FOUR

Both bashful and brass; a walking, talking, tempting contradiction.

Leelo

Drunk is not a good state to be in when you’re painting.

I never heard Doyle leave yesterday, because by that time I was blotto on my back on the floor. Thank God for drop cloths because I never would’ve gotten the paint stain out. As it is, my tee and cargo pants are relegated to work clothing only, given they were drenched in the slate grey paint I’d been in the process of rolling on my living room wall when I passed out.

Hungover is really no better.

Today I’m working on room three, and every time I bend down to dip my roller in the paint tray, I feel like my head’s going burst open like an overripe melon. But I have a dwindling savings account, which is why I’m scrambling to get at least one room half-decent so I can generate some income, and there is no one but me to do the work. Hence, I am working hard to ignore the pounding headache.

I’m also ignoring the fact that a complete stranger fixed my roof yesterday, and while he was being a typical redneck, male chauvinist pig jerkwad, he also saved me a thousand bucks. And I never thanked him.

I’m rethinking my decision to steer away from coffee this morning. It’s supposed to be dehydrating, and so I chose a large bottle of water instead, but the lack of caffeine is not helping. I step back, look at what I’ve done so far, and am disappointingly unimpressed with my work thus far. Resolutely dropping the roller in the tray, I move toward the open door to get a pot of coffee going, when I’m startled by a man leaning against a car parked right outside.

This is the real estate guy. The one who accosted me in the parking lot of the grocery store in town a couple of days ago, in much the same way. Once again, the guy’s hair is almost as shiny as his car and he’s wearing that much too bright smile. This morning, the total effect is almost too much for my delicate senses and I involuntarily squint my eyes against the glean.

“Morning!” he calls out, a little too loud, when I take a tentative step out the door. I flinch at the sound of his voice, but don’t stop moving, my attention now focused on the cardboard tray holding two large coffees in his hand.

I mumble an unintelligible response as I bring the cup I snatched from his hand to my lips. My foggy brain is trying to remember his name as I enjoy the first jolt of that warm nectar.

“I have milk and sugar here,” he says, pointing at the tray he set down on the hood of his car. “Figured I’d let you doctor your own.”

I’m good. I prefer mine black and strong enough to put hair on my chest, so I just wave my hand at him dismissively.

“Kyle Thompson.”

My brain finally produces the name he gave me then, along with his business card that probably still lived in the deep recesses of my purse. At the time, he seemed to know I was the new owner of the Whitefish Motel. He even knew my name, which had been a little disconcerting, and I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable.

“Ah wonderful,” he smiles even bigger. “I see I’ve left an impression. Good.”

He seems very pleased with himself and I don’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. Besides, I should at least be civil to the man who brings me coffee in my hour of need.

Yet I was far from civil with my neighbour, who not only rescued me from the roof in the middle of a thunderstorm, but was back here yesterday fixing said roof. Guilt dulls the enjoyment of the black nectar that is just now hitting my bloodstream.

“What brings you here?” I ask, shuffling over to the lone picnic table I discovered in the back and dragged to the front, so I could sit in the sun to take my breaks.

Kyle follows me and I almost laugh out loud when he pulls an actual handkerchief out of his pocket and tries to wipe the dirt from the bench before he sits down across from me.

“Just checking in with a new neighbour, Lilith.” Again with the neighbour. Apparently once you get north of Sudbury, everyone within a fifty kilometre radius becomes one. “Making sure there’s nothing you need—nothing you need help with?”

I take in his appearance: dress pants, shiny shoes, button-down shirt, doused in a cloud of aftershave that just now hits my nostrils, but seems to keep the bugs on his side of the table. He’s not exactly dressed for manual labour of any kind, so I’m guessing he doesn’t mean grabbing a paint roller or say, climbing up on my roof.

“The coffee was good timing.” I smile and hold up my cup in salute.

“Looks like a lot of work,” he says, looking over my shoulder, mild distaste on his face. “Must cost a sweet penny,” he adds, his eyes sliding back to me. His gaze is assessing.

I’m not about to bite at this obvious fishing expedition and just smile over the rim of my cup, despite my growing unease at his intense scrutiny.

“I should take you out for dinner,” he says suddenly, the smile back on his face, but forced.

Oh crap. Don’t get me wrong, I’m at a point in my life where the prospect of a decent man interested in wining and dining me would be really nice, but I’m not a complete idiot; I know Kyle is neither interested or nice. He’s a shark in pretty packaging.

“I don’t know...” I hedge, not wanting to ruffle any feathers, and I uneasily shift in my seat.

“Here’s my thoughts; if you’re determined to make a go of this place, networking is the way to go, and I happen to know everyone in town. I could help. Get word of mouth going. Get you hooked up with the right people and tell you who to steer clear of.”

