CHAPTER ELEVEN
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Brett couldn’t exactly say she’d been any help to Coen in his bid to read those articles. It was going on four o’clock in the afternoon, and they hadn’t even touched either of their phones, both of which were still charging in the kitchen.
“Go ahead and spread the salt while I finish up the driveway,” Coen called out from beneath his black facemask. His searching gaze was sweeping the area, which had become rather dark. It didn’t help that the street lamp had lost power last night, along with everything else, and that the snow had picked up once again. “Then go warm up in the house. There’s no need for both of us to be out here freezing our asses off.”
Despite the thick material of his mask, condensation from his words rose into the air giving the opening around his mouth a frosted look. He could talk all he wanted, but there wasn’t a chance in hell she was leaving him outside to fend for himself. The sight of Lester Koett’s frozen and half-buried vehicle stuck in her yard made her uneasy. It didn’t matter that Martin was in custody, because she was still thinking about why he’d come to see her to begin with. Had his intention been to hurt her?
“Brettany, go on inside! I’ll join you in a minute!”
She shook her head in response and reached into the bag of salt she was carrying as Coen started up the snow blower with one pull of the black cord. They were both going to need showers after this exercise, but that was more than doable considering the hot water tank was connected to one of the good circuits still powered by the generator. She was grateful there was no need to worry about a lack of hot water and promised herself that she would scrounge up the money needed to replace the breakers she needed for the generator so that she could power up the entire house in an emergency.
It was hard to get her cold fingers to let go of the salt, even though she was wearing thick ski gloves. Her teeth had started chattering around fifteen minutes ago, but she would stay out here with him for as long as it took to get the job done.
As it was, it had taken close to an hour to clear the driveway on his rental home and another hour and a half to finish hers, though that was only because Brett had decided to heave a snowball his way. The short-lived battle, though fun while it lasted, had ended when the storm had picked up its pace. Mother Nature had let both of them know in no uncertain terms that there was more work to be done before they could both return to a blazing fire that would warm up their cold extremities.
The living room light in her neighbor’s house came to life, reminding Brett that the Dockerys had a full home generator. She was surprised to see them home, though. They usually spent each holiday with their daughter in Texas. She really thought they’d had an early enough flight to beat the storm, but that might have changed for some reason or another.
The sound of the snow blower’s engine receding told her that Coen had finished the bottom of the driveway. She made a mental note to take over some of those cupcakes to the Dockerys or maybe some of the soup she had planned to make for Coen and herself tonight. That was, if she could convince him to stay.
As for the Dockerys, they most likely had used up most of their perishables, thinking they wouldn’t be here for the duration of the storm. She always had plenty as she canned most of the fruits and vegetables she grew in the garden each summer. Considering she cooked from scratch, she also had a supply of staples to make nearly anything she wanted. The only restriction was the amount of fresh milk and eggs she had stocked up prior to the storm. Thankfully, she still had plenty.
“For a teacher, one would think you’d listen better to directions.”
Brett smiled through her scarf and shrugged, but she wasn’t sure Coen was aware of her sentiment since half her face was covered. She’d lost feeling in her cheeks and what probably looked like a cherry nose a while ago.
“That’s the benefit of being the teacher,” Brett pointed out as she managed to seal up the bag of salt again. Her gloves made the task a bit harder, but she was still successful. “I don’t need to do what I’m told since I’m usually the one in charge.”
Coen’s brown eyes darkened with what appeared to be the need to respond to her declaration, but instead he gestured toward the garage.
“I’ll go ahead and open the garage door manually in order to store the snow blower inside.” Coen adjusted his ski mask before taking the bag of salt she had cradled in her arm. “We have at least another half foot of snow due overnight, so we’ll be out here bright and early tomorrow.”
Brett thought for sure he’d be gone by this evening, either returning to the rental house or somehow managing to find a way through this mess to the airport in order to be the first one on a flight to Florida once service returned. A quick glance at the road told her that the snowplow might have come through randomly a time or two in the last twenty-four hours. Regardless, the driving conditions were horrendous and there was still a warning being enforced that only emergency vehicles should risk being out in these harsh elements.
