28. Mallory
Chapter 28
Mallory
For the rest of the week, the inner workings of Summerhill keeps Hugo busy.
There are no more kisses, and we don't talk about it. We're not pretending it didn't happen, or at least I'm not. But Hugo is cautious now, careful. More than before. Like I'm made of glass.
I'm not allowing myself to dwell on it, and honestly, I'm busy too, poring over my notes, determining what could be made into episodes for the podcast.
It was a kiss that outshone all others, but I'm a woman with things to do.
On the way into town after our shopping trip, Hugo took me to my car so I could drive it back out to Summerhill. I used it earlier today to run to a store in town and find an oversized whiteboard and colorful markers. Putting everything in front of me visually helps me see things in a different way. Details that sit in the background get the chance to present themselves, and sometimes, it's the details that make all the difference.
Hugo told me to commandeer his dining room table, and that is precisely what I've done. I'm sitting here now, comfortable in a new pair of buttery soft leggings and matching tank top, sipping at my second decaf vanilla latte of the day.
I'd mentioned to Hugo in passing that I saw his sister at Sweet Nothings, and how Sal had made me the coffee drink. Now there's a fancy, sleek silver coffee machine on the kitchen counter. Decaf organic beans and vanilla syrup in the pantry. Whole milk in the fridge.
It's what friends do, right?
He made it clear we're friends, but the way his eyes drank me in in the fitting room says otherwise. And that kiss. Kisses that are mistakes don't feel so earth shattering.
I've learned enough about attraction to know oftentimes it has a mind of its own. The attraction we feel toward another person doesn't always make sense. Sometimes, it doesn't appear to fit. We think we have a type, and then out of nowhere, we're blindsided, inexplicably drawn to someone.
Hugo is my type. Hugo is every woman's type. Two short weeks with that man, and I already know the kind of person he is. A defender, protector. Generous, and kind. Loyal. He wouldn't be back at Summerhill, taking the reins of the family business, if it didn't require a little bit of all those traits.
Sitting back, I draw my legs up into my chest. Or I try to, at least. My stomach prevents it, so I have to splay open my legs, prop them against either arm of the chair. It's not a good look, but it's comfortable. Coffee in hand, my eyes wander over my computer screen. I'm brainstorming concepts for episodes ahead of this afternoon's meeting with the marketers. I have no idea what they're going to want from me, but I can't show up empty-handed. I don't want to waste anybody's time.
At precisely noon, Hugo strolls into his house. This has been our routine over the last few days. He is out of the front door by seven in the morning, returning midday for lunch. That's when I take a break from my work and join him in the kitchen. The domesticity of it, the ease with which we assumed this ritual, should scare me, right? Maybe what I should fear is how much it doesn't scare me. Everything with Hugo feels easy. Good. He might be a relaxing sigh in human form, but he's also sex on legs. Some days when he walks in the door, dirty and sweaty from work, it's everything I can do not to pounce. Keeping myself from overheating has become a second job these days.
With envious eyes, I watch him assemble an Italian sandwich. Pepperoni, salami, capicola. I could close my eyes and taste the salty spice of the lunchmeat, but I settle for making a face at Hugo as I stir my chicken salad with diced celery and walnuts.
He grins knowingly. "I can eat on the porch if it's too much temptation for you."
Plating my sandwich, I say, "I can control myself." Am I only talking about the food? Definitely not. Maybe I' m saying it to remind myself. And if I say it enough times, it must be true, right?
"What's the first thing you're going to eat after Peanut is born?"
"A boatload of sushi," I answer without hesitation. "And then an Italian sub."
"Screaming Eel," Hugo says around his bite.
"Come again?" I ask, pulling out the island stool and taking a seat. Hugo grabs two soda waters from the fridge, pops the tops, and slides one over to me.
"Screaming Eel is a sushi restaurant." He stands on the other side of the island, facing me. "Normally I'd say to never trust a sushi restaurant in the middle of the desert, but that rule does not apply to Screaming Eel. I can take you there, after Peanut's born." We lock eyes over the island. A conversation happens in the silence.
Why would I still be here after Peanut's born?
You can come back.
For what reason?
