“Hello?”
“Maggie, it’s Jacob Reese.”
“Ah, Mr Coffee! How’s it going? Calling to talk smack about the costume contest?”
“Actually, I called to see if you’ve got any rooms available over there at the Elmwood Hotel.”
There’s an understandable pause before she replies. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I had a pipe burst in the cottage, and I need to redirect some guests for a few nights.”
“Well, the only thing I have available is the Rose Suite.”
“The Rose Suite?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, Maggie. When I need a room, the only one available happens to be the most expensive room in your hotel?”
“You think I’m lying?”
“No. Sorry. That came out way too— I’m really sorry, Maggie. It’s been a long couple of days, and I’m on edge.”
“Listen,” she says, her tone softening not one bit, “normally I wouldn’t have anything available, but that rent-a-room bullshit is creeping into The Hollows. You’ve got people staying at your place all the time. Now, other people are renting out their spare rooms. So, yeah, I have a room available, but only because of people like you. The Rose Suite is all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”
She’s right, and I feel like a jerk. “Maggie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were lying. Of course, I’ll take the Rose Suite. How many consecutive nights can I get?”
Now, her tone softens. “Wow. That must be some burst pipe. You call Stuart yet?”
Stuart Delholm is the local plumber. If I say I called Stuart, she might run into him, and ask about the cottage. I want to keep everything under wraps.
“No. It’s too big a job for Stuart. I called a bigger operation out of Burlington.”
“Jeez. That’s rough. Let me see how many nights I’ve got …”
I hear her typing. I can just imagine her at the front desk of the Elmwood, back perfectly straight, smile plastered on her cheeks as she greets incoming guests.
“I’ve got twelve consecutive nights, starting tonight.”
“I’ll take ten.”
Ten nights is the minimum cancellation notice policy for Be Our Guest.
Maggie lets out a light whistle. “Damn, Jacob.”
I’m sure she feels bad for me, but won’t have a problem pocketing the three grand I’m giving her.
“Do you want my credit card?” I ask.
“Nah. I know you’re good for it. You can drop by the hotel whenever you want.”
“Thanks.”
“Jacob?”
“Yeah?”
“Listen, despite what I said a little bit ago, I really am sorry. I know that it’s going to be a hard hit for your place’s reputation.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back up in no time.”
*
After hanging up with Maggie, I call Be Our Guest and give them the lie about the burst pipe, but reassure them that I’ve found comparable accommodations for my guests. I also cancel all reservations for the next three months. The representative on the other end of the line is dumbfounded. I keep getting passed up the ladder until I’m talking to a regional executive who says that Be Our Guest will send a plumber and an inspector to get me back up in three days. That’s how important my place is to them. I turn him down.
Then, the strong-arming attempts begin. He starts talking about Be Our Guest’s policies and that I may be in violation, but I’m ready for it. I’m doing everything by the book. He points out that I’m turning down thousands of dollars. I tell him I’m aware of that, as well. He argues that even if I do get back up after three months, my reputation might be permanently damaged unless I can get everything repaired as soon as possible. I’m not swayed. I’m going dark for three months.
Hopefully, this will all be sorted by then … whatever “this” is.
*
It’s not my day to be at the shop, but I want the distraction. I can’t sit at the house, staring out the window, waiting for Laura to wander out of the forest.
Sandy lights up when she sees Murphy and I walk in.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, steaming a cappuccino.
“Wanted to help out.”
She motions to the growing line of customers. “Have at it.”
I hop behind the counter. Murphy retreats to his bed near the register. Instantly, he starts to receive the fawning attention he is accustomed to. I always know when someone is petting him because I can hear his tail thumping on the floor.
I go about taking orders, changing filters, and unloading the small dishwasher behind the counter. I’m good for a while, but as the day drags on, it becomes painfully obvious that I’m off my game. I can’t keep the image of Laura out of my head.
It can’t be her. It’s not possible.
“So, that was one chai latte, a caramel mocha, and an iced tea?” I ask, repeating an order to a customer.
The old lady blinks at me from behind her thick glasses. “No. It was a regular latte for me, and a hot chocolate for my husband.”
“I had the chai latte,” the guy in front of her says.
“I had a hot tea, but not an iced tea,” the lady behind the old woman chimes in.
I shake my head. “Right, right, right. Sorry. My bad.”
