“Hey! It wasn’t me who said it. You can’t hold me responsible for the things my friends might say.”
“Oh can’t I, Chuck? You picked your friends, didn’t you?”
Charlie picked up the wine and took a long pull from the glass. “Sacré bleu!”
Cynthia smiled. “I know that one!”
¤
François hand-delivered oysters on the half shell to start. They were prepared with shallot, tarragon, and champagne vinegar. Cynthia waited until he departed, then lit back into Charlie, “I see François has your back. He’s not at all subtle is he?”
Charlie looked puzzled for a moment, then down at the oysters, and then back at Cynthia. He laughed. “Oh! Yeah, I guess he’s making a bit of a statement there, isn’t he?”
Cynthia picked up an oyster and slurped it down, savoring it for a moment, and then following with a sip of wine. “I’ll allow it. These are unbelievable.”
“He’s very skilled. Cordon Bleu, I think. He’s had this place for a long time. I try to get down here when I can.”
“Nice that he’s open on a Monday,” she said.
“Yeah, well here in the city they can’t get away with the hours we put in up there. People want what they want when they want it. So, how did you end up in Inverness anyway?”
Cynthia paused. She took a pinch of bread and chewed it slowly, making Charlie wait. “Hmm. I don’t think you’re ready to hear that story, Chuck. Or, I guess what I mean is, I’m not ready to tell it. I don’t trust you yet, and it’s not the most flattering tale.”
Charlie was now on the edge of his seat. “Oh come on! You can’t leave me hanging like that!”
“I can do whatever the fuck I want, Chuck,” she said, picking up the last oyster and slurping it down.
Charlie smiled and shook his head. “Jesus Christ. You are so fucking hot. I’m even starting to like when you call me that horrible nickname.”
“I feel a little like Peppermint Patty when I use it, to be honest.”
“Maybe I’ll call you Sir,” Charlie said.
“Ha! No, it was… Marcie? I think. Yeah, she called Patty ‘Sir.’ I don’t remember what Charlie Brown called her.”
“Probably Peppermint Patty,” Charlie offered. “They tended to call each other by their full names. Like, except for Patty, everyone called him Charlie Brown, not just Charlie. I always thought that was weird. Like, if there was another Charlie everyone knew, then maybe Charlie B. I remember in elementary school, when there were two kids in class with the same name, we’d all use their first name and last initial.”
“That’s true. I remember that. How weird was that? I wonder what it was like to be that kid. You have a name that you’re used to and then you get into a new class and everyone starts calling you something slightly different.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it makes you feel special?”
“Could be. Like all summer you are Charlie, and then you get into fourth grade or something, and now you’re Claude.”
Charlie laughed. “Oh fuck. You were totally setting that up the whole time, weren’t you?”
Cynthia smiled and took a sip of wine, saying nothing.
“Okay, Sir,” Charlie continued, “so what can you tell me about your history, skipping how it was you ended up at the Phillips House. Oh! I was meaning to ask. How did that name change come about?”
“That was me. I’ve been taking the place through an upgrade. New name, new service. Catering to a higher-end clientele. It also let us break free of a few old bad reviews online.”
“I see. And that’s working?”
“It is. Things are actually going really well now. Except for the bats, of course.”
“How much is that going to cost? Getting rid of the bats?”
“Oh my God. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Like a couple thousand?” Charlie guessed.
“Like four couple thousand,” Cynthia said.
“Eight?”
She nodded and took another sip of wine.
“Jesus. Can your regular maintenance guy do it?”
“Billy? Nah. He’s got his hands full just doing his regular jobs. Plus, they don’t just get rid of the bats—they sanitize the whole attic. I read that guano is really toxic. We have to get the whole thing taken care of quick, before the health department gets wind of it. They could shut us down.”
“Cocksuckers,” Charlie said.
Cynthia’s eyes got wide.
Charlie covered his mouth. “Oh. Yikes. Sorry about that. Yeah, the health department and I don’t always see eye-to-eye.”
“Should I be worried about sending guests to your place?” Cynthia teased.
