Cold Comfort: Tuesday, July 9, 2024 – Alyssa

I’ve got a fire going in my fireplace but the lights off. I sit on a cushion on the floor in front of the flames, blanket wrapped around my shoulders and mug of cocoa cupped in both hands. Cold rain is my least favorite weather, and I don’t know how to feel about what all happened today. Truman will be delayed, if he comes at all, because Jonathan’s left a message on his cabin door in case he goes there before the lodge.

I don’t know if I want him to come over tonight. He told me his, and he’s Googled mine, but I’m not sure he’s fully internalized the full extent of mine. And I think maybe he’s spent too much time alone in his head with his.

Lydia passed me half a bag of marshmallows before she left, and now I carefully put another one in my mug. You can’t drop it too hard because then the cocoa splashes, but I like my marshmallows melted a bit on all sides, so I rotate it like a little rotisserie chicken and then use my spoon to get it into my mouth. That way the cocoa stays at a high enough level to properly melt the marshmallows and my fingers don’t get all sticky from properly melted marshmallows.

If my mother were here, she’d yell at me for playing with my food, but she’s been gone for a long time. It’s just me, alone in my cabin, until the knock on the door that’s not Truman. It’s loud enough I don’t hesitate and wonder if I imagined it, but it’s not Truman. I’m in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, with a blanket around my shoulders, but whoever’s knocking this late will just have to deal with it. I’m off duty.

First I flick on the outdoor light, and then I open the door, and I wonder why I ever wondered who it could be. I step back, letting Agatha come in. “Grab a cushion. Cocoa?”

“Don’t tell me you started with a full bag of marshmallows.” It’s indulgent instead of a critique, at least.

“Nah, half.” She didn’t say yes or no to the cocoa, but the water in the kettle’s still hot, so I mix up a packet and hand her a mug. Agatha won’t steal any of my marshmallows. I’m safe.

“Thanks.” She takes her mug and holds it like I did, just getting the crouch and the warmth. “I want to call him.”

“So call him.” That’s it?

She shakes her head a little. “I can’t just run to him with all my problems.”

“Why not?” Okay, look, I’m not the best one to go to for relationship advice.

Agatha snorts. “You, of all people, shouldn’t be arguing this side.”

“And yet …” Here we sit.

Silence. I sit down and pick up another marshmallow. She takes a sip.

I’d say this feels like two teenagers talking about a boyfriend, but I never really did that as a teenager. There was other stuff going on in my life that made me miss out on that, except I’m not really sure it’s something I missed so much as avoided. And it’s weird, because it’s like the boyfriend we’re talking about is my brother, and I never talked to my brothers’ girlfriends about their relationships.

“If I call him, it means I can’t handle it myself,” she finally blurts.

“Someone’s threatening to get everyone’s name.” I shake my head. “That’s a reason to call him.”

“We said once a week.” It’s like she wants it to be a firm protest.

“Did you put ‘someone’s trying to get everyone’s name’ into your little contingency matrix?” I press.

She sighs and closes her eyes. “He told you about the contingency matrix.”

“Don’t make me use your full name,” I threaten. “Call him.”

Her dark eyes actually show a spark of interest. “What sort of full name are you going to fling at me?”

“Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie Mallowan.” I recite it carefully. Why do British people have two middle names?

Agatha blinks. “Her last name wasn’t Christie?”

I shake my head and decide it’s time to start slurping my own cocoa. “That’s her first husband’s name, so she started publishing under it, but she changed it when she married the good one.”

“The first one wasn’t a good one?” Now she’s frowning.

I clear my throat and look over at her, then back at the fire. “He asked for a divorce like right after her mom died, and that’s when she disappeared for eleven days.”

“Agatha Christie disappeared for eleven days?” Agatha blinks and sits up a little straighter. “Okay, I’m kind of liking being named after her.”

