Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(31)

When Amber’s gone, I head back out to the deck. I take a seat in that rickety lawn chair and simply absorb the peace and quiet while I wait. Because I have nothing better to do.

And, in the back of my mind, I admit that I’m waiting for Jesse to come out of hiding. Imagining what kind of girl he would have fallen in love with. She’s beautiful; I’m sure of it.

I’m also sure that I’m jealous of her.

He doesn’t poke his head out again.

The round white-wicker table is already set for two, the cutlery and glasses lined up tidily on either side.

“I hope you like chicken.” Ginny slaps a rectangular casserole dish in the center of the table. The dog, who was lying on the old whitewashed porch floor with its eyes closed and seemingly not a care in the world when I first arrived, leaps to its haunches, its nose twitching at the scent of meat.

“Chicken’s great,” I confirm, pulling the zipper on my fleece jacket all the way up. It’s April and, with the sun well on its way behind the mountain ridge, it’s far too cold to be eating outside on the porch, screened in or not. “Can I help you with—”

“Nope.” She waves an oven-mitted hand my way as she passes me. “Go on and make yourself comfortable, girl.” When I reach for the closest chair, she quickly adds, “Not that one.”

Of course. I take the other seat as she disappears into the house, the door slapping shut with a clatter so quickly that I can’t even sneak a glance inside. It’s as if she intentionally removed the hinges on it.

“Hey . . . dog.” Reaching down, I snap my fingers twice to catch its attention. “What’s your name?” It swings its head toward my hand and I see its nostrils twitch a second before it leans in and places a wet-tongued kiss on my wrist. It really is a mangy thing, the fur along its back in matted tufts. “I’ll give you a brushing tomorrow, how about that?” Its tail wags twice, as if it knows what I’m saying.

Ginny returns with two more dishes—one full of mashed potatoes and the other filled with brown beans—and the dog instantly forgets my existence, sliding forward on its haunches, facing Ginny. “It’s nothing special, but I’ve never been much of a cook,” she admits, her chair scraping along the wood boards as she takes her seat. Pushing the dishes forward, she ushers, “Well . . . go on, then!”

“This is my first meal out of the hospital,” I murmur, loading up my plate. At one point, I was twenty-five pounds underweight for my five-foot-eight stature. That was mainly due to muscle loss. I’ve slowly regained some of that, but my charts still say I have more to go. “I saw the quilt on the bed, by the way. It’s beautiful. You’re very talented.”

I get a grunt in response.

I don’t let that dissuade me. “My psychologist said I should consider finding a hobby. Maybe you could teach me how to quilt.” A hobby would be a good start in embracing this new, “fresh” person I’ve become, she said.

“I’ve never been much for teaching anyone anything,” Ginny grumbles, stabbing her chicken with her fork as she saws away at it with her butter knife.

Another minute of silence passes. “I saw Felix out hunting in the field with his—I mean, her—kittens today. They’re cute.”

“They’ll likely get eaten by coyotes.”

That stalls my tongue. Ginny’s a real ray of sunshine.

Taking a deep breath, I do what Meredith said to do and just ignore it. “Two went running into the Welleses’ garage. I can ask Jesse to fish them out and bring them over if you think—”

“That damn boy isn’t to step so much as a pinky toe on my property, do you hear me?” she bursts out. There’s a flash of rage in her eyes. “He’s a bad egg.” She waves her fork at me. “You stay away from him.”

“What did he—”

“You gonna chatter my ears off all through dinner?”

An uncomfortable silence hangs over us as we eat, the clang of our metal cutlery against the old porcelain plates ringing through the quiet evening. That and the dog chomping at pieces of chicken that Ginny tosses its way. It has yet to catch one, too blind to see the flying meat before it bounces off its nose.

The temperature must have dropped 10 degrees by the time we finished dinner, leaving my hands pink and stiff from the cold. All I want to do is go back to my apartment above the garage and start a fire in that woodstove. My instincts drive me to stack our dirty dishes and bring them to the sink, which I start to do. But then I look at that door and the metal bars across the windows and I stall. I’m not sure what the right answer is here. Am I even supposed to notice Ginny’s eccentricities? Do I bring it up? Do I—

“Just leave it be.”

“I’d like to clean—”

“I’m fine!” Patting the dog’s head, she tempers her tone. “Me and Felix have been on our own for years now. Haven’t we, boy?”

I frown. “I thought Felix was your cat.”

“What’s your point?” She swipes the plates from my hand to stack on top of hers. “I like the name. Ain’t nothing wrong with naming your pets by the same name if you like it.”

“But . . .” I feel my frown deepen. “How do you distinguish them from each other?”