The Lost Night

by Megan Maguire

No more sticks!

  Not Jake’s hockey stick. Pregnancy sticks.

  It’s over!

  That final line resounded. Heather was fuming because I was a dick. I blew it. Fear and anxiety caused me to bolt, and I hurt the woman that I love. It was the wrong response. An apology isn’t going to cut it this time. I may have to get on my knees and beg for forgiveness. Not once, but for days. Maybe weeks. My focus should’ve been on her, not her mom or the party. I’m an idiot. Seriously. I acted like this is a problem when it’s not. We can handle a kid. Years from now, after she’s finished with school and we’re married would’ve been better, but this is doable.

  And setting Valentine’s Day as a cutoff date was panic on her part. Heather won’t opt for an abortion. I know her views on that. She threw it in there to get a reaction. Lona might insist, but that woman doesn’t get a say in this situation, not when it’s about my kid. I’ll get a second job. Or a better job so Heather can finish school. The future isn’t bleak and hopeless like it was when I was in a dead faint under the ice.

  My thoughts stop racing, and I stop for a moment. My confidence and excitement quickly fade when I see the profound sadness that dominates Heather’s features. I want to tell her everything’s going to be okay, but I should’ve said that earlier. And I didn’t.

  Ten feet away, red and green stars from her mom’s laser projector float across her pale face.

  At five feet, I’m relieved when she notices the blaze of hurt in my eyes and doesn’t tell me to fuck off.

  Standing before her, I hold steady and wait.

  “I screwed up, baby,” I whisper.

  She covers her face with her hands to hide her tears, not knowing mine fall because I’m thankful I’m no longer left with only memories of the woman I want to marry. She’s right here. And she’s alive.

  “Heather … I’ve made the worst mistake of my life. I shouldn’t have left you.” I look down at my boots and bite my bottom lip, drowning in emotions. “I had a dream you were gone … it’s something I never want to relive again. I swear, you’re everything to me. Everything.”

  I know these words don’t miraculously change the situation. But it’s a start—a first step at letting her know that the one thing I can offer her is my heart.

  The laser light shimmers onto the maple tree’s branches, outstretched overhead like open arms anticipating an embrace. Heather lowers her hands and looks up at me. I absorb what I can from her hollow-eyed face. There’s an unfocused quiet. It’s the first time neither of us runs our mouths while we’re upset, the first time I imagine myself in her shoes and how scared she must be … the first time the entire world is silent.

  I stare at her for a long time before she holds out a hand. She knows me better now than ever. She knows I sunk to a new low tonight, and she’s allowing me back in anyway.

  I go to her without hesitation, and aside from her dishing out a short headshake over my wound, she doesn’t ask about the blood or why I’m wet and shivering. She is a Northland girl, after all, she’s used to it. But with a reluctant smile, she does squeeze my hand, and I smile and squeeze hers back, looking down at the heart ring that I bought her for Christmas, and the “D” tattoo at the base of her pinkie finger.

  LOVE DYLAN

  “I hope you do,” I whisper. “I hope you love me. And I hope you know how sorry I am and how much I love you.”

  She doesn’t speak, and for a moment, I wonder again if I’m dead and this is the afterlife. But my mind shies away from that, cringing at the thought.

  “It was a big night,” I continue, “and I ditched out on you. So I don’t expect you to say you love me back.” She reacts with a slow nod. “But I promise it’ll never happen again.” This time she looks me straight in the eye. “I mean it, Heather. I’m terrified of losing you.”

  Her silence is the best punishment. And promising. She’s holding my hand and she’s thinking. This is perfect. There’ll be plenty of time later to yell, cry, and make up. For now, I’m content when I feel her heartbeats sync with mine, a reminder that we’re alive, breathing the same air in the same place.

  She rests her head on my shoulder, and the sweet smell of strawberry lip balm drifts over me. My favorite sedative—Heather is the most precious treasure to hold after being rescued from certain death.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head. “I love you so much, baby.”

  A grin stretches across my face. I think it’s fair to say that this is the ideal ending to a winter’s night divided. No reason to question it. Better Ed than us.

  We’re alive.

  He’s dead.

  “I wonder…” I start to say. “What if…” I continue aloud, but decide to stop. Questioning anything at this point may become more painful.

  Or worse.

  My thoughts might change reality.

  * * * * *

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  Read on for an excerpt from Megan Maguire’s novel, The Release of Secrets.

  one

  Five, four, three, two, one.

  One.

  The quiet afternoon reminds me that I’m the only Whitfield who remains at Sparrow Lodge. Five of us once called this our home—our wonderland nestled amongst the trees—but four of the sunny voices are gone, leaving me to carry on the family business alone. Days have become years. Years will become a lifetime.

