Boys, Bears And A Serious Pair Of Hiking Boots Part 11

"Yeah, he seemed like a Derek." Wincing at the heat, Ethan pulls the packages out and tosses one in front of me. I waver. He tears his paper open, revealing pale flakes of steaming fish inside. "A little seasoning . . ." With a flourish, Ethan upends the bag of chips, scattering the last tiny pieces over the top. "And voila!" He uses a plastic fork and digs in.

"Well . . ." I watch him eat. "I guess if Derek was already a goner. And it was an accident. . . ."

"Fish slaughter," Ethan agrees, blowing on a forkful.

"OK." I give in. Gingerly unwrapping my own paper, I take a forkful. It's delicious: soft, flaky, and unbelievably fresh. "Rest in peace, Derek," I say. And then I take another bite.

Ethan must have cleared things up about our non-romantic relationship, because when I run into Grady in town the next day, he doesn't make a single joke about it. In fact, his noncommittal grunts are about the friendliest I've ever heard from him. And when Susie announces that they've finished another bedroom for me - painted with pretty pale blue paint and far down the hall from Fiona's pit of doom - I feel like things are finally looking up.

But some things never change.

"I don't want lemon yellow! What do you think I am, some kind of freaking moron?" The now-familiar sound of thumping footsteps and slamming doors echoes through the house as Fiona flees another loud argument. As I snuggle deeper in my crisp new linens, I send out silent thanks that I'm no longer prisoner to her moods. My new room is cool, calm, and utterly peaceful - and free of all scowling emo posters.

When I'm sure the coast is clear, I edge downstairs.

"Morning." I find Susie sitting on the skeletal back porch, surrept.i.tiously smoking a cigarette. She looks up, guilty.

"You didn't see this." She takes another quick drag. "I quit when I met Adam - he hates it."

"These lips, sealed." I mime zipping them shut, taking a seat next to her. The backyard is chaotic, as usual, strewn with tools and haphazard piles of wood. "What is it this time?"

Susie gives me a rueful look. "Does it matter? She finds a way to fight over everything."

I pat her shoulder sympathetically. Susie looks so small and worn out, sitting here in the middle of all this mess, like she's the confused teenager, instead of Fiona. "She'll come around eventually," I rea.s.sure her, even though I'm not sure it's true. "But . . . I was wondering. What happened with her mom?"

Susie sighs. "She bailed about five years ago. Decided she couldn't make things work with Adam and just took off. She lives down in Houston now, remarried a while ago."

"Why didn't Fiona go with her?"

Susie looks up at me. "I don't think her mom ever asked for her."

"Oh." There's silence, and then Susie speaks.

"I've tried to be supportive, but I just don't know what more I can do." I'm surprised to hear Susie's voice waver. "We're still behind schedule on the construction, and Adam is working all the time, and I'm so busy I barely ever see him." She swallows. "Did you know it's our anniversary today? A year since we met." She lets out a long breath, adding, "I was taking photographs for that travel company I used to work for, and he was in the bar one night . . ."

"That's great." I try to rouse her with a smile. "Have you got anything special planned?"

"We haven't really had time." She sighs. "I think we're going to just wait until things are quieter here, you know, when we're not so stressed."

"Umm, sure. Good plan!" I lie. The whole point of an anniversary is to be celebrated, not delayed, but Susie seems resigned.

"OK, hon." She takes another drag. "I better get back to work." Stubbing out her cigarette, she gives me a bashful grin. "Back to hiding behind gum and air freshener - it's like I'm sixteen again!"

Susie disappears back into the house, but I stay out in the shade a while longer, going over her problems. I can't help thinking that she and Adam need some quality time together. Every time I see them, they're talking about plumbing fixtures or studying blueprints - not exactly the best way to keep the romance alive. No, what they need is a private anniversary celebration, something to help them unwind . . .

Without Fiona.

I sigh. That mountain man manual would say I need to bait and distract my foe, but short of locking her in the bas.e.m.e.nt or kidnapping her, I can't see how she'd leave her father and much-loathed stepmom for a romantic evening alone. Hmmm.

Gathering up my courage, I find the Johnsons' number in the thin town directory again and dial. Ethan answers almost right away.

"Oh, hey," I start, hesitant. Calling someone, (i.e., a boy,) feels weird, like I'm pushing the friendship to another level, but Ethan doesn't sound fazed at all.

"Hi, Jenna. What's up?"

"Nothing much. I actually need some advice." I check the hallway for signs of Fiona and then retreat back onto the porch.

"Go ahead."

