Hilltop House

Maeve, Thirteen

The paranoia had worsened. Maeve could tell because she was beginning to do entirely irrational things. Like accept Alan's invite for Thanksgiving, and even worse, like invite John along for the ride.

She hadn't exactly meant to ask her bartending work neighbor, but she'd been sitting there late one night again, and they'd spoken nonchalantly about their worst holidays growing up, and somehow it'd gotten on the subject of Thanksgiving and he'd indicated he wasn't going to do anything and she'd asked why and he'd said he didn't have anyone to celebrate with and . . . well, perhaps it'd been the alcohol talking, but she'd thrown out an invitation, which she'd sheepishly had to double-check with Alan the next day. She'd half-hoped both men would turn her down, but neither did, even with her "Well, it'd probably be really awkward," "I mean, it's fine if you don't want to let him," "I understand entirely if it's a no . . ."

So there she was at Alan's, her daughter somewhere around, the weird neighbors trying to smalltalk with her, John being entirely interesting and surprisingly charming. Of course, that was his job--being able to talk to anybody and everybody, make a nobody feel like a somebody. It was how he'd begun getting to know her, wasn't it? By pretending to care about her problems?

"You all right?"

Maeve startled from her thoughts, looked at John's bluff, friendly face next to her. "Oh, sure. I'm fine. Just thinking."

He met her eyes, taking a break from talking to Tom about boats. "You know, I thought that was just your late-night habit--overthinking."

She laughed slightly. "Nope. It's sort of an all-the-time thing."

"Well listen, if you want, we can go into the kitchen; I can lean over the counter and make it feel like we're back at the bar and we can talk about it."

Maeve tried to return his smile but inwardly scolded herself for her absolute foolishness. John was virtually a stranger, and now he knew where she lived. Well, not quite where she lived . . . she'd just given him Alan's address. She hadn't said she lived on the same street. And she'd expressly told him not to say anything to Cora about their AM camaraderie. But she'd had to explain to Alan and the others about who John was and how they knew one another. It hadn't been as uncomfortable as she'd assumed it'd be; he got along with them all right away. He wasn't one of those clingers who hovered at her elbow and waited for her to make conversation; he just jumped right in and made friends with everyone. And throughout the evening, due to John's easy, confidence-inducing manner and the liberally-flowing beer and wine, Maeve learned some bizarre things. She heard from Ann that Dottie--the still-in-rehab resident cat lady--had been having a torrid affair with the recently deceased Mr. George. Ann knew only because Tom had been snoopy enough to catch bits of information from the family that had assembled to sort through his belongings. Apparently, the family had found things that had led them to discover the affair, which someone had supposedly confirmed with Dottie. What exactly the things were that the family found, nobody seemed to know, but Ann hinted that they were the sorts of items nobody spoke about (whatever exactly that meant). And Maeve had heard from Tom that Niecey had decided not to come that night because she'd always hated Ann. When John had attempted to wriggle a reason out of Tom, he'd hinted only that he and Ann had interests Niecey considered subversive, and once the two women had argued about God's views on such things, which had left a sour taste in both their mouths.

Maeve also learned by listening to a conversation John had with Alan that his son Brian had been acting strangely, almost like a moody teenager, writing actual poetry (which he'd then tear up and throw away) and spending hours online which (Alan assumed) could only mean he was lonely and looking at porn, which Alan jokingly hoped was "the legal kind."

Alan's nonchalance about his son's habits had rather disgusted Maeve, but she couldn't get on Alan's bad side; he might stop providing her with the pills she needed to sleep most nights.

There was food, then, and it was absolutely delicious as expected. People filled plates and stood around, watched football and talked and in general kept things very informal, and by the time the night had fallen good and thick in its soft-snowing blanket, Maeve was feeling fuzzy and deceptively warm enough from her wine to step out front and light a cigarette. John joined her shortly after, not interested in smoking but just to keep her company, he said, and Maeve's spirits were high enough to appreciate his presence.

"So, your friends are . . . interesting," he joked, leaning against a porch post and pushing his hands into his pockets.

Maeve studied him, his trim yet thick beard, his warm eyes, his broad shoulders. Her eyes lingered longer than they would have should she have been less inebriated, but he seemed to appreciate her boldness, anyway, and brought up one corner of his mouth in amusement.

"I wouldn't really call them friends," Maeve confessed. "I hardly know them. And a few are Alan's friends--never met them before tonight."

"What do you think that couple is into? Tom and Ann, was it?"

"Furries," Maeve immediately replied, then gave a little snort. "No, I have no idea. Alan thinks they're swingers."

"Really?" John glanced back at the house with interest. "I don't think I've ever met any real swingers! At least, not that I know of. You want to go in there and find out if they are?"

Maeve raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Yeah, no, you're right. I have no idea how that works. We'd probably have to be a couple or something."

This time Maeve raised both eyebrows, tapped the ash off her cigarette.

"I'm not into that!" John quickly confirmed. "I don't want to--with them--Jesus, that came out wrong, didn't it?"

Maeve smirked, shrugged. "You said it, not me."

Running a hand over his forehead and up through his dark hair, John laughed uncomfortably. "I'm not so smooth outside my bar, am I?"

"I never thought you were too smooth in it."

"Come on! Now that hurts." He put a hand to his chest, teasingly, then mellowed again. "Thank you for inviting me. Really. It's been interesting, if nothing else."

"The food was good."

"The food was amazing."

"Well," Maeve tossed the butt on the ground, stubbed it out with her toe, "you're welcome." She walked a little toward him, toward the door, but he sort of blocked the way, so she stopped and gave him an expectant look.

John was close enough to really peer into her eyes, and for a moment they stood that way, something hanging there between them. Maeve recognized the vibe, didn't exactly mind it but knew, as she'd known with any others over the years, that it couldn't go anywhere. "John," she began in all sincerity, "I appreciate that we can talk to each other, but I am all kinds of unavailable."

The man's mouth flattened a bit, but he didn't lose the sparkles in his eyes. "We all come with baggage, Maeve."

"Yeah? Well, I come with a U-Haul."

"Message received," he nodded. "But if you want to start unpacking some of that truck, you know where I am every night."

Maeve smiled, walked around and past him, said over her shoulder, "I could use the free therapy."

John casually began to follow her back inside, then caused her to stop at the door when he asked, "That house down there--I thought someone mentioned that cat lady being gone?"

The woman turned, shrugged. "Yeah, she is." From her angle, she couldn't see Dottie's two-story, but John seemed to be gazing at it with interest.

"If that's the right house, the light's on, in the upstairs, anyway."

"Really?" Maeve joined John, saw that he was actually correct--there was a light on in the room where they'd found Dottie, the room with the broken window from which the cats had escaped. A brief tremor rippled across Maeve's shoulders, but then she shook it off. "I must have heard the rehab dates wrong, or she's doing better than we all thought. I'll have to stop over soon and see how she is, see if she needs help corralling those damn cats." And with that, she turned away and reopened the front door of the house, the warmth and noise greeting her and John as they went back inside.