14. Michelle
Chapter 14
Michelle
O ne week before Halloween, I meet Brittany at the bus stop—waving to the few other parents I see each day, who love saying hi—and within seconds, she unloads costume ideas onto me like confetti shooting from a cannon. It isn’t until her third utterance of “we” that I ask who she expects to make these over-the-top creations.
“You,” is her answer.
I laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Birdie made my Halloween costume last year. Emily normally makes it, but I liked it better when Birdie did.”
My chest twinges. “Oh, really?”
I wasn’t aware I’d signed up for all of my mom’s local duties on top of running the bed-and-breakfast. Yet, two hours later, Brittany’s somehow suckered me into sitting on the floor in the parlor, cutting black bedsheets into pieces to the sound of Backstreet Boys on the stereo.
Emily walks in with her backpack slung over one shoulder, and Cliff trails behind her—a stack of letters in one hand and a box with Burke’s Bakery’s logo in the other. His eyes widen, taking in the fabric spread on the floor and the cut pieces and strings scattered in piles.
“It’ll look better than it does now,” I say.
“Do you sew?” Cliff asks.
“No.”
“Well then …”
“I’m trying my best.”
Emily, finally broken from her stunned state, bursts out laughing. “Oh, it looks bitchin’ , Michelle.”
Cliff nudges her elbow with his. “Emily, come on. Language. We’re in her place of business.”
I smile at Emily as she raises her shoulders with a cheeky, “Oops.”
“Can you even tell what it is?” I ask.
“Not even a little,” Emily says.
“Miss Shell, can I get a snack?” Brittany asks, lying on the floor, feet swinging behind her and a crayon poised over punched fax paper, where she’s drawn a halfway-decent wrestling ring.
I nod. “Pop-Tarts are in the top cabinet.”
“Yay!” she yells.
“Em—” Cliff starts.
“I’ll get it for her,” Emily says, walking through the kitchen door.
I distantly hear the two sisters fighting over which flavor to get, then instantly dropping the argument to play with Rocket. It reminds me of Sara and me. What is a sisterly relationship if not tumultuous with immediate forgetfulness?
I look at the destroyed sheets on the floor, then to Cliff. He’s casually splayed out in the floral armchair near the fireplace. Cliff is the kind of guy who really relaxes into a chair, like he’s getting comfortable for hours to come, even if he’s only going to sit for five minutes. He parts his thighs momentarily before resting one ankle over the other knee and grinning with the box in his lap and mail on top.
While Cliff is cocky to a degree, I think I initially mistook it for arrogance. The lazy, lopsided grin. The raised eyebrows. The cheery lines beside his eyes. The natural confidence.
Allen was arrogant; Cliff doesn’t need to be.
He extends his hand out with letters. “Mail?”
“It’s a federal crime to grab someone else’s mail.”
“Want me to stop?”
“No.”
I take the stack of envelopes and curl my legs under me on the ruffled floor cushion.
I eye the white pastry box. “Is that also for me?” I ask.
His grin only gets wider. “Why, yes, it is.”
“More weird baker things?”
“Absolutely.” He leans forward to hand it to me.
I open the box and inside is a square cut of a layered pastry with a single plastic fork nestled beside it. It smells like honey.
I lift an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you want me to try it?”
“If you’d be so kind.”
I slide the fork through and take a small bite.
God, he’s so good at this.
It’s sticky and sweet against my tongue with almost a nutty flavor to it. Light flakes break between my lips, and when I swallow, I’m left with the lingering scent of cinnamon.
“It’s delicious,” I say, setting the box down.
However, Cliff looks disappointed, like he always does when I eat something of his.
“What is it?”
“Baklava,” he answers as if unimpressed with every crumb of it. He leans back in the chair with his chin propped in the palm of his hand. He stares at the box intently. “Too sweet, you think?” he asks.
“I think everything you make is delicious.”
“Hmm,” is all he answers in return. He taps his finger on the chair’s arm, then finally refocuses on me. “Oh, I like your sweater today. Brings out your eyes.”
My face flushes as I scoff out a laugh. The man loves when his compliments disarm me because his smile always reaches the little wrinkles beside his eyes. I tug at the sleeves, which suddenly feel too tight against my skin.
“You know, I was thinking—” he continues.
