When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae

by Kirsten Mortensen

  “Tree fell on it.”

  “Aw, no. Drivable?”

  “I doubt it. But Maisey’s car is okay.”

  “Okay. Good. When they open the roads Maisey can bring you up here.”

  So the roads were closed. Right. State of emergency, that would do it. She hated to admit it, but he did have a point about the radio.

  “You’ve got a fireplace there, right? So you can keep yourself warm?”

  “Yeah,” she said. Little white lie. “And enough firewood to last a week, at least. Plus a gas grill, too. We had coffee this morning.”

  “Okay. Better save your cell.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry I snapped at you, Lib. I’m a little stressed. I’ve got a ton of crap to do at work and I’ve only got about an hour’s worth of charge left on my effing laptop.”

  “It’s okay. They’ll get this sorted out by tomorrow.”

  He sighed. “Maybe. Look, I’ll call you back later, okay? To make sure you’re okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “At oh-thirteen hundred hours.”

  She laughed. “Okay.”

  She closed her phone and looked at Maisey and Tyler. “Roads are all closed. I’m going to put on something warmer.”

  Then she thought of something else. “Don’t flush the toilets. We may need to dip the water out of the tanks. It’s drinkable.”

  Maisey made a face, but Tyler said, “Sure, man, it’s like, ultimate survivor mode. Cool.”

  9

  Being without power can be kind of fun for a couple of hours.

  With the right attitude, it can be an adventure when it lasts for a day, even.

  By day two, though, it gets kind of old.

  Especially when you’re not even slightly prepared.

  So Libby had discovered.

  Then, come day three, forget it.

  The house smelled like it had before she’d moved in—that dank, unlived-in smell empty houses have because the heat isn’t on and the windows are all closed up. It had that damp chill of an empty house, too. And also the quiet. No refrigerator hum. No furnace fan. Nothing, except the occasional creak as it shifted and settled.

  Outside, it had finally warmed up. Mid-forties. The ice had begun to slide off the trees and the trees, released from the weight, were trying to spring back. But they didn’t look right. Nothing looked right, nothing looked normal. Some of the tree limbs were permanently bent, disfigured. Others were snapped off. It looked like someone had rolled a giant bowling ball over everything in sight.

  Maisey and Tyler were heading to the city.

  Maisey had a friend, Alicia, who was home from college—spring break—and her parents were one of the few lucky ones who hadn’t lost power.

  “You can come, too,” Maisey had told her after she’d talked to Alicia on her cell. “I asked.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be fine.” Nothing against Maisey, but Libby couldn’t see popping up on some stranger’s doorstep asking for favors. Some things that work for nineteen-year-olds just don’t anymore, when you’re supposed to be an adult.

  Maisey didn’t ask a second time. That’s another nice thing about being nineteen. Other peoples’ problems seldom loom very large in comparison to your own. On the other hand, Maisey was going to KILL herself if she had to go ONE MORE DAY without a hot shower.

  Libby helped Tyler carry their stuff to Maisey’s car. Then the two of them exchanged glances and Maisey said, “Aunt Libby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would it be okay—can we siphon your gas? I’m sort of on empty.”

  “Go ahead.” Libby’s car sure wasn’t ever going to need it.

  “We’ll pay you back,” Maisey offered.

  “Never mind.”

  They watched Tyler perform the operation. He used a bit of garden hose he’d found somewhere and didn’t get any gas in his mouth, either. Even straggly-bearded teenagers have their talents, apparently. “Be careful,” Libby said as they got into the car. “If you see any downed power lines, turn back. You can live another day without showers.”

  Maisey grinned and waved and they were gone.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Paul’s idea, of course, was that she should catch a ride with Maisey and Tyler and have them drop her at Cal4. That’s where he was now, camped there, along with a handful of other staffers, because the office park’s power had come on the day before.

  “I’m eating Lean Cuisine right now,” he’d said, to entice her. “Piping hot.”

  She’d noticed the chewing. “Does Barb know?” Barb was the one who stashed Lean Cuisine in the office freezer.

  “She’s stuck in Sodus. She won’t mind. I’ll replace it. So what do you say? I’d feel better if you were here.”

  But there was no way she was going to sleep with him in his office, with everyone knowing about it. Not even for one night. She’d so hated the feeling of everyone gossiping about them when she was an employee, for starters. And what if Robbie saw her hanging around? You could never tell with Robbie. Let alone any of the new managers who didn’t know her, who might be staying there, too. And who might get the bright idea to start talking about Skin Tones. Out of sight, out of mind, and Libby’s little freelance gig was definitely safer.

  “I’m fine,” she told him.

  “You know the forecast, right? It’s going to get cold again.”

  So what? She’d dress in layers. “I’m fine. I have a ton of books.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She also had enough food, at least for now.

  Keeping it cold was something of a trick. When it became clear that the power was going to be out for more than 24 hours, she moved everything from her refrigerator and freezer into a cooler.

  When it warmed up, of course, ice got harder and harder to find.