"I'm, umm, trying to get Fiona out of the house tonight, and I wondered if you knew anything she'd go for." I keep my voice low. "You've known her for years, right?"

He laughs. "Yeah, that's easy."

"It is?"

I'm still thinking of chloroform and blindfolds when he says, "Sure, we'll just play some Rock Band."

I pause. "Like, the video game?" The thought of Fiona plus social interaction does not compute.

"We do it all the time," he says. "She's pretty vicious when it comes to the drums."

"I can imagine that."

"So I'll set it up?" Ethan offers. "Tonight, our place?"

"Perfect." I grin. "I'll explain everything later."

Susie is sitting in her makeshift office, frowning at a spreadsheet when I poke my head around the door. "Hey, are you going to be around tonight?"

She looks up. "Sure, maybe."

"Well, I was thinking," I begin, crossing my fingers. "If you're not doing anything with Adam, then maybe we could spend the evening together - watch a movie or something."

"That sounds nice." Susie smiles at me weakly. "It's a date."

After that, all it takes is a quick call to Adam, requesting his presence this evening for a "special surprise," and everything is set. Well, almost everything . . .

With my trusty notebook and thin-tipped marker, I get back into planning mode, quickly jotting down a list until I've got every angle covered. Since there are no romantic restaurants in Stillwater - and the greasy burgers at the pub really don't count - I decide a home-cooked meal is the way to go. Unfortunately, event planning in Stillwater is kind of a different challenge compared to planning something back home. To start, there's no handy mall packed full of design props: the hardware store is about all I've got, and it doesn't have much going for it in terms of atmosphere - unless you count camping lamps and mosquito-repellent incense sticks as part of the perfect ambiance.

Thwarted, I move on to groceries. I figure a tried-and-true cla.s.sic is a better bet than some ambitious haute cuisine project that could leave me with burned pans and empty plates. Then I see the full range of the tiny corner grocery store: frozen food packages and canned goods. Bracing myself, I begin a careful hunt of the dusty shelves. If Jeremiah B. Coombes can conjure a three-course meal out of some tree roots and a stray rabbit, then surely I can make something. . . .

"Let me guess: pasta carbonara."

I b.u.mp into Reeve as I'm browsing the aisles in futile search of fresh herbs. He's wearing a black vest that somehow makes his eyes look darker than usual, his faded jeans slung low from a plain nylon belt.

"Umm." I pause, my mind going blank. We haven't really been alone since that weird scene at the lake. I follow his gaze to my basket of bacon, cream, and cheese, and collect myself. "Oh, right! That's the plan, anyway. It's Susie and Adam's anniversary," I explain. "I thought they deserved something special. Only, my cooking skills . . ."

"Are something like your kayaking skills?" He smiles quietly. A smile! I'm so happy he's in a friendly mood, I don't even take offense.

"Something like that," I agree, before adding shyly, "What about you - a taste for pickles?" His basket is full of them, along with gherkins and some pickled beetroot.

Reeve makes a face. "Not me, my mom. She's into her craving phase. Last week she was grossing us out with morning sickness; now she wants vinegar and onions."

"She's pregnant? That's great, congratulations."

"Thanks." He nods, looking around before adding, "She's not due for a while yet, hence the crazy food combos." He pauses. "I heard about the Rock Band night."

"You're coming along? Great!" I hear my own voice come out, way too enthusiastic. I cough. "I mean, it should be fun."

"Maybe." He a.s.sesses me shrewdly. "This group thing wouldn't have anything to do with those dinner plans . . ."

"You got me," I admit. "I've got food and Fiona covered; there's just the location left. The house is such a mess. I think I'll be spending the afternoon sweeping sawdust shavings."

"Have fun with that." He laughs, almost sarcastic, but still good-natured enough that I don't feel attacked.

"I'll try," I reply, spotting the box of chicken stock behind him. "Could you?" I gesture. He ducks, and I reach past his head to get it.

"Well, I better deliver these, before she starts wanting something else completely. Maybe I'll see you tonight?"

I nod. "I'll drag Fiona there kicking and screaming."

"Now that I will turn up to see." He gives me another grin and then saunters toward the checkout, but something makes me call after him.

"Reeve?"

He turns back, questioning.

"I, umm, I'm sorry. If I . . . offended you or something." The words spill out of my mouth in a rush, and I can feel that heat as my cheeks begin to color. "With all that stuff about the environment? I didn't mean . . . I mean, I didn't . . ." I trail off, lost. I don't know how to put it. I don't even know what I'm trying to say; I just feel like I need to say something.

