Five
FIVE
ETHAN
T he next day, the empty bottle of cabernet sauvignon sits at the top of Ethan’s recycling bin as he makes himself a sandwich for lunch in the kitchen of his cottage. Set back in the trees, less than a mile from main camp at the end of a curving mulch path, is the abode he built with his bare hands for him, Amy and Samara.
It was supposed to be their forever home. But forever is the stuff of fiction.
Eyeing the empty wine bottle, he’s filled with images of Taylor from last night and the unexpected fireside bonding they did. Heat generated between them that had nothing to do with combustion.
Bringing the bottle of wine along with the kindling was a half-formed gamble. Getting chummy with his ex-wife’s personal assistant isn’t exactly the way he should’ve spent his Friday night, but there was something in the way Taylor didn’t quite match up to the person Ethan had generated in his head that had him wanting to linger longer, inspect closer. Much like the fire, Taylor was languid, warm, effortless. Three qualities Ethan is in short supply of.
It matters little as he throws the crusts of his bread into the compost bin. Doing this always makes him feel like a child, but his preferences are his preferences and he’s enough of an adult to know not to deny them. There’s no need to suffer through the food parts you don’t like when apple skins, coffee grounds and bread crusts make such perfect compost. What doesn’t nourish him can nourish the earth.
“Arf,” says Nana, sitting patiently on Ethan’s left. She’s a seven-year-old Newfoundland named after the Darling’s dog in Peter Pan . Amy had adopted her and Samara had named her, but she’d always been Ethan’s. Bonded to him from day one without reservation or, in some cases like when he’s using the bathroom, boundaries.
“Sorry, Nana. Didn’t forget about you.” It’s a lie. While momentarily recalling Taylor’s sharp jawline—made sharper by flickering orangey firelight—he’d completely forgotten that his best pal was even in the kitchen with him. Chances are he’d have been so lost in his hyperfocus over the surfer-lite smoke show residing in the Snow White cottage that he’d have tripped right over Nana.
Such is life having ADHD as an adult. Most people think ADHD is reserved for disruptive kids in middle school classrooms. Those people would be wrong. He got himself into therapy after the divorce. He was resistant to it for ages until Amy suggested couples counseling, which led them to the conclusion that they were good business partners and bad life partners. Despite knowing this, he took the divorce as a brutal rejection and a moral failing on his part.
Leaving his sandwich behind for a second on the counter beside the sink with its charming window that looks out on the myriad of balsams, he goes to the hooks by the front door and gets Nana’s harness.
It’s a dark blue mesh with the Storybook Endings logo on it. On her back, there’s big, yellow embroidered lettering that says: NANA. I’M FRIENDLY. PETS WELCOME.
“It’s a to-go lunch kind of a day, Nana,” he says, opening the door for her to go outside and pee while he fetches his lunch and thermos.
Just outside the front door is usually a lush garden fit for frolicking fairies and other mythical woodland creatures. No English cottage would be complete without one. After last frost, it’s a spectacle of lacey blue Russian sage, Thriller lady’s mantle, tea roses and boxwood. There’s even a stone birdbath and a rock path that leads around the house to a peaceful bench where Ethan likes to sit.
Today, humidity hangs over the resort like a guillotine. Morning has given way to a cloudy afternoon with a storm on the horizon, which means most guests are sticking close to their cottages or are probably inside The Castle sipping coffee at How Do You Brew or playing games like Ping-Pong or foosball in the Knights and Knaves rec room.
Midbite of turkey, cheese and spinach with a squirt of mayo on rye, he contemplates where Taylor is. Has he hit the ground running on party preparations or is this a Saturday of rest? Probably the former.
The Taylor from last night was likely a fluke. You don’t exist in Amy Lu’s orbit without being a frantic workhorse, right? That’s why Ethan often felt like Pluto, demoted in Amy’s solar system.
In the distance, Taylor appears sprawled out on the sun porch in a rocking chair, wearing another pair of gray joggers, another hoodie and, this time, tall knit socks with Birkenstocks.
Nana, who is usually very reserved with the guests because of her training, bounds right up to Taylor with her tail wagging a mile a minute.
“Oh, hello there, Nana,” says Taylor as if they’re old friends, setting the book he’d been reading down on the small, circular table beside him. The title indicates that it’s a book about wildlife in Northern California. “I was wondering when I was going to get to meet you.”
“You know about Nana?” Ethan asks.
“Of course. Samara’s shown me tons of pictures. Growing up I always wanted a dog, but we didn’t have the space or the money.” Taylor gives Nana scratches right behind her ears, which are her sweet spots. Her right rear paw goes a thump-thumping against the wooden boards of the porch and her mouth hangs open, tongue lolling to the left in happiness. Taylor’s face mirrors hers. The sweet sight is almost too much for Ethan’s boarded-up heart.
“Right. Sleep okay?” Ethan asks, rubbing a hand through his beard. It’s his nervous habit. He has no reason to be nervous other than the fact that he spent half his night wondering how Taylor and Amy maintained a professional relationship when they seem so different. He supposes Taylor’s just been adopting Amy’s demeanor and aesthetics to better serve her.
“I slept like a log,” Taylor says with a free smile.
