CHAPTER NINE FALLON #2
“I mean, would I have wanted to make love to my girlfriend last night? Yeah, I would have. But you don’t owe me anything.
I want you to have sex with me because you’re in the mood, because you want to.
I’m more than happy just snuggling.” Regret hangs heavy in his voice.
“I also understand that you have a lot on your mind. I’m sorry if I seemed irritated, but I’m not going to lie, I was. ”
“I know and I’m sorry. This was my fault.” I head down the stairs that lead to the back of the property, the overhang of the ponderosa pines providing shade from the already-beating sun. “I shouldn’t have been watching those videos last night.”
“How about this,” he says. “When I get up there, we do whatever you want to do. If it’s renovations, then we work on those, but after eight o’clock, it’s my time, and we do what I want.” His voice deepens, and I can hear the innuendo.
I chuckle. “I think that’s fair.” I stop and stare out at the lake. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
“I know, sweetie. And I’m sorry I left without talking to you about how I felt. I didn’t want to put more on your shoulders. But I’m glad you called.”
“Me too.”
“I love you,” he says.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll see you next weekend. Okay?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “See you next weekend, Fallon. I’ll call tonight.”
“Okay.”
And then we hang up. Even though that conversation cleared the air, I can’t shake this nagging feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach—it’s stuck there and won’t come out, won’t free itself. And I have no idea how to make it.
Taking a deep breath, I’m turning to go back to the lobby when something from the corner of my eye stops me. A flash of bright red, just over the peak of the hill.
Curious, I move closer, and as I make my way up and over the hill, I stop dead in my tracks.
Many years ago, Sully and Grandma Joan laid down stone under some of the largest trees on the property, fastened lights along the branches, and stuck picnic tables under the trees.
It was the perfect spot for a picnic, for small gatherings, and one of my favorite places on the property.
Over time, the tree branches drooped, the lights stopped working, and the picnic tables became chipped to the point that you couldn’t sit at them anymore.
But what I’m staring at right now is not the familiar run-down picnic area.
The crowded slate stones have been cleared, the rock scrubbed clean of any moss and buildup.
The picnic tables have been sanded and repainted a bright red—Grandma Joan’s favorite color.
And the stringed lights no longer hang from the trees but instead are hanging from poles that have been cemented into the ground, giving them the proper sturdy base that they need to weather the winter storms.
It looks... magical.
How on earth?
I glance around, looking for a construction crew, for anyone who could have possibly pulled this off, but when I see no one in sight, my confusion only deepens.
I take a few minutes to let it wash over me and soak in the beauty of this spot, the same place where Grandma Joan used to take me to teach me how to cross-stitch. I never became as proficient as her, but the memories of her patiently directing me flood me all at once.
And a tear falls down my cheek. It feels like it was only fifteen minutes ago, the afternoon Grandma Joan and I brought a basket of cookies and lemonade out to these tables and gabbed about Leon Johnson, my high school crush.
She reached across the table and told me I shouldn’t have to wait around for a boy to like me.
I remember her words so vividly, the way she comforted me when I said he wouldn’t dance with me at spring formal.
It was the first time I heard her call someone a nitwit.
But it definitely wasn’t the first time we fell into a laughing fit.
How have fifteen years gone by since that day?
The memory feels too real. Too palpable, like it’s happening right now. I turn away.
No.
I can’t get emotional.
Not right now.
Not when there is work to be done.
Getting lost in memories won’t help me. But I do need to find out who made this happen, because I owe them a huge thank-you.
I walk back to the lobby to find Jaz slashing her knife at the carpet while heavy metal plays in the background.
“Take that,” Jaz says, pulling at the old green carpet. “And that.”
“Jaz!” I call out over the music.
She turns to me and smiles, knife held aloft, like she’s in a slasher movie. “Come join me—this is very therapeutic.”
“Did you do something to the picnic tables?”
“What?” she calls out over the music.
I reach for the Bluetooth speaker and press pause. I point to it. “We will be playing something... less murder-y.”
“Cat in Heat is a great band if you give them a chance.”
“I will never give a band named Cat in Heat a chance.” I set the speaker down. “I asked if you did anything to the picnic tables.”
“The ones down by the trees?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“No, why? Did someone break them down? A sledgehammer to that old wood might be doing them a favor.”
