Charlie glances up from his reading half-heartedly. Then, as he absorbs the reality of Gretchen Acorn in apparently nothing but a towel, she wins his full attention. He uncrosses his legs, and the book falls with a loudthumpto the floor.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” he asks, directing the question not to Gretchen but to the book—The Great Pyramids of Minnesotaby Hollis Hollenbeck, she recognizes, having recently read it herself after an exuberant redheaded woman foisted a copy upon her in the National Archives cafeteria—as Charlie leans down to grab it from where it’s tented itself on the yellowed linoleum.
Attracted. He’s definitely attracted to her. And she’s sure he doesn’t want to be, because it’s not like she wants to find him appealing either. It isn’t exactly convenient. That the sleeves of the awful green-and-pink sweater are now pushed up to reveal strong forearms (and are those tattoos?) makes her downright annoyed. But this is ultimately good, in a way. Because if he’s attracted to her, it’s another thing she can use to draw him in and convince him to trust her. She’s certainly not above subtly exploiting Charlie’s weaknesses to ease her way. As long as hearts never get involved—which, why would they?—a little light seduction doesn’t break her Rule.
Everett wanders over to the counter and does his freaky float-sitting thing atop it. He has both hands pressed to his mouth, covering his wide grin. The scene playing out between Charlie and Gretchen might be some of the most interesting non-television drama he’s witnessed in years, if not decades.
“My changes of clothes are all wet too,” she says, wrapping her arms around her chest to ensure the towel stays put. It also pushes her breasts together more, emphasizing the cleavage peeking out over the top. “I was hoping I could maybe borrow—”
Before she can finish the sentence, Charlie springs up and leaves the room. The sound of his heavy footsteps stops a short distance down the hall. There’s a slight creak as a door opens.
Everett leans over until his head is sticking through the wall. “He’s in the laundry room,” he says, straightening again. Then adds, “Oh, right,” as he remembers he’s supposed to be quiet and refastens his lips, throwing away a second imaginary key. This one imaginary-lands near the fridge.
Charlie returns to the kitchen and hands her a red-and-black buffalo plaid flannel shirt. Pretty staid, considering she was half expecting another crime against color theory. The soft, worn material is still slightly warm from the dryer.
“Keep it,” he says, retaking his seat at the table and picking up his book again.
“Oh. Thank you.” Shirt off his back, indeed.
“Only because I don’t want to give you any excuse to come back here ever again.”
“And to think I was starting to consider that you might not be a jerkass after all.” That gets his attention. Charlie’s eyes meet hers with that same look from earlier that makes her blood simmer.
“Gretch, I don’t think this is—” Everett starts, but as soon asshe shoots a quelling look his way, he claps his hands over his mouth again, muffling the rest of his sentence into “ummummfrurfururmurmm.”
If Everett was about to warn her this isn’t the best way to lead into the whole curse discussion, she doesn’t need to hear it. She can already tell by the responding furrow of the farmer’s brow and the way his arms cross over his chest that he has his hackles all the way up again. Angering him might earn her his full focus and make it feel like there’s something hot and carbonated running through her veins. But it’s certainly not going to make him receptive to what she has to say. She should know better—doesknow better.Get your head in the game, Gretchen, geez.
“Sorry,” she says, biting her lower lip. His eyes catch the movement and linger on her mouth for one second, two seconds, three before he remembers to glance away. “Today’s been... unexpected, to say the least. Though I realize that’s not an excuse for being rude, especially when you’ve been so kind to me. I know you’ve asked me to leave, but I can’t until I talk to you about something. Something really important. Like, life-and-death important.”
As she speaks, she maneuvers the flannel shirt over her arms and grabs it at the center to close it. Once she has a few buttons buttoned at the top, she allows the towel underneath to fall to the ground. Charlie’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and he redirects his focus to the book in his hands as if it’s a life preserver and he’s noted the sea looks particularly choppy today.
Well, at least he seems to likesomethingabout her. She bends over to pick up the fallen towel, aware that the shirt’s hem rides up to reveal a tiny sliver of butt cheek in the process. Charlie can’t look away quite fast enough this time when she stands back up and holds the towel between her fingertips.Caught you. Suppressingthe wolflike grin that tugs at the corner of her mouth, she asks innocently, “Where should I put this?”