“Oh no,” I interrupt with a bubbling laugh, trying to break myself out of my spiraling thoughts about his smile.
He throws me a smirk.
I chew my bottom lip, biting back another laugh. “Okay, what were you thinking, Cliff?”
“What if I got a camera?”
“Like a camcorder?”
“Or maybe even a disposable.”
“Why?” I ask, slicing open an envelope with my finger. I set it in a separate pile for bills.
“So organized,” he observes in awe.
“Finish your previous thought.”
“Oh. Right.” He adjusts in the seat, leaning further into his elbow. “Well, I barely have any home videos of Emily when she was Brittany’s age. I want to make more memories. I’m not good about that.”
“Aw. That’s cute.”
“We couldn’t afford a camera back then. But I can now.”
“Then, do it.”
I sort through piece after piece of mail, placing it with bills or junk.
“Yeah, let’s say I get a camera though,” he continues. “What if I don’t use it?”
“Then, the girls can.”
He grits his teeth. “Well, then I’d get pictures of Josh though, wouldn’t I?”
He looks at me, as if expecting laughter, but I shrug.
His eyes widen. “What? Are we not making fun of the kid anymore?”
“Maybe—”
Cliff gasps. “She got to you. You’re a double agent. You’ve been compromised.”
I tongue my cheek to hold in a laugh. “You know … maybe we should give him a chance. Let him come over for dinner or something. Don’t you trust her?”
He pulls in a breath and sighs. “Yes.”
“At least spend an evening with him.”
Cliff hums for a second, then nods. “Fine. But you have to endure it too.”
“Don’t drag me down with you,” I say with a twitching smile as I sift through another letter.
“Oh, I’m dragging you,” he teases. “You’re coming with me, Michelle.”
My breath catches when I reach an envelope with fancy lettering. Very fancy, barely legible lettering. The type of illegible cursive only a doctor can achieve. My heart sinks.
“Michelle?” Cliff asks.
“Sorry …” I shake my head, closing my eyes and opening them again. But the loopy scrawl hasn’t disappeared. “Another birthday card.”
Cliff’s brow furrows, and for some inexplicable reason, when he holds out his hand, I place the card in his palm. I’m on autopilot now, and apparently, my default is to trust Cliff.
He tucks one long finger into the open gap and slides it through, ripping the letter open and pulling out the card. He stares for a moment, then opens it. The front illustration faces me. It’s a bunny hopping over a lit cake.
Hopping You Have a Very Good Birthday.
Cliff, with his jaw tightened, flips the card around so I can see the inside too. There’s printed writing that reads a generic Happy Birthday! message, and the only written piece is a signature. The most I can make out is a very familiar A .
That’s all I received from my ex-husband for my thirtieth birthday. A messy signature, similar to every piece of paperwork I’ve seen him sign as a doctor.
I turn my face away. If the man loves anything, he loves cards.
“His secretary has a Rolodex of birthdays and anniversaries,” I murmur. “And she always sends pre-signed cards to his patients. He must have hired someone new. I guess I haven’t been taken off the list.”
I can’t believe this is what we’ve come to. An impersonal Hallmark card he probably snapped up at a grocery store in the checkout line, unaware it’d go to me. I feel humiliated. And angry.
I sniff back the burning behind my eyes.
“Whoa, hey now.” Cliff slides down from the armchair to the floor. He settles himself with one leg extended behind my back and the other knee bent beside my thigh. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Except I’m not. My hands are shaking.
He peers down at them, and slowly, gently, he takes one hand into his. It’s not intimate. He doesn’t thread his fingers between the grooves of my own. He simply holds it between his palms. But my heart still misses a beat. It does it again when I look at the set-aside birthday card.
“Talk to me,” he insists.
“It’s so frustrating that …” I exhale.
“Breathe.”
I swallow. “That I’m a stupid, impersonal card now. Everything meant … nothing.”
Cliff doesn’t ask me to clarify what “everything” is, which is good because I wouldn’t even know what to say. “Everything” could be our marriage. Our life. Me.
I meant nothing to him.
I’m entering a new decade without the man I spent most of the previous one with. And it feels … aimless.
The kitchen door swings open to the dining room, and Emily halts in place when she sees us sitting on the floor, holding hands. Brittany bursts out after, but Emily palms her face and pushes her back into the kitchen.
