2 Days 'Til Sundae (2 'Til Series Book 1)

by Heather Muzik

  “Excuse me?” she asked nervously, not liking the sound of the word saw one bit right now. Images of horror movies activated throughout her brain in a random pattern of blood and gore.

  “Jigsaw puzzles. They do it every year. Have a contest and everything. It’s a big deal.”

  “Of course, it must be,” she said facetiously, her heart slowing to harmless rural speeds—although a pilgrimage of puzzlers was creepy in its own way. Thank God Mom doesn’t know about this or it might be “Minnesota or bust.”

  Either he chose to ignore her tone or didn’t hear her because he continued, “Whole thing finishes up and feeds the May-gnificent festival. It’s all part of my bread and butter for the year, but these renovations….” He sighed audibly. Then he looked her over, sizing her up for how much trouble she might be as a tenant. “I do have one cabin that is fairly put together. I guess I can rent it to you at the going rate.”

  “Great,” she said, relief coursing through her and out of her mouth and pores, her body relaxing in the realization that a bed was maybe only fifty yards away.

  “I need to warn you, though; it still gets pretty cold out here at night this time of year. I don’t have heat in the cabins, ‘cept for mine. It’s one of the amenities I’m planning to add next year if you’re thinking of a return trip.”

  She nodded her head politely in response, so as not to offend. One trip to Nekoyah, Minnesota is enough for my lifetime.

  *****

  Catherine unlocked the cabin door and flipped the light switch. The smell of fresh paint and mingling odor of stain were strong even though the windows were open to their screens to help air it out. It was nowhere near as rustic as she had feared or expected. Actually it was fresh and clean and surprisingly quaint. The furniture was reasonably new and neutral to go with the neutral décor. Some walls were rough-hewn stained pine and others were drywall that had been painted pale green. She stole a peek in the bathroom to see what looked like fresh tile in the shower and on the floor. There was also a small efficiency nook with cabinetry that belonged in a high-end house, not a cabin with no heat. The upper cabinets had not been installed yet and were against the wall on the floor next to the bed.

  She closed each window in turn to seal off the space from the cool air that was trying to find its way inside. Then she opened her carry-on bag, scrounging through the scant possessions she had bothered packing for this ridiculous jaunt that was turning into a fiasco. She located a teeny bottle of shampoo she had procured at the Hyatt years before; an almost empty, at least ten-year-old travel tube of Crest; a tiny toothbrush designed for baby teeth; and a pair of stretched out nylons she had forgotten about from her last trip—a wedding in Vermont. She also had a single pair of underwear and matching bra, a pair of tan twill pants, a Penn State T-shirt, a fitted long-sleeved shirt, and a hoodie. Basic weekend clothes she had packed so she could fit in anywhere. Underneath all of that was her minimalist makeup bag; the one she used to keep in various boyfriends’ medicine cabinets. It hadn’t been called into action in almost a year, since her last long-term relationship had ended abruptly. She could only imagine that the mascara in the bag was probably crusty and the lipstick was almost certainly cakey, but at least it was something. She only had to use it one day. Her skin might revolt in a few days and breakout intensely, but by then she would have her entire beauty regimen at her disposal again.

  She felt gritty and haggard, but too exhausted to take a shower, so she grabbed the shampoo and went to the bathroom to wash her face with it. It hadn’t even dawned on her that she should pack soap—of course the Holiday Inn had complimentary wrapped soaps for their guests. She dried her face on a washcloth—the only towel she could find, tucked in one of the drawers of the dresser. It had been folded, so she took her chances that it must be clean, which was the normal assumption beyond the world of Elizabeth Hemmings, as Catherine had learned now that she’d been on the outside for sixteen years.

  Back in the main room, she turned down the bed. She hadn’t planned on needing any warm pajamas, figuring she would be in a fully climate-controlled chain hotel and therefore comfortable in her big college T-shirt and underwear—normal spring/summer sleeping attire. Since that was not the case here, she opted to stay in her clothes and took off only her soft caramel boots before slipping under the covers.

