15. Cliff
Chapter 15
Cliff
“ P illow?”
“Pillow.” Michelle tosses the inn’s guest room pillow over, as requested, but instead, the pillow smacks me right in the face. She covers her mouth to halt a laugh. “I thought you were looking.”
I pick the pillow up and toss it back at her. It lightly knocks her in the face, but she gasps.
“Clifford Burke—” Michelle picks up the pillow from the hardwood and pummels me with it.
I hold up my arms, laughing as I protect myself from the second blow. Her bottom lip is tucked in as she tries not to laugh, but when I wrestle the pillow from her and hold it above her head, she folds her arms over her chest and exhales.
I lean closer. “You can’t stay mad at me.”
“Untrue,” she says, snatching the pillow from me and adding it to the other three already plopped on the bed. She gives a teasing smirk. “I’m always mad at you.”
“Touché.”
Each pink sham on the mattress is either frilly or lacy. It feels like we’re in one of Lisa’s rooms with too many dolls. The rain outside makes it extra unsettling.
“Who would want this on their honeymoon?” I ask, leaning against the doorway. “Yuck.”
“Are you yucking my honeymoon setup?” Michelle asks.
“I’m yucking Birdie’s honeymoon setup.”
Michelle hip-checks me on her way out the door, then flicks off the light behind her. “The pink quilt was specifically labeled for the honeymoon package, so that’s what they’re getting.”
Cliff hmms . “I can’t tell if having a honeymoon on Halloween is cool or creepy.”
“Creepy,” Michelle responds right before I say, “Cool.”
She lifts an eyebrow.
We descend the stairs together, taking the last few steps quicker. She hits the main level first.
“That’s three to two,” she declares.
“Okay, see, the last time, you jumped though. I don’t count that.”
“Sore loser.”
I roll my eyes with a grin as we turn the corner to the parlor. A bloodcurdling, high-pitched scream erupts from the TV, and Michelle’s hand shoots to her chest.
“Really?!” she admonishes on a heavy exhale, her lips straightening into a line at both Emily and Josh. They sit exactly two feet apart on the couch, as instructed by yours truly. “A horror movie in the middle of the day?”
“You said nobody was checking in today,” Emily says with an innocent shrug.
I laugh. “I thought you two were gonna watch Charlie Brown’s Big Pumpkin or whatever.”
“That’s not what it’s called,” Michelle interjects.
“Josh didn’t have a copy at the store,” Emily continues. “So, we got Scream instead.”
“At least it’s true to its name,” Michelle muses.
“Dad, you’d love this one.”
“Seen it.”
“When? You saw it without me?”
“It’s when you were with your mom last year.”
Emily grumbles to herself.
“Sorry, kiddo.”
Michelle crosses in front of the TV toward the kitchen, and Emily shimmies in her seat.
“Oh, wait, Michelle! Watch, watch, watch!”
Michelle turns on her heel.
I walk in front of the TV behind her, and of course I get a, “Dad, move!” instead.
“The attitude, jeez,” I say on a chuckle, taking a spot beside Michelle by the dining room threshold.
I pretend to watch the screen, but from the corner of my eye, I’m peering at Michelle. I’ve seen this movie before. Killer in a mask goes after teenagers with a knife. But with each passing moment, Michelle’s face slowly changes. Her lips part, her nose scrunches up, and tiny lines deepen between her brows.
“Oh God, this is brutal, Em,” she says.
“No, no, the garage door is about to?—”
“Sick,” Josh says, making my own nose scrunch.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled about having Josh in my life, but he makes Emily happy for some reason. I’ve never seen her more excited than when I said they could have a date, as long as it was in the house and everyone was home. I’ll have to deal with Mr. Fig Roll for now.
Rocket lies on the couch beside them, nuzzling his nose into the couch cushion, like he’s trying to shield his own eyes from the horror movie gore.
Michelle pats his hind leg. “Rocket, you all right?”
The dog’s tail beats on the couch in acknowledgment.
“Dad, can you get the light?” Emily asks, pointing to the switch near the kitchen.
I snap it off right when Michelle pets Rocket and murmurs, “Good boy.”
My head jerks back, and she grins, looking from Rocket to me.
“Not you, Cliff.”
Emily snickers at me.
“Keep it down in here,” I say, opening the kitchen door for Michelle. She ducks under my arm to pass through. “And hands where Rocket can see them at all times,” I add, pointing between them, then gesturing to Rocket with his muzzle buried into the cushions.
