Die Before I Wake. Laurie Breton

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СКАЧАТЬ through the blind. Quietly, he said, “Looks like the storm’s over.”

      “Be careful anyway.”

      “Always. Go back to sleep, Jules.”

      When I woke again, the blinds were open, the sun was pouring in, and the clock read 8:37. I rolled over and spied the note propped against Tom’s pillow. Didn’t want to wake you, it read, you looked so beautiful asleep. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa. Literally. Oh—if you want to go anywhere, the Land Rover’s all yours. Keys are hanging in the kitchen. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Love, T.

      Smiling, I lay back against the pillow. I must’ve been dead to the world, because I’d never heard him return, never heard him leave a second time. It must have been the fresh Maine air or something. I got up, showered and dressed, then headed downstairs, anticipating a run-in with the dragon lady. But the house was deserted, silent, the morning sun flooding the kitchen with warmth. My new mother-in-law must be a cog in the wheel of the American workforce. Or else she’d fled the house because she didn’t want to deal with me any more than I wanted to deal with her. Wasn’t that the way with most passive-aggressive types? They tended to avoid conflict. And being nice to my face, then talking trash behind my back, was classic passive-aggressive behavior.

      Or maybe she was just a two-faced bitch.

      With some satisfaction, I pondered that possibility before telling myself to let it go or it would spoil my day. And what a day it was! Abundant sunshine and cloudless cerulean skies. Not a hint of the storm that had raged a few hours earlier. Except, of course, the damage it had left behind. With a bowl of Cheerios in hand, I flung open the French doors that led to the patio and stepped outside. The lawn was littered with branches, leaves and assorted debris. A small tree had been uprooted, and it lay forlorn, felled by the storm’s fury. I found a wooden chair that wasn’t too wet and sat down to eat my breakfast. A pair of bright yellow birds flew past, darting and swooping and twittering before they disappeared in the branches of a massive elm tree. I thought they might be goldfinches, but I wasn’t sure. On the ground beneath the bird feeder, a cluster of sparrows pecked at spilled seed.

      Around the corner of the house, a chain saw started up, its obnoxious whine tearing a jagged hole in the smooth fabric of the morning. Startled by the noise, the sparrows scattered. I finished my Cheerios and went back inside to put the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Then I went in search of the chain saw.

      It wasn’t hard to find. The noise level was appalling. In Riley’s capable hands, the lime-green monster sang its own peculiar aria, the whine working its way up and down the scale. Dressed in a Hard Rock T-shirt, jeans, and safety glasses, Tom’s brother finessed the saw with smooth, efficient motions. The branch that had fallen was as big around as my waist, and the chain saw protested loudly as he sliced it into neat, foot-long segments. I stood watching him until he became aware of my scrutiny. Then he took a step back, turned off the chain saw, and removed his safety glasses.

      Birdsong filled the sudden silence, and for an instant I felt awkward, remembering what he’d witnessed last night and wishing he hadn’t. “Sleep well?” he said.

      “As well as can be expected.” I raised a hand to shade my eyes from the bright sun. I knew we were both thinking about our last meeting. I might as well bring it into the open instead of dancing around it. “Your mother,” I said, “doesn’t seem to like me.”

      Fiddling with the pull cord to the chain saw, he said, “You did seem to bring out the worst in her.”

      “It’s a talent,” I said.

      He balanced the butt of the saw against his booted foot. “I wouldn’t let her get to me if I were you.”

      “I don’t intend to. I’m indomitable.”

      He studied me with blue eyes very much like Tom’s. And the corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”

      “So where, exactly, is she this morning? Your sainted mother?”

      “She’s at work. Tessie’s Bark and Bath.”

      I raised an eyebrow. “Tessie’s Bark and Bath?”

      He grinned. “Mom’s a dog groomer.”

      “And I’ll bet she frightens the poor things into submission.” Changing the subject, I pointed to the pile of wood he’d cut. “This pine branch is enormous. What’ll you do with all this wood?”

      “Split it. Stack it. Come winter, it’ll keep the house warm.”

      “Winter,” I said. “That seems like such a foreign concept. I’m a Southern California girl. I’m used to sunshine. The beach. I’ve never done winter. Does it really get as cold as I’ve heard?”

      “Take whatever you’re expecting and multiply it by ten. February may be the shortest month, but it’s also the coldest. And the darkest. You’ll want to buy an extra-warm coat. Fur-lined boots. Thick gloves. And a wool scarf. That is, assuming you’re still here come February.”

      I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Are you saying there’s some reason I might not be here?”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “She’s not going to drive me away, Riley.”

      “I didn’t say that, either. It’s just—”

      “What?”

      His blue eyes studied me, but I couldn’t decipher what was going on behind them. “Nothing,” he said. “I have to get back to work. This tree won’t get cut up by itself.”

      I stepped away as Riley fired up the chain saw. He adjusted his safety goggles, nodded to me, and went back to cutting.

      I suspected I’d been snubbed, although I wasn’t wholly certain. But I was definitely starting to feel as if I’d stepped through the looking glass and into some otherworldly dimension where everything was a little off center.

      But I didn’t allow myself to wallow in it; I had no sympathy for people who sat around bemoaning their fates. Pity parties aren’t my style. I had far too much to do. Since I’d decided against making a run for it, I needed to unpack and try to find space for all my things in Tom’s bedroom. Our bedroom, I reminded myself.

      I headed back to the house, rummaged through my purse for a notebook and pen, and sat at the kitchen table to make a list of what needed doing. I’m a compulsive list-maker. I simply can’t seem to stop. Jeffrey used to make fun of me because of it, but list-making helps me keep my life organized and running on track. If I didn’t make lists, I’d never remember anything. I use them in both my private and business life, and my friends and coworkers always point out how utterly organized I am. I just smile enigmatically and accept the compliment, while mentally thumbing my nose at my ex-husband. What can I say? Sometimes even a mature woman has to let her inner child out once in a while.

      First on the list: Go to bank. I’d already closed my bank account and had the balance transferred electronically to Tom’s account, but I still had to drop by the bank and fill out paperwork to make it official. I’d managed to put away a small amount of money in savings, and the sale of my Miata had added a couple thousand to that. I’d hated selling my car, and I’d nearly cried when the used car salesman drove it away. But Tom had said that come winter, the sports car would be useless in СКАЧАТЬ