  She tensed in wait for her body to acclimate to the temperature, but she was still shivering several minutes later, unnerved by the cold and the sounds of snapping twigs outside as nocturnal animals or ax-murderers were certainly afoot. She felt painfully exposed and prone on the island of the bed, sequestered in darkness with no idea when death might come bursting through the door to find her. She climbed out of bed, dragging all the covers with her, and curled up on the couch instead. It was situated right in front of the main window, and from it she could sneak a peek between the blinds at the slightest sound so she would at least know that someone was coming for her before they got through the barrier of the door.

  Catherine shifted awkwardly on her new bed, which was really more of a loveseat than a couch. Its small size caused her to have to lie curled up tightly, and her jeans felt stiff and unyielding under the blankets. Plus she was still cold—her new position adding the element of draftiness off the wood windows. After shifting for the thousandth time and checking outside for intruders-to-be another several hundred on top of that, she knew that she wasn’t getting any sleep this way. The combination of fear and cold was killing her.

  She got out of the covers, slipped on her hoodie and boots, grabbed her purse, and opened the door a crack to assess her surroundings. The other cabins were close enough to denote civilization, but dark and vacant like they were, they failed to comfort—their windows were big, hollow, sad eyes that in her current state of exhaustion and pent-up fear could be black holes into madness. After standing frozen on alert for what seemed like several minutes, she made a dash for the car, hopped in, and started it up. As she drove by the owner’s cabin she noticed his place was darkened for sleep now, too. She felt completely alone in the wilderness.

  It turned out that Walmart was her only option at eleven o’clock in Nekoyah. She pulled in the lot and scratched her head at the sizeable number of cars there; everyone else who was still out and about was limited to the same destination as well—unless they were hungry, in which case Wendy’s was still hopping across the way. She walked in the store and headed straight for the misses department, hoping to find a nice warm pair of lounge pants and a sweatshirt or thermal top. Unfortunately Nekoyah, like the rest of the country, was on the verge of summer, so the options were decidedly more warm-weather oriented. Even the clearance rack offered nothing of use to her.

  She wandered to the men’s department instead, hoping for better luck. On the clearance rack she found an XXL pair of sweatpants that could have fit three or four of her inside. The only other option was a red thermal union suit in a medium—big, but much better. People actually still wear these? She begrudgingly brought the union suit to the checkout, her one-track mind on getting back to the cabin and getting some sleep.

  It wasn’t until she was halfway back to bed that she realized she should have bought the other things she needed, like toiletries. Swift Catherine Marie, really swift—at least it was nice to have someone to blame.

  Tuesday

  -19-

  The night had gained her a horrible crick in her neck and a hunch in her back that she hoped would straighten as the day progressed. The last thing she wanted was to end up looking like Quasimodo after this trip. Then I will never get married… or get a boyfriend… or even get laid.

  Catherine brushed her teeth, and looked herself over in the mirror, taking in the wide-necked red thermal union suit that had saved her life last night and kept her from becoming a Popsicle. It looked like something that belonged in Santa Claus’s wardrobe, especially since her tossing and turning in the tight quarters of the loveseat had stretched it out to the point that it sagged like a
sorry second skin.

  There was no way she could leave the cabin looking like this—not even changing her clothes would be enough to temper the grizzled expression of a woman on the edge. She took a shower, using shampoo for everything that needed lathering and then dabbing dry with a combination of the washcloth and her hoodie the best she could. Then she applied a hasty layer of ancient cosmetics. Dressed in her twill pants and long-sleeved shirt, she checked herself over again. Not bad—not exactly good, but doable for a final run-in with her new nemesis, Joel Trager or Fynn or whoever the hell he wanted to be, and then a quick flight back to normal. She raked her hands through her very damp hair and hoped for the best when it dried, telling herself it was just barely on this side of tousled, not quite over the line into messy.