He’s not doing his job at all.
“Hey, and if your sister comes in, you kick her out immediately, okay?”
“Okay. Bye!” The last word is a little too pushy, but I wave them off and join Michelle in the kitchen.
She takes the other door right back into the foyer. She does this a lot—circling the house to double-check things she’s already done.
In the entryway, she adjusts the fresh-cut flowers. Fanned around the vase are brochures for Copper Run’s annual Halloween party in the square. It’s kid-friendly and not nearly as scary as the haunted maze Winston creates for his yard each year, but Brittany is spooked by both events, so we’ll be keeping to the houses and sidewalks.
The front door is propped open, letting in the hiss of quiet afternoon rain. Water thunks through the gutters above the porch, and kids outside cycle through splashing puddles. Brittany is at a friend’s birthday party down the cul-de-sac. She’ll probably come back covered in mud.
I lean my forearms on the front desk, looking at the delicately arranged paperwork and three cubbies with keys for each room. I reach out to ring the front-desk call bell, but Michelle slaps my palm away before I can. She peers at me under her lashes and smiles.
“All right. Well, I’ve got to head back before Carol kills me,” I say. “But what are you doing tonight?”
“I don’t know. What am I doing, Cliff?”
I sputter out a laugh. “What do you mean?”
Michelle tilts her head to the side. “You’re my social planner.”
“Since when?” I ask on a chuckle.
“You make the plans; I show up. And if I don’t, you always seem to find me anyway. So, what are we doing?”
“Emily’s making spaghetti for dinner. Want to come over?”
“Yes, sir, social planner,” Michelle teases, which does something to me I can’t explain.
I huff out a laugh, then add, “Is it that bad? Me always bugging you with things?”
She shrugs. “You keep me busy.”
“Well, good.” I shift on my feet. “But I’m not too … I don’t know … overwhelming?”
“Are you kidding?” she asks, darting her eyes to meet mine even though her head stays pointed down at the papers. “You’re so overwhelming.”
I bite my bottom lip and attempt a smile. “Right.”
She shrugs again and keeps writing. “But I’m under whelming, so it’s fine. We balance out.”
I’ve never had someone be so blunt yet so unintentionally kind at the same time. But that’s the kind of woman Michelle is.
“You’re not underwhelming,” I say, smiling.
The side of her lip twitches up, but she doesn’t acknowledge my compliment. I let it slide. I’m too busy watching as she shifts papers to the side, tucks envelopes into cubbies, and slides out the guest book. She places her pen into the coffee cup, which has little handprints along the sides, reading Thank you, Birdie .
I smile at the mug, touching some of the pens circling the edges. “I remember this.”
She blinks up at me. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
When she doesn’t go back to working, I lean back. Michelle rarely wants to talk about her mom, but she’s been more open about it lately. She’s taking small crumbs, like maybe the crumbs will lead her somewhere. Where, I’m not sure, but I’ll leave behind any she needs.
“Yeah,” I repeat. “She hosted Thanksgiving last year. We got all the neighbor kids to make this for her after. She loved it.”
Michelle stares at the mug while she reaches up to play with her ball earring. Maybe she’s considering something to say in response, but nothing comes out.
“All right then.” I knock on the desk. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Hmm,” she muses before pulling open the guest book. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
I’m almost to the door when her sudden yelp stops me. I turn on my heel. Michelle stands behind the desk with both hands pulled up to her mouth. Her eyebrows are raised up to her hairline, and she’s breathing heavy. My heart sinks.
“What?” I ask, walking over. “What happened?”
“I got my first good review,” she says. “I got—Cliff, look!” She exhales a laugh, hoisting up the guest book and attempting to hold it in my face.
I take it from her. “No kidding.”
“Read it!”
I clear my throat and read, “ This is by far the best bed-and-breakfast in Vermont, if not all of New England. Michelle is a darling to talk to and is perfect company while having an already-excellent breakfast. ”
Michelle waves her hands. “Keep going!”
I read the next line to myself first, then laugh and announce, “The morning cinnamon rolls were divine .”
“Di-vine,” Michelle repeats, punctuating each syllable with a pump of her hand in the air.
“Divine,” I repeat, setting the book down.
“Divine!” she squeals, rounding the desk and barreling into my arms.
