Chapter 23
Two months later . . .
“Two hundred thread count is too low.”
“It’s what we’ve always used.”
“I realize that, but it’s still too low.”
“I don’t think guests really care what the thread count is when they’re on vacation.”
“Well, that’s exactly where you’re wrong.” I sighed. “People want to feel taken care of when they’re at a hotel of this magnitude, sometimes in ways they didn’t even know they needed. They want to feel comforted, and looked after, and when they slip into their bed at the end of a long day they want to look at each other and say, ‘Wow, this is seriously the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in.’ ” I picked up the old sheet and rubbed it between my fingers. “Believe me, the last thing you want anyone saying when they slip into bed is ‘Holy shit, can you believe we’re spending eight hundred dollars a night and they can’t even spring for some nice sheets?’ ”
I was sitting in the Charleston Conference Room at the Oakmont Resort and Golf Club in Buford, South Carolina, in a meeting with their director of operations, their VP of sales, and the housekeeping supervisor. Trying to explain to them why their shitty scratchy sheets had to be replaced. As expected, they were fighting me. As expected, I was fighting back.
Not expected? I couldn’t give a shit whether I won this argument or not.
I’d been at the Oakmont for less than two weeks and had already identified their staffing issues, noticed new branding opportunities, and pitched several severe cost-cutting initiatives as well as an entirely new recreation program. Before that I’d been at The Lantern Inn in Stowe, Vermont, The Red Hill Farm Bed & Breakfast on Mackinac Island, Michigan, and a whirlwind but highly productive visit to The Sea Grass Hotel and Tennis Club in Mendocino, California. Same issues, same troubles, basically the same solutions. I’d saved the day, righted the ship, and went on my merry way. And now here I was, in South Carolina.
Forty-five minutes in and we hadn’t even addressed the new duvet I was suggesting. I’d shoot myself in the face, but I was tough on gun control.
I was suddenly exhausted. “You know what, let’s table this. I know you’re all anxious to get done and get home before the holiday weekend, so let’s just all think about what I’ve proposed, and then when we come back we’ll figure out a way through this, okay?” I waved them out with a tired smile.
Everyone, as anxious as I was to get home for the holiday weekend, agreed, thanked me for my time, and exited the grand conference room. I closed the door, and on second thought, locked it. I went back to the table where my materials were all in neat, tidy stacks. Ideas well researched and fully thought out, how-tos and to-dos and this-will-helps and these have-to-gos.
I sat in my chair, looked at everything, and laid my head down on the table. My boss, Dick Stevee, heavy on the dick, although in reality, I doubted it somewhat, had been right about one thing. When you don’t give a shit about the job you’re doing, you can bang it out pretty fast.
I’d become a machine. I breathed, slept, and ate cost analysis, staffing spreadsheets, booking projections, target sales goals. My schedule had been so busy I hadn’t even competed in a marathon or a triathlon, and the exercise I did get was all inside a gym on a treadmill, usually with my iPad open so I could get more work done.
My boss was fucking dazzled. “You keep this up, Morgan, when it comes time, that partnership is yours.”
I should be ecstatic. I should be over the moon. I should be . . . fuck me, I should be happy.
I was miserable. I’d only managed to sneak in one weekend to New York City to help Roxie shop for her wedding dress, and spent much of that weekend tripping over my own words to make sure no one mentioned the one person I was dying to ask about.
Archie.
Just thinking about his name made me want to sigh and cry and smile and frown all at the same time.
I’d never even said good-bye. What kind of a person does that? That last day had been so busy—trying to squeeze so much into so little time—and there’d always been other people around, buffering, keeping us separated, that when it came time for me to actually leave, I turned to see where he was only to find him walking back inside the hotel, head down. And I didn’t go after him.
Shame burned hot in my cheeks, and I banged my head against the table, trying to block out the light streaming through the beautiful old leaded glass windows. The smell of old, rare wood brought me back to the present. I gradually became aware of my surroundings. This hotel, like so many others, was full of true old beauty. It had seen wars, the Great Depression, the moon landing, families beginning and growing and changing and aging and dying. Throughout many lifetimes it had stood strong, sheltering those who came to find something old and beautiful and comforting. The traditions housed within these old walls were worth saving, they always would be. This was my passion. But this kind of passion couldn’t be hurried, it couldn’t be shoehorned into an already overworked and jam-packed schedule. I needed the freedom to do what I do best. But I needed to find the magic again.
I caught the last flight from Charleston back to Boston late that same night, sitting in the middle seat, last row next to the stopped-up lavatory. I sat in traffic when I stupidly grabbed a cab instead of the Silver Line, and to make matters worse, the cab’s AC was broken so I sat in my own sweat. By the time I made it back to my apartment I was a haggard mess, and I was starving. I quickly dialed up my go-to Chinese delivery and placed an order for . . . well . . . everything.
