by Ann McMan
Grady kept a spare key stashed beneath some empty clay pots that were artfully stacked beside the porch. Once she was inside, it only took her a few minutes to stow her few grocery items and open all the windows. Flipping a switch on the inverter allowed access to solar power stored in a bank of batteries. A quick trip outside to open the valve on the propane tank completed her chores.
The rest? The rest was easy. The “rest” for this weekend meant dragging one of the big distressed Adirondack chairs into a scrap of shade and sitting down with her stack of four dozen English Lit papers. The topics ranged from “Epic Themes and Conventions in Beowulf and How They Mirror Contemporary Culture” to “Social and Political Contexts of the Heroic Code.” The writing and quality of research in the papers seesawed wildly between woefully arcane and wholly incomprehensible.
If this was a movie, Beowulf would be a coming of age story. Grendel has been dealt a crappy hand his whole life. Nothing has ever been fair. His mom was a nasty old hag that never talked to him, except when she warned him about smelly fish. He spent most of his time wandering around stabbing animals because he was so full of anger. He’s mad that humans all refuse to care about his pain at being such an outcast. His archenemy Hrothgar is a really ugly dude that still manages to marry a great-looking queen while Grendel is cursed and being mocked all the time by climbing goats. His life is full of injustices.
Grace dropped her red pen in disgust and stared out at the water.
I just had to do this—consign myself to an endless purgatory where I’m forced to read drivel vomited out by bored and completely disinterested twenty-somethings—instead of going into . . . I don’t know . . . dentistry.
Her brother, Dean, didn’t have to deal with crap like this. His social contract was a lot simpler. When a subordinate of his did a shitty, subpar job, Dean fired him. End of story.
She glanced down at the paper again. At least this one isn’t as bad as Brittney McDaniel’s. Brittney had managed to crank out an entire theme paper composed of sound bites that each contained no more than 140 characters. It took Grace a while to catch on and, at first, her interest was piqued by the unusual, albeit dubious, approach. After the first five pages, she picked up the clue phone and realized that Brittney wasn’t intending to be clever. Brittney genuinely believed that a flimsily connected string of tweets was a legitimate form of written communication. Small wonder. Cultural mores like that tended to trickle down from the top—unlike most economic schemes.
“Yeah.” She collected the stack of papers and stuffed them back inside a bulging accordion folder. “Maybe later—after I’m good and drunk.”
She indulged herself by watching the water for a few minutes. There was a fair amount of boat activity today. She figured that most people would be eager to get an hour or two of recreation in before the weather went south. She could see a bank of dark clouds building on the horizon. It was an ominous sign. She guessed they all would be in for some fireworks later on.
That was okay, though, because if your solar panels racked up about five good hours of sunlight, your power stores would be just fine for the evening. The only bad part about rotten weather was having to trudge outside to use the privy. Grady had grand plans in place to install a proper bathroom inside the cabin—one with running water pumped up from the lake, and a composting toilet. But for now, the outhouse was the only recourse—at least for females. They’d done a lot, though, to make the tiny space a bit more hospitable. It was scrupulously clean—at least, as clean as it could be without any kind of climate control. And they’d installed a pergola linking it to the main cabin. That had been an attractive addition, but it didn’t make trips outside during inclement weather any less onerous. Grace had insisted on insulating the outhouse walls and painting them a brighter, more inviting color—the same mustard yellow that adorned the exterior walls of the cabin. She’d even installed a magazine rack and filled it with back issues of Borealis—although Grady argued that people visiting the island privy wouldn’t be any more inclined to plow through those tomes than any of the articles contained in his gay uncle-in-law’s back issues of Unzipped.
A warm breeze blowing in from the lake and the soft, insistent purr of boat motors lured her into closing her eyes. She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until the first few drops of rain hit her face and jolted her awake. She blinked at the lake. Damn. The sun was well along its collision course with the horizon. She glanced at her watch in shock. She’d dozed off for nearly ninety minutes.
That part was really no surprise. She hadn’t gotten much sleep since Abbie turned up. She collected her folder of papers and headed for the cabin. The rainfall was gaining steam. Just as she reached the cabin steps, she heard a distant rumble of thunder. It was going to be an early night.
Once inside, she turned on the receiver and tuned into Vermont Public Radio. She got lucky. Instead of one of their ubiquitous no-one-ever-listens-to-this-so-we’re-going-to-play-it programs, the live Chicago Symphony broadcast was starting in just a few minutes—and Anne-Sophie Mutter would be wrangling her way through the twisted machinations of Mozart’s Turkish Concerto.
Grace hadn’t planned on making much for dinner—her beer cheese- and ground meat-laden lunch with CK had just about killed her appetite, she thought forever. But the aftermath of her nap outside in all that fresh air must’ve jump-started her metabolism. It was either that or her memory of how great that damn brisket smelled. She wandered into the small kitchen and considered her various food options. She’d brought along a big container of the black bean soup she’d made for Dean last week. That might work. She could trick it out with some plain yogurt, a chopped scallion, and a grate or two of cheese. Or she could fire up the gas grill—which, handily, was under cover—and toss some chicken and fresh veggies on it. She’d also brought along a few late-season, fat heirloom tomatoes she’d picked up at the local farmer’s market on her way to the marina. They were gorgeous—more like works of art than produce with their brilliant yellow, orange, and deep purple skins. They vibrated from their perch on the windowsill like background objets in a Matisse painting.
