Glamour
Page 25
I swallowed my mouthful of sweet cream. “I don’t want to be rude…”
“Pffft. You say rude, I say no bullshit. Potato, potahto.”
I handed the whipped cream back to her. “But I don’t know him at all. We haven’t even been out to eat together. What if he’s a…I don’t know…loud chewer? A slurper? A skimpy tipper? Maybe’s not good enough for me,” I said, totally joking. In my periphery, I saw him trussing up a chicken like he was on a cooking show. Way too good for me, way too good.
She snapped apart her bifocals and began cleaning them with her sweatshirt, nodding somewhat sadly at the lenses. “He does slurp sometimes, but he always tips twenty-five percent. He’s my person, honey. We’re blood-bound. I want to see him happy.”
“I understand that. I really do. But this isn’t anything serious. We just met.” As soon as I said it, I knew that was a lie. It might be really early, but I could feel it: the excitement, the hope, the connection. It was never too soon to feel that.
“When you’ve been around as long as me, you know which way the love-winds are blowing. He’s roasting you a chicken, isn’t he?” She raised a painted eyebrow, as if to say roasted meats equal love. “But I’ll stop with the Ouija. I’ll just let nature take its course.”
“Promise? Because you really freaked me out!”
She chortled and then put a bony hand on my forearm and squeezed. Then she turned up the volume as Luther stepped into a grisly crime scene. “Promise,” she said.
“And I promise I won’t go breaking his heart,” I whispered.
“Good enough for me,” Grandma whispered back.
I settled down into the couch a little deeper, making sure there was room next to me for Dave, if and when he came to join us. I scooted closer to Grandma, and the smell of Bengay got slightly stronger.
But as I got comfy, I felt something poking into me from underneath. I scooted my tush side to side—there was definitely something there. Something large and hard. Thinking it had to be another remote, I took my feet from the ottoman and crouched down next to the sofa. I stuck my hand under my seat cushion, where I found…a cue ball.
I looked at Grandma, and Grandma looked at me, for just one fleeting instant, before she went back to Luther and shoved an enormous handful of popcorn into her mouth. I took the ball out from under my seat and put it on the sofa next to her. Grandma played totally dumb and didn’t even look at it.
“Okay, Google,” she’d said earlier. “How do you test for royalty?”
I considered the situation. No way. This woman couldn’t possibly have gone completely fairy tale on me. Insanity. Madness. And yet…
Sure enough, as I plunged my hand back under the sofa, I found more round items—one of those big balls of rubber bands, a round lip balm container, and finally… I peered at the strange little something between my fingertips.
“Is this a pea?” I whispered.
She didn’t answer right away, but instead waited for a gap in the dialogue and whispered back, “Wasabi edamame.” And beamed.
* * *
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IN A STRANGER’S BED
A Goldilocks Story
Sophie Jordan
~
Once upon a time Goldilocks became lost in the forest. She walked and walked until she came upon a house…
~
The bus was gone.
It took several moments to comprehend. Thea scanned the beautiful landscape. The green hills and mountains beyond. The navy blue skyline. Nature at its purest form. And no bus. She rotated in a small circle, searching for it as if it might suddenly materialize. Nope. Still no bus.
She was well and truly alone in the Highlands of Scotland.
In the distance, she heard a sheep bleat. It was a pitiful little sound that echoed precisely how pathetic she felt in this moment.
The wind swept over her, whipping hair into her eyes. She dragged it out of her face. A drizzling mist fell, but that had been pretty standard since she arrived in Scotland. She’d long given up on her flat iron and let her hair run wild. There was no help for it.
She looked to the spot where the bus had been parked. It had sat there, waiting as she and twenty-one other tourists roamed the mist-shrouded hills.
Everything about her surroundings felt magical. As though there really were fairies here like the tour guide had said. She could practically feel their eyes on her now, watching, whispering. She had been sucked in, so caught up in the wonder of this green-dappled land with its moaning winds that she had lingered too long.
Twenty-one tourists had boarded the bus without her. And left. She couldn’t get over that fact. She’d been abandoned.
She eyed the sky reproachfully again. It wasn’t evening yet, but she had seen very little of the sun on this trip. It would be fully dark soon. She couldn’t just stand here in this cold drizzle. Night was coming. She’d freeze to death.
She swung her backpack off her shoulder and dug out her phone along with her itinerary that included all pertinent numbers. Reception was spotty out here. Wi-Fi nonexistent. Even so, she lucked out and managed to get through to the tour group company based out of Glasgow that she’d hired to get her around Scotland. Her luck ended though when an automated message came on stating their office was closed for the day. Fabulous.
At least she knew her group was returning to the Drovers Inn where they had stayed the night before. She just needed to meet up with them there. Somehow.
Heaving a great sigh, she tucked her phone and itinerary away again, slung her pack over her back, and started down the narrow road. Assumedly, it would lead her to a more-traveled motorway where she could flag down a car to take her to the Drovers Inn.
Except after half an hour she began to wonder if this road would ever lead anywhere.
