Emily woke early the next morning feeling disorientated. There was such little light coming into the room from the boarded-up windows, it took her a moment to realize where she was. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness, the room materialized around her, and she remembered-Sunset Harbor. Her father's home.
A moment went by before she remembered that she was also jobless, homeless, and completely alone.
She dragged her weary body out of bed. The morning air was cold. Her appearance in the dusty vanity mirror alarmed her; her face was puffy from the tears she'd shed the night before, her skin drawn and pale. It suddenly occurred to her that she'd failed to eat sufficiently the previous day. The only thing she'd consumed the night before had been a cup of Daniel's fire-brewed tea.
She hesitated momentarily beside the mirror, looking at her body reflected in the old, grimy glass while her mind played over the night before-of the warming fire, of her sitting by the hearth with Daniel drinking tea, Daniel mocking her inability to care for the house. She remembered the snow flecks in his hair when she'd first opened the door to him, and the way he'd retreated into the blizzard, disappearing into the inky black night as quickly as he'd come.
Her growling stomach dragged her out of her thoughts and back into the moment. She dressed quickly. The crumpled shirt she pulled on was far too thin for the cold air so she wrapped the dusty blanket from the bed around her shoulders. Then she left the bedroom and padded downstairs on bare feet.
Downstairs, all was silent. She peered through the frosted window in the front door and was astonished to see that although the storm had now stopped, snow was piled three feet high, turning the world outside into a smooth, still, endless whiteness. She had never seen that much snow in her life.
Emily could just make out the footprints of a bird as it had hopped around on the path outside, but other than that, nothing had been disturbed. It looked peaceful, but at the same time desolate, reminding Emily of her loneliness.
Realizing that venturing outside wasn't an option, Emily decided to explore the house and see what, if anything, it might hold. The house had been so dark last night she hadn't been able to look around too much, but now in the morning daylight the task was somewhat easier. She went into the kitchen first, driven instinctively by her grumbling stomach.
The kitchen was in more of a state than she'd realized when she'd wandered through here last night. The fridge-an original cream 1950s Prestcold her father had found during a yard sale one summer-wasn't working. She tried to remember whether it ever had, or whether it had been another source of annoyance for her mother, another one of those bits of junk her dad had cluttered the old house up with. Emily had found her dad's collections boring as a kid, but now she treasured those memories, clinging onto them as tightly as she could.
Inside the fridge Emily found nothing but a horrible smell. She shut it quickly, locking the door with the handle, before going over to the cupboards to look inside. Here she found an old can of corn, its label sun-bleached to the point of obscurity, and a bottle of malt vinegar. She briefly considered making some kind of meal out of the items but decided she wasn't yet that desperate. The can opener was rusted completely closed anyway, so there'd be no way to get into the corn even if she was.
She went into the pantry next, where the washer and dryer were located. The room was dark, the small window covered with plywood like many of the others in the house. Emily pressed a button on the washer dryer but wasn't surprised to find that it didn't work. Growing increasingly frustrated with her situation, Emily decided to take action. She clambered up onto the sideboard and attempted to pry off a piece of plywood. It was harder to do than she'd expected, but she was determined. She pulled and pulled, using all the force in her arms. Finally, the board began to crack. Emily wrenched one last time and the plywood gave, coming away from the window entirely. The force was so great she fell back off the counter, the heavy board falling from her grasp and swinging toward the window. Emily heard the sound of the window smashing at the same time as she landed on a heap on the floor, winding herself.
Frigid air rushed into the pantry. Emily groaned and pulled herself up to sitting before checking her bruised body to make sure nothing was broken. Her back was sore and she rubbed it as she glanced up at the broken window letting in a weak stream of light. It frustrated Emily to realize that in attempting to solve a problem, she'd only made things worse for herself.
She took a deep breath and stood, then carefully picked up the piece of board from the sideboard where it had fallen. Bits of glass fell to the ground and smashed. Emily inspected the board and saw that the nails were completely bent. Even if she were able to find a hammer-something she strongly doubted-the nails would be too bent anyway. Then she saw that she'd managed to split the frame of the window while yanking the board off. The whole thing would need to be replaced.
Emily was far too cold to stand around in the pantry. Through the smashed window she was confronted by the same sight of endless white snow. She snatched her blanket up off the floor and secured it around her shoulders again, then left the pantry and headed into the living room. At least here she'd be able to light a fire and get some warmth into her bones.
