That night, Kate tries to sneak out of the house to join Sweaty Posts in the barn at least three times, but she gets caught every single time.
On the first two attempts, bad luck tromps her as she bumps into her parents wandering around the house for their own mysterious reasons. Maybe they’re hoping to overhear more inaccurate details of our personal lives.
On the third try—which she waits until past midnight to pull off—she gets sloppy. As she walks down the stairs, she forgets to skip the third-to-last step, which always creaks—rookie mistake—and wakes up Pops Teddy, who sleeps on the first floor and has ears as sharp as a bat. He also claims to keep alert even while sleeping: a legacy of the Vietnam War, according to him.
From the bed, I listen as he asks his granddaughter what she’s doing sneaking around the house so late.
Kate replies she got thirsty. A long silence follows, then the sound of the fridge opening, closing, and finally her muffled steps climbing back up the stairs in trudging defeat.
“Are you giving up on your romantic rendezvous anytime soon?” I ask as she slumps into the room. “I’d like to sleep, and you keep waking me up.”
“Don’t worry, Chuck,” she snaps back. “Tomorrow night you’ll be in your room alone and no one will disturb you ever again.”
That shuts me up all right. I turn on my side and brood in silence. Kate slips under the covers next to me, equally unhappy. She doesn’t move or make any sound, but I can tell she’s moping. It takes us forever to fall asleep again.
When Kate’s alarm goes off at six o’clock the next morning, I’m ready to murder someone. A very specific tan-skinned, rip-chested, fitness-maniac dude.
Ah, now that the half-marathon police has arrived in town, Kate is suddenly all aboard the early-morning-run train. She’s up and dressed well before sunrise and takes off into the polar temperatures with her muscle-head boyfriend for an hour-long jogging session.
When Kate gets back, I’m still nestled under the covers and don’t plan to get up anytime soon.
But I don’t have a choice. Once Kate has showered and changed, she marches over and yanks the comforter off me.
“You need to pack,” she tells me.
“Relax,” I say, trying to grab the covers and warmth back. “What’s the hurry? My parents won’t arrive before ten anyway.”
“It doesn’t matter. I want you out of my room.”
“You, or Marco?”
Kate’s face crumbles. “I’m sorry, Chuck. I know I’m being a bitch for no reason. But with Marco coming here… Gosh, that was the last thing I needed. As if I wasn’t stressed enough already. I’m doing the best I can.”
I don’t doubt the professor has been giving her an earful for every extra second she unnecessarily spends in my presence. Taking pity on her, I get up with a shrug. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard fake-pregnant women get short-tempered all the time.”
That wrestles a smile out of her. “That must be it. Thank you, Chuck, really for being so understanding…”
It looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t.
“Give me a moment to get dressed and grab my stuff,” I say. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
By the time breakfast is over, it’s past nine-thirty and I’m so sick and tired of Marco’s glares that I’ve become as eager as Kate to get down to business and finally come clean with our parents.
“Lillian,” I say. “Do you know when my mom and dad plan to arrive? Kate and I would like to talk to you all.”
With the sweetest smile, Lillian replies, “Oh, they’re not coming here this morning. We’re meeting them somewhere else.”
“Where?” I ask.
“I can’t say.” Lillian makes a zipping-my-mouth gesture. “But we’re going on a field trip. It’s a surprise.”
I throw a worried glance at Kate and read the same terror in her eyes. This can’t be good.
“But, Mom, I was—” Kate pauses, then starts again. “I mean, Chuck and I were planning to show Marco around town today. Can’t we do the field trip tomorrow?”
“No, Honeybun, we made plans.” Then, turning to Sweaty Posts, she adds, “Marco, you’re welcome to tag along, of course. And once we’re done there, Chuck and Kate can show you around town all they want.” She checks her watch. “We could even make it back in time for you to join the noon tour at the factory. Bernie is handling that, and he’s our best guide—except for Chuck and Kate, of course.”
I like how Marco isn’t able to come up with any objections and promptly gets rolled under the Warren-Rose overbearing parenting style just a few hours after having joined the club.
***
With six of us now going on this mystery field trip—Pops Teddy is coming, too—we have to take two cars. I refuse to go anywhere near Marco’s ridiculous red sports BMW, so I go outside a few minutes early to free the Versa from the snow. Despite the shining sun, the air is frigid, which makes scraping the windshield particularly hard. To make a half-decent job, I have to turn on the car to get a little help from the interior heating. I’ve done half the windshield when Sweaty Posts comes out of the barn.
“We could’ve gone in my car,” he says. “I have a heated windshield.”
Of course he does.
The BMW, having arrived only yesterday, isn’t as snowed in as the Versa, but I’d rather scrape a thousand frozen-solid cars than catch a ride with Marco. And with him driving, I’d probably get carsick in two seconds. And while throwing up in Marco’s sports car would be thrilling, I prefer not to show any weaknesses before the enemy.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m almost done, anyway.”
Mick and Lillian come out a few minutes later, followed by Kate and Pops Teddy. She’s helping him walk down the driveway, making sure he doesn’t slip on the ice.
Once Kate has safely delivered Pops Teddy to her father’s SUV, she joins Marco and me next to the Nissan. Then she pauses, and turns to yell at her mother, “Where is it we’re going again?”
“Don’t worry, Honeybun, just follow us.”
Lillian climbs into their car, and we pile into the rental.
No matter how much pre-heating I did, it still takes a good ten minutes before the temperature in the Nissan becomes acceptable. Especially since we’re driving as fast as a sedated slug. Mick insisted on driving and is keeping a good five miles under the speed limit, even in twenty-five mile an hour zones, and, given the overnight freeze, he’s proceeding with even more caution than usual. I swear, in a previous life he must’ve been a DMV instructor or a traffic enforcer.