“That’s good.”
“I almost never sleep in, so when I woke up at eleven a.m. I was shocked, but well rested. There’s nothing on the Samara--party agenda today, so I’m relaxing and not thinking about work.” His eyes wander to the cover of the book he set down before. “Okay, that’s a lie. This is sort of work. As you know, the Lake Tahoe location is set to open this summer, and I’m unfamiliar with the landscapes and wildlife there, so I figured I’d do a little light reading.”
Ethan laughs because the book looks to be at least six hundred pages. Nothing light about it. “Sounds like a good use of your time.”
“For sure. I’m preparing for a cutthroat interview process,” he shares. “I’m hoping there’s a spot on the staff for me at that location.”
“I didn’t realize you were looking to leave Amy,” says Ethan, only registering after the fact how odd that sounds.
“Oh, not leaving. The assistant position was always meant to be temporary. At least that was the impression I got. The business has exploded since I onboarded, though, so I understand advancement has taken a backseat to making sure Amy is taken care of,” Taylor says with a level of maturity Ethan doesn’t think he could share. If he were promised a bigger job and had been languishing away in the same post for almost three years, he’d probably be irked all the time. But he supposes he’s been in his role with the resort for significantly longer and change is simply not in the cards for him.
He wants to say something to that effect—say more in general like Taylor seems to do so easily—but fears if he does, he’ll find himself in the rocking chair on the opposite side of the table. Soon he’ll be engrossed in another telling conversation with this personable personal assistant when he’s supposed to be working. “I’ll leave you to your reading.”
Ethan starts inside when Taylor jumps up and says, “I grabbed my wallet from the rental earlier. I had to get my phone charger from there this morning. You can make a copy of my ID now, if you’re not too busy.”
The all-staff meeting he’s running isn’t for another hour, so he waves Taylor inside with him. Nana curls up in a spot in the sunshine on the far side of the porch, knowing she’s not supposed to go inside.
As they pass through the coffee shop, Ethan asks Camille, one of the baristas, to pass him a small plate for the remains of his sandwich.
Behind the reception desk, Ethan wakes the desktop and starts up the copier. Taylor fishes into his pants pocket for his wallet. The movement of the thin fabric causes other things in the vicinity to move as well.
Lord . What is he feeding that thing?
Off-kilter now, Ethan forces his eyes back to the computer screen while reprimanding words bang around within his head. Having a glass of wine with his ex-wife’s employee is fine, but imagining his ex-wife’s employee’s dick is not.
Even if Taylor’s freeballing is dickstracting…
Di s tracting!
His whole body is clammy from the embarrassing fodder his brain is overflowing with.
“Here we go,” Taylor says, sliding his ID across the counter.
“Thank you.” The two words come out as a strangled whisper. He tries to clear his throat—make it sound natural—but Taylor’s birthday turns the clearing into a full-blown coughing fit. Christ, twenty-seven? Of course there would be an age gap but thirteen years seems more like an age gulf, and thirteen ? An unlucky number at that!
“Are you okay?” Taylor asks, reaching out and placing a comforting hand on Ethan’s wide, fur-coated forearm. The electric touch only makes Ethan’s coughing fit louder and more uncontrollable. “Do you need me to get you some water?”
“Fine,” Ethan croaks, able to collect himself. “I’m fine. Thanks.” He tips his head toward the sandwich as if to say Bread, huh?
Taylor’s eyes stay fixed on the plate. A small grin plays on his lips. “No crusts?”
Ethan reroutes his gaze to the computer. “Don’t like ’em.”
“Neither do my little brothers. I used to have to cut them off their sandwiches when I made them lunches. I swear I could’ve made at least three more sandwiches with the amount of crust I threw away each week.”
“I compost,” Ethan says almost curtly as he saves Taylor’s ID in the proper reservation file. “For gardening. It’s good fertilizer.”
“You garden? I love gardening,” Taylor says. Ethan senses an invisible cord between them that gives a quick tug. “I love being outdoors. There’s nothing like getting your hands down and dirty.”
LORD.
Maybe it isn’t better that Amy’s not here after all. At least her presence would be a constant cold shower every time he imagined Taylor soaking in the wood-fired bath beside his cottage, imagining various cuts of swim trunks he may or may not have packed.
When stressed, Amy is prone to snap. And nothing stresses Amy out more than opening a new location, and nothing would make Amy snap more than finding out Ethan was harboring sexual thoughts about her personal assistant.
The last thing Ethan wants is snapping. Because even if he’s no longer her husband, he is still legally her employee and her coparent, and her strictures impact his life to a high degree. She’s the one Samara lives with full-time. She’s the one he needs to answer to when he wants access to his precious, intelligent, almost sixteen-year-old daughter.
Taylor Frost is a siren to which he will turn his head and plug his ears. Aside from the walk-through inspection later in the week, there’s no reason Ethan needs to cross paths with Taylor. Taylor will be busy putting together Samara’s party. Ethan is in the midst of peak spring break season. The resort is booked up completely, and there’s another wedding soon. With so many guests milling about, there will be plenty of places to hide.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” Ethan says with a firm sense of finality as he hands Taylor his ID back.