[2015] Just the Essentials

by Shari L. Tapscott

  Besides more dust and a few creaky spots, the stairs look okay. The sun has set outside, and it’s nearly impossible to see much in the loft where Ginger and I used to sleep. I take a quick peek, growing a little nervous again, and then shut the door firmly behind me.

  I’ll have to check out the rest tomorrow. I make a quick run to my car and bring in a few of the shopping bags. The first things I dig out are the citronella candles. Thank goodness we bought those. I light five of them and place them in the living room and kitchen.

  After brushing off the couch with a rag, I sit down and eat dry handfuls of cereal while basking in the romantic glow of bug-repelling candles.

  Once finished with dinner, I check my phone for the time. It’s almost dead. I need to put it on the car charger. Taking a candle with me, I go through the kitchen and hesitate by the back door.

  There is nothing out there—nothing staring at me through the trees. No dark shapes loom; no unearthly predators stalk this very cabin, waiting for a young female to step under the overgrown roses’ deathly canes…

  I run to my car, fumble with the car charger, and sprint back to the cabin. I don’t breathe until I turn the lock and then set the deadbolt.

  Ginger and Liv would die laughing if they saw me.

  I glance around the lonely kitchen, which is lit by a single candle on the stove. This would be so much better if they were here. It might actually be kind of fun.

  But then there’s Jack. I’m not sure I want him comparing me to Ginger’s striking beauty or Liv’s sweet loveliness.

  I sink on the couch and relive my conversation with him. It won’t come to anything. Men in hiking boots, worn jeans, and tight T-shirts aren’t my type.

  That, and I’m out of here at the end of the summer.

  The cabin’s grown cold. I remember now that the mountains are like that. I don’t have any wood for the fireplace, so I’ll just have to suffer through the night.

  For the first time today, I let myself think of Hudson. I pull my knees to my chin and stare at the flickering candle on the mantle. Did he ever love me? Did he always think my writing was foolish?

  It hurts to be truly finished, but shouldn’t I feel worse than I do? I’m irritated more than upset.

  It’s late. I can worry about Hudson tomorrow.

  Not daring to venture into the dark bedroom, I lean back on the couch, trying not to think of the remaining dust. I should probably blow the candles out, but I refuse to go to sleep in complete darkness tonight.

  I startle and look around. The candles have guttered themselves out, and it’s pitch black. I swear a noise woke me up, but I don’t hear a thing.

  My heart races, and I hug my body while willing myself to fall asleep again. I’m just drifting when a scuffling, urgent sound fills the room. My eyes fly open, and I choke back a scream. It stops just as suddenly as it started. Did I imagine it? Was it a dream?

  The only sound comes from the clock ticking on the mantle.

  Calm down. Breathe.

  It’s just a cabin in the middle of nowhere. There is nothing to be afraid of…and no one nearby. In fact, there’s probably not a soul for miles and—there it is again!

  I leap off the couch and race through the dark cabin, unable to see where I’m going. I stub my toe on an end table and bump into a wall. Finally, I make it to the back door. It smacks against the wall as I throw it open and race into the moonlit night.

  Locked, the car handle snaps back and breaks one of my nails.

  The keys are inside the cabin.

  High in the sky, the moon smiles down, informing me there’s still plenty of night left.

  There’s no helping it—I have to go back and get my purse. I shiver in the cold night, procrastinating. Not far away, coyotes howl. Their yips chorus together, adding to the chill in the air.

  Okay. You can do this. Be brave.

  I go quickly, trying not to think of my task. Once inside, I grope for my purse. The darkness closes in on me. Something is going to grab me at any moment. Maybe it will find my arm, maybe my ankle. The hair on my neck stands on end, and I trip over a rug. I cry out then clasp my hand over my mouth.

  I’m brave. I’m brave. I’m brave.

  It’s so quiet, so perfectly still. Just as my fingers grasp hold of the purse’s straps, the noise clamors again. It sounds like bat wings descending from a hellish nightmare. I yelp a flat-out scream and run from the cabin, yanking the purse with me. I don’t even bother to close the door.

