CHAPTER 9
Aiden
“You’re not serious! Get back in there and try again,” I say, exasperated.
“I’m here for your safety, not your errands,” Renaldo grouses back.
I huff, “Everyone is unsafe if I’m not properly caffeinated.”
“You had a three thousand dollar espresso machine delivered yesterday.”
“And yet the liquid it produces tastes like utter trash in comparison.”
He turns to look at me from the front seat, “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you made fun of her town and promised to turn her shop into asphalt.”
“Hmph,” is all I can reply.
“Diner?” He sighs.
“I suppose,” I sigh right back. At least the decaying space-themed corner joint has good bacon. But it’s not bacon I need. It’s whatever she puts in her blends.
Renaldo sneaked into the bakery for a couple days on my behalf until he was discovered and shooed away. Shooed and banned from entry. The woman claimed she’d call the sheriff on us. Unbelievable.
“Bet she’ll have something at the Maple Tap,” he tries.
I roll my eyes at him and say, “I wasn’t planning on going to whatever the hell that is.”
“I think they tap the trees for syrup.”
“What?”
“You know, maple syrup?” He raises his eyebrows at me because, yes, I am familiar with syrup.
My sweet tooth is well known. I couldn’t choose a favorite between pancakes or waffles at gunpoint, since both serve as an excellent syrup delivery device.
Renaldo never indulges when we get breakfast and instead stares at my plate with disgust. Then he busts me up mercilessly when I can hardly make it through our workout the following day.
He goes on, “It comes from trees.”
“Piss off, I know where it comes from.”
“Well, they stick the thing in the tree trunk when it gets warm enough at the end of winter and syrup comes out. I think.”
“And what, people stare as it drips out? This is supposed to be profitable how?”
He cuts the engine in front of the diner and says, “I imagine they sell the syrup.”
“Enough to cover the expenses of advertising and merchandising—turning a farming exercise into a tourist event?”
He rolls his eyes, “Maybe you should go and find out. And get a sample of coffee and get off my ass about it!”
“I’ll just get onto you about something else,” I huff back.
“Isn’t that the truth,” he grumbles as he scans the street. I didn’t plan on bringing full-time security to this small town but there’s been national press coverage about the development project. Damn Rockfords.
Then there was the above-average level of vandalism. Juniper Falls has to serve as my home base for at least a few weeks, which I’ve learned from experience is enough time to be spotted, tracked, doxxed.
The price of being a Vanderwell.
“With so great a name comes such responsibility, boy.”
Lucky me.
I shake myself a bit as I enter the diner.
I am lucky, obviously. A right privileged bastard.
Can afford anything I want or need anywhere in the world.
Could screw off to St Barts and do absolutely nothing for the rest of my life.
Granddad wouldn’t care. Dad probably wouldn’t even realize.
Not sure mother would notice either. I could disappear into the void and never work again if I didn’t want to.
But I do want to.
And after this resort is complete and the best in its market, and the press catches wind, my father will remember I exist. Probably.
“Same as yesterday, please,” I say to Althea. She’s ecstatic about the baker’s poor choices, since I’m feeding the whole construction crew each morning.
I look around the dilapidated space, then out the windows at the view. Sunlight breaking over the mountains, trees sparkling as the snow melts. It’s stunning out there. And then in here…
This, this is what I can help.
It can be better. It should be better. I want to make it better.
So I will.
_____
Thank you, God, if you do, in fact, exist up there.
Praying with just one sip. That’s how good it is. The Roasted Chestnut has a booth here somewhere, complete with maple espresso hot chocolate shots, and I was able to pay a teenager $10 to go grab me one. The shots themselves are free, of course.
I want to go observe this failure in action, but I’m being herded like a sheep toward a dirt path some might call a road. Someone shoves an empty paint bucket into my hands? I hang back, Renaldo in tow, following the crowd from a distance to see where they’re headed.
Around the trees, in the path, I see it.
There’s a huge open bed type of truck? Wagon?
Some kind of farm vehicle from years gone by.
The paint on the cab is rusted, the wood on the sides is splintering badly, and the sound coming from the engine is concerning.
I stop once I realize everyone is climbing up into the death trap to go for a ride.
“Oh. No,” I say, about to turn back.
“Woo hoo! Vandy’s coming! This’ll be fun!” The excited realtor, Steven, I’m fairly sure is his name, calls down to me.
