FIVE

There is no logic in the random pattern of a butterfly, just an enticing effect.

Leelo

“He’s bad news.”

Mrs. Stephens shakes her head adamantly.

“You want well clear of him.”

It started with my call this morning.

I’ve spent the past few days trying to get the bathroom in number three in order, but have run into a snag I can’t seem to fix myself.

As if regrouting the loose tiles around the tub wasn’t challenge enough, I come to find out the showerhead sprays water in every direction but down. Sure, I probably should’ve checked first, before I spent a day and a half making the room pretty, but I really don’t want to pull those tiles down again. The tap worked fine but when the little lever for the shower was pulled, the bathroom turned into a full on carwash. And I couldn’t turn it off. I tried everything, I grabbed the pipe wrench I found in the storage space, along with a bunch of other tools, I tried to tap that lever back into the off position, but it wouldn’t budge and finally gave the showerhead a good whack. Not sure what I was thinking, but I was getting desperate. Next thing I know, the whole damn thing breaks off, bringing with it a section of pipe that belonged in the wall.

No more spray, but the gurgling sounds coming from behind the freshly grouted tiles was ominous. I managed to locate the main water valve and shut the thing off, but it was clear I was in over my head on this one. My budget was going to have to stretch to facilitate a plumber.

It was at that point I decided I needed a friendly face and a change of scenery before I suffered a complete meltdown. I was close as it was. I’ve been teetering on the brink of total failure since I got here, and my dream of independence was suffering serious blows.

Mrs. Stephens answered the phone on the first ring, and after listening to me sobbing incoherently for five minutes, she cut me off and told me to get myself in the car and over to her house where she’d have fresh coffee and Danish waiting.

The Danish did it.

I towel dried my hair, put on some dry clothes, and followed the directions to her place in Wawa.

Sitting here across from her at the kitchen table, with a belly full of hot coffee and pastries, I feel a little better.

“But he’s in real estate, surely he knows someone?” I push, but Mrs. Stephens will have nothing of it.

“Kyle Thompson is a slimy weasel who just sees dollar signs,” she dismisses, as she pushes back from the table and grabs a phone off the counter.

“How busy are you?” I hear her say to whomever she just called. “I have a friend with faulty plumbing who needs a hand and you’re close. It’s at the Whitefish Motel. It’s urgent”

I have no idea who she’s talking to, but in no time she’s rushing me out the door, telling me help will be there in twenty minutes.

On my drive home, I manage to get myself back in a positive mind frame, thinking perhaps I’ll be able to put that vacancy sign up this weekend after all, when one glimpse of a familiar pickup truck in front of the motel has me groan out loud.

I haven’t seen Roar Doyle since I inserted myself in his fish fry. It seemed safer. The way he said my name last week, as I was leaving, had given me butterflies in my stomach. Then I’d beaten myself up over it all the way home.

Sure, he was tempting. Big, manly, and handsome in a rugged way, with his ruddy beard and hazel eyes, but he was also barely civil, bordering on rude. I’ve been put down enough in my life; I really don’t need another man to make me feel inadequate. And I certainly don’t need to start drooling over someone who’s already taken.

I clearly don’t have the best judgement when it comes to men, which is why I steered clear.

Yet there he is, his tall frame standing beside the truck with legs spread and arms folded over his chest, a scowl on his face, looking very annoyed.

“I’m sorry,” I start, getting out of the Jeep. “I had no idea Mrs. Stephens was talking to you or I would’ve—”

“Where is it?” he interrupts and instantly my hackles go up.

“Unit three,” I tell him. “But listen, you don’t need to...”

I don’t even get a chance to finish my sentence before he turns his back and starts pulling a toolbox from the back of his truck.

“Key?” he asks, his hand out, as if I haven’t even spoken.

Fine. This is good. He’s hammering home what an ass he really is. It’ll be so much easier to get the memory of that soft rumble, repeating my name back to me, permanently erased from my mind. Prick. I fish in my pocket and pull out the master key; slapping it in his palm and without another word he walks away.

