Chapter 2
Reeve (and Sawyer)
Last year, Skagway’s monthlong Yuletide celebration included a performance by the Skagway Theatrical Players, a new group led by the owner of the Purple Parsnip, Bruce Franks. After the smashing success of Wuthering Heights , in which my brother, Sawyer, and his girlfriend, Ivy, had starred, Bruce decided to adapt another classic this year— Rebecca, originally by Daphne du Maurier. And it will come as no surprise to those in the know that Sawyer is playing Maxim, and Ivy is playing the second Mrs. Maxim de Winter.
I cringe whenever I see “The second Mrs. Maxim de Winter” printed on a call sheet or in the scripts, but we’re not trying to be cute by calling her that. The given name of Maxim’s second wife is never mentioned throughout the entirety of the original book or in Bruce’s play. Most literary critics agree that this was on purpose—du Maurier was trying to emphasize that even a dead Rebecca was more alive than her flesh and blood successor. Humph. Misogyny, especially when perpetrated by other women, really gets my back up.
But despite my objections to play itself, I’m helping out again this year. In fact, I’ve been promoted to stage manager since McKenna, who’s got her hands full with four-month-old Madden, couldn’t reprise the role. It’s just me and Bruce behind the scenes this year…oh, and Aaron, I suppose. He’s back for another year as Set Designer, in charge of building the Monte Carlo and Manderley sets, a job which, blessedly, doesn’t intersect much with mine.
I sit beside Bruce at a Sunday night rehearsal, watching my brother moon over his girlfriend, whom he hopes to make the first Mrs. Sawyer Stewart very soon. In fact, tomorrow evening, he and I have a date to go ring shopping together at one of the handful of jewelry stores on Broadway. That’s how serious he is.
Standing on the stage, about half a foot apart, Sawyer, playing Maxim, offers Ivy his hand and gives her an ultimatum.
“Either you go to America with Mrs. Van Hopper, or you come home to Manderley with me.”
Ivy, who’s absolutely amazing at playing a dopey ingenue, widens her eyes and blinks. “Do you mean you want a secretary or something?”
Sawyer steps closer to her, so that Ivy’s breasts graze his chest. He stares down at her with so much real love, true love, watching them on stage almost feels intrusive.
“No,” says Sawyer, a little grit in his low voice. “I’m asking you to marry me, you little fool.”
Ivy’s face registers an appropriate amount of shock and awe before she responds.
“You don’t understand,” says Ivy, her voice breathy with distress. “I’m not the sort of person men marry.”
“What the devil do you mean?” demands Sawyer, his tone full of panic, like he’s practicing for the slim chance that Ivy might turn him down in real life.
She places her palm on his chest, her voice gentle when she replies, “I’m not cut out for your world.”
“My… world ?”
“M-Manderley.”
“Blast Manderley to hell!” yells Sawyer, turning away from Ivy and raking his fingers through his hair. Finally, he crosses his arms over his chest and turns back around. His voice is flat, his posture defeated. “I rather thought you loved me. I see my mistake now. This is a fine blow to my conceit.”
“I do love you!” insists Ivy, her voice pitching up with earnestness. “I love you dreadfully! I’d rather die than be parted from you!”
“Bless you for that,” says Sawyer, reaching for Ivy’s face and cupping her cheek with his palm. “Say yes, then. Say yes, darling. I want to show you Manderley.”
“Cut!” yells Bruce. “Outstanding work, kids!”
My brother leans down to press a sweet kiss to his girlfriend’s lips before pivoting to face me and Bruce. I grin at him, delighted to know a secret about his future that almost no one else in the world knows.
My smile slides to Ivy, and I think, He’s going to propose to you. After the performance, three Sundays from today, my brother’s going to pop the question. Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.
“That’s all we have time for tonight,” says Bruce, bracing his hands on the table in front of him to help lift his considerable bulk. “You’re both doing wonderfully well, aren’t they, Reeve? Such chemistry!”
“Almost like they’re really together,” I say, standing up beside Bruce, “in real life.”
Ivy grins at me. Sawyer, too.
“Well, I’m headed home,” says Bruce, leaving his notes and papers spread out in a mess on the table. “Aaron!” he calls. “Lock up for us when you’re done?”
Aaron’s head peeks out from behind the maroon velvet curtain. On his cheek is a slash of light blue paint, and in his hand, a brush. “You got it, Bruce! Have a good night.”
