“Yes,” Evie said, and slapped him on the arm again, harder this time.
The inside of the cottage was warm and bright. There was electricity here, Larry explained, lines running through the swamp that had been maintained. And there was well water, but he suggested she drink the bottled water stacked in cases in one corner. The cottage was one wide room, furniture designating the use of each corner. In back left was an old iron bedframe, tidily made up with a red and white patchwork quilt and two stacks of white pillows. Back right was the kitchen, small sixties-era fridge, wood-burning stove with pipe vent snaking up to the ceiling, a butcher block island and wall-mounted shelves loaded with cast iron pans, Dutch ovens, and stone pots. A faded green velvet sofa, in an old tufted, Victorian style marked the living room. There was an ancient TV with rabbit ears, a radio on a side table, two floor lamps. And in one front window, a makeshift office had been established with a cherry escritoire and more wall-mounted shelves arranged with books, boxes of envelopes and stationary, fishing paraphernalia and what looked like car parts.
The door between kitchen and bedroom led to the bathroom, Larry explained. Indoor plumbing and everything, he said proudly, which made her realize, for the first time, that an outhouse was a real possibility out here in the swamp.
Larry and Evie had stocked the fridge and the open pantry shelves; they’d brought clean towels, new sheets and pillows and blankets for the bed, water, champagne, beer. Evie had thought of things for Ava that she herself hadn’t been able to pack on the bike: body and foot lotion, little scented candles, a new terry robe, slippers, and a small bottle of lavender oil. “He said lavender, over the phone,” Evie whispered in her ear. She laughed. “He was very specific.”
Larry helped Mercy carry their bags up, and Evie showed Ava the soup she’d left simmering in a big stone Dutch oven on top of the stove. “Let it cool completely, after you’re done eating, and this pot can go straight in the fridge.”
They offered to walk the O’Donnells down to their bateau, but Evie wouldn’t hear of it. “We’ll come by and check on you in a day or two. We’ve bothered you enough. Enjoy your dinner.”
She hugged Ava one last time, and as she pulled back, Ava saw Larry saying something to Mercy, a low murmuring she couldn’t hear. And then Larry and Evie were out the door, and they were alone together, in this fairy story cottage fit for the Seven Dwarves.
The exhaustion hit her like a blow to the face. She sank down onto the edge of the bed, hands in her lap, relishing the slow push of air out of her lungs.
Mercy leaned a hip against the high back of the sofa and folded his arms. He looked like she felt. “I’m sorry about them. They’re kind of–”
“Wonderful,” Ava finished for him. “Look at this place; what they set up for us. They love you, and that makes me want to love them.”
He made a vague gesture to the air, looking embarrassed. “Evie goes overboard, sometimes.”
Ava grinned. “But she takes instruction really well, apparently.”
He lifted his brows.
“The lavender oil. That you were ‘very specific’ about.”
His face darkened as he blushed.
She laughed. “So you like smelling like flowers, huh?”
“It just feels good. It’s got nothing to do with the smell.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
He gave her a long-suffering look, then took a deep breath and let the fatigue take hold of him again. “You wanna eat?”
“God, yes.”
Jambalaya. When Ava pulled the lid off the pot, the roiling steam brought with it a sharp smell of spices her mother never used in her kitchen. Rich, exotic scents, full of heat and color. She dipped the ladle into the glossy orange liquid and stirred up thick slices of sausage, celery, carrot. There was rice, and fat pink shrimp, corn and flakes of basil.
“This smells amazing,” Ava said as she dipped servings into blue glazed bowls. Her stomach howled for the food.
“Bread?” Mercy asked, pulling a baguette off the shelf.
“Ooh, yes.”
They tore off chunks of it and sat on the sofa while they ate, too hungry to utter a word to each other. They didn’t even make eye contact. Suddenly, she hit the bottom of her bowl, and she set it aside with the languorous slow reach of a very drunk person. Only then did she look at Mercy.
He studied his spoon like it was fascinating, brows plucked together.
She would have laughed if she wasn’t so tired. She was too tired to think about taking a shower, even undressing. She would strip naked and fall between the sheets. She’d cry if she had to do anything else. Knowing she had to put the jambalaya in the fridge was devastating. Her eyelids sagged and her pulse throbbed in her head.
“Mercy,” she said, “I know we haven’t had a real wedding night yet, and I want us to, you know I do, but…”
He grabbed her socked foot where it lay on the sofa at his hip and squeezed it. “It’s fine, baby.” Tired smile. “I’m so dead, I’d probably only embarrass myself.”
The relief was a balm.