I stand there for a minute, contemplating whether I should make myself scarce or follow him. I finally opt for the latter, since he’s got my key.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

The barely whispered curse from the bathroom makes me wince, but still I shore up my courage and step through the door. He’s standing with his big work boots in the bathtub, eyeing the hole in the wall where the shower used to be. It, and the length of broken pipe attached to it, lay at his big feet.

“I...” I start again, hoping to explain what happened, but he interrupts again.

“Your pipes are completely corroded.”

“What does that mean?” I know what it means; I just need to hear him say it.

I swallow down the bile crawling up my throat as I wait for him to bring the hammer down on my pipe dream. I already know there’s no way I can afford to do a major overhaul of all the plumbing. Didn’t take long for my lofty plans to take a nosedive.

“Means Sam should’ve tackled the whole place when he had the work done about eight years ago. He did the house, the bar, but only some of the units from what I recall.”

“You knew my uncle?”

Not sure why that was the only thing I got out of that, but Roar looks at me like I’m two cents short of a nickel.

“You don’t live next to someone for years up here and not know them,” he explains, turning his eyes back to the problem. “And I knew him enough to know he kept tight books. I bet the invoice for the work is still somewhere in that file cabinet of his.”

I know what he’s referring to. There’s a tall file cabinet in the small office space in the back of the bar. I’d looked for a key for that thing, without any luck.

“I don’t have a key and he left it locked.”

“So we’ll open it.”

He steps out of the tub and marches right by me, stopping only to grab a hammer and a screwdriver from his toolbox.

“I never understood why he would have people come through the bar to check in,” I think out loud, as we make our way through the dark and slightly musty space. I haven’t spent much time in here, intent on getting a few rooms up and running before I tackle this.

“Clever, actually,” Roar says, as he walks into the back office and bends over to take a closer look at the lock on the filing cabinet. I try not to be too obvious when I check out his ass in those threadbare jeans.

“Clever?”

“Considering most of his guests were travelers, the smell of cold beer would be tempting after a long day behind the wheel,” he explains, fitting the tip of the screwdriver into the key slot on the lock and whacking it with the hammer a few times. “Instant customers,” he adds, as he twists and jiggles the lock, and with a good yank pulls it free, leaving a hole behind.

“Huh,” I manage, watching as he pulls open the drawer, revealing a colour-coded filing system with neatly printed tabs.

“All yours,” Roar announces as he grabs his tools, steps around me, and walks out the door.

Roar

I seem destined to be thrown in her path, whether I want to be there or not. The judge is still out on that one.

Charlie seems to like her, and she certainly knows how to bake, but other than that, I have no idea what to make of the woman. From where I sit, she’s reckless, impulsive, at times incoherent, and I’m not at all sure I even want to touch the dark shadows in those bright eyes. Yet, I still find myself drawn.

She’s got balls, though, I have to give her that. It’s clear she bit off more than she can chew, but she’s trying—hard.

I feel bad, popping the neatly grouted tiles from the wall she clearly spent some time on, but I have no choice.

“Shit.”

I hear her curse as she sticks her head into the bathroom and I turn around.

“Yeah—only way to get at the pipes, I’m afraid.”

She walks up and peers over my shoulder at the growing hole in the wall.

“Is that mould?” she asks, pointing at the black crud visible inside the wall.

“Afraid so.”

“Fuck—Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!” Her voice rises and I can hear the edge of panic. Don’t blame her.

“Did you find anything in the files?” I ask, hoping to distract her. She stares at me, rattled, before she visibly clues in.

“Yes. Yes I did. Units four through eight plus the bar and house were done seven years ago. I just don’t get why he didn’t have the other three units done.”

“Can’t recall him ever shutting down to have work done. He may have just kept those open for guests,” I suggest. “Or maybe they weren’t quite as bad as the rest. Who knows?”

I stop talking when I see her face drop.

“He was my uncle, you know. Sam? He stepped up when my father died. Would always spend the holidays with us,” she shares in a soft voice. “And I never once made it up here.”

