Chapter 22
Danielle
Everyone at home was positively joyous to see me. I guess that’s one of the good things about growing up with a bunch of boys: they were quick to anger, quick to love, and quick to forget. While they were concerned for a little while over my abrupt and unexplained return, treating me like an extra special guest the first night or two I was there, they almost immediately settled back into our old routine:
Jacob and I made dinner, while they cleaned and rough-housed at the same time.
I glanced around our modest, rustic kitchen and gave a little sigh. It was beautiful, and reminded me poignantly of my parents, but it was also so small and cramped.
Nothing like the huge kitchens and the sense of endless activity I had had when working at the hotel. And as I labored away on our measly dinner – measly, that is, by restaurant standards; there was nothing measly about feeding a horde of growing boys – I realized how much I had given up, and how, though wonderful, Vermont would never be quite the same again.
“You miss it, don’t you?” Jacob asked, as I scrubbed the same spot on a dinner plate for about the twelfth time.
“Yes,” I admitted. “It was just…such an adventure, you know? Every day was different, exciting, challenging. But here…”
I glanced into the living room, where my younger brothers were hooting and racing to see who could scrub the fasted.
“Well, here it feels like nothing ever changes,” I finished.
“You did,” Jacob said. “You have definitely changed. I don’t know quite how to describe it, but you seem, I don’t know…worldly.”
Weary, more like, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I appreciated his compliment. I guess I was a little wiser now. I certainly felt less naive.
After a moment, Jacob said gently, “You could go back, you know.”
I smiled at him, my heart tor equally between sadness and love. It was no little thing, driving all the way to New York City and back a million times, and it’s not like Jacob wasn’t busy.
“Thank you, Jacob,” I murmured. “Maybe…”
I thought about it: the ritzy Clifton Hotel, the sense of endless opportunity. So what if Roger had turned out to be a jerk? If I made sure to stay strong, perhaps I…
But just then, my phone rang.
I wiped off my sodden hands with a dishtowel and rushed over, curious to see who was calling. Nobody but my family knew I was back in town, yet. I frowned, however, when I saw who it was.
“Roger,” I muttered, and ignored the call.
“Anything the matter?” Asked Jacob.
“Nothing,” I said, and returned to the dishes. What was I thinking? I asked myself. Wanting to go back? Even across New England, he is still insufferable!
My phone rang again. Not bothering to dry myself this time, I stomped over, saw that it was Roger again, and promptly ignored the call – leaving a big old dollop of water on my screen while I was at it.
Jacob looked up from his spot near the drying rack. “Who is that?” He asked. “Roger?”
“Yes,” I groaned. “I don’t know why he won’t stop calling me! Can’t he take a hint?”
Jacob offered me a tentative smile. “I don’t think bigtime New York billionaires are used to not getting their way,” he said. My phone began to ring again, and his smile grew. “See?”
“Enough of this!” I snapped, snatching my phone from the table. This time, instead of simply ignoring the call, I pressed the power button until the phone shut down.
“Try getting ahold of me now,” I muttered.
Jacob raised his eyebrows, and then returned to doing the dishes without a word.
* * *
Jacob and I finished up our chores. My brothers closed the night with a rousing game of “paper hockey,” where they use their winter hockey sticks to bat a crumpled wad of paper all over the house. Anything that could have been broken had been broken a long time ago, so I wasn’t worried.
At last, the younger ones shuffled off to bed (Joey, who was fourteen, took some cajoling) and Jacob and I opened up a pair of beers and sagged, content but exhausted, onto the couch. For the moment, I was feeling really good about things. I had realized that, while my home was not nearly as luxurious as Roger’s, it was wonderful nonetheless. Jacob even lit a fire – something usually reserved only for the coldest of winter’s nights – and we basked in its heat, enjoying the silence and the beer.
We chatted a bit. Jacob, about some girl he had been chasing the last few months, and me, about how much I had missed home, and was so pleased to be back. The warmth from the fireplace was so nice that we soon both found ourselves drifting off, content to listen to the flames crackling as it died down.
We were terrible startled, therefore, when there was a knock on our door at about four in the morning.
“Wuzzgoinon?” Jacob mumbled, leaping to his feet and looking stupidly bleary-eyed. I was sure I looked no better, my ruffed hair all raised like a startled cat, my empty beer bottle still in my hand.
Knock. Knock.
“Who the fuck could that be at this time of night?” Jacob grumbled, glancing at the clock. He switched on the lights and stomped to the door, while I hung back a little, feeling nervous. No good news ever arrives this late, I thought.
Jacob opened the door, and we both gasped as the huge outline of a man filled to doorway. Shadows masked his face, and it took me several long seconds to recognize who it was.
“Roger!” I gasped.
“Danielle,” he said, sweeping inside. “Maggie ran away, and I need you to help me find her.”