Coming Swoon (Brunch Bros #4)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The drive to Crane Cove was long, but outside of a few patches of road construction, blissfully traffic-free, at least by his Angeleno standards. Cities and suburbs dissolved into pastures and farmland. Occasionally he’d pass through towns along the highway that he would’ve missed if he’d sneezed.

It wasn’t his first time making this drive. Three years ago he’d come here for the first time with Graham on their way to save his fledgling relationship with his now-wife. Then he’d made it again for their wedding, and then last year for Thanksgiving. On the plus side, at least he wasn’t jetlagged this time.

He set his cruise control for ten miles over the speed limit and tried to relax, but the two topics at the forefront of his mind that he had to choose between were Sybil and his mother’s movie. Neither one of those was a relaxing thought. So he let the scenery roll over him, let his mind flit around from topic to topic like a hummingbird confronted with a mountain of flowers. Movie quotes, song lyrics, what it might be like to own a farm with cows, what farmers did all day, the time he’d played a farmhand in that period romance, how The Princess Bride was a perfect film and they should never remake it but if they did he wanted to play Westley.

There were pockets of rain—from drizzles to intense downpours—and one vibrant rainbow that kicked off a train of thought about The Wizard of Oz and all its adaptations and variations that lasted until the thick trees thinned and he saw a small glimpse of the lighthouse that Graham and Eloise had purchased to be a vacation rental. Where Jordy and Annie had fallen in love.

Had he missed the turn to Sam’s house? He knew it was somewhere outside of town, but his borderline reclusive friend wouldn’t tell anyone where he’d built his home. Except for Lacey, who’d gone from being his fake girlfriend to his real wife.

Peter pressed on his sternum, trying to muffle the ache that had begun last year. Thanksgiving, specifically, when he’d met Lacey and knew Sam had found his person. His best friends were growing up and moving on without him. He’d never expected to be the last man standing. He’d never wanted to be the last man standing. As far as he was concerned, he’d been a done deal twelve years ago.

His eyes flicked to the time on the dash screen. Quarter after five. Graham and Eloise would likely still be at the hotel. They were always at the hotel. If Peter called and Graham’s cell phone went to voicemail, he tried the hotel before calling their house number.

The Crane Hotel was a gorgeous building that had been lovingly and expensively restored by the Thatchers. It was their pride and joy, followed by their house that Graham had egregiously overpaid for because it was Eloise’s favorite house in town. As far as Graham was concerned, Eloise got whatever she wanted, though she would never ask for it. And if she did ask for something, it usually came with a tabbed and color-coded binder presentation that gave Graham heart eyes and made his heart beat comically out of his chest. It was how she’d gotten the “good towels” for the hotel.

Peter parked his rental car and pretended he hadn’t seen that he was partially in another spot when he got out. He wouldn’t be there too long; he just needed to get the keys to their house. He knew where they hid the spare, but he was pretending he didn’t know about that either. Did hotels have hide-a-keys? Were hotels ever locked in quiet places like Crane Cove?

The lobby was already decorated for Halloween. Every year Eloise lost more and more ground on that front to Kiki, the assistant general manager. He tipped an imaginary cap to Clarence, the life-sized skeleton they dressed up as a bellhop and propped against the front desk. Did Kiki move him around at night like an Elf on the Shelf? If she didn’t, he was going to suggest it.

Peter tapped the old-fashioned brass bell, and a satisfying ding filled the lobby. He waited and was about to ring it again because it was fun when Graham emerged from the managers’ office.

“Peter?!” The combination question mark-exclamation point hung in the air as a stupefied smile spread across his best friend’s face.

“Did you forget I was coming? Because I know how careful you and Eloise are with that calendar after the Annie-Jordy debacle.”

“No. I just assumed you’d go straight to the house.” Graham ran a hand through his dark hair like he was trying to subtly fix it, when what he needed to fix was his tie and the bit of his wife’s lipstick he’d missed wiping off.

“I couldn’t remember where you hide the spare key,” Peter lied, meeting Graham halfway between the office and the front desk for a tight hug.