Brittany’s muffled, “What are you—” is overshadowed by the squeaking of her sneakers on the hardwood.
Emily walks her back. “I want another Pop-Tart, Britt Britt. Move it or lose it.”
“Emily!” she whines.
“Move, or I’ll read your diary.”
“It’s locked!”
“It’s plastic.”
Through a cacophony of arguing as both girls disappear back into the kitchen, Cliff’s hands don’t leave mine.
“Hey,” he whispers.
I look up. A smile waits for me—the one with delicate creases beside his eyes.
“I’ve never met the guy or anything, but … your ex is a jackass. You know that, right?”
I manage a small laugh, looking down at the card. “He’s … yeah, he really is.”
“You deserve more than a birthday card from someone you were married to for years,” he says.
“Five years,” I clarify.
“Five years,” he echoes.
“I wasted most of my twenties on him. And he gets to … move on. Like it never happened.” I slap the card against my palm. “Is it that hard to make sure I’m not on the recipient list?”
“Easy really.”
“I can’t believe I’m starting over. I’m in my thirties. No guy wants a thirty-year-old.”
Cliff grins. “I love women in their thirties.”
I tsk and tug at the end of my hair. “You know I saw a gray hair for the first time the other morning?”
“Join the party,” he says with a chuckle. “I’ve got a mess of them.” He runs a finger through his hair, lifting the longer strands to reveal a smattering of pepper along his temple.
I gasp. “How did I never notice that?”
“It’s my secret stash.”
I tilt my head to the side. “See? But that’s attractive.”
“It’s attractive?”
“Men don’t have to worry about getting older. You get more … refined with age. And us women get cast as witches and hags.”
“A reliable Halloween costume, if you ask me.”
I shoot him a glare, and he gently smiles.
“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret. Men? We want women. Period. Over thirty. Forty. Hell, over sixty. Short, tall, brunette, blonde—doesn’t matter. We like them all. Especially women over thirty.”
I snort, and he smiles wider, leaning in.
“And especially women with gray hair.”
The nerves in my fingers pulse with him this close. I can smell the vanilla and cinnamon from the bakery. And a hint of something else … citrus?
“Don’t let Lisa hear you,” I joke, my voice a little shaky. “With the gray hair thing.”
“Oh, she wishes,” Cliff drawls with a grin.
I look away, fiddling with the card in my lap again, but then our gazes snag in place. They always do. His blue eyes dart between mine. The world narrows in on us—only us.
“It gets better out there, I promise,” he whispers.
I sheepishly confess, “Men don’t want women like me.”
“Like what?”
Unfun, too serious, workaholics.
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
He gives a devilish, absolutely wicked smile. “I think men secretly want women just like you,” he growls, leaning even closer. “And the men who don’t are cowards.”
I swallow, the resonating crack of the C in his last word pumping to the beat of my pounding heart—so hard that I can barely breathe.
“Let me help you this afternoon.”
“What?” I ask, blinking back.
Suddenly, all the noise surrounding us returns. A hum of a distant TV. The girls talking in the kitchen. Hardwood creaking from footsteps upstairs.
“Around the inn,” Cliff says.
“Why?”
“Because,” he says with a shrug, “you need to relax. I can check the reservations or make beds. Birdie used to keep a list?—”
“Do you know everything about this place?” I ask.
He tilts his head side to side. Then, his lips quirk up into a lazy smile. “Yes. So let me help you.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Cliff stands, then holds out a hand for me. He jerks me up, and I stumble into him, my palms splayed over his chest. It’s harder than I expected. Larger. I step away, blinking through the sudden touch. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he pretends not to.
He bends to the ground and picks up the card, extending it to me. “Want it?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
I expect him to be disappointed in me for caving in to nostalgia, but he hands me the card without judgment.
“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?” he asks.
“I … actually, I need to do things for the project at work.”
“Seattle work?”
I nod, and he gives an almost-pitying smile.
“Workaholic,” he teases. “Even when I take over one thing, you have something else.”
My stomach drops, and I simply reply, “Yes.”
He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, sending sparks running through my chest again.
“Go do what you’ve gotta do.”
“Thanks, Cliff.”
“Anytime,” he says, but when his hand leaves me, I want it back.
That evening, I lie in bed until the sunset beams through my sheer curtains, leaving a haze across the room in muted colors of bronze, gold, and whites so bright that I have to shut my eyes while they disappear below the horizon.