“Good to have a police officer on crew, huh?” Bruce asks me. “You can leave him here all night, without a worry in the world.”
I sniff in response.
“You could be a little nicer to him, missy.”
“Or Aaron could move to Barrow,” I innocently suggest.
Bruce tsks at me with disapproval, then heads up the aisle toward the exit. As I contemplate the mess on the table, Sawyer pauses at the end of my row.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks me in a low voice. “Six o’clock?”
“What are we doing at six tomorrow?” asks Ivy.
“Nothing!” we chirp in unison.
“What are you two up to?” she asks, pulling on mittens.
“Just some Christmas shopping,” I say.
“Ooo! Help him choose something good for me, huh, Reeve?”
“Will do,” I promise, waving goodbye as they follow Bruce out the door.
Bruce’s notes are scattered all over the table, and part of my job as stage manager is to type them up into a one-page summary and print them for distribution before the next rehearsal. I think I’ll get that done quick before I go.
First, I gather up two or three used coffee cups and take them to the trash. Under a paper towel, I find Bruce’s phone. Gah. I’ll stop by the Parsnip on my way home to return it. My sisters are meeting up there for a bite tonight anyway, so two birds, one stone.
I sit back down, open my laptop, and start gathering up Bruce’s scrawled suggestions, some on index cards, and others scribbled in the margins of a very dog-eared script.
Ivy should play dumb, but not THAT dumb.
Could Sawyer do a little more of the growly thing he did as Heathcliff? Sexy AF.
No need to amp up the sexual tension between these two, but in some moments, we may need to pull it back a little. There will be kids in the audience.
Daphne du Maurier sure was a c*nt.
Tell Aaron that the Monte set needs to sparkle, and Manderley needs to be dark dark dark.
“Aaron!” I call out.
“Yeah?”
I don’t look up. “Bruce says that the Monte Carlo set needs to sparkle, and Manderley needs to be dark, dark, dark.”
“Yeah. He already told me.”
“Great,” I mutter, grabbing two index cards at the far end of the table.
Ivy needs to stop sniffling. Or bring tissues to rehearsal.
Remind Reeve that the programs need to be printed and ready two weeks from today. And what about newspaper ads? What are we doing to advertise? Juneau? Anc?
I roll my eyes at that note. For heaven’s sake. Is he expecting people to fly in from Anchorage or Juneau for the show?
I love Bruce’s faith in his productions, but come on!
“What’s so funny?”
I look up to see Aaron standing on the stage, arms crossed over his chest.
“Huh? Nothing. Just a note Bruce made.”
“What did it say?”
“It’s not important.”
He jumps down from the stage and walks down the aisle, sidestepping into the row in front of where I’m sitting. He kneels on a theater chair, facing me. There’s a large table between us, but he’s pretty close. And wearing a paint-stained T-shirt that’s a size too small is doing him a lot of favors. I can see the outline of his pecs, and the upper part of his six-pack …or is that an eight —
“It made you smile,” he points out. “And that’s a rare sight.”
I widen my eyes with annoyance and jerk them up to his. “For you, maybe. But not for people I actually like.”
His jaw tightens, and he rakes his hand over his head, rubbing it with annoyance. “You know what I’d like, Reeve?”
I reach for another pile of index cards, looking down at them.
“It would be impossible for me to care less.”
“Right,” he says. “Because you hate me so much.”
Sawyer can’t love Ivy so much in the first few scenes. He needs to let his affection build.
Tell Ivy not to pitch her voice so high—she’s not Minnie Mouse.
I ignore Aaron, continuing to type up Bruce’s notes on my laptop and hoping he’ll take the hint and go away.
Instead, he takes a deep breath, lets it go loudly, then bellows, “Reeve!”
Because he yells, my head snaps up. “What?”
“I’d like for us to be friends!”
“Don’t yell at me!”
“It’s impossible to get your attention!”
“Because I don’t want to give it to you!”
“Reeve!” he yells again. He leans his head back, looking straight up at the ceiling. “For God’s sake, give me a fucking break!”
There’s something about his pose…or the fact that he invokes God…or that his voice registers so much angst…but I lean back in my seat, eyes wide, and attention riveted on Aaron. When I don’t snap back with some smart-ass comment, he lowers his head, looking down at me.
Brown eyes meet blue.
Every muscle in his body is tense and popped.
We stare at each other, the moment so loaded, so fraught, so intense, I have no idea what will happen next. When he makes a strangled sound, for one hot second I think he might leap over the table and devour me.