“Oh, no. It’s just stupid stuff. Like whether we have to use plastic cutting boards instead of wood. The kind of dishwasher we use. Ridiculous stuff, really. Like, you seriously think I’m going to do anything that would put my customers at risk? I’m coming up on two decades. I’d throw that reputation away? Of course not.”
François appeared holding two plates. The young girl that Charlie had flirted with earlier was a little behind him and quickly cleared the table so the chef could place the entrées. “Sole Bonne Femme,” he declared.
Cynthia looked at the plate and up at the chef. “Good, female fish?” she guessed.
He laughed loud and hard, from his diaphragm. Perhaps a little too loud, Cynthia thought, like he was faking it. “You are very close, Mademoiselle. It means Sole prepared by a good woman. Traditional name. White wine and champignon.”
Cynthia looked to Charlie for clarification. “Mushroom,” he explained.
“Oui! Mushrooms. Very old recipe. You know it?” he asked Cynthia.
“Oui,” she said. “My mother watched Julia Child growing up.”
“You lucky girl! Wonderful. Well bon appetite!” he said, turning and heading back to the kitchen. The girl stayed behind.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked.
Charlie looked at Cynthia, who shook her head. “Rien maintenant, merci.”
The girl flitted off, and Cynthia narrowed one eye and gave Charlie a threatening look. He held up his hands, “I didn’t flirt! I swear!”
Cynthia laughed and sliced into the fish with her fork. It was not flaky. Not soft. Simply perfect.
¤
Cynthia waited as Charlie got out of the car, walked around to her side and opened the door. She stood up and looked toward the inn, which was mostly dark. Through the window, she could see the small lamp on the front desk that Emma never turned off. The motion sensor lights would come to life as soon as she got near the stairs.
Charlie put his hands on her hips and she looked up at him. It was cool and the heat of his hands radiated throughout Cynthia’s body. He leaned in and barely brushed his lips against hers. She felt a chill roll up her spine as he pulled her closer and the kiss intensified. Her body was screaming, “Yes,” though her mind still insisted on “No.” She knew these feelings well, as they were they same ones she felt with Randy in the beginning.
Charlie and Randy had a lot in common. Similar build. Same reckless, dangerous, unfaithful vibe. It wasn’t that Cynthia didn’t trust Charlie not to hurt her if she became attached. She knew he would hurt her. Everything about him was wrong. He had no moral compass, no boundaries, and no integrity. A modern Gatsby in the flesh. She hated everything about him, but she wanted to wrap her legs around him and feel him inside her. The internal conflict between what she wanted and what she needed had been the undoing of her youth, and she wasn’t going to be the fool again.
She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, breaking the passionate kiss mid-bite. She tilted her head down slightly and looked up at him. A smoldering look. His reply evoked a wild dog baring its teeth, ready to tear into its prey. She wanted him. He wanted her. And the bed was only a short walk away.
“Goodnight, Chuck,” she said, twisting her hips out of his grasp. She took a few steps toward the inn and then looke
d back.
He was a statue, staring at her, unable to move.
A smile broke over Cynthia’s face as she turned and headed into the inn, leaving him there, motionless, in the dark. She went straight to her room and closed the door behind her. She fished through her bedside table and found the waterproof battery-operated vibrator. She shrugged off her dress, removed her panties and bra, and headed into the shower.
TWENTY-ONE
Cynthia awoke to a clicking noise. She opened her eyes slightly and was startled by what looked like a man sitting in front of her closed door. She sat up and let her eyes focus. He had moved her desk chair in front of the door, and was sitting in it, flipping a butterfly knife around his hand. “Evan?”
“In the flesh,” he replied.
Cynthia was startled by the voice. This was not dream-Evan. There was no Texas accent. The voice she heard was that of the actual Evan. She reached over to the bedside table and turned on the reading light.
“Been watching you sleep,” he said.
“What the fuck? What… how did you even find me?” she demanded.
He continued flipping the knife around his hand. “Sam,” he finally said.
Cynthia waited for him to continue.
