Chapter 1 #3
Events like this weren’t Sal’s usual fare.
Back when they lived in Chicago, Sal had led quite the nightlife, but to his credit, when Arthur suggested Trident Falls as an option once they were forced to flee the city, he’d only complained about the noise ordinance a little and did his best to support Arthur’s attempts at a social life, even if it was in his own way.
In general, Arthur disliked public displays of affection, especially in a setting that should, for him and Sal, be professional, but he kissed his husband’s cheek all the same. Sal grinned and gave him a saucy wink.
“Please help yourself to anything,” Arthur said to Nora, gesturing toward the charcuterie. Short of an all-out bribe, Arthur could think of no better way to ingratiate himself and their inn to Trident Falls’ new city manager. Let the Gouda and candied figs do the talking for him.
As Nora began stacking cheese and salami on her plate—assisted by Salvatore, always eager to provide a running commentary on the various cheeses and regions of France they hailed from—the front door opened. Arthur stepped into the lobby, trying not to feel too hopeful.
“Welcome to the Iris Inn,” Arthur said, defaulting to his warmest customer service voice.
In the doorway stood a woman Arthur had seen at the side of the mayor on many occasions during town events, though she never stepped in front of the microphone herself.
The mayor’s assistant was hardly an expected guest, considering she worked for a man whose supporters abhorred Arthur’s and Sal’s very existence, but perhaps this was a sign the mayor had accepted Nora’s invitation.
Arthur extended his hand and said, “I’m one of the proprietors, Arthur Miller, no relation. ”
“Quinn Clark.” Short, with blond hair slicked back in a low ponytail, Quinn was a plump white woman, likely in her early thirties, who’d learned the art of simple elegance.
She wore no ruffles or jewelry, only a plain blush-pink blouse and khakis, though they were not, thankfully, capris.
Arthur could respect her understated fashion choices, if not her boss’s politics.
She shook his hand with brisk efficiency.
“Please, come in,” he continued. “Everyone is gathered in the living room.”
Quinn’s gaze traveled around the lobby, and Arthur wished he could see the space through her eyes.
Most of the room was taken up by the front desk, and Arthur had decorated the walls with local art featuring various Trident Falls landmarks: the falls themselves, the riverfront shops, even a pretty landscape of city hall in autumn when all the leaves turned a vibrant gradient of yellow to red.
It was all perfectly normal. (Sal’s suggestion for decor had been a series of portraits he’d commissioned of himself over the centuries, but Arthur hadn’t thought it appropriate to greet guests with that much nudity.)
Whatever she made of the place, Quinn was satisfied enough to walk into the living room, where Salvatore was telling Nora the story of the time he’d challenged Napoléon Bonaparte to an arm-wrestling contest. Over the sixty-odd years they’d been together, Sal had told Arthur a number of outlandish stories, each more bizarre than the last, and Arthur was never sure which were true.
He’d pepper the tales with convincing historical details but would also insist on absurdities—like that the Earl of Sandwich had invented Fruit Roll-Ups but had never gotten credit or that Henry VIII had been cursed by a coven of witches.
Arthur actually believed that last one to some degree.
When Nora spotted Quinn, her good humor vanished. “Ms. Clark,” she said, a formality in her voice Arthur had yet to witness, “I didn’t know you were coming. Is Mayor Roth on his way?”
“I would assume so.” Quinn was as stiff as Nora, though she hadn’t exactly been relaxed upon her arrival. Perhaps it was just the awkwardness of new acquaintanceship.
Turning her attention from Nora, as if she wished to pretend the other woman didn’t exist, Quinn said, “I haven’t seen the Iris Inn since it changed ownership.
Were you aware this building is over a hundred years old?
It’s been part of the community for a long time.
” She sounded a bit bored, like a tour guide at the end of her shift.
Perhaps that was how she always talked; Arthur had never interacted with her before.
“It’s been such a joy to renovate,” Arthur said, gesturing to the newly painted walls and original vintage cabinetry. “We’ve worked hard to make sure it maintains its classic charm while still providing modern comforts.”
Arthur waited for Sal to chime in about how it was his idea to have the USB cell phone chargers installed in the nightstands, but he was strangely silent.
That wasn’t good. He was counting on Sal to charm their guests as he usually did.