  I can’t say the lodge is the bane of my existence. If anything, it’s a comfort knowing I was born here and will likely die on these grounds. With no plans to leave, I’m not like most women in this small town, the ones who have dreams of marrying into wealth and raising a family in a stately mansion. Or the ones who have their hearts set on some fast-paced urban scene, swallowed by steel high-rises and congested city streets, bright lights and noise. Designer fashion and the bar scene just aren’t my thing. Kids and I don’t click. I’m happy living in a rural community under the majestic red pines with my dog, my hiking boots, and peaceful afternoons to myself.

  “Ollie.” I whistle. “Here, buddy.”

  I place my razor on the edge of the tub and lean back in a thick layer of suds, waving a mountain of bubbles over my growing belly fat. At twenty-seven, I’m not as slender as I was a decade ago. Soon my stomach will protrude beyond my average-sized breasts. And if, God forbid, my hips widen past my shoulders, I’ll end up looking like a pear—a pear-shaped woman with ivory skin and a potbelly, aka Salem Whitfield, the witchpig.

  Witch was the name my high school classmates pestered me with, for obvious reasons: hair the color of coal and the name Salem. I can’t blame them. Every kid gets a nickname. Except in small towns they seem to stick forever, and gaining weight will only incite the locals to tack the word pig on the end of witch. It’s time to tackle the extra padding before that happens. Time to exercise. Time to eat right. Time to be more ambitious.

  “Hey, Ollie,” I call. “Come hang out with me.”

  Paws thump against the hardwood floor in the hallway. The door opens a crack, and the snuffling nose of my eight-year-old Corgi, Ollie-Oops, pops in.

  “Hi.”

  He sticks his entire head inside and flashes a dopey smile.

  “Come on in, all the way.”

  His chubby chest nudges the door open enough to squeeze inside. He waddles over, tail wagging, cute as can be. He drops his rump on the bathmat and rests his chin on the edge of the tub.

  “We should go for a jog before guests arrive.” I pet his head. “It’d be nice to get out of the lodge today, doncha think?”

  His ears perk up. He tilts his head toward the hallway, tail picking up speed. A noise. Footsteps. The vintage, bronze bell on the reception desk in the lobby dings. Ollie goes into greeter mode, heading for the sound as fast as his stumpy legs can carry him.

  “Ollie, stay.” He makes it just outside the ba
throom door, turning to me, then to the lobby. “Check-in isn’t until four!” I shout. He ignores my request and inches forward. “Stay put or no table scraps tonight.”

  Ding-ding.

  “We don’t open until four!” I shout again. “Ollie, wait.” He darts for the dinging bell, always full of pep when guests arrive. The sound transforms him into a pup, convinced he’s due for an excessive amount of pets.

  Ding.

  It’s odd the front door didn’t chime, only the bell on the desk.

  Ding.

  “All right already. I’m coming!”

  Water splashes over the side of the tub as I step out and put on my black satin robe. It’s unlike me to leave the lodge unlocked during the day. My only free time is from eleven to four. In fact, the door is always locked unless a guest requests it be left open. And that’s rare. People don’t come to Tilford Lake to sit inside the lodge.

  I pat my bangs into place and gather my hair into a ponytail. Wet ends soak through the back of my robe. Good enough, out of time. Drumming fingernails on the reception desk are an impatient plea for me to get my ass in gear.

  “Coming, I said!”

  I hurry down the hall in bare feet, holding the neck of my robe tight, stopping short when I reach the doorway to the lobby.

  My God are the first words that come to mind. Tall, masculine, handsome, are three more.

  Windblown hair—the same color as the espresso-stained logs on the exterior of the lodge—curls over the tips of his ears. With a strong jawline, square chin, and a Greek nose, this guy is a rarity in these parts. All man, no boy. And he smells great, a warm mix of cinnamon and vanilla. It was worth getting out of the tub for him.

  “H–hello.” I breathe.

  He looks up with sharp blue eyes. “Too early to check in?” His deep voice echoes through the two-story space, bouncing off the wooden beams and back down. So heavy, I feel like I can catch it.

  “Uh…” I glance at the beads of bath water dripping down my legs, visibly vulnerable. “Sorry, can you come back? We don’t open till four.”

  “Four?” He checks the time on his cell.

  Behind him, a second man sits in one of the leather armchairs next to the fieldstone fireplace, his legs crossed, face hidden behind a newspaper. I stand straight when I notice there’re two of them.

  “This the only hotel in town?” asks the man at the desk.

  “Yes. And it’s a lodge, not a hotel.”

  Ollie growls. Either set off by the guy’s deep voice or upset the men haven’t made a fuss over him.

  “Hotel, lodge, doesn’t matter, just give me a room.” His fingers drum the desk.

  My stomach clenches with apprehension, but I can’t growl at the guy like Ollie. For now, I hold the neck of my robe tighter.

  Good looks no longer matter. He’s much bigger than me. With his wool coat unbuttoned, I can see the definition of his chest muscles pressed against his black shirt. If he wants to rob the place, or worse, I don’t stand a chance.

  Not a chance.

