Page 96 of Soft Flannel Hank

“No. No, no, no,” he moaned.

Hank stood and stumbled into the kitchen. He grabbed the stopper and put it in the bottle’s opening. He was reaching to replace it on the top shelf when he took a good look at the label, a forest green square with copper lettering and a picture of a familiar-looking woman with long hair blowing around her face.

Niamh.

It was Niamh on that bottle. Hank saw her face plain as day, and it reminded him of what she’d said.“If you go out the back and head due north for about two miles, you’ll find me. I have a satellite phone.”

He was drunk. Stumbling, foolishly drunk, but he had enough of his senses available to find clothes and bundle up. Hank had always had a good sense of direction, and he walked around the back of the cabin and took off into the woods. Fallen twigs and leaves snapped and crunched under his angry, purposeful stomping. Two miles was nothing. He would get to Niamh and call Magda. She would know what to do. Maybe Jamie could come get him.

Time flew as Hank stalked through the woods. It was afternoon now, he realized from the way the sun had crossed over the sky, and he cursed himself for sleeping half the day away and then wasting another chunk of it getting shit-faced in sweatpants. But his anger felt better than his self-pity and he clutched at it.

Up ahead through the trees, Hank saw a beautiful little cabin. It had a mossy green roof and green shutters and flower beds surrounding it in a wide circle. A garage was attached to the cabin by a small breezeway.

Hank slowed his steps as he approached. It felt magical, with feathery cedar trees surrounding the clearing, insulating it from the world. A creek ran behind the cabin, and Hank could picture the flowers that would surround the bank in the warmer months.

He slowly climbed the porch steps, feeling the adrenaline wear off as he slowed his pace and wishing the alcohol would wear off just as quickly. He knocked hesitantly on the door and waited. After a few moments, he heard a watery voice on the other side.

“Who’s there?”

Hank cleared his throat. “Hank. Hank Dove. We met last week. I’m Nat’s friend.”

Hank heard the clicking of multiple locks being undone before the door opened to reveal Niamh. She wore a long, black dress that came to her feet. The dress had long sleeves and looked like something his daughter had called a caftan when she’d stayed with him. Niamh’s black hair hung long and limp down to her waist. Her skin was as pale as he remembered, with deep purple circles under her red-rimmed eyes.

“What’s the matter?” she asked in her lilting Irish accent. Tears streaked down her face steadily

“Esther’s gone. She stole the truck and left in the middle of the night.”

“Shit,” Niamh breathed.

Hank grunted. “You said you had a satellite phone?”

“Tá,” she replied and move into the cabin, beckoning him to follow.

Hank stepped inside and was struck by how beautiful the house was. As rough-hewn and spartan as Nat’s cabin was, Niamh’s could have been a feature in a magazine. The back wall overlooking the creek was floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls were white. Niamh had overstuffed chairs and a large, plush couch with casually draped throw blankets, as if she’d been nestled in and reading when he’d come. A long, raw slab table stretched across the space to his right, and between them was a modern, bright kitchen. One wall held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with a ladder on a track at the top. The shelves were full, with hundreds of vibrantly colored books packed into the spaces side by side.

Niamh had disappeared down a hallway, which Hank assumed led to a bedroom or two. She returned with a satellite phone in hand.

“Nat won’t be awake yet,” she said, fresh tears sliding down her pale cheeks.

“I know,” Hank said in a soft voice.

“Of course you do,” she replied. “Do you want privacy?”

“I don’t need it.”

Niamh nodded and went back to her nest on the couch, draping the blankets over her legs. Hank sat at the table, noticing the gorgeous grain of the wood as he leaned on his forearms and dialed Magda. She didn’t answer. He tried again. Nothing. Jamie didn’t answer either. Neither did Buck.

Hank bit back a curse. For six months, these people had been chastising him for not calling them when he needed them, and now that he did, nobody answered.

“Are you in trouble, then?” Niamh asked.

“I’m stranded. She took my truck. I’ve got no way to get home.”

He racked his brain for another number he had memorized, another person he could call, and had just resigned himself to wait for nightfall when he could call Nat when Niamh spoke again.

“I’ll drive you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that. It’s more than six hours,” Hank said, his words slow and slippery from the whiskey still coursing through his system.