He clears his throat. “Throw it over a chair. I’ll take care of it later. What do you need to talk to me about? Make it quick. I have a lot of work to do and you’ve already taken up almost an hour of my day.”
She looks to Everett.Here goes nothing.
“Right. Sorry. So, um, funny story. Sort of. Maybe not.” Her attempt at sheepishness doesn’t soften Charlie’s stony expression, so she seamlessly drops it, adopting a more direct tone to signal she isn’t trying to waste his time. “I was on my way to the main road to catch my ride back to the city and I literally ran into the ghost who’s been causing trouble around here. His name is Everett. Everett Waybill. He’s your distant cousin, actually. A contemporary of your great-grandfather’s. And he’s right over there.” The spirit himself, still atop the counter, gives a little wave even though Gretchen is the only one who can see it. “He, uh, says hello.”
Charlie doesn’t bother looking where she’s pointing. Instead his eyes narrow, and his lips part. To say something cutting, no doubt. Gretchen holds up a hand to stop him. “Wait, let me finish before you start calling me names and threatening to have me arrested or whatever, okay?”
She gets a slow blink in response that’s probably the closest thing to assent she can expect.
“So it turns out Everett is stuck haunting the farm for eternity because he tried to move to Hollywood in the 1920s and his great-aunt cursed him for it. Like, actually cursed him. The reason he’s been sabotaging your efforts to sell Gilded Creek is because the same fate will supposedly befall you if you leave. The curse dictates that this place has to stay in the Waybill family, andanyone who tries to abandon their responsibility to it by leaving with no intention of returning without another Waybill taking over meets with an immediate tragic death and becomes a spirit tied to the land forever.” Gretchen gestures Vanna White–style toward the ghost on the counter. “Which is what happened to Everett. Did I miss anything, Ev? Was that all correct?”
Everett opens his mouth, remembers his vow of silence, and instead gives her two thumbs-up and a nod.
“Yeah, that’s about the whole of it,” she says. “So, you see, Mr. Waybill, I know I came here saying I was going to help you sell your farm, but actually, you need to take Gilded Creek off the market immediately. And assuming you don’t have a Waybill relative willing to move in, you’re gonna need to stick around for... well, the rest of your natural life. Anyway, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s what Everett said I needed to tell you. I actually wound up in that damn puddle because he pushed me in, so I’d be forced to come back to the house and talk to you. And now that you know everything, I’m more than happy to be on my way. Unless you have any questions before I go?”
Every inch of Charlie’s body is so tense she wouldn’t be surprised if a speck of dust settling on his person would be enough to crack him into a thousand pieces. “I have to hand it to you, Acorn,” he says after what feels like minutes but must be only a few seconds of silence. His voice is deep and quiet, that barely leashed tone from the porch earlier that makes something inside her crackle and pop like Rice Krispies in milk. “You have some real goddamn nerve.” He’s half standing now, palms flat on the table. It’s not the right thing to focus on at the moment, she knows, but Gretchen is completely entranced by his forearms again, the way the muscles there flex as he leans slightly forward. There’s ababy goat tattooed on his left one, and a sunflower beneath it, above his wrist. Both are in a traditional style with bright colors, reminiscent of a stereotypical old-school sailor. Charlie starts speaking again, pulling her attention back to his face before she can make out the letters printed beneath the goat. “I tell you to leave, so you throw yourself into a puddle and come here all teary-eyed with a story about a ghost and a family curse to get a second chance at trying to scam me?”
“I am not trying to scam you.” Gretchen looks him directly in the eye to make it clear she’s being genuine. Never mind that she would do that even if she were lying; she’s very good at it. Sometimes at night when she can’t sleep, she stands in front of a mirror and says things she knows are untrue to reassure herself she has no tells. If she does, she hasn’t spotted them yet. “Whatever you might think of me, it’s imperative that you believe I am being one hundred percent honest with you right now.”
He stands fully, again somehow feeling like a larger presence than he actually is. Even at the opposite side of the table, her heart thumps as if he’s only inches away and staring down at her.
DANGER, DANGER, DANGER!
“So you’re being honest with meright now. Which means you weren’t being honest earlier. Which is it, Acorn? Am I supposed to trust you or not?”
