Dark Hollows

Chapter 3

“Hello?”

“Maggie, it’s Jacob Reese.”

“Ah, Mr Coffee! How’s it going? Calling to talk smack about the costume contest?”

“Actually, I called to see if you’ve got any rooms available over there at the Elmwood Hotel.”

There’s an understandable pause before she replies. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I had a pipe burst in the cottage, and I need to redirect some guests for a few nights.”

“Well, the only thing I have available is the Rose Suite.”

“The Rose Suite?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, Maggie. When I need a room, the only one available happens to be the most expensive room in your hotel?”

“You think I’m lying?”

“No. Sorry. That came out way too— I’m really sorry, Maggie. It’s been a long couple of days, and I’m on edge.”

“Listen,” she says, her tone softening not one bit, “normally I wouldn’t have anything available, but that rent-a-room bullshit is creeping into The Hollows. You’ve got people staying at your place all the time. Now, other people are renting out their spare rooms. So, yeah, I have a room available, but only because of people like you. The Rose Suite is all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

She’s right, and I feel like a jerk. “Maggie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were lying. Of course, I’ll take the Rose Suite. How many consecutive nights can I get?”

Now, her tone softens. “Wow. That must be some burst pipe. You call Stuart yet?”

Stuart Delholm is the local plumber. If I say I called Stuart, she might run into him, and ask about the cottage. I want to keep everything under wraps.

“No. It’s too big a job for Stuart. I called a bigger operation out of Burlington.”

“Jeez. That’s rough. Let me see how many nights I’ve got …”

I hear her typing. I can just imagine her at the front desk of the Elmwood, back perfectly straight, smile plastered on her cheeks as she greets incoming guests.

“I’ve got twelve consecutive nights, starting tonight.”

“I’ll take ten.”

Ten nights is the minimum cancellation notice policy for Be Our Guest.

Maggie lets out a light whistle. “Damn, Jacob.”

I’m sure she feels bad for me, but won’t have a problem pocketing the three grand I’m giving her.

“Do you want my credit card?” I ask.

“Nah. I know you’re good for it. You can drop by the hotel whenever you want.”

“Thanks.”

“Jacob?”

“Yeah?”

“Listen, despite what I said a little bit ago, I really am sorry. I know that it’s going to be a hard hit for your place’s reputation.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back up in no time.”

*

After hanging up with Maggie, I call Be Our Guest and give them the lie about the burst pipe, but reassure them that I’ve found comparable accommodations for my guests. I also cancel all reservations for the next three months. The representative on the other end of the line is dumbfounded. I keep getting passed up the ladder until I’m talking to a regional executive who says that Be Our Guest will send a plumber and an inspector to get me back up in three days. That’s how important my place is to them. I turn him down.

Then, the strong-arming attempts begin. He starts talking about Be Our Guest’s policies and that I may be in violation, but I’m ready for it. I’m doing everything by the book. He points out that I’m turning down thousands of dollars. I tell him I’m aware of that, as well. He argues that even if I do get back up after three months, my reputation might be permanently damaged unless I can get everything repaired as soon as possible. I’m not swayed. I’m going dark for three months.

Hopefully, this will all be sorted by then … whatever “this” is.

*

It’s not my day to be at the shop, but I want the distraction. I can’t sit at the house, staring out the window, waiting for Laura to wander out of the forest.

Sandy lights up when she sees Murphy and I walk in.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, steaming a cappuccino.

“Wanted to help out.”

She motions to the growing line of customers. “Have at it.”

I hop behind the counter. Murphy retreats to his bed near the register. Instantly, he starts to receive the fawning attention he is accustomed to. I always know when someone is petting him because I can hear his tail thumping on the floor.

I go about taking orders, changing filters, and unloading the small dishwasher behind the counter. I’m good for a while, but as the day drags on, it becomes painfully obvious that I’m off my game. I can’t keep the image of Laura out of my head.

It can’t be her. It’s not possible.

“So, that was one chai latte, a caramel mocha, and an iced tea?” I ask, repeating an order to a customer.

The old lady blinks at me from behind her thick glasses. “No. It was a regular latte for me, and a hot chocolate for my husband.”

“I had the chai latte,” the guy in front of her says.

“I had a hot tea, but not an iced tea,” the lady behind the old woman chimes in.

I shake my head. “Right, right, right. Sorry. My bad.”

I turn to start correcting my mistakes and notice that Sandy is looking at me.

“You all right, boss?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just not firing on all cylinders today.”

She’s slow to look away, but is forced to when she hands change to a customer.

I whip up the latte, steam the milk for the hot chocolate, and hand it to the guy.

“Here you go,” I say. “Latte and a hot chocolate.”

“Nope,” he says, and points to the old lady behind him, who’s looking at me like I’m crazy.