My eyebrows shoot up at the last thing he says.

“Steer clear of?”

He leans over the table and into my space. “Always good to know who your enemies are, especially when they’re just next door.”

Well, that I can agree on, but this conversation has gotten really uncomfortable, and with my head a little clearer, thanks to the coffee, I should get back to work.

“I’m afraid I’m swamped with work, as you can see,” I explain, getting up from my seat. “I simply don’t have time for socializing.”

“Then call it a business meeting. I don’t care, just have dinner with me,” he pushes, standing up as well.

“Sorry—I’m still settling in and really need to focus on getting my place up and running.” I straighten my back and force myself to look him straight in the eye; instead of cowing under the glare he shoots my way.

“Very well,” he bites off, clearly unhappy with my rejection. “I will leave you to it then. Have a good day, Lilith.” Without another look, he marches back to his car, his back ramrod straight, and his steps determined.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I call out after him, but he just slams his door shut and speeds off down the driveway, wheels spitting up the gravel.

Throwing a wistful look after the disappearing car, I turn back to room three, where a gallon of paint and a roller await me.

-

By the time lunch comes around, I have the first coat up on the walls, despite the slow start. I do a quick rinse of the tray and roller in the room’s bathtub, leaving everything to dry in the sun outside.

The fridge in my own kitchen is well stocked with fresh food since my last run into town, but I still grab for the muffins I baked last night, sitting on the kitchen counter. I damn well deserve it after the morning I’ve had. My secret hope is that the work will offset my love of food, if not help me lose a few pounds. Like maybe fifty.

I always thought I had a weight problem, ever since I was a teenager, but looking at pictures from that time, I have to laugh at myself. All I can see now is a normal girl, slim even, with major self-image issues. Something I probably inherited from my mom who, to this day, is completely preoccupied with her weight, even living in beautiful Belize with husband number five.

There was a period, just after David left me, when I was almost skinny again, insofar that is possible with my pear shape, but that was short-lived. Since then, I’ve been working hard on learning to love myself and my body for what it is, not for what it could be or maybe even should be. It’s hard work. Especially since society, as a whole, judges by external appearance and is quick to slap a label on you.

That’s how my tattoos started, and the coloured hair. It was a midlife rebellion, if you will. Not really a crisis, but more like an affirmation of my own identity. Something I’d lost in the years of being a daughter, then a wife and a mother. A middle finger up at uninvited expectations put on me. I have to admit, I enjoy the confusion my colourful appearance creates. The way it makes people slightly uncomfortable because they can’t quite figure out where to place me.

I’m learning who I am and what I stand for—and that’s the only thing that should matter.

My phone rings, just as I’m washing the crumbs from the two muffins I consumed from my hands. Quickly drying them on the towel, I don’t stop to check the display before answering the phone.

“Lilith!” My mother’s voice twitters over the line.

“Hi, Mom.”

It’s been months since we last spoke. She’s always been a demanding and judgmental woman, blaming David’s extramarital affair, and subsequent leaving, squarely on my shoulders. Apparently, since I’d let myself go, it was no wonder I hadn’t been able to keep his attention. Oh yes, mother is a prize.

She doesn’t even know I’ve moved up here. Mostly because I’m not in the mood for my mother’s version of waterboarding, a relentless flow of words in her case, which leaves me gasping for air in the end. It’s no surprise I try to keep contact to a minimum by ignoring most of her calls, and in the next second I’m reminded why.

“I just had to call you to tell you about this wonderful new diet I’ve discovered. I’ve gone from a size ten to a size six in two months. You should give it a try, who knows, you might even be able to draw the attention of a nice man.”

The woman clearly has a sixth sense, as my eyes shoot guiltily to the remaining muffins, and I feel the bile crawl up my throat. Aside from my obviously poor dietary choices, I’ve managed to alienate every single man I’ve come in contact with since moving up here.

Clearly, I’m still a work in progress.

Roar

“Son-of-a-bitch, that hurts!”

I look up from the table where I’m dipping this morning’s catch in my beer batter.

Today is their last day here and I took Jamie out on the boat, while his father stayed on the dock, his injured leg elevated. Between us, we had a decent catch and in an attempt to soothe any remaining ruffled feathers from their encounter with the rock, I suggested a fish fry for lunch.

“Cold water,” David tells his son, who just burned his hand slipping the battered fish in the hot oil. “Just stick it in the lake, the damn water is probably colder than what you get from the tap.”