She didn’t remember it taking so long to get to the glen, but she had been an awestruck tourist with her face pressed to the window, reveling in the beautiful landscape. Scotland really was everything she had always dreamed. The perfect honeymoon.
Even minus the groom.
The drizzle turned into full-fledged rain. She looked up at the darkening sky as it unleashed torrents of water. Her sodden clothes felt like a hundred pounds weighing her down. It was getting harder to see in front of her. She took cautious steps, concentrating on not straying off the path or hitting a particularly slick spot. She could just imagine it. They’d find her corpse a year from now in some Scottish bog. Her grandmother would tell anyone who would listen that she had told Thea not to take this trip.
Grams always made her opinions very clear. Women should not travel alone. They should not take trips to faraway lands. They should marry and stay home and make babies.
Gina would be sad. She would cry. Maybe even blame herself a little. After all, Gina was a good friend who had encouraged Thea to take this vacation and get herself under the first big, brawny Scot she met. Best way to get over a man was to get under one.
Shaking away thoughts of her imminent demise, Thea squinted against the rain and gazed up at the deepening sky—then stopped hard. There was smoke in the distance. Off to her right. A curling trail of pale gray against the curtain of rain and descending night.
Excitement thrummed in her chest. It was the only proof of civilization she’d glimpsed since the bus abandoned her. She glanced down the road and then at the smoke again. She didn’t think the source of that smoke could be too far away.
She hugged herself. It was getting colder. What if she kept to the road and no car came along? She
could freeze to death while there was a house nearby. Venturing off-road didn’t seem so risky when she thought about it in those terms.
Adjusting her grip on the straps of her backpack, she stepped off the path and set out, heading up the grassy-thick hill. She was glad she’d invested in some good tennis shoes for this trip. Even so, they weren’t rainproof hiking boots. Those would have been handy. Her shoes were soaked, her socks squishing miserably around her feet. The ground was turning spongy and unstable beneath her, slowing her progress.
She kept a bead on that plume of smoke, convincing herself she was drawing closer to it. Bleating sheep sounded close, too, and she imagined they weren’t enjoying the rain any more than she was.
With ugly pants of breath, she made it to the top of the hill, hoping the way down wasn’t going to be treacherous. Even as exerted as she was, the cold was having its effect. Her teeth clacked together, and she was positive nothing felt as miserable as the combination of wet and cold. It was steep going down, and she stepped cautiously until she reached level ground.
She looked up through sheets of rain, searching for that plume of smoke again and following it down. Finally. The answer to her prayers. Civilization.
The house was nestled on the top of the next hill over. White walls. Shutters at the windows. Dark slate roof. Quintessentially Scottish. A smaller outbuilding sat beside it, along with a fenced pen.
She hurried ahead, minding her steps. Visibility was fast fading. She didn’t want to turn an ankle. She slogged through the mud, teeth chattering, bones aching from the wet-cold. Rain sluiced her face, dripping off the numb tip of her nose. She wiped at her face hopelessly. The rain continued its assault.
She almost wept with relief when she reached the house. A small stone path led to the wood door. She staggered over the path, probably looking drunk. Light glowed from the windows. That, coupled with the smoking chimney, told her someone was home.
She pounded on the door with the side of her fist for what felt like minutes. Rain continued to beat down around her. Who didn’t have a covered porch? In Scotland of all places where it rained a lot? Her teeth clacked together so hard her jaw ached.
Screw it. Circumstances were dire. With a muttered prayer, she gave up on knocking. Her hand circled the door latch. Turned. Pushed it open.
“Hello!” She stepped tentatively inside the warm interior of the cottage. It was heaven. The cessation of rain on her aching body felt like she’d crossed over into heaven.
A large fireplace crackled on the far side of the room. Her gaze scanned the cottage. No sight of anyone. The door clicked shut behind her, shutting out the biting cold.
“Hello!” she called out again, in case someone lurked somewhere out of her line of vision.
She hovered near the door, shivering, an ever-widening puddle encircling her feet. It didn’t take long for awareness to return. She was still cold. Still wet. Still miserable.
The pop of the fire and crumble of charred wood were the only noises. She was alone. There was not a single living person inside the house.
She rotated in a small circle, assessing her surroundings. It was a cozy single room cottage with every amenity as far as she could see. A fully outfitted kitchen. Refrigerator. Oven and range, which even now held a steaming pot of something that smelled delicious. A large couch sat angled before the fire, and a large brass-framed bed covered with a quilt that looked like something from the previous century was pushed against the far wall across from the fireplace.
She strode into the kitchen area, wincing as she left a trail of water behind her. Leaning over the sink, she gathered up her mass of hair and wrung it out into the sink. That done, she turned and moved back toward the fireplace in the main room, holding out her hands for warmth.
As blissful as the heat felt on her hands, she still could not seem to get warm enough. She couldn’t stop shivering. Her teeth continued to chatter. She was likely in danger of hypothermia as long as she remained in her wet clothes. She glanced around helplessly, wondering what to do. She was in a strange house. She didn’t even know who lived here, but somebody obviously did. Somebody who could not have gone very far if they left the fire burning in the hearth and a pot simmering on the stove.
