Chapter 18
I’d been sleeping with Archie, and very much not sleeping, for three weeks, six days, fourteen hours, and thirty-two minutes. Forty-three minutes if you count the quickie in the broom closet . . . but who counts quickies, really?
Actually, technically, we should count quickies because even with limited time and elbow room, that man can lay it the fuck down. And pick it the fuck up. And lay it back the fuck down again.
We’d been discreet—at least I think we had. According to the rules in my head no one was the wiser that the man who stood at the bottom of the grand staircase each day welcoming guests with a kind word and hearty handshake was the same man who stood at the bottom of my bed, my legs thrown over his shoulders, AND spread me wide with his tongue until I was shaking then flipped me over like a top and thrust into me like a man possessed.
And as someone who has been possessed by this man countless times, trust me when I say it is something to witness.
His focus, his attention to detail, married with his absolute animal strength and wild passion, had laid me bare more times than I could count.
But he counted. Oh, he counted. He was like the accountant of orgasms, tallying them up and filing the total away, always chasing another, always pushing me until I was shivering and wrecked, a ball of sexual energy incapable of surviving another . . . but he always got one more. He knew my body, knew what I could do even when I thought it impossible, knew exactly what I needed.
And let me tell you a little something about Archie Bryant, the man with the buns. He loved it sideways, backways, frontways, and all ways, but what he loved most of all was when I sat astride him in one of those antique rocking chairs, taking him deep and then deeper with every thrust, every rock of that damn chair, my feet scrambling for purchase on the old Victorian carpet while he watched me fuck him wild in the grand gilded mirror that hung in the living room.
I’m telling you, it’s always the guys with the freckles and the glasses. They’re the ones you want to set your sights on. They’re the ones who’ll make you forget your name, but get you to say the filthiest things imaginable.
But today, I had to focus. Today, we had a visitor coming to the hotel.
Caroline Reynolds-Parker was an interior designer from the West Coast. I’d seen some of her work in a small boutique hotel in Sausalito, and later on in a spa just outside Philadelphia. She worked for a small firm in San Francisco, but had been focusing more and more on commercial design rather than residential. Based on her portfolio and reputation, I thought she’d be the perfect candidate to take a crack at shaking things up a bit here in the Catskills.
I waited for her in the lobby, watching as bellmen ran to and fro with luggage. We were getting close to summer now, and things were beginning to get busier. It was still pretty slow during the week, which is why I’d scheduled Caroline’s visit on a Wednesday, but weekends were creeping up to about half full. Compared with how it was when I arrived in mid-March, business was booming.
The doors opened and a tall, slim woman with gorgeous blond hair walked in. Styled to a T with perfect California business casual, she sailed through the lobby with confidence borne by someone who was good at their job, and knew it.
“You must be Caroline,” I said, greeting her with a smile.
“I must be,” she said, answering my smile with one of her own. “If you’re not Clara, then color me creeped out.”
“Don’t be creeped out,” I answered, looking over my shoulder toward the front desk. “Beverly, we don’t have Ms. Parker slated for room six-six-six, do we?”
“No ma’am, we’ve got her in . . . let me see . . .” Beverly, caught off guard, scrambled to find the booking.
“Never mind, Beverly, just kidding.”
“Oh, this place is gonna be fun.” Caroline laughed, setting down her bag and taking in the three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the lobby. “And gorgeous.” She wandered over to the wallpaper, running her finger down the seam. “Linen. Expensive. A solid choice.”
“Really?” I asked, my heart sinking. Maybe I didn’t know as much as I thought I did, maybe the look of the hotel was exactly right and on point.
“A solid choice,” she repeated, then looked me straight in the eye, “if it were still 1982.”
I let out my breath. “Which it is not.”
“Nope,” she agreed, taking a few steps farther in. Looking down at the carpet, she rocked back and forth a few times, thunking her heel down. “There’s hardwood under here, you just know there is.” Her eyes danced.
I decided at that exact moment that no matter what she wanted to do, I was going to do my damnedest to make sure she got hired. As long as I could get Archie to cough up the money.
