Past Presence

by Nicole Bross

  The next thing she knew, she felt herself on the hard floor of the cottage.

  “Mama, wake up,” her ten-year-old daughter Elena was shouting. She could feel her small fingers digging into her shoulders, shaking her. With a great deal of effort, Yulia pried her eyes open to see Elena and Dragan bent over her.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, although she wasn’t sure if she had the strength to sit up. Her head was spinning, and Oksana’s screams were making her head pound. “Help me to the bed, Dragan. I think I’d like to lie down now. Come, children, it’s time for bed. Elena, get your sister washed up and changed into her nightclothes, please.”

  Dragan pulled her up, and although it was ten steps to the bed, she felt faint again before she was even halfway there. Collapsing onto the straw mattress, she allowed Dragan to remove her sturdy black shoes and cover her with the quilts.

  “Be quiet, Oksana,” he commanded. Oksana was resisting all efforts for her sister to wash her face and was still shrieking wordlessly. Thankfully, the toddler’s cries subsided to whimpers, and she allowed Elena to get her ready for bed without further protest.

  Yulia lay quietly throughout all this, trying to steady the spinning in her head. It was like the time she had had too much wine the night of her wedding to Zoran, but without any of the giddiness that accompanied it.

  Soon they were all curled up in the bed together, and the warmth of her children surrounding her revived Yulia somewhat.

  “Story, Mama,” Oksana demanded. “I want a story.”

  “Not tonight, Oksana. Mama’s tired,” Dragan started, but Yulia hushed him gently.

  “It’s fine, I can tell you a story,” Yulia said. “Would you like one about a princess and a troll?”

  “Tell us a story about papa,” Elena said. “Tell us about the adventures he’s having and all the brave things he’s done since he’s been away.”

  Yulia was careful to keep her face neutral upon hearing her daughter’s request. In the first days since her husband, Zoran, had left to attempt to traverse the pass, so deep with snow it had cut them off from the rest of the world, she had amused the children during the long days with imagined tales of his adventures. As the days turned into weeks—six in total—with no sign of him, she was fast losing hope he would return to them.

  “All right then,” she began, drawing them even closer. Oksana popped her thumb into her mouth and began to suck. “Four days after your father left, he lost his way and soon found himself deep in the forest instead of on the path he was meant to follow to town. Darkness was falling, and he decided to make camp for the night and try to retrace his steps in the morning. However, no sooner had he settled himself down beside his small fire when who should appear from behind an ancient tree, but a trickster…”

  8

  The vision Naomi gives me has enough in common with the one from Cora that I’m nearly certain they’re from the same place and time. The problem is, neither has enough details for me to do further research. Based on the apparel and furnishings, I’m positive it’s from earlier than the twentieth century, and the names all seem to be Russian, but beyond that, I have little to go on. At some point in the past, a village of unknown size was cut off due to a snowstorm or extended period of poor weather and had been forced to pool and ration what supplies they had. With grief and worry so near the surface of their current lives, the spirits of Cora and Naomi were revisiting those past hardships.

  What I do know is that through their lifetimes, Cora’s consciousness and Naomi’s have been linked more than once. They are kindred in some way, and I wonder in the present time as well as the past, not only how they’re connected, but how closely.

  I’m surprised to see my meal has disappeared untasted, so preoccupied have I been in examining the details of Naomi’s vision and comparing it to Cora’s. The pub is still crowded, and with no reason to stay, I crumple my napkin onto my plate and head for the exit. I’m loathed to interrupt Cora, who’s still sitting at the same table, so I make sure my path doesn’t take me directly past her group, and a moment later the door swings shut behind me. Although the somber atmosphere hasn’t disappeared, I feel some of the tension begin to release from my neck and shoulders as the din of the pub is replaced by the faint sound of the ocean, and the smell of ale and fried food with salt spray and seaweed.