“She, uh.” Well, I’m the one who brought this up. “She ran off, and registered herself using the husband’s mistress’ name, and the news fell all over her disappearance and thought she was dead.”

“Like Mary Shelley,” Agatha concludes.

I tilt my head. “Arthur Conan Doyle went to a medium to contact Christie’s spirit.”

“Not like Mary Shelley.” She says it in the exact same tone.

“I’m pretty sure the Shelleys had sex on someone’s grave,” I tell her, just to see if I can get her to mix it up.

Agatha shivers. “Glad I’m not a Shelley. Did you research authors in preparation for this job?”

“Believe it or not, sometimes I’m at a computer and bored and I’ve got time to fill.” Even now, when I’m so rarely at a computer with Internet.

“Poe married his cousin,” she offers. “His child cousin.”

“There’s no proof the marriage was ever consummated.” Edgar hasn’t brought that up yet, but Jonathan made that point when Lydia tried to argue.

That makes her snort. “Let’s get a medium and ask the child bride.”

“I feel like we’re in enough trouble without getting out a Ouija board,” I murmur, except oops, now I’ve got her thinking about something else.

The firelight doesn’t extend all that far into the room, but she nods to my little bookshelf of games. “Who plays all those with you?”

My hands wrap around my cocoa mug. “Truman.”

“Ah.” She licks her lips. “Does he do that with all of his coworkers?”

“No.” I wait a beat. “You should call him.”

Agatha starts to open her mouth, but there’s a knock on the door, and she jumps.

“It’s Truman,” I tell her, either reassuring or warning as I get up.

“You know it’s Truman by the way he knocks?” she calls after me.

Well, yes, but she doesn’t have to tell me she’s reading into it. I open the door and tilt my head to get him to glance over before he says anything, and Agatha’s twisted around and the light’s still on out there so she sees the frown turn into a nod of recognition. Then she whirls on me, eyes narrowed, because the only way he’d not be surprised at seeing her here was if …

“I almost used your full name,” Agatha sniffs, getting to her feet. “I’ll return the mug. Truman.”

He steps aside to let her leave and turns raised eyebrows to me. “You okay?”

“She came here asking for advice and didn’t like me disagreeing with her.” Yeah, I know that’s not really an answer.

“Okay.” He closes the door and bends down to start unlacing his boots.

“I told her to call him.” And why do my arms cross?

“She doesn’t want to call him?” He’s ready to tiptoe around this.

I sigh and get out his tea mug. “I don’t think Agatha entirely knows what she wants.”

“Do any of us?” he asks philosophically, emptying whatever’s left in the electric kettle and getting it going again so he at least knows how long the water’s been off the boil.

“Yeah, a bunch of us don’t want someone coming in and learning our names, thanks,” I grumble.

“Mood. Jonathan didn’t tell you anything else?” It’s a casual question, and he’s still facing the kettle.

I shake my head. I’m not sure if Jonathan told him I took the call that started this, so I know which guest was being asked for. He probably didn’t, because he wouldn’t want Truman to try to get that information out of me, and I’m pretty sure Jonathan knows how much time Truman and I spend together.

I’m pretty sure he’s almost as much of a matchmaker as Hercule Poirot.

Truman glances over his shoulder. “Do you want to play something, or just stare at the fire like cavemen?”

“If ‘cavemen’ is a catch-all term, did all cavemen have fire?” Good job not being defensive there. Gold star.

Truman sighs. “You can tell I’m tired because of my inexact language. Yes, Alyssa, I think all cavemen had fire, because they were men, and fire separated us from the monkeys. Do I need to pick a game to distract you from the cavemen?”

I take a slow breath and hold it a moment before letting it out. “What I need is someone to tell me that, no matter what happens, I’m going to be okay.”

Truman takes both my hands and looks me directly in the eye. “No matter what happens, you’re going to be okay.” I don’t believe him, but it’s really sweet of him to say.

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Cold Comfort: Wednesday, July 10, 2024 – Henry, coming July 28