I looked over documents all night, but the papers blurred together until the only clear thing in my room was Allen’s birthday card resting on my side table. I fell down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, and now, it’s too dark to see anything. I never bothered to turn on my lamp, and the sun has been going down earlier and earlier lately.
The Burke kitchen window is open, as usual. Brittany whines about dinner, then laughs at something else. Carol yells something across the house, making Emily reply equally as loudly, and below it all is Cliff’s husky laughter.
I close my eyes, but I can’t sleep, so I lie in the dark with the sounds of Rocket’s lazy snoring and the leaves tumbling together in occasional gusts of wind.
He invited me to dinner, and I said no. What if he never invites me again?
For the first time in almost a month, I feel alone. Me and the heartless birthday card. I would cry if I wasn’t so angry. If my blood wasn’t overflowing from my heart like lava and dripping down to my stomach in hissing drops of disdain. It’s so loud in my ears that I can hear each drop plunk .
Plunk.
Plunk.
Plunk!
My eyes flash open.
Plunk!
I rise in bed and peer out the window, jumping at the sight of Cliff silhouetted in his kitchen window. He waves. I return it. With his other hand, he tosses something at my window. I flinch when it hits the glass with another plunk!
Creaking forward on my mattress, I spot six large cherries in the grass below my windowsill.
Across our yards and in his kitchen, Cliff curls a single finger, gesturing for me to come over. The motion snags on me, coaxing my chest forward, like his finger has a string tied to my body.
But when I don’t noticeably budge, Cliff mouths, Please .
I fight a wide smile, holding up my index finger, indicating that I’ll be there in a minute. He disappears from the window before I can second-guess my decision. I slip into house shoes and throw on a loose sweater over my dress.
Rocket’s head rises from his dog bed. Where are you sneaking off to?
“Next door,” I whisper.
I thought you didn’t like him.
I hesitate. “We’re friends.”
Rocket huffs out a sleepy grunt and rests his head on the cushion.
I walk down the hall and push out the kitchen’s back door, crossing through the rose bushes and into Cliff’s yard, trailing the three steps to his kitchen’s back door. The screen door creaks open before I can knock, and I’m greeted by Cliff’s body in the threshold, blocking my entrance.
He holds up a silk tie and snaps it. “Turn around.”
He’s gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.
I laugh awkwardly. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“What are you gonna do?”
He lowers the tie and leans his head to the side. “Can you not be suspicious for once?”
“Well, you’re acting very suspicious, Cliff.”
He gently holds up the fabric again, slipping it between his fingers, as if showing me how harmless it is. The tie is frayed in places, the raised stitches fuzzy and pilled. I vaguely recognize it from the funeral. This was worn by a more serious, unfamiliar, salesy Cliff. Not my baker Cliff.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“No.” Yes.
He barks out a laugh. “Turn around. Let me put it over your eyes.”
I turn on my heel and face the dark backyard. The last things I see before the fabric slips over my eyes are the orange Halloween lights from a house on the opposite side of the fence.
Cliff’s fingers trace over my cheeks as he ties the soft silk behind my head. I can feel his breath tickling the hair at my neck. Swishes of fabric rustle against my ears. His hand ghosts over my hair, like he’s fixing strands he messed up in the process.
“All right,” he whispers. “Now, we’re heading to my bedroom.”
My heart rises up into my throat. “Cliff,” I warn out loud.
“Shh, the girls are asleep,” he admonishes on a chuckle, winding his palm up my forearm to tug my inner elbow.
He walks us into the house and gingerly shuts the kitchen door behind us. I stumble as he guides me down the hall, occasionally pulling me closer or coaxing me around a corner with a palm on my lower back.
“Couldn’t you have only covered my eyes?” I whisper.
“And have you peek and spoil the surprise? No.”
“So, it’s a surprise,” I guess.
“Why else would I blindfold you, Michelle?”
I can think of a few reasons , echoes in my head, and my cheeks instantly heat.
His low, husky laugh acknowledges my silence. “Naughty. But we’re not those types of friends.”
It’s funny though; my heart tightens at his instant denial.
I swallow. “I wasn’t thinking that.”
“Of course not,” Cliff whispers.
