What Happens at the Lake

Chapter 3-2

He squinted. “When did you buy it? I didn’t see any for sale sign.”

“I didn’t buy it. I inherited it. Fifteen years ago. From my father when he passed away.”

“Who was the old lady that lived here then?”

“She was a tenant. My mom rented it to her after my dad died. I was only thirteen at the time.”

“What happened to her?”

“Mrs. Wollman? She moved into an assisted-living facility last month. It became too much for her to live alone and take care of a house.”

“I’ll say…” He looked over his shoulder. “When was the last time you saw the place?”

“That would be never. This is my first time visiting Laurel Lake.”

Paul glanced over his shoulder again and back at me. “Who’s your contractor?”

I frowned. “Contractor? No one. I figured I’d fix the place up myself while I stay here.”

His lip twitched. “This should be interesting.”

I might’ve demolished his mailbox, and he might’ve carried a ladder over and climbed into my house so I could get in, but I wasn’t going to let the sexy jerk ridicule me. I gripped my hips, and my eyes narrowed. “What’s so interesting about me doing the work on the house myself?”

His bemused smile deepened. “It needs a little more than paint and throw pillows.”

Now he was pissing me off. “I’ll have you know, I’m very handy. I have a degree in engineering.” I left off the fact that it was pharmaceutical science engineering.

“Whatever you say…”

“How about if I say thank you for the assistance this evening and you let me into my house?”

The jerk turned his body to make room for me to pass, though he didn’t actually step out of the doorway. Mustering as much self-assuredness as possible, I straightened my back, raised my chin, and tried to ignore the tingles in my body as I shimmied past him and into the house.

Paul Bunyan flicked on the lights. I’d already decided that no matter what the inside of the house looked like, I wasn’t going to give this man the satisfaction of seeing me react. But all the gumption in the world couldn’t have masked what hit me when I got a look at the place. I gasped out loud.

Oh.

My.

God.

I blinked a few times, hoping I was imagining things. Maybe this was a bad dream? It had been a long day and I was tired, so perhaps I went inside the cute little house with the sparkling interior and took a nap… But nope, I wasn’t dreaming. Newspapers were piled from floor to ceiling in one half of the kitchen. And the kitchen was not small. The stacks were a half-dozen rows deep, running probably fifteen feet in length and eight feet high. I was so shocked by the disturbing collection that it took me a moment to notice the other half of the kitchen. Cabinet doors—painted seafoam green—dangled from hinges. The tiled backsplash was missing half the tiles, and the sink was missing the faucet. And that was just what I could take in at first glance.

My mouth hung open. A little sprucing up? That’s what the real estate agent had said. An arched doorway led to the living room. I made the mistake of peeking through, and the house started to spin a little. It looked just as bad in there, if not worse than the kitchen. There was no ceiling or walls! No damn sheetrock! Only planks of wood framing with wires hanging all over. Worse, stuff was piled high in that part of the house, too. At first I thought it was more newspapers, but when I leaned in for a closer look, I realized I was wrong.

A little sprucing up?“Are those VHS tapes?”

I guess I hadn’t expected anyone to actually answer. In my stupefied state I’d forgotten all about Paul Bunyan, so I jumped when his voice boomed.

“Yep.”

One word. One damn syllable. Yet I heard the amusement. That did it. The entirety of the day came to a boil. And the top was about to pop off this pot as I marched toward my jerk of a neighbor.

I stood toe to toe with him and jabbed my pointer into his chest. “You think this is funny? Do you?” It pissed me off that in the middle of my rage, I noticed how hard said chest was underneath my finger. The damn thing felt like a brick wall. But no…just no. I forced myself to ignore it and continue. “I drove fifteen hours in traffic, with my cell phone buzzing like an insistent mosquito at my ear, got a flat tire, the air conditioning in my rental broke, I hit your stupid mailbox, and then the key breaks off in the door. I had to slither over to the grumpy neighbor to borrow a ladder just so I can get in. And when I finally make it inside, the house is a shambles and clearly has been occupied by someone with a hoarding issue. And as if all of that’s not enough, not enough of a shitty day to kill a person’s spirit, then you enjoying this moment has pushed me over the edge.” I pulled my finger from the human oak tree and jabbed it back in with each staccato word.

“I.”

Jab.“Am.”

Jab.

“Done.”

Jab.“You.”

Jab.“Suck.”

At least I’d managed to wipe the smirk from the guy’s face. Though he didn’t say a word. He just stood there staring at me. After a solid minute, he finally spoke.

“You staying here tonight?”

My eyes widened. “Of course I’m staying here!” I screamed like a lunatic. “Where the hell else would I go?”

He looked at me for a few heartbeats, then turned and walked out. I thought that was the end of things until I heard a car door opening. Ten seconds later, Paul Bunyan appeared in my doorway again with my suitcases.

I was rendered as speechless as when I’d walked into the house. The man set the bags down in the kitchen and disappeared again. A minute later he returned, this time with the blow-up bed I’d packed and a box. He added those to my suitcase pile and disappeared yet again. After two more trips, he caught my eyes and gave a curt nod. “You have a good night.”

Then he was gone, door pulled shut behind him and all.

I shook my head as I looked around the house. What the heck had happened in the last fifteen minutes?