“Aaron,” I whisper. “What are you—”
“Please,” he begs me.
Please…what? I tilt my head to the side, my eyes locked with his.
“Stop hating me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I can’t hate you back,” he says, wincing like the words hurt. “I wish I could. I want to. I’ve tried to.” He clenches his jaw, then lets it relax. “But I can’t. So, please…can we be friends?”
“I don’t have a lot of friends,” I confess, shrugging weakly. “There aren’t that many people in Skagway. Friends are important to me, so I don’t know if I can just—”
“Fine,” he says. “Then can we just have peace?”
I stare up at him, considering this request. I’ve hated Aaron for years—it’s become rote…but is it my truth ? It’s easy to hate him because I was so embarrassed by what happened between us. And yes, I know it was partially my fault—I shouldn’t have been flirting with a grown man when I was seventeen. But he shouldn’t have been flirting with me, either—he shouldn’t have made assumptions about my age just because of the uniform I was wearing.
We were both at fault, I guess, but Aaron backed so far away from me—and treated me like such a child whenever possible—it made everything worse. I felt like a disease…and a toddler. A diseased toddler. And there’s no seventeen- or eighteen-year-old on the face of the earth who wants to be treated like a diseased toddler by a hot cop only four years older.
Remembering all of this makes me uncertain about whether I can genuinely extend an olive branch.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I just think—”
“Reeve, I’m not sorry I ignored you when I found out you were only seventeen. I’m not going to apologize for that.”
The nerve! “Huh! Well, if you’re trying to make amends with me, you’re doing a really shit job of—”
“But I am very sorry,” he interrupts, his voice louder, firmer and far less flustered than mine, “that I didn’t text you the day you turned eighteen.”
My lips are parted like I’m going to keep yelling at him, but what he says silences me. It’s what I’ve been longing to hear for three long years. That he was really and truly interested in me, and that he’s sorry he messed up his chance to ask me out.
“Why didn’t you?”
He takes another deep breath and sighs. “At the time, I knew Joe was going through something difficult with Harper…and your brothers didn’t exactly look like they’d welcome a suitor for their little sister—”
“You’re afraid of my brothers?”
He stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. I let my eyes slide down to follow the sinew of muscles in his forearms. Wow, wow, wow.
“I’m not afraid of them,” he says softly.
“Then…?”
“The whole thing felt—if you’ll forgive me—too fucked up by then.” He shrugs. “I hoped…I guess I just thought it’d be better if I got over you.”
I process his words, my eyes glued to his.
“And…did you?”
He shakes his head slowly, his lips pursing with annoyance. “No.”
“So, when you say you want us to be friends…”
“It’s not a lie, per se.” He breaks off eye contact with me. “Maybe it isn’t exactly what I want…but it’d be a hell of a lot better than you hating me so much.”
I lean forward again, tenting my hands on the table like we’re negotiating a trade agreement.
“Aaron…what do you want?”
“What I always wanted…from the moment I met you in front of the Parsnip that afternoon.” His eyes slam into mine, fervent and true. “ You , Reeve. I want you .”
The back door of the theater whooshes open, a blast of cold air stealing our attention.
“Lord, if my head wasn’t attached!” Bruce struts down the aisle toward us, his hat and coat covered with a dusting of snow. “Reeve, honey, please tell me you found my phone!”
“Y-Yeah. It’s here!” I chirp, grabbing the phone and sidestepping down the row to meet him at the aisle. “I was going to drop it off.”
“Bless your heart,” he says, holding it to his chest like a prize. “You know, Parker and Harper are over at the Parsnip having a little late supper! Surprised you aren’t there with them. Girls’ night out!” He looks from me to Aaron, then back to me. “Wait a sec.” His eyes narrow. “What strange energy is happening here? Am I interrupting something?”
“Nope!” I slam my laptop closed and shove it into my backpack, zipping it shut, and shrugging into my parka. “I was just doing the notes. All good. Aaron, Manderley needs to be dark, dark, dark, okay? Whew! Gotta go. I’m off to the Parsnip!”
Before Bruce or Aaron can say another word, I shimmy down the row and beeline down the aisle to the exit, gulping deep breaths of cold air when I’m finally outside. I look up at the stars, which fill the night sky with such brightness, it makes me feel small.
What I’ve always wanted. You, Reeve. I want you.
“Holy crow,” I mutter. Be careful what you wish for.