I didn’t need to come home over the weekend, but I was restless. Normally I enjoyed spending my weekends traveling throughout whatever part of the country I was working in. I could have driven down to Gulf Shores and spent a few nights on the beach. I could have driven over to Savannah and stayed in a grand old plantation house. I could have stayed at the Oakmont and holed up in my room, ordering room service and binge-watching pay-per-view.
On my TV. In my room.
But I was restless. So I went home. And here I sat on the couch in my apartment, surrounded by mei fun and chow fun and wonton. And one, no, two empty bottles of wine. I could hear my neighborhood bustling with pre-Fourth activities, kids laughing and a few stray bottle rockets going off here and there. But I stayed inside, with my wonton and wine, and sat on my couch.
I was still restless. But now I was bloated and restless. And my eyeballs were somehow leaking. What??
I looked around my apartment that I was almost never in. In fact, when I counted up the days I was on the road versus the days I was home, it was no contest. This was a place to store the little bit of stuff I had. I looked around as I sat on my couch, saw the mismatched chairs that I’d liberated and had shipped home when The Graceful Palms Hotel closed up shop in Miami five years ago. I saw the end tables that used to grace the entryway at The Heights Resort and Spa in Vail, Colorado, which they got rid of when I convinced them to remodel four years ago. Even the couch I was sitting on, a fantastic green velvet Art Deco piece I picked up while consulting at Tucker Home in Rhode Island three years ago. Everything in my apartment was from someone else’s home.
My apartment. Jesus, in my head I couldn’t even call it my home. And dammit, why the hell were my eyeballs leaking again? Did I get some hot mustard in them?
Without much thought, I picked up the phone and dialed. I called Roxie, and she called Natalie. And we had a three-way.
“You guys, something’s wrong with my eyes,” I said, my voice gruff.
“How much wine?” Natalie asked.
“Two bottles.” I sniffled. “But I didn’t pour either in my eyeballs.”
“Well, that’s good,” Roxie said, chuckling lightly. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, and never in my entire life had I ever meant it more. “I literally don’t know.”
“Well, for starters, have you talked to Archie?” Natalie asked, and I immediately bristled.
“Why in the world would me talking to Archie have anything to do with anything?” I asked, my fists balling up. “Have I talked to Archie, have you talked to Archie?”
“I have, actually,” Natalie said. “And—”
“Natalie, shut up,” Roxie interjected, and for once Natalie listened. “Where are you, Clara?”
“Home.” I sniffed. “Well, my apartment.”
“Boston? How long are you in town?”
I calculated, which was tricky because wine. “I’m here for a few days, the staff at the Oakmont rotates their holidays, so when I realized they weren’t all working and that I’d get a few days off I figured I’d just bum around down there, but I just . . . dammit.” I had no words, no words to explain how I was feeling, and it was frustrating as hell. “I don’t know!” I repeated.
“Clara, sweetie, just come here. Just get on a train and come up here, we can pick you up at the station in Poughkeepsie.”
“I can’t.” I sighed. “I can’t do that.”
“Hell yes, you can,” Natalie said, having remained silent for all of thirty seconds. “Get your ass on a train and come home.”
“Home?” I asked. “I thought Manhattan was home.”
“Listen to me, you crazy person, and if you ever repeat this inside of the five boroughs I will beat you up with your own hands, but my home is here now. Goddammit, I can’t believe I’m saying this, and I will never give up my brownstone, but”—she paused, and neither Roxie nor I even breathed—“fucking hell, my home is wherever Oscar is. And he’s where his cows are. So . . . there. Bailey Falls is home. And if I can say that, Jesus, would you just get on a train and get your ass up here?”
“I can’t, I really can’t,” I said. “I left so quickly, and I didn’t . . . oh God, you guys I didn’t . . .” And then I started to full-on donkey cry. “I didn’t even say good-bye!”
They were quiet while I worked it out. While the wine and the wonton did their job and allowed tears that I didn’t even think my ducts knew how to make flowed fast and hot.
“I love him,” I finally managed to hiccup out. “I love him and I broke his heart, and now I’m trying so hard to go back to what I do best and it’s just not the same, you know? I work and I work and . . . oh, everything just sucks right now.” I sighed a big, blubbery sigh.
But then I heard Leo in the background, asking if she’d picked up milk on the way home, and it just all hit me like a ton of bricks. Roxie and Natalie had those conversations all the time. Hey, did you pick up milk on the way home, or honey, is that faucet in the kitchen still dripping, and do you know if the gas bill got paid yet, or does this mole look funny to you? All those random stupid questions that fill a day end up filling a lifetime. With memories. And traditions.
