Midnight Valentine

4

Thought it’s impolite to make faces, my face regularly bucks protocol and contorts to some interesting shapes, as it does now. “The ‘not talking’? You mean he’s mute?”

“I mean he doesn’t speak.”

“Is he deaf?”

“No.”

“So he can speak, but he chooses not to?”

Jean sighs like she wishes there was something she could do about the situation. “To be honest, honey, I really don’t know what the problem is. He talked fine before the accident, but after the accident, he didn’t ever talk again. Maybe it’s physical, maybe it’s mental, who knows. All I know for sure is that he can hear, he understands what people are saying, he just never responds. So don’t expect it if you hire him.”

This keeps getting better. “How am I supposed to communicate with him if he won’t talk to me?”

“You tell him what you want, and he’ll do it. If he has questions, he writes on a little pad he carries with him.”

She says that as if it’s completely normal, a standard way of doing business. I push my plate away, wipe my mouth with my napkin, and take another swig of my coffee. “Thanks, but I think I’ll try the guys in Portland. I’ll get the info from Suzanne.”

“All right, honey. Suit yourself. You want anything else, or should I bring you the check?”

“Just the check, Jean, please.”

She walks away, leaving me staring pensively out into the rainy night, thinking about Moody Raincoat Guy, former local wonder boy turned mute, glowering diner patron with eyes like midnight at the bottom of a well.

I wonder if his heart is full of ghosts too.

2

The movers arrive early the next morning, and I’m occupied for the rest of the day sorting through boxes and getting things organized in the house. I barely slept, as usual, tossing and turning on the air mattress I brought with me in the car.

The sound of breaking waves isn’t nearly as soothing as I’d imagined it to be.

The Buttercup Inn sits on a massive dune near the ocean’s edge. Whatever color the old Victorian used to be, it’s a dingy gray now. The windows are rimed with a layer of salt, and everything smells of sea and sand.

And mold. The inspection showed none of the toxic black mold that can cause illness, but various walls have been colonized by patches of the furry green version of the stuff, and when I opened the basement door, the odor was so strong, I quickly slammed it shut.

I probably should’ve taken Suzanne’s advice and rented a house while work was being done on the Buttercup, but I’ve never been good at taking advice. And despite its state of disrepair, this crumbling old inn feels like home.

We’re both in ruins. We can keep each other company while repairs are made to our insides.

There are six guest rooms in the inn and one larger master suite upstairs with its own wraparound balcony. Fortunately, the master is in the best shape. It only needs mopping and some scrubbing of the bathroom countertops to make it habitable. A huge, claw-foot porcelain tub dominates the bathroom. When I run water from the tap, it comes out rusty brown, but in a few minutes turns clear. This is lucky because I love baths the way I love breathing.

I decide to leave the bath for later and give Suzanne a call about the contractors. She picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Suzanne, it’s Megan Dunn.”

“Hi, Megan! Did you arrive safely?”

“Yep. Came in last night.”

“How was the trip out?”

I think of gas stations and bad coffee, endless hours of staring at the tailgates of eighteen-wheeler trucks. “Long.”

“Yeah, that’s a hell of a drive. But I’m glad you made it. If it’s okay, I’ll come over later. I’ve got a little something for you.”

Realtors and their housewarming gifts. She better have bought me something nice, because though I got a good deal for the Buttercup due to all the repairs it needs, two acres of beachfront property still ain’t cheap.

“Sure, I’ll be here. Come over any time. I was calling to get the numbers of those other contractors in Portland you mentioned, but you can bring them with you if it’s more convenient.”

A short pause follows. “Theo wasn’t available?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t call him.”

“Why not?”

“I stopped at Cal’s Diner on the way in, and he was there, sucking up all the happiness in the place like a black hole. No matter how good a contractor he is, I’m allergic to assholes.”

Suzanne’s tone turns defensive. “He’s not an asshole. He’s just…been through a lot.”

Why is it that when a woman’s been through a lot, she’s expected to handle it gracefully with fake smiles and a stiff backbone, but when a man’s been through a lot, he’s given full license to storm around like a giant baby throwing a tantrum?

“Everyone’s been through a lot,” I tell Suzanne, my voice flat. “If you make it to thirty, you’ve got enough emotional scars to keep a therapist in business for the rest of your life. That’s no excuse to go around glaring at strangers like you want to chop off their heads.”

Her voice rises in surprise. “He glared at you?”

“Let’s put it this way: if the man had a chainsaw available, I’d be missing a few body parts.”

“You must’ve misunderstood. I mean, he’s not what you’d call friendly, but I’ve never heard him described as a glaring asshole before. He’s very hands-on with all his projects, oversees everything from start to finish, and is totally trustworthy and reliable. I recommend him to all my clients and have never heard a complaint.”