“Oh, you saw that?”
“I was pretending to be a couch.”
“She’s really good at it,” Cynthia said.
“Thank you,” Paula replied.
“Wait. Wait. Hold on a second,” Phillip interjected. “What happened in the middle of the funeral again?”
“It wasn’t the funeral,” Patrick said.
“Same difference,” Paula replied. “At the party after. Patrick got busy with that hot little housekeeper.”
Phillip raised his eyebrows. “Nina?”
Patrick smiled.
“Shit!” Phillip high-fived Patrick. “She’s fine. How’d you manage that?”
“You two are such pigs,” Paula said.
“I swear, I was just minding my own business and the next thing I know Nina was in my fucking lap drinking my beer and putting her tits in my face. Girl is not subtle.”
Cynthia laughed. “I’ve seen her in a night club. That sounds completely plausible to me.”
“I see why you never settled down,” Phillip said. “You don’t even need to work for it.”
“He puts in the effort,” Cynthia said. “He’s got the patter down. If I wasn’t so freaked out by the thought of having sex, it probably would have worked on me.”
“Your ex really messed you up, huh?” Paula asked.
“I don’t know that it’s his fault, really. I just haven’t been with a guy in a really, really long time.”
“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Patrick said.
“That’s more true than you can imagine,” Paula said, looking down at her crotch. “But not in a good way.” She turned toward Cynthia. “I totally know what you mean. After Maddy was born, we didn’t have sex for a long, long time. I didn’t want Matt anywhere near that mess.”
“And now?” Cynthia asked.
“Once a month, maybe? We both work. The kid is always around. You know how it is.”
“TMI,” Phillip said. “I do not need to know this level of detail about my family’s lives.”
“Shut up,” Paula said. “You don’t mind hearing about Patrick’s exploits.”
“She has a point,” Patrick said.
Phillip finished his beer. “Whatever. Are we really sticking to just one?”
Cynthia looked at her wine glass, which was still half full. “I’ve got a ways to go here.”
Phillip waved the bartender over and signaled for refills for everyone except Cynthia.
“So when is everyone going? Did you finish dividing up the stuff?” Cynthia asked.
“I’m heading out tomorrow morning,” Patrick said.
“Same,” Paula said. “Phillip and I are going to the airport together.”
“I’ll drive you,” Patrick said. “It’s on the way anyway.”
“You sure?” Phillip asked.
“Yeah, no problem.”
“And Emma’s things?” Cynthia asked again.
“I think we’re done. If you don’t mind boxing up whatever’s left for the church,” Paula said.
“Not at all,” Cynthia said. “If I find anything that looks like you guys might want it and just missed it, I’ll set it aside. I can text you pictures or something.”
“Thanks, that sounds good. She was kind of a pack rat,” Phillip said.
“She wasn’t that bad,” Patrick countered. “I’ve seen much worse. So I guess you’ll move into the residence?” he asked Cynthia.
“Geez. I guess so. I hadn’t really thought about it, but it makes sense. And it’d free up another room. Shit. I’m going to have to go back to eating my own cooking again.”
Paula laughed. “What about your boyfriend? He’s like a fancy French chef, right?”
“Oh! Yes, that’s true. He works at the restaurant at night, though.”
“I dated a chef once,” Patrick said.
“Of course you did,” Phillip groaned.
“Shut up. Anyway, she always brought home leftover stuff from the restaurant. Meals that got sent back because the customer was an idiot and didn’t order what they meant to, or an extra salad they made in advance and didn’t want to keep. Stuff like that. The fridge was always full.”
Cynthia’s eyes lit up. “That would be awesome! The food at his restaurant is amazing! Well, you know. You all ate there.” Cynthia finished her wine. “Well now I’m kind of excited. Next time you see me, I’m going to be huge!”
Everyone laughed. “I don’t suspect I’ll be seeing you, will I?” Paula asked.
