“Come on, baby, come on, you can make it,” I cooed to the car, relief sweeping through me at the idea of my journey being at an end. I leaned forward as if that would build the car’s momentum to get up the incline.
Fortune belatedly shined on me (and the car) and we made it to the post box with the partially snow-covered letters that said “Maxwell” signifying the beginning of the drive that ran along the front of the house. I turned right again and drove carefully toward the Jeep Cherokee that was parked in front of the house.
“Thank God,” I whispered when I’d stopped and pulled up the parking brake, my mind moving immediately to what was next.
Meet caretaker, get keys and instructions.
Empty car of suitcases and copious bags of groceries, two week’s worth of holiday food, in other words stuff that was good for me, as per usual, but also stuff that was definitely not, as was not per usual.
Put away perishables.
Make bed (if necessary).
Shower.
Take cold medicine I bought at the grocery store.
Call Niles if even just to leave a voicemail message.
Sleep.
It was the sleep I was most looking forward to, I didn’t think I’d ever been that exhausted.
In order to make the trips back and forth to the car one less, I grabbed my purse, exited the car and slung my bag over my shoulder. Then I went to the boot, taking as many grocery bags by the handle as I could carry. I was cautious, the snow had carpeted the front drive and the five steps that led up to the porch that ran the length of the A-Frame and I was in high-heeled boots. Even though it was far too late, though I had checked the weather forecast so thought I was safe, I was rethinking my choice of wearing high-heeled boots by the time I hit the porch.
I didn’t get one step across it before the glass front door opened and a man stood in its frame, his front shadowed by the night, his back silhouetted by the lights from inside.
“Oh hi, so, so, so sorry I’m late. The storm held me up,” I hastily explained my easily explainable rudeness (for anyone could see it was snowing which would make any smart driver be careful) as I walked across the porch.
The man moved and the outside light came on, blinding me for a second.
I stopped to let my eyes adjust and heard, “What the fuck?”
I blinked and then focused and then I could do nothing but stare.
He did not look like what I thought a caretaker would look like.
He was tall, very tall, with very broad shoulders. His hair was dark, nearly black, wavy and there was a lot of it, sweeping back from his face like a stylist had just finished coifing it to perfection. He was wearing a plaid, flannel shirt over a white thermal, the sleeves of the shirt rolled back to expose the thermal at his wrists and up his forearms. Faded jeans, thick socks on his feet and tanned skin stretched over a face that had such flawless bone structure, a blind person would be in throes of ecstasy if they got their fingers on him. Strong jaw and brow, defined cheekbones, unbelievable.
Though, in my estimation, he was a couple days away from a good clean shave.
“Mr. Andrews?” I asked.
“No,” he answered and said no more.
“I –” I started then didn’t know what to say.
My head swung from side to side, then I looked behind me at my car and the Cherokee then back around and up at the A-Frame.
This was the picture from the website, exactly it. Wasn’t it?
I looked back at him. “I’m sorry. I was expecting the caretaker.”
“The caretaker?”
“Yes, a Mr. Andrews.”
“You mean Slim?”
Slim?
“Um…” I answered.
“Slim isn’t here.”
“Are you here to give me the keys?” I asked.
“The keys to what?”
“The house.”
He stared at me for several seconds and then muttered, “Shit,” and right after uttering that profanity, he walked into the house leaving the door open.
I didn’t know what to do and I stood outside for a moment before deciding maybe the open door was an indication that I should follow him in.
I did so, closing the door with my foot, stamping my feet on the mat to get rid of the snow and then I looked around.