In the living room, the comforting smell of burnt wood still lingered in the air. Emily crouched beside the fireplace and began stacking kindling and logs into a pyramid shape. This time, she remembered to open the flue, and was relieved when the first flame crackled to life.
She sat back on her heels and began to warm her cold hands. Then she noticed the pot that Daniel had brewed the tea in sitting next to the fireplace. She hadn't tidied anything up, and the pot and mugs still lay where they'd left them the night before. Memories flashed in her mind of her and Daniel sharing the tea, chatting about the old house. Her stomach growled, reminding her of her hunger, and she decided to brew some tea just like Daniel had shown her, reasoning that it would stave off her hunger for a little while at least.
Just as she had finished setting the pot up over the fire, she heard the sound of her phone ringing from somewhere in the house. Though a familiar noise, it made her jump a mile to hear it now, echoing through the corridors. She'd given up on it when she realized she had no signal, so the sound of its ring was a surprise to her.
Emily leapt up, abandoning the tea, and followed the sound of her phone. She found it on the cabinet in the hallway. An unfamiliar number was calling her and she answered, somewhat bemused.
"Oh, um, hi," the elderly male voice on the other end of the line said. "Are you the lady up at Fifteen West Street?" The line was bad and the man's soft, hesitant voice was almost inaudible.
Emily frowned, confused by the call. "Yes. Who is this?"
"The name's Eric. I, er, I deliver the oil to all the properties in the area. I heard you were staying at that old house so I thought I'd come over with a delivery. I mean, if you, uh, need it."
Emily could hardly believe it. News had certainly gotten around the small community quickly. But wait; how had Eric gotten her cell number? Then she remembered Daniel looking at it the night before when she told him she had spotty service. He must have seen the number and memorized it, planning to give it to Eric. So much for being prideful, she could hardly contain her delight.
"Yes, that would be wonderful," she replied. "When can you come?"
"Well," the man replied in the same nervous, almost embarrassed-sounding voice. "I'm actually in the truck now heading over there."
"You are?" Emily stammered, hardly believing her luck. She peered quickly at the time on her phone. It wasn't even 8 a.m. yet. Either Eric got to work super early as a matter of course or he'd made the trip especially for her. She wondered whether the man who'd given her a lift last night had gotten in touch with the oil company on her behalf. Either it was him or…Daniel?
She put the thought out of her mind and returned her attention to her telephone conversation. "Will you be able to get here?" she asked. "There's a lot of snow."
"Don't worry about that," Eric said. "The truck can handle snow. Just make sure a pathway is clear to the pipe."
Emily wracked her brain, trying to remember whether she'd seen a shovel anywhere in the house. "Okay, I'll do my best. Thank you."
The line went dead and Emily sprang into action. She raced back into the kitchen, checking each of the cupboards. There was nothing even close to what she needed, so she tried all the cupboards in the pantry, then on into the utility room. At last, she found a snow shovel propped up against the back door. Emily never thought she'd be so thrilled to see a shovel in all her life, but she grabbed hold of it like a lifeline. She was so excited about the shovel that she almost forgot to put any shoes on. But just as her hand hovered over the latch to open the back door, she saw her running sneakers sticking out of a bag she'd left there. She put them on quickly then yanked the door open, her precious shovel in her grasp.
Immediately, the depth and scale of the snowstorm became apparent to her. Looking out at the snow from her window had been one thing, but seeing it piled up three feet deep ahead of her like a wall of ice was another.
Emily wasted no time. She slammed the shovel into the wall of snow and ice and began to carve a path out of the house. It was hard going; within a matter of minutes she could feel the sweat dripping down her back, her arms ached, and she was certain that she'd have blisters on her palms once she was done.
After getting through three feet of snow, Emily began to find her rhythm. There was something cathartic about the task, about the momentum needed to shovel the snow. Even the physical unpleasantness seemed to matter less when she could begin to see how her efforts were being rewarded. Back in New York her favorite form of exercise was running on the treadmill, but this was more of a workout than any she'd had before.
Emily managed to carve out a ten-foot-long path through the grounds at the back of the house.
But she looked up in despair to see the pipe outlet was a good forty feet away-and she was already spent.