Graham chuckled. “We don’t usually even bother locking the door.” He grasped Peter’s shoulders and held him out at arm’s length. “I can’t believe you’re really going to be here for longer than forty-eight hours.”

“It’s all he’s talked about for weeks ,” Eloise chimed in as she appeared behind her husband. She drew Peter in for a gentler hug. “We’re so excited you’re here. We’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Peter said. He noted, but did not comment on, the button Eloise had missed when she’d buttoned up her blouse. He gestured to the empty front desk. “Where’s the crack staff of the Crane Hotel?”

Eloise blushed. “We were covering their dinner break. Needed to get something done in the office.”

His dubious snort was easily covered up with a cough.

“We’re going to be here for another hour,” Graham told him. “Do you want to go to the house or you could hang out around here until we’re done?”

“I could go pick up dinner,” Peter offered, “or make a coffee run, if you need a little pick-me-up?—”

“Peter!” His father’s voice boomed across the lobby like jolly cannon fire. When he turned to look, Arthur was all smiles, but his mother, trailing a few steps behind, had a blank expression carefully painted on her face. Without a smile, or even a frown, Charlotte looked tired, and maybe she was. It couldn’t have been an easy twenty-four hours for her.

The hug from his father was bone-crushing, like always. For a man entering his late seventies, he was surprisingly strong.

“Thank you,” his father whispered in his ear, and squeezed him again before loudly asking, “When did you get here?”

“About five minutes ago,” Peter answered.

Charlotte stood a few feet away, studying him hard, a tiny frown creasing her forehead. Finally she sighed and said, “I guess I’ll have to wait and see if you make more sense once you’re in wardrobe.” She gave him a much more tepid hug than his father. “You’re too nice for this role. Your face is too sweet.”

From any other mother, this would have been a doting compliment. But Charlotte had grown up in the entertainment industry. She honestly meant that she didn’t like how he looked for the part.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he reminded her. “And the brilliant part about acting is the transformation from who I am to the character.”

“Maybe makeup can rough you up a bit.”

“Charlotte, maybe you should give him his script so he can get to work,” Arthur said gently, prying the green book from her tight grasp and passing it to Peter.

“We were just talking about what we were doing for dinner if you wanted to join us,” Eloise offered.

Sweet Eloise. Peter had adored her from the moment he met her. She was always thinking about the people around her and how to make them feel comfortable. Could she feel the tension rippling through his family? Of course she could. People three miles away could probably feel it.

“We were going to eat at the hotel restaurant,” Charlotte said.

Graham grinned. “Would you believe I have a standing reservation there?”

If Charlotte noticed the joke, she ignored it. “I guess Peter can get settled into his room and then we could all meet at the restaurant in about half an hour? Or do you need longer?”

Peter frowned and cocked his head slightly. “My room? I don’t think I want to drive into town just to drive back.”

It was Charlotte’s turn to look befuddled. “Why would you drive into town? Get a key, go to your room, wash the airplane off you, and come to dinner.” She looked at Eloise and put a hand on her arm. “Your water pressure is fantastic, by the way. Hotel showers usually have a hard time penetrating my hair.”

Eloise blinked. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Mom,” Peter said slowly, “I’m staying with Graham and Eloise. Their house is in town. I know it feels like they live here, but they don’t.”

Charlotte’s face hardened into an expression he was very familiar with from his childhood. “If you’re going to be part of this production, you’re going to stay where the production is staying. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the producer.”

Arthur looked between them, and there was an awkward silence before he realized he’d missed his cue.

“It’s, um…” he began, rocking forward onto his toes and back onto his heels. “Well, it would be helpful to have you nearby. To know where you are. At least for this first bit of production while we bring you up to speed.”

“Give me a call sheet, and I’ll show up when and where I’m supposed to,” Peter said, more to his mother than his father.

“You’d probably see us more here than if you stayed at our house,” Eloise pointed out.

Peter took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and looked at the ceiling. Eloise was only trying to help, but she was going to ruin part of his plans. If he stayed at Graham and Eloise’s house, he increased his chances of casually running into Sybil. They had wine night every week, and Eloise hosted a lot. And Sybil’s house was nearby. He could easily run by it several times before anyone thought it was weird. But if he stayed at the hotel, he may as well still be in Los Angeles because his good reasons for going into town hovered right above nil.