  So at first, Libby was glad when the weather changed again and temperatures fell back below freezing.

  She lugged the cooler out to the shed and presto. The last bit of cheese and milk, and the leftover steak—they’d grilled everything from the freezer on the second day when it had thawed, and reheated it at meals—were all plenty cold enough out there.

  And she had beans. And about half of a five-pound bag of carrots.

  Between that and her canned food she’d be okay for three or four more days, she figured.

  For reading, she went back and forth between books on organic farming and novels. Paperbacks, picked up at garage sales. Historicals, a lot of them, alphabetical by author on the built-in bookshelves at one end of her living room.

  Bad as things were, at least she knew pretty soon the power would come back on. Which was better than people had it in the 16th century.

  Okay, yeah, it was dull. Despite the paperbacks. Also, she hadn’t printed out any of the forms she needed to do for her organic certification. They were all online. If she’d printed them out, at least she’d have had that to do.

  The power was bound to come on pretty soon, anyway.

  She didn’t go for any walks.

  She found herself wondering, once, where the little man had sheltered during the ice storm but she quickly shoved that treasonous thought from her head.

  Little man. Right.

  Cuckoo, cuckoo.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Somebody was banging on her door.

  She had piled all the blankets she owned onto her bed and had burrowed under them, so it took her a few minutes to burrow out again and answer it.

  So by the time she got there, he was walking back down the driveway. Her posted sign neighbor. And Bo.

  He didn’t hear Libby open the door. Bo did, though, and when he turned and looked at her, the man did, too.

  He walked back up her drive. “So. You are still here,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  He took a few steps closer. “Where’s your niece?”

  “Rochester.”

  “She left you?”

  Libby shrugged. “She went to stay with a friend who has
power.”

  “Why didn’t you go, too?”

  “Why should I?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t have a woodstove, do you?”

  Duh. As if that wasn’t obvious. She was bundled into enough clothes, she could have passed for a caterpillar. Even without the hookah.

  “You do know it’s supposed to get down into the teens tonight?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She seemed to be arguing that point a little too often lately.

  “Look. You’d better come to my place. I have heat—”

  “I don’t even know who you are. But thanks for offering.”

  He looked like he might try to argue, but he didn’t.

  “Suit yourself.”

  He turned north at the end of her drive. Not toward his property, toward the next house, she thought. Another three-quarters of a mile up the road.

  Checking on the neighbors.

  She went back to her bedroom. Okay. The teens. That was . . . that was cold. People-die-of-hypothermia cold. She blew a plume of breath into the air and pulled her hat—navy Polartec—more snugly over her head.

  So maybe it hadn’t been so smart to stay here instead of catching a ride to Rochester with Maisey. Time to swallow her pride. Call Paul. Tell him to come fetch her.

  She hit the power button on her cell.

  The light didn’t come on.

  Dead.

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths. No need to panic. She’d made her decision. She was going to be fine. Just like she’d been saying.

  She crawled back under her covers, covering everything except her nose.

  Damn it was cold.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Banging on the door again.

  She got up. More quickly this time.

  “The name’s Trevor Dean Milbrant.” He held out his hand and she took it and they shook. “I go by Dean.”

  “Libby Samson. Let me get my boots.”

  10

  “Oh gawd.” It slipped out without her meaning it to. “Heat.”

  She’d never been in a place heated with wood before. So it was her first time experiencing wood stove heat, which is real heat, blast you in the face when you step inside and then warm-you-to-your bones heat.

  “You can put your things right there,” Dean said. He meant her layers.

  Too late, she remembered that the innermost was her pajamas. As it had gotten colder, she’d just added more over the top.

  “What now?” He’d noticed her hesitate.

  “I’m—I’m actually in my PJs.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And me, without a tux.”

  She decided to leave her sweatshirt on. At least she was wearing flannels, not a negligee or something.

  “Hungry?” he said.

  She stifled another “oh, gawd,” and nodded instead. “I could eat.”

  He began ladling something into a bowl from a pot on top of the wood stove. “Hope you like venison.”

  She’d never had venison. “Sure. Love it.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Bo slept on the rug by the couch. She heard his snuffy breathing every time she woke in the night, and sometimes he woke too and scratched himself, or got up and circled around and then laid back down again.

  She didn’t sleep well in strange places. And Dean’s house counted as a strange place. A log cabin, perfumed by wood smoke. Although the inside walls had been planed, they were rough and the dim light coming from the little glass panel on the front of the wood stove cast rough, wavering shadows across them.

  And no sooner was she able to get to sleep when she was startled awake by a clanking noise and sat up, and Dean was standing by the stove. Putting another log on.

  She lowered herself back down, glad he hadn’t noticed how she’d jumped.

  It took her a long time to settle back down again.

  On the other hand, lying awake there like that gave her a chance to savor being warm. All over warm.

  And then the next morning—another luxury. He had a back-up well with a hand pump—she got to wash her hair. He even offered to warm some water for her but she said no—a mistake, she realized a few minutes later. The water from the pump was so cold it practically knocked the wind out of her when it sluiced down over her head.