“See. You kind of got under my skin. Women don’t turn me down like that. So I’ve been thinking about you. And I was thinking about what Samantha did.” He paused again, flipping the knife a few times. “That wasn’t right. What she put you through.”
Cynthia was mesmerized by the knife flipping and didn’t know what to say. So she stared.
“So I went to see her. She won’t be bothering you any more. Got her to tell me where you were, so I could come tell you in person.”
“Tell me what?” Cynthia asked.
“What I just said. That I dealt with your Sam problem.”
“I don’t have a Sam problem,” she replied.
“Well you don’t now, that’s for sure.” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a small gift-wrapped box. “Brought you a present.” He tossed the box to her, and Cynthia caught it by instinct. She looked at it. “Open it,” he said, pausing his knife flipping with the blade pointing straight at her.
Cynthia carefully cut the tape with her thumbnail and then unwrapped the box. The box was from a jewelry store. She lifted the top off and screamed, dropping the box to the floor. It bounced and its contents—two human thumbs—rolled across the floor. “Holy shit!” she yelled.
“Like it? Sam won’t be texting you any more,” Evan said with a sadistic laugh. He stood up, still pointing the blade at Cynthia, and sat next to her on the bed. Cynthia looked down at the knife. The blade was long and it looked sharp. He raised it slowly and ran it along her jaw line. It was cold. Cynthia sat as still as she could, not even breathing.
When she felt the blade clear her skin she asked, “What do you want?”
“Like I said, women don’t say no to me. You got under my skin. I was thinking—I did something nice for you, now you do something nice for me.” He reached up and slid her nightgown off her shoulder.
“Get the fuck out of here!” she yelled.
“Now don’t be like that,” he said calmly, pressing the knife to her throat. He put his other hand on her thigh.
Cynthia panicked. She wasn’t going to let this happen. She figured she could survive a cut, so she lifted her arms forcefully, trying to knock the knife from his hand. She caught his jaw with her forearm and he fell back swearing.
“God damn it! You made me bite my lip!” he yelled.
She scrambled out of the bed in the confusion and body-checked the chair out of her way with her hip. She opened the door and dove into the hallway. Emma was barreling down the corridor toward her room with a shotgun in her hand.
Emma cocked the gun and said, “Whoever is in there, you come out slowly or I will blow your head clean off.”
Cynthia climbed back to standing using the wall to steady herself and turned to look. Her room was still.
“Counting to three,” Emma said.
Cynthia slid up next to the door frame and reached around, turning on the light switch.
“Where’d he go?” Emma asked.
Cynthia looked into the room. There was nobody there. She looked at the floor. No gift box. No thumbs. The desk chair was parked neatly under the desk like always. “Oh fuck,” she said.
Emma pressed the hammer release and turned the safety back on. She propped the gun against the wall and came in to sit next to Cynthia, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. Emma put her arm around, and Cynthia leaned in and started to cry. “There, there,” Emma said, rocking slowly. “Just a bad dream, I guess.”
“No,” Cynthia gasped. “No, it wasn’t a dream.”
“Shh, child. Just let it out,” Emma murmured.
Cynthia cried awhile. Then she pulled away from Emma’s embrace and stood up. “There is something wrong with me,” she said. “What just happened… that isn’t normal.”
“We’ll take you to the doctor in the morning, child. Let’s you and me go get a warm glass of milk.” Emma eased herself to standing and started toward the door. She picked up the gun.
“I didn’t know you had a gun,” Cynthia said.
“Phillip liked to hunt. It ain’t loaded anyhow. But it gets a man’s attention when you need it to.”
Cynthia laughed. “Sure got mine. You were like the hero of an action movie or something!”
“Yippee ki-yay motherfucker,” Emma said.
Cynthia guffawed and Emma burst out laughing as well. Emma put her arm around Cynthia as they walked back to the residence.
¤
“I’m here. Come on out,” Charlie texted Cynthia a little before noon. She logged out of her computer, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. It was a beautiful day—sunny, low seventies, no chance of rain. She was wearing exercise clothes, as Charlie had requested. Going to the gym was an odd choice for a second date, but Charlie was an odd man. She opened the door and saw him standing at the foot of the stairs with two bicycles.