“You know what, guys,” I said, suddenly feeling stupid-tired. “I’m gonna go, I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No no, Clara, you’re upset, let’s talk this out,” Roxie started to say, but I was already shaking my head.
“It’s okay, really, I’m sorry I flipped out tonight. I just need to get some sleep.”
“I can be in Boston in four hours,” Natalie said, and I smiled in spite of the tears that still coursed in absolute rivers down my cheeks.
“I know you can. I’m okay, though, seriously.”
“I don’t believe you for a second,” Roxie said, her voice sad. “Not for a second.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got tons of work to do this weekend. I’ll sleep tonight and tomorrow, I’ll be back to normal. I’ll go for a run, trust me, it’s all good.” And before they could try to keep me on the phone any longer, I said good night and hung up.
I lay down right there on the couch, surrounded by hot-mustard packets that had in no way caused this outburst, and looked at my ceiling. The ceiling I’d lived under for years now, and had never really bothered to look at.
And for the first time, I realized I wanted my own traditions. It wasn’t enough to simply archive and treasure and try to save someone else’s. I wanted my own stories to tell.
My traditions were small, but they were everything. I knew how to dye Easter eggs. I knew which radiator to fiddle with when the steam whistle began to blow in the Lakeside Lounge. I knew you could see the Milky Way from the roof on a clear night.
And I knew that running no longer gave me the static I craved. I craved quiet, but the kind of quiet that only comes after the love, after the sighs and cries, when his hands roamed freely across my naked body, no longer frantic but touching just for the sake of it. Just for the pure reason of skin touching skin with nothing in between, of communicating on a cellular level, you’re here and I’m here and we’re here and this is so much more than enough because it’s everything.
I fell asleep that night dreaming of mountaintops and ice skates. And when I woke up the next morning I knew what I had to do. Or at least, what I needed to try to do.
But first, I needed to buy my first car.
Green. Everything was so green. The last time I’d driven up this mountain, it had barely been spring and anything even close to green was only timidly peeking out. But now? The whole world was green.
I turned right just before the exit into town, but even from here I could see that Bailey Falls was ready for the Fourth of July. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from every balcony, crisscrossed the light posts on Main Street, and, beside every front door, the American flag proudly flew.
I drove along the riverfront on the south side of town, the Hudson River sparkling to my left in the afternoon sun. It was warm, but after the humidity and close, hot heat of South Carolina, a summer day in the Catskills brought a pleasant breeze and a welcome break. That pleasant breeze ruffled my hair as I drove with the top down, heading for the turnoff for Bryant Mountain House.
Ever since I’d made the spur-of-the-moment decision to leave Boston this morning, I’d literally been flying by the seat of my pants. There was a car dealer around the corner that specialized in classic cars, and when they were offering a Fourth of July sale on a little cherry-red, wholly unnecessary convertible sports car, I took it as a sign that the universe was endorsing my Hail Fucking Mary pass to beg Mr. Archibald Bryant into being my feller.
I smothered a laugh, then decided against it, letting my laughter ring out loud and proud against the quiet country air as I raced up the mountain, determined to go get my man. No one knew I was coming, not even the girls. I didn’t want to talk, I just wanted to do. I did well when I followed my instincts, and I knew I needed to follow them right now. I laughed to myself when I thought about what my friends would say when they found out what I was up to.
I let out another laugh when I thought about the likely look on Dick Stevee’s face when he got my email that I was, essentially effective immediately, terminating my employment with The Empire Group. Something surely he never saw coming.
Dear Dick,
I am writing to tell you, this Fourth of July, that I’m announcing my own independence and tendering my resignation. While there may not be actual fireworks accompanying this actual email, please know that in my head, they’re going off like gangbusters right now. You see, I love my job. Or I should say, I did love my job, until you and The Empire Group came along and changed everything. Now, change is good, and I’ve never been one to fear change, but at this point in my life . . . yeah, no.
I’ll be staying on to finish up the Oakmont project, but consider that my final contribution. I don’t know where my life is about to take me, but I am comforted in the knowledge that I will not be, and will never be, your partner.
Regards,
Clara Morgan
Yeah, he definitely didn’t see that coming. And frankly, I didn’t see it coming either. But when everything that mattered weighed in the balance, it was time. Time to stretch my wings a bit, see what else might be out there. Time to stretch my Rolodex too—I had contacts and references going back for years, and all those hotel owners and managers wouldn’t hesitate to recommend me to others who needed help restoring their brand. I’d find work, I wasn’t worried about that. Work that I could be proud of, could do on my own time and at my own pace and actually carry through to fruition rather than finishing piecemeal because I had to race to my next gig.
My next gig, however, I was hoping, was going to be working at Bryant Mountain House, to finish up the job I’d started. If the owner would have me.
A nervous giggle flew out of my mouth at the thought of being had by this particular owner.
Would he still want me? Could I make him want me again? Was it too late?