“No, they’re, uh... they’ve been sanded and painted. The entire picnic area had a makeover. Slate rocks are cleaned, lights restrung. Overgrown trees cut back and pruned. It looks...” I swallow back my emotion. “It looks like it used to, like when I’d go down there with Grandma Joan—”
“And cross-stitch,” Jaz finishes for me.
“Yeah. You didn’t have anything to do with it?”
“No.” She wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m kind of knee deep in helping you with the lobby and running the bar. I wish I could have pulled that off for you, but it wasn’t me.”
I glance up at the stairs. “It’s not Sully, is it?”
“No way.” Jaz shakes her head. “I’d like to think that he could handle a project like that, but you saw him when he tried to repair the fence; he just doesn’t have the mental capacity to take on repairs or construction. He forgets what he’s doing.”
“Yeah, I know.” I kick at the carpet. “The bench that Sully likes to sit on is fixed as well. I wonder if my dads sent someone up here to get some work done and forgot to mention it.”
“That’s probably the truth, actually,” Jaz says. “But ask them later, because we’re on borrowed time.”
She’s right. We are, so I push the picnic tables to the back of my mind and tackle the carpet with her.
“Push.”
“I am pushing,” Jaz grunts.
“Push harder.”
“ You push harder,” she yaps right before she falls to the floor and takes a rest. “We should have cut it into pieces. I told you one giant roll would be too much for us.”
“I thought you just wanted to slash the carpet—I didn’t know there was a point behind it.” I join her on the floor, our rolled-up old carpet half in the front lobby door, half out.
“I did want to slash something, but there was also a point to it. Want me to call Tank? See if he can round up some hands to help us?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to bother him.”
Just then the back door to the lobby opens, and Sawyer walks in, sweaty, shirtless, and looking slightly dirty, water bottle in hand. How much does this guy work out?
I swear, every time I see him, he’s sweaty, shirtless, and needing a refill on his drink.
Granted, he has an impressively lean body, so his hard work is paying off, but sheesh, doesn’t he have anything else to do? Maybe write another movie or something?
He stops and takes us in, his eyes falling to the carpet and then rising back to us. “Need some help?”
“No,” I say, waving my hand. “We’re good.”
“Are you insane?” Jaz asks. “As much as it pains me to ask Julia for some help, we need it. And look, he has muscles, muscles we could desperately use right now.”
“I don’t mind,” he says, putting his water bottle down and walking over to us. He examines the rolled-up carpet and hops on top of it, walking the length until he’s outside and jumping off the end. “You’re stuck on some uneven concrete over here. I’ll pull from here, and you push. Ready?”
“You really don’t have to help,” I say. I know what an outsider looking in must think— Uh, hello, lady, take the man’s help —but it feels weird.
For one, he’s a guest, and guests shouldn’t be helping with anything when it comes to the cabins.
But two, we have an awkward history. I know we spoke about it, and he apologized, but I don’t know.
.. I just don’t want him thinking I need help—though it’s evident I do.
There’s something about saving face in front of a person who blatantly didn’t think you were important enough to spend an evening with.
“Yes, he does need to help,” Jaz counters. “It’s the least he can do, since we didn’t leave him out in the elements the day he arrived. Now stop being stubborn, and let him help us.”
Sawyer peeks his head up and smiles at me. “Yeah, Fallon, stop being stubborn and let me help you.”
“Hey.” Jaz points a finger at him. “I want it to be known, we are not becoming friendly because we happen to agree on one thing.”
He holds his hands up in defense. “I wouldn’t even consider it.”
“Good. Now that we have that established, let’s get this musty carpet out of here.”
Even though I don’t want to rely on Sawyer for help, I scramble to my feet, and on three, Jaz and I push while he pulls. In seconds, the carpet is out of the main lobby and settled in the corner of the parking lot, ready for Tank to pick it up later this week and take it to the recycling plant.
“Thank God that thing is out of the way,” Jaz says. “Good job, Julia. Now we just have to lay down the floor before the bar opens tonight. No biggie.”
“We have a lot to do,” I say to Sawyer, ready for him to take his sweaty body and leave. “Thank you for your help.”
He glances at the lobby and then back at us. “Do you need some assistance?”
Jaz holds up her hand. “I think two incompetent people is better than three—we’re good.”
“Who says I’m incompetent?” Sawyer asks.