Trying not to despair too much, she decided to rest for a moment to catch her breath. As she did so, she caught sight of the caretaker's house farther along the garden, hidden beside evergreens. A small plume of smoke rose from the chimney and warm light spilled from the windows. Emily couldn't help but think of Daniel inside, drinking his tea, staying toasty warm. He would help her, she had no doubt about that, but she wanted to prove herself. He'd mocked her mercilessly the evening before, and had in all likelihood been the one to call Eric in the first place. He must have perceived her to be a damsel in distress, and Emily didn't want him to have the satisfaction of being proved right.
But her stomach was complaining again and she was exhausted. Far too exhausted to carry on. Emily stood in the river she'd created, suddenly overwhelmed by her predicament, too proud to call for the help she needed, too weak to do what needed to be done herself. Frustration mounted inside of her until it turned to hot tears. Her tears made her even more angry, angry at herself for being useless. In her frustrated mind, she berated herself and, like a petulant and stubborn child, resolved to return home as soon as the snow had melted.
Discarding the shovel, Emily stomped back into the house, her sneakers soaked through. She kicked them off by the door then went back into the living room to warm up by the fire.
She slumped down onto the dusty couch and grabbed her phone, preparing herself to call Amy and tell her the oh-so-expected news that she'd failed her first and only attempt at being self-sufficient. But the phone was out of battery. Stifling a screech, Emily threw her useless cell back onto the couch, then flopped onto her side, utterly defeated.
Through her sobbing, Emily heard a scraping noise coming from outside. She sat up, dried her eyes, then ran to the window and looked out. Right away she saw that Daniel was there, her discarded shovel in his grasp, digging through the snow and continuing what she had failed to complete. She could hardly believe how quickly he was able to clear the snow, how adept he was, how well suited to the task at hand, like he had been born to work the land. But her admiration was short-lived. Instead of feeling grateful toward Daniel or pleased to see that he had managed to clear a path all the way to the outlet pipe, she felt angry with him, directing her own impotence at him instead of inwardly.
Without even thinking about what she was doing, Emily grabbed her soggy sneakers and heaved them back on. Her mind was racing with thoughts; memories of all her useless ex-boyfriends who hadn't listened to her, who'd stepped in and tried to "save" her. It wasn't just Ben; before him had been Adrian, who was so overprotective he was stifling, and then there was Mark before him, who treated her like a fragile ornament. Each of them had learned of her past-her father's mysterious disappearance being just the tip of the iceberg-and had treated her like something that needed protecting. It was all those men in her past who had made her this way and she wasn't going to stand for it anymore.
She stormed out into the snow.
"Hey!" she cried. "What are you doing?"
Daniel paused only briefly. He didn't even look back over his shoulder at her, just kept on shoveling, before calmly saying, "I'm clearing a path."
"I can see that," Emily shot back. "What I mean is why, when I told you I didn't need your help?"
"Because otherwise you'd freeze," Daniel replied simply, still not looking at her. "And so would the water, now that I've turned it on."
"So?" Emily retorted. "What's it to you if I freeze? It's my life. I can freeze if I want to."
Daniel was in no hurry to interact with Emily, or feed into the argument she was so clearly trying to start. He just kept on shoveling, calmly, methodically, as unrattled by her presence as he would have been if she hadn't been there at all.
"I'm not prepared to sit back and let you die," Daniel replied.
Emily folded her arms. "I think that's a little bit melodramatic, don't you? There's a big difference between getting a bit cold and dying!"
Finally, Daniel rammed the shovel into the snow and straightened up. He met her eyes, his expression unreadable. "That snow was piled so high it was covering the exhaust. You manage to get that boiler on, it would go right back into the house. You'd be dead of carbon poisoning in about twenty minutes." He said it so matter-of-factly it took Emily aback. "If you want to die, do it on your own time. But it's not happening on my watch." Then he threw the shovel to the ground and headed back to the carriage house.
Emily stood there, watching him going, feeling her anger melt away only to be replaced with shame. She felt terrible for the way she'd spoken to Daniel. He was only trying to help and she'd thrown it all back in his face like a bratty child.
She was tempted to run to him, to apologize, but at that moment the oil truck appeared at the end of the street. Emily felt her heart soar, surprised at how happy she felt by the mere fact that she was getting oil delivered. Being in the house in Maine was about as different from her life in New York as it could be.