  Now what? I’m overcome with a crushing sense of loneliness, a foreign emotion for me. I’m used to solitude, and have always been comfortable in my own company, but at this moment, I wish I had the sort of community around me that the people of Soberly—and the residents of some unknown Russian village—do. I want to stomp my feet like three-year-old Oksana and scream for companionship the way she screamed for food. I want to bundle up under a pile of blankets with someone warm and safe. It’s ironic that I’m full of food and starved for company, while she had been the opposite. Somehow, I feel like I’m the one who’s worse off.

  You’re being ridiculous. What I need to do is make a plan for how to move forward without Bill Blackmoor, and the first step is to find the next closest lawyer who can continue to oversee Roz’s will and the transfer of ownership first from her estate to me, then to Cora. That means a date with my laptop and Google. Resolutely I head for Cora’s house, determined to at least have some names and leave some voicemails before I go to sleep.

  ***

  Cora agrees to loan me her car, and the next morning I travel sixty miles inland to Eugene to meet with another lawyer. Greta Pickler was the first to return my call and happens to be the closest. She is an imposing, power-suited woman with a steely gaze framed by layers of thick mascara, and a puckered mouth that never so much as hints at a smile. I dislike her instinctively, but since she’s willing to take on the work left unfinished by Bill Blackmoor’s death, I’m willing to overlook the feeling. As expected, she tells me it will take some time to transfer the executorship of the will to her, further delaying my escape from Soberly. Her fees are also nearly twice as high as Blackmoor’s, and, she informs me, she won’t be available at the drop of a hat “like those small-town people are.” I keep myself from rolling my eyes and thank her for being able to fit me in. We agree to communicate mainly via email and phone before I make my way back to the coast.

  Cora pinches the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb when I tell her the news. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed with me for being the bearer of bad tidings, Greta Pickler for not being able to instantaneously execute the will and complete the sale of the inn, Bill Blackmoor for dying, or Roz for getting us all into this mess in the first place. Maybe all of the above. In fact, probably all of the above. That would reflect my own feelings, anyway.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer, not knowing what else to say.

  “It’s not your fault,” she replies, but I can see the tightness around her eyes and the effort it takes to say it. This isn’t a good day to be hanging around the inn.

  “I’m going to do my laundry this afternoon. Maybe call my parents.” Where did that come from? I haven’t spoken to either of my parents in years. Cora, unaware of our fractured relationship, nods, and I escape the lobby.

  Forty-five minutes later, everything I’ve worn since I came to Soberly is in the dryer. I’d spent those minutes eating a sandwich, wiping up invisible spots on the table, sweeping the crumbless kitchen floor, and texting my former college roommate about my situation. She didn’t reply, and now I’m at a loss for what to do. Cora’s postage stamp-sized lawn has recently been trimmed, and the sprinklers come on every morning, so that’s out. I have no interest in afternoon TV programs.

  Bill Blackmoor’s words come back to me. “You can have a relaxing week on the beach. Maybe read a couple good books.” It is a beautiful day, maybe the nicest since I’ve arrived—not too hot, but sunny with a light breeze. Maybe an afternoon on the beach isn’t a bad idea.

  On the way back to the public beach access point, which is adjacent to the inn, I grab a paperback from the drugstor
e. Marnie, the pharmacist, is behind the counter as usual, and she waves hello.

  “How’s the burn?” she asks as I pay for my detective thriller.

  “Peeling and itchy as hell.” I pat my beach bag, where along with a towel, is the extra-large bottle of sunscreen I bought from her earlier. “Don’t worry, I’m already coated.”

  “Every ninety minutes,” she reminds me. Marnie is motherly without being overbearing, and I like her.

  “Any suggestion on the best spot on the beach?”

  “For reading or swimming? I’m not much of a swimmer, but if you want to relax I’d try and grab one of the lounge chairs in front of the inn. The surf is usually pretty calm around there too if you do want to go in.”

  I thank her, flip my sunglasses back down, and am soon settled into one of the cedar chaises she mentioned. I assume they belong to the inn, and since more than half are vacant, I don’t feel any guilt in occupying one. If actual paying customers come around, I’ll give it up.

