12. Michelle
Chapter 12
Michelle
“ T he bathroom towels are in your dresser, and I have a little binder on top with some things to do in Copper Run. The fall festival is over now, and Halloween decorations are around town. There’s a man two blocks down, named Winston—you can’t miss his house—and he sits on his porch every night to watch people look at his decorations. He’s really proud.”
“Wow, and are they good?”
I have no idea . This information was fed to me by Cliff, even though he won’t let me walk past Winston’s house myself yet.
Cliff says Winston’s an artist. He makes murals around town, but he also decorates for every holiday. He transforms his house into an erected haunted maze on Halloween, and Cliff doesn’t want to ruin the surprise for me until it’s finished.
But Miss Margaret and her single suitcase won’t be staying long enough to see it, so I smile and answer, “They’re the perfect amount of spooky.”
The woman grins from ear to ear.
“Well”—I clap my hands together—“I won’t keep you. Make yourself at home. And please let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with. I’m heading to lunch, but I’ll be back after one to make some extra coffee.”
She beams. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Cliff’s words echo in my ears. “Enough to be present, but not enough to be overwhelming.”
As she sits on the end of her freshly made bed, complete with a welcome letter on the pillow, I discreetly drop a wrapped toffee on the dresser. Lisa says leaving little breadcrumbs are the thoughtful things guests will remember.
I take the stairs down to the foyer and grab Mom’s purse from its hook in the kitchen. I take Rocket’s leash beside it. The rattling sound makes Rocket shoot out from the bedroom. I clip it to his collar, and we head out the front door, down the cobblestone walkway, and to the mailbox, where I gather mail, tuck it under my arm for later, and head toward Copper Run’s square.
The details I left for Miss Margaret is correct; Copper Run has exploded with decorations the past two weeks. Spiderwebs stretch across front doors, porches, and gates. Pumpkins with carved Cheshire cat grins line fences, and plastic skeletons claw up from rough dirt graves throughout grassy yards. Every time we pass the house with dangling linen ghosts swaying from tree branches, Rocket lets out a low growl.
“They’re not gonna hurt you.”
He huffs out through his nose. Liar.
We hit the square, and I drop by the sandwich shop first, smiling as nice as I can to the owner, Betty, who always insists I try new ingredients.
“The turkey and ham sandwiches, as usual,” I say.
“Oh, you must try the new secret sauce!”
“No, thank you.”
“You’ll never guess what’s in it, but I promise it’s good.” She spreads the sauce on the bread as if she didn’t hear me.
“Thanks, Betty.”
“Anytime, Shells!”
People in Copper Run love calling me by whatever they like, even though I don’t think I’ve given the impression that I like it even once. But the familiarity—the sweet little smile Betty gives me as she hands me the bag of sandwiches—makes the insult not so bad.
In the square, scarecrows lie abandoned beside the walkway. A giant felt spider is belly up beside stacked cardboard boxes with labels, like LIGHTS and GHOULS and … FAKE BLOOD ?
Cliff’s friend Lars is across the park, plunging stakes into the soft grass. He tosses me a friendly wave, as does the local florist, Sandra, who walks across the stone steps with her arms full of fall-colored bouquets.
I’m realizing quickly that it’s difficult to be alone in this town. I lived a quiet, efficient life in Seattle. Nothing here works like that.
Cliff stands at the top of a tall ladder beside the gazebo, stringing spiderwebs between the poles. His cheeks are red with exhaustion, even with the cool breeze whipping up. I smile a little at the sight of Cliff flushed.
“They roped you into decorating?” I ask.
He looks down at me, eyeing my white-knuckled fist around the bag of sandwiches. I hold the ladder steady while Cliff takes wobbling steps down.
“Betty call you Shells again?” he asks.
“Yes,” I mumble.
“The nerve!”
I flatten my lips in a line at his subsequent grin, and then I dig in the bag.
“Turkey for you,” I say, handing him the sandwich. “Topped with Betty’s new secret sauce she insists is good.”
“Oh no,” he bemoans.
We both sit on the bench inside the gazebo—Cliff on my left and a deflated blowup ghost on my right.
“By the way, your booklet seemed to go over well,” I say.
His eyebrows rise. “Oh, yeah? So, you made the pitch about?—”
“The yard and decorations and all that,” I finish for him.
“Fantastic. See?” He waves his sandwich around because the man is incapable of not talking with his hands. “You’re getting the hang of things.”