Emily watched as Eric leapt down from the truck, surprisingly agile for someone so old. He was dressed in oil-stained overalls like a character from a cartoon. His face was weather-beaten but kindly.
"Hi," he said in the same unsure manner he'd had on the phone.
"I'm Emily," Emily said, offering her hand to shake his. "I'm really glad you're here."
Eric just nodded, and got straight to work setting up the oil pump. He clearly wasn't one for talking, and Emily stood there uncomfortably watching him work, smiling weakly every time she noticed his gaze flick briefly to her as though confused by the fact she was even there.
"Can you show me to the boiler?" he said once everything was in place.
Emily thought of the basement, of her hatred of the huge machines within it that powered the house, of the thousands of spiders who'd strung their webs there throughout the years.
"Yes, this way," she replied in a small, thin voice.
Eric got out his flashlight and together they went down into the creepy, dark basement. Just like Daniel, Eric seemed to have a skilled hand with the mechanical stuff. Within seconds, the enormous boiler kicked into life. Emily couldn't help herself; she threw her arms around the elderly man.
"It works! I can't believe it works!"
Eric stiffened at her touch. "Well, you shouldn't be messing with an old house like this," he replied.
Emily loosened her grip. She didn't even care that yet another person was telling her to stop, to give up, that she wasn't good enough. The house now had heat along with water, and that meant she didn't need to return to New York as a failure.
"Here," Emily said, grabbing her purse. "How much do I owe you?"
Eric just shook his head. "It's all covered," he replied.
"Covered by who?" Emily asked.
"Just someone," Eric replied evasively. He clearly felt uncomfortable being caught up in the unusual situation. Whoever had paid him to come over and stock up her oil supply must have asked him to keep it quiet and the whole situation was making him awkward.
"Well, okay," Emily said. "If you say so."
Inwardly she resolved to find out who had done it, and to pay him back.
Eric just nodded once, sharply, then headed back up out of the basement. Emily quickly followed, not wanting to be in the basement alone. As she climbed the steps, she noticed she had a renewed spring in her step.
She showed Eric to the door.
"Thank you, really," she said as meaningfully as she could.
Eric said nothing, just gave her a parting look, then headed outside to pack up his things.
Emily shut the door. Feeling elated, she rushed upstairs to the master bedroom and put her hand against the radiator. Sure enough, warmth was beginning to spread through the pipes. She was so happy she didn't even mind the way they banged and clanked, the noise echoing through the house.
*
As the day wore on, Emily reveled in the sensation of being warm. She hadn't fully realized how uncomfortable she'd been ever since leaving New York, and hoped that some of the crabbiness she'd thrown at Daniel had been in part because of that discomfort.
No longer needing the dusty blanket from the master bedroom for warmth, Emily draped it over the broken window in the pantry before setting about cleaning up the glass fragments. She hung her wet clothes over the radiators, beat the dust out of the rug in the living room, and dusted all the shelves before setting the books up neatly. Already the room felt cozier, and more like the place she remembered. She took down her old, well-read copy of Alice Through The Looking Glass, then set about reading it by the hearth. But she couldn't concentrate. Her mind continually wandered back to Daniel. She felt so ashamed of the way she'd treated him. Though he acted as though he didn't care, the way he'd thrown the shovel and stormed back to the house was evidence enough that her words had frustrated him.
The guilt gnawed at her until she couldn't take it anymore. She abandoned the book, put on her now toasty warm sneakers, and headed out toward the carriage house.
She knocked on the door and waited as the sound of someone moving about came from inside. Then the door swung open and there was Daniel, backlit by the glow of a warm fire. A delicious smell wafted out of the house, reminding Emily again that she hadn't eaten. She began to salivate.
"What's up?" Daniel asked, his tone as measured as always.
Emily couldn't help but peer over his shoulder, taking in the sight of the roaring fire, the varnished floorboards and crammed bookshelves, the guitar propped up beside a piano. She hadn't known what to expect from Daniel's home, but it hadn't been this. The incongruity of the place in which Daniel lived and the person she'd assumed him to be surprised her.
"I was…" she stammered. "Just here to…" Her voice trailed away.
"Here to ask for some soup?" Daniel suggested.
Emily snapped to attention. "No. Why would you think that?"