I curse under my breath. “Sorry. Here’s your latte and your hot—

“—chocolate,” the barista said, handing the Styrofoam cup to Laura. I was already putting cream and sugar in my coffee at the station next to the counter.

We found a small table at the back of the coffee shop, which was located on Franklin Street, next to Wilton University’s campus.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking coffee at eight o’clock in the evening,” Laura said, sliding into the seat. “You’re gonna be up all night.”

“Then so will you,” I replied with my best roguish smile.

She blushed, and took a long sip from her hot chocolate.

Afterwards, we took our time and simply wandered through Rutland. We strolled down Merchants Row, laughing at the drunken students staggering out of the different bars. The conversation flowed, but there was the tension of who would be the first to say it—a tension that grew as it got later.

“So, where to?” I asked.

“My roommate is visiting her parents. Sooooo … back to my place?”

From that moment on, we knew where the evening was heading. We didn’t say much else, and I tried to not quicken my stride in anticipation. It was a little corny going back to her dorm room, but those blue eyes and red hair wiped away any reservations I had.

We arrived at the door to her dorm, and she swiped the key card over the sensor. There was a buzzing and the lock clicked. She pulled the door open, and we entered the foyer. She quickly led me off to the right, down a short hallway, and into the stairwell. As we reached the first landing, I wrapped my arm around her waist. She turned to face me and we kissed. We staggered against the wall. Our hands were everywhere, and we fought to balance our kissing with the need to breathe. A door opened somewhere above us. We tried to separate, but it was useless. A mousy brunette descended the stairs and walked past.

“Get a room,” she muttered.

“Almost there!” Laura laughed.

The brunette rolled her eyes at us. Laura flipped her the bird. I laughed into the nape of her neck. She gave me one more kiss and took my hand.

“Come on,” she said, pulling me up the stairs.

We came out into the third-floor hallway. It was lit by harsh halogen lamps. She gave me a quick glance over her shoulder as she moved from one pool of light to another. Every step was foreplay. I was hypnotized by the sway of her hips and the bouncing curls of her hair.

We passed door after door. Mounted on the wall next to each one was a small whiteboard. Some of the whiteboards had messages written on them. Most were short, telling the occupant how awesome they were. Others had funny quotes. I glimpsed one as I passed that read, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. ~ Romans 15:13”. Under which, someone had written, “God don’t give a shit.”

We arrived at the door marked #317. She took out a key, slid it into the lock, twisted, and pushed it open.

Upon first glance, it was the model of your typical college dorm. There was that invisible line that ran down the center of the room, dividing it in half. The left half had a total “emo” motif, with posters for The Misfits and My Chemical Romance on the walls. The other side was more standard and subdued, except for the large poster of Jesus on the wall next to the bed. He was ascending to Heaven from the cross, surrounded by angels. It sucked all the attention from the room, so much so that I forgot about my erection.

“Um … okay … Which side is yours?”

“Guess.”

I pointed to the “emo” side. “This one?”

“Nope.”

“Seriously?” I asked, fixated on the Jesus poster.

“Yeah. I know it’s a little much, but it’s only in case my mom makes a surprise visit.”

“Does that happen often?”

“She insists on keeping tabs on me.”

Hooking up was still in the cards, but I felt that we had taken a detour and I was intrigued.

“So, you’re saying that poster is only for your mother’s benefit?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not a believer?”

“Nope.”

Her tone. Her eyes. Her slight frown. There was a lot in that “nope”.

“Interesting. Well, let’s see what else I can find out about you,” I said, scanning the shelves and desk.

She dropped onto the bed. “Do your worst.”

“Hmmmmm …” I said, tapping my finger to my chin as I moved to the photos on the desk. I focused on a silver-framed photo of her in a cheerleading outfit.

“Cheerleader?”

“Brilliant, Sherlock.”

I moved to another photo of her with an older woman who had beady eyes and thin brown hair. “Mother?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s your dad?” I regretted the question as soon as it escaped my lips, but she was unfazed.

“Died when I was three.”

“Oh … sorry.”

She shrugged. “Never really knew him.”

I went to the row of scrapbooks on the shelf. There were five of them, each with a different pattern. I slid the first one off the shelf and opened it. On the first page was the same beady-eyed woman from the photo on the desk. She was holding a baby in her arms and smiling, while a man in his forties stood behind them.

“Ah, there’s Dad.”

I started flipping through the pages. I watched her grow up through the photos. There were a few of her as a baby, her face smeared with birthday cake.

“Wow. You really liked cake.”

She lay back on the bed. “All right. Enough.”

“Hold on, hold on.”

I flipped a couple more pages. There were photos of her learning to ride a bike, and more than a few of her at church. I came to a photo of Laura dressed as an angel, standing in front of a Christmas tree. If I had to guess, I would have said she was about five. I held the book open to her. “Now that is adorable.”