“I literally can’t wait to see this place, I’ve been reading up ever since you contacted my office last month,” Caroline said as I picked up her bag and led her to check-in. “I’ve already got some great ideas, although I’m sure you’ve got some of your own since you said we needed an overhaul of epic proportions.”
“She said what?”
Dammit. I set the bag down, looked sideways at Caroline, and we both turned with the sweetest possible grins plastered across our pretty faces.
“Epic proportions only in the sense of the scale of the rooms, Mr. Bryant. Of course, when I emailed Jillian Designs and requested the world-renowned interior designer Caroline Reynolds—”
“Hyphen Parker,” she chimed in.
“—of course, hyphen Parker, she was delighted when I told her how big and grand the rooms were, how truly luxurious and exceptional this property was,” I continued, nodding at Archie.
“Oh yes, and can you imagine how thrilled I was that I’ll be able to say that I worked in the famous Bryant Mountain House? Why, it’ll practically ensure I can work at any hotel, I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Bryant. Archie, I presume?” Caroline smiled, batting her lashes just enough that I knew he was done for.
Archie stood there, looking back and forth between the two of us, slightly befuddled but too gracious to show it. Bless his heart. He’d never be able to go up against the two of us.
But we’d let him think he won a few rounds.
I spent the morning giving Caroline the grand tour and reassuring Archie repeatedly that we wouldn’t go overboard and that yes, this was necessary.
“I just can’t get over the fact that these are all antiques, real antiques, not reproductions,” Caroline gushed. We were standing in one of the Victorian rooms in the east wing, the wing I’d suggested we close down next winter to begin the renovations. “And the fireplaces, my God! Who would ever build a hotel these days and put fireplaces in every single room? Wood burning, no less.”
“No one, is the easy answer,” I replied, moving to the window and looking at the mountains. “No one would ever build a place like this again. It’s too big, too fancy, the raw materials alone would price any builder right out of the market, to say nothing of the liability from an insurance perspective of having wood-burning fireplaces in every single room.” I sighed. “A place like this will never be built again.”
“I hate to say it, but you’re right,” Caroline said. She ran her fingers over the wall, tapping at the wallpaper. “There’s plaster under this, actual plaster. Laid over chicken wire, and likely three layers of lath. That plaster is held together by lime, sand, possibly seashells, and almost definitely mixed with horsehair to bind it together. Can you imagine?” She pointed up at the ceiling where pictures hung by wire from the molding. “That’s why there’s almost always a picture rail in everything constructed before the turn of the last century, sometimes even through the twenties. That plaster is strong, almost like cement, but you drive a nail through it, something that was never supposed to be done, and it’ll crumble like sand. But taken care of? You almost never need to repair it.” She smoothed her hand over the wall. “Not even a ripple. They literally built this place to last.”
I smiled. She got it.
“The interior design, however,” she said briskly, grabbing her camera and beginning to work. “That was not meant to last. This we can change.”
“Change?” Archie asked, standing just inside the door. He’d excused himself for a bit to finish up some work before rejoining us for the room inspection.
“Easy, Mr. Bryant,” I cautioned. “Nothing crazy, just a face-lift, right, Caroline?”
“Exactly,” she answered, moving around the room as she took several pictures. “Here’s the thing, Archie, do you know why so many houses from the 1920s have white-painted woodwork? Wood paneling, floor to ceiling in some cases, like in a dining room, but it’s been painted over, do you know why?”
Archie looked at me, then back at Caroline, his face draining of color by the second. “You’re not planning on painting over any wood paneling, are you? Because when I mention the words ‘heart attack’ and ‘myself’ in the same sentence, I can assure you it is not an exaggeration.”
Caroline ignored the question. I couldn’t ignore the way his freckles stood out against his imaginary heart attack face in the cutest way.
“The wood paneling got painted over, Archie, usually in the forties, because housewives then didn’t want a house that looked like their mother’s. When those homes were built, everything was beautiful wood paneling. Now we look at it as gorgeous, beautiful, exquisite craftsmanship and timeless detail. Right?”
“Right.” Archie stood firm.