Daniel gave her a look that was a cross between amused and reproachful. "Because you look half starved."
"Well, I'm not," Emily replied brusquely, once again infuriated by Daniel's assumption that she was weak and unable to care for herself, no matter how right he really was. She hated the way Daniel made her feel, like she was some kind of stupid child. "I was actually here to ask you about the electricity," she said. It was only a half-lie; she did need electricity at some point.
She wasn't sure but she thought she saw a flicker of disappointment in Daniel's eyes.
"I can get that fixed up for you tomorrow," he said, in a dismissive kind of tone, one that told her he wanted her off his doorstep and out of his hair.
Emily felt suddenly very awkward, and concerned that she'd said something to anger him. "Look, why don't you come over for some tea?" she said hesitantly. "As a thank-you for the shoveling and the oil delivery. And to apologize for earlier." She smiled hopefully.
But Daniel wasn't budging. He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to want to hang out at your place? What, because your house is bigger so you think everyone wants to be there?"
Emily grimaced, confusion bubbling inside of her. She didn't know what she'd said to warrant Daniel's response, but she wasn't prepared to get into another vexing conversation with him. "Forget it," she mumbled.
She turned on her heel and stomped away, as annoyed with herself and her behavior as she was with Daniel.
But just a few moments later as she slumped beside the fireplace, her stomach growling with hunger, she heard a scratching sound coming from the front door. It was instantly familiar to her-the same sound that she'd heard last night-and she knew that meant Daniel had left another gift for her.
She raced to the door, heart pounding, and flung it open. Daniel had already disappeared. Emily looked down and saw on the doorstep was a thermos flask. She picked it up, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. Immediately she smelled the same delicious aroma that had been coming from Daniel's house. He had left some soup for her.
Unable to turn down the demands of her stomach, Emily grabbed the soup and began devouring it. It tasted amazing, like nothing she'd ever had before. Daniel must be an incredible cook, another skill to add to the plethora of them. A musician, avid reader, cook, and handyman-not to mention tasteful interior designer-Daniel's talents were really starting to stack up.
*
That night, Emily curled up in the master bed, more comfortable than she had been last night. She'd cleaned the covers and dusted every inch of the room, ridding the place of the smell of abandonment. It felt good to have the house in some kind of livable condition-even if some of the radiators were still not really working fully. But knowing she'd achieved something, had stood on her own two feet for the first time in seven years, really made her proud. If only Ben could see her now! She already felt so different from the woman she'd been when she was with him.
For the first time in a long time, Emily felt herself looking forward to the next day and what it would bring: specifically, electricity. If she had a working fridge and oven she could finally cook some food. Maybe even repay the favors that Daniel had been doing for her by making him a meal. She wanted to make things right with him before she left at the very least, since she had pretty much descended on his life and caused chaos.
The more Emily thought about the prospect of returning home, the more she realized she didn't want to. Despite the trials and tribulations she'd already experienced over the last two days in the house, she felt a sense of purpose here that she hadn't felt for years.
What exactly did she have back in New York worth returning for anyway? There was Amy, of course, but she had her own life and wasn't exactly available often. Emily thought then that maybe it would be a good idea to extend her vacation a little. A long weekend in the house was hardly enough to sort out anything, and it would be a waste of effort to get the electricity working if she was just going to pack up and leave again so soon after. A week would be a better amount of time. Then she'd really get to experience the house and Maine, really recharge her batteries and give herself some time to work out what it was she truly wanted.
Being in her parents' old room was cozy and comforting, and Emily was struck by a sudden memory of coming in here as a very young girl, snuggling up between them and listening to her father read her stories. It was something that became a habit, a way for her to be close to parents who seemed, to her young mind, preoccupied with her new baby sister, Charlotte. It was only through the lens of Emily's adult eyes that she realized it was less that they were preoccupied with Charlotte, and more that they were avoiding their doomed marriage.
Emily shook her head, not wanting to remember, not wanting to relive those memories she had spent so many years banishing. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop them flooding her mind. The room, the house, the little trinkets here and there that reminded her of her father, all of them were culminating in her mind, bringing back to her the terrible memories she'd tried so hard to forget.
Memories of how the stories in the large master bed had stopped abruptly one tragic day; the day Emily's life had changed forever, the day her parents' marriage had been dealt its final, undefeatable blow.
The day her sister died.