The breath rushes out of me on impact. Her hands loop around my neck. I let my palms settle on her waist, squeezing her sides, inhaling the soft burnt-sugar perfume. The hints of rosemary— rosemary —in her hair. The soft strands that fall over my nose.
She bounces in my arms before pulling away. I reluctantly let go, watching with a wide grin as she circles back to look at the guest-book entry again. She’s beautiful like this—thrilled and entirely over whelmed. I don’t know what lies she tells herself; there’s no way she could be underwhelming.
The phone on the counter rings, and I rush around the side to pick it up.
“Cliff, no!” she says through a laugh.
I hold out my free palm to keep her away, tucking the phone beside my ear and shoulder.
“Thank you for calling Bird & Breakfast, where the morning cinnamon rolls are divine. This is Clifford. How may I help you?”
“Cliff,” Michelle whines between laughs, bouncing next to me and reaching to grab the phone.
I keep twisting out of her grasp. But the farther I move away, the closer she gets, until her breasts are pushing against my chest and ribs, and then her waist is in my palm and?—
Hissing in a breath, I quickly hand the phone back to her.
She’s all smiles—maybe oblivious to what happened, who knows—as she takes the call. But I’m out of breath.
I aimlessly pace out from behind the desk, running a palm through my hair, letting it fall back onto my forehead as I watch the rain trickle off the front porch’s lip. I swallow down the heartbeat soaring into my throat and finally turn around to see Michelle nodding against the phone and tucking the end of her pen between her teeth. The glow of the small lamp on the front desk reflects on her pink cheeks, casting her eyes in a dark shadow, where she peers at me with a grin.
The world tilts. It suddenly feels like I’m falling through the ground, straight to the center of the earth.
God, she’s breathtaking.
As she asks the person on the other line question after question, I could stare at her plump lips all day. They’re full. Dark. Parting only slightly to reveal slivers of straight white teeth.
How the hell did I get privileged enough to see this side of her?
Michelle is a smart woman. A powerful woman. The kind of woman who struts down city streets, holding a thick agenda, filled with high-end events spanning the next two to five months, at a minimum. Meanwhile, my only plans each night are with my two daughters and sister. Maybe drinks with Lars or bingo night with George, if the old man invites me.
We’re so different. Michelle wears polished belts, tailored shirts, and fifty different flavors of designer shoes. I wear flannel and sneakers, and half the time, I’ve got some wisp of flour or sugar somewhere on my skin.
But …
I like her.
My stomach tightens into a hard knot.
I like Michelle.
I’m attracted to Michelle, which isn’t news to me at all, but this heart-pounding affection … it’s foreign yet so oddly familiar, all at once. It’s something I haven’t felt since I was sixteen. Michelle is funny when she wants to be and sometimes when she doesn’t. She’s gorgeous. She’s kind. And most of all, she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an ass.
I swallow audibly, then look away from her.
I have a crush on my very unattainable friend.
Maybe in another world, it could work out. I don’t know what world that would be, but it sure isn’t this one, where I’m a walking tornado and she’s beautiful, out of my league, and leaving in two months.
Michelle looks up and grins as I linger in the threshold.
She waves me off and mouths, Get out of here.
I chuckle.
Yeah, I need to get the hell out of here.
I rush back to the bakery, where a small line files out, wrapping by the window painted with pumpkins and a cartoonish mural of Dracula.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, holding up my palms.
Carol gives me the biggest stink eye imaginable.
“Cliff! You have more muffins back there?” Sandra asks, peering to the side with her arms full of flowers as I stroll back to the kitchen. She must have made a pit stop before another delivery.
“For you? Absolutely,” I answer.
Someone else rubs their palms together, as if they anticipated it.
Vultures, these people, I swear.
I get to work immediately, making my second batch of everything for the day. The food prepped at four this morning has already dwindled down to scraps, so I take out all the prepped food from the fridge and plop those into the oven, one right after the other.
Once the post-lunch rush dies down—including a few extra items, gifted on the house for the long wait—I finally tuck a small batch of new puff pastries in the oven. They’re layered with a jam mix of raspberry and rosemary. I haven’t made them in a while—they’re not exactly a town favorite. But maybe some people will like them this time around. Maybe Michelle will.
Carol finally joins me in the kitchen, leaning her hip against the prep table. “And where were you this afternoon?” she asks.
“The inn.”
“With Michelle again?”
I chuckle. “Yes,” I say slowly.
“Doing what?”
“What’s with the third degree?”