  When she stepped out of the cabin, her eyes took in the car—her car for a few more hours. She’d hoped that her transportation was just one more weird dream sandwiched between so many others throughout the seemingly interminable night of sleep in fits and starts.

  On her way to the driver’s side, she stopped short, startled by the view of a lake up ahead. It was like it had come from nowhere in the dark of night. She probably should have expected as much from the Land of 10,000 Lakes—the nickname emblazoned on everyone’s license plate. There was probably another one around every other corner. But right here? A few hundred feet away?

  There was a time when just the word lake used to seize like a fist around her heart. Candler Lake had stolen Josephine out of the clutches of life—a pond in all respects but for its name. Ever since, Catherine had stuck to the ocean, or pools that held less direct memories of what water had done to her family. It was especially difficult in the winter when water wore its seasonal armor. She still found herself haunted by conjured up images of her sister’s last flailing attempts at life—or did she sink like a stone immediately? Josey had been totally, entirely alone at the end, leaving behind a sister who had to hold her breath when passing by a lake or pond—well past girlhood—just to ensure she had enough oxygen until it was out of view and she could breathe again. And now that same sister was standing here facing the water. She had slept, albeit fitfully, right near its edge. As she looked out at the serene and beautiful view, she realized she was actually still breathing easily.

  Her stomach groaned, reminding her there was life to live and food to hunt down. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been forward-thinking enough to grab some Pop-Tarts while she was at Walmart, so she was running on empty with nothing at hand. The diner would be perfect right now, but she wasn’t interested in reopening that scab. She did remember passing a Hardee’s the night before though, on the other side of town. A decadent breakfast sandwich could really take the edge off a tough night.

  She got in the car and retraced the road back to the center of town. The sun was shockingly bright, glinting off of the other cars moving along Main Street. It was unrelenting daytime in Nekoyah.

  When she reached the drive-thru, on a whim she ordered two Monster Biscuits and two coffees with extra cream and sugar, wondering if maybe the way to Joel Trager’s good side was through his stomach. He probably drinks his coffee black and bitter; maybe this will sweeten him up. Proud of herself for her creative resourcefulness, she drove back through town and turned off onto the series of small winding roads that led to his house. It was hardly as far off the beaten path as it had seemed yesterday, now that she knew the route like the back of her hand.

  Her stomach was literally hollering for food now, but she didn’t know if it was more proper to bring the guy some food or share a meal with him. Either way seemed awkward, but she wanted to make a connection, have a nice exchange, so she forced herself to stand strong against the succulent fumes of breakfast and take a chance that he could be pleasant and human.

  The gate was closed at the top of the driveway, and she worried that maybe Joel Trager wasn’t even up and at ‘em yet. Or he could be up and gone already for that matter. It was a Tuesday morning—normal working folk were going off to their jobs about now. She was already here though, so she would give her peace offering a try. She parked just off the road, fed the bag and the coffees in their carryall through the horizontal bars of the gate, and then hiked herself over. Hopefully the food would serve to ease any discomfort he might have with trespassing. Either that or he might call the cops to have her removed, but she was willing to take her chances, for she carried egg, sausage, bacon, ham, and cheesy goodness on a biscuit. She would even put down her pepper spray and join a potential attacker in a meal like this, hearing him out before assuming he was up to no good.

  As she walked down the long driveway, she saw Magnus coming at her. With the coffees in one hand and the bag of sandwiches in the other, she was powerless to defend against his approach. She stopped and closed her eyes, hoping to hold her position. Seconds later she was still untouched and ventured a peek, right before the force of his exuberance hit her, sending the coffees out of her hand and careening through the air. Then one of the lids popped off and most of the hot liquid inside hit her squarely in the crotch and splattered up the front of her only clean clothes—the outfit she was supposed to be boarding a plane in this afternoon.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed, grabbing at the hot fabric and pulling it away from her skin with her now free hand. “Magnus, buddy, chill!” she growled, fighting to hold onto the bag of sandwiches in her other hand. Without those she was just trespassing and begging. She looked into the dog’s sweet brown eyes and her frustration quickly melted—at least he liked her. “What a total oaf you are,” she cooed in friendly dog-speak.