“Huh. Yeah, maybe not. I mean—you all feel like family to me now. But you don’t really have a reason to come back here, I guess.”
“Well I do,” Phillip said. “The trust and everything.”
“And I wouldn’t mind seeing Nina again,” Patrick said.
“You are such a fucking pig,” Paula replied.
“I’m just saying…” Patrick mumbled.
“I think Celita’s family is planning another thing around Halloween. Or like a day or two after? Day of the dead?”
“That’s so fucking creepy,” Paula said.
“I don’t know. It is what it is. It’s not like I could stop them if I tried. Maybe if it works out, you could come back for that?”
“I don’t know,” Paula said. “It’s right in the middle of school. And Halloween tends to be a busy time with kids parties and stuff. We’ll see.”
“Suit yourself,” Patrick said. “I’ll come for sure.”
“We’ll see,” Paula repeated.
THIRTY-SIX
Cynthia was working hard updating all the Phillips House social media accounts. She hadn’t had a chance to keep things up to date, or to post about the loss of Emma, or to run any advertising campaigns for days. She was lost in her work when she heard a man clear his throat across the desk from her. She looked up. It was a man in uniform. A deputy from the sheriff’s office. A wave of nausea hit her. She swallowed and tried to get her stomach under control, as she stood to greet him.
“Oh! How long have you been there?” she asked.
“Not long. You seemed lost in your work. I didn’t want to disturb you, but…” he replied.
“No, it’s fine. I should take a break anyway. Join me on the porch for some lemonade?” she asked.
“Sure. That sounds nice.”
Cynthia went to her kitchen and got the lemonade pitcher from the refrigerator and two tall glasses. Her hands were shaking, and she struggled to carry everything back to the lobby, where the deputy took the glasses from her. She led him to the back porch and filled the glasses trying to use the weight of the pitcher to dampen the shake in her hands. She sat and took a deep, calming breath, trying to put herself in the yoga mindset. He sat across from her at the same table.
“Shame about Emma,” he said, gesturing toward the shrine. “She was good people.”
“She was. Thank you,” Cynthia said, finding her center. She forced herself to remain calm.
“I hear you had quite a shindig here after the funeral. Some kind of Mexican fiesta? Sorry I couldn’t make it. The wife was here, but I had to work.”
“Oh, I wonder if I met her. She went to Emma’s church?”
“Yes ma’am. Not gonna lie—she said it was really weird to have such a lively celebration after a funeral. Those Mexicans do things different than we do.”
Cynthia nodded. “It was weird. But I think it helped me get through the grief a little bit faster. So that’s good. Is that why you’re here? Just to pay your respects?”
“Oh, ’fraid not. Are Emma’s kids still around?”
“No, they all left first thing this morning, after breakfast. Why?”
“Well it’s the damnedest thing. I hate to even bother you with it. Do you know a local fella named Junior Woods?”
Cynthia put out her lip and pretended to search her memory, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t think so. Although I deal with a lot of local people for maintenance and stuff. So it’s possible I’ve met him. Is he in the trades?”
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“Unemployed, mostly,” the deputy said.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, seems he ran into a bit of trouble with his truck last night.”
Cynthia nodded, but did not respond. She could tell the deputy was trying to read her, but she felt secure in her poker face.
“Says Emma’s daughter—” He pulled a notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it, then paused to review the writing on a page. “Paula? Says she and her brothers, whose names he didn’t know, stopped by and beat the shit out of him. All three of them together, plus a white lady. That’d be you, I’m guessing, and then they torched his truck.”
Cynthia chuckled. “Is that right? Do I look like someone who goes around in a gang beating up strangers, deputy?” she asked.
“Can’t say as you do.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
He nodded. “Yup. One other fella was there. He told a different story. Said Junior got black out drunk, dropped a cigarette in his own truck and burned it up.”
Cynthia nodded slowly. “Which one do you believe?”
