Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
But I lived there now, so…not okay (definitely).
Therefore, I just stared at him.
He didn’t hide his hilarity (though it wasn’t vocal) when he said, “Nice to meet you Solitary Coffee Lady.”
I did nothing but raise my brows.
His hilarity became audible with his chuckle, which was as rough and attractive as the rest of him.
He then turned, ran through my yard, and disappeared in the pines.
Ugh.
Whatever.
I sipped my coffee.
Stared at the lake.
Put that conversation behind me.
And felt the crushing weight of a year in the pines with nothing real to do, except the impossible, settle on top of me.
The sun was shining, glinting off the peaceful waters of a lake that was a good twenty yards away.
And still, I felt like I was drowning.
THREE
My Pocket
Nadia
I turned to my back in bed, stretched my body ramrod straight, and snapped to the dark ceiling, “Oh my God. I’m going to kill him!”
I’d heard the party spark up at a little after nine.
This was a surprise because it was a weeknight, and according to me, who hit the sheets anywhere between nine and eleven every night (and okay, that tended to lean toward the nine o’clock hour), it was too late to start up a party.
Sadly, the music that filtered through the trees between his place and mine only got louder and moved from seventies rock (which I could tolerate) to metal (which I could not), with a penchant toward Rage Against the Machine, Korn, Tool and Slipknot (yes, I knew the bands, because Trevor was a metalhead).
With this came loud voices, including intermittent shouting, laughter, and even loud conversations that carried across the water to my lovely abode.
They sounded like they were having fun, raucous fun that included people jumping into the water and frolicking there for a goodly period of time (which was insane, I’d stuck my toe in, and it was freezing).
Fortunately, that stopped, but the rest of it carried on.
And on.
And on.
I couldn’t sleep with noise outside white noise (say, a fan or traffic), unless it was the drone of a narrator telling a sleep story, which I had also tried in order to get some sleep, but the noise even filtered through that.
Definitely not music, laughter and voices.
Which meant, right then, it was after three in the morning, and I’d not yet been able to fall asleep.
It had been two weeks since I’d moved in, and I hadn’t seen (nor heard) Doc in all that time after our first, unsuccessful meeting.
It was Dave who showed me how to use the generator, coming over with Brenda after she called to set an appointment to walk me through keeping her flowers watered and healthy.
At that time, I learned Brenda was a woman much like her husband. That being of indeterminate age (I’d peg her at anywhere between mid-fifties and mid-seventies). She had a mad cap of thin, wispy hair that was dyed an unbecoming, unnatural blonde (not being offensive, there was no other way to say it). She wore glasses, no makeup, was pleasingly plump, sported oversize shorts that went to her knees and an equally oversized T-shirt that had a trio of graphic kittens on it sniffing flowers.
She also had a kind smile that lit her eyes behind her glasses and a patient demeanor.
However, she refused to tell me her taco meat secret, something I had a desperate need to know, because when I’d opened the container, it looked just like seasoned ground beef, but when I ate it, it was flavorful and so tender, it was a minor miracle.
Though, she did say she’d bring more by when she made another batch, which I thought was really sweet.
Other than Dave and Brenda, and the people I ignored the two times I’d gone into town to hit the dread grocery store, I hadn’t seen a single soul.
I’d unpacked all my boxes.
I’d programmed the TV with all my streaming services.
I’d kept the plants watered and healthy.
I’d binged more television than I allowed myself to keep track of.
I’d read five books.
I’d shopped online, because, although Brenda had outfitted the cabin splendidly, she didn’t have cloth napkins, the placemats on offer weren’t as cute as the ones I’d found when I’d discovered the napkins, and her pretty, antique wineglasses and tumblers didn’t hold near enough liquid (and she didn’t have martini glasses at all). She also hadn’t provided plastic ones for outside should I, say, want a glass of wine while sitting on the pier (which I did). Nor did she provide a marble wine cooler should I, say, drink a whole bottle of wine while sitting and reading on the porch (which I also did).
And other stuff.
I’d also semi-kinda met my postman, who drove packages all the way up the lane to my front door.
What I did not do was journal my innermost thoughts and fears and feelings about all that had happened four months ago (not to mention, seven years prior) in any of the five matching, silk-covered, cherry blossom embossed journals I’d sent to the cabin in my boxes.