“People smile around me more.”
“You’re a good person to smile around,” Cliff says, taking a bite.
He does things like that—giving casual compliments like it’s Halloween candy. I never know how to react, and I used to think that was his intention. Shock and awe. But now … now, Cliff throws out nice things without any pause for recognition.
“Betty was right,” he says, gesturing with his sandwich. “The sauce is good. Try it.”
I take a bite, and my face must contort because he chuckles.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head and wince, barely getting out a muffled, “I think the secret sauce is mustard.”
“You hate mustard?”
I nod, then reluctantly swallow.
Cliff laughs and takes another bite of his own sandwich with an exaggerated, “ Mmm .”
I point the sandwich toward Rocket. “Want it?”
Even Rocket sniffs at the yellow sauce staining the bread. He turns his head away. Filth.
“Agree.”
Cliff throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I have some leftover croissants from this morning if you want one.”
“Please.”
“Good, and if you’re not gonna eat that …” He reaches out for the sandwich.
“All yours.”
I smack my hands together to dust off the breadcrumbs.
I sigh.
“Yes?” Cliff asks through a smile.
“Well, there’s still no glowing guest-book notes.”
“Did you expect someone to call it the Taj Mahal?”
“Maybe.”
He squints with a smirk. “You never fail, do you?”
I straighten my posture and scoff, “Of course I do.”
“When?”
I tilt my head to the side, as if to say, You’re being ridiculous , which happens a lot around Cliff.
“It’ll take time,” he says, leaning in.
The sandwiches in his hands almost touch my shoulder as he waves them around. I bat the bread away. He laughs.
“You’ll get a guest who appreciates all these changes. I’m not worried about it, Michelle.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. I like that he says my full name, mostly because I know it’s intentional. Cliff might lean too close or ask too many personal questions that catch me off guard, but he knows how to make people feel seen. Sometimes too seen.
He’s so different from me. If I’m autumn, he’s spring. He’s all smiles and glowing warmth. His blue eyes are so deep, like the first beautiful, clear sky of the season. He likes to rest them on my breeze-blown hair, drift them down to my painted lips or to the cardigan falling off my shoulder.
He looks down at my stack of mail on the bench, then gasps. “Michelle, is this a birthday card?”
“What?”
Cliff places his sandwiches down and holds up a pink envelope. “It’s addressed specifically to you and says Happy Birthday .”
There, in his hand, is my sister’s loopy writing with a doodled cake underneath.
My face burns as I snatch it from him. “No.”
“It is,” he says on a laugh.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I do.”
“I hate my birthday.” I tuck the card underneath the rest of the mail.
His mouth opens mid-laugh, like he’s surprised. “Why?”
Sourly, I confess, “It gets lost in the mix of other holidays.”
“Oh, you poor soul. When is it?”
I purse my lips. “It’s at the end of this month.”
“Halloween?”
I roll my head back and groan, “Cliff?—”
“Is it?”
I sigh. “A few days before.”
“Well, lucky for you, I love birthdays. I love birthday parties even more.”
My eyes widen. “Cliff, don’t you dare plan something.”
“I would never.” He spreads his palm over his chest. “Who do you think I am?”
“The pushiest person on earth.”
He tilts his head side to side, but I don’t miss how his lips turn down almost imperceptibly. I wonder if I offended him.
He points to the spiders hanging from the gazebo ceiling. “How do you think they turned out?”
That’s the magic of Cliff. He knows when to change the subject, and he does it without warning. Sometimes, it’s jarring, but sometimes, it’s my favorite thing about him. It only makes me worry more that I said something to upset him.
I trail a hand over the one spider dangling near my head. “Not bad actually.”
He nods his chin to Rocket. “What do you think, Rocky?”
Rocket turns up his nose. How dare you speak to me.
“The attitude,” Cliff says under his breath.
“Testy, isn’t he?” I joke, smiling to myself.
We finish lunch together and I watch Cliff return to work, pushing his flannel sleeves up his forearms—his watch shifting down his protruding wrist and back up with the motion—to pull more items from an open brown box.
He ascends the ladder again, and I stand to lean on the side of the gazebo. My face flushes red hot as he climbs each rung. His jeans fit well.
“Cliff!” Carol calls, making me jump. She strides down the path toward us.
Cliff twists on the spot, and my hand shoots out to steady the ladder.
