funny movie he’d seen recently, the tree house he and Linc were building for his kids. Sometimes, he’d ask her a quick question. Was the guy still there? How was she doing? Yes, he was still there. And she was doing okay.

  The okay part, of course, was relative. She was still on the edge of panic. But she listened to Sam’s words, listened to them without necessarily understanding them, and she took solace in them. As long as he kept talking, she could keep breathing.

  “Poppy,” Sam said, finally. “I’m about two minutes away. I don’t want you to get out of your car yet. But I do want you to tell me where it’s parked.” She looked out the window and described its position.

  “All right, I’m pulling in now,” he said, after a wait that felt like an eternity. “I see you.” Poppy turned and looked out the window, and, as soon as she saw his truck, she collapsed back against the seat. He parked next to her, and, leaving his engine running, got out and came around to her side. He gestured for her to unlock the door, and, as soon as she did, he opened it for her.

  “Let’s go,” he said, motioning her out. She switched off her cell phone, slipped it back in her handbag, and picked up the urn from the seat beside her. But when she tried to get out of the car, her legs felt rubbery, and Sam, in the end, supported her the few feet to his truck and lifted her into it. Then he walked around to his side and opened the door. Before he got in, though, he turned toward the entrance to the Mosquito Inn and stared at Poppy’s harasser. Poppy couldn’t see the expression on Sam’s face; he was facing away from her. But whatever it was, it was enough to unnerve the man in the trucker hat. He stared back for a moment, then shrugged, and went back inside the bar. His friends, who looked disappointed that the fun had ended so soon, followed him.

  Sam got in then. “Put your seat belt on,” he said. She yanked it on, and he pulled out of the parking lot. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, with a sideways look at the urn she was still clutchin
g.

  “They’re my cat’s ashes,” she said, shakily.

  “Of course they are,” he said, quietly, almost to himself.

  She turned to him, questioningly, as his truck sped down the road. But he didn’t say anything else. Where was the guy she’d been talking to on the phone? she wondered. That Sam had seemed so kind and reassuring. Now he just seemed distant.

  “Are you angry at me?” she asked.

  He looked over at her for the first time since she’d gotten into the truck, and then looked away. “Not angry. Just surprised. And, honestly, a little worried.”

  “About me?”

  Sam looked over at her again. “Yes, about you. I haven’t seen you or spoken to you in a month. And then you call me from a bar that’s known to be frequented by ex-cons, where you’ve been drinking, alone. I’m sorry”—he caught himself—“not alone, with your cat’s ashes. And then I have to practically pour you into my truck. I mean, what the hell, Poppy? Do you go there often?”

  “No,” she said, indignantly, though his tone had been more puzzled than unkind. “I’ve never been to that place before. I didn’t know anything about it. I don’t hang out in bars—if that’s what you’re implying—alone or with other people, and I don’t drink a lot, either. Not tonight, and not any other night. The only reason I was even there was because”—here she stopped to catch her breath—“because I’d gone to pick up Sasquatch’s ashes at the vet. Win couldn’t come with me because she’s away, and I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t prepared for how hard it would be,” she said, her voice cracking. “I really wasn’t. He was . . . he was my best friend. I know it sounds crazy, or pathetic, or something. But it’s true. I got him when I was in high school, after I’d had a . . . a very bad experience, and he helped me. He got me through it. I knew, objectively, he would die someday, but on some level, I don’t . . . I don’t think I really believed it.” She stopped, and concentrated on not crying.

  They drove in silence for a minute, and when Sam spoke again, he voice was gentle. “I wasn’t implying that you hang out in bars, or that you’re a drinker. But don’t . . . don’t go there again, okay? It’s not a nice place. And, um, I’m sorry about Sasquatch. I never met him, obviously. But I’m sure he was a fine cat.”

  “He was,” Poppy agreed, thinking how close his tribute to Sasquatch—simple, but fitting—had been to her own. She felt her heart start to slow and her breathing return to normal, and then an unexpected drowsiness settled over her. Her fear of the man in the trucker cap was gone. So was her indignation at Sam. She yawned, quietly, but Sam still heard her.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  She nodded. Actually, she was exhausted. She doubted that she’d gotten more than a few consecutive hours of sleep all week.

  “Well, we’ll be back at your cabin soon.”

  She said nothing, but she thought about being alone again and she sighed.

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “Nothing. I just . . . don’t want to be by myself tonight.”

  “Are you still scared?”

  “Not exactly. It’s more like . . .” It’s more like I’m lonely. And she was, at the thought of going back there. So lonely that it frightened her a little. “Sam, could I spend the night at your place?” she asked suddenly.

  Now she heard him sigh. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t mean spend the night as in ‘spend the night.’ I mean ‘sleep on your couch and be gone by the time you wake up.’”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured, but then, after a short silence, he said. “Yeah, okay. You can stay. Tomorrow I’ll take you back to the parking lot first thing to pick up your car. But, Poppy?”

  “Yes?”

  “This isn’t going to be a romantic thing.”