I get closer, looking at the truck’s tired tailgate and blinking break light. “Have you nothing new in this town?”
“We will after you help us out, right?” He says cheerfully. I snort. He pleads, “It’s the last ride, you’ve gotta come.”
“We don’t have tickets,” I am grasping at straws, looking to Renaldo. Surely he doesn’t want to climb up into this thing either.
“No tickets, just vibes. Come on!”
“Just vibes? Are you joking?” I’m about to finally refuse once and for all but the sight of a bandanna in my periphery gives me pause. Harper walks past and hoists herself up, then climbs ahead to one of the front seats near the woman who owns…the pharmacy, I think.
She’s in the same uniform I’ve seen every time; bakery shirt, dusty jeans, flour-coated work shoes and her hair tucked away under fabric. I note that this bandanna has palm trees all over it and the last was sailboats. Odd. Odder still that I’d notice such a thing.
Her counterparts seem to be giving her kudos as she sits.
She says nothing, face going pink. I keep forgetting she’s the ringleader.
She shakes her head at the praise about this maple whatever event.
She smiles though. It’s tentative, like her faux persona, but I’m pleased to know she does have teeth.
Without realizing it I’ve climbed up into the glorified cart and Renaldo behind me.
“You’ll love this,” Steven says. He starts explaining the bucket and the hose and sap and on and on.
I’m about to experience a little tour, it seems. First the hands-on tree tapping, then something called a sugar house, then axe throwing before finally getting back to the vendor tents where, hopefully, maple pastries and more coffee waits for me.
Eventually the realtor pauses his informational speech, looks away, then back at me. Damn, I’ve been staring.
“Leave her be, Aid,” Steven says. I frown, about what he means and about him shortening my name as if we’re friends. We are not. He goes on, his eyes mischievous, “She was already busy enough with her shop and her dad and Stu, now she’s planned all this too.”
He gestures wide.
It is…nice. I’m not eager to hammer into a tree and watch sap leak out, but the sun has set over the ridge, leaving the road in deep shadow from the tall trees.
It could almost be night time. And there are tiny lights in the trees and little lanterns along the path, and it smells heavenly.
The beverages in tiny cups and the samples people are eating, it’s all maple everything. My mouth is about to begin watering.
“So, just...give her a break,” he adds.
“Give her a break? She won’t let me in her store for coffee!” I explain. He frowns and his mouth falls open in surprise. I go on, “I’ve been forced to get breakfast supplies for the crew at the diner.”
He shudders, “Ugh, Althea’s coffee will put hair on your chest.”
“Precisely.”
“What’s your poison? Latte? Cappuccino?”
I shake my head, “Just whatever she sneaks into her house blends. Black.”
He winks at me, “I’ll see what I can do.” My eyebrows rise. He shoves his shoulder into me, “We’re alright, this town. You’ll see. And so is she. She’s the best, really. But had a really rough go of it, so if she doesn’t want you in there, maybe just, don’t go in there. I got you.”
I nod and blink a few times. Surprised and grateful for some help behind enemy lines. But I’m also bothered.
What rough go has she had? Is that why she barely says a word to anyone? And why the hell doesn’t this Stu bastard help her? Why isn’t he hanging lights and opening her store at ungodly hours.
Not that it’s any of my business.
But perhaps if he helped out more, she’d be well rested and more agreeable and thus I could get my coffee fix.
If I see him out in the driveway, I’ll give him a piece of my mind.
Or at least inquire. What kind of man lets his girlfriend—not wife, as she doesn’t wear a ring...
not that I checked, I just noticed once—do all the hard work on her own?
Steven chuckles at my obvious surprise at his friendliness, then hands me a little napkin. I open my palm to tiny square of maple icing and who knows what else. My mouth is watering now. I shove the whole thing in my mouth in one go.
I make a sound I should probably be embarrassed about.
“Right?” Steven says.
I’m only able to get out a few appreciative curses through my chewing.
“That’s the kind of stuff she should have at the bakery,” I eventually say.
“Huh? That is from the bakery.”
“But the cookies, the little shamrocks…”
Steven laughs, “Those were made by the kids! It was one of the hands-on experiences for the day. Harper didn’t make those. Everything she makes is basically sunshine and happiness wrapped in flour.”
“Indeed,” I say, still reeling. Again, my eyes find her, the little mystery woman. Still silent, grinning, listening to what the two women around her are saying. “Why does she—”
CLANG!