I turn to start correcting my mistakes and notice that Sandy is looking at me.
“You all right, boss?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just not firing on all cylinders today.”
She’s slow to look away, but is forced to when she hands change to a customer.
I whip up the latte, steam the milk for the hot chocolate, and hand it to the guy.
“Here you go,” I say. “Latte and a hot chocolate.”
“Nope,” he says, and points to the old lady behind him, who’s looking at me like I’m crazy.
I curse under my breath. “Sorry. Here’s your latte and your hot—
“—chocolate,” the barista said, handing the Styrofoam cup to Laura. I was already putting cream and sugar in my coffee at the station next to the counter.
We found a small table at the back of the coffee shop, which was located on Franklin Street, next to Wilton University’s campus.
“I can’t believe you’re drinking coffee at eight o’clock in the evening,” Laura said, sliding into the seat. “You’re gonna be up all night.”
“Then so will you,” I replied with my best roguish smile.
She blushed, and took a long sip from her hot chocolate.
Afterwards, we took our time and simply wandered through Rutland. We strolled down Merchants Row, laughing at the drunken students staggering out of the different bars. The conversation flowed, but there was the tension of who would be the first to say it—a tension that grew as it got later.
“So, where to?” I asked.
“My roommate is visiting her parents. Sooooo … back to my place?”
From that moment on, we knew where the evening was heading. We didn’t say much else, and I tried to not quicken my stride in anticipation. It was a little corny going back to her dorm room, but those blue eyes and red hair wiped away any reservations I had.
We arrived at the door to her dorm, and she swiped the key card over the sensor. There was a buzzing and the lock clicked. She pulled the door open, and we entered the foyer. She quickly led me off to the right, down a short hallway, and into the stairwell. As we reached the first landing, I wrapped my arm around her waist. She turned to face me and we kissed. We staggered against the wall. Our hands were everywhere, and we fought to balance our kissing with the need to breathe. A door opened somewhere above us. We tried to separate, but it was useless. A mousy brunette descended the stairs and walked past.
“Get a room,” she muttered.
“Almost there!” Laura laughed.
The brunette rolled her eyes at us. Laura flipped her the bird. I laughed into the nape of her neck. She gave me one more kiss and took my hand.
“Come on,” she said, pulling me up the stairs.
We came out into the third-floor hallway. It was lit by harsh halogen lamps. She gave me a quick glance over her shoulder as she moved from one pool of light to another. Every step was foreplay. I was hypnotized by the sway of her hips and the bouncing curls of her hair.
We passed door after door. Mounted on the wall next to each one was a small whiteboard. Some of the whiteboards had messages written on them. Most were short, telling the occupant how awesome they were. Others had funny quotes. I glimpsed one as I passed that read, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. ~ Romans 15:13”. Under which, someone had written, “God don’t give a shit.”
We arrived at the door marked #317. She took out a key, slid it into the lock, twisted, and pushed it open.
Upon first glance, it was the model of your typical college dorm. There was that invisible line that ran down the center of the room, dividing it in half. The left half had a total “emo” motif, with posters for The Misfits and My Chemical Romance on the walls. The other side was more standard and subdued, except for the large poster of Jesus on the wall next to the bed. He was ascending to Heaven from the cross, surrounded by angels. It sucked all the attention from the room, so much so that I forgot about my erection.
“Um … okay … Which side is yours?”
“Guess.”
I pointed to the “emo” side. “This one?”
“Nope.”
“Seriously?” I asked, fixated on the Jesus poster.
“Yeah. I know it’s a little much, but it’s only in case my mom makes a surprise visit.”
“Does that happen often?”
“She insists on keeping tabs on me.”
Hooking up was still in the cards, but I felt that we had taken a detour and I was intrigued.
“So, you’re saying that poster is only for your mother’s benefit?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not a believer?”
“Nope.”
Her tone. Her eyes. Her slight frown. There was a lot in that “nope”.
“Interesting. Well, let’s see what else I can find out about you,” I said, scanning the shelves and desk.
She dropped onto the bed. “Do your worst.”
“Hmmmmm …” I said, tapping my finger to my chin as I moved to the photos on the desk. I focused on a silver-framed photo of her in a cheerleading outfit.
“Cheerleader?”
“Brilliant, Sherlock.”