“But those new wives looked at it and saw dark, dark, dark. And, they saw their mother’s house. No one wants to live in their mother’s house, they wanted light and bright and new. They wanted something different. And it didn’t stop there. Those same women who painted over their woodwork had families, raised them, and those daughters moved to the suburbs and wanted new and different. The ranch was born. Wall-to-wall shag carpet. Rec rooms, oddly enough with wall paneling, although this time it was thin veneer designed to be glued to the existing wall. Then those women had kids and their kids ushered in the age of mauve and my personal favorite, the wallpaper border. I can’t tell you how many homes I’ve redone covered in wallpaper border. You should’ve seen my kitchen in Sausalito when we first bought that house, good God. My point is, Archie, that every generation changes things. Right now, you’re in luck, because everything old is new again and there’s such an honoring of history right now. It’s hip to have old things, repurposed and reimagined, but old. So we’re going to make some changes, but they’re changes you’ll be able to live with. Changes that’ll be so seamless with the original design of this hotel, changes that will honor the integrity and inherent beauty of a place like this, changes that, when I’m done, you’ll swear you couldn’t have imagined it any other way.”
Damn. She was good.
“Damn. You’re good,” Archie breathed. He looked back and forth between the two of us. “Good God, if you two ever got together you could take over the world.”
“Oooh,” Caroline and I both breathed at the same time, and Archie threw up his hands in defeat.
“Forget I mentioned it.” He laughed, but then looked serious again. “Everything you’ve said up until now has been very impressive, but I’ll need to see examples of what you’ve done, and what you’re planning to do, before I approve anything. I’m sure that’s something we can all agree on, yes?”
“Of course,” Caroline said, and walked over to shake on it.
He looked at her a moment, assessing, then at me, then shook her hand. “I look forward to it.” Shifting his gaze from Caroline to me, he said, “Ms. Morgan, a word?”
“Of course, Mr. Bryant.” I nodded, walking over. “Caroline, don’t start the taking over the world plan before I get back.”
“Of course! I’ll need a dirty martini before I can start planning that.”
I grinned and followed Archie out into the hall. He waited until I closed the door before rolling his eyes. “Where the hell did you find her?”
“San Francisco,” I replied.
“She’s going to be able to bring this in under budget?” he asked, looking over my shoulder.
“She says she can,” I answered, looking over my shoulder as well. No one there.
“And she isn’t allowed anywhere near my wood paneling.”
“You got that right,” I breathed, taking a step closer to him. Instead of stepping closer to me, though, he looked over his shoulder. “Is Walter stalking you or something, what the hell?”
“Don’t mention Walter to me right now,” he muttered, pulling a key from his pocket and slipping it into the lock of the room next door.
“What are you doing?” I asked, as he whisked me inside quickly. “Where did you get that key?”
“Skeleton key, I can get into anything in this hotel anytime I want,” he said, shutting the door behind me. In an instant, I was up against the wall just inside the door. “And right now the only thing I want to get into is you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, we can’t—fucking hell, Archie,” I moaned, as he flipped up my skirt with one hand and covered my mouth with the other.
“You’ve got to keep your voice down,” he warned, his voice muffled, his head being under my skirt and all. “You don’t want your new friend to hear you.”
I stepped out of the room, smoothed down my skirt and my hair, and headed back into the room where I’d left Caroline. She was measuring the inside of the windows, and stacks of blinds were strewn across the bed.
“Sorry about that, little crisis that blew up out of the blue.”
“Oh, no trouble at all,” Caroline said, calmly handing me the measuring tape, then walking over to the opposite wall. “You get everything worked out?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, yes, crisis solved, everyone was satisfied.”
She smiled. “That’s good. You know, I was thinking, even though I’m pretty sure that the plaster is fairly thick, you might want to have some insulation blown in, you know, just to pad the walls a bit? They’ve done wonders with insulation these days, we can have it added through a small hole down in the base, wouldn’t cost nearly as much as it would’ve even ten years ago, and you’d be amazed what it can do not only for helping to regulate the temperature, but also how it can cut down on the noise.” She looked me dead in the eye on that last part.
“Noise?” I asked, my voice higher than normal.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, making a fist and thumping on the wall. The wall I’d just been on the other side of. “Thin walls, you know.”
