Butterfly?” he grumbled, winding down the window of his snug minivan, not making eye contact.
I nodded. He didn’t look much older than me—eighteen maybe. Wearing no jacket over his thermal shirt, he had longish dark hair, eyes far apart, and a small growth of stubble. His jaw kept flexing, sending little muscular ripples across his cheeks. I found myself wondering what he looked like when he smiled, but no, he wasn’t going to be doing that any time soon. Instead, he crammed a fistful of Cheetos into his mouth. “Put your things in the trunk.”
Wait a minute, wasn’t that his job? I took a step forward to give him a piece of my mind, but what came out of my mouth was, “Could you open the trunk then?” So much for assertiveness.
He heaved an irritated sigh, brushed a Twinkie wrapper off his lap, and rolled out of the car. He was tall and lean in his black jeans.
“Get in,” he said after watching me stow my bag. “Don’t try to open your window—it’s stuck.”
“No problem,” I said, climbing into the backseat. Like I was going to want more 20-below air slapping me in the face.
“And the seat belts are broken.”
“I’m in hell frozen over,” I whispered to myself.
“Huh?” he asked as we took off.
“Nothing.”
I wiped the frost off my window and looked out at the ragged heaps of snow and bent trees passing by. The road curved sharply at one point, and a few houses appeared. Now, in case you’re picturing some quaint New England scene here—shingled cottages with shutters and brick chimneys and tire swings hanging from trees—let me set you straight. These houses looked like trailers minus the wheels, and the yards were piled with rusted cars, broken refrigerators and other junk. I spotted a couple of dogs snooping around an upside down table, and then we were driving through woods.
“How many people on the island?” I asked.
My driver rolled his tongue around his mouth like he was trying to get a piece of Twinkie out from between his teeth. “Depends,” he said, peering at me through his rearview mirror. “This time of year, a couple hundred, give or take. Summertime, you can double that easy.”
Did he hold my gaze in the mirror for an extra second? Or was it just my imagination? No matter, it didn’t matter. Still, I smoothed my hair, which was turning into a frizzy brown mess as the ice melted off it, before pulling myself back into the conversation. “So what do the yearrounders do? For a living, I mean?”
“They catch lobsters,” he said, and I knew he wanted to add a duh. “Or fix the lobstermen’s boats. Or sell food and cigarettes to the lobstermen. Or marry them.”
The road twisted again, taking us past an old building that looked like a cross between a diner and a bookshop, or maybe between a convenience store and a library. The pink neon sign said the place was called the Grindle Point Shop. I prayed that it was walkable from the inn. I was going to need something to do during my forced two-week isolation, and maybe the Grindle Point Shop was it.
We drove a short way on, at which point the junk food addict behind the wheel decided to turn on a CD. Loud. Then, just when I thought I’d rather walk the rest of the way, the Black Butterfly Inn appeared before us.
Set back a hundred feet from the road, the inn was a three-story battleship in a sea of snow—grey, weathered, a mishmash of eaves and gables. The front door and windows were crowned with pointed arches straight out of some medieval abbey. From the steep roof, multiple chimneys released tongues of smoke that quickly dissolved into the bitter evening. Maybe the inn was supposed to look like a castle or a church—it was definitely commanding, but in a grim, stiff way, not at all charming or welcoming. If buildings had faces, this one would be puckered up in a frosty snarl, its icicle-shaped holiday lights only making it look colder.
“It’s nicer on the inside,” my driver said, eyeing me again in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but somehow it was consoling to learn that the inn didn’t dazzle absolutely everyone at first glimpse. Maybe the Black Butterfly scowled at all its visitors. Maybe it even scared some of them. Or maybe this guy was taking pity on the girl who was obviously starting to snap. Either way, I had to admit I appreciated the gesture. And the eye contact.
He drove up the narrow circular driveway but couldn’t reach the top because a truck was blocking the way. The truck, a shiny silver job souped up with black racing stripes and oversized chrome wheels, looked out of place against the gothic exterior of the inn. In bold blue print on the tailgate, it said Mike’s Heating and Plumbing—there when you need us.
“So he finally got around to coming,” my driver said, parking directly behind the pickup. “About time.” I hoped that meant we’d have heat and water tonight.
A plump woman in a bathrobe and faux fur slippers was standing on the wraparound porch, waving energetically at us. Her hair was a wild shade of red from a bottle, and it matched her lipstick. When I stepped out of the minivan, she ran down the front steps, skirted the pickup, and flung her pudgy arms around me. “Penny!” she cooed. “Penny, at last!” Then she took a step back to examine me. “You’re Viv’s child, all right.”
I gave her my best rendition of a knowing smile.
“I’m Bubbles,” she said. “Blanche really, but everyone calls me Bubbles and so should you. I see you’ve met my son George.”
I clamped my jaw to keep it from dropping open. “Yes, we’ve met. Thanks for the ride, George, and for the tour. That was sweet of you.” He pretended he didn’t hear me.
Part of me felt sorry for George. If this was his family’s business, then he was probably a lifer, sentenced to carting people around in the snow and eating meals out of cellophane bags for the next 60 or 70 years. Talk about lousy luck. But another part of me resented the twit for not letting on who he was. He was the son of the owner. He was the son of my mother’s friend. I was going to be spending two weeks with his family. What possible reason could he have for hiding his identity from me? “Mutant,” I added under my breath.
That, he heard. “Pardon?” he asked.
I tossed him a big fake smile.
“Let’s get you in out of this cold,” Bubbles said. “Oh look, it’s starting to snow again.” She looped her arm through mine and led me to the stairs in short, slippered steps. I felt dizzy all of a sudden. Not dizzy like on a roller coaster, where the downs are always followed by ups. More like the free fall, where it’s one freakishly terrifying plummet the whole way. What was I walking into, and why wasn’t anyone rescuing me?
I have a new philosophy.
I’m only going to dread one day at a time.
—Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown in “Peanuts”
George was right about one thing: the inn was nicer on the inside, a lot nicer. The lobby didn’t look like any lobby I’d ever seen—no front counter, no tourist posters from the local chamber of commerce, no vending machines. It was more like a den from a fancy house. The paneled walls were hung with oriental rugs of red, gold and blue, and several stained glass skylights studded the cathedral ceiling. A lush brown sectional couch wrapped itself around the fireplace, where a fire
