Chapter 8
eight
IAN
I paused the YouTube video and poured detergent into the appropriate little trough.
“Shit,” I hissed, as the liquid overflowed its borders a bit. Okay, a lot.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t matter that the soap had gone over into—I squinted—the fabric softener’s compartment. Damn, did I need fabric softener? I checked the cabinet and didn’t see any.
I picked up my phone to google fabric softener when Sophia appeared in the doorway like a phantom. “What are you doing?”
I fumbled my phone like a rookie wide receiver. “Nothing.”
She picked up my device from where it had fallen at her feet. Dark eyes took in the video paused on my screen before narrowing. “Are you trying to do laundry?”
I cleared my throat. “Maybe. Do we have any fabric softener?”
Sophia crossed her arms over her chest. “No. I don’t believe in it. It creates a layer over the towels that makes them less absorptive.”
“Oh, okay. That makes sense.”
“Did I do something wrong? Are you unhappy with my laundry services?”
“What? No,” I insisted. “I’m just . . .” Losing my mind, clearly. Fixated on a woman who thinks I’m a spoiled baby. “Trying to help out,” I finished lamely.
Sophia sighed. “Ian, you pay me—very competitively, I might add—to handle all the domestic stuff. Doing laundry is part of my job.”
“Right, but I can help out. I should help out.”
She stared at me like she could see through the layers of bullshit to the truth. God, I hoped not. This was embarrassing enough. “I’m trying to decide if I should be offended. Now, if you try cooking or doing dishes, then I might start to really worry about your sanity.”
My face must have given me away because her eyes widened and she gasped dramatically. “The lasagna? You were serious about trying to make that?”
My face went hot. I’d added the ingredients to Sophia’s weekly grocery list after Amy Judd had shared her recipe with me. Sophia had teased me about it and given me the third degree about why I’d been so interested.
“Maybe,” I confessed.
“Oh my God! That was you who loaded the dishwasher like a rabid raccoon, wasn’t it? I thought it was Georgie. Ian, what is going on right now?”
Fighting a wince, I admitted, “I just realized that I should contribute more.”
My employee and friend stared at me like I’d told her I wanted to learn how to pilot the space shuttle. And maybe that seemed just as likely. To her, I was equally as unqualified to wash a load of towels as I was to break through the atmosphere.
So I went a different route. “Georgie should really be exposed to men in female-dominated roles.”
“Sure,” she replied, flatly. “That’s what we need. More men taking over.”
I blew out a breath. “No, I just mean, don’t you think I should set an example for him? That men can and should do laundry and dishes and clean toilets. I think his future partner or roommate someday might be very appreciative.”
Sophia eyed me skeptically. “I guess. But if you start trying to teach him math, I will take great offense and go back to California.”
Holding my hands up in surrender, I said, “I would never.”
Scowling, she put up two fingers, indicating her eyes and then mine—the universal sign for “I’m watching you, pal.” And then she swooped out of the laundry room.
I sagged against the washing machine in relief.
What the hell was I doing? It had been stupid to try to chip in with the housework.
I didn’t know why I’d let Joan’s voice take up residence in my mind.
Yes, she’d made some valid points about celebrities and “normal” people.
I could see why someone so frighteningly capable wouldn’t be impressed by a twenty-nine-year-old man who still let everyone else take care of him.
Of course, I’d done laundry before I was an actor. When I moved to LA at eighteen, I’d taught myself a lot of stuff that my mother had handled at home—not that that fact helped my case.
But laundromat machines weren’t the same as the one I’d been trying to figure out today.
Not wanting to break something in the house I was renting from the Clarks, I’d looked for an online manual first. The YouTube video had put me on the right path.
Plus, it had been a long time since I’d thought about where my clean clothes came from. I’d had a housekeeper in LA for years.
Thinking back on Joan’s contempt for celebrities, part of me had wanted to disagree, to force her to see my perspective.
But I’d kept my mouth shut. At the time, it had seemed more important to listen to her grievances.
I didn’t think arguing would get me anywhere with her.
In fact, it probably would have made things worse.
But maybe Joan had never considered that it was easier to hire people to handle certain aspects of my life. She’d never experienced what happened when I tried to do normal, everyday things.
