7. Michelle
Chapter 7
Michelle
M y shoes clap over Bird I’m agonizingly stuck in time—until the door finally whips open.
When Cliff sees me, his eyebrows rise. He holds a book in one hand while his eyes roam from my lips down to my tucked-in white shirt, black leather belt, jeans, white sneakers, then back up. A crooked smile slowly slides up the corner of his mouth. It sends a zip of anxiety through me. He never fails to make me feel exposed.
“Michelle. This is a surprise.”
He places the book on an entryway table, then leans an arm and his hip against the doorjamb. His loose cable-knit sweater is rolled up his forearms. He looks so casual. Effortless. Confident.
I clear my throat and gesture by my side.
“Rocket wanted to see Brittany,” I explain.
Cliff blinks down at Rocket. His tail beats ferociously on the porch. I haven’t seen Rocket this excited since we moved. Either he genuinely likes Brittany or he’s a master manipulator, working for my side. It’s likely the former. He’s never been on my team.
Cliff chuckles. “You’re here because your dog asked for a playdate?”
“Yes.”
With another quick assessment over the two of us, Cliff finally turns at the waist and calls through the house, “Britt! Rocket’s here for you!”
Footsteps pound down the stairs. I wish I could bottle the expression on Brittany’s face the moment she sees us. Her grin couldn’t be any wider. She bounces on her toes, practically thrumming with excitement in her black-and-white spotted nightgown.
“You’ve got ten minutes because we’re already past your bedtime,” Cliff says.
“Really, Daddy?”
“Really, really. Be very careful. Don’t hug him. Don’t spook him. Just … throw sticks or something. Okay?”
Brittany zooms into the yard so fast that she practically falls down the porch stairs. The moment she passes Rocket, he’s right behind her, chasing her through the grass.
Cliff tucks his hands into his pockets, watching in silence.
I squeeze an outside fold in my jeans and release, finally saying into the quiet, “Mind if I talk to you, Cliff?”
His eyebrows rise once more in surprise. I must be throwing him too many curveballs. I don’t blame him; I can barely keep up with them myself.
“Sure, Michelle,” he says, laughing through my name, mimicking my formality.
He takes a seat on the top porch stair, and I squat down to join him.
I draw in a big breath. He grins in anticipation.
“Yes?” he coaxes.
“I need help,” I blurt out.
“You … need help,” he clarifies slowly.
“Yes. I mean, I’m good at running the inn. I’m great at advertising—a professional actually—and the finances are no problem. I have excellent instructions for the day-to-day and?—”
“So, why do you need help?”
I grip my hands together. “My bedside manner is apparently … not pleasant.”
Cliff barks out a laugh. I jump, and the heat in my cheeks is either from embarrassment or anger. Or both.
“Well, it’s not that funny,” I sneer.
“No, no. Sorry, sorry.” He waves his hands and tries to stifle his chuckle by biting his bottom lip. “I … well …”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“The fact that you question it at all is almost charming.”
“I know my strengths. I’m willing to accept when I’m wrong.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t believe me. “So, you’re asking for my help? To … what? Make you more hospitable?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“All right … uh … well, I’m not sure how to?—”
I close my eyes tight and let out a strained, “Please.”
“What was that?”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
“God, asking for help hurts so bad for you, doesn’t it?” he teases. He tongues his cheek and nods to himself. “All right. So, how can I help this … problem of yours?”
“I need to be”—I click my tongue—“warmer, I think.”
“Warmer?” he asks with a smile.
“I accidentally told a woman I wanted to steal her clothes today.”
Boyish laughter bubbles out of him, and some of the tension in my shoulders release.
I choke on a laugh. “It was awful.”
“How can I help though?”
“People seem to like you around here.”
“They seem to,” he muses, leaning his forearms on his knees and linking his hands together. He tilts his head to me. “But I think—and feel free to disagree—but I think I might annoy you.”
I scoff. “Oh, please. I barely know you.”