I moved to another photo of her with an older woman who had beady eyes and thin brown hair. “Mother?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s your dad?” I regretted the question as soon as it escaped my lips, but she was unfazed.
“Died when I was three.”
“Oh … sorry.”
She shrugged. “Never really knew him.”
I went to the row of scrapbooks on the shelf. There were five of them, each with a different pattern. I slid the first one off the shelf and opened it. On the first page was the same beady-eyed woman from the photo on the desk. She was holding a baby in her arms and smiling, while a man in his forties stood behind them.
“Ah, there’s Dad.”
I started flipping through the pages. I watched her grow up through the photos. There were a few of her as a baby, her face smeared with birthday cake.
“Wow. You really liked cake.”
She lay back on the bed. “All right. Enough.”
“Hold on, hold on.”
I flipped a couple more pages. There were photos of her learning to ride a bike, and more than a few of her at church. I came to a photo of Laura dressed as an angel, standing in front of a Christmas tree. If I had to guess, I would have said she was about five. I held the book open to her. “Now that is adorable.”
She reached for the scrapbook.
“No, no, no, no,” I said, pulling it away.
She watched me with a delicious smile.
I snapped the scrapbook closed and returned it to its spot. I continued down the shelf to an ornate wooden box. The letters ‘L.A.’ in intricate script were burned into the lid. I reached to open it.
“Please, don’t,” she said.
I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or playful. Being the jerk that I was, I went ahead and lifted the lid.
A delicate ballerina in a green dress on a spindle rose and began to slowly spin over a glittering glass-beaded surface. There was a mirror mounted to the underside of the lid that was surrounded by a mosaic of blue glass. The mirror and blue glass caught the light that bounced from the beads and scattered soft spots of light over the ballerina. The notes of a haunting waltz filled the room. It was something out of a dream. I was hypnotized by the tiny figure with arms outstretched, slowly twisting to the melody.
“I told you not to open it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“My dad gave it to me. Mom said it was the only thing that could get me to sleep as a baby.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the ballerina. The slow rotation, and the way the figure caught the light, gave the illusion that she was actually moving to the tune.
“Hey,” Laura said, snapping me out of it.
I turned.
She was lying back on the bed with a seductive smile. “I’m right here.”
Everything came back into focus.
I closed the box and moved to the bed. She laughed, and we were right back to where we were on the stairs—breathlessly kissing, our tongues darting over one another. Our hands wouldn’t stop. She pulled her shirt over her head, revealing an emerald bra.
I shook my head. “Okay, I have to ask—do you coordinate your bra with your hair? Because that is too perfect.”
“Shut up,” she said and bit my lower lip.
More kissing. More fumbling. My shirt flew above my shoulders and landed on the floor. It was a race to see who could unbutton the other’s jeans first. I won by virtue of the fact that I had a belt and she didn’t. I flicked the tab of her zipper down in an exaggerated fashion, which created a cartoonish sound effect. She laughed and pulled my belt through the loops of my jeans in her own ridiculous gesture. We slowed. The kissing became more passionate. More purposeful.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled back a fraction.
“Let it go,” she whispered, trying to catch up in the “zipper race”.
It buzzed, again.
I sighed and lowered my head to avoid another kiss. “I can’t. It’s my work phone.”
She took my face in her hands. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and pulled away.
She let out an exasperated sigh.
I took the phone from my pocket and checked my messages.
Need to pay a visit to Dara. Account past due.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
It was code from Reggie. Our messages were always coded. There was no Dara, but I knew what the message meant.
“I’m really sorry, but I have to go. It’s urgent,” I said.
I stood up and found my shirt and belt. After hastily putting myself back together, I went for the door.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
I turned back to look at her.
Her sparkling eyes. Her hair draping over the pillow. Her smooth pale skin. She was one of—no. She was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.
I went over to kiss her.
“I’m really sorry,” I said.
We kissed, and she playfully bit my lip again.
“One day, you’re going to have to tell me what it is you do,” she said.
“I told you. I do IT consulting. They call at all hours of the day and night.”
Her face clouded. “No. What you really do.”
I kissed her one last time. “Gotta go.”
I finished latching my belt, and went for the door. Before stepping through, I glanced back. She was still lying on the bed in her bra and unfastened jeans.
