So, how had she gotten up here? Had someone carried her? The same someone now making himself (or herself?) at home in her kitchen? The thought seemed ludicrous.
Lacey hauled herself to the closet, pulled it open, finding strength through her growing fear and anger. Why was this happening? Wasn’t it enough that God had taken her son—now she had to deal with this? She was ready to put a bullet through someone’s heart if necessary. Where her fear doubted, her anger told her she could do it without blinking an eye.
She pulled down the tin box from the top shelf, nearly dropped it with her fumbling hands, tried to open it but it wouldn’t budge. She remembered then that the key was at the bottom of her jewelry box. Cursing, she gathered the box in one arm, fought her lassitude and dragged herself to the dresser. She retrieved the key from a jumble of chains and rings, only to remember that the bullets were in her underwear drawer. She groaned in frustration as she searched beneath a mountain of panties and bras. Finally, her foraging hand felt the small box and pulled it out. It was dented with age; she only hoped the bullets were still good. Did bullets even expire? She shook her head, her fear growing at her total ignorance. This gun business had never been a good plan to begin with.
She loaded the bullets just like Darryl had taught her years before. The gun had been his gift to her for those times when he had to go out of town on business. He’d put it in her reluctant hands, with a “Just in case…”
Well, here was the “in case,” right now, and she felt totally unprepared for it.
Gun finally loaded, safety off, Lacey walked to the closed door, opened it, and looked in both directions. There was no one there. Emboldened, she attempted to tiptoe to the stairs, but found she had no coordination, and instead settled on just maintaining a light tread. She eased her reluctant body down the stairwell, paused on the bottom step, leaned over to look from the foyer straight through to the kitchen. Still she saw no one. All of the lurking was beginning to make her feel foolish. After all, it was probably only her mother or Estelle in the kitchen, contrary to her earlier certainty. Maybe one of them had had a key made, thinking to look after her. But even that thought made her angry.
The uncarpeted cedar floor leading to the kitchen was cold to her feet. Her whole body felt chilled and it wasn’t just the temperature. Fear could turn the blood cold, dry the mouth, make it hard to breathe. She felt all of that as she neared the kitchen’s entryway, gun aimed. Because, in the end, she really didn’t believe it was her mother or Estelle who had trespassed in her home. She stepped fully into the kitchen, then blinked at the improbable apparition standing at her stove, a spatula in his hand.
“Sean?” Her voice was froggy, croaky.
Sean turned, his eyes immediately going to the gun aimed at him.
“What the…” he started.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked simultaneously, her anger not eased but only redirected. How in the hell had he gotten in her house?
“Look, could you not point that thing at me? And you invited me—don’t you remember?”
Still stunned, Lacey lowered the gun. Her hand was trembling. “I don’t remember you coming over. Besides, you said ‘no.’ I do remember that much.” Her head was thrumming.
The color was drained from his face; he tried to smile, but it came out weak, shaky. “I tried to call you but your number’s changed. So I came over and you opened the door, and then…well, you passed out.”
An image of Sean standing in her doorway began reemerging in her memory. And the fear began morphing into embarrassment that anyone had seen her in that state.
She walked over to the breakfast table, sat down tiredly, the adrenaline no longer pumping through her. She laid the gun down, pushed it away; then, remembering, she retrieved it to lock the safety. She laid it down again. “I don’t usually get piss drunk like that, and I’ve never, ever passed out before. God, I must have been a sight. I guess I should thank you…again.”
The smell of burning bacon filled the room.
“Shit!” Sean quickly turned to the stove, switched off the burner beneath the skillet. Lacey spotted a plate of scrambled eggs sitting on the counter. Another plate held bacon drying on a paper towel. The smell of burnt meat was making her queasy.
Sean turned back to her. “You don’t have to thank me for anything. All I did was carry you up the stairs. No big thing. By the way, I slept down here on the couch. I would have left, but…I didn’t think it would be a good idea to leave you alone like that.”
Lacey blinked at her self-appointed protector. His hair was tousled, a blond strand dangling near his left eye. His blue cardigan and jeans looked unironed but were not entirely wrinkled. “Well, I see you know how to make yourself at home in the kitchen, at least. So, was it Joan who taught you to cook?”
He shook his head. “Nah. I taught myself when I moved out. Got tired of takeout. Too expensive.” He walked to the garbage bin, tossed in the burnt bacon, then headed to the sink to wash out the burned residue before returning the skillet to the stove. He placed fresh strips of bacon in it, turned on the burner. The bacon immediately began to sizzle. Lacey half wondered if he had cooked up the whole pack, then felt ungrateful, since he was cooking it for her.
“Calvin never could cook,” she said thoughtfully. “I remember trying to teach him to bake a cobbler one time. He turned the oven too high, totally burned up the peaches.” She smiled. “It took hours to air out that sickeningly sweet smell. He didn’t fare much better with anything else. Except the occasional hot dog and box of macaroni. Those he could do OK.”
Sean didn’t smile. As a matter of fact, his face seemed to dim. The subject of Calvin was obviously still too raw for him.
“I thank you for going to all of this trouble, but I don’t think my stomach can handle anything right now. Maybe just a little coffee.”
“An empty stomach isn’t good for a hangover. You should try to eat a little something. I looked in your refrigerator for some kind of juice, but I didn’t see any. If you want, I can run out to the store and get some orange juice. That’s always good.”
“You’re way too knowledgeable about the cures for a hangover. Hopefully, not through experience.”
He shrugged as he turned over the strips. The grease popped, and she remembered the times when the searing bubbles had touched her hands, nearly cooking the flesh. She hoped he was being careful.
“Some experience,” he said quietly. “It’s not something I’m proud of.” He finished up the bacon, then walked to an overhead cabinet and pulled out a couple of plates and mugs. Then found her fork drawer and grabbed a couple. He seemed to have totally familiarized himself with her kitchen. He loaded one of the plates with eggs and a few strips of bacon, then brought it over to the table along with a fork. “Want some toast?”
She shook her head, eyeing the plate that should have been appetizing. The eggs were a perfect fluffy yellow. Much better than any she had ever made. And the bacon was the right amount of crisp, just short of being overcooked. Her bacon tended to be rubbery.
At his urging, Lacey tasted a forkful of eggs. Despite her protesting stomach, she savored the light texture, the dash of salt and…something else…then identified the extra spice as sage. He really was a good cook. That would be a plus when he married someday. Most women appreciated a man who could share the culinary burdens.
She took another bite, while he poured a cup of coffee and brought it over. He didn’t offer sugar or cream, and she didn’t feel like getting it herself. She sipped the brew gingerly, found that it was a little strong for her taste. Still, it helped wash down the eggs and settled her stomach somewhat.
He went back to his station at the counter, resting his butt against the edge, half turned to look out the window over the sink. Lacey had the feeling that he was deliberately allowing her space. It was something a servant would do.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”