Mortified. I was. Mortified. Trying hard to keep my voice level, I stammered. “Oh. Y-Yes, I can see how that could be . . .”
“Clara?” she said, snapping her tape measure back open.
“Yes?” My voice had climbed three octaves. Mariah would be so proud.
“Don’t worry about it.” She extended the measuring tape about ten inches or so. “I’ve got one just like him back at home.”
“I don’t understand, what are you telling me?”
“Look, right now, you know what I know. No one’s talking, at least the ones who actually know something. The rest of us are left wondering what the hell is going on. I wish I had more to tell you.”
“But there’s a possibility that this merger isn’t actually going to happen?” I asked Barbara, my mind reeling as I tried to process everything she’d just told me. She’d been suspicious for a while—senior management hadn’t been as forthcoming as usual, forecasting had been skewed, and there’d been mid-level human resources types sniffing around the last week or so, allegedly brought in by the board to ascertain the efficiency of each department, but our own internal HR department wasn’t aware of it beforehand. Add to that the rumor that The Empire Group, New York City’s top marketing firm, which had an entire department dedicated to brand awareness with a strong hotel division, had recently been entertaining the idea of scooping up some of the smaller boutique firms on the East Coast—exactly like the one I worked for—and there you go. Corporate merger as a possibility suddenly became an idea that was firmly rooted in reality.
“But what will that mean? I mean, no, actually, that is what I mean, how will this affect us? Projects already underway, future start dates, you know I wanted to bid for the Oakmont job when this one is wrapped up, will that even be possible now?”
Barbara sighed the heavy sigh of a woman whose own world might be turned inside out and upside down. She’d worked for the firm for as long as anyone could remember, she was this firm, surely if anyone was safe it’d be her, right? “I don’t know, kiddo, I’ll tell you everything as soon as I hear it. For now, just keep your head down and do the best you can. Your work speaks for itself, but right now it needs to scream, got it?”
I did, actually. My work needed to be outstanding, above reproach, and my references when I left this hotel had better be pitch-perfect. It’s amazing, when faced with the possibility of an outside audit, how quickly you begin poking holes in your own balloon. My work was good, had always been good, and this job was no exception. Except, of course, for Archie.
“Barbara, what a mess,” I groaned, leaning my head on my hand.
“Hey, don’t get down about this, nothing’s been confirmed yet. For now, we just do our jobs and keep the lights on. It’ll be fine. Now, tell me all about the summer bookings at the Mountain House, how’re they looking?”
Barbara and I talked for a few more minutes. The conversation was strained, stilted, and unlike any we’d had before. Normally, I could count on Barbara for three things. To kick my ass, to praise me while she was kicking my ass, and to make sure I always had my true north. She was my professional compass, and she always made sure I was pointed forward and thinking ahead, making sure I made the choices in my career to keep me that way. For the first time, she seemed unsure, and that made my true-north needle bobble.
A merger? What would that mean? Would I still be able to pick which jobs I wanted? Go where I felt I was most needed? I’d worked my ass off for years to get to a certain place within this company, was that going to be undone? And what if what had happened up here in Bailey Falls came out right as a new management team was taking over? Hey, here’s our star employee, Clara Morgan, she schtupped the client, but bookings are way up so we’re overlooking that part.
I could hear Barbara in my ear, telling me not to worry until there was something to worry about.
I tried to point my compass north.
I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.”
“You should’ve worn a coat.”
“I wasn’t thinking, someone was kissing on my neck when I was trying to get ready and it slipped my mind.”
Archie grinned. “To be clear, I was that someone, right?”
“Right.” I laughed. We were in town, a rare thing these days as we were busier than ever at the hotel. Roxie had been after me since I arrived to come to Zombie Pickle Class, and in a weaker moment I agreed not only to come but to bring Archie.
Roxie and Natalie knew what was going on at Easter. But they’d been dying to see it in person. So down the mountain we came. And it was cold.
“I mean, it’s really cold,” I said again, swinging my arms back and forth to warm up. Roxie’s class had gotten more and more popular over the past few months, and they were nearly outgrowing their space at the diner. Parking spots close to the diner were all taken, and we’d had to walk nearly five blocks to get there on time.
