Midnight Valentine(4)
“Yeah, it needs a lot of work, but I’m looking forward to the project. Suzanne gave me the name of the best contractor in the area. I’m going to give him a call tomorrow, as soon as I can survey the place and get a feel for what I should prioritize. Hopefully, he has the time to come out soon and give me an estimate. I’m anxious to get started on the work.”
Jean blinks. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll have the time. Though I’m not sure you’ll want him to.”
“What do you mean?”
The rumble of an engine and a loud backfire make me glance over my shoulder. At the curb across the street, out in the rainy night, Moody Raincoat Guy sits on a chopper, revving it aggressively like he’s waiting for a starting flag to drop. He tears off with a roar, the tires spitting water, the hood of his raincoat flipped back onto his shoulders from the force of the wind.
Jean says, “I mean you already met the best contractor in the area, honey, and by the sound of things, you didn’t like him.”
When I send her a quizzical look, she gestures with her chin toward the windows and the sound of a roaring engine, fading into the distance until it’s swallowed by the drum of the rain.
My heart sinks. “He’s the contractor?”
She lifts a shoulder, apologetic. “There’s other guys who will come up from Portland, but they’re a lot more expensive, and honestly, the work isn’t near what Theo can do. I admit he’s off-putting, but if you can get past the not talking, he’s really the best.”
Thought it’s impolite to make faces, my face regularly bucks protocol and contorts to some interesting shapes, as it does now. “The ‘not talking’? You mean he’s mute?”
“I mean he doesn’t speak.”
“Is he deaf?”
“No.”
“So he can speak, but he chooses not to?”
Jean sighs like she wishes there was something she could do about the situation. “To be honest, honey, I really don’t know what the problem is. He talked fine before the accident, but after the accident, he didn’t ever talk again. Maybe it’s physical, maybe it’s mental, who knows. All I know for sure is that he can hear, he understands what people are saying, he just never responds. So don’t expect it if you hire him.”
This keeps getting better. “How am I supposed to communicate with him if he won’t talk to me?”
“You tell him what you want, and he’ll do it. If he has questions, he writes on a little pad he carries with him.”
She says that as if it’s completely normal, a standard way of doing business. I push my plate away, wipe my mouth with my napkin, and take another swig of my coffee. “Thanks, but I think I’ll try the guys in Portland. I’ll get the info from Suzanne.”
“All right, honey. Suit yourself. You want anything else, or should I bring you the check?”
“Just the check, Jean, please.”
She walks away, leaving me staring pensively out into the rainy night, thinking about Moody Raincoat Guy, former local wonder boy turned mute, glowering diner patron with eyes like midnight at the bottom of a well.
I wonder if his heart is full of ghosts too.
2
The movers arrive early the next morning, and I’m occupied for the rest of the day sorting through boxes and getting things organized in the house. I barely slept, as usual, tossing and turning on the air mattress I brought with me in the car.
The sound of breaking waves isn’t nearly as soothing as I’d imagined it to be.
The Buttercup Inn sits on a massive dune near the ocean’s edge. Whatever color the old Victorian used to be, it’s a dingy gray now. The windows are rimed with a layer of salt, and everything smells of sea and sand.
And mold. The inspection showed none of the toxic black mold that can cause illness, but various walls have been colonized by patches of the furry green version of the stuff, and when I opened the basement door, the odor was so strong, I quickly slammed it shut.
I probably should’ve taken Suzanne’s advice and rented a house while work was being done on the Buttercup, but I’ve never been good at taking advice. And despite its state of disrepair, this crumbling old inn feels like home.
We’re both in ruins. We can keep each other company while repairs are made to our insides.
There are six guest rooms in the inn and one larger master suite upstairs with its own wraparound balcony. Fortunately, the master is in the best shape. It only needs mopping and some scrubbing of the bathroom countertops to make it habitable. A huge, claw-foot porcelain tub dominates the bathroom. When I run water from the tap, it comes out rusty brown, but in a few minutes turns clear. This is lucky because I love baths the way I love breathing.