She waved her fingers as if to say, “toodle-oo”.
“Dammit,” I whispered, and left.
*
The hour-long drive to Lyndon, home of Lyndon University, was excruciating. All I could think about was the image of Laura, lying on that bed.
I was finally able to put it out of my mind as I arrived at the squat, brick house a few blocks from the small campus. I got out, walked up onto the porch, and knocked on the door.
It took way too long, but the door was finally answered by Mattie Donovan.
Mattie appeared to have aged ten years from when we used to hang out just last year. He was still a perpetual slacker, and I told him that he needed to get his act together if he wanted to keep doing business. He was still a good guy, just sloppy.
His eyes were bloodshot, and the smell of weed emanated from the open door.
“Hey, Mattie,” I said.
“… shit,” he replied.
“Good to see you, too.”
I stepped past him into the living room, and things were already wrong.
Two guys I had never seen before were sitting on the couch, completely baked, and staring at the television. The coffee table in front of them was littered with spent cigarettes, bags of chips, a bong, and a glass vial next to a pipe. The only sources of illumination in the room were the television and some Christmas lights strung around the borders of the ceiling. Bedsheets covered the windows.
Mattie closed the door behind me.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “We’ve got weed, but if you want something harder, I think we have some—”
“No.”
“You want a soda or something?”
“Mattie, you know why I’m here.”
“Um … no, man. I don’t, uh, I don’t know.”
“You’re behind on your payment.”
He scratched the back of his neck, trying hard to feign confusion. This wasn’t like Mattie. He could be a fuck-up from time to time, but he had never lied to me.
“Really? You sure about that? I thought I paid.”
“Come on, Mattie.”
“No, yeah. I paid Reggie. Like, last week, I paid him.”
“Mattie, Reggie sent me.”
I noticed that the two guys on the couch, while still high, were intensely watching our conversation.
“Oh … Really?” Mattie asked, stalling for time.
“Who are your friends?” I asked with a nod towards the couch.
“They’re just friends, you know? From out of town.”
The guy with blotchy skin and the bad haircut, sitting on the far end of the couch, flicked his eyes towards the darkened hallway off of the kitchen that led to the bedrooms.
“Is that some of your inventory?” I asked, pointing to the table. “Because if it is, and you’re behind on payments, I sure hope your friends have paid for it. Also, if you’re keeping your stuff here with the money, you know how bad that is.” I was going for bravado, but I worried that I had overplayed it.
Mattie nervously snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Of course, they paid for it.”
“Great. Then you can give me the cash, I’ll get out of here, and you can continue to entertain your guests from out of town.”
No one moved.
Mattie started chuckling. “Yeah, sure.” He gestured with his thumb. “It’s in the bedroom. I’ll go get it.”
I nodded, keeping his “friends” in my line of sight.
Mattie disappeared into the darkened doorway of one of the rooms in the hall, but didn’t turn on the light. I used his departure to shift my weight and get myself closer to the door.
“This is all wrong,” I kept telling myself.
I glanced at the two guys on the couch, who had put down their joints and were staring at me. They locked eyes with one another and right then, I knew what was coming, but there was no time to react.
A guy burst from the darkened room where Mattie had disappeared. He was tall and lean. His tank top revealed a latticework of tattoos that covered his chest and ran down his arm, all the way to the gun in his hand—the gun that was pointed at my face. Mattie followed close behind with a wild, terrified expression. The two guys on the couch jumped up, trying to fight off their high and act alert. The guy holding the gun wasn’t high on weed. He was on something else, like coke or meth. His face twitched and his hand shook.
I remained as still as I could, trying to pretend that I was the calmest person in the room. I had only dealt with college kids. This was the first time a gun had been put in my face. Things had gone way above my pay scale.
“All right, listen up,” the tattooed guy barked in a frenzied tone. “You tell Reggie that this place is ours. If he wants to do business here, he has to do business with us. You got that?”
I took a moment to try to steady my voice. “Yeah. I’ll tell him that. You can lower that gun now.”
He shoved the gun closer to my face. “You tell him that! You got that? He has to do business with us from now on!”
I was still trying to exude a calmness that I did not possess. “I got it. I got it … but I don’t know who you are, so …”
It was an honest statement, but he did not take it as such.
“You getting smart with me, asshole?” He pressed the gun to my forehead. “I could kill you, right now.”
