I roll over and pry my eyelids apart, taking in the fact that the windows have toile curtains instead of crappy roller shades. Not my bedroom. Goat farm. Right. Close eyes and return to sleep. Except those fancy curtains aren't shutting out the morning sun, and there's still the mother-loving birds tweeting merrily.
The shower starts running in the bathroom attached to my bedroom, and I'm curious who's inside. I didn't know I was sharing with anyone, but after all, a freeloader can't expect a private suite.
I poke at the sore spot on my chin, which promises to be an impressive zit by the end of the day. I'm pre-menstrual, which explains both my skin eruption and headache. Maybe I can also use PMS to excuse my sorry behavior last night. At least I only have to face Dad and Renata this morning. Michael, Harmony and Seth will have gone home, which doesn't explain why my shower is running. Dad and Renata have the master bedroom down the hall with their own bathroom. Maybe their shower is busted. The plumbing in this place must be ancient.
Minutes later the shower shuts off—someone is serious about water conservation—and I wait for the sound of a hairdryer or electric razor. Silence again except for those maniacal birds. There's no clock in my room so I reach for my phone and see it's only a little after seven. I'm never up this early on days when I don't have to work, but between the light and noise, I won't be getting more sleep today.
This magical mattress, slightly lumpy and surprisingly cozy, helped me sleep through the night. I should get up and go for a run, but instead I lie under the quilt, staring at the ceiling. There's a water stain above my bed that suggests a roof leak. An old house like this has got to be a money pit.
Dad never wanted to buy a place in Red Hook, our neighborhood in Brooklyn, even though it would have been a great investment. He loved that a super would come and fix whatever was broken in our place and didn't want the responsibility for leaking pipes and busted radiators. Now look at him. This place has to be at least a hundred years old.
I consider staying in bed a bit longer, but I'm fully awake and desperately need caffeine. The scent of fresh coffee wafts through the air ducts and up the stairs, beckoning me to the kitchen. I slept in my underwear and a tank top so I pull on my favorite pajama shorts with R2D2 on them and head downstairs. Thankfully, the kitchen is empty because, as a rule, I refuse to make conversation before caffeination. It's better for everyone that way. I locate the coffee pot, fill up a pretty blue ceramic mug and inhale deeply. Someone has good taste in beans.
Dad and Renata are probably in the barn doing the morning milking. They mentioned yesterday that the goats get milked twice a day--once in the early morning and once in the late afternoon. Dad was always an early riser, too, conditioned by his years of teaching. When I was old enough to stay in the house alone, he took up running and would wake up at four forty-five every morning and put in a couple miles before showering for work. When he turned fifty, he slowed it down to speed walking to save his knees. I wonder if he still exercises here or if his entire daily routine has changed.
The kitchen is snug and peaceful, and if I were a normal person I'd sit by the window, take in the view of the pasture and contemplate life. Maybe I'd do a morning meditation or read one of the magazines artfully stacked on a kitchen stool. I certainly wouldn't contemplate rooting through the drawers and cabinets in Renata's kitchen to find out more about her and this farm.
I pick up a copy ofMother Earthand flip through the pages, but it's no use. I'm not a normal person, and the pull to snoop is too strong. I can't help it. I want to know about the woman who has my father's heart in her hands.
The cookbooks stored on a shelf in the kitchen island are supremely healthy: macrobiotic, paleo, vegan. Dad isn't in danger of cardiac issues here, but he might starve. The man has never eaten tofu or beans voluntarily, and, believe me, I've tried. The pantry is lined with glass jars containing grains, nuts, beans and flours of varying shades and textures. It's the most artistic food storage I've ever seen. I'd bet money that Renata does yoga and drinks kombucha tea. She'd fit right in with Brooklyn life.
I'm about to wrap up what has been an unfulfilling search when I come upon a notebook in the last drawer I open. It's spiral bound with a flowered cover, just the place someone of Renata's generation would write down notes. To snoop on millennials, you wouldn't get far without stealing their devices. Just as I'm deciding whether it's a major violation to look inside the notebook (who would keep a private journal in a kitchen drawer?), I hear someone clear his throat.
"Looking for something?"
Seth is towering behind me with damp hair and a suspicious look on his face that makes me feel ashamed. I couldn't appear more guilty if my hand was literally inside a cookie jar.
"Sugar?" I retract my hand from the drawer and close it softly.
He moves toward me until he's about an inch away, and I hope he doesn't hear my breath catch. For a second, I'm not sure what he's about to do to me, and, even more confusing, I'm not sure what I want him to do. He smells like soap and something spicier, perhaps deodorant or shampoo. Although they're pleasant, clean scents, they don't explain the reaction I'm having to his proximity. Because his blistering gaze is peering into my dark soul, I avert my eyes downward to his chest. The heather gray t-shirt he has on is worn thin and clinging to his pectoral muscles because he's probably still steamy from the shower and happens to be built like a brick wall. Crap. Looking down was a terrible mistake.
Before I can do something horrifying, like press myself against his broad chest and moan with pleasure, he reaches around my back and opens a cabinet door. The soft sleeve of his t-shirt brushes my cheek, and I let myself inhale more of him. This is what happens when you're a raging heterosexual woman who has put herself on a humping hiatus. When his arm snakes back around, he's holding out a ceramic sugar bowl dotted with delicate pink flowers.
"Thanks."
My voice sounds weirdly loud and cheerful. I absentmindedly touch the place where his shirt met my skin, as if it has left a mark there.
It's too much, this kind of masculinity—the tendons in his forearms, the callouses and nicks on his hands, that scruffy facial hair that's not quite a beard or a goatee, but something in-between. When he backs away, I sigh in both relief and disappointment.
I usually drink my coffee black and unsweetened, but, having been caught in a lie, I'm forced to add sugar. I sprinkle in as little as possible under his watchful eye. Having to defile my coffee makes me resent Seth, even if it's unfair of me. Coffee is sacred.
"Don't be shy, take as much as you want."
There's a gleam in his eye that tells me he knows. He knows that coffee is meant to be bitter, like my heart.
I stir the coffee, my spoon clinking against the side of the mug.
"I just like it a tiny bit sweet."
"You're up early," he says, as if to hint that I got up before everyone else to snoop around.
How offensive. My kitchen investigation was purely spontaneous.
"So are you."
I'm determined to keep eye contact with him and not blink. Excessive blinking is a tell for liars, and he suspects me already. Those dark brown eyes though. It's like they're drilling down into my brain, dredging up every bad deed I've ever done. Seth should consider a career as an interrogator. I squirm under his gaze, trying desperately to hide how much he's rattled me.
Seth gives up our staring game first with a little shake of his head like either he's seen enough or can't sort me out—which I take as a small victory—and grabs a mug to pour himself some coffee. I'm jealous of the fact that he gets to drink his without sugar. He does add milk from a pitcher in the fridge and stirs it in gently with a spoon, somehow managing not to clink the sides.