Carol finally sees me and waves. “Oh, hi, Shells.”
I close my eyes in frustration at the nickname, and Cliff snickers.
“So …” Carol says slowly. “Don’t kill the messenger.”
Instantly, his grin slides down his face. “Why?” His word drags out almost as slow as hers.
She winces. “Lisa said Emily skipped work today.”
“She what?” In two seconds, Cliff is off the ladder. “Do we know where she is?”
“No. But … I have a feeling …” Another sentence lost to the unspoken abyss.
Cliff’s jaw grinds back and forth. Then, his eyes dart across the square—directly to the video store.
Oh no.
Suddenly, he’s striding through the haystacks and pumpkin-lined walkway.
I exchange a wide-eyed glance with Carol and then Lars staring from across the park before rushing after him with Rocket by my side.
“Cliff, where are you going?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer me. I know where he’s going. Anyone in town would know where he’s going.
I groan in frustration. “Cliff!”
“I gotta check,” he growls.
“She’s probably not there.”
“But she might be.”
I hurry into a walk-jog—Rocket trotting beside me on a leash—and finally catch up to him before he crosses the street. He places a hand on the small of my back, escorting us until we’re on the other side, then rips open the door to the video store. The dinging bell is so loud that I wonder if he knocked it from its screws.
I wrap Rocket’s leash around the light pole and push my way inside too.
I instantly sigh.
Leaning over the checkout counter, hinged at the waist with her chin poised in her palm, is Emily. And clicking at the keyboard behind the counter is the same pimpled teen I saw sneaking around with her a week ago—Josh.
Damn it, Emily.
“What movie are we renting today, Em?” Cliff calls out. “ Rebel Without a Cause ? Dazed and Confused ? ’Cause that’s sure me right now. Or how about Ferris Bueller’s Day Off ? That seems the most applicable, kiddo.”
Emily turns, and any tint of red she had while batting eyelashes at Josh drains from her cheeks. “Dad?—”
“Did the post office explode?” Cliff asks.
“Wh-what?” Emily stammers out.
“Well, that’s the only explanation for why you’re not there, working with Lisa. But considering I haven’t seen a single mushroom cloud all morning, I’m a hair confused.”
The only other time I’ve seen him this frustrated was when he found Brittany after she was pushed in the pumpkin patch at the Harvest Festival. But even that pales in comparison to now.
His cheeks are flushed. The curved jaw is somehow clearly defined, ticcing and denting near his molars as he grinds them in irritation. His forearms flex—corded veins under a dusting of brown hair—with each extension of his defined fingers. And suddenly, I’m very out of breath at the sight of it all.
“I finished work,” Emily fumbles out.
She’s a terrible liar.
“Is this the first time you’ve skipped out on Lisa?” he asks. “Or are we about to have more uncomfortable conversations than I’d like?”
I freeze. Of course it isn’t the first time Emily’s skipped work. I saw her leave the house midday earlier this month. I know that. She knows I know that. Emily’s eyes desperately catch mine.
Josh takes a step closer to the swinging half door behind the register, holding out his palm. “Hey, dude. I’m?—”
Cliff stiffly points a single finger. “I wouldn’t finish that thought, dude .”
To his credit, Josh clams up and lowers his hand. But then none of us speak, all looking cautiously at the on-edge dad in the middle of the video store. Somehow, it’s worse that the only accompaniment is the high-pitched notes of Mariah Carey ringing out from the store speakers.
Cliff threads a hand through his hair, messing up his brown strands and leaving them to hang on his forehead. It’s very grunge rocker of him, making me tense up more—which I don’t think is his intent, but he’s too frustrated to care.
“Emily, go home,” he says. “And call Lisa the moment you get back.”
“Dad—”
“You’re going to apologize. And then we’ll talk later.”
“But—”
“Unless you want to talk now? But I’d really hate to embarrass you in front of—” Cliff snaps his fingers. “What’s your name again?”
I curl my bottom lip in. He obviously knows Josh’s name. Even so, the poor teen opens his mouth to supply it to him but is overpowered by Emily’s huffing groan. She swings a single backpack strap over her shoulder. Her shoelaces snap on the blue carpet, and the key chains rattle on her bag as she steps toward us like she’s going to war.
“God, you’re so annoying sometimes,” she grumbles under her breath as she sidesteps past us and pushes through the door, straining the bell over the door almost as much as Cliff did.