I shift uncomfortably when I see tears brimming in her eyes, but she catches me watching her and quickly blinks them away.

“He talked about you,” I offer, remembering conversations over a pint of beer, when Sam would speak of his niece, his only family. I don’t think he ever mentioned a name, but I recall him talking about her and her kids. “Spoke of you fondly. Of your kids.”

The last thing I expect is the loud snort followed by a giggle.

“He wouldn’t have said anything about David,” she says with a bitter edge. “Always hated his guts.”

I’m assuming David is the husband, or the ex-husband, whatever the case may be. I’m not about to stir that pot, so I keep quiet.

“Anyway...” she drawls, slapping her hands together and forcing a fake smile on her face. “Looks like I’ve got three units that need work I can’t do myself, so I’m going to focus on getting the other five ready. One through three will have to wait.” With that she turns and starts walking out.

“You don’t have water,” I call after her, watching her come to an abrupt stop. Her head drops down.

“Shit,” she whispers before straightening her shoulders and turning to face me. “Okay. New plan. If you can direct me to a reasonable plumber, I’ll have them fix this one so I can turn the water back on, and then I’ll focus on the other units.”

“I’m here. I’ve got the tools.” I shrug and continue popping tiles off the wall. I can feel her eyes on my back, but just keep working.

“But...”

I swing my head around and give her an exasperated look.

“The sooner you let me get to it, the sooner it’ll get done.”

I watch her open her mouth, before she resolutely snaps it closed, her full lips pressed into thin lines. She squints so those blue eyes are barely visible as she shoots me a heated look. Without a word, she tosses that blue ponytail over her shoulder and stomps out. My gaze immediately drawn to that round ass swaying out the door.

-

It took me the whole afternoon, a trip into town for materials, a burn on my wrist from the welding torch, and a litany of expletives to get the job done. But it’s done. The pipe is replaced, the water is back on, and I put up new concrete board to replace the mouldy drywall I ripped out. I left the tiles I managed to salvage stacked in the tub.

Leelo stayed out of sight the entire time. I heard her drive off early on, but she must’ve come back at some point, because her Jeep is parked in front of the bar. I’m about to hop into my truck and head out, when I notice partially dismantled furniture outside of one of the units further down and head over to investigate.

The door to six is open so I walk in. She’s on her knees on the floor, her back to me, ripping up the dirty old carpet.

“Water’s back on,” I announce, watching as she whips around.

“Jesus, you about gave me a heart attack,” she rambles, pressing a hand in the middle of her chest. I’ve tried to avoid looking, but it’s impossible not to notice those full breasts when her hand is right there, wedged between them. “I didn’t want to start painting without water, and obviously cleaning was out of the question, so I thought I’d get a start on the floors. I picked up some laminate flooring on sale. Although maybe I should probably paint before I put it down. Seems like the more logical thing to do,” she rambles, struggling to her feet.

Nothing to say to that, so I just nod and turn to head out when a thought occurs to me.

“Why six?” I ask. By the look of confusion on her face, it’s clear she’s not following. “Why start in unit six? You started with number three first, instead of one, and now you pick number six?”

“Well, technically I started on number seven, when I discovered the leak,” she reminds me, with a little smirk playing on her lips. “Then I went to three, and you know what happened there, so now I’m in six.”

She says it like I’m supposed to follow her logic, except there is none, so I raise an eyebrow in question.

“Seven is my favourite number, but that didn’t work out so well. Three is my next favourite, except clearly not this time—and six...”

I hold up my hand to stop her. It’s obvious there is no rhyme or reason to be found, so why torture myself further.

“Heading out,” I announce, turning back to the door.

“Wait!” I hear behind me. “What do I owe you?” She follows me to my truck.

“I’m taking some guests out on the boat in the morning, but I should be back around eleven. Wouldn’t say no to some of those muffins.”

Without waiting for an answer, I climb in the cab, start the truck, and back up, leaving her standing on the gravel with her mouth half-open.

An unfamiliar smile pulls at my mouth as I turn up the road home.