Scrooge and the Single Girl

She didn’t like the way he said that. As if she were some spoiled, undependable child who might get into all kinds of trouble if left to her own devices.

Not that she could completely blame him for seeing her that way. After all, she had gotten herself into trouble and she was very lucky he’d been around to help out. She had no doubt she would have made it back inside on her own, but it would not have been fun crawling the rest of the way, and her boom box and CDs would still be out in the snow.

So okay. She owed him. She’d do what he told her to do—for an hour. She glanced at her watch—8:05—and then slanted him a look from beneath the shadow of the ice pack. “I’ll lie here till five after nine, and that’s it.”

He said nothing, just went back to his chair, picked up his book, sat down and started reading again.

Jilly plumped up the two skimpy throw pillows and stretched out once more on the creaky old sofa bed. She readjusted the ice pack so it would stay in place by itself, which meant her right eye was covered. She folded her hands over her stomach and stared, one-eyed, at the ceiling.

Like the walls, the ceiling was paneled in wood. What kind of wood, she had no idea. It had all been painted in high-gloss white enamel long, long ago. The enamel was yellowed now and cracked in places.

For a while, as she studied the ceiling, she strained her ears to hear the radio. But he had it turned down so low, all she could make out were two voices speaking with English accents—maybe about world hunger, though there was no way she could be absolutely sure. What in the world, she wanted to ask him, is the point of listening to the radio if you have it down so low, you can’t hear what they’re saying?

But she didn’t ask him. Who cared? She didn’t. Let him read his big, fat, pretentious book.

He turned a page. The propane-burning wall heater not far from the kitchen door came on—a click, followed by a rushing sound as the gas was released and set alight by the pilot. Outside, the wind went on howling away.

Jilly sighed. She glanced at her watch—8:17. At this rate, she’d be an old woman by the time the hour was up.

Yes, she knew it. A total inability to lie still and do nothing unless she happened to be asleep was another of her faults. But she would do it. She would keep her agreement with him. Forty-eight more minutes of staring at the ceiling coming right up.

Missy, who’d apparently taken it upon herself to wander into Will’s bedroom, came sliding through the split in the curtain—this one printed with palm trees—that served as his bedroom door. She strutted across the black-and-red spotted linoleum, tail held high.

Jilly couldn’t resist. She lowered her left hand close to the floor and gestured to Missy to come over and see her.

Will looked up. “Problem?”

“No, not at all.” Jilly folded her hands on her stomach again and made herself stare ceiling-ward. But a minute later, she couldn’t resist a glance in Missy’s direction.

The traitor. She’d found a seat near Will’s feet and was looking up at him as if she understood the true meaning of love at last.

Jilly lifted the ice pack briefly in order to check out the bump on her head. It didn’t feel all that bad. And her headache really was better. There was no reason at all for her to lie here one minute longer.

Except that she had said she would, and that she owed Will and this was what he wanted from her, so that if she went into convulsions or started imagining that she was Napoleon, he would be right there to…what?

To nothing. As she’d kept trying to tell him, if brain damage was in the offing, there wasn’t a thing he’d be able to do.

He must have felt her exasperated stare, because he looked up again. “What?”

“Nothing.” She carefully set the ice pack back in place, stifled a sigh and took up staring at the ceiling once more.

Decades later, it was 9:05. Jilly set the ice pack on the side table, and swung her feet to the floor.

Will glanced up from his book. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Fine. Incredible.”

“Maybe you ought to—”

She put up a hand. “Don’t. I did what you wanted. I’m feeling great. May I please be excused?”

He grunted. “All right, Jillian. Go.”

I am dismissed, she thought. At last.

She stood. There was a slight throbbing in her temple, but nothing to worry about. Very manageable.

She headed straight for her coat.

She was just reaching to lift it from the peg when he demanded from behind her, “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

Lord, give me strength, she thought. Let me get through this night without murdering this man. She calmly took her coat off the peg.

“Jillian. Are you completely insane? You almost got yourself killed once tonight. You’re not giving it another try.”

The pure disgust in his voice really got to her. She had a powerful urge to start shouting rude things. But somehow, she managed to keep her cool as she faced him, holding out the coat. “See that? Bloodstains. Once they’re set, they’re almost impossible to get out. I’m taking this coat in the bathroom and I’m getting to work on these spots.”

He blinked. “You’re not going outside.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You’re going to spot-clean your coat.”

“That’s what I said.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

There was something about the way he said ridiculous. She knew what he meant by it. Oh, yes. She did. He meant that she was ridiculous.

“Will Bravo. You are pushing me. You are pushing me too far.”

“Just put the damn coat back on the peg. Go upstairs and lie down.”

“You are so hateful. So bitter. So mean.”

“Jillian—”

“It’s not my fault a tree branch fell on me. I’m very sorry you had to come out and rescue me.”

“I didn’t say—”

She waved a hand. “I don’t care what you said. I’m saying that I wish you’d just stayed in here by the fire with that damn book of yours. I would have made it in on my own.”

“You were barely—”

“I was getting there. All right, it wasn’t pretty, but I was managing.”

He dared to open his mouth again.