Charlotte teetered on smug. “See. Simple.”

“Fine,” Peter ground out from between his teeth. “Eloise, may I have a key please?” He drummed his fingers on the hardcover of his script. “I will get settled and see you all down here in an hour for dinner.”

Dinner was not the disaster he’d imagined it would be.

There was something magical about good food that got people to relax, and Graham’s chef Amara was a wizard in the kitchen. The appetizers eased some of the tension at their table, and by the time entrées were finished, it was like the movie wasn’t happening at all. It helped that they avoided talking about work—or movies—and stuck to safer topics, like politics and religion.

“I don’t have any room for dessert, but it sounds fantastic.” Charlotte held her menu out at arm’s length because she’d forgotten her reading glasses.

“Get it now. Amara is changing the menu on Friday,” Graham warned.

“No!” Arthur protested. He’d wiped his plate clean with the last piece of bread from the basket, vowing more than once that he was going to leave his wife for the mushroom sauce.

“Not the entire menu.” Eloise laughed. “She likes to rotate some options monthly. Keeps everyone interested.”

Arthur placed a hand over his heart and sighed dramatically. The table laughed.

Peter placed his napkin on the table and pushed out his chair. “Send in the clowns for me. If I eat another bite, I’ll fall asleep.”

“You don’t have to eat,” Charlotte said. “Stay.”

Peter snuck a surreptitious glance at his watch. It wasn’t as late as he thought it was. He could stay for another twenty minutes.

“Okay, okay. I’ll stay.”

It was longer than twenty minutes. Once Arthur Green got to telling stories, there was never an easy way out. Peter didn’t know if Graham somehow texted Kiki from under the table or if that magnificent goth had a sixth sense, but she came and whispered something in Graham’s ear and it was enough to finally break up the dinner party.

Peter went up in the elevator with his parents and went to his room, but only to get his jacket.

The short drive into Crane Cove was dark. It was almost nine o’clock, and the clouds covered the moon. He should have checked when Stardust closed. Coffee shops stayed open late, didn’t they? At least in the Pacific Northwest. There was a chance she was still at work. He could see her. Say hello. If not, he could…drive by her house and not stop because that would be weird.

Peter continued to tell himself that dropping by her business unannounced after dark was normal the entire time he parked his car, put his hood up to shield himself from the rain, and walked down the dimly lit sidewalk with his hands in his pockets.

There was still a light on in Stardust.

And then it turned out.

“Damn,” Peter cursed under his breath.

There was movement inside, and he stepped into a shadow, trying to blend into the building. Two women came out—teenage girls, actually. Neither one of them was Sybil. They were too tall. They walked down the sidewalk away from him, and Peter breathed for the first time in thirty seconds.

Stardust was closed, but they hadn’t locked the door behind them. Was she still in there?

Peter waited until the teenagers were a long way down the sidewalk before he left his hiding spot and walked up to the coffee shop. His heart was beating so fast as he tried the door that he could feel his jugular vein fluttering in his neck.

The door opened, and a bell tinkled overhead. He stepped inside, closed the door gently behind him.

“Did you forget something?” Sybil called from the backroom.

Peter swallowed several times, trying to make some moisture in his mouth which had gone drier than the Atacama Desert in Chile.

“Sadie? Georgia?”

Say something , he urged himself, but his tongue refused to move.

Sybil came around the corner, a baseball bat in her hand, and froze when she saw him.

The world ceased spinning and time slowed to a crawl. It was a phenomenon that needed to be studied because it happened every time he saw her. It was like his brain knew she was the most important thing there had ever been and ever would be and it was determined to memorize every minute detail.

Her thick red hair was in a loose French braid, like she’d gotten sick of it being in her face and didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It didn’t knot that way, unlike in a bun. He remembered. And there was a mystery smear on her gray T-shirt, right across her midsection.

And she was wearing the sweater. His sweater. The sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and it had dropped off her right shoulder, but it still looked better on her than it ever had on him.

Then time sped back up to normal speed, and Sybil found her voice.

“What are you doing here?”