“Here, take this,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and slipping it onto my shoulders.
“No. Please. I couldn’t possibly.” I said all of this deadpan while eagerly snuggling into the warmth. “You smell good, by the way.”
His laugh rang out across the tiny town square. “I smell good?”
I shrugged. “You do.” I inhaled deeply. “Yeah, you smell good.”
“What do I smell like?” he asked, sliding his arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer. I glanced around nervously, wondering how many people could see us and how quickly word could spread that the owner of Bryant Mountain House and the outsider they’d brought in to fix things were hanging all over each other downtown. But the weight of his arm, the way he tucked me into his side so easily, so casual yet so caring, made it impossible for me to concentrate on anything other than trying, in vain, to capture the scent of Archie.
“Wood.”
“Pardon me?”
“Wood. I took a woodworking class once, extra credit in high school, kind of the last hurrah of shop class before the teacher retired. We made birdhouses out of walnut. The days we cut the wood it always smelled really fresh, almost astringent-like. But the days we sanded the wood, really spent time with our hands working on it, there was a different scent, kind of . . . I don’t know. Fresh and green but a little bit warm too. Cozy. Which made sense at the time, as I was making a cozy little house for some future bird family to enjoy. You kind of smell like that.”
“I smell cozy,” he echoed.
“Plus a little mapley.”
“Walnut and maple?”
“Syrup this time, maple syrup.”
“I do love pancakes.” He wrapped his arm more firmly around my shoulders. “So you took shop in high school? Interesting.”
“I don’t want to build you a birdhouse, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
“No, I was just thinking that it’s one of the first things you’ve ever mentioned when it comes to your childhood. You know, where you grew up, what kinds of things you liked to do.”
“Oh. Really?” I said, pulling the jacket tighter.
“Where are you going?”
“Hmm?”
“Get back over here.” He laughed, pulling me back into his side. I’d pulled away and hadn’t even noticed I’d done it.
“Wow, looks like quite a crowd,” I said, pointing at the diner, glad we were almost there. I didn’t want to talk about birdhouses, or shop class, or childhood anymore. I wanted to get inside, and learn to can or pickle or whatever the hell we were learning tonight.
“All these people are here for a cooking class?” Archie asked, as we watched another horde go inside.
“Roxie said it’s gotten really popular, but I had no idea.” When Roxie had first moved back to Bailey Falls, it’d started out as a bit of a joke, Chad and Logan wanting to learn how to make jam and pickles. Something about the zombie apocalypse and all the old people dying and no young, healthy people knowing how to make jam anymore. Jam being important in the aftermath and all. So she taught them. And they mentioned it to a few friends, and the next week a few more people showed up. And so on and so on, bam. Most popular cooking class in town, and more to the point, one of the most popular social activities for your local Hudson Valley hipster.
We paused just outside the door, watching the festivities inside already in full swing. It struck me suddenly that in all the time we’d spent together, I’d never once heard Archie mention spending time with friends, or even mention a friend in general. What a lonely life he must’ve had up on his mountain after his wife died.
He’s not some crazy hermit in a fantasy novel . . .
Right.
Before I could ruminate on it for too long, Natalie’s cleavage was pressed against the front window and by the way her mouth was running I could approximate she was saying “Get your ass inside now.”
“Your friends are . . .” Archie trailed off, unable to take his eyes off what she was presenting.
“Weird?” I finished.
“So weird,” he agreed, dragging his eyes away with a laugh and a shake of his head.
“Come on, the sooner we get in there the sooner we can leave. And do naked things.”
He froze with his hand on the door, hanging his head dramatically. “Why in the world are you just telling me this now? We could’ve been doing naked things this whole time?”
“Who knows, if I have enough wine tonight,” I said, ducking under his arm and sailing inside, “I might do naked stuff in the car.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say the guy with the pocket square growled.
Zombie Pickle Class was a success. We’d come on a banner night, something the class had been asking for all winter long. It was piecrust night. After we said hello to everyone and Roxie got us sorted at stations, I listened as my friend took charge of a class that was literally bursting at the seams. They spilled out across the restaurant, into the kitchen, along the counter, each table was taken and there were even makeshift stations set up in the entryway.