Maybe not. Maybe not. Maybe so. But I wasn’t going to back down and walk away this time, I was going for it full steam.
I pushed my foot down on the gas pedal a little harder, climbing higher into the Catskills, searching out the sign that said the turnoff for Bryant Mountain House was just around the bend.
“No, I don’t have a reservation. But Bert, you know me, it’s Clara. Clara Morgan, I was here for weeks and weeks this spring.”
“I do know you, Ms. Morgan, which is why I know you know the rules. No one goes up who doesn’t have a reservation.” Bert the security guard frowned at me over his clipboard. “Unless you have a day pass. Do you have a day pass?”
Bert was killing my buzz. “No, but if I need to buy one, I’ll buy one.”
“Does anyone know you’re coming?” He looked at me pointedly. I knew what he was asking. Did Archie know?
“No,” I said, swallowing. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, frowning. “I thought that might be the case.”
“I’m here for a good reason, though, I promise,” I said, trying my best to look contrite and deserving.
“You’re not planning on making some kind of scene, are you?” he asked, looking dubious.
I swallowed hard once more. “No.” I certainly wasn’t planning on it.
“You want to buy a day pass, huh? The day’s almost over.” He looked at his watch.
“Bert, I’m literally begging you. Just give me the day pass, and I promise you, you won’t be sorry.”
“I can’t give you a day pass.” Dammit. I mentally began wondering whether I could hike through the woods up the side of the mountain without getting lost. “I can sell you a day pass, though.”
“Bert. I love you.”
“You better keep those words handy, Ms. Morgan,” he replied, blushing a little as I handed over my credit card.
“You don’t have to, you know”—I looked up at him with a pleading look—“call up there and tell certain people I’m on my way, do you?”
He looked at me with an amused look, then handed me the tag and my credit card. “I don’t suppose I do.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Bert.” I started to roll up the window when he waved at me.
“I went ahead and gave you a guest parking pass on there, even though you’re not technically a guest. That way you can park at the main house in case you’re trying to get up there quickly and all.” He winked.
“Thank you, thank you so much!”
“Good luck,” he called out as I drove away.
“Hopefully I won’t need it, otherwise I’m coming back for you, Bert!” I yelled back.
I looked quickly at the clock on the dashboard. Four thirty. I wracked my brain trying to remember what the hell they did up here on Fourth of July. I’d gone over this with recreation, I knew this. I knew there was a lobster bake for dinner, I knew there were campfires and s’mores, I knew there were eventual fireworks over the lake . . . but there was something else special they did during the day. Watermelon races? Egg toss? Probably, likely, but no, there was something else. A big tradition, something they’d always done, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember!
I made the last turn, and there it was. Stretching out over the entire horizon, the hotel was grand, so very grand. And in the warm summer glow, it was a night and day difference from the still grand but somehow almost bleak first impression I’d gotten when I saw it for the first time that freezing cold afternoon so many months ago.
Now the hotel was shining in all its summer finery. Balconies filled with flower boxes bursting with a riot of summer reds and oranges, rocking chairs filled with people of all ages, and American flags flying from atop the parapets along the roofline.
The front lawn where I’d watched kids hunt for Easter eggs was bright green and trimmed neatly, kids playing croquet with the same mallets as their parents did when they’d learned. More rocking chairs lined the Sunset Porch, which faced the mountains, these filled with guests having an afternoon cocktail before heading up to the big barbecue.
And something else . . . dammit, why couldn’t I remember?
No matter, the hotel looked incredible and inviting. I drove around to the parking lot quickly, skipping the valet and swinging into the first open slot I saw. I ran my hands through my hair, tweaked my cheeks like a good Scarlett, and started off for the main house.
Two steps into the lobby and I ran into Mrs. Banning and Mrs. Toomey.
“Hello, ladies! How are you, I’ve missed you!” I cried out, stepping quickly over to embrace them. I was just all full of the love today.
“Well, I never,” huffed Mrs. Banning.
“I also never,” Mrs. Toomey chimed in, equally huffy.
“What’s the matter,” I asked, looking down to see if I’d spilled something on my sundress, wondering why in the world they didn’t want to hug me. Unless . . .
“You have some nerve, showing up here,” Mrs. Banning scolded, looking at me like she’d sooner see me strung up on the flagpole than Old Glory.
Mrs. Toomey nodded fiercely in agreement. “I should say, coming up here, on a holiday no less. I certainly hope you’re not here to cause trouble for him, young lady.”
“Ahhh,” I sighed, understanding. “And the him you’re talking about would be Archie?”
“Oh, so you remember his name, do you?” Mrs. Banning said, raising her eyebrows so high I was surprised her forehead didn’t split open.
