2. Michelle
Chapter 2
Michelle
W hen I left Seattle, I intended to disappear completely. Thankfully, Copper Run is in the middle of nowhere, Vermont.
It’s been two hours since I rumbled away from the airport in a musty taxi. The chain-smoking driver peers through the rearview mirror, as he has been doing every five minutes since picking us up. His eyes won’t leave Rocket. The taxi’s floorboard is littered with fast-food wrappers and sticky CDs, yet he’s concerned about the well-trained dog sitting sentinel in his back seat.
“You’re paying extra for the mutt,” he told me amid throwing my suitcases in the trunk.
I swear Rocket grumbled under his breath at the borderline slur, assuming dogs could have such emotions.
“I know,” I said, side-eyeing the driver’s peeling name tag behind his headrest, reading Louis .
I shoved a folded clip of cash at him that would overshoot the meter’s cost by a hundred bucks at least, including his trip back to the airport. He rubbed a thumb over the layers, then pocketed the stack without another word.
Two hours later, trees accented in burnt orange and maroon zip past the taxi window. In Seattle, buildings overshadow the already-scarce trees. But out here, it’s all foliage and fences. Not a skyscraper in sight.
Rocket stares out the cracked window, a light breeze rustling his fur. He doesn’t stick his head out. That would be too undignified. Instead, he observes.
When our driver rumbles roughly over old train tracks, Rocket swivels his eyes to me, as if to say, You can’t be serious, Shelly.
He readjusts in his seat with a huff of breath. I don’t bother to pet him. He wouldn’t like it anyway. Hating touch is the one thing we have in common.
“This it?” Louis growls from the front seat.
I lean through the center console, watching the hills of autumn gold and red slowly part to reveal a white lattice sign.
Welcome to Copper Run!
“Yes.”
Past the sign is a covered red bridge—short and one-way—emptying into a town square.
“Jeez-us. It’s practically Happy Days out here,” Louis says, peering over the wheel through the windshield.
A quaint park, lined with shops, is covered in hay bales and pumpkins. Orange and white bunting hangs between lampposts. A white gazebo, smack dab in the center of the park, is wrapped in orange string lights and a garland of autumn leaves. Two propped scarecrows sit on the bench inside.
Along the sidewalks are A-frame chalkboards, listing daily specials. Hanging wooden signs from awnings point out shops, like a pharmacy, a video store, and a bakery. Most floor-to-ceiling glass storefronts are decorated with window murals of more scarecrows and pumpkins. Another lattice sign beside the park reads Copper Run , as if we might have forgotten already.
“What’re you gonna do all the way out here?” Louis asks.
“I’m running a bed-and-breakfast.” A sentence I would have never uttered thirty days ago.
He chortles out a, “No kidding?”
“No kidding,” I echo.
I unfold my map, tracing my finger along the roads highlighted in yellow and blue. This place is minuscule on a map. I bet there are only two stoplights, and we’ve probably passed both of them.
“Left up here,” I say.
The square transitions into long sidewalks, lining two-story houses with turrets and wraparound porches. Leaves collect on the ground, some yards raked and some not. A group of kids fly past on their bicycles, sitting high on the pedals. A toddler waddles past a tree swing. A woman aims a camcorder behind him. On the opposite side of the street, an older couple walks hand in hand.
“Cute little place, eh?” Louis muses.
I glance down at the map again. “Turn right up ahead.”
I fold up the map, but when the creases don’t line up perfectly, I shove it haphazardly into my bag. My hands are shaking, and I know exactly why.
My uneasiness reaches a pinnacle in my throat when I recognize the large white house at the end of the street. Swinging on two chains from a white post is a wooden sign, painted with the cursive words Bird & Breakfast.
The two-level colonial house is immaculate. A white picket fence closes off the cobblestone walkway, leading toward the wraparound porch, where two chairs and a swinging bench rock in the breeze. A bay window protrudes on one side, and through the glass, I spot a bench seat and lace curtains. Perfect rose bushes line the driveways between the inn and the house next door.
