Page 25 of Henhouse
“Taylor is his Queen,” Schilling said with a chuckle. Effie couldn’t help but roll her eyes. She examined the spread that Schilling brought—an aged maple cheddar, apple-baked gouda, smoked pepperoni, and a ridiculously large baguette. She noticed the bottle of red wine he uncorked. All the markings of a genuine date.
“You brought snacks,” Effie said a bit redundantly, but she wanted to acknowledge the gesture while feeling out why he’d brought said snacks.
“A thank you for helping me out. I figured it could be a working dinner of sorts.” He poured some wine into one of the plastic cups he brought and handed it to Effie. He filled his own and raised it in a toast. “To new friends,” he cheered and clinked her glass.
Effie sipped, willing the wine to calm the drop of her stomach.Working dinner. Friends. Those were not good signs. Effie looked down at her glass for a long moment trying to psych herself up, but she only succeeded at looking utterly morose.
“Everything okay?” Schilling asked, reaching for the hand Effie had laid atop the table. His brown eyes were warm, ringed with hints of honey gold. Schilling’s dark, near-black brows knit together like he was truly worried something bothered her. It was nice. So was the warmth of his hand on hers. That seemed like a good sign. Effie scolded herself internally to quit it with the play by plays and just try to enjoy the evening.
“Totally. Sorry. Spaced out there for a sec.”
“Mulling over your setlist?” he joked. That charming, goofy smile returned to his face. All Effie could do was laugh. She rolled her eyes and playfully nudged Schilling’s shoulder. “Almost forgot,” he said and pulled a nearly spent candle from his backpack. “The target.”
Effie took hold of the candle. Unfortunately, the label was ripped leaving only the wordwintervisible. She lifted the candle to her nose and sniffed. “I think I’m getting fir trees and . . .” She sniffed again. “Maybe frankincense and orange? What do you smell?”
Schilling took it and made a show of investigating the aroma of the candle. “Notes of honey perhaps? A touch of vanilla?”
“Really?”
“Maybe not honey. Mint?”
“I think I got that too.”
“This feels very CSI: Bath & Body Works,” Schilling drawled. Effie chuckled as she poured the flakes into the pans she’d set warming a few minutes prior. “So how’s this work?”
“We melt the wax, mix in the oils, set the wicks, pour the wax. I thought we’d make two so you have options.”
“That feels doable. Like maybe I could have googled it and saved you the effort?”
“No. I’m glad you asked. This is more fun.”
He nodded in hearty agreement. “Absolutely.”
Effie was having a wonderful evening. Schilling was charming and witty and good for a laugh. They bantered back and forth while the wax melted, and they gorged their way through Schilling’s entire charcuterie plate. They sipped their wine and got to know each other except when they were adding oils to the wax. That apparently demanded utter silence, total concentration, and the occasional Emeril Lagasse–styleBam!From Schilling.
Effie learned that his favorite book wasGulliver’s Travels, that he was an only child who had a short-lived magic career in sixth grade as Boyo the Magnificent, and that it was weird growing up not knowing his biological dad, even though he loved both his parents. Effie shared that her favorite music was by Fleetwood Mac, not Taylor Swift, that her absolute worst job required dancing in a Boo-Boo Bear costume on a hayride for a local Jellystone Campground, and that not knowing your dad or having him around in adulthood was a struggle she wouldn’t wish on anyone.
The candles were set, and Effie dared lift hers to sniff the cooled wax within the short, modernly elegant glass votives she had chosen for the project. Schilling did the same with his. “I’m not sure mine’s it,” he confessed.
They swapped and sniffed again.
“I’m not sure either of them are.” Effie pouted, turning her nostrils back to the original candle. “They’re definitely in the same family, but they’re not quite right.”
“Agreed. But I think yours is closer.”
“I think you’re just being nice.”
“Scout’s honor, I’m telling you the truth.”
“Were you a Boy Scout?” Effie asked, deadly serious.
Schilling’s face went tight. “Does it matter?”
“If you weren’t, then I cannot trust you at your word. You’re out here masquerading as a Scout. Now if you were a Scout, I’d know you were swearing on something real.”
Schilling finally realized she was pulling his leg, but still pondered for a moment. “Hadn’t thought of it like that before.”
Effie smiled. “I think it matters.”
