The Cabin (The Cabin Novellas (Book One)) (2 page)

The glasses looked thick and were made of black plastic. Each lens was square shaped, like an old TV set.

“That’s better,” he smiled. “I can see you now.”

In his glasses and smiling, he looked boyish somehow. I guessed he must’ve been no older than twenty, putting him at the same age as me. Despite the old fashioned pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he was handsome in an offbeat kind of way. He was no Bradley Cooper – that was for sure – but still there was something nice about him. The first thing that struck me was now that he was wearing his glasses, I could see his eyes clearly for the first time. It was as if the lenses gave them clarity. At first glance his eyes looked a washed-out grey, the color of dirty dishwater. Now I could see flecks of bright hazel radiating out from behind each black pupil. Each of them looked like a mini solar eclipse.

“Are you okay?” he asked me.

“Huh?” I sighed softly, as if being brought back into the room.

“You were staring at me,” he said with that boyish smile again.

“No, I wasn’t,” I lied, my cheeks flushing warm and red. “I was thinking.”

“About what?”
He placed his book on the table and looked at me.

“I was just wondering why you would sit and pretend to be reading,” I said. “Or perhaps you’re just very vain and didn’t want your date to see you wearing those glasses?”

“Would you wear these things on a first date?” he smiled, pushing the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

“Why don’t you get a new pair?” I asked.

“I usually wear contacts,” he said.

“But not today – not on your first date?” I smiled.

“Not when you drop them down the plughole when you’re running late,” he smiled back at me.

“We’ll if it’s any consolation,” I said, “it looks like the mystery girl with the red hair blew you out.”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me,” he groaned, looking back at the door one last time.

“So what can I get you?” I asked again, pen poised over pad.

“There doesn’t seem to be any point drinking tea on my own,” he said, turning back to face me.

“You could always sit and read your book and drink tea,” I said.

“I’ve already read it twice, and it wasn’t that great the first time,” he smiled again, combing his damp hair from his brow with his fingers.

“So why bring it with you?” I frowned.

“Because I couldn’t see what I’d taken from the bookshelf when I left home,” he sighed.

“I
see
,” I smiled. Then realising what I had said, I quickly added, “I wasn’t trying to be funny or anything.”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. I waited for him to order or leave. I was
a little unnerved that there was a part of me which would’ve quite liked him to stay a while longer. It wasn’t that I found him overly attractive or anything, but the majority of my usual customers weren’t a day younger than sixty-five. It wasn’t often someone my own age ventured into the café.    

“I don’t s’pose you would like to join me for some tea?” he suddenly asked, pushing a chair back from the table.

“I can’t,” I gasped, a little taken aback by his invitation.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” he said, getting up.

“It’s just that I’m working – that’s all. If the manager came back and caught me sitting and drinking tea with a customer, he would fire me,” I explained. “I need this job. I’m saving up so I can leave this place one day.”

“What
, the café?” he asked, glancing around at the cluster of lace-covered tables and the old folks gathered around them.

“Not just the café,” I sighed. “I want to leave town.”

For just a second, I thought he looked a little disappointed at hearing me say this. But why should he be bothered? He didn’t even know me.

“If you’re not leaving town within the next few days, perhaps we could meet up some other time for tea?” he said, hovering just above his seat, unsure whether to sit back down again or not.

“I’d like that,” I smiled back at him, my cheeks flushing scarlet again. I wasn’t going anywhere just yet. And besides, it was going to take me more than just a few weeks of tips to get me away from town. 

“Really?” he said, sounding shocked by my reply.

“You sound surprised,” I said.

“Well, can you blame me? You saw me wearing my binoculars,” he laughed.

“They’re not so bad,” I smiled.

I watched him head for the door. Pulling up his collar again, he stepped out into the rain. Then, glancing back at me he said, “I’m Nathan, by the way.”

“Mia,” I smiled.

“Okay, Mia,” he smiled back. Then, glancing at the opening and closing times printed on the café door, he added, “I’ll see you at five this afternoon.”  

That was how I meet Nathan Chaplin, the man I would end up marrying. The man I met for tea that cold, rainy afternoon, not because I found him attractive, but because he had nice eyes and a kind smile. And it was with that kind smile and nice eyes that he looked at me now as he came across the honeymoon suite, believing tonight was the night I would finally give myself to him.

I had been dating Nathan four months, as we strolled one morning through the park in our home town of Skipton, North Yorkshire; he looked at me and said, “Mia, I’ve been keeping a secret from you.”

At first I didn’t know how to feel. What was the secret? What had this gentle and caring man been hiding from me? Could it be as mortifying as the secret I’d been keeping from him? Perhaps he shared the same fears as me? Perhaps he had scars like me? No, just emotional scars, we all pick up a few of them along the way, but real scars? Scars which showed you did something bad – that you’d needed to be punished.

He wouldn’t have scars like that. I couldn’t imagine Nathan doing anything bad in his life to anyone or anything. I couldn’t imagine Nathan ever needing to be punished.

Griping his hand tightly, I looked into his eyes, and with my heart starting to quicken, I said, “What is it you’ve been keeping from me, Nathan?”

Looking sheepishly at me, he said, “There never was any red-haired girl with freckles.”

“Red-headed girl with freckles?” I frowned. Then I remembered the day he had strolled into the café and into my life. This was the last thing I had expected his secret to be. With my heart beginning to settle again, I felt more amused than cross at his sudden confession.

“Don’t be mad at me,” he said, trying to anticipate my reaction. “I just needed to find a way of speaking to you. I made up that whole thing about the date.”

“And the glasses?” I said, feeling confused.

“No, that part was all true. I really did drop my contacts down the plughole in the sink,” he said. “I was so nervous about plucking up the courage to come into the café and speak to you. My hands were shaking like a leaf.”

