The winter sun has already set so any fleeting warmth has been replaced by brisk cool air. The streets are still crowded with people enjoying the ice sculptures illuminated by the period street lamps. Soft pools of flickering light dot the street. Danny is bundled up in a sherpa-lined corduroy jacket. A wind snaps around the corner and I’m surprised by my desire to snuggle between Danny’s fur and that sherpa lining. I tell myself it’s the cold that’s making me have crazy thoughts. It’s not like this is a date. It’s a business meeting. I make a mental note to remind myself to get a receipt.
The Hideaway Inn is just a short walk from the shop. I’ve passed by the converted stone farmhouse plenty of times, but I’ve never been inside. As we approach I notice a line of tourists waiting to be seated.
“We can go someplace else,” I say to Danny.
“Nah, it’ll be fine. There’s always room for locals,” he says and walks over to a woman in a wheelchair with some menus in her lap. “Anita, sweetie, how have you been?” He bends down to kiss her on both cheeks and she returns the gesture.
“Danny, how did it go? I saw people going in and out all day from here. Were sales good? Did that stuffed shirt give you any problems?” she asks, not realizing I am the stuffed shirt and I’m standing next to Danny.
“The stuffed shirt,” I say, “did not give him any problems.”
Anita laughs and looks me up and down. “And you said he had no sense of humor.”
“Prescott, I would like you to meet Anita Patel, the manager of The Hideaway,” Danny says. I smile at her and nod, showing them both I’m able to take a joke sometimes.
“Come on, Stuffed Shirt,” Anita says. “I’ve got a great table for you overlooking the river in the side dining room.” Danny and I follow her and as soon as we enter the smaller dining room I’m taken by the view of the river. It looks almost purple-violet in the moonlight and the snow on the banks looks like dollops of frozen whipped cream. We take a seat and Anita says, “Clayton is a bit overwhelmed tonight so if he doesn’t come by to take your order someone else will.”
“Got it. Poor Clayton. He stresses on busy nights,” Danny says, opening the menu. “He’s been the server here since as long as I can remember,” he continues, “but he’s not really good with crowds and this place has been packed since Vince bought it. Vince is the owner and Tack, his boyfriend—or I guess I should now say fiancé—is the chef. They had a big party celebrating their engagement just before the holidays.”
“Is there anyone here you don’t know?” I ask Danny. He looks up from the menu and scans the room.
“Don’t think so,” he says and then he looks more closely at the table right next to us. “Oh, wait.” He puts down his menu and turns to the man and woman sitting at the table next to us.
“Hey, there. Sorry to bother you. I’m Danny Roman and this is Prescott Henderson. We are the proprietors of The Beautiful Things Shoppe down the street. I don’t think we’ve met.” He says all of this without a hint of embarrassment or hesitation. I am, of course, mortified. There are burlesque performers more reserved than Danny. He jumps into everything. He jumps into life without so much as a second glance. I think through everything, analyze every detail. There is a part of him that scares the crap out of me but if I’m being honest there is another part that charms me. I wonder what it would be like to live in the world so carefree.
“Well, isn’t that mighty friendly of you,” the man says with an accent I quickly identify as being from the Carolinas. “We were told Northerners were unfriendly but everyone we’ve met here has been so nice.”
“Just a charming place,” the woman says. “I’m glad we decided to take a little vacation here for Winter Festival. I’m Taylor,” she says.
“And I’m Taylor,” the man says.
I look at Danny who looks as confused as I am. “You’re both Taylor?”
They laugh. “We know. We get that reaction all the time. Yep, we are both Taylor. It causes a great deal of confusion,” he says.
“But it’s also a lot of fun. Might be what has kept us together over thirty years.”
“Thirty years? That’s impressive. Enjoy your evening and the rest of your time in New Hope. Check out our store while you’re here. We’d love to have you visit.”
“Mighty kind of you,” Taylor says and Taylor nods.
Danny turns back to me. “Well now I can say a confident yes. The man and woman seated at that table are Taylor. Do you want me to introduce you to everyone else?” he asks. The very thought of talking to a roomful of people makes me shut down a bit. I could never talk to people the way Danny does.
“There are at least twenty people seated in this room. Do you mean to tell me you know each one of them?”
“Yes. I mean I just met Taylor and Taylor, but everyone else I’ve already met. It’s a small town. People know each other.” He waves to a table of people who raise their drinks and wave back. He does know everyone and everyone seems to like him. I’ve never been great at that kind of thing. I can talk for hours about porcelain manufacturing or trade patterns but small talk with a stranger about things like the weather or current events? Forget it. I always say the wrong thing and regret it for hours after. I try to just keep to myself to prevent embarrassment. I guess people think that’s being standoffish.
Danny pops up from behind his menu. “The veggie burger. It’s out of this world. Tack mixes beans with fresh herbs and then grills the whole thing before putting it on a brioche bun. Heaven.”
I’m starving and it sounds like a veggie burger will hit the spot. “Sounds good. I’ll have one too.”
Danny drops his menu and holds his face with both hands, imitating the Munch painting. “I’m shocked,” he says with over-the-top fake surprise.
“Why? It sounds delicious,” I say, not sure what has prompted his reaction.