  She came back indoors, and he took the towel from her and handed her a comb.

  She sat by the stove while her hair dried.

  “I should check on my house.”

  “Don’t be surprised if your pipes have burst.”

  So she wasn’t.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Bitterly cold.

  Shivering, she changed into clean clothes.

  Then packed a duffel bag. Clean pair of pajamas. And books. And some of her own shampoo.

  When she got back, he was listening to his radio.

  He didn’t look up when she walked in.

  She took a seat and listened too.

  He was tuned to a local talk station, and the DJs there were in full hunker-down mode, relaying information about shelters, passing along tips, taking calls from people with stories to tell. After a little while of this, the enormity of what had happened started to sink in. There were no generators left in the stores, no chainsaws, precious little bottled water. The local power companies were overwhelmed, and although dozens of out-of-state utilities were mobilizing crews to come in and help, it was going to take time. Weeks, perhaps. Before everyone’s power was restored.

  After awhile, Dean stood up and switched it off.

  He didn’t say anything or look at her.

  Bo followed him outside, and a minute later she saw them start down the driveway, Dean carrying his chainsaw, and a minute after that she heard the growl of the chainsaw motor.

  She guessed then what he was doing. That long driveway was forested on both sides the entire length. When they’d walked in, they’d climbed over the branches and limbs, and here and there entire trees, some with trunks bigger around than Libby.

  He’d begun to clear it, near the cabin. And was back out now, clearing some more.

  She pulled a sweatshirt on over her head and went outside. When she got to him, she circled around the limb he was cutting and went to work dragging the smaller stuff off the driveway, out of the way.

  It was slow going. But faster, she suppose, than if he’d been working alone. When he finished cutting a bigger limb or trunk, she’d quit working on the smaller stuff and help him carry and stack the chainsawed pieces. Except for the ones that were too big for her to lift—those, she rolled.

  After awhile, he left all the hauling to Libby and concentrated on sawing. Sometimes he’d get far ahead because the stuff he’d cut was too heavy for her to move very fast; sometimes she’d catch up with the big stuff and move ahead again to work on smaller branches.

  “Won’t be buying firewood this fall,” he said to her at one point as she moved past him. But he didn’t really talk much. Partly because there was no point in trying to talk over the noise of the chainsaw. Maybe also because when you’re handling a chainsaw it’s a good idea to forego the chitchat and pay attention to what you’re doing.

  But he wasn’t much of a talker the rest of the time, either.

  They quit around dusk. It was impossible for Libby to tell how close they were to the road. She’d long since become too exhausted and hungry to pay attention to anything but the job at hand. Her hands were scratched and aching and her knees felt wobbly.

  All she knew was that they’d been working for hours and there was still a lot more driveway to go.

  Back to the cabin.

  Warmed over stew again for dinner.

  She didn’t have any trouble sleeping that night.

  11

  The next morning after breakfast he handed her a pair of cotton work gloves. They were his gloves, so of course, huge on her. But plenty welcome for her sore hands.

  And then they went back to work.

  They made it to the road sometime mid-afternoon.

&nb
sp; The back of Dean’s shirt was split down the middle by a dark streak of sweat.

  Back at the cabin, Libby picked up her paperback where she’d left it on the couch. Dean came in a minute later and got a towel. By leaning forward she could see him at the pump in the front yard. Then he started to strip and she leaned back again quickly and opened her novel. What if he had seen her?

  If he had, he gave no sign of it when, a few minutes later, he walked by again. At least, not that she could tell, considering she kept her eyes on her book.

  Bo was dozing at her feet, but stood up when Dean climbed down from the loft. The dog followed him outside.

  She leaned forward again. Saw him load his chainsaw in the back of his truck, get in, and drive off.

  She sat, looking at her book, but not reading.

  One reason she’d tolerated Wallace’s philandering is that he was such a good communicator. She could generally tell that he had a girlfriend—he dressed more carefully, wore more cologne, went out evenings and stayed out longer. But he’d always make sure to tell her some story about where he was going, and he always said when he’d be back, and if he was going to be late he’d call and let her know. And he’d have some story, too, about where he’d gone and something funny that had happened while he was there. The bright hard sanity of it comforted Libby—it was so easy to pretend she believed him.

  He’d been a talker, a born salesman, his charm simply breathtaking. He’d come home from a night with a girlfriend bearing jewelry for his wife.

  Libby stood up and looked out the window, down the driveway where Dean’s truck had just passed. She could guess where he’d gone. He was going to drive around with that chainsaw, maybe to the neighbors’, maybe to a friend’s, maybe to a stranger’s, and if he found someone who needed help, he’d clear out their downed trees.

  Odd to be left alone in this pocket of stillness and yet know as much as she used to know when it was Wallace’s car that was pulling away. Or maybe what matters most when two people communicate is what they don’t say. The thought had never occurred to her before and she began to pace a bit in the grip of a sudden unease.