The conversation is one I don't want to have, even in the quiet . Even when it's not real. I don't want to face the eventual end of my time in Olive Township. Here at Summerhill. Everyday I've napped in the swing bed on Hugo's porch, and gone on a long walk in the late afternoon, soaking up the sun and the surroundings. Hugo has been so busy, and I don't want to interrupt him while he's working, so I stay away from the office where I know he goes every morning. I focus on what I can see, and it's enough. The view takes my breath away and soothes the savage beast within, the one that guards my heart holding a banner that reads It's your fault .
Out here, in a place so beautiful, in a home so cozy, with a man so kind, I consider forgiving my fourteen-year-old self. It's difficult, and I'm not there yet, but the fact I am considering it feels momentous.
"I'd like that," I answer, accepting his offer for a future outing for sushi. We don't need to talk about my departure. If Hugo wants to make a plan, far be it for me to rain on his parade.
By the time Peanut's born, I should be long gone. I don't really know why I'm here now. Planning for podcast episodes can happen anywhere, and I tell myself I'm here to keep interviewing, keep digging, but is that true? Olive Township is a couple hours from Phoenix. If I had an idea and wanted to talk to people, it would only be a day trip for me to do so.
So why am I still here? Let's call a spade a spade. I'm here because I don't want to go.
Eventually, I'll have to. My recording equipment is in Phoenix. Maybe I can push that aside for now. Pretend it doesn't exist. Live here, in this moment, on this heavenly olive mill, where the sun feels extra sunny, and the birdsong is sweeter.
We finish our lunch in a companionable silence, and Hugo clears our plates.
"What do you think about taking a tour of the mill tomorrow?" he asks when he's standing by the front door fitting his feet into his work boots.
"Yes, please." I clap my hands together excitedly. "I have to warn you, I'm already in love with this place. After tomorrow, it might escalate to an obsession."
Hugo looks like the idea of this makes him happy. "Then there is probably something I should warn you about also."
"What's that?"
"It's likely I'm going to nerd out really hard about olives."
I laugh. "Uh-oh. Nerd alert."
Hugo offers me the sexiest grin. He snags a ball cap from a peg near the door, performing a move that sends a tingle to the top of my thighs.
He puts it on backwards.
I look away. I have to. I can't be held responsible for what happens next if I allow my eyes to continue to drink him in. I look at my toes instead. I could really use a pedicure.
"I'll see you for dinner," he says.
"Mm-hmm. Yeah. Sounds great," I manage, forcing my gaze up so I don't arouse suspicion.
Too late. His eyebrows pinch in the center. "I hope your meeting with the marketing company goes well."
My heart lurches. He remembered. We hadn't even talked about it this morning. The last time I mentioned it was yesterday when he came back for lunch.
"Thank you," I say, doing my best to only look in his eyes. The way he did for me when my breasts were covered by little in that dressing room.
With a dip of his head he retreats from his house. I watch him through the front window. Long-legged stride, confident. Returning to finish out his day on an orchard he loves. The same land his dad tended. And his dad before that, if what I read online is correct.
Hugo climbs into his company truck, turning back to glance at his house. He catches my gaze in the window. I've been caught staring.
I raise a hand, waving. He does the same, adding his crooked grin. The combination is lethal.
He's a backwards-hat wearing, lower back touching, doorframe gripping, sword wielding owner of an olive orchard.
My next thought is a sucker punch to the solar plexus.
Some day, some other woman is going to strike gold with him.
I've made myself presentable in time for my call with Jolene and the marketing company.
I follow the link in my email, joining a meeting for which I am one minute late. My scant tardiness can be blamed on Peanut for making me need to pee. Again .
"Hello," I greet after checking to make sure my microphone and camera are turned on.
"Hi," a cheerful, stunningly beautiful blonde woman says. She sits on the long side of a gleaming wood desk, a dark-haired woman by her side. "Jolene was just telling us a little about Case Files. I'm Paisley, the owner of P Squared Marketing. This"—she motions to her right—"is my social media strategist, Cecily. I've asked her to join us today because she is a wizard when it comes to growing and finding the right followers on social media."