Why not?
She set about mixing up some marinade for the chicken from the cache of oils and dried spices she kept on hand in a cabinet. The upcoming fireworks of the Mozart concerto encouraged Grace to add greater flourish to her meal. So, she decided to cobble together a modified curry baste with onion, garlic, paprika, honey, some grainy mustard and a dash of cinnamon. That combination was sure to liven up any stormy night.
There was another, more sonorous roll of thunder. The rain was becoming more insistent now. Grace could hear its staccato tapping against the metal roof of the cabin. For a moment, she thought she heard something like hail, until it persisted and she realized the sound wasn’t coming from the roof—it was the door. Someone was knocking—softly but persistently—on the cabin door.
Roscoe? That seemed unlikely. But who else on Butler Island would be out wandering around in weather like this?
Grace wiped her hands on a towel and crossed the living area to open the door. The sight that greeted her stopped her cold.
It wasn’t Roscoe. It was a woman—dripping wet, and with a countenance that was a perfect blend of hope and uncertainty.
It was Abbie.
Chapter Four
Grace stood frozen in place for so long that Abbie finally sighed and broke the silence.
“If you’re not going to invite me in, then I’ve definitely overplayed my hand.”
Grace blinked at her in disbelief. “How’d you get here?” she asked—before quickly regretting her response. “I’m sorry,” she corrected. “Of course.” She stepped back and swung the door open wider. “Come inside. You’re getting soaked.”
“Thanks.” Abbie did her best to shake off as much of the water clinging to her—everything—as possible before stepping over the threshold. And even dripping wet, the sum total of that “everything” presented the most bona fide, USD
A-certified, prime and perfectly aged hunk of pure perfection that Grace had ever seen. “I’m sorry,” Abbie said. “I don’t mean to make such a mess.” She smiled at the obvious irony of her comment. “I mean—any more of a mess than I’ve already created for you.”
“It’s okay.” Grace closed the door behind her. “It livens things up in a dull Vermont town.”
Abbie gave her a dubious look. “I somehow doubt that’s what you really think.”
Grace shrugged. “You’re well advised to doubt it. I honestly don’t know what I think.”
Abbie nodded but didn’t say anything.
Grace fought hard not to stare at everything that was amplified by Abbie’s wet clothing. She cleared her throat. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked. “To find out what I really think?”
“That, and other reasons.”
“What other reasons?”
Abbie shivered.
“God.” Grace felt like an oaf. “Let’s get you outta that t-shirt.”
Abbie raised an eyebrow.
“I mean . . .” Grace was mortified. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant you’re so wet . . . I mean . . . so damp . . . from . . . from the rain.” She hung her head. “I don’t know what the fuck I meant.”
“It’s okay.” Abbie laid a hand on Grace’s arm. “I know what you meant. And, yes. I’d love something dry to put on.”
“Okay,” Grace said meekly. “Follow me to the bedroom.”
Abbie smiled at her again.
Grace rolled her eyes. “You’re not helping, you know . . .”
“I know. I apologize.” She waved a hand. “Lead on. After I’ve changed, I’ll explain the whole sordid business to you.” She held out a hand. “Here—I brought this along as a kind of peace offering.”
Grace had been so determined not to stare, she failed to notice that Abbie was carrying a bottle of wine. She took it from her and read the label. It was an Oregon pinot noir—a good one from the Willamette Valley.
“‘Whole cluster,’” she quoted. “Nice choice.”
Abbie smiled. “It seemed to be in sync with our situation.”
Grace had to laugh at that. “Follow me.” She led Abbie to the bedroom.
“Something smells wonderful,” Abbie commented as they passed through the kitchen.
“It’s my curry baste.”
“You like to cook?”
“I do. I don’t know how good I am at it, but I enjoy it just the same.” Grace stood back so Abbie could precede her into the bedroom. “Let me grab you some shorts and a clean t-shirt. I keep extra stuff here.”
Grace retrieved the items and set them on the bed. “I’ll wait out there while you change.” She pointed at the living room.
“Thanks.” Abbie gave her a shy smile.
Grace left her alone and tried not to swoon as she crossed the kitchen.
What the hell is Abbie doing here? How did she know where to find me? And how in the hell did she get out here?
There was another rumble of thunder. One thing was for sure, Abbie was stuck there for now. Nobody would be leaving the island any time soon.
Grace didn’t know if that thought filled her more with jubilation or dread.
“Grace?”
Abbie’s voice—coming from the bedroom.
“Yeah?” Grace replied.
“I think I may need something a bit—larger.”
Larger? That seemed unlikely. Abbie was taller than Grace, but not really bigger.
“Are you sure?” Grace called out.
“I’m sure.” Abbie’s voice came from just behind her.
Grace jumped, and turned around to face her.
