“Ah!” My skin tears and a fat drop of dark-red blood surfaces.
“Stay still.” The big man releases my jacket from where it’s stuck. He grabs my hand and I feel his warm fingers against my cold wrist. “It’s not deep. Put a bandage on it and you’ll be fine.” He releases my hand and I feel his soft fingertips on mine before losing his touch.
“Miss Clementine!” Scott hollers, running toward me. His hands are filled with my luggage. “You must be Mr. Keith Adams,” Scott says in a hoarse, out-of-breath voice to the man still standing on the other side of the gate.
My new landlord nods and asks, “Where is your car?”
Scott peers at me briefly before he replies, “It broke down at the last signal, sir. If you can take Miss Clementine inside, I can bring the rest of her luggage.”
Keith glances toward the signal, where most of my luggage sits forgotten. “I’ll give you a hand.” He opens the gate finally and thrusts his umbrella toward me. “Go in.” I have no choice but to grab it.
“Dad!” A young girl holding a pink umbrella skids to us. “What’s happening?”
“This is Clementine. You take her in and we’ll bring her stuff.” Keith picks up my bags from the ground and carries them to the porch.
“But I should help,” I whisper. Maybe I still have a chance to fix my bad impression.
“It’s okay.” My new landlord grunts again.
“But I want to help,” I say urgently, with a bit more force.
“And you would be doing just that by going in.”
I’m shocked by his snappy attitude. Between leaving the house, the rain, the cut on my wrist, which is hurting really bad, and then this man’s unexpected irritation it’s all too much. I try hard to stop the tears threatening to make an appearance.
“Dad!” the young girl hisses at her father and for a moment reminds me of myself. “You should come in, Clementine. You are already wet.” This time I don’t protest and follow her to the porch while Keith and Scott run away in the rain.
“I’m Merida,” she says, looking at me curiously. “It’s nice to meet you. I heard a lot about you from Oscar. You’re a fashion designer, right?”
My sad heart sobers a bit, hearing her interest in me. I smile. “Yes, I’ve done designs for mostly friends and family so far.” I offer her my hand to shake. “I’m so happy to meet you, Merida. Please call me Clem, all my friends do.”
“You can call me Mere. I’ll get something for your cut.” Merida rushes inside and a few moments later returns with a first-aid kit.
After the second trip, Keith straightens his back and looks around at his porch, filled with my stuff. He shakes his head in annoyance, giving me an offended look, and hisses under his breath, “Hopefully this will be the last trip.”
Thankfully it is.
“Shall I bring the bags inside?” Scott asks, as Keith removes his wet jacket and shakes it away from us.
Looking at my things once more, he replies, “Everything is wet. If we bring this in, it’ll just mess up the floor.” He cocks his head toward the paper bags. “Whatever is in there is probably ruined.”
“No. No.” Oh my God! The cakes. “Not the cheesecake.” This time I don’t care about anyone as gut-wrenching sobs break through me. The bags are soggy under my hands and the moist cardboard sits fallen over the crushed cake.
“We have a diner nearby. They make very good cheesecake,” Merida whispers, sitting next to me on the floor.
I shake my head. “My gram made this. She even picked the oranges from our orchard herself.” I point to the orange slice mushed with the cream cheese frosting. “She makes the best cheesecake with her hands, no processor.” I hold the box up to Merida. “She made this one for you and your—” Words stop in my mouth when I peer at Keith and the irritation burning in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”
“Your gram sounds very nice.” Merida smiles at me and I’m so grateful for her kindness at this moment.
“I’ll leave, Mr. Adams,” Scott says. “Take care of yourself, Miss Clementine. If you need anything, call me, okay?”
I nod, getting up, and at the last moment run toward him. My foot gets hooked in a bag handle and I fall face-first on Keith’s chest.
God! What’s happening today? I’m not such a klutz in general.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the solid, warm wall.
Keith just releases another grunt of annoyance and rights me up.