“But why me?” I asked, feeling confused, but at the same time flattered. “How did you even know I worked there?”

“I saw you on the bus one morning,” he started to explain as we walked around the edge of the duck pond on that crisp February morning. The grass was flecked white with frost, the water frozen over and cracked in places. “I had my contacts in that day or I probably wouldn’t have seen you at all. But I did see you and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. So the following day, I caught the bus again. For a whole week I got on that bus and it didn’t even take me in the direction I wanted to go in. I was late for work each day at the store. My boss threatened to sack me on the spot if I were late again. I knew I had to speak to you or forget about you. And I knew I could never have done that.”

As I listened to Nathan make his confession, I couldn’t help but feel my heart ache. Perhaps I should have felt a bit creeped out knowing he had practically stalked me for an entire week without me even being aware of his presence. And why hadn’t I been aware of it? Because I never would have expected it. Who in their right mind would’ve wanted to follow me? Who would have risked their job by travelling miles out of their way each morning just to look at me? Perhaps he was a pervert after all?

But in my heart I knew he wasn’t. He was a giant of a man, tall, broad, with shoulders as round as basketballs and hands as wide as shovels, but he was gentle inside, kind and undemanding. That’s what I liked about him. He had a patience which drew me to him. He wasn’t like the men my friends talked about. I had listened to their painfully intimate stories, and secretly shuddered as each of them relished describing in exhaustive detail their sexual encounters. Although my friends told me their secrets, I never told them mine. They would think me a freak if I were to try and somehow explain what I had done and with whom. How could I explain that I trembled at the thought of undressing in front of a man – in front of anyone? I didn’t want anyone to see those scars, because then I would have to explain what I’d done to get them. You only got scars like that if you had been real bad. I had been, and those scars were a constant reminder of not only what I’d done, but the man I had once loved. How could I have told any of my friends about that? Worse still, how could I even begin to explain to Nathan about those scars? 

In the short time I had known Nathan, I had grown to love him, and he loved me. I knew I wasn’t
in
love with him; I knew the difference. I had felt that kind of love before. I loved the soft hugs Nathan gave me in his huge arms, and the kisses, although I often pulled away when he slipped his tongue into my mouth. That made me feel uncomfortable – as I knew it would lead to more. But Nathan was patient with me, gentle and understanding, and unlike the men my friends raved on about. Nathan, like me, seemed a little hesitant – unsure – about intimacy. I got the feeling he hadn’t had very many experiences with women – if any. I don’t think he feared it like me, and I don’t think Nathan would’ve worried for one moment about being naked in front of me. He just seemed a little bit unsure of himself – like the day he’d come into the café pretending he was meeting another girl, when really he was trying to muster up the courage to ask me to join him for afternoon tea.

So when I pulled gently away from his kisses, slid from his arms if one of his hands strayed too close to one of my covered breasts, he didn’t seem to mind too much. It was as if he liked being with someone who was as inexperienced as he was. I guess it took a little bit of pressure off him. But I wasn’t inexperienced like he believed. I had already experienced much – and got hurt. 

So, an idea came to me as we walked on that bright, but chilly morning, as Nathan placed his arm around my shoulder and said, “Is it a Catholic thing?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, glancing up at him.

“The reason you pull away from me? The real reason why you won’t let me touch you, undress...”

“Yes,” I cut in. I had been raised a Catholic for as long as I could remember and understanding that Christianity and purity were very
important to some – Nathan unwittingly had provided me with an easy and believable excuse. Nathan had bought me some time.

“I thought as much,” he said. “I spotted the crucifix on the windowsill at your parents’ house and I’ve known since I met you that you go to mass every Sunday.”

“You make us sound like a bunch of religious maniacs,” I said with a smile as I tugged at the sleeve of his coat. My mother and father and both their parents were devout Catholics. I wasn’t sure if I was anymore, even though I went to church with them each Sunday, but I’d stopped going to confession some years ago. 

“I didn’t mean it like that, but it’s obviously very important to you,” he said, eyeing me.

“Yes, it is,” I said back, knowing this to be a half lie. I had been schooled at a convent, which had had more than its fair share of ups and downs for me.

“I might be wrong, as I don’t really have a true understanding of what it is you believe in, but do you have to wait...do you have to wait until...” he struggled for the right words.

“Until my wedding night?” I finished for him.

“Yes, if you understand what I’m getting at?” he said, looking away a little embarrassed. “We can’t sleep...make love to each other...unless we’re married.”

“Is this some kind of a marriage proposal?” I half joked, feeling uncomfortable with where the conversation was heading.

“No...
well...I don’t think it is,” he said, looking at me.

Leaning close into him and resting the side of my face against the soft suede of his coat, I said, “I don’t want to give myself away until I’m married. Does that bother you?”

“No,” he said, and just like me, I got the feeling he was somewhat relieved by what I had just said.

Together we continued to walk through the park, me clinging to his arm in the comfortable knowledge that we never might marry and my lie would therefore never be discovered.

We both still lived with our respective parents. This gave little opportunity for either of us to get physically close. If our
outer-course
– as Nathan had started to call it – did get too uncomfortable for me, I had a perfect get-out-of-jail card. We had been dating for about a year, when one afternoon, just after Christmas, we were snuggled up together on the sofa at my parents’ house. The Christmas tree had yet to be taken down. The twinkling lights lit the room. I had heated some popcorn and opened a bottle of red wine to share while we watched an old black-and-white movie on the TV. We were alone in the house, my mother and father had gone to visit their elderly parents who were now in nursing homes on the other side of town. The night was drawing in, and by half-past four, it had turned fully dark outside.