  Once I’m safely ensconced in the car, I hit the lock several times and stare at the cabin, waiting for something to slink around the back. Ready to flee if necessary, I turn on the engine.

  Not that I really think there’s a monster in my grandparent’s vacation home—of course I don’t. I’m an adult. But it could be some rabid animal. Raccoon, bear, mountain-dwelling chupacabra—any of those are a possibility.

  At least my car is warm. I crank up the heat and let it run. There is no way I’m going back in tonight. I’ll just have to sleep out here. Once the car is good and toasty, I turn off the engine, crawl into the back, and try to get comfortable.

  Everything will be better tomorrow. I just have to get through the night.

  Sleep doesn’t come, and the car is beginning to grow cold again. I want to look at the sky to see if it’s lightening, but my five-year-old inner-self argues that if I look out, there may be eyes looking back.

  This has to be the worst night of my life. And now, despite my lack of nightly liquids, I really have to pee.

  I try counting sheep. I imagine burning all the pictures of Hudson and me. Twice, I mentally recite the alphabet backward. Finally, I start to drift.

  Then something jumps on the car.

  My eyes fly open, and I hit my head on the door as I leap up.

  It’s a bird…a chicken-looking bird is sitting on my hood. Apparently it doesn’t notice me, because it just squats right down and makes itself comfortable. I watch it for a while—because what else am I supposed to do?

  Fine. It’s a guard bird. It’ll be the first to alert me if something comes for us. Hopefully whatever is in the cabin will eat it and leave me alone.

  Close your eyes, Kinsley. Go to sleep.

  My mind wanders. I wonder if Hudson misses me at all. Was he serious about us getting married or was that just a line?

  What if he’s right about my writing? How many rejection letters have I opened? What makes me think someone’s going to want my novel? There comes a time when it hurts too much to keep trying, and I can’t live with my parents forever.

  Maybe I should call him and apologize. So what if all he thinks about is sex? What guy doesn’t? At least he thinks I’m pretty. And look at him—he’s handsome and smart. Everyone in school wanted him—and yet he wanted me.

  I’m probably an idiot for walking away. It’s not going to take long for someone to snatch him up, and here I’ll be—alone and out of luck, rejected by the literary world, living in a run-down cabin with only a wild chicken for company.

  I could be a secretary—even if working with his mother day in and day out would be like living a slow and painful death. It wouldn’t be so bad. I could write in the evenings and on my days off. I wouldn’t have to give it up, not completely.

  I’ll call him tomorrow.

  I crack one eye open and then the next. Everything is blurry, and I blink several times to clear my vision. My neck has a kink in it from sleeping funny, and my arm’s asleep.

  Cheerful morning sunlight streams through the windows. I sit up, rubbing my neck. My chicken friend is gone.

  The cabin doesn’t seem quite so ominous in the bright morning light. Even the overgrown roses look friendly. I crawl out of the car and stretch. Now I really have to go to the bathroom. Do I dare go back in? The water isn’t turned on, anyway.

  Maybe I could find a spot in the woods. I glance toward the trees.

  Absolutely not.

  The campground isn’t that far away. M
aybe I’ll drive back, use their facilities, and grab a coffee while I’m there.

  I dare a glance at my reflection in the car window and then cringe. I’m not going anywhere looking like this. My hair is still up from last night, but the messy bun is now hanging lopsided off the side of my head. My bangs are all over, and—though I can’t tell in the dark reflection—I know I have raccoon eyes from not washing my makeup off last night.

  I’m out of options. I’ll brave the cabin and figure out what to do with the plumbing situation later. Knowing I can’t go in unprepared, I open my trunk and dig through the emergency tools Dad packed there the day he bought my car.

  There are jumper cables, but unless I intend to strangle whatever it is in there—which I don’t—they won’t be helpful. I push aside a reflective triangle and a flashlight then pick up the first aid kit. It’s pretty heavy, yet I don’t think it will make a useful weapon. I nudge it over and finally find the lug wrench. I’m pretty sure I could protect myself with it, even if I don’t remember how to change a tire.