“Well, bonjour mademoiselle,” he said in his faux accent.
Cynthia descended the stairs and kissed his cheek. “Hello yourself. What’s with the accent?”
“Never know who might overhear,” he whispered in her ear. “I brought you a present!” he declared, resuming the accent. “You do not own one already, do you?”
“A bike? No. I’m a grown-ass woman. Why would I own a bike?”
Charlie laughed. “Exercise!” He handed her a helmet. “I also got one of these, because I figure we have to keep that beautiful skull of yours safe.”
“How did you even get this here?” she asked, looking around.
“I had a little help.” Charlie gestured toward Billy, who was looking down from the doorway of the inn. “I had it shipped here, and he put it together for me. If you lose a wheel, it’s his fault!”
Cynthia laughed. “Okay. This really is too much. You spoil me.”
“Shall we go?” he asked.
“Where are we going?”
“Here and there. Hop on, and let’s make sure the seat is the right height.”
Cynthia put on the helmet and mounted the bike. She took off down the walkway and into the parking lot. “Seems okay to me!” she yelled back at him, as she headed for the exit. Charlie rushed to get his helmet on and follow her. He pumped hard until he had caught up.
“Hey! You left without me!”
Cynthia glanced at him and smiled.
“Okay, smart ass,” Charlie continued, “follow me.”
Cynthia watched as he passed her and admired his ass. He wasn’t wearing those ridiculous bike shorts with the padding in the back, so his clothes left little to the imagination. They took a meandering ride through town and out into the wooded areas. After a while, Charlie pulled over at a picnic area. Cynthia followed him in and dismounted from her bike.
“Holy shit. I haven’t ridden in ages. My legs are killing me,”
she said.
“You should have done some stretches before we left,” Charlie observed. “But you were gone before I could even suggest it.”
“Yeah,” Cynthia said, rubbing her quads. “Stretches would have been a good idea.” She watched with curiosity as Charlie headed into the woods. He disappeared for a few seconds and then came back out with a picnic basket.
“Oh! You planned ahead!” she said. “I’m very impressed.”
Charlie bowed and then proceeded to set up lunch. He unfurled a table cloth over the picnic table. It wasn’t long enough, so he centered it. He placed two bottles of sparkling water, plates, flatware, and napkins on opposing sides of the table. Then he proceeded to open a variety of plastic to-go containers and spread them between the plates.
Cynthia sat down. “This is amazing! And I’m starving!”
Charlie laughed. “Good! I hope you find something here that interests you. It’s sort of a Mediterranean thing I’ve cobbled together.” He pointed at a container, “Stuffed grape leaves. Tabouli. Fried pita chips.”
“I didn’t know you had this kind of range,” Cynthia said. “So far it’s all been France, France, France with you.”
“I dabble here and there. Before Chez Claude I was doing a French/Asian fusion thing. That was really big back then.”
“Interesting,” Cynthia said, taking a bite. “Oh! This is good!”
Charlie smiled. “So, how have you been? What’s new in the world of conciergedom?”
“Ugh. I’ve been having this medical issue,” she said with an eye roll.
“Oh no! Would it be prying too much if I ask what?”
Cynthia shrugged. “I suppose not. I’ve been having these crazy dreams. And they’ve been getting crazier and more realistic, to the point where I can’t even tell they are dreams any more. Doctor says it’s called ‘Peduncular Hallucinosis,’ but there are lots of possible causes, so I’ve been back and forth for lots of tests.”
“That sounds awful. I’m so sorry. So, like blood tests?”
“No, neurological stuff. Have you ever been to a neurologist?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Well it’s kind of like a field sobriety test that never ends. Stand on one foot, hold your arm up while I press it down, do you hear this, do you feel that, and so on. So they did that and didn’t find anything wrong. Then they sent me for an MRI and an EEG. I’m waiting to hear what those turn up, if anything.”
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