“Then who would give the message to Reggie?” I asked.
“Maybe I should kill you right now to send a message that we mean business.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because then, you’d have to talk to Reggie yourself, and I don’t think he would sit down for a polite chat. I’ll give him the message, okay?”
I let it sink in, but was desperate to get out of there.
He considered, and lessened the pressure on the gun.
“Yeah,” the tattooed guy said. “Yeah, you do that. You tell him.”
“I will.”
I glanced over his shoulder at Mattie.
“Mattie, tell me you’re not a part of this.”
Mattie looked down at the floor.
“Don’t talk to him,” the tattooed guy growled. “You talk to me.”
“Fine. I’ll deliver your message. Don’t tell me your names. It’s better that way.” I glanced at the two guys by the couch and back at the ringleader. “And can I give you some advice?”
He blinked. “Advice?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Sure. Yeah. You can give us some advice.”
“As soon as I leave, get underground, fast.”
“Why’s that?”
“Reggie’s not a guy who takes a long time to come up with a plan.”
The two guys next to the couch exchanged glances. The ringleader kept his eyes on me, but I could see it. Doubt and fear started to creep out from behind those frenzied eyes.
“Fine. Thanks for the advice,” he sneered. “Now, give us all the money you’ve got.”
“I don’t have any.”
They stopped.
“Bullshit,” the tattooed guy said.
“I don’t carry any.”
“You’re Reggie’s bagman. You don’t have any money?” the guy with blotchy skin and bad haircut asked.
“No. I only do one pickup at a time.”
“Why?”
I glanced around. “In case something like this happens.”
The ringleader’s shock melted into amusement. “You were right, Mattie. This guy’s smart. All right, bagman. You go right now, and tell Reggie. Got it?”
“Okay,” I said, slowly turning towards the door. I couldn’t help stopping and looking back at Mattie.
“This was really stupid, Mattie,” I said, and left.
*
Reggie leaned against his car and calmly smoked a cigarette while I told him everything that had happened in Lyndon. Since there was no money to count, the headlights were off. The silent trees stood on either side of the road. Occasionally, a wind would cause them to lean in, as though they wanted to hear. I gave him everything, down to the last detail.
When I was finished, he took a slow drag on his cigarette. I had seen Reggie blow his top before and it wasn’t pretty, but this was when he was at his most terrifying—when he was contemplative.
“You didn’t get their names?” he asked through a plume of smoke, expelled from the shadow of his face.
“No
“And Mattie is in on it?”
I quickly looked down at the road, hoping he hadn’t seen my face. Of course, Mattie was in on it, but if I said it, I’d be signing his death warrant.
“… I don’t know,” I answered, hoping my inadvertent pause hadn’t given it away, but when I looked up at Reggie, it obviously had.
Reggie looked at me and shook his head. “You should really carry a piece.”
“Why? So I could have shot my way out of there? I’d end up dead.”
He shrugged. “Still …”
“I pick up payments. That’s it. And from now on, it’s only at fraternity houses. No more private addresses. That’s to protect me and to protect you.”
He thought it over. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeated.
He took one last drag, and flicked the butt of the cigarette onto the gravel. He went around to the driver side of the Challenger and opened the door. “You have a good night.”
He got in, closed the door, and turned the key. The Challenger roared to life. He hit the gas, and the back tires spewed the gravel in every direction.
I watched the car peel away and disappear as the road twisted into the trees.
A wave of nausea hit me and I knelt on the roadside. Once it passed, I took out my phone and tried to call Mattie, warning him that Reggie knew, but I didn’t receive an answer. I tried texting him, but after a few minutes, I heard nothing in return.
I couldn’t believe the staggering difference of where my night had begun, to where it had ended. I thought about calling Laura to see if she was still up, but I wouldn’t be able to convincingly lie to her.
I had to get out. I still had about twenty thousand dollars to go on my student debt but I would get that elsewhere.
I had bought myself a little time by demanding that I would only do fraternity house pickups but after that night, I knew it was over. I would start planning my exit in the morning, but at that moment, all I wanted was a—
“—beer?”
I blink at the guy waiting in line on the other side of the counter. He’s wearing Coke-bottle glasses, a scarf, and sporting a full beard.
“What?”