“She needs a bigger place,” Archie whispered, while we listened to Roxie explain what was required to make the perfect piecrust.
“She’s been looking, but in a small town like this, it’s not like there’s tons of space for a professional chef. Leo offered some space over at Maxwell Farms, but I think she wants to do it on her own, you know? I think that’s why she was so excited when you brought up the idea of bringing it up to the resort and—”
“Is there something you’d like to say to the rest of the class?” Roxie asked, as she made her rounds.
“Yes, I’d like to say that I’m excited to be here, and the teacher is awfully pretty.” I batted my lashes at her as she rolled her eyes.
“I am awfully pretty, so I’m not going to argue with you,” she replied, inspecting our table. “I see you’ve got your flour all measured, your butter is cut into perfect squares, ice water is at the ready, pastry cutter in hand.”
“Yup,” I said proudly. My station was neater than anyone else’s. “I’m ready to go.”
“One question,” she asked. “What are you going to let Archie do?”
“What?” I asked, looking up in surprise.
“This is a team effort, Clara, you’ve got to let him do something. One can’t learn to make perfect piecrust without actually getting to do some of the making. Now back away and give him the pastry cutter.”
Archie chuckled under his breath as I pushed the pastry cutter in his direction.
“Of course he gets to do some of the making, I was just getting things set up for him,” I muttered, rolling my eyes in her direction.
“I saw that,” she said as she sailed away.
“I meant you to,” I shot back.
When class was finally over, most everyone left except for a few of us who gravitated to the kitchen to help Roxie clean up.
“I can’t believe I made a piecrust,” Archie was still saying, shaking his head as he kept an eye on his perfect pie on the counter as though it might disappear.
“You did really good, Arch, you guys should definitely come back next week,” Roxie said, leaning against Leo as he stacked clean dishes on the shelves.
“What’s on the menu next week?”
“Homemade chicken stock. I taught it last fall, but that was before the class got so big, and everyone’s been asking for it again.”
“Oh, we’ll be here, we will definitely be here,” Archie said enthusiastically, nodding and wiping his sudsy hands on his apron. He was washing up the last of the plates, and Oscar was drying them. Natalie and I sat together on top of the stainless-steel prep table in the corner. “Won’t we?”
“Hmm?” I asked, looking up from my nails to see Archie looking at me expectantly. “Oh yeah, sure, we’ll be here. Next week.”
Archie went back to the sink, laughing as Oscar glared at a slippery glass that he couldn’t seem to get ahold of. I felt someone else’s eyes on me, and I turned to see Natalie looking at me expectantly.
“What’s up?” I asked, crinkling my brow.
“You tell me,” she said, crinkling her own brow like she was trying to see inside my brain.
“You know I don’t like when you try to mind-read, just ask your question.” I sighed, suddenly exhausted. It was warm in the kitchen with all the people and the hot water.
“Someone’s making plans for you,” she said, lifting her chin in Archie’s direction. “Someone is making plans to make stock with you, next week.”
“Yeah? So? It was fun tonight, didn’t you have fun?”
“Sure, it’s fun every week. Oscar and I never miss a class when I’m in town.”
“How very homemaker of you,” I replied, hearing the snap in my voice and regretting it almost immediately. “Sorry, that was bitchy.”
“A little,” she agreed, bumping my shoulder, “but I won’t hold it against you. Why are you being bitchy?”
“I don’t know, I’m just . . . I guess feeling a bit overwhelmed with all this.” I sighed again.
“With all this . . . what?” Natalie asked, looking at me with a secretive grin. “You finally ready to admit that you and Archie are dirty dancing up there on your mountaintop?”
I buried my face in a dish towel. “Yes, yes, I give up.”
“I knew it!” She laughed, slapping at my shoulders. “Tell Natalie everything, starting with how much he loves it when you ride him like a cowgirl.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I snapped, now covering my entire head with the towel. But then I peeked out a little. “Actually, that’s one hundred percent correct, how the hell did you know that?”
“It’s a talent.” She sighed. “Seriously, though, good for you. It’s about time.”
