Good Nights

by Heather Grace Stewart

  “The coffee smells great, but I thought you only drank tea?”

  “No, I drink both. Could have done with something much stronger this morning.”

  He looks right over my head, then before I can say anything more, he slides past and opens the front door for Coffee, following swiftly behind her as she bounds down the driveway.

  Thirteen

  Hannah

  “Here. There will be lots of mud puddles. You’re going to need these.” Tripp reaches back to the narrow backseat of his truck, gives his gleeful dog a pat, digs around a little, then hands me a pair of glossy, army green rain boots.

  “Water boots—we call them wellies. They were Maggie’s. I think they’ll fit you.”

  “Maggie? Who’s Maggie?”

  He turns and stares at me for thirty seconds, saying nothing. It’s as though he’s deciding if he can trust me with delicate information.

  “My late wife.”

  The air feels very close inside this truck. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to pry.” I hear myself stutter a little and feel my heart beating faster inside my chest. When we first met, I thought he was a workaholic who’d abandoned his wife so he could do research alone. Later, I just thought he’d left her, like Doug left me. I’m angry at myself for being so quick to judge this man.

  “Don’t be,” he says softly and switches his gaze away from me to look out the window. “Back in Oxford, I wasn’t sure why I was bringing the wellies on this trip. For some strange reason, I felt compelled to throw them in my duffel bag, along with my camouflage ones. Now, I know why.”

  I look down at the “wellies.” I hate the dull rain boot color, but realize we can’t go around in bright colors, scaring away all the birds, especially since Tripp already hinted that my raincoat is a project liability. I open the truck door, sit on the edge of the seat, and try to pull on the right boot. I didn’t realize what a struggle putting on a boot this way would be. Oh no, no-no-no-no, I’m going to fall and wreck my faaaaace!

  “Limey lorikeets!”

  I promised myself to get creative with my cursing, but limey? I’ve turned into a wacky, British teenage girl around this man.

  I’ve completely lost my balance, and I’m about to fall face-first onto the wet gravel road when Tripp appears in front of me, grabbing me firmly at the waist.

  “Love that you made the Lorikeets British, Hannah. Well done.”

  We’re so close, I feel his warm breath on my collar bone. He hoists me back into the seat, gives the boot that’s halfway on my foot a little shove, and it slides on perfectly. He takes the left boot from the truck floor, places it like a trophy on his open palm, and looks up at me.

  “You’re the eighteenth maiden we’ve tried, in all the land,” he says it like a proper, royal Englishman. “This boot bloody well better fit.”

  “Oh, it will. I locked up every other bitch in the basement,” I say without a trace of a smile.

  He laughs so hard, the sound echoes across the field. After placing the boot on my foot, he offers up his right hand and helps me down and out of the truck.

  I sweep several messy strands of hair away from my eyes and take a look around. It’s serene here at the forest’s edge. There are no other people or parked cars or oncoming traffic, just rows and rows of coniferous trees. I can hear crickets chirping in the tall grass, the whistling wind, a light drizzle of rain.

  I look up at Tripp and realize that I’m still holding his hand, and we’re staring at each other in complete silence. He has a strong, chiseled chin and very full lips framed by that sexy bit of red and brown stubble. I didn’t think I liked beards, but his looks like a properly kept, four-day growth, not the longer I’m-a-lazy-slob-and-I-don’t-wanna-shave look. I’ve worked in television and met many celebrities, but I’ve never looked in the eyes of a man this achingly gorgeous. I keep staring, forgetting why we’re even here.

  “Now, the hard work starts.” Tripp abruptly drops my hand and turns to get Coffee out of the truck. It’s great that he loves his dog, but a part of me wants to hit him on the head with some ornithology equipment. Way to break the mood, grumpy crumpet.

  “You may want to tie your hair back. It’s quite windy,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I have an elastic hairband around my wrist, so I tie back my tresses while he’s pulling bags out from under a tarp in the cab of his truck.