"Is this where I act demure and say something to negate your compliments?" Cecily grins mischievously at Paisley.
Paisley shrugs. "Not unless you want to, but if you did I'd have to pinch you and make sure you're really you."
Do I like these women already? Yes I do.
"It's nice to meet you both. I'm Mallory. Thank you for meeting with us today."
"We're more than happy to, especially after working with Jolene and hearing about your podcast." Paisley opens the laptop sitting on the desk in front of her. Cecily does the same. "Now," Paisley says, "I want to be certain upfront that I understand your needs. Jolene says that in the three-year run of Case Files you've had a higher than industry standard subscriber count, but in the last eight months you've seen a steady decline in downloads and subscribers. This impedes your ultimate goal of being picked up by a podcasting platform."
"Great summary," I respond.
Paisley turns to Cecily, giving her the floor. Cecily launches in, saying, "Low subscriber count and fewer downloads are not your real problem." Cecily is no-nonsense, something I appreciate. "Those are only symptoms of your issue. A quick peek of your social media accounts showed me you post infrequently, and when you do post, the content isn't attractive. If a true crime podcast is storytelling, then so is social media. It's not a whodunit, but more of a I bet I can make you want to know who did it ."
Cecily's way of talking about the intersectionality between true crime and social media has me feeling enthusiastic. Peanut, too, based on the bubbles tumbling around my belly. My midsection isn't visible on screen, so I give Peanut a stroke in response.
"Love it," Jolene says, practically vibrating with excitement.
The front door opens suddenly, and Hugo strides through. He holds his left wrist, hand in the air. From where I'm set up at the dining room table, every lady on my screen has a full view of him.
"Pardon the interruption," he says apologetically. "I cut my hand on a piece of machinery. Couldn't find the first aid kit at the office, so I had to come back for the one I keep here."
"It's ok," I assure him, fighting the urge to go to him and inspect his wound.
Jolene says hello, and before I can introduce the women on the screen, Cecily says, "Hugo?"
She wears an expression of familiarity, like she's seen a long lost friend. Inside me, a little green monster rears its ugly head.
Did they date? Did he care for her? Were they intimate?
Hugo comes closer, and I see it now, the blood trickling down the inside of his palm. He stands behind my chair, and I'm struck by the two of us on the same screen. I've noticed our image in storefronts before, but we're usually moving, and it's too fleeting to get a proper look. This is a reminder of what I saw that day in the dressing room, how good we look together.
"Cecily," Hugo says, sharing her tone of friendly wonderment. "It's been a long time since you've been home. It's nice to see you."
Home must be Olive Township. Definitely an ex, then. High school sweethearts, maybe?
She laughs uncomfortably. "It's not home I'm avoiding. It's a few certain someones who reside there."
Hugo nods knowingly, lifting his hand. "I better tend to this cut."
He waves with his good hand and walks away slightly faster than his usual gait.
"Mallory, you're in Olive Township?" Cecily asks.
I nod, about to answer when Jolene says, "She went for the spa but stayed for?—"
"A possible story," I cut in quickly. Jolene could've been about ready to say anything, and I fear it was a word starting with the letter D. That joke is better for girlfriends sipping margaritas. Jolene might know these women well, but I don't.
"Something for the podcast?" Paisley asks, steering us back on course.
"Uh, yes." I glance down the hall to check for Hugo. I don't like saying what I'm about to say so plainly in front of him. "I'm looking into the unsolved murder of Simon De la Vega. "
Cecily takes a sharp breath. "Hugo must be ok with that." Her eyes grow wide. "He knows, right?"
"Yes, yes," I rush to say. "Hugo, Vivi, everyone. I have Sonya's blessing."
Cecily looks relieved. "Good. I'm surprised, though. They've always been very"—she mimes zipped lips—"about it."
"Sonya told me it was time." That's all I'll say about that. If Sonya wants people to know the full extent of her reasoning, she can be the one to reveal that.
"It looks like," Paisley pauses as she scrolls her computer, "you haven't started talking about that case yet. Nothing on socials, no episodes. Is that right?"
"Correct. I spent the morning writing out ideas, working through how to structure it for episodes. Deciding if what I have is enough to begin."