I’m so distracted that I almost forget to say, “This is it.”
Louis slams on the brakes, and I fling my arm out to block Rocket from barreling onto the floorboard.
I swear his brown eyes narrow with an expression of, I hate all of this.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.
When we’re fully stopped, I grab Rocket’s leash from my purse and hook it onto his collar. We both slide from the car.
The crisp air is a reprieve from the smoky taxi. Copper Run smells like crunching leaves and breezes that bite. There’s a hint of something warm in the air too—baked bread of some kind. Maybe a pie or biscuits in the oven. Mazzy Star hums from my neighbor’s open window.
Louis opens the trunk, unceremoniously dropping two suitcases onto the sidewalk. Not a single goodbye is exchanged. It isn’t until he pulls away that the weight of my decision finally hits me.
Shit.
Rocket glances up at me.
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m fine.”
Stepping forward, I swing open the gate in the white picket fence. Rocket reluctantly trots through before me. We crunch across the newly fallen leaves on the rocky path as I roll my patter-pattering suitcases behind me, stopping only to lug them up the creaking front steps with a bag slung over my shoulder.
I dig in my pocket to pull out the key ring my dad gave me before I left.
He’d thumbed through them with a stressed, “This one opens the front door. This one opens the back, but you have to give it an extra jiggle. This one is the cellar, but don’t mix it up with the attic—they look the same …”
I told him I’d figure it out and not to worry.
I eventually locate the front-door key, turn the lock, and push the stained-glass door inward.
A rush of stale air hits us. I wonder when the last time was that someone walked in, if it was my dad locking up after my mom’s hospital visit two months ago.
Rocket gingerly steps inside, sniffing the air.
“See anything?” I whisper.
His ears twitch backward, as if to say, Don’t rush me.
I hold up my palms. “All right, all right.”
I walk inside and flick on the lights. The foyer is illuminated from a chandelier above. To the left is a front desk with wooden cubbies. A stairwell ascends to a bare landing, then rotates up to a second floor. A carpeted runner paves a path to the parlor past the front desk, where sunlight filters in through the sheer, pulled-back curtains over the bay window. Decorative china plates and teacups are locked behind glass cabinets in a large hutch. In the center, a floral rug is tucked underneath beige furniture with low skirts and padded arms.
I can work with this. I’ve advertised much less appealing things.
I trail down a small hall to the right, pushing a door inward that reads STAFF ONLY . Past it is a decent-sized kitchen. Tan hand towels, adorned with grapes and vines, are folded on the counter. Dark purple half curtains hang across the window to the backyard. An empty coffeepot is plugged in.
I walk to the back door and open it. Another stone footpath trails through a small garden, ending at an enclosed white fence that separates the grass from the gravel parking lot. The lot fits maybe four cars. A single car—my mom’s silver Honda—takes up the space under a tree farthest from the house. The hood is coated in a small layer of curled brown leaves.
Rocket tugs against his leash. I unclip it and let him run in the fenced area.
Before stepping out myself, I walk down a narrow hallway to the right. At the end is a closed door with a framed cross-stitch sign, reading Home Sweet Home . I gently twist the handle, and the door whines open. A quilt-covered queen bed sits against the wall. A small TV with a built-in VHS player is on the dresser in the corner. On a side table is a cordless phone and a small stack of Chicken Soup for the Soul books, topped with a tiny Precious Moments porcelain figurine—one of many Mom collected.
I breathe in. I breathe out. But no amount of air will dissipate the tightening in my chest.
I want to be here , I have to remind myself.
I take a seat on the edge of the bed and wind my palms together.
I chose this.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Sara told me before I left, holding my bag close to her chest like a bargaining chip. “I can put off graduation.”
I gently took the bag from her. “Sara, if you argue with me one more time, I’m gonna burn the inn down instead.”
“I promise I’ll move there when I’m done,” she quickly interjected.
“I know you will. But until then, I’ve got it covered.”
I didn’t tell Sara about the extended leave I was taking from work. She didn’t need to know.