It took her at least five minutes to remove her boots, gloves, scarf, and jacket. She’d thought ahead and had placed two towels down on the tiled entryway. Both were now wet, so she scooped them up and headed through the living room. She turned right down the small hallway that led to a small bathroom and a laundry room at the back of the hall. It was rather dark back here due to the lack of windows, so she quickly laid out the wet towels on a rack so they wouldn’t mildew.
“Ouch!”
Brett had bumped her frozen toes into something on the floor. She instantly reached out to the wall for something to hold onto while involuntarily lifting her foot. No amount of rubbing made the ache fade, so she gritted her teeth through the pain until the throbbing eventually receded.
Her eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness. It looked as if her stool had been moved. Either that, or she never put it back after she’d used it to reach for her extra laundry detergent bottle she kept in a cabinet above the washer. She angrily shoved the stool into the corner where it belonged before using the wall to guide her toward the door.
It was amazing to her that what light had been coming in through the windows had faded in the five minutes she’d been inside the laundry room. She made it back to the counter where she had set some candles out last night, but she couldn’t locate the matchbox. They had been right next to the three candles on the island. She was sure of it.
A lone flashlight beam bounced off the ceiling and then the wall as Coen walked into the kitchen from the living room.
“I don’t need any more reminders that my ass belongs in Florida,” Coen muttered, trying to rub some warmth into his hands as he held the flashlight trapped against his body with his arm. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the counter behind her. “I appreciate that you’re willing to put up with me for another night.”
Brett refrained from saying that it wasn’t much of a hardship, but he was already making a call on his cell phone. She was grateful that he wasn’t going anywhere quite yet. A part of her still didn’t feel safe, regardless that Martin had been taken into custody. None of the events that had taken place since Heidi’s death made any sense, and no one seemed willing to listen to either her, Louise, Chad, or any of the other friends or family members who had been up at the campground.
“Do you need this flashlight?” Coen asked, pulling the phone away from his ear and looking at the display. He must have been listening to some voicemail messages. “I need to return a call.”
“I can’t find the matchbox I put out last night,” Brett said warily, moving things around in one of the drawers she used for miscellaneous items. There was a small matchbook she’d gotten from the restaurant down the street, but the box of kitchen matches she’d purchased for just this reason was nowhere to be found. “Did you see them? You know, the blue tip wooden stick matches?”
“They might be upstairs in the bathroom.” Coen studied her as he set the flashlight on its handle so that the beam was directed at the ceiling. The light filtered out, giving her more brightness by which to see his expression. “I blew out the candles after I used the shower, so you must have needed the matches to light them.”
Had she taken the matchbox upstairs?
“I’ll check upstairs for them in a bit,” Brett said, motioning for him to reach out to whoever it was he needed to call. She tore one of the matchsticks out of the small book before striking its end over the coarse strip. “I’ll light these candles, so go ahead and take the flashlight with you while you make your call. I’m going to heat up some homemade chicken noodle soup that I have in the freezer.”
“Homemade?” Coen asked somewhat hopefully, garnering the exact reaction he’d probably hoped for. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. His response meant that he was definitely staying with her until the storm passed. She didn’t like that he thought of her as some scared woman who lived alone and passed the endless hours by baking for the neighbors. She wasn’t some spinster, and she honestly had no intention of turning into one. She didn’t have a horde of cats, though she regularly fed the neighborhood tom who seemed to make the rounds. Each spring, someone’s female had a batch of kittens and she had to repeat her tale of how she was allergic and couldn’t take one into her house. “I won’t turn down a hot meal after having spent hours outside in that cold.”
Brett returned his smile, her previous apprehension fading as Coen placed his call. She purposefully set the small matchbook next to the candle so that she didn’t doubt its position should the need arise. He was probably right in assuming she’d left the other matches upstairs. She used to keep a match dispenser on the wall when she still had the old gas stove, but that had finally succumbed to her desire for a modern gas range with all the amenities. No more lighting the pilot in order to cook.
The refrigerator was still humming, letting her know that the generator was still in working condition and had plenty of gas. The man had been by last week to top off her LP tank. That held a thousand gallons, which got her through the summer months without the generator. She figured the generator wasn’t drawing a full load anymore and the gas would outlast the storm and then some.