“Do you guys sell beer?” he asks, again. “Like a cider or anything that’s gluten-free?”
“No. This is a coffee shop.”
“I know, but some coffee places sell beer now. Like, even some Starbucks are doing it, now. I thought that maybe—”
“All we got is what’s on the board. If you want beer, there are bars all over the place, outside. Go there.”
I’m still at Groundworks, churning out drinks on autopilot. The anxiety of my little daydream has carried over, and my tone is incredibly rude.
He’s offended, as he should be. “Okay, then. Sure … Great service you got here.”
He slithers past the rest of the line and heads out the door. More than a few people who have overheard our exchange watch him leave.
At the register, Sandy nods to Sheila. “Can you take over for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Sheila says.
Sandy forces a smile at me. “Talk to you in the back for a sec?”
I follow her through the swinging doors and into the office. She closes the door behind us.
“What the hell is going on with you?”
“Is that any way to talk to your boss?” I ask, lamely trying to defuse the situation.
“I’m serious, Jacob.”
“I know. I’m sorry. A pipe burst in the cottage. I had to cancel some reservations. I’m going to take a hit, and it’s messing with my mind.”
“What about the franchise? As long as we keep this up, the cottage is going to be small potatoes, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, let’s not get any bad Yelp reviews before that happens.”
“You’re right. I’m just out of it, I guess.”
“No kidding.” She takes a breath and relaxes. “Look, you weren’t supposed to be here, today, so why don’t you take off?”
“No. I can close. I’ve been leaning on you too much lately.”
“It’s fine. Me, Tom, and Shelia can take it from here for the night. It’s obvious that you’re distracted. Go clear your head.”
I surrender way too easily. “You’re right. I’m really sorry, but, please call me if you need help.”
“Get out of here.”
“Thank you, Sandy.”
“You can thank me by making me a junior partner in the franchise.”
“Done.”
“Jacob, I was kidding.”
“I wasn’t.”
She shakes her head. “You’re really out of it. Fly, be free, and I promise that I won’t hold you to that junior partner thing when you come to your senses.”
I go back out into the restaurant and collect Murphy, who is basking in the attention of two young girls. I snap on his leash, and lead him to the door, trying not to make eye contact with any of the guests who may have seen my little outburst.
*
The night air feels fantastic. Sandy was right. I needed to get out of there, but I wasn’t joking about giving her a junior partnership. She deserves it. I may have built this ship, but she has been an equal captain.
The decorations on Main Street are beginning to overwhelm the windows of the shops. People are setting up the booths on the green. In three days, this place will look like a movie set. The street is bustling with people. Some of them are locals; a lot of them are tourists. I glance around to see if I can find the guy I snapped at, but I doubt I’ll be able to find him in this crowd. He was right, though—a beer sounds really good right about now.
I walk up the street to the Iron & Ivy, The Hollows’ upscale gastropub. Since I’ve got Murphy with me, I grab a small table on the patio. The place is trying to look like a Colonial-era public house, and it’s largely succeeding. The patio is filled with long tables and benches made of “distressed” wood. Lanterns hang overhead. An attractive server comes to my table and asks if I’d like something to drink. I scan down the draft selection and choose an imperial stout.
“Anything to eat?”
“No, thank you.”
She scribbles in her book and snaps it closed. “I’ll be right back.”
She walks away, and returns a few minutes later with a goblet of pitch-black liquid, capped by a layer of creamy foam, and a small dish of water for Murphy.
I raise the glass to my lips and take a sip. It’s smooth at first, and then the bitterness hits—perfection.
“How goes it, Mr Reese?” a man behind me asks. He steps around the table and sits in the opposite chair. He’s in his forties, with salt-and-pepper hair. He leans over and pats Murphy’s head. “What’s up, Murph?”
“Excellent, Andrew,” I reply.
Andrew Paulini is the owner of the Iron & Ivy. He loves his bar and with good reason. It’s popular and profitable.
“You gonna tell me your costume for the contest?” he asks.
“Not a chance.”
He smiles. “Good.”
Andrew is part of our group of business owners who take the annual costume contest way too seriously. He’s the guy I dethroned when I went on my yearly winning streak. It’s a friendly rivalry.
“What about the parade?” I ask, taking another sip of stout. “What’s your float gonna be?”
His eyes light up. “Honestly, I’m more excited about the parade than the costume contest.”