The deputy sipped the lemonade. “Well it’s not really my place to decide. I’m just filling out the forms. Taking the statements. So can I write down that you did not, in fact, beat the tar out of Junior Woods?”
“Yes, I think it’s fair to say that I didn’t.”
“How ’bout Paula and her brothers?” he asked.
“Well they were with me the whole night. We went to Molly’s Saloon—you know the place?”
“Yup,” he said, studying the condensation drips on his lemonade glass.
“We were here, then we went there, then we came home. Maybe he was at the saloon? Saw us together?”
“Could be. And if I go to Molly’s someone there woulda seen you?”
“It was busy, but we ordered drinks and were there for—I don’t know—maybe an hour? The bartender might remember us.”
“Damnedest thing. Why he would try to pin the fire on Paula and you. I can’t figure it.”
“No clue,” Cynthia said. “Do you want me to get you Emma’s kids numbers so you can call them?”
“Nah. I feel like I’ve spent too much time on this nonsense already. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. But thank you for the lemonade. Anything you need, you let us know. Emma was good people. We’re going to miss her at the church.”
“Well, actually…” Cynthia said. “Feel like delivering some boxes?”
He shrugged. “I guess so. Where to?”
“To the church. The preacher said they’d take all Emma’s old stuff, what her kids didn’t want, and they’d sort through it, donate it, whatnot,” Cynthia said.
“Oh, sure. Yeah, I can definitely help with that. Just show me where they are.”
When the deputy’s car was filled to capacity, he shook Cynthia’s hand. “Give us a call if you have any more.” He handed her his card. “And definitely call me if Junior gives you any trouble. I knew his daddy. On the force back in the day. But that boy isn’t right in the head.”
She examined the card. “Will do. I hope I don’t hear from him.”
The deputy got in his car and left the parking lot in a trail of dust. Cynthia smiled to herself. She thought she handled that well.
¤
Cynthia awoke to the sound of Charlie’s phone alarm. He didn’t use a gentle wind chime sound like she did. His alarm was harsh and violent and loud. It sounded like the warning system of a nuclear power plant having a meltdown. She pulled her pillow over her head until he shut the damn thing off. “That alarm is horrible,” she said.
Charlie pulled the pillow off her face. “What? All I heard was mmph mmph.”
“You need to choose. That alarm or me. You can’t have both of us,” she groaned.
He chuckled and leaned over her, kissing her gently on the forehead. “Good morning, gorgeous. Go back to sleep.”
Cynthia grabbed him and pulled him down to the bed. Then she slithered over onto his chest and got comfortable.
“I need to make breakfast,” he said.
“Billy makes breakfast,” she replied.
“He isn’t ready.”
Cynthia threw one leg over Charlie’s hips to ensure he wouldn’t get away. She could feel him pressing against her thigh. “You don’t want to get out of bed, either. I can tell,” she mumbled into his chest.
Charlie wriggled to the side, slipping out from under her, leaving her splayed across the mattress. He threw on some clothes from a pile he had left next to the bed and headed out of the bedroom. Cynthia opened her eyes. She rolled to her side and picked up her phone. It was a little after six. She would have liked another half hour of sleep, but she was awake now. She dragged herself out of bed and to the bathroom. Then she changed into exercise clothes and headed out to do her morning yoga.
She stopped by the kitchen and watched Charlie and Billy working on breakfast. She leaned against the door frame and smiled. Charlie noticed her when he went to the sink to wash a bunch of grapes. “Oh! Good morning sunshine.”
Billy glanced up at her, but then returned his focus to his cutting board operation.
“Good morning yourself. So how’s the boy working out?” she asked.
“There’s good news and bad news,” Charlie said. “The bad news is that he doesn’t know anything about food preparation. The good news is that I don’t have to un-teach him any bad habits, because he has no habits—good or bad.”
Billy looked up and smiled, then looked back down at his work.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, turning to leave. She could feel Charlie’s eyes on her ass. She put her hand behind it and waved goodbye to him.
