3. Cliff
Chapter 3
Cliff
M ichelle enters my kitchen cautiously, like she’s been invited to dinner with Satan in hell. And I swear that border collie following her is ready to steal my pitchfork.
“The dog!” Brittany runs past me.
I whip my hand out, but she slides slightly out of range, so I can’t grab the straps of her overalls in time. When my daughter skids to a halt in front of that border collie, he lowers onto his haunches on the tiled floor.
“Rocket, be nice,” Michelle commands.
The dog’s ear twitches, but he doesn’t deign to turn his head.
Michelle remains stationed by the door, back straight, arms crossed. Crimson lipstick matches her equally crimson nails, anxiously tapping the crook of her arm.
I remember her from Birdie’s funeral. She looks the same. Confident. Stunning. Tense. But also alone. I check for a ring on her fourth finger. There isn’t one.
Huh.
I assumed she was married to the equally stiff man standing beside her at the funeral. Then again, she slapped him, and the impact echoed through the whole chapel. No love there.
“She’s so cool,” Emily breathed.
The drama at the funeral distracted Emily from tears for even a moment, so I’ll need to thank Michelle for that at some point.
Michelle’s lips part as she looks around our kitchen. I follow her line of sight. Our house is nothing fancy. There are probably too many magnets on the fridge, holding up graded homework, finger paintings, and glossy photos smeared with fingerprints. Our kitchen nook is piled high with books and mail, and our hutch is stacked with Emily’s CD collection. But Michelle looks at all of it with some type of awe.
I’m in some type of awe too.
There are lots of beautiful women in Copper Run, but I can’t remember the last time I saw someone as breathtaking as her. Even now, out of her black funeral dress and in a more casual—notably black—outfit, Michelle commands the space. Her brown hair, blown out below her shoulders, looks straight out of a catalog. A lighter brown colors her eyes, but they’re shadowed by long, dark lashes. Sure, she has soft features—a curved jaw, delicate cheekbones, and smooth pink cheeks—but this gentleness is contrasted by the intensity of her arched eyebrows and full lips, straightened into a single line.
“Can I guess?”
Michelle blinks at me. “Can you guess what?”
“The city,” I continue. “I’m assuming Baltimore.”
“What?”
“Where you’re from. Boston then?” I squint. “No … Seattle. You work in Washington, where your mom is from.”
She’s quiet for a moment before confirming, “Yes. Seattle.”
She seems like a city girl.
I bite back my grin in satisfaction and call out, “Emily, how’s that soup lookin’?”
“I threw in some extra squash for you.”
A shiver rolls over my spine, and I exaggerate it to get the point across. Brittany beams from the floor, hands now coursing through the dog’s black-and-white fur.
Michelle walks toward the window over the sink, parting our frilly curtains between two fingers.
“You guys can see into my bedroom,” she observes.
“Birdie liked to put on a show for us.”
Her eyes snap to mine. I laugh.
“Kidding.”
Then, I realize maybe that was insensitive. I know Birdie would have laughed though. Her daughter? Clearly a more serious sense of humor. Her deadpan attitude and dark polish are so different from Birdie Cadell’s laugh lines and pastel floral dresses.
I cross the kitchen to the cabinets. “So, you’re taking over your parents’ bed-and-breakfast?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but Emily interrupts, “Wait, are you Birdie’s daughter?”
“Yes,” Michelle answers.
Emily instantly frowns. “I’m really sorry about … y’know.”
I think I see Michelle swallow. “It’s all right.”
“What about Mr. Cadell?” Emily continues.
“My dad’s living with my sister at college for now.”
“Oh …” Emily’s words fade away.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t deflate as well. Birdie’s husband was a common presence as much as she was. Sure, he didn’t talk much, but he made up for words with actions. Waiting at the bus stop for Brittany when I was running behind at the bakery, grilling out in the summer, sitting on the porch with us in the evenings …
One look at Michelle reminds me that, while we lost our neighbors, she lost her mom. It’s not even remotely the same. When Michelle’s attention is turned away, I mosey to the stove and lean toward Emily.
