Page 25 of Here & There

The last few days I’ve spent catching my breath. Mostly I’m sleeping, but I’ve spent the last few days hitching a ride with the inn’s proprietor, Ben, or his wife, Diane, out to the rocky beach at this end of town. I’ve been taking a journal with me, perching myself on the rocks, and blathering away in it, or taking long walks on the path that leads all the way to the village several kilometers north.

Today, my plan is to head into town and look around. I need to buy some clothes, since all I have is what I brought for the weekend. Maybe ask a few casual business proprietors if they’ve ever heard of a woman with my name who may or may not have lived here or in any of the several towns up the coast in this region at some point during the last sixty or so years. Easy peasy.

Why, yes, we know Shelby Jessica Fox. She lives right over here. Gosh, actually, you look just like her!

Cue a sweet older woman in a house in town with a white picket fence, welcoming me in with open arms. Her house smellslike fresh-baked cookies, and we sit down for long conversations about how we have all the same quirks and how she looked for me for years and now we have to make up for lost time.

I know that’s delusional, but it’s a possibility too. Anything’s possible. That’s what I tell our clients.

That’s what I need to remember myself.

As I step out of the shower now, I hear voices outside my room. Loud male voices.

An uncomfortable feeling twinges in my chest. The B&B is big—an old country house with eight bedrooms run by a lovely older couple. I thought I was the only guest, but someone must have come in last night. Actually, I vaguely remember the owner mentioning something about a group coming on Monday. But last night, I went to bed early again, taking advantage of the earplugs, so haven’t heard a thing until now.

It’s fine. When I walked into the office, they said they didn’t have any room at all because of a big group staying this week. But when I asked if they knew somewhere else I could stay for two months—and mentioned I was working for Mac—they told me to hang tight. They spent so much time speaking in hushed whispers in the back I almost left, but they came out ten minutes later with a key for me.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a white cotton button-down, then reach for my coat. Instead, though, I pull on the wool cardigan Mac lent me. I’ll return it when I see him. In the meantime, it feels moreShelbythan that coat, which screamsBryony, stressed-out CEO.

The thing is, when I think about helping Mac, I don’t feel stressed at all. I’m not the least bit worried I’m not going to hit the mark. His place—him, his food, the location—is dripping with potential. I’m smiling when I reach the dining room.

But my smile falls when I reach the entrance to the room.

A dozen men in plaid jackets and khaki pants and boots sit around the giant breakfast table. Their mouths are full of food, and one guy’s coffee is freely splashing around the pretty linen tablecloth as he tells a story. I catch the word “tits.”

But these affronts to plaid aren’t the worst of it. Next to each of the men is an inflatable blow-up doll; the kind with painted-on yellow hair, arms sticking straight forward, and gapingOs for mouths.

Sex dolls.

“Ugh,” I say out loud without meaning to.

Unfortunately, that gets the men’s attention. “Well, lookie here. It’s the little room thief!”

My stomach plunges.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” says a smarmy looking guy with a crew cut. “You want to take my chair, too? Or just my heart?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m good on both, thanks.”

“Boys, where are your manners?” booms a loud older male voice. It’s a man who looks nearly identical to crew cut, except twenty or thirty years older. This man’s hair is silver, his skin leathery. He whirls a set of keys in his hands. “Give the lady a chair.”

There’s some shuffling of chairs, and one appears next to a skinny, overly eager-looking guy with a hat that saysBABE MAGNETon it.

“Oh, that’s fine,” I say as I slide two of their untouched half-grapefruit dishes aside to make room for Diane’s platter, since none of the men are doing it. “While I’m sure the current conversation would be riveting, I think I’ll just take some coffee to go.”

Just then, the B&B owner comes through the kitchen door with a platter full of fresh sausages and toast. “Excuse me,” the older woman says, blowing a strand of gray hair out of her eyes.She looks stressed, her skin pink and shining with perspiration. She’s clearly been working double-time in the kitchen.

One of the guys’ blow-up dolls is wedged between him and the back of another man, completely blocking her way.

“Ya just gotta excuse yourself,” the doll’s owner says. “She’s got feelings, you know.”

I’ve enjoyed chatting with Diane over mealtimes. She’s got an easy smile and kind eyes. What the man just said is anger-inducing already, but seeing the look of panic on Diane’s face is enough to make heat flood my veins.

I fish around in the cutlery tray on the table and come up next to the man, smiling sweetly. “She’s cute,” I say. While he eyes his doll appraisingly, I deftly insert the jagged grapefruit knife into the poor thing’s thigh. There’s a soft wheeze of air, and she begins to sag, creating a gap for Diane to fit through. “Too bad she’s a little droopy.”

The man cries out like I’ve ruthlessly murdered his beloved, which I suppose I have. While the men freak out, I help Diane with the plate. Then I take her arm and guide her to the kitchen.

She shouldn’t be serving these assholes on her own. I saw her husband around yesterday—why isn’t he dealing with them?

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