I make my way down Broadway toward the Parsnip. At one point, I lose my balance on a patch of ice, but right myself before I fall.
Yes, I once had a massive crush on Aaron.
And yes, I am just as attracted to him today as I was three and half years ago.
But damn…I didn’t expect for that book to be re-opened tonight. And now that it is, am I even remotely ready to start reading again?
The timing’s all off. It’s Christmastime, which is packed with family plans. And right after Christmas, I’m headed to Anchorage.
I cross Broadway, trudging through ice, snow, and slush, and push through the double doors into the restaurant. As I reach for my hat, I spy my sisters at a corner table. They’ve each got a glass of wine and Harper’s buttering a roll, which means their entrées haven’t arrived yet. We’ll be here for at least an hour, which means I need to make a quick—and very important—decision.
Do I tell Parker and Harper what just happened?
Or do I keep it to myself?
“Reeve!” Parker calls, gesturing me over.
“You made it!” Harper’s smile takes up her whole face.
I love my sisters. I love them so much, it pinches my heart that I’m leaving so soon. But I add Aaron’s declaration to the secret I’m keeping about college.
Not tonight , I tell myself, grinning back at them as I slide through the crowded café to their table.
***
“I’m thinking a diamond. A diamond, right? Engagement rings require a diamond.”
Sawyer scrubs his hands through his hair, and it stands at odd angles, adding an extra level of deranged to his general appearance, which already looks wide-eyed and unhinged.
“But I can’t afford a huge diamond,” he says, standing against the clapboard wall of the jewelry store. I stand beside him in solidarity, listening to his stream of consciousness. “Not like that fucking ostentatious rock her ex gave her. That was a big, ugly ring. She’ll be okay with a medium-sized diamond, right? Or—fuck—maybe I should just get her a small one? Just to contrast his ring and mine? Wait, no. A small one would be—that would be bad, right? She’s used to nice things. So…not humongous and not tiny. What’s in the middle? Medium? A medium diamond, right?” A bony elbow jabs me in the side. “Reeve! Are you here to help or what?”
I pivot to face him and put my hands on his shoulders.
“Sawyer,” I say, giving him Harper’s no-nonsense, get-it-together look. “You. Must. Chill.”
“ Say Anything ,” he tells me, momentarily distracted by the quote. “Epic film.”
“Calm down. I mean it.”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
“They have a ton of different rings in there, and since it’s the off-season and we’re locals, Rufus is going to give you a fair price.”
“Right. Good point.”
“And if he doesn’t, we can go to one of the other places open in December, but no matter what, you must chill, okay?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Good advice. Okay. Yes. Okay.”
“Let’s go, soldier.”
We enter Highland Treasures, where Rufus MacAvoy opens his shop twice a week from Thanksgiving to Christmas, on Monday and Thursday nights, from six until ten p.m. He only started doing this when two of the other jewelers in town did the same—opened for eight hours a week to service the good folks of Skagway and help them with their Christmas shopping.
“The littlest Stewarts!” booms Rufus. The way he says “Stewarts” in his Scottish brogue is dreamy, and that’s a fact. “How can I help ye?”
“I’m looking for a ring,” says Sawyer, stepping up to the counter.
“For Ivy, of Clan Caswell?” asks Rufus, a sparkle in his eye.
“Yessir.”
“Bonny lass,” says Rufus, laying it on a little thick.
“We’re looking for something in the middle of the road,” I say, adopting a businesslike tone. “Not too big. Not too small.”
“An engagement ring?” Rufus asks my brother. “Oh my, oh my!”
Sawyer stares at Rufus, then blinks thrice in quick succession, gulping audibly.
“He’s nervous,” I say. “Show us solitaires set in white and yellow gold. Traditional. Classy.”
“Do we have a budget?”
“If we do,” I say, feeling cagey and knowing that half the battle of getting a good price on Alaskan jewelry is keeping your hand close, “it’s our business, not yours.”
“Understood. But…yer still working the local tourist outfit? For yer father?”
“That’s right,” I say. “Family business. We all have a stake.”
“Right-o. So! I have this lovely diamond-chip number, set in rose—”
“Rufus,” I say curtly, waiting to continue until he meets my eyes. “We’re locals, not paupers. White or yellow gold. Diamond solitaire. Traditional. No bullshit, yeah?”
“Yer sister’s a right ballbuster,” Rufus mutters, walking to another area of the store and turning on the under-the-counter lights. A collection of diamond jewelry beneath glitters like stars. “Here we are.” He takes out a nice-looking ring and places it on a bed of white velvet. “This is a one-carat, lab-grown diamond set in ten karat white gold, flanked with diamond chips.”