“Of course, but maybe we should order a bottle of champagne. That’s only the second time we’ve agreed since we’ve met. Neat freaks who like veggie burgers.” He raises one eyebrow and throws me a grin-laced smile that lands right in my gut. A warm feeling of comfort rises in my body, but I quickly convince myself that it’s hot air from the stone fireplace.
“Delicious. Absolutely, delicious,” I say as I wipe up the last bit of homemade spicy ketchup from my plate with my last garlic sweet potato fry.
“Well, I’ll let Tack know you enjoyed it,” Vince says, taking my plate away. His deep voice has so much gravel in it you could drive across it in a blizzard. “I told him you were here, but we are slammed tonight so he can’t get out of the kitchen. He wanted me to tell you that he loves your dad’s butternut squash soup. It’s his new favorite.”
“Oh, is your dad a cook?” Prescott asks.
“Sort of,” I say quickly. “He loves working with food.” I don’t tell Prescott that when Tack says he likes my dad’s soup he means the new line of organic soups from Amore Foods Incorporated, part of the international food empire my family has built over multiple generations. Saying my dad loves working with food is an entirely accurate statement and I did see him cook an egg once. I’m not unaware that it is also entirely misleading. I don’t want Prescott to know about my family right away. It always makes things weird. I’ll tell him when the time is right. I quickly change the subject.
“What did Jules think of Strawberry Shortcake?”
“They love it,” Vince says.
“You cook too, Danny?” Prescott asks, assuming Vince is referring to some confection.
“Me? No, I use the oven for overflow storage of my Crocs. Strawberry Shortcake is a vintage doll. Her friends were Apple Dumplin’ and Huckleberry Pie. Tack’s kid is obsessed with them,” I say like it’s common knowledge, but Prescott gives me a blank stare. “Sorry, they were made in 1980 not 1880 so no reason you would know them. Vince, I’m afraid my colleague is more interested in the nineteenth century than the one we are currently living in.”
“Hey, don’t knock the nineteenth century,” Vince says gathering more plates. “Some of my favorite poets come out of the pastoral movement.” Prescott lets out a short laugh to acknowledge Vince’s retort.
“I sometimes forget that underneath all that muscle and business sense is the heart of a poet,” I say rolling my eyes and with a slight chortle. “Tell Jules I have my eyes open for a Purple Pie Man doll. They’re rare but I’ll find one.”
“I know you will. I’ll tell Jules and they’ll be thrilled. Oh, before I forget. Tack and I are having some people over for a potluck to recover from Winter Festival. It would be great if the two of you could join us. Anita and Toula will be there and Kevin and Evan. Let me know,” he says and heads back inside.
There is a short but deeply awkward silence once Vince leaves. Tonight’s dinner was really nice. I assumed that tomorrow we’d go back to our corners and come back out fighting as usual, but maybe we don’t have to.
“Tack is a great chef, but they go all out when they host in their home.” Of course Prescott will want to go. He’s new in town and doesn’t know that many people. I know we haven’t exactly gotten along but we got through opening day and since he’s new here he must want to meet everyone he can. I know I would.
“I don’t want to intrude. It was very nice of Vince to offer but...it’s not really my thing,” he says, moving his napkin from his lap and putting it on the table. “I should get going. It’s getting late and I have a lot to do at the shop tomorrow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“What’s what supposed to mean?”
“It’s not really my thing,” I say echoing his clench-assed response to the very warm invitation he was given. “Do you prefer to hang out more with people like you? Like that Worth? Is that more your speed?”
“Stop it. You don’t know him. You don’t know me for that matter,” he says. I can see the muscles tighten in his neck and jaw.
I can’t believe I was letting my guard down with this guy. “Do you only mingle with high society? Not enough prestige to slum it with a bunch of working queers in town? You know...” For a second I think about telling him the truth about my family. That their wealth and social position would make Worth’s look like dollar store merchandise on clearance. But I don’t want to win the argument that way. I don’t want Prescott to start treating me differently. Actually, that’s not true at all. I do want him to start treating me differently. I just don’t want him to do it because he thinks I come from money.
“It has nothing to do with that. You’re so quick to make judgments, aren’t you?”
“I call them as I see them,” I tell him.
“No you don’t. You call them as you want to see them. You don’t listen. You have no idea why I don’t want to go.”
“I heard every word you said,” I say. Prescott grabs the check off the table and pulls out a credit card. I take out my credit card and say, “I’m paying. I suggested dinner.” I take his credit card off the bill and place it to the side.
I go to pick up the bill again but instead of grabbing the check I grab his hand. He looks up immediately. My hand is on top of his. I don’t move it. I can’t. A feeling so intense shoots through me I think I’m frozen. I want to rub my fingers over his smooth knuckles and gently move my fingers around to the palm of his hand and feel the softness of his skin. His beautiful eyes have such a sharp focus on mine I wonder if he somehow knows what I’m thinking. Does my face show my curiosity in finding out more about the man under the overly starched shirt? What would it be like to rip the Brooks Brothers off him and find out what makes his pocket watch tick? How can I even think that when I dislike this guy so intensely? I sharply pull my hand away.
“I asked you to dinner,” I say again, and stand up. I put my credit card back in my wallet and pull out enough cash to cover the dinner, a generous tip and maybe even a night in one of the newly opened rooms here at the inn. I put the money on the table. “You’re right. It’s been a long day. I’ll see you at the shop. Good night.” I turn away from the table and walk away from him, feeling my heart beat faster and faster.