"I know, Dad."
"I wouldn't put you in harm's way."
"I know, Dad."
"I stocked the refrigerator for you..."
Like that mattered. We were talking about dead people here.
"...and the wine cellar."
"This place has a wine cellar?"
"In the basement."
"Awww, you're the best." I guess Daddy's charm was harder to resist than I thought.
"So you'll give it a few nights?"
"Sure."
There are few things in this world I won't do for a really fine bottle of Shiraz, and fewer still I won't do for my dad. I wouldn't let a bunch of dead people ruin my chances at a new life. Dad was right. I could do this.
I ended the call and raced to the little door behind the kitchen I assumed led to the basement. To my pleasant surprise it was a finished walkout; too bad if you walked out it would be straight toward the dead people. I tried to ignore the view and veered toward the wine cellar. As big as a bedroom, the section for reds had a separate door from the whites to keep each wine at the optimal temperature. Looking over the rows of bottles, their labels turned upward, my mood significantly improved. Dad hadn't let me down; my favorite label was at eye level. I grabbed the familiar bottle of Shiraz from the reds and headed upstairs.
Dad had come through on the food as well. I found a Styrofoam clamshell from Valentine's, my favorite restaurant. Salmon fillet, some red potatoes and fresh asparagus. I scraped the contents onto a plate and popped the vittles into the microwave. Cooking with wine is my specialty, so I grabbed a glass and reached for my old friend, Mr. Shiraz. Unfortunately, the bottle in my hand was Pinot gris.
"Weird," I said to myself. I could have sworn I'd grabbed the red. Odder still, the white was cold. I didn't remember going into the refrigerated section at all.
I revisited the cellar. The bottle of red I'd wanted was back in its spot. I replaced the white in the cooler and then ran back upstairs with my Shiraz, double-checking the label. Man, I was losing my mind. I blamed the stress of moving.
In the dining room, I uncorked the bottle and poured myself a glass, admiring the clarity and subtle scent of berries. I drained the vino with an unladylike swig. Who cared anyway? Like my dad said, the neighbors wouldn't be talking.
The doorbell rang. I jolted, almost dropping my glass. Who the hell could that be? I set the glass down and approached the door cautiously. The bell rang again.
"Can I help you?" I yelled through the etched glass oval of the door. A man's silhouette sliced the twilight. There was no way I was opening up without some credentials.
The man's muffled voice filtered through the door. "Hello? I'm Rick Ordenes, from up the street. Your dad asked me to stop by and welcome you to Red Grove."
"Up the street?" I hadn't noticed any neighbors.
"Yes, I live across the bridge. I'm the caretaker."
"Oh. Hold on." It was nice of my dad to send the old guy over to check on me. I unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door.
And came face to face with the chiseled Adonis from the side of the road.
What I Pay For
Welcome to Red Grove. Population 200
"Now, two hundred and one," I murmured as I passed the painted wooden sign in my trusty red Jeep. Small towns like Red Grove always made me think of horror movies as if a gap-toothed, overall-wearing butcher might hobble out of his deep woods shanty, pitchfork in hand, at any moment. The town had an off the charts creepy factor. On my right, a dark forest worthy of the Brothers Grimm. On my left, a cemetery edged in a weathered wrought iron fence. I think there were more than two hundred headstones. More dead than living. Nice.
There must be some mistake. I came here to start over. Could a new life be hiding behind the unappealing rural exterior? My promised house remained a mystery. I double-checked the notebook with my father's scrawled directions resting on the passenger's seat next to me. Technically, I'd lived in Red Grove as a child, but we'd moved before I turned two. I didn't remember the town at all or the residents, living or dead.
I shifted my attention back to my driving. "Holy shit!" I proclaimed as I overcorrected the wheel, and my foot drifted from the gas.
The man on the side of the road was so attractive I could've died-literally. He was planting something. A tree, I think. Every time his shovel hit the dirt, a ripple coursed through his shoulders and down his stomach. I raised an eyebrow at the glint of sun on tanned, shirtless skin. Dark hair, low slung jeans. I tried not to gawk, but the best I could do was to keep my head inside the window.
