Page 28 of Waiting for Gilbert

Mark: Turning off the light. If there’s no message from you when I wake up I’m calling the police and Diana.

Mark: In that order.

Mark: Good night. If you’re not in a ditch somewhere.

Mark: And then I’ll call your mom and probably my mom.

Cordelia: All is well. Thanks for checking on me. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Cordelia: I had an interesting night. I learned to drive a stick shift! Sort of. I’m not very good at it yet. Turning off my phone.

Back in the bedroom, Gilbert has pulled his feet, still in his boots, up on the bare mattress. He’s sleeping on the very edge, and the other half beckons me. And I reallyreallywant to be asleep. And I want to sleep for a veryverylong time.

I turn off the light.

And, yeah. I climb into bed next to a man I met a few hours ago.

I toss my quilt over him and wrap myself in a thick fleece blanket with little snowmen dancing with elves. I’d say that I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow—but no, it’s at least a few seconds later because there’s enough time for me to notice the sound of the wind against the little house. It’s a desperate, agitated sound.

I snuggle deeper into my second favorite pillow. The wind can do what it wants tonight because I’m not out there. I’m here. In my new cottage. Safe and sound with my stitched-up, cello-playing landlord friend.

12

CORDELIA

JOHNNY CASH—THAT CHRISTMASY FEELING

Adoor clicks shut and I pop open my eyes. No screaming wind. No alarm. And no soft breathing across the bed. But there are suspicious smells. Good smells. Delightful smells. Fresh coffee smells.

My quilt is rumpled at the foot of the bed and there’s an imprint in the pillow beside me. Proof last night wasn’t my imagination. I have no idea of the time, but sunshine pours through the dusty green curtains on both windows. A muted engine rumble clues me into Gilbert’s whereabouts.

I arch like the queen of all cats and slide myself off the bed. The moment my toes reach the cold wood, I fall into a wide-legged stance and windmill my arms to the floor, around, and up to the ceiling in a good-morning stretch.

Oh! No wonder the coffee smell is so strong. On the dresser sits a little tray with a paper bag advertising a donut shop and a French press of liquid happiness next to a clear glass mug. An oddly familiar mug that I packed in a box yesterday morning. I take a step closer and notice a folded scrap of paper with my initials.

CJ,

Thanks for the late-night adventures. Holler when you’re ready for another driving lesson. You did great.

GH

A warm shiver zings through to my toes and I bite my lower lip to suppress a giggle. I didnotdo great. I managed to get us to town. Barely.

I carry the whole tray into the kitchen to look for cream, but there’s not a clear surface in sight. All my things that I’d left in the car have magically transferred themselves to cover every inch of the kitchen. How I had all of this crammed into my car is a mystery to all but the vehicle itself. But here it is. A box marked “Summer” sits beside another marked “Current Project” and “Unpack First.”

After I balance the tray on the corner of a laundry basket filled with my shoes, I’m pleasantly surprised to find cream in the fridge along with a half-empty bottle of ketchup and two sticks of butter. Just the essentials, I see.

From the window above the sink I notice three things right away: Smoke billows from the chimney of the big house, Gilbert’s truck is parked at a strange angle next to where my car used to be, and my car is missing.

“What in the world?” I grip the warm mug in both hands.

He managed to go out and buy breakfast, unload all of my possessions, make coffee—with my French press and electric kettle—and steal my car while I slept.

Gilbert stole my car!

Even if I know in my heart there must be more to this story, this simply doesn’t fit any scenario I imagine.

I check the hall closet for his cello. It’s not there.

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