“Hey—” Josh starts.
I shoot him a look because he’s truly playing with fire right now. Thankfully, the boy is smart and shuts his mouth again.
Clenching his fists and releasing them, Cliff finally turns on his boot and pushes through the door. The bell screams again. Josh and I meet eyes.
“I didn’t know she was skipping,” he pleads. “She said some days, she didn’t have school.”
His eyebrows are tilted in so close that they might as well be a unibrow.
I sigh. “You do know that school is five days a week, right?”
“She’s smart though. I thought maybe they let her go early or something.” He shrugs so matter-of-factly, so innocently, that it almost makes me smile.
“She’s a smart girl,” I agree. “But don’t let her skip anymore, okay?”
“I’ll try.” He lifts his shoulder again, but the way his lips twist to the side tells me controlling Emily might be a futile effort.
I walk toward the door, then twist back around. “Oh, and word of advice? Maybe next time, don’t introduce yourself to your girlfriend’s dad with hey, dude .”
Color drains from his face. “I freaked.” He wipes a hand down his face. “He hates me.”
I manage a smile, making his shoulders relax a little.
“He’ll get over it,” I say.
I leave the store with the lightest ding that poor doorbell has seen all afternoon and find Cliff sitting on the curb. I squat down and join him. His forearms rest on his knees, hanging limply.
“I forget how exciting it is to be a teenager,” he muses. “There’s nothing quite like skipping when you know you shouldn’t,” he jokes with a forced laugh and a weak smile. Even now, with residual anger beating in his heart like a steady drum, he’s trying to be optimistic. Cliff is always trying.
“Everything’s fine,” I assure him. “She’s just a kid.”
“I know,” he says, wiping his palm over his face. “I know. She’s such a good kid. I feel like we didn’t start arguing until all this boy stuff.”
“I think that’s a common bridge for dads to cross.”
“I get worried. She’s smarter than this.”
“She also has a lot of hormones.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t I know it?”
And I know that wasn’t directed at me, but the low tone and the amusing nature of it all have me looking away and tapping my shoes on the sidewalk.
“Also,” I whisper, “you know his name.”
“Who? James?”
I knock my elbow into his ribs. He chuckles.
“It’s Josh. And you’re a menace. But you’re a good dad.”
His eyebrows rise.
Is he surprised?
“You are,” I repeat, then discreetly check my watch. “I’ve gotta head back. Want me to swing by your house this afternoon and check on her?”
“No. You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I insist.
Cliff nods to himself silently. And then his palm lands on my knee. I freeze. Cliff isn’t shy to touch. His touch is always gentle. It’s not greedy or wanting or even carrying implications. But he’s also never touched me here . The warmth of his heavy hand and lengthy fingers spans across my entire knee and part of my thigh. It radiates through me in waves of fire. The palm is gone as quick as it landed, but I’m breathless.
He smiles at me, weak and exhausted from the day. “Thanks, Michelle.”
“Yeah,” I answer quickly. “Of course.”
I know I’m flushed. My heart is racing.
I stand, untying Rocket’s leash from the pole and wrapping it around my wrist. I barrel down the sidewalk.
“Bye?” Cliff calls through a husky chuckle.
“Bye!” I yell back to him.
The buzzing through my knee tickles the whole trek back.
Even Rocket glances at me, as if saying, You’re walking funny, Shelly.
“Shut up,” I hiss.
I’m flustered. Flustered by Cliff.
I know Cliff likes physical touch. Little knee touches mean absolutely nothing for him. I’ve seen him wrap an arm around Lisa for no reason or high-five Lars for something as simple as complimenting a croissant. A pat on the back is his standard greeting. But it’s been probably a year since I’ve felt a man’s palm so close to my thigh. And it’s been almost seven years since I’ve been touched by any man, except my husband.
Ex-husband.
Cliff is sarcastic and shameless and cocky and … attractive.
I roll my eyes and groan at my own admission.
Obviously. I’d be blind not to notice, of course. He’s got that baker charm. The broad shoulders, built from lugging heavy bags of flour; the thick forearms, strong from molding dough; and the smile of a man well practiced in swaying people to indulge in icing-covered delicacies.
Cliff is attractive when he runs a palm through his hair. He’s attractive when he huffs out frustrated breaths in defense of his daughters. He’s attractive when he smiles, and he’s attractive when he gives that half smirk and the little line beside his lips creases.
