The Girl in the Mist (Misted Pines 1)

I was no exception and was again fighting a deep desire to hold her in my arms.

Or build a fortress around her.

She kept speaking.

“There’s this storeroom, behind the Double D. No one used it. You have to rent it, you know. And no one was renting it. So Malorie talked to the owner, because, like, a little money is better than none. Now, you go in and tell Pete at the Double D you got stuff to dump in there, he gives you the key, and you dump it. Or, if you need something, you go in and tell Pete you need it, give him a donation and go in and get what you need. He keeps the donations, gives them to the guy who owns the thing, and they pay the rent.”

I did not take my attention from her as she relayed this story.

Seemingly emboldened, she kept at it.

“Like, people use it to get boxes to send Christmas presents and stuff. It’s got bubble wrap and tissue paper and all sorts. Boxes are expensive, you know, especially when you need a lot of them. Like, when people move or whatever. Now, because of Malorie, they can go there and get everything they need. They’d be real happy to get all your stuff. And Jesse or Jace could take it over for you.” Pause and, “Or Dad.”

The pause before offering up her father was interesting.

And I couldn’t read that either.

“Who’s Pete?” I asked.

“He owns the Double D.” Realizing I didn’t know what that meant, she said, “The diner in town.”

Ah.

“That is an excellent project, recycling and cost savings, all rolled into one,” I remarked. “I’ll see how it goes and let you know if I need someone to help me get all my stuff over there.”

“Okay,” she whispered, timidly but still visibly pleased her story was received so well.

“Okay,” I repeated.

She went back to the massive stack of boxes.

I kept unpacking, uneasy about the fact that Celeste offering some banal, but unquestionably useful information, should please her like that.

The silence we then fell into was a bit more comfortable.

I had mementos scattered across surfaces, all my boxes empty and broken down, she was into box ten when I began to shift and add to the shelves, arranging the space so it would look good and speak to me.

Framed pictures of the girls.

The small piece I’d bought in the Place du Tertre in Montmartre.

The Herend giraffes Warren had given me for our wedding, which I ended up loving more than I loved him.

Case in point, I kept the giraffes.

And got rid of him.

Celeste seemed in a rhythm, and she was indeed helping, making me realize that perhaps I was procrastinating because the task at hand, especially that one, was overwhelming, even if I’d had a plan to tackle it.

Having those boxes out of the way, the shelves sorted with my books and things that had great meaning for me, would be a mental coup. A powerful visual that I was safe and home, my treasures around me, which would free headspace for me to move on.

Celeste was placing the contents of box fifteen on the shelves, working closely to me, when she said, “There are a couple of authors you like a whole lot.”

I did indeed.

“Mm,” I hummed.

And that was when she said, very low, “I know who you are.”

I stilled, a bubble of panic rising in me, before I turned my gaze to her and realized she knew, but she didn’t know.

I therefore replied in the same tone. “I know you do.”

She pressed her lips tightly together.

I smiled wanly.

She moved away and broke down box fifteen to start on box sixteen.

I was working with her, and we were in the twenties, when I decided it was time.

“It’s not my business, however, I feel as the adult in this scenario I need to at least note that you should be in class right now.”

Her shoulders went up before they drooped.

She said nothing.

“Again, it’s not my business,” I murmured and turned a discerning eye to the shelves as it was close to time to start rearranging and adding more personal pieces.

“I said something mean to a teacher,” she blurted.

My attention went back to her.

“I used the F-word.” Lengthy pause. “As in F you.”

“Ah,” I replied, not taking my eyes from her.

She shoved some books on the shelf without what had become her customary care.

“She was being mean,” Celeste declared.

“Mean?” I asked.

At my question, she engaged fully with me—eyes and body.

Automatically, I braced.

“She’s the chemistry teacher, and I don’t get chemistry. My mind…” a head jerk, “it doesn’t think like that. And I did really badly on an assignment. It wasn’t the first assignment I’d screwed up. But she’s not a good teacher. She just expects us to get it, not that she needs to teach it. And a lot of people are doing really badly in that class. A lot of them. I’m not the only one. She got mad and used me as an example.”