“Hey, maybe let’s not interrogate her,” I whisper.
“But you just did.”
“Yeah, but I’m a dick, and you’re not, kiddo.”
I creak open the cabinet above and pull down a stack of plates. Michelle suddenly crosses the kitchen tiles with little snaps of her black shoes. She extends a hand.
“So, you’re going into the busiest season alone, huh?” I continue as if our conversation didn’t have an awkward pause.
“I’ll manage,” she answers, flicking her fingers toward her.
I grin, looking at her hand and back up. “You’re our guest. You’re not gonna set the table.”
She moves her fingers again, silently arguing my point.
I slowly smile wider, finally placing the plates in her hand. “All right then. Thank you.”
“Where do they go?” she asks.
I nod my head toward the dining room through the closed doorway. “We’ll set up in there.”
But I can’t stop staring at her and grinning ear to ear. She’s so bold and unapologetic.
Emily snickers. “We never sit in the dining room.”
“Well, we have a guest now, don’t we?” I say.
“So, the dining room?” Michelle clarifies.
“Yeah, through there.”
But before she can push the door, it swings in toward us. The door narrowly misses Michelle. She stumbles back, and I place a hand on her lower back, along with another under her palm to help balance the wobbling plates. Not that they’re particularly special china, but they’re the only plates we have.
Carol emerges, unloading her purse onto the breakfast nook. “If your pal Lars stops by one more time, asking for you when he knows you’re not there, so help me—oh. Hi.”
My sister freezes, finally spotting the stranger in my home. It’s about the same time I realize I’m holding said stranger. Being this close, I catch a hint of amber and cloves in her hair. No, burnt sugar. Over time, as a baker, a lot of smells grow sickly sweet, but burnt sugar never gets old.
I step back and wave my palm toward my sister.
“Carol, this is Michelle. She’s Birdie’s daughter. She’ll be running the inn. Michelle, this is my sister. She lives in a constant state of distress.”
Carol extends a hand to Michelle. “That’s my brother. He’s a dick. But it’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Michelle says, reaching her free hand out to shake.
The corner of her lips kicks up. I think that might be the first smile I’ve seen from her. I return the gesture even though her smile isn’t aimed at me.
“I forgot to introduce you to everyone,” I realize, threading my palm through my hair. “Right here is Emily.” I drop my arm around her shoulders. “She’s studying for Home Ec, so we keep her by the stove.”
Emily pokes her wooden spoon at my chest. “He’s a misogynist actually. Big one.”
“Huge,” I sarcastically agree. “She’s gotta learn her place now while she’s young.”
Emily barks out a laugh, but Carol admonishes me with a, “Jeez, Clifford.”
“And that’s Brittany over there.”
My daughter is splayed on the floor next to the dog now, way too close to his mouth. God . I swear my heart rate triples.
“Hey, Britt Britt, back up a bit, will you?”
Without breaking her giddy eye contact, Brittany scoots away a millimeter.
“How many sisters do you have?” Michelle asks.
“Why? Do you wanna take one?” I joke. “Actually, these two are my daughters.”
It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but I swear Michelle’s eyes snap to my fourth finger. I’m the one huffing out a laugh this time.
No ring here . Not even a summer tan line of one.
Emily claps the pot again with the wooden spoon. “All right, it’s ready! Extra squash chunks. Just for you, big dog.”
I whip open the fridge. “I’m not ready. How’d you get ahead of me?”
“You got distracted,” she accuses.
I flash my hand, palm up, toward Michelle. “By being a polite neighbor.”
Michelle arches a single eyebrow at me again—an I’m not your excuse eyebrow. I chuckle at the small hint of playfulness.
“I’ll get the toast started,” Carol says, shucking off her jacket, hanging it on the door hook next to Britt’s pint-sized one.