  “Are you sure it’s going to be safe in there?” I bend down and give Coffee a rub. She’s sitting at her master’s feet, gazing into the forest, whimpering as she waits for the golden go-ahead sign.

  “Safe? Sure, we’re nowhere near the shore or any flooding rivers, and the worst of the rain has passed over. But, I’m warning you, it’s not going to be pleasant,” he says, handing me a backpack as he puts on his own. He looks right at me. “You still in?”

  “I’m still in,” I say, wondering what exactly I’m getting myself into.

  Fourteen

  Tripp

  We’ve walked three-and-a-half kilometers and are nearing the part of the forest where I plan to drop the nylon mist nets. If I can capture and photograph the Skinks Babbler, which has been elusive to all and believed extinct for more than seventy-five years, I’ll get my place in the history books.

  The rows of tall pine trees have managed to break the wind quite a bit, but the rain is starting to soak through my jacket. I wonder how miserable my new research assistant feels in her borrowed boots and thin, blue slicker.

  Hannah is keeping the pace with me, and I have yet to hear one complaint, despite the gentle slope we’re climbing, the blowing wind, and the driving rain. I was wrong about her. It sounds like she’s had an interesting career in entertainment, but she hasn’t been spoon-fed all her life, or, if she has, she’s certainly making up for lost time now.

  “We’re here!”

  “This is where you want to set up? Okay, so I’ve got the pole-thingies you’ll use to put up the nets, and you’ve got the nets and the camera?”

  “And binoculars, yes. I’m sure it’s all getting rather heavy for you. Let’s take a lunch break first, there, in the underbrush, by that log. Have a seat.”

  I help her take off her backpack and place it along with mine on the tarp I’ve set up on the ground. She sits down on the tarp under the canopy of trees, opens her water bottle, takes a swig, then looks around.

  “It’s so peaceful.”

  “It is. I love this forest. But, I like quiet. I don’t often have music on in the house, and I’m not big on television anymore, no offense to your profession.”

  “None taken. I’d write stage plays if there were any money in it.”

  “Really? Thought it was a bit of a dying art for our generation.”

  “Not for me. I did theatre studies in university. I love writing for a live audience. There’s a beautiful sense of teamwork in a theatrical production. Television, well, it’s more and more about the ratings. There are even shows built around commercials!”

  “And those are mostly drug commercials,” I say.

  “Yes! So annoying.” She nods, pulls part of her shirt up from under her slicker, and wipes her face. It is pouring out here. She’s being a sport.

  “Eighty percent of those commercials are taken up with some deep authoritative voice telling you the ailments you could get, which are all worse than if you just didn’t take the bloody drug: Be careful,” I say, my voice low. “You may grow an extra limb… or penis…”

  “Exactly!” Hannah’s laughing so hard, tears are starting to form in the outside creases of her eyes. She was so uptight when we first met. I love making her laugh.

  “And they all speak like auctioneers who’ve had one too many espressos. It always makes me wonder, if I take the drug, is that what I’m gonna sound like? Because thanks, I’ll just stick with my heart condition…”

  “
You have a heart condition?”

  “No, you naff. I don’t have a heart condition.”

  She smiles up at me.

  Aw. I can get away with calling her a naff. Lovely.

  “Okay, that’s good, because I wouldn’t want to over excite you.”

  “You’re going to over excite me?”

  She just bites her lower lip. I’d better change the subject.

  “I’m sorry about the rain. The forecast said the worst had already come.”

  “Not exactly what I expected for a south of France vacation.” She chuckles, pulls her hood tighter over her head, and wipes some raindrops off her nose.

  “Mother Nature is full of surprises. Like with this bird. I know it’s out here. I just need to use the element of surprise. Catch it when it’s out looking for food.”

  “You’ll let it go after, right? The nets are safe for the birds?”