Paisley's nodding. "I won't pretend to know anything about podcasting and the work that goes into it, but what I know is the only way you're going to get subscribers and downloads is if you tell new people the content exists. Are you willing to do that? You have the support of the family, but do you have their blessing to take it to socials?"
Hugo appears at the hall entrance. His socked feet kept his return quiet, and now he stands still, looking at me. Then he nods his head deliberately, leading me to my answer. He wants me to take his dad's story outside of Olive Township, bring it out into the world.
I look back at the screen. "All systems go."
"Cecily will create a plan and reach out to both of you. She'll be your point of contact, but I am available at any time, also."
Jolene's nodding. "Thank you, Cecily and Paisley, for meeting with us."
The call ends, and the screen goes dark.
Hugo still stands at the entrance to the room, but now his arms are crossed, and he leans one shoulder against the wall. It's only now that I notice he hasn't bandaged his wound.
"Are you ok?" I ask tentatively, nodding to the towel wrapped around his hand. In his other hand, he holds a first aid kit.
"Fine," he assures me, but I'm not having it. He's done such a good job caring for me, he needs to let me take care of him for once.
"Sit," I instruct, leading him to a chair at the dining room table. He settles down, and I take the first aid kit from him, laying it out on the table and opening it.
"Let's see what we're working with here," I say, gently unwrapping the towel.
The cut isn't deep, and it's no longer bleeding. It was good that he returned to wash it.
Carefully, holding his upturned palm with my own, I apply an antibiotic ointment. I'm fighting my senses now, the way I want to launch myself into his arms. His nearness and the smell of earth and sweat and Hugo. It's overwhelming.
Hugo is still, and quiet, but I can tell he likes it. Being taken care of.
I'm applying two bandages when Hugo says, "It's one thing to talk about making what happened to my dad into podcast episodes, and another to watch it happen."
I toss the trash from the bandages on the table. Step back so he can stand.
As soon as he's upright, I step into him. Put my hands on either shoulder. "I'm not going to sensationalize anything. I promise you, I will give your dad's story the respect and care it deserves." The trust not only he, but his whole family, has placed in me, sits heavy in the center of my chest, guiding me.
Hugo's left hand reaches up, wraps around my right forearm. "I know," he says, on a slow downward stroke. "I know you will."
It's silly and juvenile, but I cannot calm my curiosity about how well Cecily and Hugo might know each other. Schooling my voice into a tone of vague interest, I ask, "So, Cecily is from here?"
"Yeah. A little younger than me, by a few years if I'm remembering accurately."
My head tips sideways, and I pretend to adjust my earring. "How do you know her?"
Hugo's gaze tapers. His lips twitch, like maybe he wants to tease me. "Do you remember my friend Duke who showed up late to the Olive Festival?"
"The guy with good hair who Daisy almost married?"
Hugo nods. "He has two sisters. Cecily is one of them."
"Hmm." I can't adjust my earring again, that would look too obvious. I settle for picking an invisible piece of lint from my top. "Were you and Cecily ever involved? "
Hugo makes a face, like the question is abhorrent. "She's my friend's sister."
"So?"
"Friends don't date their friend's little sisters."
"Umm, I think you are very wrong about that."
Alarm widens Hugo's eyes. "Why? Did Vivi say something?"
"No, but I don't think it's uncommon." It's cute watching him be a protective big brother.
So cute, I decide to needle him some more. "Vivi is a grown woman though. She can do what she wants. With who she wants to do it with."
Hugo has caught on, and he inspects my face with a shrewd gaze. "You're messing with me, aren't you?"
I can't help the grin spreading across my cheeks. "Maybe."
Hugo reaches out, pinches my hip bone. "Troublemaker."
I wiggle my eyebrows. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."
Hugo laughs. The phone in his pocket dings with a text message. He drops the hand from my hip so he can read the message. He frowns at the screen, and the private bubble we're in pops. "The mill manager is asking where I am. I better get going."
Hugo strides for the door, pausing once he reaches it. "Mallory, I think you should know that green is a great color on you."
He chuckles and walks from the house.
Maybe green is a great color on me, but right now, my cheeks are nothing but red.