Arthur was a practiced host, but he paled in comparison to his husband.
Salvatore was an entire kaleidoscope of social butterflies in one handsome package, and he thrived at parties—or party-adjacent gatherings.
If they were to sway Trident Falls to their side, it would begin with people like Nora and Quinn.
He gave his husband a little nudge. Now wasn’t the time for Sal to be shy.
“No need to do a sales pitch,” Salvatore said, without his usual vigor. “I doubt she will ever be a guest here. I imagine she’s too frightened—”
“Oh, the scones,” Arthur said in a hurry before Sal could finish. “I forgot to bring them out. Sal, will you help me?” He dragged Sal from the room, then said in a low voice, “What are you doing?”
“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.” There was a petulant tilt to Salvatore’s mouth, not quite a pout.
“You’re being rude to Quinn. If we win her over, she could put in a good word with the mayor himself—”
“There’s no winning people like that over. Didn’t you see his campaign signs? Keep Trident Falls Normal. It’s not very subtle.”
Arthur had seen the signs, and he’d seen the percentage of the vote George Roth had gotten. A narrow margin. The town could still very well be swayed. Perhaps the mayor might change his tune as well if enough of his constituents showed support for their budding business.
“We must try. At the very least, we can’t be rude in front of a paying guest. Please, Sal?”
“It’s not as though Nora is being welcoming either,” Sal grumbled, but he heaved a sigh and continued.
“Fine. I never could say no to those stunning emerald eyes of yours.” Salvatore’s frown eased as he stared up at Arthur, then brushed his knuckles along the smooth skin of Arthur’s cheek.
“I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. But if she says one snide word to you, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do. ”
“She won’t; she’ll be too busy complimenting the Gouda.” Arthur gave Sal a quick kiss, then picked up the tray of scones. They’d already been gone too long.
Back in the living room, it was like a polar vortex had hit. The air was chilly with silence, despite the warm notes coming from the record player.
“How was your meeting with the mayor?” Quinn asked in a tone that would’ve been better served slinging insults.
Nora, who now held her plate of snacks before her like a shield, replied, “Productive. He was very receptive to my proposal.”
“I doubt that,” Quinn muttered.
“When the mayor arrives, he can tell you himself.” Nora paused to take a triumphant bite of cheese and salami. “After my presentation, he said he was excited to bring it to the city council.”
“Mayor Roth never likes to tell people no to their faces.” Quinn swirled her glass of wine without drinking.
“His supporters might not like it,” Nora shot back, “but once the money starts rolling in, that’s all they’ll care about.”
If Arthur had been a guest and not the host, he might’ve asked Nora about this allegedly lucrative proposal, but it was his sacred duty to ensure everyone was enjoying themselves.
His gaze darted between Nora and Quinn, waiting for the opportune moment to interject and steer the conversation toward less contentious topics.
Salvatore, on the other hand, didn’t bother waiting. He grabbed the tray of scones from Arthur and swanned forward. “Oh, don’t stand around like that,” he said to the women. “If no one enjoys these antique sofas Arthur spent weeks hunting down, he’ll sulk.”
Nora and Quinn both jerked back and swung their gazes toward the door, as if they’d forgotten Arthur and Sal were there at all.
Thankfully, they took Sal’s suggestion and the four of them settled in, Nora and Quinn sitting as far apart as they could on the lavender davenport, Arthur and Sal on the velvet settee.
Arthur did his best to keep them engaged, but with Salvatore being nearly silent beside him, it was difficult.
He wasn’t used to so many awkward lulls.
Being married to Salvatore could be described as many things, but quiet had never before been one of them.
Arthur found himself frequently glancing out the window, hoping for the telltale headlights of an approaching car that would herald the mayor’s arrival. The darkness remained unbroken, and the conversation circled the drain.
Almost an hour into the evening, Salvatore’s phone chimed an alert. When he glanced at it, he looked simultaneously relieved and nervous.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Salvatore said, a practiced breeziness to his tone that told Arthur there had been no forgetting whatsoever. “I have a dentist appointment.”
“This late?” Nora asked.
“Ah, you must be Dr. Young’s evening appointment.” Quinn nodded, shooting a smug glance at Nora. “He mentioned he was headed back to the office when he left the chamber of commerce meeting tonight.”