Good Nights Read online

Page 4


  She doesn’t respond. I wish I could see her expression. I look around the door to see how she’s reacting to my proposition.

  “Why don’t we turn on the telly and see what’s going on? Maybe it’s happening to more people? Possible?”

  She sighs and picks up the remote off the coffee table, and I go back to my work at the sink. “I couldn’t even get a message through to Good Nights because the app froze on me,” she calls to me. “Usually I stream all my news online, but since my phone’s data is so very low, I guess I’ll have to put on the news.”

  I hear her sigh heavily, and the television comes on. That was one incredibly non-subtle hint for the Wi-Fi password. No bloody way she gets the Wi-Fi password. Wi-Fi password equals long term guest.

  She who gets the Wi-Fi password wins the war!

  I hear a muffled female voice announcing the news from the other room and start loading up the dishwasher. I can’t help but think to myself, “Ding, round one, Wilson!” I’m fully expecting another round soon, of course. She’ll fire back with some sob story, pull out all the punches, and guilt me into leaving.

  If I stay strong, this little boxing match of wits ends first thing tomorrow morning.

  Seven

  Hannah

  This is the BBC. It’s not fake news. So, what I’m hearing is true? Is this actually true?

  “Hey, come quick. It’s about Good Nights!” I still can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  Tripp is fast to join me on the couch. He’s wiping his hands on a lilac dish towel, and as I quickly glance at him, then back to the TV, I’m warmed and surprised by how domestic he looks. It’s an odd feeling, because once again I’m realizing my impression of scientists was completely based on stereotypes. He seems to have been enjoying himself, serving me crumpets and cleaning up after our tea.

  “The CEO of Good Nights says they’re still looking into the problem.” The female anchor on BBC continues, “From what they can tell so far, this is a world-wide glitch, and it’s wreaking a lot of havoc with its users booked into apartments and homes around the world.”

  “Bugger me sideways with a chainsaw! It’s the roommate apocalypse!” Tripp laughs and looks my way, his brows raised.

  “You have the strangest expressions. So, which one of us is the giant meteorite?” I attempt a smile.

  “Good Nights is, I guess. And as to my cursing, I simply choose to be more creative than dropping the F-bomb.”

  “Well, so far, you get a ten in Creative Expression from me. I have to admit, I’m an uncreative curser. I’m surrounded by people in the industry who use the F-bomb every fourth word. I’ll have to take lessons from you.”

  He thinks for a second, then smiles. “Well, I started using bird names to curb my cursing. I read this fantastic book by a renowned psychologist. It worked.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Wank, bugger, blasted—they’re quite acceptable here, and when you add in a bird name, it slips off your tongue in such a satisfying way. You’ll be surprised. Go ahead. Try it. Curse…” He searches for an idea. “The President of the United States. Do it.”

  I grin. I can only think of one bird at the moment. “He’s a wankpuffin.”

  “There you go! You’re a natural.” He chuckles and looks about to give me a high-five but walks away to check the fire instead. “So, any luck reaching Good Nights?” he asks over his shoulder.

  “Nope, and now their lines will be flooded with calls for at least twenty-four hours. Although, I’m sure we’ll be getting refunds, regardless as to who stays where. Or we’ll be part of a large class action suit, eventually.”

  “I’m not getting involved in one of those. They can keep my money.” Tripp stands up and walks to the fire, and I notice that his shoulders have stiffened.

  The anchor has turned to a young weatherman. “So, besides unusually cool and rainy days, we’re watching out for high winds…” Tripp grabs the remote and turns off the TV. He looks irritated.

  “What is it? The shi… er, goosey weather, or you don’t believe in class actions?”

  He slowly turns from the glowing fire to look at me. His playful expression has darkened. “I’ve had some painful experience with law suits. I wouldn’t want to do it again, no.” He wrings the dish towel that’s in his hands, then tosses it over one shoulder. I want to press him to tell me more, but he turns away again and lifts up my suitcase from beside the couch.