My family and I bustle around the kitchen, getting the last of the meal prepared. Michelle disappears through the swinging door with the plates. When she comes back, she pulls open a random drawer until she finds utensils. She gathers those up as well without a word. I smile. She doesn’t like to stay idle. I can respect that.
Before long, we’re in the dining room with soups and sandwiches, side by side, atop frilly place mats. Spoons clink into bowls. Brittany’s soup slurps echo. Emily was right. We never eat in here—and for good reason. The mahogany table, the uniform chairs with stiff, padded seats, and the bronze-framed photos of beaches are relics of my ex-wife’s decorating. We much prefer the kitchen nook, marinating in the oven’s lingering warmth, with Emily as our DJ, playing music on the boom box.
“So,” Carol says, “Michelle, how do you like it in Copper Run so far?”
“I’ve only been here an hour.”
“An hour?” Carol gawks.
“I stole her,” I say nonchalantly.
“I did too!” Brittany adds in.
“Is the inn yours now?” Emily interjects, crisscrossing her legs in the chair.
“No,” Michelle answers, dipping her spoon in the ginger soup. “I’m only staying until after Christmas.”
“When are your first guests?” Emily asks.
I click my tongue and say out of the corner of my mouth, “What did I say about interrogating?”
“Tomorrow,” Michelle answers.
I freeze. “Wait, you only have one day to learn the ins and outs of running that place?”
“Thought we weren’t interrogating,” Emily mumbles.
“I’m a fast learner,” Michelle responds with raised eyebrows once more. I like the way they touch the wisps of her brown hair. It’s almost delicate. “I didn’t want to cancel on guests at the last minute.”
“Daddy can help,” Brittany chimes in, slurping the soup from her spoon. “He promised.”
“Sure did,” I agree. “We were pretty close to your mother,” I explain. “There weren’t enough bushes to keep out this kid.” I shuffle my hand through Brittany’s hair, sending her ponytail lopsided. “So, she and your dad were forced to put up with us.”
“My mother was a very giving person,” Michelle says. It might be a sentence that’s usually paired with a wistful smile, an echo of a delightful memory from childhood. But she only gives the slightest twitch in the corner of her mouth. Not terrible, but tainted by something.
“I believe that,” I agree skeptically.
Carol sighs. “She loved this town.”
“Birdie won the costume contest last year,” Brittany blurts out.
“Oh, yeah!” Emily says. “She dressed as Freddy Krueger. It was so rad.”
“Have you met Lisa and George yet?” I interject.
Michelle shakes her head. “Who are Lisa and George?”
“Good friends of your parents,” I say. “And nuisances.”
“George and Cliff fight like cats and dogs,” Carol pseudo-whispers to Michelle with a grin.
“Maybe if he didn’t demand fresh -baked goods in the afternoon, I wouldn’t have to,” I announce—not as much of a whisper.
From below, I hear a dog’s inhale, followed by slobbery teeth gnashing. I pull up the floral tablecloth and balk at my daughter feeding the border collie pieces of her sandwich. He licks the remainder from her fingertips.
“Britt, don’t feed the dog.”
Michelle’s cheeks flush a deep red as she shifts her head under the table too.
“Rocket!” she hisses. “Be polite.”
The dog, once again, does not pay his owner any mind. Michelle tongues her cheek. Our eyes snap together underneath the table.
“He likes to ignore me,” she says.
Carol sputters out a laugh.
“Sorry,” Carol says. “The dog having a personality—that was a little funny.”
Suddenly, the phone rings from the kitchen. Every person stiffens, including me. Michelle’s eyes swivel over all of us.
“We don’t answer the phone during dinner,” I explain.
“But it might be Josh,” Emily pleads.
It might be Tracy, finally calling for her weekly check-in with her daughters.
I force a smile. “Can’t wait to hear what he has to say then. Think it’s about savings?”
“You’re so mean.”
“And you’re so laughing.”