Sara grinned. “I’ve got a whole speech prepared. Don’t underestimate me.” She went quiet for a moment before adding, “Really though, you have a super-adult advertising job. And a super-adult life.”
“And I’ve got it figured out.”
I glanced into my living room. Dad sat in the recliner, his sock-covered feet on the extended footrest.
“Take care of him, all right?”
Sara grinned, joking, “He’ll be partying with the college kids in no time.”
I gave a weak smile.
Sara jerked me into a hug, whispering, “Call me once a week. At a minimum.”
Mom gave the inn to Sara, but my little sister has one semester left in art school, and she’s already taken a couple of gap years. Dad can barely get out of bed, let alone run the love of his life’s dream business. So, I’m doing what I always do—whatever needs to be done. Which means running this place until Sara graduates in December.
My company gave me a small leave of absence—probably because they felt bad about both my mom and my untimely divorce, but mostly, they let me leave because they had to. Nobody else knows how to do my job the way I do.
I knew what havoc would ensue if I came here, and I’ve already gotten three pages on my beeper because of it. My company placed Mark over my main account. It’s a terrible decision because Mark is about as competent as a wet paper bag, but his golf handicap is thirteen, so that’s all that matters.
I peer out the lace-curtained window to my left.
Great.
My room directly faces my next-door neighbor’s kitchen, where a teenage girl with stringy blonde hair bops in front of the sink to the loud music I heard earlier.
I close the curtains and unpack my suitcase, tucking clothes neatly into drawers and hanging my nicer shirts in the closet—stopping short when I see that a lone wooden rod is the only space I have. Slung over a hanger on the end is a plum leather clasp purse. I run my fingers over the long crossbody strap. Mom’s artsy dresses matched Sara’s style, but sometimes, Mom’s tastes overlapped with mine. Only sometimes.
I lay the purse on the bed and transfer my makeup and wallet from my large bag to this one. Not like I’ll need the big one anymore anyway.
I go back to the kitchen and brew evening coffee. As the coffee maker gurgles, I peer into the cabinets, spotting chipped mugs and crinkled bags of flour. I’ll have to go shopping.
Once the coffee’s done, I take it upstairs and sort through the guest rooms, the hall closets, and back down to the parlor and front desk, trying to get my lay of the land. I find a black three-ring binder on the front desk. In the clear front slip is a tan paper with my mom’s loopy cursive.
Bird & Breakfast Information.
I carry it into the kitchen with my coffee, looking out the back door, expecting to see Rocket’s bored face, but?—
At the edge of the yard, a little girl’s arms poke through the picket fence, wrapping around Rocket’s black-and-white fur. His snout is buried in her neck. And she’s squealing.
Oh God.
I drop the binder and my coffee, barreling through the back door.
“Rocket!” I scream.
My heart races. My nerves kick into my throat. I know he wouldn’t hurt her. He’s stubborn, and he doesn’t listen, but he’s not violent.
He’s not violent.
My chunky loafers kick up crunched leaves and dead grass. I grip his collar and pull him back.
Once they’re separated, I realize the girl isn’t screaming. She’s giggling. Her cute button nose scrunches up in overwhelming laughter. Her curly blonde hair, held up high with a scrunchie and little sparkling butterfly clips, bounces with every breath.
“He likes me!” she exclaims.
A car door slams shut, pulling my attention to the red truck idling in my neighbor’s driveway. Heavy boots fall against the pavement, and then someone breaks between the rose bushes separating the inn’s small lot from my neighbor’s house.
“Brittany?!”
Emerging from the other side is the most concerned-looking man I’ve ever seen. Dark, furrowed eyebrows pinch in. The edges of his mouth tug down into a twitchy, exaggerated frown.
I feel like I’ve been caught, but I’m not sure why.
“What’s going on here?” he asks, and his formerly shaking voice is now flustered. His brown hair sticks out from where the tree limbs dragged strands back, and even his orange flannel, rolled up at the sleeves, is loose around his veined forearms, like they were pushed up in a rush.