The truck hits a bump, jolts up and stops. Jolts up and rolls back once more.
“Not again,” Carl grouses as he climbs down from the cab.
“Again?” I start to look around, wondering what we could’ve hit out here.
“Stuck,” he calls out to me but also to everyone. The truck collectively groans. I lock eyes with the Baker.
Another memorable event, I say with my eyebrows.
She looks away.
“Aiden, Ren, Steven, gonna need you down here.”
“Ren?” I ask my bodyguard. He shrugs.
“You know I am not getting down there, Carl,” Steven replies.
“Steven! Get down there and shove!” A woman cries. I realize it then, that the whole truck is full of women and children. Save me, Renaldo and Steven. And Carl. The latter says, “Well?”
Renaldo sighs and stands.
“And Aiden? I mean his shoes cost eight hundred and ninety-five dollars, y’all! He can’t get those in the mud!”
I slide my eyes to my left, at the man who may or may not be stalking me.
His eyes blow wide, “I’m sorry! They’re very nice, I googled them!”
“Can’t we call someone?” I ask the group while still glaring at Steven. “Who do you all normally call for a tow?”
He dips his chin at me like I’m the idiot here. Then everyone says in unison “Carl.”
“Come on, then!” Carl shouts at me and Steven.
I stand, grit my teeth, and survey the damage below. As I do, I hear Renaldo sink into the ground with a squish. His boots are not cheap either. What used to be a road is now brown sludge. I exhale through my nose and step down off the vehicle.
Everyone crowds around, leaning up or standing to watch me, or rather my shoes. They all wince.
The sound of the mud swallowing my Santoni oxfords is the stuff of legends. I inhale at the feel of the mud above shoe level, absolutely making contact with my sock. There’s mud inside my custom Italian leather shoes. Shoes that are now ruined.
Everyone gasps and Steven wails as though he might actually be crying. I pin my gaze like a laser on the one responsible. She looks away, of course, but…I caught it. The side of her mouth went up with a quarter-of-a-second flash of truth. A moment of glee.
She’ll never admit it but she’s ecstatic over the death of my dress shoes.
This thrills me. She’s not only failing at her task with the town, she’s also letting her sweet, shy mask slip. My true adversary is revealed, just as hellbent on taking me down as I am on getting my plans executed exactly how I want. With the parking lot squarely in place of her shop.
I look away and take off my jacket. And suit jacket. I set them on the wood rail of the truck as I listen to Carl and Renaldo debate how best to push this damn thing out of what looks like a bloody sinkhole while the women whine and screech.
Steven eventually stands, moving about as fast as the syrup I was promised.
Carl takes off his leather jacket and Renaldo starts to roll his sleeves, so I do the same. Someone whistles at us.
“Steven, don’t make it weird,” Carl complains.
I look up and give the realtor another glare that could kill.
“Okay! I’m coming down, I’m coming down! Geez!”
He does and the women follow, as per Carl’s grouchy instructions. Then, myself and the three males available push the shit out of a truck the size of a small building.
It does not budge.
We lift with our legs, we pull, we do a lot of grunting. I smash the tip of my pinky finger and curse like a sailor. Carl and Steven make calls until a couple ATVs come to take people back to the market.
We wait for a larger four-wheeler to arrive to tow the front of the truck while we push the back.
Eventually, eons later, the thing pulls free. All of us are covered in sweat and grime. Forget the shoes, all my clothes are ruined.
Carl hands me a bottled water from his truck—questionably lukewarm and scuffed, but unopened, at least—and I chug.
Then scoff.
“Hey, the truck only got stuck on three tours,” Steven tries.
“Three!” I reply.
“Still, we had a great turnout. Don’t go busting her up about this,” he says again.
As if Harper is the one who needs comfort here.
I am sweating, bleeding and pissed. I look over to see how she is doing, wondering if she’s still pleased with herself.
And, okay, wondering if maybe, like the couple obvious women directly across from me, she watched our “Forearm show” as Steven called it.
But she’s gone.
“And?” I pant. “Did the stores end in the black after all the costs? Stringing lights, booths, ads?”
Steven opens his mouth, shuts it, and looks away. He has no clue. But I do. No ticket for entry, free samples, more shoddy rides. This is not a winning formula.
Harper is not going make it to May, let alone July.
Why don’t I feel more triumphant about that?