We drive out of town for about fifteen minutes along the coast until Mick lights the blinker and turns to the right. We pass through a perfectly pristine white picket fence that marks the beginning of a neat cobblestone driveway. A wooden signpost identifies the place as Sunrise House.
Kate’s dad parks next to my parents’ car which is already lined up next to another car in front of a huge house with light-blue wood siding that overlooks Lake Michigan.
I pull up on the other side, and we all get out of our respective cars and go through the usual rounds of greetings, kisses, and hugs. At least, until my mom spots Marco, does a double-take, and asks, “And who’s this handsome young man?”
I roll my eyes. Thank you, Mom, for pointing out the obvious.
Lillian, enjoying being more informed on what’s going on with the “younger crowds,” takes it upon herself to make the introductions.
“This is Marco Guerra. He’s a good friend of Chuck and Kate’s. They’ve invited him to the wedding!”
Mom, who until that last phrase had been ogling the beef cake, turns toward me and asks, “Really? Is he in the wedding party?”
“No, Mom,” I say. “Only Phil, Gary, and Finn are. Since Kate has three bridesmaids, we wanted to keep things even.”
Lillian jumps back in at this point. “You have three bridesmaids, Honeybun? I thought you only wanted cousin Gretchen.”
“Gretchen is my maid of honor, Mom. I’m going to need bridesmaids as well,” Kate says, as if this is something we’ve discussed plenty of times in the past.
Lying has become such second nature to us, I’m afraid by the end of this holiday we both will have trouble remembering what’s real and what isn’t. Marco’s angry frown at this casual discussion of wedding arrangements is an excellent reality check, though.
The wedding talk gets mercifully interrupted by a woman in a business suit exiting the house. She rushes down the front steps, waving in greeting. “Ah, everyone’s here, how marvelous. Shall we go in?”
Between us, the parents, the grandparents—Nana Fern tagged along, too—and Marco, we take a while to squeeze through the entrance door and reassemble inside.
“As you can see, the first floor is one big open space,” the woman says. “And light pours in from the wall-wide windows at the back. And I probably shouldn’t reveal the showstopper right away, but what can I say? I like to start every visit with a bang. Please come this way.”
She heads to the French doors, and I dutifully follow, even if I don’t understand why our parents have arranged a visit to a house in the middle of nowhere. Are they planning to expand our office facilities? Why would they buy space so far from the factory?
Then I get excited. Is this going to be a detached think-tank reserved for the creative team? That would actually make total sense. I could see myself working here, where the light is so much better than in my tiny office back at the factory—incidentally, what used to be my old bedroom. Oh yes, this is definitely a change I could get behind.
The real estate agent swings open the French doors and walks out onto the deck. “Admire. The property is endowed with far-reaching bay views and over a thousand feet of shared waterfront.” She swipes her arm toward the shore. “We’re a little past sunrise now, but I can assure you the view at dawn is a staggering watercolor marvel that will greet your every morning. And at night, the absolute peace and tranquility will make the perfect backdrop for entertaining evening guests.”
Evening guests? Isn’t that a weird feature for a new office? Unless our parents mean to turn this into some kind of showroom. Or she’s gotten her clients mixed up and thinks we want to live here.
“Of course,” the real estate agent continues, “this is only the first of three large cedar decks, and the house also features a flagstone patio that wraps along the back on that side. Do you like the view?” This question is directed at me, solidifying my theory that the house is meant to become our new creative headquarters.
I stare out at the frozen-over lake, snow-covered lawn, and tall fig trees. The landscape is stunning, and the agent knows it. I tell her as much.
Pleased with the answer, she escorts us back inside. “The kitchen has a beautiful island and is a proper cook’s kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances.”
Makes sense. Maybe Lillian is tired of using her own kitchen to do all the creative experiments, and she and Dad want to secure an additional space where they can express all their culinary genius. I like the vibe of this house. It has a ton of potential.
“The first floor also has a full bath, laundry, and library,” the agent continues. “Shall we move upstairs?”
We all follow, except for the elderly who opt to sit on the veranda to enjoy the views. Once they’re safely settled in their Adirondack chairs, and they’ve assured us they won’t try to wander off on their own and break a hip, we move on to the second floor.
“The upper level boasts five bedrooms, three baths, and the master suite. Let’s start with the smaller room first. It would be perfect for a nursery.”
A… nursery? That’s a little odd in an office, but our parents might plan to offer a childcare service as a benefit for employees with children? To be Socially Responsible is becoming more and more important for companies, and we’ve been named among Michigan’s top employers five years in a row. Guess they don’t want to let go of the title.
When we reach the last room, the real estate agent becomes even more ecstatic. “See the master? How huge the room is, and it features a private Jack-and-Jill bath and his-and-hers walk-in closets. Take as much time as you need to peek around,” she concludes. “I’m going to wait for you downstairs.”
It’s a gorgeous master suite, for sure. Again, not sure how useful it’ll be when we turn this place into the Creative Department’s headquarters. Maybe it could become my office? Turn the walk-in closets into storage rooms? I suppose I could see that working…
When we all reassemble downstairs around the kitchen island, our parents look as excited as the real estate agent.
“What do you think?” they ask me and Kate.
“It’s beautiful,” Kate says. I nod in agreement. “But why exactly are we looking at a new house? Are you guys moving?”
Oh, it never occurred to me Kate’s parents might’ve been looking at the house for themselves.
“Not us,” Lillian says. “The house is your wedding present. We bought it for you. Surprise!”
My stomach drops and, not having a mirror, I can’t say whose face looks worse at this announcement: mine, Kate’s, or Marco’s.