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.
Chapter 19
We slept on the living-room floor all night long. Neither of us mentioned the fact that we both seemed to be avoiding his bedroom, the bedroom he’d once shared with his wife, and maybe that was a good thing. Naked, Archie had gathered up pillows and blankets and quilts, and naked, I’d helped him arrange everything into a wonderful little nest before the fire. He didn’t ask anything and I didn’t offer anything, but I opened my eyes the next morning to find him watching me.
“I kind of blew up last night,” I said.
He reached out to brush a piece of hair away from my face, tracing his fingertips along my cheekbone tenderly. “You kind of did.”
I stretched, wondering if I could bide my time long enough to get a cup of coffee. Reading my thoughts, he smiled. “How about I make some coffee, you make some toast, and then we talk a bit?”
“What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I frowned. I knew we needed to talk, but I still had a job to do. “How late is it?” I asked, scrambling up, taking one of the blankets with me.
White. Everything was white. “Oh my.” I sighed, staring out the big picture window. The world was covered in snow. Puffy and fluffy, it clung to every treetop and limb, edging the water and blanketing the lawn. At least a foot of snow had come down while we’d been sleeping. “Was this in the forecast?”
“Nope, surprise snowstorm,” he said, coming to stand next to me by the window, wrapped in his own blanket. “We usually get at least one late snow each year, but it’s been a while since it was this much with almost no notice.”
“And the roads won’t be plowed, I’m guessing?”
“They will. We have our own plows at the hotel, and I imagine they’ve started to clear the main road already. But they won’t come down to this part until all the guest roads are clear. So for a while . . .”
“We’re stuck here,” I finished for him, looking out again at the snow cover. Snowed in. And we were both still naked. Which would normally be the stuff dreams are made of, but I’d picked the wrong night to unload my stupid baggage. So now a snow day would be turned into a feelings day.
Fuck me. If this was going to happen, I was going to need
protein. “You have any eggs to go with that toast and coffee?”
Ten minutes later we were sitting at his breakfast bar with scrambled eggs, toast and jam, and blessed coffee. Archie had given me an ancient Bailey Falls High School sweatshirt to wear, bearing the water polo championship logo. The sleeves were rolled up about five times, so I wasn’t completely swimming in it. See what I did there?
“These are good,” he said as he forked up a mouthful of eggs.
“Thanks, I added a little of the cheese I found in your fridge.”
“I have cheese in my fridge?”
“Like three different kinds, who put it there?”
He smiled. “My housekeeper, Greta. She’s worked for the family for years, she insists on doing my grocery shopping each week even though I rarely cook. A full fridge equals a full life in her mind.”
“Did your wife cook?”
He paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. After a second or two, he lifted the bite to his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and looked at me carefully. “Are you trying to talk about anything other than what happened in the car last night?”
I chewed. I swallowed. “Yes.”
“And why is that?”
I chewed. I swallowed. “I’m not really comfortable talking about my past. Any of it.”
“Everyone has a past, Clara.”
“But not everyone needs to revisit it. It’s the past, as in, its time has literally passed. Why drag it up?”
He covered my hand with his own. “Whether it’s dragged up or talked about on a daily basis, the past seems to always have a way of showing up, getting in your face until you let it have its say. Then, yeah, sometimes you can move on. But it’s never really passed.”
I slipped my hand out from under his, picked up my now-empty plate and carried it over to the sink. “How long do you think it’ll take until the road is plowed?”
“Wow, not even thirty seconds. Impressive.”
“What?”
He carried his plate over to the sink as well. “And here I thought we were going to get somewhere today.”
I pushed back from the sink, face burning, hands on hips. “And what exactly did you think we’d get to? We’re snowed in, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, let’s push Clara until she caves? That’s not really fair, is it?”
“My wife died at thirty-two. Life isn’t fucking fair. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”
“No!” I snapped, pointing my finger. “Not better off, the exact opposite. Look what’s happening, literally right now, you bring up the past and immediately we’re fighting about something so stupid! It’s my past, Archie, and if I want it to stay buried then it stays fucking buried. I’m sorry I said all those things in the car last night, it was a mistake, a momentary slip, and believe me when I say it won’t happen again. And yes, I know your wife died at thirty-two, and that’s a really shitty deal, but I’m not her and I’m the furthest thing from perfect and if you think I’m ever going to be anything like her, then—” I stopped cold, mid-yell. “You know what, this is exactly why I never should’ve started this in the first place, I knew this was a bad idea.” I stomped off in search of my clothes. Once again, I was shaking. In the span of twelve hours I’d let that smooth surface crack and I was already paying the price. I was saying things I should never say, and I was hurting Archie, I could tell.
This is the very reason I don’t get involved. Because when two people share something, anything, someone gets hurt. And I promised myself a long, long time ago that I’d never be the one to hurt someone else. I needed to get out before anything else was said.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Home. Back to the hotel.”
“In the snow? You’re going to walk a mile, uphill, in the snow?”
I stabbed my legs into my pants. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“It’s not about that, for God’s sake.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Is everything a competition with you?”
I grabbed one of his winter hats out of the coat closet, along with a coat as well, and shoved it down on my head so hard it covered half my face. I pushed it up angrily in a huff. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Just shut up.”
He bit his bottom lip, trying not to laugh.