  I crouch down and sit beside her. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. They’re commonplace now, after a bit of a controversy at the start. They’re perfectly safe if you use them correctly, and I’ll only be tagging the Skinks so we can locate it again. I’ll let it go as soon as I get its age, sex, weight, and photograph it.”

  “Can that all happen today?” She rummages through one of the lunch bags I prepared and hands me a sandwich, then takes one for herself.

  “I’m not so sure.” I take a longer look around, glancing up at the darkening skies. “I’m not keen to put up the nets if I can’t return tomorrow morning to take them down. That wouldn’t be fair to the Skinks at all.”

  She studies me quietly, then takes another sip of water. “You really care about this bird. What’s the fascination?”

  She looks like a little wet bluebird in the rain, her knees scrunched up to her chest in an attempt to get warm. I feel the sudden urge to wipe the rain drops off her eyelids, to kiss that freckled nose. I have to look away.

  “I suppose it started with my father,” I say, handing her a thermos of hot chocolate she didn’t know I’d packed. Her eyes sparkle with gratitude.

  “He was in the same field. He wanted to find the Skinks, too, and it became an obsession of sorts. He once said that birds thought extinct and then found are a little like ghosts, appearing, then disappearing. They’re mystical.”

  “So, we’re like ghostbusters.” She chuckles.

  “Maybe. Hopefully we won’t come out of this completely covered in marshmallow goo.”

  That makes her laugh out loud, and I adore the sound. We eat and drink in silence for a moment. Then, she speaks softly. “My Dad died when I was very young. You’re lucky you had him.”

  “Oh, that’s awful.” I look down, not knowing what else to say. Then, suddenly, I do. “I didn’t really have him, though. That’s the thing. I never could compete with his damn work. I remember pouring through his bird books up in his office, learning about hundreds of elusive species while he did his research at his desk. I wanted to impress him. It was all for naught.”

  “Didn’t he ever take you out birding?”

  “Never. Not once. He was very serious about this work. Said it wasn’t child’s play.”

  “Oh, that’s not… not so nice. I’m sorry.”

  “You say sorry a lot.”

  “I do? Sorry!” She scrunches up her nose.

  I look at her again and chuckle. “Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault my parents had icicle hearts.”

  “Ouch! That bad?” She’s warming her hands on the thermos cup now.

  “They say it’s never too late to have a happy childhood. I suppose I’m having mine now.” I smile at her and raise my cup. She clinks hers with mine.

  “To a happy childhood, this time around, then,” she says. “And to finding your Skinks Babbler!”

  I notice she can’t say the term without smirking. “Yes, well, I hope this outing proves useful for your screenplay.”

  “Hmm,” she sips her drink, then puts it down. “I write romantic comedy. This day has been more like a documentary.”

  I study her face: rosy cheeks, a wet strand of ginger hair matted against her left cheek, and start to speak, but I can’t get the words out. I can’t say what I want to. I can’t say, “It could be romantic.” Why am I even thinking of her in this way? I love how I feel around her, but I’m in awe of it all.

  I glance up at the sky again, searching for the right words. The clouds are dark and menacing. I don’t like what I see or hear. That was thunder.

  “Bugger. It’s a comedy of sorts. I’m supposed to be showing you how to capture a rare bird, but instead, we’re running from a nasty storm.” I stand up.

  “What?” Hannah stands and looks up at the sky, too.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Now you’re apologizing!”

  “Well,” I say, gathering up the thermoses and tarp, shoving everything into its pack, “I have to because I told you it would be safe.” I regret telling her that. If this is anything more than a rain storm; if Hannah gets hurt in this, I’ll never forgive myself.

  “It’s… it’s not safe?” She wraps her arms around herself for a moment, looking panicked.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and look her in the eyes. “Hannah. It’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you. But we have to move fast.”

  I sling a backpack over each shoulder, motion for Coffee to follow us, grab Hannah’s hand, and lead the way.

