Sundays in Bailey Falls are the thing that small-town dreams are made of, especially in the fall. I snuggled into a gray cashmere sweater, skinny jeans, and my Chanel black leather thigh-high boots and practically danced down the front steps of Roxie’s farmhouse that morning, bound for another breakfast meeting with Chad Bowman.
Doesn’t everyone wear thigh-high boots to a pancake breakfast?
Roxie was sleeping in. The diner was closed on Sundays, her food truck was closed as well, and she usually spent the afternoon over at Leo’s.
Which meant I had the day, and her old Wagoneer, to myself. I prided myself on being a city girl who could actually drive, something that not all native Manhattanites can do. Between the subway, cabs, and town cars, there was no need to drive oneself, so many city girls never learned.
I learned to drive in this very car, Roxie’s old Jeep Grand Wagoneer, in California, so I was quite at home behind the wheel of the giant old boat.
As I drove into town, I took the time to enjoy being alone. In the wild. Crimson trees danced overhead, their leaves begging off and rioting to the earth below. The air was crisp, clean, and even though there was a constant tickle in the back of my throat (the smog perhaps finally giving up and making way for the clean?), it tasted glorious. I felt so good it almost made me forget how I’d tossed and turned the night before.
Equal parts woodland symphony followed by crushing spooky silence, accented with a side of reliving that incredible kiss over and over again, meant I’d been unable to sleep until way past two in the morning. I’d sleep well tonight back in the city, where I belonged.
But I had to admit that despite the inherent sleeping problems, there definitely was something about this little town. As I drove through the downtown area, all six blocks, I watched as families and kids made their way in their Sunday best to the three churches on their busy street corners. Everyone was laughing, everyone was smiling, as if there were some kind of Mayberry addiction. I had to admit, I’d like a taste. People waved at each other—they actually waved! Calling out greetings, shaking hands, and patting each other on the back—there was such an air of conviviality, a friendliness that seemed woven into the very fabric of Bailey Falls.
I parked the car diagonally along Main Street, only a block away from the town square and the coffee shop where I was meeting Chad. As I walked, I pondered.
Were all small towns like this? If I lived here, would I become as friendly? Would I smile and nod and greet everyone cheerfully? Would a stranger patting me on the back become commonplace, or would I have to stifle the urge to mace, knee, and run?
As the coffee and pastry shop’s overhead bell jingled, I sighed and breathed in deeply. A Whole Latte Love was a gorgeous brick building situated on a corner of Main Street, occupying a great slice of real estate. It boasted magnificently high ceilings capped off with bronze tin tiles. The walls were peppered with seventies music posters that were framed and lit like the best art in the museum.
Now this place was what I’d pictured the Hudson Valley to be. It was hipster chic down to the mosaic flooring.
It even had its own hipster barista working the massive chrome machine like he had eight arms. I spied Chad in the back, tapping away on his laptop and sipping on a large coffee, with two tiny scones ready for nibbling.
“What’s good?” I asked, pulling out the antique chair. Nothing in the place matched. Everything was deliciously eclectic and just the right amount of odd.
“It’s all good. You can’t order anything bad here. They were just featured in some café magazine for best East Coast spots. Homemade scones and muffins, and Sumatran, Italian, and French coffee blends that wake you up just by smelling it from the street. I’m not kidding, go easy on the coffee here. It’ll knock you on your very stylish ass.”
“I think I can take it,” I said, grinning, and he raised his eyebrows with a “you’ve been warned” expression.
The stunning young waitress came over. “What can I get you?” she asked, flicking her tongue ring against her teeth.
“I’ll take whatever a person orders when they need a swift kick in the ass to wake up. Plus a few of those chocolate biscotti I saw in the jar.”
Nodding, she scribbled it down and took off.
Chad Bowman shook his head and muttered, “You’ll see.”
She brought the coffee over in a dainty teacup. “This is how you serve this hard-core coffee?” I tittered, waving a hand at Chad.
It was the most out-of-place thing in the shop. Here I was among the requisite musical memorabilia and antique chairs, not to mention a cozy stage for slam poetry night—this place was right out of a CW teen drama—and I was being served in fine china.
But when she set it down, it wasn’t the beautiful rose pattern or the gold rim that made me laugh. It was the pitch-black tar goop that filled the cup.
Oh boy.
Never one to shirk a challenge, I thanked her and took the cup in a shaky hand. Eyeing it, I could already feel the jitters running through me, and I hadn’t even taken a sip.
“Go on, it’s not going to drink itself,” he teased.
The sludge in the cup didn’t even move.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, watching to see if it bubbled.
“Your kick in the ass,” the waitress said over her shoulder, with a wink in Chad’s direction.