  “Yeah, I get that,” she said, and she was careful to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  They didn’t speak again until he’d pulled up in front of his cabin, and by then Poppy was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. She started to open her door, but Sam rushed around and helped her out, and for this she was grateful.

  When they got inside, Sam asked her if she wanted something to eat. She was hungry, but eating sounded like it would require too much effort. “Actually, if you could get me a blanket and a pillow for the couch, I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

  “You don’t need to sleep on the couch. I’ve already got the beds on the sleeping porch made up. The kids like to sleep out there sometimes when it’s hot.”

  She followed him through the living room and kitchen, and onto a small screened in porch off the back of the house. He indicated one of the beds and, leaving her things on the floor beside it, she crawled beneath the covers. “Do you need anything?” Sam asked. “A glass of water?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, her eyes drooping closed.

  He sat down gingerly on the end of the bed. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, drowsily. And then, without thinking, right before she fell asleep, she said, “Sam, I am so in love with you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Sometime during the night the smell of coffee invaded Poppy’s sleep. It smelled . . . it smelled delicious. Was it morning already? She sat up, groggily. But no, the view through the sleeping porch screen was one of almost impenetrable darkness. Someone was awake, though. Someone was brewing coffee. She got out of bed, and, maneuvering by the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen, she made her way there and found Sam sitting at the breakfast table, his laptop and a cup of coffee in front of him.

  “Hi,” she said, from the doorway.

  Sam looked up, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “The smell of coffee woke me up,” she explained, feeling self-conscious in her rumpled clothes.

  “Help yourself,” he said, neutrally, gesturing at the coffeepot on the counter.

  She found a mug in the cupboard, filled it up, and took a carton of half-and-half out of the refrigerator. She poured some into the cup, and found a spoon for stirring. After a moment’s hesitation, she came to sit at the table with him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, tentatively, sipping her coffee.

  “Inventory,” he said, concentrating on his computer screen.

  “Do you always work on inventory”—she glanced at the clock on the stove—“at 2:30 A.M.?”

  “Do you always tell people that you’re in love with them?” he asked, looking up at her.

  Her hand wobbled and she spilled a little coffee on the table. She had told him that before she’d fallen asleep. Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze. “I meant that,” she said, quietly.

  He shook his head. “You shouldn’t throw words like that around.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t. I’ve never said that to anyone before. Ever,” she said, but he looked unconvinced.

  She shrugged. “You can believe whatever you want,” she mumbled, wrapping both of her hands around her mug, and staring down into it. She wouldn’t take those words back. They were the only words that meant anything to her right now.

  She took another sip of coffee, but her stomach clenched, uneasily. When was the last time she’d eaten? she wondered. Lunchtime. And since then, all she’d had was a sea breeze, and now a cup of coffee. The coffee had smelled wonderful, but now it felt as if it was burning a hole in her stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” Sam asked, noticing her expression.

  “Nothing. I think maybe I should eat something, though.”

  For the first time that night he looked amused. “What, was the menu at the Mosquito Inn not up to your standards?”

  She shuddered, remembering the dirty cloth the bartender had wiped the dirty bar with. “Oh, God, they don’t actually serve food there, do they?”

  She saw a shadow of a smile cross his face. “No. I don’t think the Health Department would allow that.” He studied her then, not unsympathetically. “Would you like something to eat?”
<
br />   “I’d love something,” she confessed. But when she got up to get it, he waved her back down again. He opened the refrigerator, rummaged around in it, and took out a bowl covered with Saran Wrap. “There’s some leftover pancake batter,” he offered.

  She nodded, eagerly. She was starving now. He put a pan on the stove, turned the gas on, and melted butter into it. When it started to sizzle, he poured the batter in, forming half a dozen perfect circles with it.

  “I didn’t know you could cook,” she said.

  “I can’t, really. But if I have a specialty, it’s breakfast.”

  “Those look good,” Poppy said as Sam flipped the golden pancakes over.

  “Most divorced fathers have a few tricks up their sleeves,” he said, sliding them onto a plate.

  As soon as he put them down in front of her, she practically pounced on them. “Thank you,” she said. And, too impatient to be polite, she doused them with syrup and started sawing into them.

  It was quiet at the table as Poppy ate, and then she noticed Sam watching her with interest, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and even though her mouth was still full she was already spearing more pancake onto her fork. “I’m being rude, aren’t I?”

  “No,” Sam said, smiling as she put another forkful into her mouth. “Actually, yeah, you kind of are. But it’s cute. You remind me of . . . you remind me of a kid, stuffing your face like that.”

  She swallowed, and put her fork down. Suddenly, she wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugged. “Is that how you think of me? Like a little kid?”

  “Right now, yes.”

  “Because that’s not how I want you to think of me.”

  “How do you want me to think of you?”

  “As a woman. Preferably, a desirable woman.”

  “And you don’t think I think of you that way?”

  She shook her head.

  “Poppy, do you know why I’m sitting in my kitchen, drinking coffee, and working at 2:30 A.M.?”