“It is about time, in fact it’s all about time, and that time will eventually come to an end,” I said, watching the boys finish up the dishes. Archie was laughing, snapping towels and ducking as Leo threw a soapy sponge his way. His eyes were crazy blue, catching the light and twinkling merrily. His hair was messed up, his shirtsleeves were soaked even though they’d been rolled up, and he looked completely relaxed and at home.
They all did, in fact. The boys were playing, Roxie had wandered over and was going on and on to Chad and Logan about the play that Polly was involved in at school and whether they’d be able to attend next month. It was like an episode of some sitcom where everyone was good-looking and happy and having all the sex they could ever want before heading down to the local coffee shop or diner to one-up each other with jokes and one-line zingers.
And I was the girl sitting on the prep table under the dish towel trying to figure out exactly where she fit in. I was the girl who came in for a four-to-five episode arc, the one whom one of the main characters fell for, and he became part of a stronger, more defined story line as he weathered whatever this outsider had to offer. Even though, technically, I’d been around just as long as anyone, I was still on the outside. Because I’d be leaving at the end of my story line, packing my bags and heading out into the gray wasteland of sitcom characters, blowing out of scenes just as quickly as I blew in.
Archie would remain. I’d be the Girl Who Brought Him Back to Life. Or the Girl Who Made Archie Great Again. Or worse, the Girl Who Broke His Heart.
I winced, rubbing at the sudden hollow feeling in my chest. I needed to get back to the hotel, I needed to lie down and get some sleep and not think about this right now. But that wasn’t in the cards.
“I can see you working yourself over there, kiddo,” Natalie said, “but I think you’re overthinking this a bit.”
“How can I not overthink this? I overthink everything, and you’re telling me this is the time to just trust the universe to not cock it up?”
“Yes. I literally think that exactly,” she said. “Get out of your head, Clara. You got this, trust it.”
I didn’t answer, just kept rubbing at that space in my chest as things wound down for the evening.
“So, since everyone is here,” Roxie said, jumping up on the table next to Natalie so we were sitting in a row, “I have some news.” Leo came to stand in front of her, grinning big. “Well, we have some news.”
“You’re pregnant. I knew it! I fucking knew it, didn’t I tell you Roxie was going to be the first?” Natalie crowed, waving at Oscar and trying to pull him over to her with her own version of a laser tractor beam. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Hush, Pinup, let her talk,” he groaned, but submitted to the tractor beam.
“Yes, Pinup, let her talk,” Roxie said. “But no, I’m not pregnant.”
“Not yet,” Leo said, running his hand possessively along her leg.
“Everyone hush,” I instructed, leaning forward so I could see Roxie’s face. She was beaming. “Except Roxie.”
“Well, it’s not a huge surprise, I suppose, but Leo asked me to marry him. And—”
“She said yes!” Leo yelled, swooping her up into his arms and swinging her around the kitchen, nearly taking Archie’s head off in the process.
Squeals of congratulations and mazel tovs rained down on the happy couple, Natalie bowling everyone over to hug Roxie tight. Archie shook Leo’s hand and slapped him on the back, Oscar did the exact same thing and nearly bowled Leo over in the process. Roxie’s hand was forcibly removed from her back pocket by Natalie and there it was, the ice cube.
Sparkling and shiny, a diamond the size of a skating rink sat on the third finger of her left hand. And just as sparkling and shiny, her eyes and his face. Thrilled. Proud. The two of them gleamed like they were lit from within.
I was thrilled. I was proud. So why did it feel like my own grin was plastered on, that my congratulations and that’s incredible and of course I’ll be a bridesmaid were heart-spoken but not heartfelt?
A question I continued to ask myself the entire car ride home. Archie, however, prattled on enough for the both of us.
“I’m thinking if we use the smaller dining room on the first floor for Zombie Pickle Class, the one we only open up when we’re booked to capacity, then we shouldn’t run too much into the regular dinner service. We’d have to figure something else out in the summer, but maybe if we change the time or switch it to weekends in June and July . . . I don’t know, what do you think?”
I barely had time to take a breath to answer before he was off on another tangent.
