Chapter Twenty-Five

Roman

I don’t care what Bitsy says, I’m upgrading this fucking coffee machine.

I pressed the brew button and took a step back as the ancient machine sputtered to life, coughing and chugging until it finally started hissing as the water from the reservoir processed through the coffee grounds. I stared at the pot, waiting for the first bubbles to appear that indicated that it would, eventually, start filling with coffee. If I was at home, I would be on my third cup by now.

“Would you like a muffin?”

I looked over my shoulder at Bitsy.

Bitsy. Bitsy. Bitsy. Nope. It still didn’t feel right. I had really known this woman for a few weeks now and I still couldn’t get used to her being called Bitsy. But she didn’t really feel like a Beatrice, either. Maybe I could find out her middle name and gradually transition to calling her that.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“A muffin,” she said, holding up a large muffin that appeared to be dotted with blueberries. “I baked some this morning. Would you like one to go with your coffee?”

She baked muffins? She was way too fucking productive for this early in the morning.

Of course, that wasn’t a new revelation. It just stood out to me more and more each morning that I spent with her.

But it was a muffin. I couldn’t say no to a muffin. I nodded.

“Sure. That sounds delicious.”

That could have come out more smoothly.

She offered the muffin to me and I looked down at it.

Not blueberries. Chocolate chips. Even better.

When the coffee pot had finally decided to give up its caffeine goodness I poured us each a mug and gave one to her.

“The box of responses is in the living room next to the playpen. Can you grab them and I’ll meet you in the office?”

I held the other mug of coffee out to her and she carried it with her out of the kitchen and up the stairs toward the office. When she was gone I took a bite of the muffin and gave a little groan. It was absurdly delicious. Far better than it should have been allowed to be. It was just a chocolate chip muffin. How could it be this good?

Because Bitsy made it.

I went into the living room and saw the box sitting on the floor just as she said it would be.

“Good morning, Benson,” I said as I started through the room toward it.

The old man gave a gruff reply that I couldn’t understand and I kept moving, not making eye contact. It felt like I was going through a minefield, a feeling that I wasn’t accustomed to, but was already fully sure that I didn’t like. I was going to figure out that man. I was going to make him like me. I had to. If I was going to convince Bitsy that she needed to give me a chance to be something more than just the unintended father of her child, I was going to have to show her that I could get along with her family, too. That wasn’t going to be easy. I was used to being able to charm people, but Benson was not to be charmed. He was like tobacco --- all dried up and dusty yet appreciated by people for some sort of hidden sweetness that I just couldn’t figure out.

As I approached the playpen I thought that it was empty. When I got close to it, though, I realized that Lorelei was inside, lying on her back, sleeping peacefully. Coming to the side carefully so that I didn’t make too much noise and disturb her, I stared down at the little baby, suddenly overwhelmed. She was wearing one of the outfits that I had given her for her birthday and propped in the corner I saw the little pink teddy bear that I had chosen. The gifts had seemed almost abstract when I had picked them out for her. Even though I had spent some time with her and even held her for a short time, when it came time to celebrate her birthday I was still trying to process that she was real. I didn’t know what to do to acknowledge her, especially on such an important milestone when I had only just discovered that she existed. Now that I saw her wearing the little outfit that had seemed impossibly small and could tell that the bear had been cuddled and possibly chewed on by her two teeth, they become suddenly clear and important. They weren’t just items that I had purchased for a baby. They were gifts for my daughter.

My daughter.

The words still sent a chill through me, but they were less foreign now. I could feel myself connecting, drawing closer to this baby even as I felt myself falling harder for Bitsy. The emotions were new and raw, and seemed to be getting stronger and clearer every time that I saw them. Chasing her here had been about finding the girl that I hadn’t been able to get out of my mind for a year and a half. But finding her here with Lorelei had changed everything. She kept saying that she didn’t want me to have anything to do with the baby, that she didn’t need me, but I refused to let her go that easy. I wasn’t going to let my chances of a family slip between my fingers.

“Are you coming?” Bitsy shouted from upstairs.

Even if she was making it real fucking hard to get close to her.

The baby shifted around a little, her face scrunching up so I thought that she might wake up and start crying, but she soon relaxed again and I let out a breath of relief.

“You best keep quiet,” Benson snapped. “That baby needs her morning nap or she’ll be fussy clear through ‘til supper.”

I didn’t even make any noise.

I decided it would be best not to argue with him and reached down to pick up the box with my non-muffin occupied hand. Giving him what I hoped was an apologetic look, I crept out of the room and up the stairs. Bitsy was sitting in the middle of the floor sipping her cup of coffee. Mine was across from her, indicating that she wanted me to sit on the floor with her.

Rather than in the perfectly good chairs that she had pushed out of the way to make room on the floor.

“Did anyone ever tell you that your grandfather is like one of those scary old men in urban legends about teenagers disappearing when they went to carve their initials in a tree?”

She looked up at me without her expression changing.

“Yes,” she said.

I nodded.

“Fantastic. Maybe that’s what this haunt should be about.”

“What happened?”

“The baby almost woke up and he got pissy with me.”

“She woke up? What did you do?”

