Johnny Depp One Shots PART 2

Secret Hide Away

PART 1.

I recall once saying to Johnny that a little cabin in the woods was not my idea of a vacation. I'm not sure what I thought was. I haven't actually had a vacation since, well, since Spring Break -- and I certainly have no desire to revisit that period of my life. After that last juvenile adventure, the upward spiral of my career engulfed all my time and energy and, apart from a day or two over Christmas or Thanksgiving, or a week now and then to catch up on laundry and taxes, I haven't ever had a true vacation.

As I step out of the car and gaze up at the façade of Johnny's' modest getaway spot, I realize that this might be just what I need, exactly the vacation I didn't know I wanted. The cabin is somewhat like its owner, I note fondly. Quiet, concealed, sturdy and rather charming, in its own rough-around-the-edges kind of a way. As I follow Johnny up the narrow path, I notice that the front yard is very over-grown and look forward to putting it in some order. We mount the few steps and I see a two-seater swing lying in one corner of the narrow porch, its ropes frayed and mildewed.

"I'll fix that," says Johnny, looking at me from under his brows as he pulls out the keys. The fact that he even locks this place tells me that it is of far more value to him than anything he owns back in LA, which is never kept under lock and key. "After you," he motions with one arm, giving me a tentative half-smile.

I return the smile, lifting my bag higher over my shoulder and stepping inside. It's dank and dark within, smelling of old wood and cinders, but it's clean and cosy. The small living room is decorated sparsely with a large tribal rug of faded greens and reds and an old brown couch that faces the little stone fireplace. There is a modest window seat facing the front of the house and a bookshelf against the adjacent wall.

Johnny begins unloading our supplies, allowing me a moment to get acquainted with my surroundings. I meander about carefully, my eye drawn instantly to a black and white photo tucked into the second ledge of the bookshelf and showing a very young J.D., wearing a striped shirt and a bib with his initials. In his fat little fingers he grasps greedily a small toy boat, while his serious little baby face exhibits a familiar scowl. I smile quietly. Beside the photo is the same blue boat he holds, now much worse for wear.

I continue to wander, peering into the front bedroom that holds a desk and a single bed and a watercolour of another boat. Next door, there is a tiny bathroom, with a deep, claw-footed tub and fresh soap and towels already laid out. I step into the larger bedroom, and take a look around, dropping my bag onto the large wooden bed. Its frame is bulky and rustic, thrown with a dark blue spread and fat pillows, dwarfing the rest of the room. There is a small robe on one side of the room and low dresser in the corner near the large window which looks, through lazy limbs of falling vines, out over the woods. I open up the heavy windows that show off the surrounding landscape in all its quiet glory and take a deep breath.

I hear Johnny in the kitchen and make my way to the back of the house. He's putting away our groceries. He's opened up the back door and I step out onto the porch to take a look at the lake. A slight breeze is stirring the late afternoon haze, as a few ducks glide about the velvety surface of the water. The sun has turned a brilliant orange and is lowering itself languidly towards the hills.

I lean against the railing and hear the screen door slap behind me. Johnny sidles up close, standing with his front grazing my back, and puts an arm over my shoulder. He hands me a beer, I take it and the arm remains dangling about me lazily. He takes a sip of his own beer over my shoulder and I wait for him to say something. I have become attuned to sensing Johnny think something before he says it. He'll mull it over a few times, censor his thoughts, repress his words, while I wait patiently until it spills out in some form or another. It usually, but not always, does.