  Engrossed as I am in my book, I barely notice when someone drops into the chaise beside me a short time later. I definitely do notice, however, when they spring up again and push their chaise over so it’s a hand-span from mine.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Kellen says, tossing my bag over my stomach to the other side so he can inch closer. I stare at him wordlessly as he stretches his lean body out again, fingers laced behind his head. He closes his eyes and smiles beatifically, brown skin radiant in the sunlight. He doesn’t appear to have an inch of fat on his body, and, I note, his swim trunks sit dangerously low on his hips.

  “How did you know I was here?” I ask, regaining my voice. Of course, it cracks.

  “Hmm? I always sit here from”—he checks his watch—“quarter after one until three. How did you know I’d be here?”

  “What? I—I didn’t—” He’s laughing. He’s always laughing at me.

  “You walked past my house half an hour ago. Cover-up, flip flops, beach bag. There literally could not have been any other place you were going, so I decided to join you.” His eyes are still closed, so I give myself license to admire his abs a moment longer and come to the conclusion that I’m going to have to fuck this man and get it over with. Then maybe I can find my equilibrium again.

  “Be my guest,” I say, and turn back to my book. Only now, the story that had gripped me from the first page can’t hold my attention at all, and I’ve reread the same paragraph four times without getting any further into the plot. That thin line of hair disappearing into Kellen’s waistband is driving me to distraction.

  “You and Cora are neighbors?” I blurt out, giving up on the book.

  “For now,” he says, turning to face me. “I’m your stereotypical millennial living in his parents’ basement. Not for long, though. I’m aiming to buy Margot Oxford’s house in a few months’ time when she moves over to a retirement home in Newport. It’s a little place, needs some fixing up, but it’ll suit me pretty well. I’m looking forward to knocking down some walls and jackhammering concrete.” He pounds his chest in a display of manliness, eliciting a snort from me. “Seriously though. Margot’s taste in wallpaper runs toward dusty-rose floral with metallic accents. Straight outta the sixties. And the carpet. You have to see it to believe it. Now, your place, I imagine, is all clean lines, white on white, a pop of color here and there. Sleek. Minimalist, but trendy. High-rise condo?”

  I shake my head. “Wrong on all counts. Third-floor walk-up, various shades of beige, as chosen by my landlord. Thrift store furniture. Cardboard boxes I’ve never bothered unpacking shoved into corners. Mattress on the floor because I haven’t had the time to find a frame for it.” My description is grim, but I shrug it off. “It’s just a place to stay. I do have a plant.” I never made arrangements for someone to water my plant. I smack myself in the forehead with my book. It’ll be dead long before I make it back to New Mexico. “Actually, I take that back. I had a plant. Ugh, I’m the worst.” I frown at the thought of the little African violet slowly dying of thirst on my windowsill. The truth is, I kill every plant I adopt.

  Cranky now, I turn back to my book, silently beating myself up. I had liked that violet and its lavender blooms. It was the only spot of color in my dreary galley kitchen.

  “It’s just a plant, Audrey,” Kellen says.

  “It’s not just a plant. It’s…it’s a pattern of neglect. I’m careless about the living. All I ever focus on is the past.” My words surprise me, both what they signify, and that I’d said them aloud.

  “You’re thinking about Roslyn.” How could he know? I’m close to tears.

  “What was she like? I never even knew her as an adult, not really. I haven’t seen her since I was twelve. We kept in touch here and there, but even though she’s my only family member I like, I still didn’t make much of an effort to connect with her. I didn’t even know she owned this place.”

  “Want to hear something funny? She didn’t mention you to me often, but every time she did, she told me I’d like you, because of how well she and I got on. Said you had the same type of humor, and she’s right. Sarcasm for days, you Eames women.” He shakes his head. “Roz would never let me have the last word either and was stubborn as hell.” He’s smiling at the memory.

  “You miss her.”

  “I do. She was someone I looked up to. Roz had room in her heart for everyone. There’s a big hole in this town now that she’s gone. I think the thing I admired the most about her is how determined she was. If she put her mind to something, it happened, no matter how many people told her otherwise.”

