The picture spooked me; I'll admit it. Seeing that crudely drawn woman in my bedroom window sent a jolt of ice through my blood. Even through the eyes of the child, it was the same woman. I never told a soul about what I'd seen. How could Simon know about that?
I risked my life and my safety to come to this place, and still, I felt no peace. I constantly looked over my shoulder for Shane to somehow find me. Over the past few weeks, a new fear began to take hold. I worried that if I wasn't careful, my grip on reality would loosen and I'd fly apart at the seams. What was happening to me?
I had to make things work in Locke's Harbour, I had nowhere else to go. I tried to keep a sense of desperation from overwhelming me. I had no one else to rely on, there was only me. If I couldn't make things work there, where would I go?
I debated confronting Missy about the picture or trying to discreetly talk to Simon about it. I grabbed my mat and headed across the street for outdoor yoga to take my mind off things instead. Stealing glances at the house while I stretched and got into the poses, I tried to free myself of my worries and concentrate on my body, my breathing. By the end of it, I wasn't completely relaxed, but stretching out into the familiar poses as the sun set made me feel better.
I opened the door to the house and set the alarm before heading upstairs to the bathroom. I showered quickly, my mind on the strange events. It wasn't until I was out of the shower with my hair wrapped in a towel when I felt it.
Nothing.
I wandered into the small hallway, and back and forth between the two bedrooms. I couldn't feel anything — or anyone. Where the space once seemed crowded, it now felt empty. It was as though a houseful of unwanted guests had just left. The air in the rooms felt lighter; less heavy. For the first time since I'd gotten there, I felt truly alone.
The events of the day and the hot shower wore me out, and I was soon ready for bed. Tucked under the covers, I felt myself relax for the first time in days.
In my romance novel, the billionaire jerk was starting to realize his love for the virginal secretary and was planning a grand gesture to propose. Get your shit together, that would be a grand gesture. I wondered why romantic leading men who clearly had anger issues never went into therapy to became better people in these novels. I supposed that was a bit too much reality to go with the fantasy.
Before I knew it, I was snoozing with the paperback on my chest. Barely opening my eyes, I reached up to snap off the lamp, rolled over and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next day was uneventful. I had enough to worry about with Monday approaching, and with it my first day on the new job. I was wracked with anxiety about it. Speaking of jerks.
He was no billionaire, but my new boss certainly gave off plenty of angry vibes. I dreaded having to face him again after my humiliating first impression. As a rainy Sunday afternoon fell into evening, the dread in my belly intensified, along with the low-key nausea that came and went. I was crazy to go back there after what happened, but the same problem reared its ugly head — I wanted nothing to connect me back to Alberta, so I couldn't use any of my references from my previous jobs. There was a job on the table that was mine for the taking and my money was running out.
I tossed and turned that night, but not because of any weird vibe in the rooms upstairs. It was straight up terror of a different kind — new job jitters.
Would I ever get to a point in my life where I wasn't afraid all the time? I wasn't one to wallow in self-pity, but I did wonder if I broke a mirror somewhere along the way in life. Maybe several.
When I woke up the next morning, I felt tired and uneasy. I let the hot shower spray me in the face, hoping to blast the dream from my mind. I scrubbed myself with a pretty, floral soap followed by an organic body scrub I'd picked up in town. Wanting to make a good impression, I shaved my legs, although I was pretty sure that my new boss wouldn't notice or care about a half a millimeter of stubble on my calves.
I dressed in a flowery summer dress I found at the local Bargain Basket store, a jean jacket and sneakers. I'd probably be sitting at a desk all day, but just in case I had to walk anywhere, I wanted comfortable footwear. I wasn't going to try and impress this guy with a killer wardrobe I couldn't afford. I was penniless and barely hanging on to my sanity, but I was reliable and a hard worker. I took one last look in the mirror, fluffed my hair and straightened my jacket. That would have to be enough.
Breakfast was weak tea and a piece of toast; I didn't want to take any chances with overloading my sensitive stomach. Searching in the medicine cabinet it the downstairs bathroom, I found some headache tablets and downed two; I was feeling achy for days now. It was just my luck to get some kind of weird summer flu right when I was starting a job. My plan was to ignore it until it went away.
At 9:30, I activated the alarm on the house, packed my backpack with my camera and gear, pulled the bike from under the step and was on my way. I'd be a bit early, maybe time to get a coffee first from Bean There.
There was a hint of fall in the warm wind that blew my hair from my face as I rode into town. Autumn was coming, but I wasn't ready to say goodbye to summer. The town was striking, all massive cliffs and tides, and picture-perfect scenery. Since I arrived, I spent my days walking or cycling, taking photos of the stunning six hundred-foot cliffs, the dramatic lighthouse at the Cape and the harbour that filled twice a day with the dramatic tides of the Bay of Fundy. I walked the ocean floor for miles when the tide was out, collecting driftwood and sea glass, glancing occasionally back at the house. Half of me wanted to see a woman in the window, and half of me didn't.