“I see, so I take it everyone knew that we were—”
“Yes, exactly,” Mrs. Toomey hissed. “Everyone knew that you were. And if you’ve come back to break his heart again, just know that we’re not going to let you do it, right, Hilda?”
“That’s right, Prudence.”
“In fact, one of those new industrial linen manglers just arrived. Would you like a demonstration?”
“Well, now, Prudence, that’s a little bit much, don’t you think?”
“Hilda, don’t you try and rein me back in, I’m good and mad at this little hussy and I—”
“I’m a hussy now?” I asked, grinning in spite of my death literally being planned right in front of me.
“You motherfucker!” I heard ring out across the lobby, and saw several actual mothers clap their hands over their kids’ ears and scurry them away.
“Oh man,” I groaned, turning to see not only Natalie, but Roxie, Leo, Oscar, Polly, Chad, Logan, Trudy, and her new boyfriend, Wayne Tuesday. “Of course the peanut gallery would be here for this.”
“I’m allergic to peanuts,” Polly said.
“You’re not allergic to peanuts,” Leo replied.
“But everyone in my class is, why can’t I be?”
“You’re not allergic to peanuts, Pork Chop, get over it,” Leo said.
“I’m lactose intolerant,” Logan said.
“Only when you eat an entire pint of ice cream,” Chad added. “Which you should stop doing.”
“I’m starting a line of ice cream at the creamery,” Oscar said.
“Oh, that’s great,” Trudy said, “if it’s any good I’ll use it at the diner.”
“Of course it’ll be good,” Oscar huffed.
“No one is saying it wouldn’t be good, I was just saying that—”
“You motherfuckers!” Natalie shouted, turning to everyone. “Shut up, and you, motherfucker”—she pointed at me—“what the hell are you doing here? And Polly, here, take ten dollars and we’ll call it done for the day.” She shoved a fistful of cash at Polly and her swear jar, which she carried everywhere nowadays. Kid was going to be able to pay for her own college at this rate.
“Clara.” Roxie smiled. “Are you here for . . . ?”
“Yes, yes, I am.” I nodded happily. “Do you know where he is?”
“He’s down by the mangler,” Mrs. Toomey interjected, and Mrs. Banning told her to hush up.
“He’s up on the third-floor balcony,” Roxie said, beaming. “They’re about to do the Fourth of July Porch Jump.”
Yes! That’s it! That’s the tradition I couldn’t remember, the Porch Jump. Since the hotel had been built, guests and staff alike had been jumping from the third-floor balcony into the lake below to celebrate our country’s birthday. It was the oldest and most beloved tradition. Short of the hot cross buns. And they jumped promptly at 5 p.m.
I looked at the grandfather clock across the lobby just as it started to chime.
Bong . . .
My heart leapt into my throat. I took off running for the staircase. I took the first three steps in one leap, taking the next few entirely in double time. Behind me, I heard my gaggle of people give chase, crashing into each other as they tried to follow me up the stairs, but I had a huge head start.
“Where are we going?”
“Weren’t you listening? The third floor, come on!”
“This is so exciting!”
“I’m so glad I already have popcorn!”
Bong . . .
I was on the second-floor landing, striding fast and passing guests on the left and right. Even though I was running, even though I was racing to find the man I loved more than anything on this planet, I couldn’t help but notice they’d removed the carpet and the fucking wood floors underneath were incredible.
Bong . . .
My feet hit the first step to the third floor, and I nearly took out a potted palm tree—hey, that was new.
I hit the fifth step. I wished I had time, more time, to think about what to say now that I was here, now that I’d be seeing him again. What could I say to make him hear me and know how sorry I was that I left the way I did? Could I make him see me, hear me, love me again? What if he didn’t love me anymore? Oh shit.
Bong . . .
“Can you see her? Where is she?”
“Pinup, quit hitting me, that doesn’t make me go faster.”
“Sorry, sorry, so sorry, excuse us, pardon us, so sorry, excuse us.”
“Mangler, I’m telling you, the mangler will take care of her.”
“I’m worried about you, Prudence.”
“Why would anyone jump off a porch?”
“Why wouldn’t everyone jump off a porch?”
I cleared the last step, looked around wildly. There was a crowd of people all gathered around the balcony, some in bathing suits and some still in their summer dresses and Bermuda shorts, all teetering on the edge of the wooden railing, poised and waiting for something, some kind of signal, to jump into the lake below.
I burst into the room, my peanut gallery less than ten feet behind me, pushing my way toward the front, elbowing like a groupie at a concert, trying to get up to the front before—
Bong . . .
Five p.m.
There. Standing dead center in the middle of the railing, perched and ready to jump. He turned around with a whistle in his mouth, ready to sound off and let everyone know it was time.
I pushed through the crowd, one particularly robust man throwing a wide arm and almost causing me to hit the deck, but as I gave one more strong push with my runner’s legs, he saw me.
