Jellycat

Jellycat wasn't born to be proprietor of a crumbling, remote, lakeside inn buried in upstate Montana: she should have been a dancer, painter, poet. Better still, a butterfly, a feather twisting on a breeze.

But she came with Pete, and, well, Pete's been saddled to the place since birth. Couple of people around here think maybe he died on purpose to cut those reins, but I know that's not true. Too happy, see, since he brought Jellycat here.

"This," he announced, with a canyon-wide grin, "is my fianceé Angelica."

"But you can call me Jellycat, " she beamed. "I know, I know, silly nickname. But Angelica's so formal, and Angie's too…" she grimaced "...Studio 54." As if anyone in Polebridge knew Studio 54!

"Morning Mart." She sighs, flopping into an armchair. A cloud of dust floats up. "What's happening?"

"Guests last night. All the way from Pocatello. Warned them about the bears in the woods." I don’t tell her that they recoiled from me when I unlocked their musty room, whiskey hot on my breath, eyes like bullet holes.

“Saw them at breakfast.” She pulls at a tag of loose skin around her thumbnail. “Returning guests.”

“Is that so?”

"Why would they come here?" she muses.

"You don't have to stay, " I tell her. "You're not a tree. But we'd miss ya if you left."

She grins, fleetingly. "Do you know, it's been three years today?"

I do know. Three years today since his boat was pulled in empty from the glassy lake. So clear that morning, but it was another month before hikers spotted him floating there, all peaceful looking.

“Sad times.”

“Mart, I thought I might take the boat out later. Think I’m ready. Will you come?”

"I dunno. We’ve guests…”

“We’ve got two guests and they’re leaving today.” She pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging them as though they are Pete. “Please?”

#

Wooden oars slice the mirrored inverted glaciers guarding the lake. I’ve been rowing this patch since before little Jellycat was a dot point on her mama’s bucket list and could do this in the black of night. Have done this in the black of night.

Jellycat trails her fingertips in the water, shivering from time to time, though the day is bright, crisp. Small cutthroat trout dart beneath the surface.

“Will you take me to the spot, Mart? I want to see it.” At her feet, a canvas bag bulges. Heavy as a potato sack, I thought as she heaved it aboard. “Those stones in his pockets. I think about them all the time.”

“Oh Jellycat! It don’t do to dwell.” I clear my throat, focus on the strokes. There’s a dull ache in my shoulder, reminding me that I’m not getting any younger.

I pull the oars in about two miles from the jetty. We bob gently, ripples licking the base of the boat. The weak sunlight dances across the water like rippling opals. I taught little Pete to row in one just like this, back when I took over the General Manager job from my dad. I almost say that to her, but she’s staring at me, icy blaze in her eyes.

“Was it here?”

“This is about where they found the boat, yeah.”

She nods, presses her lips into a grim line. “This place is your life, isn’t it Mart?”

“Pretty much.”

Our little vessel rocks when she stands, like a watery cradle.

"Be careful!"

Her face folds into a grimace. "Yes, I'll be very careful." She tilts from the waist, reaches into the bag, draws out a fist-sized rock, the sort that line the shore.

"Jellycat, what are you doing?" I don't like this: don't like this at all.

She weighs the stone in her hands, gazing at the icy peaks. "The couple, you know, the ones from Pocatello. They were last here, oh, about three years ago. Showed me some pictures over breakfast this morning." She gathers the stone to her chest like a bride clutching her bouquet.

I stand slowly, keeping the boat as level as I can.

"Now, Jellycat…"

"Showed me a photo of two people going out on Pete's boat that night. One rowing, one holding the lantern. " She tilts her head, eyes meeting mine. "He's an insomniac, see, the guy from Pocatello. Bit like Pete was. Often takes an outing by starlight. Now who could have been in the boat with Pete, Mart?"

"Jellycat, I…"

"Did he tell you about the development, Mart? The Canadian company offering big bucks to build a luxury spa here?" She jerks her head over her shoulder. "Knock down that decrepit piece of shit."

"What are you implying?"

She pulls at the pocket of my jacket, eyes still fixed on mine. The stone weighs my jacket down when she releases it.

"I know, Mart."

Another stone is plucked from the bag. And another. She pushes them deep into my pockets.

I laugh. "I…"

"What did you do? Knock him out? Fill his pockets with stones? Row back and return to dump his boat?"

More stones now, each one bigger, heavier than the last.

"Is this even the spot, Mart? Or is this just where you dumped his boat?"

"Jellycat, I…"

She holds up a hand. Regards me coldly.

"You may call me Angelica."

I'm loaded now, heavier than a boulder. She presses a finger to my shoulder - just one - and pushes gently. My foot catches on the bench, my belly lurches and then I'm falling.

"It's a far more fitting name for an avenging angel, don't you think?"