Reeve looks away, awkward. "Uh, don't worry. I shouldn't have . . ."

"But I -"

"You didn't . . ." He shifts uncomfortably, a muscle in his arm twitching as he swings his basket back and forth. "You know, it's not your fault. I kind of overreacted."

"Oh. But still . . ."

We stand there, looking anywhere but at each other for a moment. Then I snap out of it. "I, umm, should probably get back to . . ." I wave my basket as some kind of evidence.

"Me too!" He blinks, backing away. "So, I'll . . ."

"See you later!"

"Right. Uh, you too."

I disappear behind a shelf of canned tomatoes and despair. Right, because that really made things less awkward!

Everyone seems to be out, so I have the place to myself for the rest of the afternoon: sweeping, dusting, and cleaning in an effort to get at least one of the downstairs rooms into a habitable state. Soon, the dining room is sawdust-free, with the drapes from my bedroom blocking out the charming view of a cement mixer outside. Success. Before taking up residence in the bathroom for my hundred-year shower, I duck into Susie's makeshift office to print out the pasta recipe, careful not to disturb the piles of paperwork she has laid out in precarious stacks.

Projected repayment schedule.

One of the t.i.tles catches my eye. I know it's wrong to snoop, but I can't help taking a quick look, scanning the chart. According to her calculations, they'll have enough money to keep up with mortgage and loan repayments - as long as they have at least a quarter of the rooms full. Every week.

Frowning, I flip through the other papers. Bills, invoices, and there - the bookings schedule. The empty bookings schedule. I stare at it with trepidation. We're weeks away from opening, and Susie doesn't even have a single room booked. No wonder she's running ragged to get this place finished.

I hear a voice calling me from out front. Guilty, I drop the papers and immediately push everything back into place. But when I rush out, breathless, I find Reeve setting a box down on the porch.

"Oh, hi." I'm caught off guard. Quickly, I push my sweaty bangs off my face and adjust my tank straps, wishing I didn't look like such a mess.

"Hey, sorry - did I interrupt? I was going to just leave this . . ." Reeve's changed T-shirts since I saw him last: now he's wearing a red one, emblazoned with CREEK COUNTY FIRE DEPARTMENT. I feel weird for even noticing.

"No, it's fine," I say quickly. "What's up?"

Reeve hands me the box with a lopsided smile. "I found some stuff you might want. I figured these might help with that dinner."

"Wow, thanks!" I rummage through the carton. There are Christmas lights, little lanterns, and even some cute candlesticks. "This is great. Are you sure it's OK - for me to borrow them? I can have them back to you tomorrow," I promise.

"Don't rush." He shrugs. "They were only gathering dust in the attic."

"Well, thanks," I say again, touched by an actual show of friendship. "They'll really help."

He looks embarra.s.sed. Running a hand over the top of his head, he begins to edge away. "Uh, I better go. I guess I'll catch you later?"

"At Ethan's, right."

I watch him stroll back to his truck. Ever since that first night at the lake, I've had him pegged as moody and unpredictable, but now I wonder if I got him all wrong.

"Fiona, hi, and you must be Jenna! I've been dying to meet you!" The door swings open that evening to reveal a middle-aged woman, her hair blond and cut short in that soccer-mom style. She pulls me into a hug before I can even say a word, enveloping me in her huge knit cardigan.

"Umm, hi." I detach myself and take a breath, laced with the scent of lavender and b.u.t.ter. "Mrs. Johnso -"

"Call me Katie!" she exclaims, before I even have a chance to finish. "Come in, both of you. The boys are down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, but how about you come and talk with me in the kitchen? I made some pie, and -"

"Mom, they didn't come to hang out with you." Ethan thunders up the stairs and intercepts us. "Sorry," he mouths in my direction before turning back to her. "You can't just attack every girl who comes through that door."

"It's OK," I pipe up as Fiona disappears quickly toward the bas.e.m.e.nt. "It's nice to meet you, too."

"Come on." Ethan yanks me away. "Before she starts showing you the baby pictures."

"She did that?" I ask, following him down the staircase lined with school portraits of him and Grady.

"For real. Fiona was trapped up there for an hour one time, and she only came over to study."

I laugh. "That explains her quick escape."

The bas.e.m.e.nt room is surprisingly light and cheery, furnished with old brown couches and a big TV that has obviously seen better days. Fiona is already gripping one of the plastic guitars, while Grady and Reeve are sprawled on the floor among cushions, soda cans, and junk-food debris, focused intently on decimating each other in the violent fantasy realm on-screen.

"Hey, guys," I greet them.