She shifted like she was getting up.

I glared at her.

“I didn’t do anything. You shouted at me from up here. But, no, she didn’t wake up. Just wiggled around a little.”

“Oh, good.”

She settled back onto the rug and I walked further into the room, setting the box down on the worn rug.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She looked around the room like she wasn’t sure what I was asking.

“Waiting for you in the office like I said I was going to.”

“I meant sitting on the floor.”

“I thought that we could spread the responses out on the floor in different piles based on what they say so it’s easier to stay organized. Besides, it’s cooler down here.”

Says the woman swallowing down coffee like it’s her job.

“You really should look into getting a better air conditioner,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Right now, what I need is to convince that angry old man down there that the man who knocked up his granddaughter on a one-night stand and then showed up a year and a half later is not only not someone who he should string up in the orchard, but the person who is going to make the farm profitable again. Once we can accomplish that, maybe I’ll think about the air conditioner. How does that sound?”

I felt my jaw twitch.

Really hard. Really, really hard to get along with her.

Except she isn’t wrong.

I sat down next to my mug of coffee and took a sip, hoping it would be a gesture of truce. She reached for the box and dumped the contents out onto the floor in between us. I was hoping for a much larger pile, but I figured I was going to have to be satisfied with whatever we had if this plan was going to work, so I reached for the first envelope.

“What’s with the scribbling on the front?” I asked.

“Coy said that he had to do a little bit of editing, and some people refused not to put their names on them so he crossed them out for us. You know…to maintain neutrality.”

I decided to let that one pass.

“Editing?”

“Apparently your stories were a little more intense than some people around here like. Who would’ve thought?”

“It’s a Halloween haunt,” I said, repeating the same argument that I already had. “It’s supposed to be scary. I would think that people who beat the living hell out of people piñatas with loaves of bread would be less squeamish about violence.”

“That’s a cherished celebration of our independence and the bravery of those who protected the Hollow from the encroaching enemies.”

“I thought it was about the people who freaked out when the police came to arrest the bootleggers and threw bread at them.”

“Like I said.”

“Alright. Well, that was the whole point of publishing the stories. We got people talking. You’ve heard the saying ‘there’s no bad publicity’. Same idea. Whether people are excited about the haunt or infuriated about the stories or just want to prove that they are brave enough to face it, they are talking about it. That’s what we want. The more they talk about it, the more they’ll think about it. The more they think about it, the more chance that they will want to come out and see it for themselves. If we can keep them talking, we have a chance at this haunt being a success.”

There was a pause and I didn’t know if I had been convincing enough, but then I saw Bitsy’s eyes brighten slightly.

“Let’s get them talking then,” she said.

I smiled at her and opened the envelope in my hands. I unfolded what looked like a sheet of lined paper raggedly torn from a notebook and looked down at it. My smile faded.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I read.

“Those poor women.”

I looked at Bitsy and saw that she was reading a postcard. She looked up at me with disappointment in her eyes and we both dropped the notes in our hands and reached for others.

“Is this true? Did this really happen? Did you find the killer?” I read.

“Oh, sweet lord, are we in danger?” Bitsy looked at me. “They might have been written by the same person.”

We each got new notes.

“I think the creepy kid who likes Halloween so much did it.”

“Is that girl sleeping with her stepbrother? That’s just not right.” She shook her head. “I told you that there was something wrong about that one.”

“That’s the point,” I said, looking at the postcard in my hand. “Why can’t you just grow pumpkins?”

“How about that story of that girl who up and chopped up her parents and then hid in the sewers dressed like a clown so that she could inspire that Paint It Black song?”

“Someone’s been doing some confusing and wildly inaccurate research,” I said.

We continued through the pile, finding notes of varying degrees of understanding and anger, and the further we went, the more deflated I saw Bitsy getting. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes and I knew that in her mind she was seeing her hopes of her grandfather not selling the farm fading away.

“Hates it,” she said, tossing a note aside. “Hates it.” She tossed that one and continued through the stack. “Doesn’t understand it. Still thinks that there’s a serial killer running around in the Hollow even though there was absolutely no mention of it in the news. Hates it. Hates it. Hates it. Loves it. Well, that’s a refreshing change of pace. Hates it. Hates it. Hates it.” She held up a postcard for me to look at, her face contorted with exasperation and frustration. “This one just says ‘Jesus’.”

She dropped the cards to the floor and lowered her face to her hands.

“It’s going to be alright,” I said, trying to comfort her. “Don’t lose hope. I’m sure there will be more responses. Those’ll be better. We just got the first reactions from people who didn’t really know what was going on. They’ll figure it out and start getting into it. We’ll get better responses and in a few weeks, we’ll get started. OK?” She didn’t look convinced and I crawled toward her, cupping one hand under her chin and tilting her face up so that she would look at me. “OK?”

I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to draw her into my arms and hold her and discover the same delectable pleasure that I had had with her that one incredible night. But I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I lightly stroked her face with my thumb and continued to look into her eyes, trying to convince her. Finally, Bitsy nodded and I smiled.

“Good. It’s going to be fantastic. Trust me. This farm is going to have business like you’ve never seen.”