“C’mon. Be honest.”
“You’re definitely … different from people I normally talk to.”
His palm slaps his chest. “Ouch.”
“Hey, you said?—”
“Well, I say a lot of things,” he teases.
I try to bite back the smile growing on my face, which only has his grin widening as well.
“Well”—he stretches his arms out—“I don’t know. This is sure asking a lot.”
“I’m not asking for it for free,” I counter. “Anything you need, I’m right next door.”
He squints. “I have a sneaking suspicion you’re trying to be my friend.” When I don’t answer, he says, “Uh-huh.” Cliff leans closer, his shoulder touching mine as he whispers, “Of course I’ll help, Shelly.”
“Just Michelle,” I correct him, shifting away from his touch. “If that’s all right.”
It’s not that I don’t like being called Shelly. But that was Allen’s nickname. Rocket’s. My mom’s. And I don’t know Cliff well enough to be Shells or Shellfish . Those belong to my dad and Sara.
“Honestly, I don’t even like nicknames,” I admit.
“All right then. You’re Michelle,” Cliff says. “But only if I’m Cliff. Not Clifford.”
“Not the big red dog?”
He shakes his head. “I’m cursed with that joke. I swear it’s the universe laughing at me.”
“Why would it laugh at you?”
He points out the scar above his lip. “I was bitten by a dog as a kid. Three stitches and a fear to last forever. Dogs seem to like me though. I think they’re all conspiring to make me uncomfortable.”
“You’re telling me he’s not cute?” I ask, nodding out to Rocket with his tongue lolling out.
“Dog propaganda.”
“How?”
“Ehh,” he muses uneasily. “I don’t trust them.”
“True. Rocket is manipulative.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be man’s best friend?”
“Yes. Man’s best friend. Not woman.”
Cliff squints. “There’s a story there.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Your relationship with your dog is complicated?”
“Isn’t your relationship with your family complicated?”
“You’re saying he’s family?” Cliff counters.
“Close enough.” He’s all I have here.
Cliff gives a weak smile, a cough, and repositions himself on the porch. “Fair.”
“There is.” I side-eye him, and he’s already smiling. “A story, I mean. I guess.”
“You gonna share it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sharing is normally how friendship works.”
I chew on my bottom lip and sigh. “Rocket belonged to my ex. So, our relationship is tumultuous at best.”
“What happened?” he asks. “With …”
“Allen,” I supply. “He found someone younger.”
He winces. “Damn.”
“She called me.”
“Damn,” he repeats.
“She said she didn’t know he was married. That I deserved to know.”
“Do you wish you didn’t?”
“No. It was for the best.”
He hisses in a sharp breath, letting it out with a final, “Damn.”
I nod, and then we’re in silence once more. Wind rustles the trees, sending brown leaves waving to the ground. Across the street, kids cycle past on the sidewalk with playing cards tucked in the spokes, making them sound like puttering motorcycles.
“Well,” Cliff finally says, “if it makes you feel better, I’m in the divorcee club too. Saw it coming for years.”
“Can’t tell if that would hurt more or less.”
“Me neither,” he admits.
I swallow. “Must be rough. Two girls. Running a bakery.”
“Carol closes the bakery without me most days.” His broad chest rises and falls as he stares off. I wonder if that’s the last thing he wishes were happening. “And Emily has after-school stuff. She’s in a work-study program.”
“Are you sure she’s not sneaking around with that boy?”
“No,” he says on a laugh. “Thanks a lot for that.” He leans his head to the side, watching Rocket and Brittany, in her PJs, roll in a pile of leaves. He sighs in exhaustion. “It’s hard sometimes. But we get by fine, even if it is a little hectic.”
He smiles at me, and I don’t know if I’ve seen such a genuine smile in my life. Maybe on my sister, but never like this.
I think for a moment, then straighten up. “If you’re helping me, let me help you.”
He laughs. “How?”