  As she continued forward, undeterred, Magnus jumped at her heels in excitement. She reached down to pick up the dirty, empty coffee cups—the second one had exploded on contact with the ground. She stacked them in the paper carryall and kept her pace down the driveway, nerves growing as she got closer to the house. She stole a glance down at herself where the coffee had left the most flattering wet stain, making it look like she had lost control of her bladder.

  “Can’t help a girl out, can you?” she said to Magnus. At the sound of her voice he barked, and then settled back into a trot.

  The bark must have been an alarm because suddenly Joel Trager appeared up ahead, descending the porch steps.

  He said nothing until she was close enough to speak at normal conversation level, and when he did speak, he addressed the dog. “Magnus, boy, what did you drag home today? Yesterday it was a rat, and now this?” He ruffled the dog’s fur.

  She blushed with embarrassment, offering the bag and the empty coffee cups. “I brought breakfast.” She noted that his face was entirely clean and clear and smooth, and he smelled of aftershave even from here.

  “You’re trespassing you know.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” she said through gritted teeth. Of course he would bypass the sandwiches and point out the little things.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t grab a gun when I heard the commotion.”

  She looked at him in wonder.

  “Yes, people do that stuff when others come on their property uninvited. Is that too uncivilized for you?”

  Catherine swallowed back the words that wanted to come out—petty nastiness to match his own—in favor of a more winning strategy. “I just wanted to do something nice because I felt bad about yesterday. I don’t want to pester you, and I know that I went about this all wrong. Consider this an apology.”

  “You know sorry still works,” he pointed out.

  “I’m sorry then,” she said coldly, withdrawing the bag.

  “What kind of apology is that?”

  “The only kind you’re going to get.” She was adamant… and completely bewildered how he could so immediately make her want to fight and win.

  “You have a little accident on your way here?” He eyed her crotch.

  “Magnus scared it right out of me,” she said with a snort that she quickly squelched in embarrassment—it always came out at the worst possible moment.r />
  A smile flitted across his face, quickly replaced by the stoicism she had noticed yesterday. “So where’s your little car?”

  “Up at the road. Your gate’s closed.”

  “To keep people out,” he clarified, in case she was stupid that way.

  Catherine chose to ignore him. “Anyway… I wanted to come see you, and I was hungry, so I brought you some breakfast too.”

  She opened the bag and grabbed her sandwich, then handed the bag to him. Without asking, she went to the porch steps and sat down to unwrap and sink her teeth into heaven on a biscuit. She groaned lightly as the food hit her tongue, and then quickly sat back to attention, noticing his eyes were on her as if he couldn’t believe her gall.

  “Go ahead,” she prodded. “I didn’t poison it or anything.”

  He begrudgingly went in the bag and pulled out the other sandwich.

  She went back to eating—way too quickly and unladylike—and didn’t speak again until she was finished. “Listen, I lied yesterday… about Winston.” She kept her eyes trained on the driveway below her.

  “No kidding,” he said around a bite.

  “I really just want—need the toy for myself.”

  “Why?” he asked plainly.

  “Because it’s important to me…. If you’re reluctant to sell it because of your daughter, I’ll replace it… with something much better. A bigger dollhouse. Whatever she wants. You name it.” She looked right at him, trying to convey the earnestness of her intentions.

  He turned pale, his eyes gray and cloudy even though the sun was shining on a beautiful day. He gulped down a bite with effort and then spoke with a guttural tone. “What do you mean my daughter?”

  “Your little girl. I understand having lost your wife—and her losing her mother—it must be very hard. I don’t know how long—” She stopped, startled by the look on his face, like pressure was building inside him and he was getting ready to blow.