  I creep up the deck. The wasps are active outside their hive already. Again, I’ll have to go around the back. I watch the insects for a moment. Will someone in Silverton have wasp spray or will I have to drive all the way to Durango or Montrose? I cringe at the thought of driving that pass again.

  I’m still staring at the wasps, wrench in hand, when the rumble of a vehicle interrupts the quiet sounds of nature.

  Surely Dad’s handyman can’t be here yet, but who else would venture back here? Maybe a sight-seeing tourist looking for a trail?

  A huge, blue truck turns the corner and emerges from the trees. My hand flies to my hair, and I try to push the wayward strands behind my ears. I’m sure I look like a deer caught in the headlights. I can’t believe someone would be here this time of day—it can’t even be eight in the morning.

  The truck pulls to a stop next to my car and out steps six feet of sportsman-ad deliciousness. For half a moment, I debate hiding. I could jump off the deck, into the dark oblivion of Grandma’s landscaping. Or maybe I should just run—run and jump into my car and drive off, never to be seen again.

  It’s too late for any of that, though. Jack smiles, the grin lazily stretching across his face until it lights his eyes. Good grief, this man should come with a warning—don’t operate heavy equipment when he’s near and never mix with alcohol.

  “What are you doing here?” I squeak. I try to say it all nonchalant-like, but the night has taken its toll on me, and I sound like a caffeine-deprived chipmunk.

  Jack glances around the property, taking in the cabin with a sharp eye before he looks back at me.

  “Your dad called.” He leans over the side of his truck and pulls out a toolbox. “Apparently you’re in need of a handyman?”

  Chapter Five

  I want to sink under the deck to live with the spiders. Jack’s the handyman?

  He tosses open the door to his truck and pulls out a can of wasp spray. “I thought we might need this.” He nods to the front door. “Is that the only nest? There are probably more.”

  “I’m not sure,” I mumble.

  Jack strides up the steps and motions me back. “You’re going to want to get out of the way while I take care of it.”

  Just now, he notices my wrench. “What exactly are you planning to do with that?”

  I want to hide it behind my back. Instead, I shrug.

  “You weren’t going to knock it down yourself were you?”

  He sounds so incredulous, I have to defend myself, so I motion to the cabin. “There’s something in there.”

  Jack sets down the toolbox and wasp spray. “Something? Something like what?”

  All night I’ve been dreaming about what that something could be. I’m not going to tell him any of my ideas. I shrug again.

  Concerned, he asks, “Like a person?”

  I don’t think it was human, so I shake my head. “More like an animal.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard it last night.”

  He nods and walks back to his truck. To my horror, he pulls out a pistol.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I gasp.

  Jack gives me the kind of withering look a mountain-bred boy would give a city girl and secures the holster to his hip. He looks formidable. And kind of hot.

  I blink, remembering the reason for the firearm.

  He passes me on the deck. “Stay out here. In fact, go to your car.”

  I don’t care if he is carrying a weapon, I have to see what’s in there.

  He frowns when I follow him. “Fine, but stay behind me. It’s probably nothing, but still…”

  As I follow, I can’t help but check out his shoulders. They’re broad and muscular, and though he’s not wearing plaid, a fleeting thought crosses my mind. I wonder if he could count as Liv’s lumberjack? Jack the Lumberjack. A combination of nerves and pheromones makes me giggle at the thought.

  Jack sends me an incredulous look over his shoulder, and I school my features. When we round the back, I see the door is wide open.

  Immediately, Jack backs up. “Go to your car.”

  I clear my throat. “I accidentally left it open last night.”

  He spares me a glance. “Why do you think there’s something in there? You gave it an invitation.”

  “It wasn’t open when I got here.”

  We venture inside. Everything looks exactly as I left it last night, except, with the sun streaming through the lace curtains, it all has a cheerful, if abandoned, look.