His eyes met mine and my eyes met his and in his surprise and shock and my delight and happy kicky balloon lovestruck . . . well. The world just plain faded away.
But my forward momentum was still kicking.
And just as he blew on his little whistle I crashed through the last string of cheerleaders and leapt up onto the railing, smashing into his chest as I threw my arms around his neck . . . and carried us both right off the ledge.
He tweeted his whistle the entire way down.
They say time is elastic. Sometimes an hour passes in an instant while you scratch and cling at every second as they go by, willing them to slow down. Sometimes, an instant stretches out to an hour, when everything runs in super slow-mo, time itself elongated as the edges blur and the colors run.
I fell three stories with Archie Bryant, and it was a lifetime. I knew he was blowing his whistle, there was a part of me that could even hear it, shrill and pitchy as we plunged toward the lake below. But inside that bubble, the part of me that was inside that space where time stood still, I knew nothing except what it felt like to feel his skin under my touch and to be able to just stare into his eyes, searching for a hint of anything, anything that might tell me where I stood.
In those three stories, his eyes spoke to me, volumes and volumes of words and sentences and paragraphs collected into pure raw emotion.
Hurt.
Sorrow.
Fear.
Passion.
Heat.
Anger.
Disappointment.
Elation.
Joy.
Hunger.
Need.
Hope.
And finally, just before we hit the water . . . once more, hurt.
We splashed down, hitting the glacial lake as one, plunging under the cold, clear water, descending down into the watery depths, the chill taking my breath away.
Also, to be clear, he tweeted his whistle the entire way down.
Once underwater, I let go of him, and upon surfacing we were several feet away from each other. He surfaced . . . angry.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he huffed, brushing his hair out of his face. “Who does something like that?”
“I didn’t plan to do that, I just got excited when I saw you and I didn’t want you to jump without me so—”
“So you threw us both off a balcony?” he sputtered. I tried to swim closer, but he paddled away.
“Technically, I did the Porch Jump. I just didn’t know I was going to do it or I would have taken a moment to take off my aspirational sandals.”
“Inspirational sandals?”
“Aspirational, as in, I bought them before I could afford them, years ago, when I was trying to show the world what I was aspiring to be. You know, it’s like dressing for the job you want instead of the job you have? Anyway, I saw these expensive Kate Spade sandals in the window at Saks one time and I just knew I needed to have them. Yellow and turquoise with a peep toe and a kitten heel, they looked like exactly the person I wanted to be. And eventually, they became like my good-luck shoes.”
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” he mumbled, paddling away from me.
I flipped over a little to stick one foot in the air, a naked foot. “But see, I lost them both, they’re at the bottom of the lake now, which I really didn’t think about ahead of time, had I paused for even five seconds before slamming into you I would have taken them off.” I stuck my foot back underwater and swam a little closer. “They’re my aspirational shoes, after all.”
“I don’t give a damn about your shoes,” he said, turning his back to me and stroking toward the boat dock. But he hadn’t gone very far when he suddenly turned around, the water swirling with him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Just then, an enormous round of applause erupted from above, and as we looked skyward we saw three levels of the hotel, crammed onto their porches and balconies, watching us and cheering. The cheering, of course, led by my peanut gallery.
“For God’s sake,” he grunted, turning away from me once more and swimming away.
“Hey, hey!” I shouted, stroking smoothly through the water. “Where are you going, come back here!”
He swam faster, I swam faster. He headed for the boat dock, but when he saw the recreation guys and not a small amount of guests now crowding in between the canoes to watch what was happening, he made a sharp right turn and headed out into the middle of the lake.
Toward the swimming platform.
I’d been right about Archie all along. He was a swimmer. And right now he was like a wet blur, he was moving so fast through the water. For every two strokes I was giving it, he was giving it four. He was gliding smoothly, clipping along at a ridiculous pace, but I wasn’t giving up. Fuck that.
I put on a burst of speed, eye on the prize.
“Stop chasing me,” he called back.
“Stop swimming, then,” I shouted, not pausing at all.
“This is insane! You’re insane!” he yelled back, flipping easily over onto his back and not even losing a stroke.
“Says the guy making me chase him!”
“Unbelievable,” I heard him say as he reached the platform and hauled himself up effortlessly. I put my head down and made like a torpedo, swimming straight for him.
When I got there, he was standing at the edge, water dripping off his glorious body. For a split second, he stood between me and the sun. I stayed in the water, in his shadow, his silhouette painted across my wet skin. I could see his face now, so beautiful, so angry. His eyes were like two iced blueberries. Fuck, I love this man.
I pulled myself out of the water, my dress sticking to me everywhere, and stood next to him.
“You want to explain to me exactly what the hell is going on here?”
“Yes. I love you.”