“Your float is that good?”
“Yep. You doing a float this year? I know the planning committee keeps asking you.”
“Nah. Too much work.”
Murphy sits up to receive an ear scratch. Andrew obliges.
“How’s the coffee business?”
“Good.”
“I heard through the grapevine that you might be branching out. Possibly starting a franchise?”
“That grapevine is pretty loud.”
He laughs, and nods at my glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Imperial stout.”
“I’ll tell your server that the next one is on me.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll buy you another one after I sweep the costume contest, and first prize for the float.”
“Bold words, and thank you.”
My phone buzzes.
“Speak of the devil,” I mumble, reading the screen.
“Did I hear you say that you’re dressing up as the Devil? Didn’t you already do that last year?”
“No. It’s the franchise thing. I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
He put up his hands. “By all means.” He stands up and pats me on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck.”
“Mr Tiller,” I say, answering the phone. “How are things at Alliance Capital?”
“Great, and I think I have some news that will be great for you, too.”
“Really?”
“I spoke to Helen Trifauni. You remember? She’s our regional director.”
“I do.”
“I showed her the financials and the photos. She loves the place. She’s eager to check it out. She’s even cutting her vacation short a little early to come see it. She wants to meet you Friday. Is that okay?”
“This Friday? In two days?”
“Is that a problem?” he asks.
“Well, Halloween is on Sunday, so that’s cutting it pretty close. The town is going to be a little crazy.”
“She’s anxious to check it out, and I don’t want to inconvenience her.”
“No. It’s fine. That works for us.”
“Perfect. So, here’s what’ll happen: she’s going to come in while you guys are open, and just watch you work. She likes to get her own feel for the place. She’ll be there for a while, peeking over your shoulders, and she’ll want to see the night’s receipts. It’ll be awkward, but that’s her method.”
“Understood.”
“After that, she’ll want to sit down with you for a little while. She’ll give her opinions about what you need to do. Don’t put too much stock in them. She likes to flex her ‘creative authority’, if you know what I mean. She does it all the time, and she tends to forget her ideas almost immediately.”
“Okay,” I chuckle.
“One thing I will say is don’t bring the dog. In fact, remove all traces of the dog from the shop. That will be a sticking point for her. She’s big on cleanliness and sanitation. Make the place shine. If she knows that the dog is there on a regular basis, it’s all she’ll be able to think about.”
“That’ll be easy enough. Consider the dog gone.”
“Great. I think that does it. Any questions for me?”
“Nope. Thanks for the update.”
“We’ll be in touch,” he says, and quickly adds, “Happy Halloween!”
*
Two hours later, I’m lying in bed with the glow of the three glasses of stout beginning to wane, while talking to Sandy on the phone.
“We’re a go.”
“This is exciting,” she says. “Aren’t you excited?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
“There’s a lot on my plate.”
“Well, get excited.”
“How was the rest of the night?”
“Good. I emailed you the reports.”
“I’ll look at them in the morning.”
“Cool. Now, get some sleep, and get your head in the game.”
“I will. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I hang up the phone, put it on the nightstand, slide under the covers, and close my eyes.
In forty-eight hours, I have one of the most important meetings of my life and I have to focus.
There’s a familiar sigh.
I open my eyes, and turn my head to see Murphy. He’s doing that pleading thing where he’s resting his head on the mattress, looking right at me.
“Yeah, yeah, Murphy. Whatever. Up-up.”
Immediately, he leaps onto the bed and drops down by my side. I’ve gone from a king-sized bed, all to myself, to a space the size of a twin bed. I scratch behind his ears, and I hear him pant contentedly in the darkness.
I need the distraction of the meeting. I want to focus on the franchise, and not Laura. I don’t want to think about what’s happening or what might happen next. Whoever is doing this knows my secret. They’re toying with me. It can’t be Laura. I know it can’t. I watched her d— It can’t be Laura. But then, who? No one else knows about her. I was the only one to see what happened, and I haven’t told a soul.
I roll over on my side and face—
—her.
The notes of the music box found us under the sheets.
Her roommate was away again, and we had just made love in her dorm room. Our successful attempt to have sex on her twin bed was almost comical. Now, our naked bodies were pressed together. As a joke, I had gotten up, and started the music box. Then, I returned to her in bed, and pulled the covers up over our heads. We lay there, under the sheet, basking in the afterglow.