Emily harrumphs, but my ears catch each subsequent ring.
I want to answer the phone, but I’d be a hypocrite if I stood up now. She could leave a message, but would she pick up if I called back?
Another ring.
And finally a click, followed by my own muffled voice.
“You’ve reached Cliff, Emily, and Brittany,” Answering Machine Me says. “Leave your name and number after the beep, and we’ll call you back.” Then, a three-person chorus of me, Emily, and Brittany yells, “Bye-ee!”
There’s a beep. An inhale of breath from all of us.
“Uh, hey. This is Josh.”
Exhales around the table.
“Calling for Emily. Um …” Emily shifts in her chair eagerly as Josh slowly continues, “Yeah. I’ll call back later, I guess.”
I decided weeks ago that Josh was undeniably a fig roll. Dry and boring.
He hangs up on his end, and I give her a side-eye.
“He seems nice,” Carol says.
Emily bites her bottom lip. “Can I be excused? Please?”
I’m not in the mood to argue, so I nod.
“But, hey, no more than one hour on the phone. And if you hear call waiting, switch over!”
Emily is already out of her chair, swinging through the kitchen door with her dishes before I can finish.
I grimace at Michelle. “Anyway?—”
“I should get going too,” she says. “Thank you for dinner. It was great.”
It wasn’t. Emily’s soup was atrocious, but Carol and I smile at her politeness anyway.
I scoot my chair out from the table. “I’ll walk you out.”
We walk through the kitchen, passing Emily with the kitchen phone pressed to her ear. I squeak open the screen door, allowing Michelle and her dog to pass in front of me. The amber scent of her hair catches me once more.
I lean against the doorway. “Thanks for putting up with us. And I’m sorry. We really loved your mother.”
“I appreciate that,” she says, and I believe her.
“Y’know, I promised Birdie I’d help you. Well, Sara, but also you.”
She raises an eyebrow.
I can’t help but chuckle. “What?”
“I should be fine,” she says, looking away. “But thank you. I just need to get by until December.”
Interesting.
Her aversion to this town reminds me of my ex. The people, the trees, even the leaves—she assumed the whole town, including nature, was conspiring against her.
“Copper Run isn’t so bad,” I say, tilting my head to the side. “Did Birdie leave you any instructions?”
“I found a binder, but I haven’t read it yet. I was hoping to review it tonight but?—”
I lean back, clicking my tongue. “Ah. My fault again.”
“It’s fine.”
She continues to not make eye contact, and my eyes rove over her of their own accord. Somehow, her being annoyed with me only makes her prettier. Flushed cheeks serve her well.
I nod slowly. “Well, this was fun.”
Her eyes swivel to me, and I think I see a bit of humor there. “Absolutely.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
“Wait, why?”
Then, it’s my time to pause. “For … breakfast? At the inn?”
“Why?” she repeats, more direct this time.
I laugh. “Well, normally, I drop off pastries each morning.”
I wonder what pastry she likes. I wonder if it smells like the burnt sugar on her neck. Maybe her favorite is obvious, like crème br?lée—on the fancier side with literal burnt sugar—but something tells me it’s not that simple.
“There are pastries every morning?” she asks.
“For breakfast, yeah. I’m the baker around these small-town parts ,” I joke with a faux accent. “Birdie was never too great at baking herself so …” My words fade off at her confusion.
Michelle stares at the empty inn through the crowd of bushes. I’ve never seen a person think so loud.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” she says, blinking back. “I have a lot to learn.”
“I was serious before. I made a promise to Birdie that I’d help,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I don’t need it.”
“It’s not an offer. I’m fulfilling a promise. At least let me help during your first couple of weeks.”
“Really, I don’t?—”
“Then, at least let me drop off recipes.”
She nods. “All right.”
“All right then.”
“Thanks again for dinner.”
“Anytime.”
As she walks away, patting her hip for her dog to follow, my eyes dart to her ringless finger once more.