Page 4 of Holiday Hideaway
She made it to the ground-floor bathroom just in time, then closed the door and placed a rolled-up towel underneath it to muffle the flush of the toilet. When she emerged from the bathroom, Smoosh was waiting patiently by the kitchendoor. She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, instantly regretting it when her feet touched a patch of ice on the floor.
Smoosh trotted over to a raggedy clump of boxwoods and, for once, did his business quickly and efficiently. When he returned to the kitchen, she flipped him a treat from the bag she’d left on the counter earlier in the day.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all day. The empty M&M’s bag lay discarded on the countertop, and the empty Cheez-Its box sat beside it. This George person obviously shared her regrettable dining habits.
“Dammit.” She took a quick inventory of the rest of the fridge’s contents. Four eggs were missing from the dozen she’d placed there earlier, along with half the bacon. A glance at the counter revealed that only four of the English muffins remained. This George person had already consumed half the groceries she’d planned on eating for the entire next week.
Surely he wouldn’t notice if another muffin disappeared. And maybe a couple of strips of bacon? She popped the bacon into the ancient white microwave standing on the kitchen counter and four minutes later was devouring a bacon breakfast sandwich, treating Smoosh to the last bit of bacon for his good-boy treat. She tidied up after herself, then, on second thought, left the muffin wrapper open, scattering some crumbs on the countertop. Maybe he’d realize the house was mouse infested. Maybe in the morning he’d pack up and get back to Boston. And his annoying-sounding Vanessa.
She dozed fitfully for a few more hours and awoke again before dawn.
It was so cold in the attic she’d worn a hat, two sweaters, two pairs of socks, and mittens to bed. She grimaced. Hermouth tasted like boiled garbage. Smoosh was still sleeping. Hopefully George was still sleeping too. She grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, opened the door to the stair landing, and listened intently. He was still snoring, and she had her hand on the doorknob when the snoring abruptly stopped. Her own heart stopped momentarily, too, but a moment later the snoring resumed, along with her cardiac function, and she then crept down the stairs toward the first floor.
She almost didn’t recognize her own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her light-brown hair was a mass of tangles, there were dark worry circles under her pale-blue eyes, and her usually rosy complexion was blotchy. In her thirties, and she still got stress pimples. She was about to uncap the toothpaste when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Without hesitating, she hopped into the old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub, pressed her body flat against the cold porcelain surface, and closed the shower curtain to conceal her hiding place.
When the bathroom door opened, she tried to slow and quiet her breathing, but she needn’t have bothered. The toilet seat banged as it was raised, followed by a loud, strong stream. The sound of his singing, a deep booming baritone, almost drowned out the peeing. Was that “Bohemian Rhapsody”? There was a flush, the sound of the running water from the sink.
That voice, somehow familiar, echoed against the tile walls and floor. “Beelzebub!”
The singing stopped while he turned his attention to something else.
“Cool. Toothpaste. These rental people think of everything.”
As soon as his footsteps receded, she clambered out of the tub, glanced around the door to be sure the coast was clear, and raced back up to her attic lair. Without her damn toothpaste.
George walked around the kitchen, sipping his coffee and sniffing the bacon-scented air. He waited until nine o’clock to text the property-manager girl. Tilly? Such an old-fashioned-sounding name.
Hi. Can you recommend a good exterminator? I think there are mice, or maybe rats over here. Or maybe something bigger. And more sinister. Raccoon? Trolls?
She shot back an immediate reply.
Possibly elves? It’s almost Christmas, you know. Maybe you should consider checking into a hotel and having the whole house tented.
George laughed despite himself.
I think tenting is only for when you have termites. Also, you’d let an exterminator gas elves? What kind of monster are you?
He was enjoying this exchange. Who was this Tilly person?
How about that hotel? There’s a Budget Inn out by the Interstate. Free WiFi and breakfast buffet. Probably not rodent-infested.
He plucked his coat from the hook by the back door, grabbed his wallet and car keys, and dictated a voice text as he was locking up.
Never mind. We Crowes are from sturdy New England stock. No bacon-snatching varmint can scare me away. I’ll get some traps while I’m in town.
As soon as she saw his car pull out of the driveway, Tilly crammed her belongings into the trash bag and flew down the back stairs, with Smoosh close on her heels. She had to get out. It was too dangerous to stay at the Crowe’s Nest. She’d have to suck it up, call her folks, and ask for their help again. Just enough to rent her a room at that Budget Inn. Her stomach knotted. Retired and living on a fixed income, her parents would never refuse her, even if it meant blowing their own carefully plotted budget. The motel manager knew her—maybe he’d give her the locals discount—and she’d pay back Mom and Dad once she got on her feet again.
More snow had fallen overnight. She stepped carefully in the boot tracks George had left, and when she got to the car, she lifted Smoosh onto the Kia’s front seat and tossed the bag onto the floorboard.
She turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Just an exhausted wheeze. She tried again, but the engine refused to turn over. She wanted to scream, but there was no time for histrionics. Instead, she tried to call Ruth.
After waiting ten minutes with no response, she reluctantly trudged back toward the house, then waited while Smoosh sniffed around and did his business by the clump of boxwoods.
She rubbed her arms to ward off the freezing temperature. She’d never felt so alone in her life. She thought longingly of the little cottage she’d found and fixed up and then walked away from when she’d realized her marriage was a sham. Denny had claimed abandonment, and the judge had agreed, awarding him the house and most of the furniture. Leaving him had been the easy part, but putting her life back together, starting over from scratch, had been so much harder than she’d ever anticipated.
She stopped in the kitchen, where the smell of fresh-brewed coffee nearly made her swoon. She drank some, rinsed and put away her mug, and then shopped the pantry for the food she’d bought and paid for—a box of Ritz Crackers, some squeeze cheese, and a packet of instant oatmeal, to which she added water and zapped in the microwave.
Emboldened by George’s absence, she peeked into the parlor, where he’d already started stripping the peeling wallpaper, and the dining room, where a cardboard carton stood in front of the open china cabinet. He’d scrawled the worddonateon a flap of the box.