  He tells me the story of how she came to own the inn—she’d first arrived as a guest in her twenties, and kept returning over the years, slowly falling in love with the place, as she told it, and started taking courses in hotel management at the college in Eugene. Finally, one year she asked the owners if they’d ever consider selling, and since they were getting on in age, they jumped at the opportunity. With that and a hefty bank loan, Roz was an innkeeper. That was ten years ago. Naomi was already in charge of the pub’s kitchen by then, the Greene family having moved to Soberly five years prior. Kellen’s father commuted to Eugene, returning on weekends, but Naomi had wanted to live on the coast. “Then, as soon as it was legal, basically, Roz put me to work too, first washing dishes, then bussing, and eventually bartending.”

  He tells me the story of how Roz and Cora met and fell in love, too. “It was almost painful, how awkward those two were,” he says, laughing at the memory. “Cora came on an internship from the same program Roz took. It was a second career for her. The two of them, with a serious case of whatever the lady equivalent of a hard-on is for each other, and neither of them doing a damn thing about it except the odd attempt at innuendo and a lot of blushing. Completely ridiculous. I bet it was Roz who made the first move, though. Cora stayed on after the internship was over. Roz was in over her head, trying to run everything by herself. Cora…I don’t know. Roz changed something in her. Healed her, I think. She and my mama are pretty tight, and although Mama’s never said anything specific about Cora’s past, she’s implied it wasn’t all that great before she came here. That’s what Roz does. Did. She saved people.” He exhales deeply and rolls back onto his back. I’ve been laugh-crying through most of his stories, and I take a minute to blot my face with my towel so he can compose himself.

  “Anyway,” he says, his voice a bit unsteady. “I’m sure you’ve already heard most of that from Cora herself.”

  “Not at all,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t think—” Drew’s words from the day we met come to mind. “I don’t think she’s on Team Audrey. She’s mostly been polite, but I can tell she wants me out of here as fast as possible. She hardly talks to me at all, unless it’s about the inn specifically.” I describe her reaction earlier when I told her how Bill Blackmoor’s death would delay the sale of the inn even further.

  “So, you’re definitely going through with the sale?”

  “Ye
p.” I pretend to pick grains of sand out from under my nails.

  “We’re not growing on you even a little bit?” I can see through my lashes he’s flashing the megawatt smile at me. The only things brighter than the sun today are his damn teeth.

  “Growing on me or not, I have no experience running a hotel, and it’s not my place to come in here and sweep all Cora’s hard work out from under her. I doubt she’d stay on if I didn’t sell.”

  “We are growing on you.” Impossibly, his smile gets wider.

  “I didn’t say that.” To avoid further conversation, I flip over onto my tummy and rest my head on my arms, pulling my sunglasses back down onto my face.

  “You need sunscreen on your back, young lady. Pass it over.”

  “I can do it myself.” I rummage around in my bag. “And I’m older than you.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “You know it’s my job to be able to peg a person’s age, right?”

  “You must be pretty shitty at your job then.” I’ve been smearing sunscreen on my back the whole while, awkwardly reaching to get it distributed all over. The back of my bikini top keeps getting in the way, and I’m sure I’ve coated the black crochet material in thick white lotion.

  “Will you tell me your age if I ask you?” An arched eyebrow is the only answer he gets. I’d never give him the satisfaction. “Didn’t think so. Well then, I leave it to your sense of honesty to admit you’re wrong. I turned twenty-eight in April.”

  “I am, indeed, older than you.” Because age has little to do with maturity, I stick out my tongue.

  “You’re lying.”

  I push myself up onto my elbows, take my sunglasses off, and look him dead in the eye. “I’m older than you, Kellen,” I say, deadpan. “Now, since you claim to know my tell, you should know I’m not lying.” With a satisfied smile, I lay my head back down and start to work with the sunscreen on my shoulders, where the worst of the burn from the day I arrived is.