She couldn’t feel her toes inside her shoes anymore. Desperate for more warmth, she stripped off her shoes and socks and flexed her naked toes in the thick fired-warmed rug, hissing in pain as sensation gradually returned in the form of tiny needle pricks.
Hugging herself, she rocked side to side before the fire, talking to herself and hoping that might get her teeth to stop clacking together so violently. Ah, hell. This wasn’t cutting it. It had come down to self-preservation. She had to do what she had to do. She’d seen enough documentaries about surviving in the wild to know desperate situations called for desperate measures.
She wouldn’t normally break into someone’s house and help herself to their property (Gram’s would have heart palpitations if she knew), but nothing about this scenario was normal.
Moving away from the fire, she told herself the owner of the house would understand. She stopped before a large bureau and opened the double doors, awarded with the sight of several long-sleeved shirts. She stroked a hand over the array of thick cotton and flannels. Was there ever anything so warm as flannel? She pulled one shirt free of its hanger, eager to wear it.
With a quick glance at the door, she snuck into the bathroom and undressed.
Hanging her wet clothes over the shower rod, she reached behind the curtain and turned the water on, cranking it to hot. Why not? She was freezing, and a hot shower would be the quickest way to warm up.
Naked, she hopped inside the shower, letting the warm water pound over her and praying no one chose this very moment to return home. She availed herself of the shampoo. Sadly, no conditioner was available, but she’d deal with the tangles later. She was warm and clean and not dead of hypothermia. She’d take her blessings.
Shutting off the water, she stepped out onto the well-worn bath rug. Pulling a fresh towel from a nearby shelf, she briskly dried herself. Catching sight of her hair in the small mirror above the sink, she rubbed the towel over it and then attempted to comb it into some semblance of order with her fingers. She didn’t spy a brush or comb in the vicinity, but even if she did, using some stranger’s brush felt too much of an invasion. She’d already borrowed his shower and shirt.
Fully dry, she slipped on the thick flannel shirt and opened the bathroom door, peering out cautiously. Satisfied no one had arrived home yet, she padded barefoot into the cottage.
The blue shirt hung to her knees, so fortunately she didn’t feel too risqué. She flexed her bare toes on the wood floor as she moved warily about the living space. Oddly enough, her naked feet made her feel even more vulnerable than wearing some stranger’s shirt. Bare feet seemed to say: Hey, I’m home!
Nerves stretched taut, she stared at the door. Imagined it opening. Imagined some grizzled old Scot stepping through it. She didn’t know why she thought the man who lived here was old. She just did. The cottage was clearly a single-resident dwelling, and she’s always envisioned hermits as old men. There was no sign of technology. No TV or computer or electronic devices of any kind. The guy who lived here definitely wasn’t young.
In preparation for when he returned, a sea of explanations tripped through her mind. All the various things she could say the moment his eyes met hers in order to explain her presence in his house.
She hurried to the door and parted the curtains to peer out into the night. Rain and darkness stared back at her; the verdant green she’d come to associate with Scotland was gone, put to rest with the night.
Letting the curtains fall back, she moved into the kitchen, following the savory aroma of whatever was cooking in the pot on the stove. Her stomach growled. The tour bus had provided a sandwich, apple, and water at lunch, but that felt a lifetime ago. She never was one to skip a meal. That had been a bone of contention with both her exes
. First Eric and then Charlie. The only boyfriends she ever had. Both guys thought she should eat less and hit the gym more.
Well, at least she could eat whatever she wanted without feeling guilty now. No more pointed glances at her plate. No more of those hated lifted eyebrows when she ordered dessert. And no more spending her money on a gym membership she didn’t want. Half the time she lied anyway and didn’t go to the gym. She’d tell Eric or Charlie she was going to the gym and then she’d go sit in a coffeehouse with a book and yummy drink.
No more pretending. Period.
No more trying to make herself fit with guys who only ever wanted to change her. For the first time in her life, she acknowledged she’d rather be alone than with a guy who felt all wrong. It was like a great weight lifted off her shoulders with that realization.
She’d tried explaining it to Grams. The funny thing was… Grams had been widowed forever. She’d lived most of her life without a husband. She was a strong, independent woman. No one told her what to do. No one dared criticize her. She ate as much dessert as she wanted.
She’d raised Thea all by herself after her parents died. Thea had been four when she went to live with her. She barely remembered her parents, but Grams had always been there. Every field trip. Every graduation. Every boy that came to the door, Grams was there to grill. Grams would never conform to a man’s expectations of her. She was no wilting flower, so Thea didn’t understand why she expected Thea to be one and marry a man who wanted her as long as she changed everything about herself.
She lifted the lid and picked up the wooden spoon resting nearby. She stirred the pot, her mouth salivating at the sight of chunks of meat, potatoes, and carrots in a brown gravy broth.
There was enough in the pot to feed an entire family and still leave leftovers. No one would notice if she ate one bowl. When the old man returned she’d offer to pay him back for everything. For borrowing his clothes, eating his food, for a lift to the nearest village.