“I mean, what kind of a stunt was that, you threw us off a balcony, for God’s sake, Clara, you could have gotten hurt!”
“Worth it. I love you.”
“What the hell kind of a person does something like that?”
“This person. I love you.”
He started to ask me another question, but I stopped him with my mouth. I launched myself once more at him, jumping into his arms whether he was ready for me or not and kissed him square on the lips. He fell backward onto the platform, taking me with him, and I landed on his whistle.
“I can’t believe you’re still wearing this.”
“I can’t believe you’re talking about my whistle.”
“I can’t believe you blew that thing all the way down.”
“I can’t believe that you— Goddammit, no! No, you don’t get to do this again, you don’t get to one-up me in the middle of a lake.” He tried to sit up, but I pulled him back down.
“Too late, I love you.”
“Stop saying that,” he yelled, leaning up on his elbows, bracing himself over me.
“I can’t. I love you. I love you. I love you.” He tried to sit up once more, but I wrapped my feet around his thighs and tugged him back down. “I’ve never said that to anyone in my entire life, and I’m finding that I love saying I love you to you.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, his face still full of exasperation, but his voice was somehow softer now, somehow not as angry. “Please don’t say it again.”
“Archie,” I said, as the water from his auburn hair dripped down onto me, “I can’t stop saying it because I do. And I came here today expressly to tell you that I do. I was a stupid jerk who left because I couldn’t handle what I was feeling. I loved you then, of course I did, but I couldn’t say it. I’ve loved you every day since I left and I love you right now. I feel better when I’m around you, I am better when I’m around you. I don’t like my life without you in it. I quit my job. I bought a stupid car. I jumped off a fucking porch on the Fourth of July because I love you and I couldn’t stand one more second on this earth without your arms around me.”
He was silent. I still had my ankles locked around him, not letting him go.
“And something else.” I took a breath, but found that my chest didn’t hurt so much, not like it used to. “My mother went to prison when I was six years old. Before that happened, I’d been taken away from her three times because of her drug use. When she finally went to prison, I went back into foster care because there was literally no one else who wanted me. I never knew my father, her parents were dead, I had no uncles or aunts or cousins or anything. There was nowhere for me to go. And when she got out of prison, she never came back for me. She overdosed a year later, I didn’t find out until I was thirteen. I was with seven different foster families before I turned eighteen and was then on my own. I never looked back. I’ve spent my life knowing that no one ever wanted me, and that was how I made sure my life stayed. No attachments, no roots, no real home, no real traditions. I took care of myself, and that was it. The idea of depending on someone else, of having to need someone else, was nothing I ever allowed myself to do, because if someone else walked away from me, I would break.”
“Clara,” he said, his eyes full.
“But it’s okay,” I said, reaching up and swooping his hair back. “I can tell you all of this now because I’m not embarrassed anymore. I’m not my past, I’m my present. And my future is wide fucking open. I can make whatever kind of life I want for myself, and the life that I want for myself is with you, only with you. Everything, all of it, right down to your antiques and your Archie Special and your freckles and your stupid pointy whistle, I want it. Because I love you, I love you so much, I love you with my entire heart. And until you, there was nothing in it. You’ve literally filled up my entire heart.” I held his face in my hands. “My heart, if you want it, is yours.”
He was silent once more. I barely breathed. Would he? Could he?
Finally, his eyes closed. And he lowered his forehead to mine. “I can’t believe you threw us off a balcony.”
“I can’t believe you made me chase you across a lake.”
He opened his eyes. “I can’t believe I’ve got such a bossy girl to love me so much.”
“I love you.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Now you say it too.”
He kissed my nose, my eyelids, each cheek, then my chin. And then he whispered, “I love you.”
My toes pointed. “Kiss me, Hotel Boy.”
He really just did.
The peanut gallery, an entire hotel full, cheered.
We swam back to shore. Our friends were waiting for us on the dock.
“I mean, when you go big, you fucking go big,” Natalie cried, throwing a towel around my shoulders.
“I love him,” I said, beaming up at my guy.
“C’mere, Bossy.” He laughed, tucking me under his arm. He looked up at the third-floor balcony. “Did no one else jump?”
“No way, man, everyone just watched to see what was going to happen,” Leo replied, clapping Archie on the back. “Maybe you can do a Labor Day Porch Jump instead.”
“I might sit that one out.” I looked up and saw how high that balcony really was. “Good lord, that’s high.”
“Esther Williams over here.” Roxie laughed. “But you weren’t going to miss out on your man.”
“I love him,” I repeated. It didn’t get old, hearing those words coming out of my mouth. Thrilling.
“I know you do, sweetie.” She laughed, then waved at someone in the crowd. “Hey, I’ve got someone for you to meet.”
