6. Michelle
Chapter 6
Michelle
T he guest book is no longer empty, but I wish it were.
Copper Run is an idyllic town. The autumn leaves and cozy fall festival were perfect. New management was fine.
Fine?
I flip back a page, where every entry complimented the bed-and-breakfast experience, complete with a few sentences on the host herself. My mother’s stunning breakfast, the compelling conversation, the overall homey feeling.
I swallow and shut the book, blowing out a breath and closing my eyes. It’s been another week of guests lifting their noses in my direction.
After setting up breakfast this morning, I received a weak smile from the mother in the small family—a condescending, please leave us alone smile—so I walked off. I’m leaving them be. I followed every guest around last week, and that didn’t work either. I keep trying different things, and none of it is clicking. But that’s okay. This is another focus group, like in advertising. Another problem to be solved.
But this problem’s solution isn’t clicking. Something always clicks eventually, and the fact that it hasn’t is irritating. I’m better than this. I’m an advertising manager for a reason .
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” a voice coos.
I look up. Lisa waltzes through the front door, peeking around the foyer in awe. George follows. I stiffen behind the front desk. After I left our conversation at the corner store, I didn’t expect to see them again.
“Wow, you even washed the doilies!” Lisa picks one up from the entryway table and grins.
I can’t tell if she’s genuinely beaming or if her cheeks are over-blushed with powder.
“How are things going?” George asks.
“Oh, and the flowers!” Lisa interrupts on a gasp. “And you restocked the newspapers! I always told Birdie she needed to stay on top of that, but, oh, she was never concerned about the news. George, that reminds me; we need to get the paper this morning.”
“You can take one,” I say.
Her hand rests over her heart. “So sweet.”
George lifts an eyebrow, circling back to, “Things are going well?”
“It’s been good,” I answer, eyeing the guest book and tucking it aside. “Running like a dream.”
Lisa sniffs the air. “Have you been making some of Birdie’s biscuits?”
“Yes. They’re in the—” My sentence is barely out before Lisa shuffles past me, down the hall, and into the kitchen, past the STAFF ONLY plaque.
George clears his throat, giving me a pointed look. I’m not sure what look, but it’s enough to make me leave to follow Lisa. The creaking floorboards indicate he’s close behind.
I swing open the kitchen door, and Lisa already has a biscuit to her mouth.
“I used to love these.”
But when she crunches down, her face twists. Bugged-out eyes, scrunched nose, and pursed lips. Her mmm is so forced; it’s embarrassing.
My heart sinks. “What is it?” I ask. “Are they not good?”
She grabs a napkin and spits it out.
Oh no.
“Dear,” she says, pushing up her glasses, “they’re terrible. Is this what you’re feeding guests?”
She says it so loud that I walk to the kitchen door connected to the dining room and ensure nobody is out there. But a family is at breakfast. And their biscuits are untouched. With a grimace, I shut the door.
“But nobody’s complained so far,” I whisper to Lisa.
“Are there guests in there right now?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer more quietly.
Lisa peers over my shoulder at the dining room door. “And you’re not eating breakfast with them?”
“Am I supposed to?” I thought they didn’t want that. What am I missing ?
“Oh, dear …”
The phone on the kitchen counter rings, and I instantly grab it. Anything to get away from this conversation.
“Bird people were all around, sure, yet nobody was dropping by your house, unannounced. I miss it.
Instead, I mumble, “He and I really don’t talk that much.”
I lean back in my stool again and finally catch a glimpse of Cliff. He’s resting forward on the front desk, running a hand through his hair even though it instantly flops back down. His wrists are so … defined . His leather watch band, buckled around one wrist, slides up and down his arm with each movement, and I can’t understand why that adds to his appeal.
No. He’s not appealing.
“I saw your car here and thought I’d come to apologize,” Cliff’s distant voice says from the front desk. “I know Emily left work earlier than she should have … again.” He shakes his head.