“I’m at the bed-and-breakfast all day. I can watch Brittany after school. Lighten the load a little for you if you want to stay late to bake.” I bet that’s what he wants.
He stiffens, mouth opening and closing. I guessed correctly.
“No, I couldn’t ask that of you,” he says.
“You didn’t. I offered.”
“I’m not going to burden you,” he says.
“You’re not a burden,” I say softly.
Cliff doesn’t respond. I didn’t know this man was capable of being speechless, as he is now.
He exhales, winding his hands together. “Yeah, I don’t know …”
“She can sit in the living room and watch TV,” I say. “I’ll make sure she does her homework. Plays outside. Things kids do.”
He side-eyes me with a smirk. “You’ve never been around kids, have you?”
“Only my sister.”
He chuckles. “I don’t know. Maybe. Birdie used to watch her, so Britt does know the place.”
My chest tightens. Sometimes, people in Copper Run drop hints of my mother, and it’s always jarring. But they’re like precious shimmers. I want to grab each one.
“She did?” I ask.
“Yeah. She was always there when we needed. Good woman. Didn’t even have to ask.” He smiles to himself. “She’d simply show up.”
It’s quiet for a moment, only the skittering of leaves across the concrete. Distant child laughter down the street. The thunk-whine of a dribbled basketball.
“So, what exactly is your plan here, Michelle?”
I tug at my earring and pull my knees up to my chest. “I’m here to keep this place running,” I answer honestly. “If I can make it until December with this place intact, then I’ll be happy.”
“What happens in December?”
“I go back to Seattle. Back to my job. My life. Dad and Sara will move back and take over.”
He flicks his nose with his thumb. “Why is it that every woman needs the city life?”
“ Friends makes it seem fun,” I joke.
That earns me a huge grin, and my fingers twitch at the sight.
“You already know how to be—what did you call it?—oh, warm .” He nudges my elbow with his. “You should tell more jokes. Be yourself. It’s charming.”
“Charming?”
“You’ve charmed me.”
I roll my eyes.
“See?” he says. “Your scowl, for one, is gorgeous.”
“Very funny.”
His gentle smile doesn’t fade. “Jokes aside, I’ll help you. Then, you can go take taxis and drink at coffee shops or whatever you city people do.”
“That was still a joke,” I observe.
He shrugs. “I can’t help myself.”
I shake my head. “I’m sure my mom would love to hear I’m asking for help. Or that I butchered her biscuit recipe.”
“Did you?”
“You heard George. It’s—and I quote—‘atrocious.’”
He chuckles, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t respond with a loose-cannon comment. He seems genuine when he says, “Birdie would’ve thought that was funny.”
“Would she?”
“Oh, very much so.” He gives another smile. “Want some advice?”
“Signed up for it, didn’t I?”
“Make friends with Lisa and George. Make friends in general.”
“I hate people.”
He barks out a laugh. “Okay, well, Lisa and George mean well. Keep the phone line open for them, all right?”
“That won’t be a problem. Nobody else will be calling. Besides guests, I mean. And maybe my sister.”
He stares at me, and as before, I feel completely disarmed by it. How he can switch from goofing around to sincere in a heartbeat is a magic trick I don’t understand.
Cliff hums and asks, “Nobody else will call because they don’t want to or because you don’t want them to?”
I hesitate, then admit, “Both.”
He nods sagely. “Well, you came to the right town. Copper Run is a great place to disappear to.” He sighs. “We should start over, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
He holds out his palm. “Hi, I’m Cliff.”
I gingerly reach out to shake it, his large hand engulfing my own. His index finger presses on the inside of my wrist. My pinkie grazes the outside of his rough palm.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Michelle.”
Shake .
“I’m your next-door neighbor,” he says. “I have two girls. They’re both total snots.”
I laugh despite myself. “I have a dog. He’s also a bit of a … snot.”
Shake .
Cliff smiles, and the handsome crease beside his mouth deepens. “This is the start of a very weird friendship.”
I return the smile. “Agreed.”
“Agreed.”