  “Where did you hear it?”

  I motion past the kitchen. “The living room. Near the fireplace, I think.”

  With his hand on his gun, he crosses through the rooms. I hang back, nervous. Then, just like last night, the shuffling noise fills the cabin.

  I choke back a scream and stumble backward.

  Jack laughs. “Is that the sound?”

  With my heartbeat sounding in my ears, I nod.

  He crouches by the fireplace and peers past the sooty glass doors. “You have a bird trapped in here. Apparently you need a new screen.”

  A bird? My creature of the night, the being straight from the hellish depths, is a bird?

  As soon as I adjust to the idea that it was a sparrow haunting me all night, I feel terrible for the poor thing.

  “How do we get it out?” I ask.

  “Do you have a garbage bag?”

  “What are you going to do with it?” I demand.

  Jack sits on the hearth. “We’ll open the doors, stretch a bag over the opening, and hope it flies into it, so we can set it loose outside.”

  What a ridiculous idea.

  He leans forward, his forearms resting on his legs. “You have something better?”

  I rack my brain but don’t come up with anything at all. “I’ll see if I can find a bag.”

  Luck must be with me today because I find an old roll under the kitchen sink. I tear one off, still seriously doubting the bird will fly into our trap. If I were a bird, I know I wouldn’t.

  When I come back into the living room, I find Jack browsing our old family photos.

  He points to one of me. “This you?”

  For some reason, the idea of Jack looking at the photo of me back then, with my hair braided and two of my front teeth missing, makes me squirmy. “Yeah.”

  He points to Ginger. “And this is your sister?”

  “My older sister.”

  “You look a lot alike.”

  I give him a look. There I am, brown hair and brown eyes, next to golden Ginger.

  Jack laughs. “No, you do. It’s the shape of your eyes, your smile. I bet she’s almost as pretty as you are.”

  He says it flippantly, but my stomach still does a little flip-flop. And then I remember my hair and raccoon eyes and feel like an idiot. He’s teasing me.

  Refusing to respond to his last comment, I offer him the garbage bag. “Are you going to catch the bird?” />
  “Yes, ma’am. And we’re going to catch the bird. I won’t be able to do this myself.”

  Jack explains his plan, which is just as simple as he said it would be. He tells me where to stand—which, unfortunately—puts me smack-dab next to him, almost pressed to his side, as we hold the bag together. He smells like soap and drug-store deodorant. The fragrance is so intoxicating, I almost bury my nose against his shoulder.

  Somehow I manage to restrain myself.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  I only nod, refusing to speak when we’re this close since I haven’t brushed my teeth.

  Through the bag, he slides the doors open. They stick a little, so he has to tug hard. I brace myself, ready for the bird to fly at us.

  Nothing happens.

  Jack chooses a fireplace poker from the stand on the hearth and slips it between the stone and the thin plastic. “We might have to coax it out.”

  “What are you going to do with that?” I try to turn away so I won’t grace him with morning breath.

  “I won’t hurt it,” he says. “I’m going—”

  Suddenly the bird shoots into the bag. Startled, I drop my corners.

  The sooty sparrow goes flying into the living room, staggering in the air like the poor thing is drunk. Jack curses, and I stand back, helpless.

  “Open the door!” He holds the bag, his eyes trained on the ricocheting bird. “No—wait. Not the front door; I haven’t knocked down the wasp nest yet.”

  The ash-blackened bird—my creature from the under depths—knocks about the room like a deranged pinball. A giggle bubbles past my lips, and I throw my hand over my mouth to lock it back.

  I open the back door. Using the trash bag as a net/herding device, Jack manages to scare the creature into the kitchen. I follow behind, trying to be helpful but not sure what to do.

  Finally, the bird flies out. Jack shuts the door with a thud.

  It’s silent for several seconds, and then I giggle, not able to stop myself. Hudson would yell at me for not taking things seriously, and I brace myself for Jack’s disapproval. Instead, his laughter joins mine, and he walks to the sink, lifting the lever on the faucet.