“No reason,” she answers, but it’s said in a faux nonchalant, yes, there is obviously a reason kind of way.
I can’t hide the heat rising up my neck. “She’s my friend—you know that.”
“Your friend?”
I scoff. “Yes.”
“This is the first friend you’ve ever had.”
“Lars is my friend.”
“A non-mustache-wearing, non-pizza-and-doughnut-obsessed female friend.”
I tilt my head to the side, leaning the heels of my palms along the side of the curved prep table. “Got something to say, Carol?”
She bends at the waist and whines, “Come on. She’s not just a friend. She’s gorgeous.”
My heart sinks.
“Well, of course she’s gorgeous. But, yes,” I whisper sarcastically, “also just a friend.”
Carol grits her teeth. “What’s so wrong about liking her?”
“I do like her.”
“You know what I mean.” She purses her lips. “Is it because you’re hung up on Tracy?”
“No,” I say on a rushed-out breath, shaking my head and exhaling as nerves zip through me. “God, no.”
“Good,” someone answers, but it isn’t Carol.
Lars rounds the corner, already wearing his buttoned-up white shirt and red tie with little pizzas repeating over the fabric.
“Lars, do you ever work?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Pizzeria opens late. I own the place. I can show up whenever.” He glances at Carol. “Doughnut?”
She hands him a set-aside napkin with one glazed doughnut, as she does most afternoons. But her eyes don’t divert from me.
“We’re talking about Trace?” Lars asks. “Or is it Michelle?”
“No,” I say at the same time Carol answers, “Yes.”
“Hey, drop it,” I say pointedly.
“No, because I haven’t seen you look this happy in years, and I want to know why you’re pretending like it means nothing.”
“Oh, yeah, everyone can see it,” Lars interjects with little flecks of crumbs shooting from his lips.
I rub a palm down my face. “Are there conversations I’m being left out of?”
“We talk about you all the time,” Lars says. “Betty and I were saying the other day how if you wanna find Michelle, you might as well look for Cliff too. You two are always in the same spot.”
Carol’s eyes widen, as if to say, See?
“We’re friends,” I repeat. I sound like a skipping CD, and I’m almost annoyed with myself at this point.
Carol crosses her arms. “No, I’m not doing this anymore.”
“Doing what ?”
“Seeing sad-sack Clifford.”
Lars laughs so suddenly that he coughs through his bite of doughnut.
“I mean it,” Carol says, absentmindedly clapping my best friend’s back. “You were sad with Tracy for years. And she was awful?—”
“Hey, that’s the mother of my children.”
“So?” Carol snorts. “She’s also your ex-wife, who nobody liked.”
I swallow, my chest tightening. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on,” Carol groans. “We put up with her because she was Trace. But, God, we all knew she didn’t deserve you. We all watched it happen. I got a front-row seat, and I hated every moment. But you’re my brother, and you said you were happy, so I went with it.”
“We all knew though,” Lars says, punching a fist against his chest as he coughs once more.
Carol sighs. “I understand the scenario you were in, but you were fighting for your life, trying to get people to like her. You were her only redeemable quality.”
“Carol, let’s not?—”
“No. I’m gonna say my piece, and you can shut up for once, big brother .”
It’s quiet. Deadly quiet in the otherwise noisy kitchen, which is filled with the sounds of The Smashing Pumpkins on the radio and a lone cough from Lars.
Lars looks between us. “Uh, am I … should I go …”
Carol barrels on. “You deserve better. And Michelle’s a total knockout. She’s the kind of woman Tracy wanted to be. Except this woman likes you. For you.”
I scoff. “In no reality would she ever like me.”
Lars coughs, “Bullshit,” into his fist.
“Do you need some water ?” I ask.
Carol groans. “You’re very likable, Cliff. And Tracy sucked and made you think you weren’t. And if I could punch her for it, I would.”
Another quiet moment follows, where Lars rolls up the napkin in his fist and smacks his lips. “Well, I guess I’m gonna go run a restaurant now. This wasn’t relaxing at all.”
“I’m sorry for getting heated,” Carol says, but she’s not talking to Lars. She’s lifting an eyebrow at me. “But I’m not sorry for what I said.”
Around then is when the oven dings, alerting us to the new rosemary-scented pastries.
Carol darts her eyes to the oven window. “Puff pastries? Who are those for?”
I tongue my cheek, at a loss for words, and she immediately grins.
“Just a friend, my ass.”