I stumble into a wall. He laughs, but it’s instantly muffled, like he covered his own mouth.
“And you were worried about me being the rambunctious one,” I say.
“Shush,” he teases.
I can’t help but grin.
We turn another corner, and I enter what feels like a smaller space that smells like Thanksgiving. A door snicks closed behind me. Cliff places his palms on either side of my arms.
“Okay, stay here,” he whispers.
When his hands leave, I suddenly feel the chill in the room. Distantly, Cliff’s footsteps creak on the wooden floor. I don’t like standing here like this. My fists shake, but then warm palms wrap around them once more.
“Okay, nervous woman,” he murmurs. “Ready?”
I choke out a laugh. “You’ve got a chain saw, don’t you?”
He chuckles. “Nah, I’ll save that for trick-or-treating next week.”
Cliff’s fingers twist through my hair, untangling the tie’s knot behind my head. I inhale, and there’s that hint of citrus again. Normally, he smells like vanilla and cinnamon—a working baker. But beneath that, there’s now something else. A cologne that’s uniquely Cliff. A person beneath the charismatic baker he wants everyone else to see. I wonder how many people get this close to him to know.
The tie slides off my eyes, softly slipping over my cheeks and disappearing.
“Open your eyes.”
I blink a few times and let myself take in Cliff’s room. The overhead light is off, and the room is lit by the orange glow of a lamp in the corner and dancing shadows on the cream wallpaper. Pictures of him and the girls hang in wooden frames around the room. Low bookshelves line the walls, some with stacks of books on top—mystery novels and a few by Stephen King. A desk sits in the corner with a lamp, scribbled notes on yellow legal paper, and a square TV. A brown alarm clock blinks red numbers on his bedside table. It’s almost eleven thirty. His bed takes up most of the room, and placed precariously on a wooden cutting board is a chicken potpie with three lit candles stuck in the center, a line of wax dribbling slowly down one side.
“Happy birthday,” Cliff says. “You said you don’t like big celebrations. And there’s no way you ate dinner tonight. Also”—he picks up the remote to the TV—“I checked what’s on TV tonight, and you’re in time for Saturday Night Live .”
My mouth opens and closes. “Cliff …”
“I hear Chris Farley is hosting?—”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Cliff … this is?—”
“All right?” he finishes for me with an unsure lilt to his words. “Is it all right?”
“It’s all right,” I agree, but all right comes out more like perfect , and I can tell he knows. I reach up to twist my earring. “This, uh … this isn’t because of the card today, is it?”
His face scrunches up. “I’ve been planning this since you first told me about your birthday.” Cliff waggles his eyebrows. “Alex made it easier for me to look good, doing it.”
“His name is Allen,” I correct.
“I know,” he says, a wicked smile dancing on his face.
I laugh again, taking in the flickering birthday candles and moving shadows.
“You’re really something, Clifford Burke.”
He chuckles. “I’ll let myself imagine what that something is.” He inhales, then lets it out. “All right, well …”
Cliff steps toward the door, as if taking his leave. I shoot my hand out before I think about it. My fingers linger on the outside of his palm. His eyes widen, drifting from my fingers up to meet my stare. His lips part in surprise. His chest expands like he’s holding his breath, and his blue eyes dart between mine. I don’t say anything for a moment because this expression is so new to me. I didn’t know it was possible to throw Cliff off guard like this.
“Don’t go,” I say.
“I figured you’d want some quiet alone time outside the inn.”
“You’re not gonna leave me on my birthday, though, are you?”
He blinks down to my hand, twisting his palm around to squeeze mine.
“I guess that would be unfair,” he says.
“Very.”
A grin slides up the corner of his mouth. He releases my hand and picks up the pie from the bed.
“It’s on channel three,” he instructs.
I scoot back on the bed until I can rest against the headboard. Kicking off my house shoes, I extend my feet out, my toes wiggling underneath my sheer black tights.
As I click through the channels, Cliff cuts out two slices—one for each of us—and places them onto plates. He leans across the mattress to hand me mine.
Once he has his own, Cliff crawls on the opposite side, shuffling over the fluffy tan comforter until he’s situated beside me. His legs stretch out, too, though his black socks extend well past my own feet. We wiggle our toes side by side.
And together, with our plates of potpie, we eat with tiny forks beside the dim lamp and the cool glow of the TV.