  Fifteen

  Hannah

  “We’re almost there,” Tripp calls over his shoulder, gently pulling my left hand as we make our way down the slippery, muddy path. My forehead and eyelids are completely soaked with raindrops, so I’m thankful that he’s leading the way. His skin on mine is warm and reassuring.

  As a Canadian, I’ve grown accustomed to storms. I’ve shoveled driveways into snowbanks far taller than my five-feet five-inches. I’ve also lived under rainy, grey skies for months, and even taken a few walks in stormy weather out on the beach.

  This is no ordinary storm. The skies have turned as black as night, the wind makes eerie squeals through the trees, and the rain is relentless. I’m not sure what type of storm it is, so I’m going to call it Category Get My Ass Outta Here.

  I take my free hand and wipe my eyes, sweeping away a few strands of wet hair at the same time. Now I can see a speck of light in the distance, where these rows of trees stop, and we can enter an open field. I’m not sure that will be an improvement, however, since the trees must be breaking these high winds a little.

  Tripp starts down the final slope, not far from where he parked the truck. He turns to face me and starts to take my other hand to help me down. He’s one second too late.

  “Wanking warblers!” My, that was elegant.

  Tripp isn’t laughing, but it’s not because of my word choice. “Don’t move!” he shouts.

  I’m lying in the mud on my stomach. I’ve banged my knee up badly, and I try to push myself up, but before I succeed, Tripp’s at my side, rolling me just a little so he can inspect my leg.

  “Hannah, you’re bleeding, Oh God… I’m so sorry.” He’s more serious than I’ve ever seen him. He lifts my pant leg and carefully examines my knee. It feels like I’ve just had knee surgery, but I know it’s just a cut. I don’t get why he’s pale and silent all of a sudden.

  “So much blood,” he says.

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing,” I try to reassure him. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? He’s not panicked, but he’s definitely not EMS material. Good thing he’s sexy in every other way.

  “It’s deep, but I can fix this. I have a first aid kit in the truck. Come on, put your arms around my neck, I’ll lift you the rest of the way.”

  I cling to him as he carries me out of the forest, onto a path surrounded by tall, golden grass. It’s so windy, I have to bury my head into his
neck. That’s when I hear him mumbling.

  “It said storm warning, but I ignored it. I thought the worst was over. Shouldn’t have let my guard down.”

  I’ve never seen this side of him. He’s acting like a soldier in battle.

  “Let your guard down?” I lift my head to speak. “Tripp, it’s just weather. It’s unpredictable. It flooded so much already, we thought the heavy rain was over.”

  “I promised to keep you safe.”

  His voice cracks on “safe,” and I’m so moved by the emotion in his voice, I don’t know what to answer. I bury my head back into his neck, praying the storm will pass soon.

  Tripp opens the door, and Coffee scurries inside and shakes herself off immediately. Neither of us bother to scold her because we’re both soaking wet anyway.

  “Couch okay?” Tripp asks, and I nod. He carries me over to living room couch and places me down. It’s such a cozy spot. I take off my rain coat and sling it over the chair beside the couch. He gently pulls off my boots, then his, then gathers everything and hangs it up as I settle myself.

  “I don’t think we need a fire tonight. It’s warmer.”

  “Yes, must be a tropical storm. Those winds were over one hundred kilometers an hour. I hope everyone along the shore is okay. Bridge will be staying out.” Tripp runs his hands through his wet hair and glances over at Jughead, who is bopping up and down, making a bit of a fuss in his cage. He sits down at the edge of the couch by my feet, adjusting the pillow under my injured knee.

  “I’ll feed Coffee and Jughead. What do you want to eat?”

  “Oh, no. No. I’m not your patient. Like I said, just a bruise and minor cut.” I glance down at my bandaged knee. It really does hurt, but I don’t want him going back to thinking I’m a spoiled Canadian brat. I’m a grown woman, and I can manage to make my own meals.