“How much?” asks Sawyer.
“I could give it to you for eight-ninety-nine.”
“Under a thousand dollars?” I ask, my forehead wrinkling in confusion. “That seems cheap.”
“Well…that particular diamond was grown, not mined,” Rufus explains.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Grown diamonds are cheaper and more sustainable,” he explains.
“So, it’s not…real?” asks Sawyer.
“Real as you or me!” thunders Rufus. I give him a look, and he adds, somewhat sheepishly, “But it is synthetic, not natural.”
“I want real ,” says Sawyer. “I want the real deal.”
“Stop fucking around,” I mutter to Rufus. “We can pay for a nice ring.”
“Fine!” he says, leading us to another counter. He pulls a ring from under the glass. “Neil Lane. Pear-shaped. One and a half carat diamond, set in fourteen carat yellow gold.”
“Wow,” murmurs Sawyer, taking the ring from Rufus and holding it up to the light. “That’s…wow—that’s beautiful.”
“It’s okay ,” I say, looking at Rufus. “How much?”
“Pear-shape isn’t as popular anymore as it used to be. But that ring still retails for over six thousand dollars in the Lower 48.”
I clear my throat. I am pretty certain that six-thousand dollars is far outside of Sawyer’s comfort zone. His eyes flick up to Rufus. Rufus stares at him, glances at the ring, then huffs in surrender.
“Fine. We’re old friends. You can have it for four thousand two hundred.”
I narrow my eyes at Rufus, doing some quick math in my head. If he’s willing to give it to Sawyer for thirty percent off, surely he’s willing to sell it for forty percent off. After all, pear-shaped diamonds are no longer popular, and not to mention, it’s off-season. He’s not going to make a ton of sales between now and April.
“Thirty-six hundred,” I say. Rufus jerks his head up to frown at me. “And not a penny more.”
“Reeve!” says Sawyer. “I want it.”
“Shut up, Sawyer,” I say, eyes locked with Rufus.
The old Scotsman grins at me, wider and wider, until he’s outright chuckling. “Damn, Reeve Stewart, but I like yer style! When’ll ye come and work for me, lass?”
I smile back at him. “What do you say, Rufus?”
“Fine, fine, fine. Thirty-six it is,” he says, plucking the ring from Sawyer’s hand. He takes it over to a counter where he polishes the ring with a cloth before writing up the sale.
“Probably could’ve gotten it for thirty-two,” I murmur to my brother.
“You did great!” says Sawyer, giving me a hug. “Almost fifty percent off!”
“He probably paid three thousand and not a penny more,” I say.
“You ever think of going into sales, Reeve?”
“No,” I say, looking up at my brother. “It’s always been healthcare for me.”
“Healthcare? We run a tourist business. Are you talking about the EMT stuff?”
“The EMT ‘stuff’ has always meant more to me than the tourism stuff,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I sort of sensed that.”
His understanding gives me courage.
“I’m going to college, Sawyer,” I tell him, the words surprisingly easy after keeping them a secret for so many months. “I want to be a nurse.”
“A nurse! That’s great!” he says, grinning at me with pride. “Have you started applying? When will you go? Next September?”
I shake my head. “January.”
His smile quickly fades. “Wait. January? Next month January? What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to Anchorage,” I tell him. “I applied for the program over the summer and got a scholarship to the University of Alaska. I start in January.”
“In Anchorage.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a four-year program. The best in the state.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says softly. “But January’s soon. And four years is a long time.”
I nod at him.
“Who else knows?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. “Besides me?”
“No one,” I whisper. “Just you.”
“Wow,” he says, releasing a held breath. “Wow. Okay. Whoa. They’re not gonna like it.”
“I know.” I shrug with a bravado I don’t necessarily feel. “But I can’t do anything about that. I want this.”
“You have to tell them.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I know.”
“Soon.”
“I will!” I insist, just as Rufus returns with Ivy’s gorgeous engagement ring nestled in a lovely white leather box.
“Are we pleased?” asks the Scotsman, winking at me.
“We are.” Sawyer beams at the ring, handing over his credit card. As Rufus runs it, my brother turns to me. “I’ve got your back, little sister, but you’ve got to tell them soon.”
“The day after Christmas,” I promise. “I’ll tell the whole family on the twenty-sixth.”