c a r t i e r

I drank myself to oblivion that night. I drank until I couldn't cry or laugh or even feel anymore. I consumed my ex's alcohol until the numbness coursing throughout my vein system numbed every muscle inside my body, including my heart.

I didn't want to feel anymore, I didn't want to want these small things like a husband or a child or the house. I no longer wanted to want.

The only thing I'd allow myself to have is solitude. So, I pawned all the expensive jewelry to one lucky pawnshop owner on the south side, sold the Mercedes for half of what it's worth because I don't give a shit. Then I set the house up in Boston for auction.

I was done with caring.

And I was done with people.

🌻

"You shoore ya kin ta doin this lassie?" Mr. Byrne, an older man from Scotland broaches me from just beyond the rock paddock wall separating the front garden from the walking path.

Mr. Byrne has asked me this question every morning since I bought the property during his daily stroll and I've given him the same answer.

"Good morning to you too," I call to him tucking my thin robe tightly around my waist then murmur under an irritated exhale, "You old bastard."

Mr. Byrne mutters something else in his half-Scottish half-jumble of a language and puffs his long pipe cocking a grin and struts off nimbly down the dirt road while I close and lock the front door.

Inside, my morning coffee brews leaving a lingering scent wafting from the kitchen a few rooms away. The ceilings in my home are low, and I've noticed the smells as well as heat from the fireplace travel much better with less space to fill.

And, yes, I've learned how to light and stoke a fireplace. Thanks to Youtube.

My soft fur white slippers shuffle through the old living room mixing with the cracking sounds of the old oak hardwood floors until I reach the kitchen off to the right of the house. The ceiling angles off to where it meets the back door while the room is filled with open cabinets where my floral dish set is filed away vertically above the sink and lower country counters.

Beside the large sink that's been cracked and needing to be replaced I take a ceramic mug hanging from the exposed cabinets from an eye hook and pour myself a coffee then mix the milk into it. Since being here, I've had withdrawals of Starbucks and my favorite flavored salted caramel creamer, but I'd rather have something than nothing.

And I'd rather be here than there.

Tapping my spoon against the ceramic mug I set it in a small plastic bin I've been doing my dishes in since I've moved in, then again check my robe and take a seat at the small circle kitchenette dining table.

I sip the warm liquid and gaze out the chintz window admiring the view in the back garden. Currently, it's still overrun with tall weeds that I've managed to partially uproot. Looking passed the weeds there are oak trees and bushes as well as a half broken archway leading to the lake house down a narrow trail.

A clock featuring a wooden bird opening its beak every chime marking that its 9am clucks loudly and holds my attention while I take another slow sip of the hot coffee.

Reviewing the questions I had ready for my prospective caretakers today, I drink and sit. Unfortunately, I'd be forced to not only socialize like a normal human being but I'd also be forced to hire someone.

If I hadn't drank all my wine two nights ago, I'd be sipping that instead of this shit coffee, but beggars can't be choosers. Especially when the market here lacks anything but hard liquor and beer.

The most important quality I was looking for was someone who was quiet. Beyond anything else, I want them to be seen not heard. Fuck, if I don't have to see them all the better.

Secondly, I want the work done right and I want it done the way I like it. It's been sixteen years where I've had to do it to someone elses liking, and that stopped when I signed the divorce papers.

Thirdly, the second I get a hint of if this person is a creep I'm going squeal and oink like a pig to terrify them off.

Once I finish my coffee, I lean over the table and crank open the large rectangle shaped window so each plane of glass is extended outward to allow for the chirps of the morning birds and the blow of the breeze to filter in.

Then I take a seat and lift my legs crossing my ankles over the top of the table and enjoy the view and the fact that I've done absolutely fucking nothing this morning.

By nine am in my old life, I'd have gotten up, made our bed, made a full course breakfast and his morning protein shake, started his laundry, gotten ready with full hair and makeup, switched his laundry, and then headed to the gym.

Here, though, I do what I want when I want.

After my coffee I toast bread on the old range stove top and eat as I clean the dishes in the small plastic bin and put them back into their places. By ten o'clock the caretakers would start arriving so I hustle upstairs and get dressed.

I dress in my loose cuffed denim jeans that tie into a cinched bow at my waist with a plain white longsleeve shirt tucked in. Because this is a business transaction and I don't want them to think I'm a hillbilly from America I wear my favorite red lipstick and pull my hair back into slick pony tail.

This is my house and my interview so I'll be wearing my slippers. If we decide to go outside I'll put on the clogs. Giving myself a once over, considering for a moment the lipstick is over the top, but decide to leave it.

Then my eyes flash to my hair. I'm no longer a platinum blonde. No need to ruin my hair for that fuck-tard anymore. I've gone back to my natural shade of light brown. And I couldn't be happier.

Then I had back down the steep narrow staircase that curves at the bottom and take a seat inside the living room waiting for my prospective employees.

🌻

The coo-coo-clock echoes from the kitchen informing me it is now one in the fucking afternoon and no one has bothered to show up.

