When Archie woke up he was on his back on a bed. It was dark, but the door was open and light poured in through what looked to be a hallway. A ceiling fan spun overhead, the fixture loose, so that it knocked softly against the ceiling as it rotated. The ceiling and walls were cedar, like in a cabin. There was a wooden dresser and a framed picture of an old rodeo poster and a window with a shade that was drawn. He was alone, but he could smell a fire burning. She was there somewhere.
He had been asleep awhile. He could tell because his body ached and he felt cold and jittery. He needed more pills. He put his socked feet on the carpet. She had taken his shoes off and he saw them sitting side by side next to the bed and he reached down to put them on. His head pounded and he had to pause for a moment before he could move. Then he put his feet into his shoes and tied them and sat up. He glanced for the pill bottles from the car but they weren’t on the dresser or the bedside table. The closet door was cedar plank. He opened it and found it full of clothes. He wondered who they belonged to and then realized that they were all new. She had bought them for him. She was either planning on his being around awhile, or she wanted him to think she was. Corduroys. Tan pants. Blue button-down shirts, white button-down shirts, sweaters, and a few professorial sport coats. It looked just like his closet at home. Predictability was always one of his flaws.
He turned and walked to the window and opened the shade. It was dusk or early morning. He saw only trees. Ponderosa pines. They didn’t grow west of the mountains. She’d taken him east. Into the high desert. Maybe they were still in Oregon. Maybe not.
There was music. Classical. It was faint but definitely coming from somewhere in the house. He glanced back at the window. He could open it. Climb out. Walk away. They could be miles from anywhere. But he could still do it. He could still abandon his plan, still leave her. Try to get home.
He considered it for another moment, before he turned back toward the light streaming from the open door and walked into the hallway. There were several doors. The hallway was also cedar plank. The hallway floor was gray carpet, the kind of speckled industrial stuff you’d put in a rental or vacation house. The music was coming from down the hall, where the hallway opened into a living space.
He walked toward it.
There was a bank of windows in the living room that looked out onto a deck and more trees. The light had darkened another notch. It was evening, not morning. A staircase with a wrought-iron banister led up to a loft that overlooked the living room. There was a leather sectional and a fireplace with a huge stone mantel. A fire crackled and growled in the fireplace. Gretchen was sitting in a leather chair next to it, a laptop on her lap. Her hair was loose and she wasn’t wearing makeup and the glow of the fire made her flawless skin look angelic.
She glanced up at him and smiled. “Your pills are in the kitchen,” she said. She looked to the left, and he followed her gaze to where the floor lifted a step and he could see a kitchen that opened out onto the main room. The pill bottles were lined up on the counter by the sink. He walked over and opened a few cupboards before he found a glass. He filled it with water from the sink and took four Vicodin. Then reconsidered and took one more.
“Do you want a drink?” he heard her ask.
He turned around and saw that she was standing up now, next to a small rattan bar. She was wearing a gray cashmere sweater and fitted gray slacks and was in her stocking feet. She held up a bottle of something.
This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. “Sure,” he said.
“Scotch okay?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. He didn’t move, his hands behind him, holding on to the edge of the counter.
He watched her as she poured the drink, scooping ice from an ice bucket then pouring the alcohol over it, no water. Her glossy blond hair settled on her shoulder blades, swinging slightly as she moved.
She turned back and held the glass out toward him, arm extended.
He stood there another moment, and then pushed himself off the counter and walked toward her and took the glass. As he took the glass, their fingers met. The contact made his head swim, his vision darken for a moment, but he was careful not to flinch, not to show it on his face. He raised the drink to her and then drank the Scotch in several swallows. He didn’t know much about Scotch, but it went down easily and tasted expensive. When he was done, he handed her back the glass, now just ice.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I need to take a shower,” he said.
“It’s down the hall,” she said. “Second door on the left. You’ll find everything you need.”
“My sanity?” he said.
She leaned forward as if to kiss him, but instead put her lips next to his ear, her cheek millimeters from his. The smell of her made him dizzy. Her breath was warm but sent a cold shiver down his spine.
“Long gone, darling,” she whispered.