She slammed the shovel into the wall of snow and ice and began to carve a path out of the house. It was hard going; within a matter of minutes she could feel the sweat dripping down her back, her arms ached, and she was certain that she’d have blisters on her palms once she was done.
After getting through three feet of snow, Emily began to find her rhythm. There was something cathartic about the task, about the momentum needed to shovel the snow. Even the physical unpleasantness seemed to matter less when she could begin to see how her efforts were being rewarded. Back in New York her favorite form of exercise was running on the treadmill, but this was more of a workout than any she’d had before.
Emily managed to carve out a ten-foot-long path through the grounds at the back of the house.
But she looked up in despair to see the pipe outlet was a good forty feet away – and she was already spent.
Trying not to despair too much, she decided to rest for a moment to catch her breath. As she did so, she caught sight of the caretaker’s house farther along the garden, hidden beside evergreens. A small plume of smoke rose from the chimney and warm light spilled from the windows. Emily couldn’t help but think of Daniel inside, drinking his tea, staying toasty warm. He would help her, she had no doubt about that, but she wanted to prove herself. He’d mocked her mercilessly the evening before, and had in all likelihood been the one to call Eric in the first place. He must have perceived her to be a damsel in distress, and Emily didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of being proved right.
But her stomach was complaining again and she was exhausted. Far too exhausted to carry on. Emily stood in the river she’d created, suddenly overwhelmed by her predicament, too proud to call for the help she needed, too weak to do what needed to be done herself. Frustration mounted inside of her until it turned to hot tears. Her tears made her even more angry, angry at herself for being useless. In her frustrated mind, she berated herself and, like a petulant and stubborn child, resolved to return home as soon as the snow had melted.
Discarding the shovel, Emily stomped back into the house, her sneakers soaked through. She kicked them off by the door then went back into the living room to warm up by the fire.
She slumped down onto the dusty couch and grabbed her phone, preparing herself to call Amy and tell her the oh-so-expected news that she’d failed her first and only attempt at being self-sufficient. But the phone was out of battery. Stifling a screech, Emily threw her useless cell back onto the couch, then flopped onto her side, utterly defeated.
Through her sobbing, Emily heard a scraping noise coming from outside. She sat up, dried her eyes, then ran to the window and looked out. Right away she saw that Daniel was there, her discarded shovel in his grasp, digging through the snow and continuing what she had failed to complete. She could hardly believe how quickly he was able to clear the snow, how adept he was, how well suited to the task at hand, like he had been born to work the land. But her admiration was short-lived. Instead of feeling grateful toward Daniel or pleased to see that he had managed to clear a path all the way to the outlet pipe, she felt angry with him, directing her own impotence at him instead of inwardly.
Without even thinking about what she was doing, Emily grabbed her soggy sneakers and heaved them back on. Her mind was racing with thoughts; memories of all her useless ex-boyfriends who hadn’t listened to her, who’d stepped in and tried to “save” her. It wasn’t just Ben; before him had been Adrian, who was so overprotective he was stifling, and then there was Mark before him, who treated her like a fragile ornament. Each of them had learned of her past – her father’s mysterious disappearance being just the tip of the iceberg – and had treated her like something that needed protecting. It was all those men in her past who had made her this way and she wasn’t going to stand for it anymore.
She stormed out into the snow.
“Hey!” she cried. “What are you doing?”
Daniel paused only briefly. He didn’t even look back over his shoulder at her, just kept on shoveling, before calmly saying, “I’m clearing a path.”
“I can see that,” Emily shot back. “What I mean is why, when I told you I didn’t need your help?”
“Because otherwise you’d freeze,” Daniel replied simply, still not looking at her. “And so would the water, now that I’ve turned it on.”
“So?” Emily retorted. “What’s it to you if I freeze? It’s my life. I can freeze if I want to.”
Daniel was in no hurry to interact with Emily, or feed into the argument she was so clearly trying to start. He just kept on shoveling, calmly, methodically, as unrattled by her presence as he would have been if she hadn’t been there at all.
“I’m not prepared to sit back and let you die,” Daniel replied.
Emily folded her arms. “I think that’s a little bit melodramatic, don’t you? There’s a big difference between getting a bit cold and dying!”
Finally, Daniel rammed the shovel into the snow and straightened up. He met her eyes, his expression unreadable. “That snow was piled so high it was covering the exhaust. You manage to get that boiler on, it would go right back into the house. You’d be dead of carbon poisoning in about twenty minutes.” He said it so matter-of-factly it took Emily aback. “If you want to die, do it on your own time. But it’s not happening on my watch.” Then he threw the shovel to the ground and headed back to the carriage house.
Emily stood there, watching him going, feeling her anger melt away only to be replaced with shame. She felt terrible for the way she’d spoken to Daniel. He was only trying to help and she’d thrown it all back in his face like a bratty child.
She was tempted to run to him, to apologize, but at that moment the oil truck appeared at the end of the street. Emily felt her heart soar, surprised at how happy she felt by the mere fact that she was getting oil delivered. Being in the house in Maine was about as different from her life in New York as it could be.
Emily watched as Eric leapt down from the truck, surprisingly agile for someone so old. He was dressed in oil-stained overalls like a character from a cartoon. His face was weather-beaten but kindly.
“Hi,” he said in the same unsure manner he’d had on the phone.
“I’m Emily,” Emily said, offering her hand to shake his. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Eric just nodded, and got straight to work setting up the oil pump. He clearly wasn’t one for talking, and Emily stood there uncomfortably watching him work, smiling weakly every time she noticed his gaze flick briefly to her as though confused by the fact she was even there.
“Can you show me to the boiler?” he said once everything was in place.
Emily thought of the basement, of her hatred of the huge machines within it that powered the house, of the thousands of spiders who’d strung their webs there throughout the years.
“Yes, this way,” she replied in a small, thin voice.
Eric got out his flashlight and together they went down into the creepy, dark basement. Just like Daniel, Eric seemed to have a skilled hand with the mechanical stuff. Within seconds, the enormous boiler kicked into life. Emily couldn’t help herself; she threw her arms around the elderly man.
“It works! I can’t believe it works!”
Eric stiffened at her touch. “Well, you shouldn’t be messing with an old house like this,” he replied.
Emily loosened her grip. She didn’t even care that yet another person was telling her to stop, to give up, that she wasn’t good enough. The house now had heat along with water, and that meant she didn’t need to return to New York as a failure.
“Here,” Emily said, grabbing her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
Eric just shook his head. “It’s all covered,” he replied.
“Covered by who?” Emily asked.
“Just someone,” Eric replied evasively. He clearly felt uncomfortable being caught up in the unusual situation. Whoever had paid him to come over and stock