I'd put my information up at Gregory's Tavern and even put an article in the local newspaper. I thought I'd at least get one person in this place that would at least be interested. I'm paying them a hefty sum--more than any farmhand would make out here or fisherman. And to top it off I've even offered the lakehouse to be rented out for nearly nothing. Sure it's practically a hollow shell and the inside is a complete disaster but it's in the male DNA to live like rats isn't it?

Interrupting my sulking, two loud bangs jostle me from where I sit cuddled on the couch. The loudness of the knocks has my heart in my throat afraid something bad has happened outside, so I scramble stuffing my feet into my slippers. Getting hooked on an old nail protruding from the floor I fall against the front door, slamming my palms and side of my face against the cold rough wood. "Jesus, what the fuck!" I whisper-yell then throw open the front door, still afraid of what's happening on the other side that's caused such a round of bangs.

A deep voice sounds above me and my eyes trail upwards, "Bloody Hell -- what the fuck happened to you? You've got red shite all over your face."

Oh, no, no, no.

Why is he not old? Or older? With wrinkles.

I don't know what to panic about first. The fact that I know the lipstick is probably smeared halfway across my face or that there's a damn dream boat in my doorway.

I clasp a hand over my face, attempting to hide the disaster then spit out, "What's wrong? Why are you banging on my door like that?"

His jaw is chiseled with evidence of a five o'clock shadow forming and boasts a cocky smile. His olive skin tone contrasts against the light blue of his eyes and the caramel brown in his short hair.

"No shite, American? You know what, I was wondering why the pay was so good. Because no one in this fucking town would ever fork over a fortune for a fucking caretaker job." He speaks quickly and I train my ears to adjust to his accent then stare at him wide-eyed as he steps through into my house.

Despite his ramblings, it takes me a moment to realize he's here for the caretaker position.

"Umm, sorry-- you're here for the job?" I inquire while I still cover the side of my face.

He laughs and crosses his arms proudly, "Well yeah, you are Mrs. Davenport? The add said this address-"

"It's Ms.-" I interject then immidiatly regret it because this guy, who is much younger than me doesn't need to know my marital status. "Umm, if you'll excuse me, I tripped on a nail and hit the door-- I'll be right back."

"Sure, sure." He waves me off and turns admiring the house and the split walls of wood and stonework.

I keep my footfalls even, not wanting him to hear me scurry upstairs in this very loud creaky house and enter my bedroom. I step over to my chest of drawers where my makeup is out in it's designated place, showcasing my favorite makeup brands and color coded. Sure enough, the reflection in the mirror above the chest of drawers shows the makeup is smeared from my lips to my cheek and even somehow reached the tip of my nose.

"Great," I grumble then remove the smears with a makeup wipe and quickly fix my lips with the Yves red lipstick and eye the Marc Jacob's perfume. "No. Don't even." I tell myself as my fingers itch for the lovely floral scent that I've yet to spray on since I got here.

Anthony hated my Marc Jacob's scent...

My hand shoots out and I spritz my wrist and under my ear and pat the scent into my skin then quickly head downstairs.

"My apologies for that-" I start gripping the banister then freeze, ducking to see below the ceiling and find the living room empty. "Uhh, sir?" I don't even know this guys name.

I walk slowly expecting him to appear when he hears me come downstairs but the living room remains empty, "Hello?" I call louder.

"In here, boss!" The deep accented voice calls from the kitchen, so I follow it and find the guy laying beneath the sink, with his legs stretched out on the floor and his torso and upper body hidden inside the blue pattern drapes.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?"

"Fixing your pipes, you've got a wicked leak." It's then I notice a bag with different tools spilling out of it onto my floor.

My fists plant on my hips and I find myself glaring at his jean clad legs. The knees of his jeans are worn with the ripped fabric discolored with green and brown.

"I haven't hired you yet, sir." I tap my slippered foot slightly irritated he thinks he can just go in and fix my pipes no questions asked.

I hear a tool clink then drop, and he slides out from under the sink. His brown brow cocked up expectantly, "Well then, I don't have to fix it. But I know you've got no others coming for the job."

My tongue clicks in my mouth and my arms fold over my chest. How does he know that?

He takes my annoyance as conceding so he smiles wide and slides back under the sink then begins working again.

"I-I have questions." I state, I'd been reviewing my questions for the passed five days, and I will make sure he answers them.

"Fire away," he chuckles.

"I guess they are not questions but more of requirements. But, I want someone quiet-"

"Ouch! Balls!" He growls following a loud bang, "Yes, quiet. Check. What else?"

My brows curve upward, as I realize this guy is probably the opposite of quiet. "I want things done my way."

He laughs but continues to work, "You're paying me, boss. I'll be sure to keep you satisfied."

My stomach knots and I knead my temples, knowing this partnership is going to fail miserably.

I let out a sigh of defeat and drop my arm heavily from my head, "Right. And what's your name?"

He slides back out with a mischievous grin and uses a wrench to scratch his brow, "I'm Noah."

I wanted to introduce Noah quickly! I dont want to waste any time on this story lol (which is new for me. I mainly write slowburns)

Keep an eye out next week for chapter 3!

CC