“There are words to the song, you know,” she said, after a long pause.
“Really?”
“Mmm-hmm. My mother said that my father used to sing them to me to get me to fall asleep.” She waited for the song to cycle through to the beginning, and began to sing to the haunting waltz.
“Just close your eyes,
And you and I,
Will brave the dark, and go dancing.
Now, time to sleep,
And safe I will keep,
Your dreams, as we are all dancing.
Come with me and soon you’ll be
Dancing on clouds in a star-filled sky.
Walk with me and you will see
A magical place we can stay for all time.”
The music cascaded before slowing to a crawl for the last verse.
“There’s nothing to fear,
You’re already here,
With us, and we are all dancing.”
The last notes faded away into the corners of the room.
“Your father sang that to you to get you to fall asleep?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“That is creepy.”
She laughed. “What? It’s an old Irish folk song called ‘The Dreamer’s Waltz’.”
“It’s creepy, and if I may say?”
She raised her head and looked at me.
“I’m glad you’re a political science major, because I don’t think you’ll ever get a job as a singer.”
She tried to playfully slap me, but we were pressed so close, she couldn’t properly execute it.
I held her tightly so she couldn’t try again.
After we laughed, I continued to hold her. We relaxed into one another and listened to the music box as it cycled through the song again. As the music came to an end, I could feel her tense, like she was getting ready for the music to stop.
When it finally reached its end, she looked up at me and smiled. “So, are you going to tell me your secret?”
“What secret?” I asked. “Laura, we are naked on a very small bed. There’s nothing I can hide from you right now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Where do you really go when you go out at night?”
So that’s what was on her mind. It was on my mind, too. That night at Mattie’s had rattled me, and I was trying hard to keep it from her. I also still hadn’t heard from Mattie, despite numerous attempts to warn him.
“I told you. It’s work.”
“Yeah, but it’s not consulting.”
“It is.”
“Jacob, I know it’s only been a couple of months, but are you going to keep lying to me?” The question was firm but honest. She was giving me an opportunity.
I decided to try to meet her halfway.
“It’s something that’s coming to an end. I promise.”
“Is that the best I’m going to get?”
“It’s all I’ve got, for now.”
Neither of us spoke for a few moments. I was desperate to break the tension, and just threw out a shot in the dark.
“What about you?” I asked.
“What about me?”
“What secrets are you hiding?”
I was only joking, but I saw her change. A guard went up. I had hit on something.
“Hey. It’s okay,” I said. “You can tell me.”
“If you’re not going to tell me yours, I’m sure as hell not going to tell you mine.”
I propped myself up on my elbow to look at her. “So, you do have a secret.”
She didn’t respond, but she clearly did.
“Tell me,” I said.
In the dimness under the sheet, I could see her grow thoughtful and reserved. “We’re not there yet.”
“We just had sex and are lying naked in bed together, and you’re going to tell me ‘we’re not there yet’?”
She looked at me, all hint of humor gone. “Where do you go, again?”
I didn’t answer.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’re not there, yet.”
Our bodies were still pressed together in the darkness under the sheet, but our minds were a thousand miles apart.
Finally, she flipped the sheet off of us. Released from our bubble, the cool air crawled over our skins.
“You should go. Since I’m never going to get that job as a singer, I need to study.” She meant it as a joke but there was an edge to it.
“Are you pissed at me?” I asked.
“… No.”
We continued to lie there, waiting for the other to speak.
“Listen,” she said, “it’s only been a while. When you’re ready, you can tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.” She turned to look at me. “Until then, I just want to have fun, okay?”
“Okay.”
I got up, and put on my clothes.
We kissed good night, and I headed back to my apartment.
My mind was in a fog. I couldn’t keep it up. I had to get out of my situation with Reggie if I was going to keep Laura. I climbed into my bed and spent hours staring at the ceiling. If I could end things with Reggie, maybe I could tell her that my secret was over and not a big deal. That got me thinking about what it was she was keeping from me. I gave up and rolled over to try to get some—
—sleep, but the pain in my side suddenly flares.
I roll the opposite way and bump into Murphy, who groans in protest.
“Shut up, Murphy.”
The only response is that of his tail thumping against the mattress at the sound of his name.