The man’s gaze finally meets mine, and suddenly, my shoes feel rooted to the ground. My stomach barrels down to the dirt.
This is the man from the funeral.
That same sensation—the feeling of being seen , our eyes snagging —overtakes me once more. His eyes scan my own before tracing over me—from my cheeks to my lips and further to my fist, clutching Rocket’s collar.
Closer now, I can see his eyes are a light blue, reminiscent of a summer day devoid of clouds. Bright. Happy. Nothing like today’s overcast sky, a day almost filtered in sepia from all the falling leaves. Faint freckles dot the bridge of his nose while the nose itself sits slightly crooked, like maybe he’s been punched once or twice in his life. A small, faded scar adorns his upper lip, probably confirming my theory. But aside from that, his cheeks are smooth-shaven, and that little crease beside his mouth is just how I remember it. Handsome. Like he’s on the edge of a laugh.
“He’s so soft!”
We both dart our eyes back to the little girl. She pushes her arms through the gate toward Rocket. I pull his collar back right as he jerks forward. The man grips a fistful of the girl’s overalls, pulling her up in the air. She giggles uncontrollably.
He spins her to face him. “What did I say about petting dogs you don’t know?”
“Don’t do it,” she answers through laughter.
His mouth tips into a lazy smile. His full bottom lip crooks up on one side more than the other, exposing a sliver of straight white teeth. That little crease deepens as he chuckles with her.
“Exactly.” Gently, he places her back down and jokingly says, “Stay.”
The man’s eyes find me again, sticking me in place once more.
“You know,” he says, running a free palm through his hair, “I’m not exactly familiar with how to handle someone kidnapping my child.”
“What?” The word comes out sharper than I intended it to.
“Should I call to report you and your”—his eyes trail down to Rocket—“attack dog?”
He smirks.
It’s a joke.
He’s joking.
Dumbfounded by the whole suddenly talking with a neighbor scenario—which was not on my to-do list today—I respond with, “He doesn’t normally like people.”
The man clicks his tongue and squints playfully. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
I close my eyes, cringing at myself with a nod. “Yep, I just registered that.”
He chuckles as the girl reaches out again.
“Can I pet him?”
Rocket sniffs closer. Can I sniff her?
I finally notice crumbs littering the girl’s overalls pocket. I sigh. “She must have food. That’s why he’s sniffing her.”
“Ah.” The man takes a step closer and closer, one after the other until I mirror his steps backward. Once he’s close enough to touch, I bumble out, “Wait, what are you?—”
Then, he reaches past me. He bends at the knees and picks up a bright pink plastic lunch box from the ground, which I completely missed in my fumbling to get out here. Smacked on the front is an amalgamation of sparkling colors, bright stars, and a unicorn with a rainbow mane.
He pats the lunch box. “Well, it’s either bread or drugs in here. Which do you reckon?”
My head jerks back. “Why would drugs be in there?”
He shrugs. “Maybe he’s a drug dog.”
“Rocket’s not a drug dog.”
“Hey, you can tell me if he has a drug problem.”
The girl giggles. Maybe she’s used to this weird man’s charades, but I’m far from laughing.
“That’s not—” I clamp my mouth shut in quiet frustration.
“You’re telling me drug dogs don’t have a drug problem?”
He pops open the lunch box. Leftover bread crust topples out. Rocket promptly gobbles it off the grass, sending the girl into another laughing fit.
The man cocks his head to the side, strands of hair falling with the motion.
“I’ve been planning to meet you,” he says. “You’re Sara, right?”
For some reason, that jump-starts my nerves once more.
“No,” I say. “And how do you know?—”
“I was told Birdie’s daughter would be here to?—”
“I am her other?—”
“She was going to take over?—”
“I’m here to run the?—”
There’s a beat of silence where, finally, neither of us talks over the other.
I exhale. “I’m running the inn now.”
He squints. “But your name isn’t Sara?”
“No, I’m the other daughter.”
He lifts his eyebrows as his lips kick up into a smile. “Right.”
