These Silent Woods: A Novel(42)

She turns to me and smiles. “Coffee?”

What is it about the sight of her in the kitchen that makes my heart simultaneously quiver and sink?

“Here,” she says, filling a mug from a fancy glass pitcher with a black lid.

I take the mug because frankly, I’m still a little flabbergasted by the humming stove and bacon and a woman in the house making me food. I take a sip. Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to the instant coffee that Jake brings in an enormous plastic container from some bulk food store. It’s fine; it does the trick of getting me going in the morning, and Finch likes it too, on a special occasion, with some sugar and powdered milk. But this. I close my eyes because this is rich and smooth and delicious. “What is this?”

“Let me guess. Jake had you drinking the instant stuff.”

I nod.

“We disagreed regarding whether or not that garbage could be considered coffee.” She tucks her curls behind her ear and smiles: bright, perfect teeth. And there is something about her when she smiles, the way her brown eyes tilt downward, that radiates warmth. The way Jake did. I realize right then that I haven’t washed my face or brushed my teeth. When was the last time you took a look at yourself, Cooper? There is a small mirror, eight by ten with a wooden frame and small tiles pressed into it, that I found in the top drawer of the dresser, but I never take it out. I mean, it’s been years.

She points to the snow. “Do you think I can get out?”

“In that little contraption of yours?”

She folds her arms. “It’s a Prius. It gets forty-eight miles per gallon.”

“Not in the snow it doesn’t. In the snow it stays right where it’s parked.” I grin despite myself. “I’ll take a gander, but I’d say it’s unlikely you’re going anywhere today.”

“So I might be here for another day?”

“Or more. Unfortunately.”

“Thanks for that.” She wrinkles her nose. “Very hospitable of you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you probably have things to do. Commitments. And now you’re stuck here.”

“Sure you did. It has absolutely nothing to do with your wanting me out of your hair.” Her eyes glisten when she says it, mouth curving into a smile.

She is too pretty.

“My high school guidance counselor said I was a poor conversationalist.”

“Well, the thing is, we both want for me to be on my way, but it seems that Nature had other plans today, so I say we just accept that and make the most of it.” She raises her coffee mug. “A snow day.”

“All right.” Inside, I’m recognizing that it’s unlikely to be a snow day; it’ll be several days. For a moment I wonder how long it would take me to shovel two tire-width paths to the gate. But even at the gate, there’d be miles to go until she’d come to a road that was plowed.

“And your guidance counselor shouldn’t have said that.” She cracks an egg on the rim of a big Pyrex measuring cup and whisks it. “Even if it’s true.”

“Is someone gonna miss you?” The thought drifting in. Marie not showing up for a lunch date with a friend, Marie not attending work. Neighbors, noting a lack of activity in the house. Someone who might call, someone who might track her down. “I mean, will someone be worried?” I don’t add—and come looking for you, or worse, call the police and have them come looking for you.

She wipes her hands on her apron and stares out the window. “Nobody will be looking for me. Not for a while, anyway. I’m a school librarian, and the district is on winter break. And. The divorce, Jake. I just moved back to the States last summer, when things got bad for him. I haven’t had time.” She fumbles for the words. “I don’t have any friends. Yet.”

“Well, that’s something you and I have in common, then.”

She smiles a little and turns back to the woodstove.

“I’m making pancakes with blueberries. Five bucks a quart this time of year but Jake made me promise to add a few surprises to the list.” She looks away, but not before I catch a flicker of sadness cross her face. “The coffee, the chocolates. These blueberries. The bacon. I forgot the syrup.”

“We have syrup.”

“Well. Then I guess we’re set, after all. Want to try the bacon?” She gestures toward a plate, where slices, crisp and brown and drenched in grease, lie in neat rows.

I’m at a loss. Here in the kitchen that isn’t really mine but that has effectively been mine for eight years. The place where I know every corner, every spice, every chip in every plate. Never once has there been someone else at the stove, least of all a woman. Jake with his messed-up face and infected leg, he would try to cook sometimes, but I could tell it hurt to stand and lean. Not to mention he’d just spent all those hours driving, which also took a toll. Just sit, I would tell him. You brought the food, you done your part. Now sit. And he would, right on the stool in the corner.

The truth is I can’t stop watching her, and I feel a tiny bit ashamed to admit that because I always thought I was more progressive when it came to such things. That is, I didn’t think I was that kind of man, drawn to the sight of a woman in the kitchen. Cindy, she was a full-blown hazard in the kitchen. Her parents had a chef, so before we got together, she’d hardly set foot in one. She couldn’t even cook mac and cheese from a box without burning it, and I was okay with it because that was my thing, cooking, something I brought to the table that she couldn’t, and she loved it about me, and I loved that she loved it.