Page 11 of Stony Point Summer
And steps back to squint at the practically empty shelves.
And bumps into a crate of pots on the floor behind her.
Pots she wouldneedto cook, but has already packed up for the reno. Which gets her to glance around at the utensils shoved in bags. At dishes stacked in boxes. At a toss-pile of junk on the floor.
Well,nocooking will be happening in this kitchen. Not anytime soon, at least. With no other choice, Maris hurries upstairs to her bedroom. She slips a silver medallion necklace over her fitted white tee, presses out a wrinkle in her now-tired shredded-denim shorts, tucks a loose wisp of hair back into her low twist, then whispers, “Good enough.”
Grabbing her purse, Maris rushes back downstairs—her sandaled feet making the only noise in her hushed house. Too hushed for her liking. So she lifts her key ring from the old counter and heads out through the back slider to her car. The thing is? It feels good to leave the messy house behind. To get away from that newquiet.
There’s a certain destination that will do the trick. And that’s where she needs to be. After starting her car, she backs out of the driveway and heads to the one place around where she can always, guaranteed, get a good—andnoisy—meal.
* * *
Cliff spots Elsa walking across the gravel driveway toward his flat-roofed, modular trailer. She wears a chambray tunic over black capri leggings. Her sunglasses are propped on top of her head and holding back her thick hair. So he can clearly see her.
What he sees is that Elsa looks tired. Her face is drawn. Pale shadows line those dark eyes of hers. He watches through the window and doesn’t open the trailer’s industrial-strength door until she’s actually climbing the four metal steps outside.
“Mrs. DeLuca,” Cliff says then, sweeping the door wide. “You’re looking very lovely this evening.”
“Oh, Cliff.” She waves off his words as she walks inside the trailer. There’s no,Thank you!No,It’s such a beautiful evening.No,Something smells good. No brush of a kiss. Nothing but a small smile.
Cliff’s a little worried about her, but doesn’t let on. Taking her hand, he leads her past his tanker desk, around the few padded metal chairs in the small reception area, through the accordion-style door to the rear of the trailer. “Let’s go in the kitchen. It’s cooler back there, with the a/c on.” As he says it, he nudges the pleated door closed behind them. And itiscooler in his secret apartment, actually. It’s the only spot where he could finagle a small, unobtrusive air conditioner into one of the trailer’s sliding windows.
After dropping her tote on the floor, Elsa walks to his futon—folded up into a sofa right now. She sits with a slight sigh and runs her open palm over the futon’s brown microsuede cover. Finally she asks, “Is dinner almost ready?”
“Pretty soon,” he tells her. Still, the way she went straight to his futon tells Cliff all he needs to know. Something’s amiss. Because any other day, Elsa would have swept into his kitchenette, rearranged the flatware he’d set out on linen napkins, or opened the toaster oven to see what’s cooking, or filled the saltshaker, done …something. It’s her way.
So he opens a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio. Maybe a cool glass of wine will help. As he’s getting two glasses from a shelf, Elsa stands and rearranges the fringed throw draped over the back of the futon. Coming into the kitchen then, she picks up the bottle and pours the wine.
“Mm, just what I need,” she murmurs after taking a sip.
“Here, relax.” Cliff pulls out a folding café chair at his bistro table. “You look a little fatigued.”
While Elsa sits with her wineglass, Cliff fusses in the kitchenette. He puts a brass trivet on the table’s red-and-white checked tablecloth, takes his prepared pan of chicken tenders from the mini-fridge and sets the temperature gauge on his countertop toaster oven.
“Is that chicken?” Elsa asks, leaning over for a look-see.
“Yes. We’re having baked chicken tenders.” Cliff slides the cheesy breadcrumb-coated tenders into the toaster oven. “With those mashed potatoes you like, with the thyme-lemon butter? They’re cooking on the hot plate. Oh,” he says, wiping his fingertips on the half-apron tied around his waist. “There’s salad, too.”
“That sounds nice.” She takes another sip of wine. “I stopped to see Maris on the way here,” she tells him now.
“Is Jason back yet?” Cliff asks over his shoulder from where he stands at the mini-fridge.
“No. I hope he comes home soon, though. I worry about them.”
As Cliff takes out two ready-made salad bowls, Elsa stands and walks to the narrow kitchen window. “What is that noise?” She looks outside to the left, then right. “Do you hear a rattle? Or, some bumping sound?”
Oh, does he ever. Cliff clatters the prepared salads onto the round table to distract Elsa from the noise coming from his closet. Best to deflect her question. “Noise? What are you talking about?”
As if he doesn’t know.
As if a little white Pip isn’t batting around a piece of paper in her confined cat-quarters. Or catching a whiff of those chicken tenders she loves. But the cat’s hissurprisegift for Elsa. He can’t present Pip as her beach inn’s mascot until the cat is vet-checked and groomed for the job.
So for now, he throws Elsa off the trail and joins her at the window. “Lots of squirrels outside,” he lies, glancing back at his clandestine closet—then spinning out his fib. “Those critters get on my roof, too. They’ve been dropping acorns all day now.”
“You’ll have to sweep them up. Acorns make such a mess, Clifton.”
“I’ll get to it.” Cliff takes Elsa’s hand and leads her back to the table. “How are you feeling today? Okay? It seems like something’s on your mind.”