She reached for the scrapbook.

“No, no, no, no,” I said, pulling it away.

She watched me with a delicious smile.

I snapped the scrapbook closed and returned it to its spot. I continued down the shelf to an ornate wooden box. The letters ‘L.A.’ in intricate script were burned into the lid. I reached to open it.

“Please, don’t,” she said.

I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or playful. Being the jerk that I was, I went ahead and lifted the lid.

A delicate ballerina in a green dress on a spindle rose and began to slowly spin over a glittering glass-beaded surface. There was a mirror mounted to the underside of the lid that was surrounded by a mosaic of blue glass. The mirror and blue glass caught the light that bounced from the beads and scattered soft spots of light over the ballerina. The notes of a haunting waltz filled the room. It was something out of a dream. I was hypnotized by the tiny figure with arms outstretched, slowly twisting to the melody.

“I told you not to open it.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“My dad gave it to me. Mom said it was the only thing that could get me to sleep as a baby.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the ballerina. The slow rotation, and the way the figure caught the light, gave the illusion that she was actually moving to the tune.

“Hey,” Laura said, snapping me out of it.

I turned.

She was lying back on the bed with a seductive smile. “I’m right here.”

Everything came back into focus.

I closed the box and moved to the bed. She laughed, and we were right back to where we were on the stairs—breathlessly kissing, our tongues darting over one another. Our hands wouldn’t stop. She pulled her shirt over her head, revealing an emerald bra.

I shook my head. “Okay, I have to ask—do you coordinate your bra with your hair? Because that is too perfect.”

“Shut up,” she said and bit my lower lip.

More kissing. More fumbling. My shirt flew above my shoulders and landed on the floor. It was a race to see who could unbutton the other’s jeans first. I won by virtue of the fact that I had a belt and she didn’t. I flicked the tab of her zipper down in an exaggerated fashion, which created a cartoonish sound effect. She laughed and pulled my belt through the loops of my jeans in her own ridiculous gesture. We slowed. The kissing became more passionate. More purposeful.

My phone buzzed.

I pulled back a fraction.

“Let it go,” she whispered, trying to catch up in the “zipper race”.

It buzzed, again.

I sighed and lowered my head to avoid another kiss. “I can’t. It’s my work phone.”

She took my face in her hands. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and pulled away.

She let out an exasperated sigh.

I took the phone from my pocket and checked my messages.

Need to pay a visit to Dara. Account past due.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

It was code from Reggie. Our messages were always coded. There was no Dara, but I knew what the message meant.

“I’m really sorry, but I have to go. It’s urgent,” I said.

I stood up and found my shirt and belt. After hastily putting myself back together, I went for the door.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I turned back to look at her.

Her sparkling eyes. Her hair draping over the pillow. Her smooth pale skin. She was one of—no. She was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.

I went over to kiss her.

“I’m really sorry,” I said.

We kissed, and she playfully bit my lip again.

“One day, you’re going to have to tell me what it is you do,” she said.

“I told you. I do IT consulting. They call at all hours of the day and night.”

Her face clouded. “No. What you really do.”

I kissed her one last time. “Gotta go.”

I finished latching my belt, and went for the door. Before stepping through, I glanced back. She was still lying on the bed in her bra and unfastened jeans.

She waved her fingers as if to say, “toodle-oo”.

“Dammit,” I whispered, and left.

*

The hour-long drive to Lyndon, home of Lyndon University, was excruciating. All I could think about was the image of Laura, lying on that bed.

I was finally able to put it out of my mind as I arrived at the squat, brick house a few blocks from the small campus. I got out, walked up onto the porch, and knocked on the door.

It took way too long, but the door was finally answered by Mattie Donovan.

Mattie appeared to have aged ten years from when we used to hang out just last year. He was still a perpetual slacker, and I told him that he needed to get his act together if he wanted to keep doing business. He was still a good guy, just sloppy.

His eyes were bloodshot, and the smell of weed emanated from the open door.

“Hey, Mattie,” I said.

“… shit,” he replied.

“Good to see you, too.”

I stepped past him into the living room, and things were already wrong.

Two guys I had never seen before were sitting on the couch, completely baked, and staring at the television. The coffee table in front of them was littered with spent cigarettes, bags of chips, a bong, and a glass vial next to a pipe. The only sources of illumination in the room were the television and some Christmas lights strung around the borders of the ceiling. Bedsheets covered the windows.

Mattie closed the door behind me.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “We’ve got weed, but if you want something harder, I think we have some—”

“No.”

“You want a soda or something?”

“Mattie, you know why I’m here.”

“Um … no, man. I don’t, uh, I don’t know.”

“You’re behind on your payment.”

He scratched the back of his neck, trying hard to feign confusion. This wasn’t like Mattie. He could be a fuck-up from time to time, but he had never lied to me.