Lisa waves her hand. “Oh, she went to see Josh, didn’t she? I was a teen once.”
Cliff snorts. “So was I. And now, at thirty-three, I have a sixteen-year-old.”
There are two sides to Cliff Burke. The goofy town local with a worry-free, crooked smile. And the single father—a man who carried his daughter in his arms when she got a cut on her leg. A man who’s protective of his girls. Stressed. Uncomfortable. Clenched jaw.
“Anyway,” he continues, “this is for you.”
I can’t see what he hands her, but Lisa immediately gushes, “Oh, Cliff!”
“Snickerdoodle, right?”
She tsks. “Oh gosh, yes. My favorite.”
“So, how about guests?” Sara asks in my ear. “Have you met any cool guests?”
I return to scribbling on my notepad. “No, not really. I let them do their own thing.”
“What? Why? That’s, like, the best part about that place. People travel and have amazing stories!”
“I tried talking. They’re on vacation,” I say. “I don’t want to bother them.”
From the foyer, I hear Lisa again. “Oh, delicious, as always.” Then, she lowers her voice. “Might I suggest teaching Birdie’s girl how to bake? Her biscuits?—”
“Atrocious,” George blurts, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he purposefully growled it louder so I’d hear.
Really?!
“Is that right?” Cliff says. I can almost picture that crooked smile.
Sara’s voice chimes in again, “Shell, you’re not bothering guests. If they wanted to vacation alone, they’d go to a motel outside of town. They like the whole experience. They want to talk to you.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do!” she answers with a laugh. “That’s the whole point. Dad was telling me the other day that Hot Neighbor?—”
“Not his name.”
“Always brought over baked goods and talked with the guests too. Does he do that with you? Maybe that’ll help.”
I hear Cliff’s distant laughter, low and rising straight from his chest. Genuine, like everything else he does.
“No,” I admit. “I might have explicitly told him not to help actually.”
Sara gasps. “What did you say to him?”
“I said I could do this on my own. That’s all.” Saying it out loud sends guilt sliding over my skin, like I’m getting secondhand embarrassment for myself.
I lean back on my stool again and catch a glimpse of Cliff. The stool groans, the further I lean. Cliff’s forearms relax on the front desk as he leans close to Lisa. I snort. I’m not surprised he’s invading someone’s personal space.
“Shelly,” Sara snaps, “listen to me.”
“What?”
“Make friends!” she pleads on almost a laughing whine. “You’re gonna be there for three more months. And you’re not even talking to guests? Aren’t you lonely?”
“You deserve to ? —”
I shake Allen’s words away.
I look around. The place is clean. Dishes are done, and coffee is waiting to be taken out to guests. I even made extra biscuits. Though I guess those no longer matter.
I’m doing everything right. And whatever isn’t working—the biscuits, apparently?—needs to be adjusted. It’s trial and error, like most problems.
I look over at Rocket with his nose pressed to the back window. I wonder if he’s waiting for Brittany to appear.
There’s a hiss of a whisper from the foyer.
I push the linoleum with my boot and lean back on the foot stool again.
I watch Cliff. His brown hair with loose strands hanging over his ear. That smooth, curved jaw. His typical smile with the full bottom lip crooked up more on one side than the other. That same thick flannel, like he’s one second away from cutting down a whole forest or preserving it.
Lisa leans closer to Cliff to whisper.
My back molars grind. What are they saying? What other possible critique can they make about my stupid, hard biscuits?
“Shelly?” Sara asks.
I give an extra little push, rising to only two stool legs. Cliff’s eyes dart over, catching mine in the process. My heart drops, and the toe of my shoe suddenly leaves the ground.
No, no, no!
I fall backward. The breath whooshes out of my lungs. I hit the kitchen floor hard. The phone clatters across the floor. Rocket scrambles up onto scraping nails, darting down the hall like some Wile E. Coyote cartoon.