“What?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “What?” I shouted, stamping my foot.
“Your pants are on backward and when you pushed your hat up your nose got caught and, I shouldn’t say this, but I’m gonna, you looked like a piglet.”
My jaw dropped.
He grinned. “And I think you’re an idiot for running out in the snow just to prove a point. Because this is horseshit.”
“Horseshit?” I sputtered.
“Horseshit,” he agreed, grinning wildly. “Horseshit that you would let something like your past keep you from spending the morning with me. Maybe put on some snowshoes and go out for a hike in the woods. Or I could fuck you senseless in the bathtub. Whichever. They’re both great options. Up to you. But don’t leave just because you don’t want to talk about your past, that’s silly. We’re grown-ups.” He turned to head back into the kitchen, but then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “And believe me, I know you’re not anything like my wife. But you’re crazy if you think she was perfect. She was impatient, had no attention for detail, was famous for leaving messes and not cleaning them up and most of all, she could be a real pain in the ass sometimes.” He tilted his head to the side. “Huh, you two do have something in common.”
He headed over to the sink to do the dishes, whistling while he worked. He didn’t look back, he didn’t say anything else, he just did his thing.
Which infuriated me. “Listen, Mister Pry Into Everything, just because you’re ready to talk about my past doesn’t mean I am, okay? And that doesn’t make me horseshit.”
“I didn’t say you were horseshit,” he corrected, pointing at me with a scrub brush, then gesturing broadly. “I said this was horseshit.” He turned back to his dishes. “You can’t let the past define you, Clara.”
“Says the man still wearing his wedding ring,” I muttered. His back stiffened, his head snapping up on his neck. I stood my ground. If he could push me I could push right back.
But as I watched and waited for him to explode, to yell at me, to tell me I was wrong, to tell me that this was his sacred cow and I had no business even bringing this up to him . . . the opposite happened. His back relaxed, he shook his head, and he went back to his dishes. A moment later, he spoke.
“Fair point. I won’t push.” But then he looked over his shoulder at me. “Today. But I will again, and soon.” He went back to his dishes, calm and cool and collected. “But you really don’t have to leave.”
I considered. It did look cold out there. And the snow was really deep. And being a late snow, it was wet and heavy—it’d be really hard to wade through all of it. Uphill, like he said.
I looked back toward the kitchen. He was making another pot of coffee, it smelled heavenly. He was whistling “Stay” from Dirty Dancing, that sonofabitch. A snowshoe hike did sound nice. The bathtub fucking sounded nicer. The question was, could we go all day without talking about shit I just really wasn’t ready to verbalize? He said he wouldn’t push, but would he?
Uphill versus fucking.
I pulled off my hat. I pulled off my pants. I walked soundlessly back into the kitchen, picked up a towel and a plate from the rack, and started drying.
I chanced a look at him, next to me, still whistling. His grin was enormous.
I kept my eyes on the plate. “So, to be clear, the fucking is happening before the hike.”
He set down his plate, set down my plate, picked me up by slipping his beautiful hands around my naked bottom, and started heading upstairs. “And after the hike.”
Archie was as good as his word and didn’t push me. But there was something hanging over us now, something palpable, a tension that wasn’t there before. O
r rather, it’d changed shape. Before I’d been trying to avoid getting involved. Now I was involved and trying desperately to avoid talking about anything of substance. I was leaving, that we both knew, so why muddy the waters with more details that can’t change anything? And speaking of muddy . . .
The snowstorm that blew in and out over the course of just two days left the ground wet, muddy, sloshy, and gross. Exactly the kinds of conditions that make for a great Tough Mudder race.
Natalie was hoping that we’d all forgotten about the race, and more important, that she’d said she’d participate.
“Pretty sure I said I’d be cheerleading, as in from the bleachers,” she said as we all arrived at the Mountain House before six on the morning of the race.
“You’re doing it, Pinup,” Oscar growled, picking up the enormous cooler filled with drinks and snacks and loading it onto the back of the bus. Everyone agreed to leave their cars in the hotel lot for the day and ride up together, camp-style. To complete the camp theme, Archie was driving us in an old school bus, painted green and white and bearing the name of the hotel across the side. Used by the staff for years on campouts, it added to the ambience of the day, big kids playing in the mud.
Oscar brushed his hands off on his pants, then pulled her close. “Besides, you like it dirty.”
“I’m wondering how many innuendos can be crammed into just one day,” Leo mused, calling out to us through the window as he tugged Roxie toward the back of the bus.
“Speaking of getting crammed in,” Roxie said, laughing over his shoulder as he made like he was going to bend her over the seat.
“It all comes down to in-you-end-oh!” Logan laughed as Chad shuffled by with sleep still in his eyes. He gave Logan the finger, then came to stand by me.
“I’m glad you’re here, really, I am. You’re a great addition to this gang of fools, but will all the adventures you’re going to be planning start at five a.m.?”
“Probably.” I grinned, watching as Logan and Archie hauled bags of towels onto the bus. Sleeping with the manager of a hotel was pretty great when it came to supplies. He’d had the kitchen make up a bunch of sandwiches and salads for the day trip, and then raided housekeeping to get stuff to clean up with after the race. “Mornings are the best time for stuff like this, although it makes for a chilly start.”