Jamie follows his father’s suggestion, while I slide the rest of the fillets in the cast iron pan over the fire pit. Don’t ask me why, but the fish always tastes better when cooked and consumed outside, by the water’s edge. You don’t need anything else, just a couple of beers, a little salt and a slice of lemon, and a pile of golden-fried, battered perch or walleye. Meal of champions.

I pull the fish from the oil and let it drain on sheets of newspaper I dumped in the middle of the picnic table. Ace, who is chilling in the shade underneath, sticks his head out in hopes of catching crumbs.

“Dig in,” I invite the two men, who don’t waste any time doing just that. I pull a few cold ones from the cooler and join them.

No plates or utensils required, and after I’ll just burn the newspaper in the firepit and throw a bucket of water over the picnic table. Don’t want to leave any food scraps behind. This is bear country and they tend to be hungry, this early in the season.

I take a long tug of my beer and am about to reach for my second piece when I hear the crunch of tires. We all seem turn at the same time and watch as my new neighbour climbs out of her old Jeep, a large Tupperware container in hand. I think we’re all staring, at least I know I am. Instead of the camouflage pants I saw her wearing before, she now has on some kind of long, flowing top over bright floral tights. The colourful material looks painted on her sturdy legs, and beside me David emits a soft whistle.

I watch as Ace barrels out from under the table and nearly knocks the newcomer off her feet. My mouth is already open to call him back, when I watch her crouch down and greet him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, as she approaches the table a little tentatively, my dog at her heels. Her gaze bounces over all three of us before settling on me. “I never had a chance to thank you properly the other day. I hope you don’t mind, I just followed the signs here.” She looks at the lake and a small smile forms on her full lips. “It’s beautiful here.”

Nobody has a chance to respond before her focus is back on me.

“Anyway, I baked some muffins last night, and thought maybe you’d like some for lunch.” Her eyes land on the remaining pile of fish in the middle of the table and the pink colour, already on her cheeks, deepens to a deep red. “But I see you’re already eating. I apologize for barging in.”

“Sit.”

The order comes from David, who is observing the woman with obvious amusement as she instantly sits down at the other end of my bench. Ace finds his spot underneath the table again.

“Roar here knows how to cook a great fish fry. Have a taste.” He gestures at the grease-drenched newspaper on the table. “By the way, I’m David and this here is my son, Jamie. We’re just vacationing.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says, reaching out to shake David’s outstretched hand. “I...I’m a neighbour. I mean, I just moved up here recently. I’m Lilith Talbot.”

“Pleasure to meet you too, Lilith, now dig in.”

She smiles at him before turning her gaze to me, an unspoken question in her eyes. I just shrug my shoulders and reach into the cooler, pulling out another cold one and handing it to her.

“Roar? I thought your name was Doyle?” she asks, after expertly twisting the cap off her bottle and taking a hefty swig of her beer.

A bit of a surprise, I half expect her to ask for wine instead, or at the very least a glass, but she seems as comfortable as the rest of us, drinking straight from the bottle.

“Doyle’s my last name.”

“Oh.” Her eyes go back to the dwindling pile of fish, and I watch with interest as she hesitantly reaches out and grabs the smallest piece, popping it in her mouth all at once.

“Short for Riordan, right?” David pipes up.

“It is.”

“Your girl, Patti, mentioned that you were always this communicative, even in high school, and that’s why they started calling you Roar,” he chuckles at his own joke. “She’s right, you don’t talk much. You’d make a lousy lawyer.”

I pretend not to notice the sudden flash of interest in the woman beside me and instead smile at the older man.

“I talk... when I have something useful to say,” I counter, and David barks out a laugh.

“Fair enough,” he concedes, before lifting the lid on the Tupperware container and pulling out one of the muffins. “Wouldn’t mind trying one of these before we hit the road.”

The next ten minutes, I listen as the conversation centers around the motel, while scribbling on a scrap of newspaper. David seems quite impressed that a woman alone would venture into these regions to run a business. Personally, I still think it’s a fool’s errand, but I have to give it to her, she’s got balls just to try.

When Jamie and David leave to pack up their car for the trip home, Lilith excuses herself as well. I automatically follow her to her vehicle.

“Thanks for the fish,” she smiles, giving my dog, who seems enamoured, a final scratch behind his ears. “I’ve never had it like that before, but it’s really good.”

“Old family recipe. Muffins were good,” I add quickly, handing her the empty container back.

“Thanks.”

She climbs behind the wheel, closes the door, and rolls down the window.

“You don’t look like a Lilith,” I tell her, my hand on top of the door. I watch a timid smile form on her lips.

“Only my mother still calls me that. Most people call me Leelo, like my dad used to.”

“Leelo,” I repeat, the name easier on my tongue. “Suits you much better.”

I step back and watch as she drives off, her colourful arm resting on the door like a beacon.