“It’s like a coffee-scented Blob,” I said, tipping the cup. The “coffee” didn’t slosh—it crept up the side.
With a deep breath, I lifted it to my lips. After one sip, I was done. My eyes watered, my throat burned, and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to have to chew coffee.
“It’s really good,” I mumbled around it, setting it down. Note to self: country folk like their coffee strong.
Well, pride wasn’t going to come between me and my morning joe, I thought, coughing and calling out for an ice water. Chad laughed and sipped his beautiful, nontoxic-looking cappuccino.
When the waitress came over, Chad pushed the ooze to her and ordered me a kinder, gentler cappuccino, too. I’d have ordered it . . . but I was still chewing.
“How was yesterday? You get a better feel for what makes Bailey Falls tick?” he asked, a hopeful twinkle in his eye.
I nibbled on the biscotti. The crumbly bits of cookie mixed with chocolate nibs melted in my mouth. It was no wonder this place was regionally featured. I made a mental note to search for the article to include in my proposal.
“Yesterday was very informative. You’ve got a gem here, Chad. You know it, this town knows it, and now I know it. It’s just a matter of harnessing it into a campaign that appeals to everyone,” I said, popping another bite of biscotti into my mouth. I wondered what other flavors they had, and made another mental note to pick some up before I left today.
As I toyed with the napkin and listened to Chad, tinier pieces of the grand puzzle fell into place for how I would be able to help each of these businesses. For me, this wasn’t just a huge-scale project to sell the whole of Bailey Falls to a grand audience. I was also taking the time to understand each owner’s business model. From the menu, I learned these biscotti were homemade every morning. And they packaged the coffee and sold it at the counter and local grocery store.
“Have these owners ever thought of turning an extra profit by selling their goods en masse? Open up a little bakery/factory/coffee-roaster-thingie? People lose their minds over locally sourced treats like this,” I said, scribbling a quick note on the napkin.
“I don’t know. We could ask.”
“I will. After I finish this, I may want to circle back. Plant some seeds to help them grow the business, and not just in town. I’m thinking big market picture here. Later, though.” I told myself, One thing at a time, Nat.
“We have a gorgeous office building in town that was just renovated.”
“You think the coffee shop could expand there?”
“No. I was just thinking that the whole top floor is open, and in need of a sharp city mind with a keen eye for marketing,” he answered with a small smile.
“Uh-huh.”
“Just saying . . .” He paid the bill and we ventured out in the warm sun and into the busy intersection of pedestrians, kids on bikes, and joggers.
“Target marketing is up first,” I said, typing a quick note into my phone. I’ve drafted entire campaigns in the note section. “I want to chat with more of the business owners to create a slick sheet of quotes and blurbs about each of them. I’ll need to get a photographer up here next weekend probably. The sooner the better. Then I— What?”
I turned to see Chad smiling at me. “I’m just wondering if you’re talking to me, or just yourself.”
“Oh, myself. It’s how I take mental notes. I ramble and it all falls into place. Feel free to pay attention, though. This is all marketing gold for the taking.”
Chad and I walked back in the direction of our cars, taking the scenic route around the town square. In the center was the requisite gazebo and duck pond, but not so requisite were the thirty or so eight- and nine-year-olds dressed in football uniforms proudly bearing the name BF Lions while moms and dads praised and cheered on from the sidelines. And in the middle of all these kids, tackling each other left and right, was Oscar. Once again, like the tallest sequoia in a sea of reedy pines, he stood out from the crowd, as I imagine he would in any crowd. What caught my special attention, however, and what made me more than my usual swoony, was the clipboard he was carrying and the whistle he was wearing.
He fucking coached kids’ football. I can’t even.
Without missing a beat, in my head I began to hear Smashing Pumpkins: “Today.”
Chad noticed that I was slowing down as we neared the football game. To be clear, when I said slowing down I meant full stop. Because seriously, I needed to stop or I’d likely wander into traffic, unable to stop staring at this guy.
“Pretty, right?” Chad asked.
“Pretty. Right,” I breathed back.
“Sometimes he runs with the kids, and oh man, is it something to watch.”
“If he runs, I run.”
“How very Titanic of you,” Chad snorted, slipping an arm through mine and tugging me in the direction of the game.
“For the record, I’d drown Jack Dawson myself if it meant that I could get in Oscar’s lifeboat.”
“For the record, I’d drown Rose and take them both. But I get what you’re saying.”
The two of us walked down to the edge of the game, taking a seat on the end of one of the benches. We weren’t in the middle of the parents and kids, per se; we could have been just watching the ducks. In that duck pond about fifty yards away. And speaking of fifty yards . . .