  “How about I show you where you can sleep? You must be exhausted after your long flight and then the trek out here to the island. I can make us some supper for say, six?”

  I nod, completely taken aback. He just said “us” as though he’s going to try to make a go of this odd arrangement, at least for a few days.

  “That gives you time to call your… kids? Tell them about the situation. There’s an en-suite bathroom if you want to freshen up.”

  “Oh—no kids,” I say point blank because I’m eager to see how he reacts. I’m used to people expecting me to have had them by now, but I’ve stopped adding any kind of excuse after saying I’m childless. Maybe I’ll get to it, maybe I won’t. It doesn’t make me selfish or any less of a woman, despite that I hear that all the time.

  “Right. Seems your cheeky parrot is more than enough for the time being. I feel that way about Coffee sometimes. She’d be awfully jealous of me becoming a dad.”

  He’s a devoted dog owner, doesn’t judge me based on my womb status, and he cooks? Hard to believe how many talents this man has.

  So, no kids, but he didn’t answer me when I asked about a wife. He doesn’t wear a ring. He’s smart, sexy, skilled. It’s surprising no one has scooped him up. Hmm… I’m starting to see the benefits of both of us staying here.

  Stop thinking that! I don’t want company. I need to spend the next month here, writing alone.

  “Dinner would be lovely,” I hear a strange part of myself reply; the part that believes men are generally good, and that I could use one in my life.

  Wait a sec, Han. You’re being swayed by his grace and charm. You’re forgetting that there’s a game going on here. It’s obvious, he’s in need of a vacation, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for him, charmed by his accent and those electric blue eyes, so that I let him have the place to himself. He’s good. He’s really good.

  But I’m not going to fall for it. He already insinuated that I’m a spoon-fed celebrity type. Ha! If he only knew how difficult it’s been working as a woman trying to get a break in this industry.

  I’ve got this. I’ll impress him with my sparkling personality, blow him away with my…okay, truthfully, I haven’t impressed many people with my personality lately. There has been zero sparkle. Jillian actually told me that I darkened a room like Death and its scythe whenever I walked in.

  But, that’s about to change. I saw how Tripp looks at me. He may like his privacy, but I’m pretty sure he’s attracted to me. I can convince him to let me stay on. I know I can.

  Eight

  Hannah

  As I stand, stretch my arms over my head, and truly take in my surroundings for the first time since I arrived, I know for certain I want to stay here to write my movie. It’s a large, airy space and decorated in light whites and blues in a relaxed, French-country style. There are antique replicas, or actual Victorian pieces, at every turn, but the place doesn’t feel stuffy, dark, or ornate. It’s eclectic and welcoming. I’m right at home.

  There’s also plenty of room for the both of us here. I can get my work done on the second level, and Tripp can work, well… wherever he works. That doesn’t matter. I’ve known him, what, two hours? What matters is my work. I’m the one without an income here. He seems to be doing just fine. I bet he’ll be feasting on tea and crumpets for decades thanks to his research grant.

  Tripp motions me to walk gently past a sleeping Coffee and Jughead’s covered ca
ge, so I grab my heels and he leads the way, carrying my suitcase up the dark hardwood stairs, down a long hallway, to one of the two rooms I must have seen from the driveway.

  “We’ll have to leave Jughead in the living room, at the owner’s request,” he says, turning on the bedroom light, and I realize it’s already grown dark outside. “I’ll uncover him for you soon, though. Let’s just get him habituated to the sounds and smells of his new environment first.”

  Spoken like a true Birdman. I smile at his new secret nickname. Jillian calls me Sorting Hannah, as if I’m always wearing Harry Potter’s Sorting Hat, because I analyze things and give them strange nicknames. I’ll probably be naming the house next; I just need a bit more time.