So far, I hadn't had any other weird sightings and so I decided there was no mysterious or paranormal happenings in the house — the turmoil in my life was making me paranoid. I was grateful that things had calmed down, and I wasn't seeing and hearing weird stuff anymore. I couldn't afford to go bonkers now, I was just on the verge of getting my shit together. I was too busy getting my life together to have a breakdown.
Standing at the doorway of the Harbour Light, I took a deep breath, told myself I was good enough, and pushed the door open.
"I wasn't sure you'd show." Jake Donnelly surprised me by being at the front desk.
"Of course, I said I would." This guy obviously didn't know me. "When I make a commitment, I show up."
He nodded. "Good. Your desk is over there." He pointed to a spare cubicle in the corner with little more than an ancient phone and an even older desktop computer.
"I have my own laptop," I said, slinging my backpack off my arm.
"Suit yourself," he said as he poured a small bottle of whiskey into his coke and took a sip. "You're looking better than the other day," he said without looking at me. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine. It's 10 a.m.!" I couldn't stop myself from blurting.
"Yeah, late start today. Alright, come on Hot Shot. Let's go." He pounded the drink down, belched softly then rose to his feet and grabbed a light jacket.
"Right now?" I barely had time to grab the notebook and camera out of my bag before he was out the door.
"The news waits for no one. Let's roll."
So much for on-the-job training. Or, a moment to catch my breath. I followed him to his Mercedes. "Are you alright to drive?" I had to ask.
"Of course. I only had one so far. Hop in," he said.
So far? The car was a mansion on wheels, bigger than the kitchen in my first apartment.
"Butt warmer?" He looked at me expectantly.
"What?"
"Do you want the butt warmer on?" He pointed to a button on a console that looked like it belonged on a 747.
"Uh, sure." He punched the button and pulled onto the country road. The seat indeed warmed pleasantly under me and took the chill away from my morning bike ride into town. The rich certainly knew how to live.
"Where are we going?"
"A town called Patience, about 15 minutes away. It's a bullshit story, but we don't get much of anything else around here. An old lady found a war medal on the beach, wants to track down the owner. Fat fucking chance but get some closeup shots of her anyway — we'll run them in black and white. Hopefully, I can scrape together some kind of story out of it, but I doubt it."
I flinched at the harsh words.
Jake blasted the horn, making me nearly jump out of my skin. "Come on, asshole." Another long blast. "Look at this guy — he's not even moving. Hey!" He put the window down and stuck his head out. "Move it, dickwad!"
I scrunched down in my seat, mortified. The elderly gentleman in the car ahead tentatively pulled out from the four-way stop and made a left.
"Jesus Christ, the guy doesn't even have his signal on!" Donnelly gave him another long blast of the horn as he pulled ahead.
"Was that necessary?" I looked at him, arms crossed.
"No, but it felt good," he said.
There was so much I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. I had a paying job, I couldn't afford to lose it on Day 1.
I began to notice something strange as we drove through town. Jake's last name was everywhere — street signs, a park and a local elementary school. "What's with..."
Before I got my question out, he cut me off. "My great grandfather is one of the town's founding fathers and my family donated a lot of money over the years." He shifted uncomfortably. "My Dad is well known as a retired doctor. And my mom is the mayor."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Your Mom is Miranda Donnelly? So, you come from big money and I'm the Hot Shot," I muttered. "Got it." I had this guy sized up right the first time I met him. Rich, spoiled jerk.
"We're comfortable. There's no need to look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm some rich, spoiled jerk. There are certainly no perks being the black sheep of the Donnelly family," he said.
I don't feel sorry for you, I thought, mildly alarmed that he had read my mind so accurately.
"Well, it's none of my business," I said, keeping my voice neutral. I thought anyone with both parents alive should do whatever it took to be on good terms with them. And count themselves lucky. Suddenly, I was angry.
I asked the question I'd wanted to ask since the first time I met him. "What's your deal, anyway?"
He looked surprised. "What do you mean? I have no deal."
"Oh, you have a deal. What's with the anger, the borderline alcoholism? What's your story?"
He furrowed his brows at me. He didn't like my questions, but I didn't care. Boss or no boss, this guy was a piece of work.
"I don't have a story," he mumbled. "And besides, I'll ask the questions around here."
I nodded, let the silence stretch out between us. When people say they don't have a story, it's a sign that they indeed have a story; one they can't wait to tell you. I did a mental countdown: five, four, three, two...
"If you really want to know, my wife left me six months ago. She ran off with my best friend. I know, I'm a walking cliché. Tale as old as time," he said. Despite his flippant tone, he had a pained expression.
I softened, just a bit. "I'm sorry. That really sucks," I said. "People are the worst."
He offered a brief smile. "Yes, they are. And what's your deal, Keane? 'Quid pro quo, Clarice.'"
I laughed at the movie reference. "Silence of the Lambs, good one. And there's not enough whisky in the world for me to get into that right now," I said.
"Fair enough. Besides, we're here," he said, pointing to a town sign.
"Welcome to Patience," I read as we passed by.
"Christ give me some," he muttered as we arrived at my first assignment with my strange, new boss.