“Oh. Um . . .” The words died in her throat. The t-shirt fit all right—well enough for Abbie to moonlight as a server at Hooters. “Yeah. I see what you . . . um . . . mean.”
Abbie glanced down at her chest. “I fear this one is a bit too snug.”
Are you kidding? Grace wanted to scream. I’d offer my retirement savings to bribe you never to take it off. “Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “Let’s get you something of Grady’s.”
“Thanks.” Abbie gave her another one of her thousand-watt smiles. “I’d appreciate it.”
“His things are in that tall chest by the closet. Top drawer.”
“Great. Be right back.” Abbie turned around and headed back to the bedroom.
Grace watched her go. There was definitely no problem with the sweat shorts. They were just the right fit to show off all nine miles of her perfect legs.
She sank down into a chair. I’ll never fucking survive this.
The symphony broadcast was just beginning. Riccardo Muti was giving program notes for the evening performance. Grace tried to pay attention, but it was a losing battle.
“This is much better.” Abbie rejoined her. She held out her arms. “See?”
Abbie was wearing one of Grady’s ratty, Nova hockey t-shirts—with long sleeves.
It should’ve been illegal . . .
“Aren’t you too hot in that?” Grace asked. What the hell was she saying? Abbie could never be too hot in anything. Even if she’d appeared trussed-up in a biohazard suit, she’d still trip every meter on every dial.
“No.” Abbie raised her arms, and the impossibly long sleeves drooped from her hands. “I’ll just roll these up and I’ll be right as rain—no pun intended.”
Grace looked at her bare feet. “Want some dry shoes?”
“That would be great.”
“I have some spare Crocs.”
“Very stylish.”
Grace got up and retrieved the pair of battered, lime green shoes and handed them to her. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Abbie put the shoes on. Miraculously, they fit. But with Crocs, it was kind of a moving target. “Is that what I am?” she asked. “A beggar?”
Grace shrugged. “You tell me.”
Abbie perched on the arm of the sofa because its cushions were strewn with pages from Grace’s manuscript. “Maybe I should start by explaining why I’m here?”
“That’s a thought. I’d also like to know how the hell you got here.”
Abbie laughed. “That part is easy. Captain Polly.”
Captain Polly? Captain Polly ran a small-scale island charter service out of Burton Island. She knew these waterways better than anyone—even better than the coterie of crusty old bass fishermen who hauled in the biggest catches year after year in all the high-dollar tournaments the lake was famous for.
“How’d you find out about Captain Polly?” Grace asked. “I thought you’d already left for North Carolina.”
“I got a later start than I’d planned because I had a couple of things crop up that I needed to take care of. And when I finally got on the road, I saw her sign on my way out of town—near the turnoff for the marina—and changed my mind.”
Grace sat back down in a chair facing her. “Why’d you change your mind?”
“That part is a bit more complicated.”
Grace waved a hand at the big front windows that faced the lake. It was pouring now. “Doesn’t look like either of us is going anyplace for a while.”
“No,” Abbie agreed. “It appears we’re stuck with each other.” She met Grace’s eyes. “For now,” she added, softly.
How about fucking forever? Grace cursed herself for her own weakness.
Time for a reset. She forced her eyes away from Abbie’s. Beyond this point, there be dragons.
“That still doesn’t explain how you knew I was out here.”
Abbie sighed. “CK told me.”
What the hell? CK?
“When the hell did you meet CK?” Grace shook her head. “I mean . . . I only just saw her about . . .” Grace looked at her watch, “five hours ago. I swear, that woman spreads news faster than a 5G network.”
Abbie laughed. “It was less dramatic than that. I ran into her at the bookshop on Main Street. We both were trying to avoid that energetic Québécois who appe
ars to hang out in there. We ended up hiding behind the same bookcase.”
“You mean Pierre Paul? And nice French, by the way.”
“Yes. That would be he. And thank you—I grew up in Québec.”
“I didn’t know that.” Grace was fascinated. “Your interest in St. Albans begins to make more sense now. Remind me to grill you about that after you explain meeting CK?”
“Okay,” Abbie agreed.
“So,” Grace continued, “you two introduced yourselves to each other?”
“Kind of,” Abbie explained. “I recognized her right away.”
“She is hard to mistake,” Grace agreed. “She has more ink on her body than the combined total from every term paper written in the storied history of St. Allie’s.”
Abbie laughed. “That’s not why I recognized her. She delivered the keynote address at last year’s Q-Knot Conference in Banff.”
“Do I want to know what the hell a ‘Q-Knot’ conference is?”
Abbie smiled. “Quantum Knot Invariants. This is a leading forum to explore research in the intersections of modular forms and quantum knots in invariants.”
Grace blinked. “Which translated into English means?”
Abbie thought about it. “Imagine the Klutz Book of Knots with a greater emphasis on algorithms.”
“Ah. Now I get why CK was there. But why on earth would you be attending something that dense?”
“It wasn’t by choice—not to say that Alberta isn’t rife with charm in the wintertime. The conference was partially funded by a grant from our foundation.”
“So, it was a working gig?”
“Precisely.”
“Tell the truth.” Grace narrowed her eyes. “How much of the content did you really understand?”