There’s a stool rung broken beside me, and as I analyze the damage—my aching tailbone and racing heart, which I can feel down to my fingertips—footsteps rush into the kitchen. A hand hooks in the crook of my elbow to help me up. I stand and am suddenly eye to eye with Cliff.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
After his eyes dart over my clothes, down to my legs, and back up—the same dad-like look he gave Brittany when she fell, as if assessing for bruises—he finally finds my gaze once more.
I’m not accustomed to being this close to another man who isn’t Allen. I can feel Cliff’s breath on my lips. I see every little line beside his eyes and that faded scar above his mouth. He smells like cinnamon and vanilla—the organic cologne of a working baker.
Slowly, that crease beside his lips deepens. My chest feels so hot; it’s like lava boiling up into my neck.
“Were you eavesdropping?” he teases in a whisper that sends goose bumps rolling over my arms and chest.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” I lie.
“I’ve gotta say, you’re awfully defensive.”
“And you’re quick to draw conclusions.”
“I’m not the one who fell off a stool.”
My heart hammers as one corner of his lips slides up.
“Shelly?!” I jump as Sara’s tinny voice echoes from the phone on the floor across the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
I notice Cliff’s hand holding my arm, his rough thumb catching the sleeve over my elbow. I pull away. His eyes flick to me, and he lowers his hand as well.
I dust my skirt off with any potential dignity I have left and bend to grab the phone.
“Hang on, Sara.”
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I fell. I’m fine. Hang on,” I repeat. I push the Mute button and set the phone on the counter.
“Goodness, are you okay?” Lisa asks by the doorway, her palm over her mouth and a snickerdoodle cookie held in the other hand. George appears behind her with furrowed eyebrows.
“I’m fine,” I answer. “Really.”
“Are you sure?” Lisa asks.
“Yes.” My response is stiff and probably too stilted.
Rocket slinks around the corner, giving me a once-over. I can’t tell if he’s checking if I’m okay or if he’s making sure there are no more loud noises. He eyes Cliff tentatively.
“Gonna be nice to me today?” Cliff asks, bending down and extending his hand.
Rocket sniffs it for a second, then walks away.
“Guess not.”
“Give me one second,” I say, picking up the phone once more.
Lisa and George leave with indecipherable murmurs. Cliff is last, lingering at the doorway. I wave goodbye, and he chuckles. I don’t know what to make of it.
I unmute the phone. “Hey, Sara.”
“God, what happened?”
“I fell. I’m fine.”
“Did I hear other voices?”
I sigh. “Yeah. My neighbor was here.”
“I thought you said you didn’t talk to him.”
“It’s impossible to not talk to him.”
There’s a pause, and I swear she’s grinning on the other end. “Well then, he’s the perfect candidate to be your first friend.”
My body tenses. “Sara?—”
I hear slurping and a clank of a bowl. Mouth likely full of cereal, she says, “Please try to be happy there. I’m so jealous of you! I bet the leaves are so gorgeous this time of year.”
“Yeah,” I admit, “they are.”
“Then, enjoy it. And accept some help. And stop being off-putting.”
“Hey.”
She giggles. “Do it for me.”
I let out a frustrated groan. I pace the kitchen and watch Cliff cross toward the front door.
“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Lisa asks him before he’s all the way out. “We’ll make enough meatloaf for the whole family.”
As if he can sense me looking, Cliff’s eyes dart to mine, sending waves of flames over my chest and up my neck. He inhales before turning his gaze back to Lisa.
“No,” he says, letting out an exhale and laughing. “But thank you. I should get back before the house explodes. Emily is finishing her volcano science project.”
George smiles, and it’s so much kinder than any he’s ever given me. “We’ll keep a lookout for an explosion.”
Cliff gives Lisa a final hug, and the door shuts behind him.
“Promise me you’ll make a friend,” Sara says in my ear. “Talk to guests. Something.” Then, she swallows. “If not for me, then for Mom.”
I sigh, looking down at Rocket, whose nose is pushed against the window again, looking out in the backyard for the little girl next door.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Yeah, I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”