“Another thing, I’m wondering if we should offer a discount on overnight stays to anyone who takes the class. Might be another way to introduce some new faces around here from town, I know how much you want to bring in locals more and more, this might be a good way to do it. Not during the high season of course, but if we offered a discounted rate in the fall, maybe thirty percent off and throw in a room upgrade? Not everyone could take advantage of the offer, but maybe more than we think, any thoughts?”
This time he didn’t even wait for me to answer, he just launched into another monologue.
“Oh, before I forget, I talked to Oscar about bringing up a few of the cows, just a couple, and maybe one of the calves. Bryant Mountain House has a barn, it just hasn’t been used for years, but maybe this summer we could partner with him to introduce a new farm-to-table concept to our guests, get Leo involved too. Did I ever tell you there used to be cows up here, just for milk and cheese and butter? It’s true, I came across an old menu card last year from the thirties, and it said ‘featuring milk from our own Bryant Family cows.’ Can you believe that? I bet Leo could help us get some chickens going, our guests would love knowing they’re eating eggs fresh from the farm. And if Oscar brings a calf up too, what a great learning opportunity for the kids when they come to stay up here, especially for those city kids who never see where their food comes from. Leo was telling me all about the program he started a few years ago where the Maxwell family sponsors schools in the city to bring kids up for field trips, and did you know most of them have never even seen a chicken? Bears and lions, yes, because they’ve been to the zoo, but can you imagine kids who’ve never seen a chicken?”
“Not every kid gets to visit a farm, Archie. Not every kid even gets to go to the zoo.” I sighed, looking out the window and into the night. It might be spring on the calendar, but tonight upstate New York was frosty cold.
“Most kids get to at least go to one or the other, though, even if it’s just a field trip. I remember my entire class took the train into the city when I was in fourth grade just to go to the Bronx Zoo.”
“When I was in fourth grade my foster mother refused to sign my permission slip so I could go on a field trip because it was my punishment for spilling paint in the kitchen. When I was in fifth grade my next foster mother couldn’t afford the twenty dollars for me to ride the bus into downtown Boston with the other kids in my class for a field trip, so I spent the entire day doing an extra-credit project on Paul Revere and his magical midnight ride in the cafeteria with the elementary school counselor who was concerned I was suppressing my emotions. Which I undoubtedly was, considering in first grade my real mother came on my field trip to Gloucester to see the fishermen, but she got wasted in a bar at lunch instead of spending time with the kids like she was supposed to, and then ended up getting caught doing one of the fishermen we were supposed to be meeting later on. So yeah, field trips seem to be a bit dicey for me.”
The car was silent. But for me, in my head, all I could hear were those words pouring out and exploding over our heads and painting the interior of this sleek German driving machine with other terrible words, unsaid but surely thought—
Baggage.
Issues.
Scars.
Worthless.
Don’t scratch this surface because, sweet Christ, what would you find underneath?
No Ashley here. No picture-perfect childhood surrounded by a loving, caring family, there to shelter and guide and hide the monsters away and prepare you for a life of love and laughter and perfection when you finally meet that perfect man, the man you’ve known since you were a child and you grew into adulthood with, grown-ups living in your perfect castle on your very own mountain, where there are no harsh words or uncaring arms, just love, love, love.
I’d never been more painfully aware of just how different I was from Archie than in those silent moments in the car.
I was shaking.
He pulled the car over.
He pulled me out of my seat and across the console and onto his lap after he unbuckled my seat belt.
I was shaking.
He pulled back the edges of his coat, the one I was still wearing, wrapped his arms around my waist and leaned forward, holding me against his chest like a baby, resting his chin on top of my head.
I was still shaking. But I was breathing. And I was breathing in that good Archie air, the wood and the mapley pancake scent and underneath it all was just that warmth, below that strict tailored East Coast suit was just the warmest of men.
We didn’t go back to the hotel that night. We drove straight to his house, walked straight to the fireplace, took everything off that was between us, and when he entered me by the firelight, I gasped and he groaned and he filled my body, my mind, and my heart.
He didn’t ask me to explain that night. But as I lay in the comfort of his arms, wrapped up in him in every way possible, I knew it was coming.
And I didn’t know what I was going to say.