  I can tell that it won’t take me long to get used to anything here. This room is perfect for me. It’s a large, bright bedroom with a massive, dark oak, four poster carved Queen Tudor bed covered in a cream white quilt. The blue and cream wallpaper is adorned with Victorian drawings of blue and pink ribbons and birds—I think they’re swallows. I notice the frosted-glass French doors leading to the balcony right away and can imagine relaxing with my coffee out here, if this rain ever stops.

  “I cannot believe what we are paying for this place,” I say, realizing my mistake right away. Now he’ll know I want to stay longer.

  He sets my suitcase down beside a full-length oak mirror that matches the bed, and I toss my heels beside it. I cannot wait to take off this achingly uncomfortable bra and slip into a hot bath.

  “It’s a steal, that’s for sure,” he says. “Too bad about all of this, this… Bad Nightmare.” He gestures to the phone in my hand. “Maybe you can return mid-summer, once I’m gone.”

  So, that’s that. He really thinks I’m going to give this up so easily? Oh, he doesn’t know Hannah Storm.

  “Here’s your en-suite, for the evening,” he continues, emphasizing evening, and opens a frosted glass door to a bright white bathroom with a large, deep, round soaker tub in the corner. “James, the owner, says he renovated all the bathrooms last year. Also, there’s a lovely French woman, Béatrice, who comes in twice a week, cleans, adds fresh towels. I haven’t met James yet. I suppose I should notify him about this mix-up, but Good Nights should really be the one contacting him.”

  “I can send him an email, no prob, but I’d like the Wi-Fi password, please.”

  “Sure, sure, I’ll get to that.” He walks past me briskly, straight out of the room, then turns, leaning against the doorframe for a moment. “Look, you know where the kitchen is, so you can go make yourself something to eat whenever.”

  Wait, what?

  What just happened? He doesn’t want to prepare dinner for me now. He changed his mind in the space of two minutes?

  Ah. Right. He’s trying to make my stay unpleasant, so I leave sooner. He saw how much I love the room and realized he was in trouble. He needed to up the ante…

  What a brat! A clever, delicious tea-making brat, but still a brat. Well, two can play at this game…

  I sit on the bed, then bring up my legs and lie back against the pillows, making myself uber-comfortable in front of him, and flashing a little bit of thigh. I’m fluffing up a pillow in its cream, eyelet-patterned sham when I hear a familiar ring coming from his pocket—it’s a vid-call. I didn’t even realize that he had his own cellphone, let alone that he was the Facetiming type. What is it about this guy? Bit of a mystery, here. He certainly keeps his cards close to his chest.

  He’s staring at me, not even moving, biting his lower lip, before running his hands through his thick brown waves. Calculating. I’m doing the same, although I don’t think it’s as obvious as his blue eyes looking intently at mine.

  His call gives me time to decide what the… owl… my next move is, since I have absolutely no gagging gull of an idea. I’m trying to get a man I’m not sure I even like to like me, and I’m using bird names in my cursing, essentially for his benefit.

  What is going on with me? How long can jet lag affect a person?

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” I ask, calmly, smiling up at him as if I’m not the least bit disappointed that he has rescinded his dinner invitation.

  “Yup.” He finally looks away, pulls the phone from his pocket to answer it, and walks out into the hallway. “Hey, don’t make yourself at home,” he calls back up to me as he makes his way downstairs. “I mean, I’m sure Good Nights will contact you tonight, with a reservation for you elsewhere.”

  Don’t make yourself at home? I hug the pillow, chuckling softly into it. I do believe I just won that round. Now he’s grasping at straws. And such a grumpy crumpet!

  Nine

  Tripp

  I answer the Facetime call and quickly take it downstairs.

  I can’t see anyone yet, but I’m hearing audio. “Wilson here,” I say.

  Coffee greets me at the foot of the stairs, wagging her tail, and I give her a swift scratch under the chin.

  “Tripp. You don’t have to say your name, I can see your mangy face, mate.”