“Can it wait? I kind of want to go kiss on Archie a little bit.” And without waiting, I reached up and tugged his very willing mouth down to mine, not caring a bit who was watching or who I was supposed to be meeting.
“Ahem, uh, Clara?” I heard Roxie say.
“Yeah yeah, in a minute.” I sighed as Archie’s hands snuck around to the small of my back and pulled me closer.
“No worries, Rox, we’ll meet up with her later, they both look a bit busy, yeah?” I heard an oddly familiar voice with a distinct British accent say.
My eyes blinked open even though I was still kissing Archie. I looked to my left even though I was still kissing Archie. And saw none other than Jack Hamilton standing there, looking a bit embarrassed . . . while I was still kissing Archie.
“I love you,” I said to him, while still kissing Archie. “I mean—”
“Ow!” Archie said. “You bit my lip!”
“Why is Jack Hamilton standing there looking at me?” I asked Archie out of the corner of my mouth. I looked at the gorgeous redhead standing next to Jack. “Shit, and Grace Sheridan is looking at me too, what is happening?”
“We caught your porch jump, brilliant, wasn’t it Crazy?” Jack asked Grace, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.
“If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it,” Grace replied with a naturally warm smile.
“Someone tell me what’s happening,” I said, not able to take my eyes off the Hollywood royalty standing in front of me. “Also, Jack, I love you.”
“Okay, quit it,” Roxie said, jumping in. “Remember how you were talking about trying to drum up some celebrity clientele here, bringing some new blood to Bryant Mountain House? Well, I mentioned to Archie that I might have a couple that would fit that bill exactly, and he invited them up for the weekend, isn’t it great?” She linked arms with the two of them. “I haven’t seen these two since I left Los Angeles last year.”
“She said she’d be back to cook for us, but she stayed away forever,” Jack said.
“And now that I’ve met Leo, I can see why,” Grace said, flashing another movie-star grin in Leo’s direction.
“Grace is doing a show in New York for a few weeks so we thought we’d pop up here, see Rox, and check out this hotel she’s been raving about. Which is great by the way, cheers, mate,” Jack said, reaching out to shake Archie’s hand.
“We’re glad to have you here,” Archie said, and I suddenly realized I was meeting the star of Time, one of my favorite movie franchises ever, while wearing a soaking wet dress after throwing myself into a lake to kiss the man I loved.
Best. Day. Ever.
“I just wish someone would have told me, is all I’m saying,” I said again, from underneath the towel. Archie and I had finally managed to step away from the gaggle of well-wishers, guests and staff alike, who’d been gathered around us down by the lake and escape to one of the rooms to clean up a bit. I was scrubbing at my hair, trying to get most of the wet out, and when I emerged from underneath, it stood out around my face in spikes. “I mean, it’s Jack Fucking Hamilton. That’s like not telling someone, hey, by the way, Robert Pattinson is picking apples in your front yard, no big deal.”
Suddenly, warm hands slipped around my waist and tugged me back against a warm body. “They’ve been here for a few days already, Bossy. It’s not really a big deal anymore. Remember, royalty has stayed here. You get used to it.”
“Royalty,” I scoffed, turning around in his arms. “They’re Hollywood royalty, and I still think someone could have told me. I looked like a fool.”
“You looked amazing,” he replied, kissing me on the nose. “Especially when you were telling him you loved him.”
“I do.” I grinned. “But not like I love you.”
“Let’s hope not,” he warned, lifting my chin with his hand. “How much time do you think we have up here before they come looking for us?”
“Fuck ’em,” I said, reaching up and taking his hand in mine. Turning the palm up I pressed a kiss in the center. “They don’t know what room we’re in, and I have no idea where my phone is so they can’t call me and . . .” My voice trailed off as I stopped cold, looking at his hand.
“Clara?”
I held his hand in mine. “Your ring. You’re not wearing it.”
“No.”
My heart beat faster. “When did you take it off?”
He lifted my chin once more so he could look into my eyes. “The day you left. I haven’t worn it since.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve only loved two women in my entire life, Clara.” Those indigo eyes, feathered with the most beautiful auburn lashes, began to deepen.
“To be clear, I’m one of them, right?”
“Ridiculous,” he murmured, softly brushing my cheek with his fingertips.
I reached up on my tiptoes to kiss him. “Want to stay here and not watch TV?”
He lifted me up off my tiptoes. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He had me naked in seconds. And the way he looked at me told me we weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. “We’re going to miss the fireworks,” I said as he carried me to the bed.
“We can watch them from the balcony.”
“Sort of like a new tradition, huh?” I threw my arms over my head as he began to kiss down my body.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” he told my belly button.
“I love you.”
He lifted my leg over his shoulder. “Never stop saying that.”
“I love you. I love you. I love you. I . . .
“Oh,
“Oh,
“Oh,
“. . . loooooove you!”