But Cliff is so far from my type. Two months ago, I was in a brick brownstone and dressed for dates at white-tablecloth restaurants. That’s who I am. I’m not the kind of woman to lie on a quilted bed and dress down for dinner at the combination pizzeria/coffee shop—which is a monstrosity I have yet to get an explanation for.
I barrel into the bed-and-breakfast, out of breath and gritting my teeth, unhooking Rocket in a hurry, as if I can run from these intrusive thoughts about Cliff. But they’re torn from me when I find Emily sitting on my kitchen floor.
Her knees are pulled up to her chest. Her Converses, stained and ripped, tilt in. Her blonde hair hangs in two curtains beside her face.
“You didn’t rat me out,” she states. “Why?”
I cross my arms, trying to calm my heavy breathing from my walk here. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
I swallow. “It didn’t feel like my business to tell.”
“But you’re my dad’s friend,” she says.
I bite my bottom lip. Friend . Cliff Burke is my friend. My funny friend. Not my attractive friend.
“Sure,” I agree. “But I know what it’s like to be a teenager. And, believe it or not, so does your dad.”
“No, he doesn’t get it,” she grumbles. “Not him or Carol or Mom.”
“Your mom doesn’t?”
Emily barks out a laugh. “Oh, sure, she totally gets it.”
I feel borderline assaulted by her over-the-top sarcasm. My lips stretch into a straight line.
She blows out a breath. “Whatever.”
“Is it complicated?” I ask.
“Totally.”
“You know …” I turn and take down coffee grounds and a filter. “I had a complicated relationship with my mom too.”
“With Birdie? As if.”
“I did.”
Emily scoffs. “I would kill for a mom like Birdie.” She rests her chin on her knees. “God, you don’t get it either.”
“Maybe not,” I agree. “Nobody can know what you’re going through, except you.”
She peers up at me through her lashes.
I shrug. “But you’re not the first teen with parent issues—I’ll tell you that.”
She blinks to herself. “Josh is a good guy,” she mumbles more to herself than me.
I flick on the coffee maker and lean against the counter. I fold my arms over my chest.
“He seems all right,” I say. I tilt my head to the side. “Dumb.” That grants me a small snort of laughter from her. “But pretty all right.”
We exchange a small smile.
“I like him a lot,” she whispers.
“Then, let your dad see that,” I say.
“He doesn’t take us seriously.”
“He takes it more seriously than you think.”
“Dad doesn’t want me to end up like him and Mom. But I’m not gonna get knocked up. I’m not that stupid.”
Ouch.
“Don’t judge your parents too harshly,” I say. “Love makes you do crazy things.”
“How do you know? Have you ever been in love?”
“Yes,” I answer, but my lurching stomach wants to fight back.
My feelings on storybook love suddenly feel dull and unnatural. For the life of me, I can’t seem to remember the fire I had with Allen. Allen and I were so serious all the time. We were two stubborn people who found their stubborn puzzle piece.
I can’t recall passion—at least not the kind of all-encompassing obsession that clouds all judgment and keeps you up at night. I don’t remember whether I felt like Emily, desperately needing to see a guy at every waking moment. I can’t remember the last time I had a zip in my stomach, like when Cliff’s palm was on my knee.
Christ, I don’t like Cliff. He’s too … he’s too …
“How are your grades?” I ask, pulling down mugs from the cabinets.
“I’m acing everything,” Emily grumbles into her legs.
“And you’re caught up? No late assignments or anything?”
She pulls her knees closer and suspiciously drawls, “Yes, I’m caught up.”
“Then, I’ll talk to him about you and Josh.”
Emily straightens up with wide eyes, like a spring uncoiling. “You will?”
“Stop sneaking out, okay? And go to your work-study. Stop skipping school. I don’t wanna lie to your dad.”
Except about how attractive I find him.
Emily grins, and I can see little inklings of Cliff in the twinkle of her blue eyes. They beam with hope, just like his.
“Swear,” she says. “Won’t sneak out again.”
“Or skip school or work.”
“Or skip,” she confirms.
I lift the pot from the coffee maker and cross the kitchen, kicking through the swinging door to the dining room. I lean my shoulder against it, gesturing toward the counter with my elbow.
“Grab those mugs, will you? If you’re gonna be here, I’m putting you to work.”