  I chuckle and take a seat at the edge of the recliner as Evan Canning appears on screen. He’s my lab assistant and field technician of the last six years, and the friend who helped me get back to work and the real world when I just about gave up on living.

  “I’m glad you answered. I’m not going to be able to make it out there.” He frowns.

  Evan is never late, and usually, he’s quite predictable. I’ve seen his closet. He’s the guy at the museum who only owns white dress shirts and dark pants, so he doesn’t waste any time deciding what he’s going to wear under his lab coat.

  “Oh, no. What’s happened?”

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s a storm watch for the entire coast of France. I was sure you… oh right. You never check your bloody weather app. Or your blasted messages, for that matter.” He shakes his head.

  “Right.” I chuckle at the dig, because he’s absolutely right. “Can you make it tomorrow, then?” I desperately need his help when I’m out searching the forest tomorrow. It’s not a one-man job. My heart swells as I think of Maggie: big brown eyes, floppy red rain hat, carrying my gear with an enthusiastic smile at the start, then cursing me the entire hike. I try to ignore the heavy weight in my chest and press on with the conversation at hand.

  “I don’t think you’re getting the concept of storm watch for tout le midi.” He emphasizes the word midi as if I don’t know what locals call this part of the southern France coastline. “Rains are heavy, high winds. My flight was delayed, and now I’m stuck here at a crap two-star hotel in Cannes because the museum gave you all their bloody money.”

  “I’m going to ignore that remark. Are you getting your news from Millennial tweets again, my friend? Because that could very well be fake news.”

  “Enough about fake news and all the bloody rest. Old jokes, mate. Get some new material. But seriously. No!” His brows furrow and his tone is forceful. “After you hang up, check your weather app.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, Tripp. I’m just telling you the facts. I’m surprised the home owner hasn’t called yet. You’re high enough on a hill that your rental shouldn’t flood, but it’s possible flooding could affect many places built on the shore.”

  “Flooding? How am I supposed to find a supposedly extinct bird in flooding conditions?”

  “Thigh high wellies?” Evan chuckles.

  “Right. Sure. I brought those here, in my rowboat.”

  “Excellent!” he says, and I wonder if he’s taken me seriously. “Gotta go. I’m trying to find an early morning flight back to Oxford. You take care of yourself, and I’ll see you back there soon.”

  “Oh, I won’t be back home for a few weeks, if not more.”

  “Cor blimey!” He brings his face closer to his camera, so his eyes and nose are all I see on my screen. “Have you not been listening to a wor
d I’ve said? That island could end up under the Atlantic Ocean, and you’re planning on going down all stoic-like, with the locals?”

  “It won’t be as bad as that, I’m sure, but there’s no way home now. May as well find the Skinks-Babbler before the weather takes a turn for the worse.”

  “You’re talking codswallop, but I’ve known you long enough to realize there’s no changing your mind. Just stock up on canned food and water today, will you?”

  “Sure, you bet,” I shake my head. These weather apps must be mind control in disguise. “Thanks for the info.”

  Evan gives me a salute, as though I’m a captain going down with my ship, then he ends the call, and the screen goes black. I stare at my phone for a second, just wondering if I should even bother to look at my Accuweather app. There are heavy rains at the moment. I can tell that by looking out the bloody window! I can’t be checking my phone every half hour.

  My ideal app would be advanced enough to warn me when the weather’s taken a turn for the worse, say, a coming tornado, and it would notify me with a ringtone, in a Scottish drawl: “We’re doomed, I tell ye, dooooomed!” Sadly, I have yet to find an app like that.

  I sit back and try to process the information I just received from Evan. The fire embers are glowing orange; I’ll have to go out back to find more dry firewood in the shed, if the temperature keeps dropping, but we’ll be fine. Besides a full fridge, we have canned goods and plenty of water. I saw it all in the kitchen pantry earlier this afternoon. I’m sure the rain will be over in a few days, and that flooding is just a worse-case scenario.

  “Woof!”