Did she ever stop to think that I didn’t go shopping for groceries or pick up my takeout order because I couldn’t leave my house without photographers and fans cornering me on the street?
When I was home, in Los Angeles, it was easier and more efficient to hire a personal chef to come in a few days a week to stock my fridge with the meals on my nutrition plan. Realistically, I could see how that looked—spoiled, privileged—but it made sense for my life right now.
I wasn’t going to drag Georgie out where people would get in his face or splash his photo across the internet.
But I hadn’t brought up any of those arguments. It would have emphasized how different Joan and I were. It wasn’t like I needed to draw her attention to it. The woman was well aware.
But she hadn’t said no to dating me because she didn’t like me as a person or because she wasn’t attracted to me. She simply had a hard time with my celebrity status and fame. Those things were a part of my life, but they weren’t who I was. Somehow, I needed her to see that.
The situation wasn’t completely hopeless just because she thought I was.
That night, while Georgie got ready for bed, I listened to him talk about Joan. It was a running commentary of the time he spent with her and the things they talked about.
While he pulled on Spider-Man pajamas, I got to hear about the goat that lived next door, who sometimes showed up on her doorstep.
As he brushed his teeth, he told me the best kinds of apples to use for pressing.
When he climbed into bed, he considered putting together an emergency kit for Joan since she used handkerchiefs instead of bandages, and he worried that she’d get an infection.
While I was reading his bedtime story, Georgie interrupted three different times to remark on something Joan had said or thought or demonstrated.
I smiled as Georgie chattered on about his favorite person.
I was grateful he had someone to look up to and admire.
I even thought Joan deserved his praise and devotion.
But the knowledge was bittersweet. What happened when we eventually left Kirby Falls?
Would I be dragging a little boy home with a broken heart?
Closing the children’s book, I placed it on the side table and turned on the night-light.
“Maybe we can make some peanut butter fluff sandwiches for dinner this week?” I offered after Georgie had asked about them again.
“Okay. Thanks, Uncle Ian.”
I passed him his e-reader and set a timer on his clock. “Ten minutes, okay? Then bedtime.”
“Okay,” he said distractedly, already absorbed in the animal book he liked.
“I love you, bud. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself here in Kirby Falls.”
He didn’t respond, and I tried not to feel the sharp slice of disappointment as I closed the bedroom door behind me.
Joan
My father followed me out onto the front porch following Sunday dinner.
Brady, Mac, Candace, and Mercer were still inside with my mother, enjoying dessert. But I had an early start in the morning and some chores waiting for me at home.
The sky was nearly dark already. This time of year shortened the days, making me feel like every moment at rest was somehow wasted time.
“I was thinking about expanding the wildflower field after the movie people clear out,” Dad said. “Might as well, since we had to clear that extra acreage for them.”
I nodded. “Makes sense. The tourists like it.”
In the summer, we ran hay rides out to the field so visitors could pick flowers by the bucketful to take home.
We utilized succession planting, so there was always something blooming between June and September.
Dahlias, zinnias, and sunflowers turned the once-unused pasture bright and beautiful with every color in the rainbow.
U-pick flowers had been Candace’s idea when she’d moved back to town and started working at the farm. I had to admit that it was a crowd-pleaser and pretty low maintenance compared to other attractions here at the orchard.
“And Margaret down at Snap, Bam, Bloom wants to contract us as a supplier if we plant some of the flowers she needs for weddings,” Dad said. “We could use the extra space for that as well.”
Margaret owned the florist shop downtown.
“I’ll get in touch with her and see what she needs,” I told him. “I’ve been thinking about planting some tulips out there. We could see if she’d be interested in those, too.”
The orchard wasn’t open to the public year-round. In March and April, without tourists to pick them, there’d be no real reason to grow tulips. But they’d always been my favorite. I wouldn’t mind planting a row of bulbs in the coming weeks just to try things out. Maybe George would want to help me.
“That sounds good, Joanie.”
Dad squinted into the distance. “Now who’s that coming up the trail?”
I followed his gaze to see Ian jogging along the worn path between the orchard and the farmhouse. His shirt was bright in the fading twilight, a pale beacon as he ran.
But as he drew closer, I noticed his white crewneck sweatshirt was actually pale pink, with darker irregular splotches. It looked like a failed attempt to tie-dye something.