Our staring contest is broken by a loud gasp on his side of the bushes.
“Shut. Up. Are you near a dog ?” The teen I saw in the kitchen window crosses the property line, the untied shoelaces on her Converses snapping on the walkway.
“I’m allowed to be near dogs,” the man counters with a laugh. It’s the type of laugh that seems like it’s been on the edge of his teasing lips this whole time. Like it belongs in that little crease beside his mouth.
“You hate dogs,” the teenager says.
He scoffs. “I don’t hate dogs.”
She stares at me. “Who’s this?”
“Figuring that out. Will you take Britt inside?”
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
He smiles. His expressions are so gentle toward these girls. “Yes. Go back inside for a second.”
“But I just got out here.”
“And you’ll have just as much fun taking the walk back inside,” he says, shaking the lunch box by its handle. “Enjoy the crunching leaves. The breath of fresh air.”
The teenager rolls her eyes so far back that I can see the whites of them, but it’s accompanied by a smile.
She holds out her palm. “C’mon, Britt Britt.”
The little girl scrambles to her feet, giving a wave to Rocket. “Bye, doggy!”
Rocket resists me, as if to follow them, but I continue gripping his collar.
Linking hands, the girl and the teenager walk to their back door, but not without a few extra glances back at us before disappearing through the snapping screen door.
“Teens,” the man mutters with that crooked smile.
He stares back at me. I didn’t realize he’d stepped closer. He leans forward to rest his forearm on the fence. It’s so close to my waist that I can feel the warmth of his palm. This man has zero concept of personal space, but I’ll be damned if I move away first.
“I didn’t get your name,” he observes.
“Michelle,” I answer.
“Cliff,” he responds, extending his hand. “Cliff Burke.”
I take it. His hand is bigger than mine. A faded pink burn embellishes the back. His shake is firm but somehow gentle, yet not soft enough to be insulting. He doesn’t shake my hand with half his palm like I’m frail, but instead like I’m an equal—something most men at my company struggle to balance.
“So, why isn’t Sara here?” he asks, continuing to shake my hand.
“What?”
“You’re right. Too personal of a question.”
Shake.
“Why isn’t my sister taking over, you mean?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Shake.
“She’s busy,” I answer.
“And you aren’t?”
“Not now.”
Cliff’s teasing smile rises once more. “What does that mean?”
“I wanted the job,” I lie.
He snorts. “No, you didn’t. So, why take it?”
He’s too perceptive, which has my nerves spitting fire as I blurt out, “Because my mom clearly can’t do it anymore.”
It isn’t until he stops moving that I realize we were still shaking hands. His eyebrows tilt in, and embarrassment sluices down my spine.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
I pinch my eyes closed and sigh. “No, I’m sorry,” I echo. “It’s been a long day.”
I peer my eyes open again to find his boyish, lopsided smile grinning back. My chest tightens.
“I can only imagine.” He glances down at our hands linked together. “So, are you going to let go first or me?”
I quickly slip my hand from his. He watches the motion, that nettlesome grin plastered on his face.
“It was very nice to meet you, Cliff.”
I walk backward. Rocket is on my left, and I swear he’s giving Cliff the side-eye. I feel myself doing the same.
“You too, Michelle.” But when I turn to leave, he calls, “How about you come over for dinner?”
I halt in place, whirling back around. “What?”
“Yeah,” he says. “A big neighborly welcome. We tend to do that here.”
“That’s—”
“Trust me, it’ll be fun. And”—he blows out a breath with a smile—“I’m sure you’ll get to know us eventually if Britt has anything to say about it. She makes friends quick.” Before I can refuse the offer, he twists at the waist and yells toward their screened back door, “Emily! Set the table for one more!”
“You don’t have to?—”
“It’s no trouble. You don’t have groceries yet anyway. Right?”
I look down at Rocket the same time he peers up at me. Shelly, what the hell?
As if on cue, my stomach growls. Cliff flicks his eyes down, then back up. A cocky smile is paired with raised eyebrows.
I don’t see any other option, so I say, “Sure.”