by R. L. Naquin
“That is very kind of you.”
“What about your husband?”
“We are talking. A little. When he stops drinking, we will talk more.”
I nodded. “All right then. If you need anything at all, I’m here.” I was proud of her and happy. But I was also sad. I’d grown used to having Molly and her children in my home. At least she hadn’t gone far.
That night, it was Maurice and I at the table alone. At least I still had him with me.
“Zoey,” he said after pushing his plate away. His face was serious. “I know I barged in on you, but now that Molly moved out, it got me to thinking.”
I wanted to cry. Whatever he said next was not something I wanted to hear. I considered reaching for a leftover breadstick and shoving into his mouth to stop him from saying it.
“Don’t think, Maurice. Eat.” I pushed the basket toward him.
“No, I’m serious. I should find my own way and stop leeching off of you.”
I looked at my plate of homemade spaghetti and meat sauce and snorted. The pots and pans in the sink, the crumbs on the table, the peach cobbler I’d seen in the fridge—none of this was stuff I had to worry about anymore. If anything, I was leeching off of him.
“I won’t keep you here, Maurice. But I do wish you’d stay.”
“You do?”
I swallowed. I was having a hard time keeping calm and not bursting into tears. I wanted to grab him and shake him. “Please stay? You don’t have to do so much work around here, you know. You’re not on salary.”
“I like cooking and cleaning. I like taking care of you.”
“Then why would you leave?”
“I thought you liked living alone.”
“I did. But I’m obviously incapable of taking proper care of myself. What if another incubus shows up?”
“Then you’ll vanquish him with all your smiteyness.”
“What if a dragon shows up at my door demanding room service?”
“You’ll feed him ice cubes and give him your dinner.”
“What if I can’t sleep at night?”
He grinned. “You can’t make your own hot chocolate?”
“Nope. I’ll poison myself with instant chocolate milk mix.”
He got up and started clearing the plates. “Fine, I’ll stay. But only because you’re so pathetic in the kitchen.”
“I could have made spaghetti, you know.”
He sniffed and put the plates in the sink. “Sure. From a jar.”
The peach cobbler was, as expected, exquisite.
I tossed and turned that night for all of five seconds. The events of the previous weeks had drained me of every ounce of physical strength I had. I dreamed of seashells and talking fish, dancing bears in tutus, and Riley. There was no black wedding dress, and no one died. It was peaceful.
I was up by eight and ready for my first stress-free day in what felt like a decade. The smell of coffee woke me and I said a little prayer of gratitude to a god who made gourmet-chef closet monsters.
I padded into the kitchen, planning my day of absolute nothing.
Maurice was at the table, tented by the morning paper, with nothing of him showing but his checkered sneakers and bony fingers. He was not alone.
The fingers clutching another section of the paper were different. They were thick and gray with spots of green in the joints. Under the table I could see a pair of enormous, black work boots. I braced myself.
“Good morning?”
Both papers went down and Maurice was grinning from ear to ear. “Zoey, good morning! Sit-sit-sit! I’ll get you some coffee, and then I’ll whip up some waffles.”
I sat, obedient. “Hello,” I said to the mountain in front of me.
The face staring at me was like a chiseled chunk of stone. Bits of moss were caught between moving parts and flaked as he moved his jaw. I might have been alarmed but for the warm brown eyes that stared out at me from his craggy eye sockets.
“Oh, this is Phillip,” Maurice said. He slid coffee across the table to me. “He’s my brother-in-law, and he needs a place to stay for a few days.”
“Oh,” I said. I took a sip and scalded my tongue. “All right. It’s nice to meet you, Phillip.”
Words rumbled out of him. They sounded like a quiet avalanche. “My bread fell asleep in the toaster,” he said.
I nodded my head, as if this made perfect sense to me. “Well, you’re welcome here until it wakes up.”
“Phillip is a gargoyle,” Maurice said. His tone implied this should explain everything. It did not.
Breakfast was disconcerting, but somehow still pleasant. Phillip made weird grinding sounds when he ate, and pieces of moss had a tendency to break away into his plate, unnoticed.
He liked syrup very much. Phillip had quite the sweet tooth for someone with no real teeth. “Mice make excellent painters,” he said by way of asking for the butter.
I smiled and passed it to him. Phillip was going to make for an interesting weekend.
My phone rang and I excused myself.
“What’s for breakfast?” It was Riley.
“You know, proper etiquette requires you to say hello first.”
“Hello. What’s for breakfast?”
“Gargoyle surprise.”
He laughed. “New houseguest?”
“Indeed.”
“Do you have to stay home and entertain him tonight or can you sneak out so I can feed you pasta and make fun of you?”
“I suppose I can make time for you.”
“You’re a giver, Zoey. Always thinking of others.”
“That’s me.” I paused. “All joking aside, how much trouble are you in for helping me?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m worried about it.”
He sighed. “Some trouble. I can work it out. Really. Nothing for you to worry over.”
“I have nothing else to worry over right now. I’m between problems. I thought I’d choose you to rebuild my waning stress levels.”
“We’ll discuss it tonight. Wear a white shirt. I want to make sure I can point and laugh when you drop food on yourself.”
“You need to get a hobby.”
“You are my new hobby. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
After we hung up, I did a little dance in the living room. Maurice popped his head out and watched. “Another date with the reaper?”
“Does it show?”
“It shows. Can you come in here a minute?”
He had a worried look on his face and pulled me toward the window facing into the backyard.
“What am I looking at?”
“The pool.”
I squinted. The water rippled and slopped over the sides. “What’s going on out there? What am I missing?”
A slick rope of dull-green flesh slid across the water and disappeared under the surface.
I gasped. “Tell me we don’t have a mermaid in the pool.”
Maurice grinned his toothiest. “We don’t have a mermaid in the swimming pool.”
“Then, what?” My imagination was on full blast. I waited, shivering, for the Creature from the Black Lagoon to climb out covered in seaweed. Swamp Thing might drag himself to my back door any second, stringing moss behind him.
“Sea serpent,” Maurice said. He looked positively thrilled at the idea. “Do you know how rare they are these days?”
I nodded my head as if, of course, I knew how rare sea serpents were these days. “It’s kind of puny.”
“The world gets smaller every day. But there’s more of her in the pool than you can see.”
“So. What do we do about it?” I reached for a sweater. It looked cold out there, and I knew I was
about to get splashed.
“I guess you’d better buy some fish today at the market,” Maurice said. “Lots and lots of fish.”
* * * * *
About the Author
Rachel’s head is packed with an outrageous amount of useless Disney trivia. She is terrified of thunder, but not of lightning, and tends to recite the Disneyland dedication speech during storms to keep herself calm. She finds it appalling that nobody from Disney has called her yet with her castle move-in date.
Originally from Northern California, she has a tendency to move every few years, resulting in a total of seven different states, and a six-year stint in England. Currently, she’s hiding in the Midwest, planning her next grand adventure. She has one heroic husband, two genius kids, three annoyed cats and an imaginary dog named Waffles.
She doesn’t have time for a real dog.
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ISBN: 978-14268-9413-8
Copyright © 2012 by R.L. Naquin
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