  “Nate, stop playing games with her and get down to business.” The man in the chair sets the paper down and scratches his scraggly beard. He owns a rounder, more boyish face, burdened with chapped lips and pockmarked cheeks. “Forget Nate’s behavior. He always acts like a brute around beautiful women.” The man stands and unzips his Carhartt coat. He’s a shorty, my height, about five-eight.

  “Talking about yourself again?” Nate asks. He looks to the side and then back. “Can we check in early?”

  “We’ve got reservations,” the bearded one says.

  I cross my arms. “I don’t have reservations tonight for two men.”

  “And we could use some food,” Nate says.

  “I said this is a lodge, not a hotel. I don’t serve food here. And I don’t have reservations for two men.”

  The guy next to the chair narrows his eyes and walks over to the desk, leaving a trail of snow on my braided, pinecone print rug.

  “Oh, um … there’s a diner a mile west of here.” I thumb toward the road, but they don’t take the hint to leave. My stomach twists when I notice the front door is locked. “How’d you two get in here?” Ollie looks up, detecting a quiver in my voice.

  “My reservation is under Jim Gaines. Jim. Gaines,” he says, stroking his beard. “Nate forgot to make his.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have any rooms available.” My pounding heart drowns out the sound of my voice.

  “You can’t be booked in March, not in this small town. I’m sure you’ve got an extra bed.” Jim casts an eye on my private quarters and scans the balcony. “If not, Nate can sleep on the floor by the fireplace.”

  “Screw that. You can sleep on the floor.” Nate’s fingers drum faster.

  “I asked how you guys got in here.” My voice is hot. I point at the deadbolt. “That’s locked, and I didn’t hear the chime.”

  “There’s always a back door,” Nate says.

  Jim finger-combs his greasy black hair to the side, a faint sneer of satisfaction on his face. “Every business has a back door.”

  “Bullshit.” I pick up the desk phone and dial 9-1-1. “Ollie, get in the back!”

  “Hold up.” Jim grabs the phone and twists it out of my hand. “There’s no need for that.”

  Flight kicks in. I scoop Ollie into my arms and run to my private quarters, back to the bathroom, locking the door behind us. “Go away!” Hefty boots thud down the hall. “My husband will be home any minute. He’ll shoot you!” I put Ollie down and look for my cell—it’s in the bedroom. “I’m calling 9-1-1!” My hands shake as I shout lies.

  “Don’t be afraid. We brought you something.”

  A leather cord worms under the door.

  “What the hell is that?” I step back. “What are you doing? Go away and leave me alone!” The cord and the creepiness of the two men have me in absolute panic. “Get out of here!” I bang the door. “Get out. Get out!”

  The cord writhes closer. It’s released and their shadows dissolve.

  I hear the front door chime.

  Then. Nothing.

  My ears ring from the dead silence. No footsteps, no breathing, no words or movement. I stand perfectly still. Five minutes pass, listening, waiting, too scared to move. I finally realize they could’ve given the door a swift kick if they wanted to get me.

  “I think we’re safe, Olls.” He pokes his head out from the side of the toilet and struts to my side, pretending he wasn’t one bit frightened of the beastly men. “Nice try,” I tell him, snagging the leather cord with my big toe. I slide it closer to discover a brass key attached to the other end. The head is in the shape of a heart with a sparrow soaring across the middle. The same image that’s on the vintage ’60s sign in the parking lot, the logo my grandparents used for their dream business: Sparrow Lodge.

  My knees buckle. I know the key well. I have one just like it with my initials SW engraved on the sparrow’s back. My brothers and I all had one when we were kids. It unlocks the back door to the lodge, the escape hatch. A hidden door that we used so the front door chime wouldn’t carol each time we ran outside to play. This key is one of ours, one of three.

  I pick it up and examine the sparrow. My breath stalls when I see the initials EW on its back. I slide my finger over the engraved letters, needing to feel that they’re real.

  “Eli,” I whisper.

  MEGAN MAGUIRE

  Megan Maguire’s hippie grandparents raised her in an Airstream Overlander. A homeschooled, free-range kid, she spent her childhood traveling the country in search of the strange and unfamiliar, and survived her young adult years by not taking anything too seriously.

  When Megan’s midlife crisis hit, she resigned her position as a college professor and took to the open road in an RV of her own. She’s spent the past five years crisscrossing the country with an affectionate cat, Miranda, and a slobbering dog who hitched a ride and goes by the na
me, Max. The three drifters enjoy setting up camp in beautiful forests across America. They live happily without social media, far away from the tragedies of society.

  Writing, rolling in catnip, and fetching sticks are their top priorities. Manicures, hairdressers, going to bars, and watching reality TV, are not.

  You can contact Megan by beeping your horn when you see her silver RV on the road. It’s the one dotted with smiley face stickers, with a cat on the dash and the windows crusted in dog drool. She also checks her email twice a month:

  authormeganmaguire@gmail.com

  As for her novels, Megan’s characters are often loners, on a search to unearth life’s great mysteries while looking to find true love—just like her.

  THE LOST NIGHT

  Megan Maguire

  Copyright © 2019