I watched as Oscar pulled a kid off the bench, squatted down in front of him, and spoke into the kid’s helmet. I could see the helmet nodding. It was obvious that some kind of sports play was being discussed, perhaps a go long or a forty-seven scooparound.
Never watched a football game in my life . . .
He sent the kid into the game with a smack on the helmet and an encouraging, “Go get him, Benjamin!”
Benjamin was “bagged” within ten seconds. I learned a new term. Bagged is when the quarterback gets tackled. Apparently Chad played high school football. Learning new things is fun.
“So what’s his story?” I asked, leaning closer to the councilman.
“Benjamin? Good kid, wants to be a pirate when he grows up. Tells terrible jokes on Halloween, though—”
“I realize we just met, and I am really hoping to get to know you better, Chad; you do seem delightful. But spill it or I’ll cut you.”
“Ah yes, the story of Oscar. It’s all coming back, it’s coming back to me now,” he said.
“Can it, Céline,” I warned. “Dish.”
He glared at me slightly. “For someone that I hired, you are frighteningly bossy. Not to mention a bit rude.”
I blinked back at him, not saying anything.
“Although anyone who can pull off those boots can be bossy and rude, I suppose.”
“Thank you. Dish, please.”
“There is surprisingly little dish. He moved to town a few years ago, before I came back. As far as I know he keeps to himself mostly, works on his farm, makes his cheese, and sells it in the city on Saturdays.”
“This I know,” I said with a sigh.
“Other than that, I don’t know too much. He started coming to the cooking class Roxie teaches. Hey! That’d be a fun class to come to. It started out as just a few of us, and now there’s a waiting list to get in. Oscar doesn’t always come, but often enough. Other than that, he’s not what you’d call . . . communicative.”
“You almost don’t have to be when you look like that,” I thought out loud, watching him from across the field.
“He’s crushworthy for sure,” Chad said dreamily. As we sat there, in the fall sunshine, watching tiny football players running here and there, I had another flash to what it must have been like to go to high school in a town like this. Hayrides, apple picking, Friday-night football games, and crepe paper homecoming floats.
A homecoming float has nothing on the balloon inflation party that takes place at Seventy-seventh and Columbus the night before Thanksgiving.
True. Grass is always greener.
Or concrete’s always grayer. People would kill to live where you live.
Also true. But as I thought of grass versus concrete, I suddenly felt tingles all over. I looked up, across the huddle and the tackle, and saw Oscar staring at me. I wiggled my fingers hello, he lifted his chin back.
And grinned.
“I feel like you might be adding a chapter to Oscar’s nonexistent story,” Chad murmured.
“Everybody has a story,” I murmured back, and set off across the field toward him, determined to elicit that chapter.
“Hi,” I said, a little breathlessly. That hike across the field had been murder on my boots. Heels made for concrete and cobblestone didn’t fare as well in ankle-deep leaves and mushy soil. But I’d made it.
“Hi,” Oscar said, glancing down at me. “Great turtleneck.”
“Thanks.” I laughed, delighted that it’d only been five seconds and I was up to three words already. “Great footballs.”
He arched an eyebrow at me, but said nothing, eyes on the field and intently following the action. “Right, so, I was thinking, maybe after the game I could stop by? See that barn you’re so proud of?”
“You’re inviting yourself over?” he asked, eyes still scanning the scrillage. Another football term I’d picked up from Chad. A scrillage is more than a practice, not quite a game. “Toby! Get your head down, or number seventeen is gonna take it right off!”
An enthusiastic “Okay, Coach,” floated back to us on the magical autumnal breeze as I considered what he’d said. I was inviting myself over. Somewhere between putting him in his own stall, and him invading my stall and kissing me so hard my lips could still feel it, I’d lost my uncharacteristic shyness. I was getting back on sure footing with this guy, back to where I knew what I was doing.
“I feel no qualms about inviting myself over. Especially when I’ll be there on official research purposes only. Scouting locations for publicity shots, you know. Checking out that barn, which could be featured in the Bailey Falls campaign. Maybe even the money shot.”
Even though he was trying like hell to keep his eye on the ball, he was also trying like hell not to smile. He covered the smile with a whistle, blew it, and yelled out, “Okay, team, that’s enough for the day. Huddle up!”
“Wow, you must really want me all to yourself, to call off your scrillage just to take me up on my offer,” I purred in a husky voice I knew drove men crazy.
He pulled something off from around his neck, underneath the whistle. A stopwatch. “The scrimmage was over—see?” He showed me the countdown, then took off toward the huddle of boys, turning around as he jogged backward. “Don’t go anywhere,” he called back.
Several of the mothers on the benches stared at me, half of them adding a side of nasty to their stare. Chad was nodding proudly, my own personal cheerleader. Inside my head, I fist-pumped.