Brett opened the bottom, basket-styled drawer where she had stored the leftover soup in the freezer, only to realize she’d already used one of the containers last week when her mother had caught a cold. One Tupperware bowlful was not going to be enough to share with the Dockery family next door.
“…was a violation of your parole. You knew that from the start. When are you going to take responsibility for your own actions?” Coen paused, obviously listening to some rebuttal that wasn’t going to change his mind on whatever had happened. “No, I’m not going to intervene on your behalf.”
Brett pulled the plastic bowl from the freezer, doing her best not to appear as if she were listening in on Coen’s phone conversation. She was surprised that he hadn’t left the kitchen, but he had walked over to the table for more privacy. Had he stayed because he’d sensed she was uncomfortable being alone?
She could literally hear the frustration in his voice. Hurt and disappointment also laced his tone. It reminded her of when he was talking to his brother yesterday, but he couldn’t possibly be talking to Danny about violating parole. Could he?
“You need to tell Mom and Dad before you turn yourself into your P.O. They don’t deserve to find out…”
Coen had quietly walked out of the kitchen when his discussion had turned to his parents, and her heart broke for him. She hadn’t realized that his brother had gotten into so much trouble or that it was severe enough that Coen couldn’t fix whatever happened by calling someone on the force to drop the charges.
She went about defrosting the frozen soup, grateful that the stove’s electrical—including its automatic pilot—was hooked up to the generator. The natural light had finally faded, so she worked comfortably by candlelight. Her cell phone on the other side of the counter caught her eye, so she made her way over to check for any messages or missed calls while she’d been outside.
“Darn it,” Brett muttered after realizing that the outlet she chose was on the opposite counter and hadn’t been connected to the generator.
The battery on her phone was dead.
“Everything okay?”
She was startled at Coen’s unexpected presence, spinning around to find him reaching for the lid on the pastry container she’d sealed the cupcakes in last night. He concentrated on taking the baking cup wrapper off the cake portion. The call with his brother had affected him more than he would have liked it to, and she instinctively wanted to make him feel better.
“My battery didn’t charge over on this side.” Brett set her phone on the counter and made a mental note to plug it into the outlet Coen had used earlier. “I have to say I’m surprised the fire is keeping the first floor as warm as it is considering the temperature outside.”
Coen gave her a wry smile, almost as if to say he was aware of what she was doing. He played along though and held up the frosted treat as evidence to back up his next statement.
“The pounds I’m gaining by eating these cupcakes is what will keep me warm for the next twenty-four hours. Are you using something else besides sugar, because these are addictive.”
“You’re going to ruin your dinner,” Brett warned playfully, pointing her wooden spoon his way.
She let him finish eating as she continued to stir the melting clump of frozen soup, releasing the delicious aromas into the air. It wasn’t long before he had his phone back in hand, texting quite a bit. She assumed that he was reaching out to either his brother or his parents over whatever had apparently transpired today. She maintained a neutral conversation, telling him about the ingredients from her garden that she’d used for the soup and how the recipe had been in her family for generations. A comfortable compatibility filled the kitchen as they kept each other company while dinner heated on the stove.
“I appreciate what you’re doing.”
“Making dinner? We both need to eat, right?” Brett tapped the wooden spoon against the side of the pot. She purposefully ignored his true meaning, not wanting him to talk about something that would ruin their last night together. It wasn’t like they were anything other than acquaintances, but she’d like to think they’d forged a fledgling friendship. “Think of this meal as a thank you for keeping me company because I’m being silly in feeling that something still isn’t quite right with Martin’s arrest.”
Brett hadn’t realized that Coen had moved from his place next to the island until she reached out for one of the bowls. Her hand landed on his chest instead, and she found herself looking at his smile that could only be considered tender. This wasn’t the Coen she’d come to know thus far, and she wasn’t sure how to react.
Her body did that for her, though. She involuntarily stopped breathing when he leaned down and gently kissed her forehead.
“Thank you, Brettany.”
*
Patience…
Coen Flynn wouldn’t be helping her out like a friend in need had she told him anything about that night.
He would wait until the time was right before eliminating his problem.
Patience was a virtue…