The lobby was quiet and dark. She turned on the lights and resisted the urge to check her computer as she went to the game room. She unrolled her yoga mat and started her tape. She tried to clear her mind as she went through the familiar stretches and poses. But it didn’t work. Her mind would not shut up. Drifting from one thing to another. Her thoughts settled on remembering the intimacy of the night before. Charlie got home—home, what a funny thing to think—not home, but back to the inn, late. After ten. Cynthia had the television on but she wasn’t watching it. Something about Vikings on the history channel. Instead, she was chatting on Facebook with Sam. It had been a while and they were catching up. Sam assured her she wasn’t obsessing about Evan any more, but Cynthia didn’t believe her. Charlie came home and loaded up the fridge with leftovers and joined her on the couch. He wasn’t interested in the TV or social media. He was only interested in getting Cynthia into bed. Something about his job left him voracious. And not for food. She didn’t know if it was because he was surrounded by the gorgeous young women who worked for him, or if it was perhaps because of the power trip of giving orders and having them obeyed without question. Either way, he came home and he wanted Cynthia in any and every way he could have her. It felt good to be desired. It gave her a feeling of value. In a way, that troubled her. She liked being valued for things other than her body—her resourcefulness, her confidence, her achievements, her sense of humor, and her intelligence. But it was also nice to be the object of a man’s affection, even if that meant to a certain extent, she was merely that—an object. She wondered how long this honeymoon period would last. How long he would have this ravenous desire for her, and how long she would enjoy being consumed that way.
The tape ended. She cursed herself for having not turned her mind off the entire time. She pressed stop and rewind, then sat cross-legged and closed her eyes. Charlie appeared in her mind’s eye. She pushed him aside. Then Sam appeared. Then Vikings. Fuck. She gave up and went to see if her coffee was ready.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Cynthia fussed with her laptop getting the camera pointing the right way, as she waited for Phillip to join her Skype call. He came on, looking tired. “Phillip! So good to see you!”
“You too, Cynthia,” he said.
“Did you get my emails this mornin
g?” she asked.
“Oh yeah. And yesterday morning, and the day before.” He sighed.
Cynthia had been sending Phillip a steady stream of expense and budgeting memos, revenue numbers, and every tiny operational decision she made about the inn, for over a month now. He was the majority investor in the inn, so she figured he deserved to know all the details.
“Excellent,” she said. “Okay, well let’s start with the expenses. Gas bill just came in, it’s up five percent from last month…” Cynthia methodically walked through the most recent expenses line by line. She watched Phillip’s eyes glaze over as she gleefully bored into the tiniest of minutiae.
“Okay. So any questions about operations?” she asked.
Phillip looked up at the camera. “What? Oh. No. No, everything seems fine.”
“Great. New business then. I have the report from the appraisal here. Have you had a chance to look at it?”
“A little,” he said.
“Okay, so I’ll walk through what they found. They kind of came at it from two directions. In one analysis, they looked at EBITDA and derived a value assuming a nine percent annual ROI model. Now this was a little tricky because they usually look back a few years to get a good average. But Emma didn’t keep very clear books, and anyway, her EBITDA was less than zero. So they did their best to just do projections based on how I’ve been running the place, correcting for industry-wide trends and some analyst projections. You can see the balance sheet they came up with there. Bottom line, that analysis brings them to a valuation of about two and a half million.”
“Okay,” Phillip said, still studying the paper in front of him.
“So on the next page, you’ll see that the other analysis is strictly based on value. The value of the land, comparable buildings, which of course there aren’t any of around here, so they had to look pretty far for those. Deferred maintenance items, depreciation, ages of the furnishings, long-term debt, which is minimal, et cetera. You can see all the details there, but the bottom line of that analysis is about four million. That seems high to me. I don’t think if we put this place on the market we could get that. But who knows?”
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