Chapter 17
Well, Amy’s mother was wrong about one thing—Harrison knew they were there.
He was aware of every single moment. If it wasn’t the constant cackling and talking (he could even hear it through the night, when, upstairs, the women apparently went from one bedroom to the next), it was the smell of delicious food wafting out of the kitchen.
Or the impromptu karaoke session to accompany the Christmas music constantly being pumped at them.
And yet, as crazy as it sounded in his head, last night had been fun. Who didn’t like a little karaoke when the good vibes were flowing? It turned out that Hillary had a pretty good voice. And whoever was producing those pitchers of margaritas, well…that was some magic they were working with.
This morning, the smell of something very sweet came through the heating vents. He wandered into the living room to check on Hillary, who had passed out on the couch last night, one shoe on and one shoe off. “Hey, kid,” he said, and put a hand on her shoulder.
She jerked herself upright and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh my God, what did I do?”
“One word—margaritas.”
“Oh my God,” she moaned, and stood up. “I have to go.” He watched her stumble to the door, grab her bag, and go out.
He carried on to the kitchen, where the smell of sugar and cinnamon was enough to drive a man to his knees.
He was hoping he’d find Amy there. He’d missed her last night, even though they’d both been with the others.
But with so many people around, it had been hard to have a word.
Plus, she’d spent a good forty-five minutes on the phone with her father.
He knew this, because her mother kept instructing her to tell him she was busy.
He hoped that today, when the ladies were away, he and Amy could steal some time.
He wanted to hear her interpretation of all that had happened since they’d tossed around in her bed.
He’d wanted to sit before the fire with the Christmas tree lights glittering at them and hear about her day.
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to hold her.
He wanted a lot of things that didn’t make sense after a few short days.
Probably the season, he figured. Nostalgia.
Right. He could tell himself that, but he knew it was something more. How much more, he wasn’t sure. But his interest had sailed right past the prurient and into the burning sun of captivation.
Alas, it was not Amy in the kitchen. It was June. “Good morning, H!” she said cheerfully.
The H thing had started last night. He wasn’t quite sure what it was about him that had made them all think he required only an initial.
“Good morning, J,” he said. June was wearing a one-piece bathing suit and a thick robe over it.
On the bar was a woven bag; a red-brimmed hat peeked out the top.
He looked at the bag, and at her. “You know it’s only thirty-eight degrees right now. ”
“A fellow weather connoisseur,” she said. “Nothing I like better first thing in the morning than a temperature check. But what’s your point?”
“You look like you are headed for the beach.”
“Well, not the beach, but the pool. It’s been heating all night. It will feel like a hot tub.”
He wondered what the heating bill for that would run. “What smells so good?”
“My homemade cinnamon rolls.”
“Good morning!” Carol sailed in next. She was dressed similarly to June. “Smells wonderful, June. I was hoping we’d get your cinnamon rolls.”
Harrison realized that it was ten o’clock, and the ladies were puttering around the kitchen and planning to get in the pool.
What happened to their trip to Denison to shop?
They’d all talked about what to wear last night.
“I, uh…thought you were going shopping today?” he said, trying to make it sound casual instead of desperate as dread began to creep in.
He already knew the answer—he would not have any alone time with Amy today.
“Oh, we gave up on that idea,” Carol said with a flick of her wrist, confirming his fear. “Weather is moving in, and we didn’t want to miss the one day we might have for the pool.”
“He’s worried we’ll interrupt his physical therapy,” June said, eying him. “But you shouldn’t, H. Hillary said it would be fine.”
Hillary? She was deciding who was here now?
They were joined by Melissa and Barb, also dressed for the pool. Melissa looked around the room as if they were missing one. “Where are the mimosas?”
These women could drink.
“I haven’t made them,” June said. “I’m a little busy here,” she said, gesturing to the things she’d used to make the cinnamon rolls.
Melissa sighed. “Move,” she said to Harrison, and shimmied around him, into the kitchen, and yanked open the door of the fridge.
“Where is my daughter?” Barb asked.
“In her studio,” June said.
“And Hillary?”
“Last I saw her, passed out on the couch,” June said. “What am I, the night watchman?”
“I, ah…I think she went back to her rental,” Harrison offered.
“But I thought she was with us today,” Barb said, sounding a little whiny.
“She’ll be back,” Melissa said. “She texted just before I came downstairs.”
They’d already exchanged phone numbers? Was Hillary moving in, too?
“I had a call from Bob this morning,” Barb announced as Duchess wandered in, her nose to the ground, bumping into Barb’s foot before inching around and heading for Harrison.
The rest of the women stopped what they were doing and looked at Barb expectantly.
“Well?” Carol sank down onto a barstool. “What did he say?”
“Oh, the usual,” Barb said. “That he didn’t understand. And that we’re supposed to get up to six inches of snow.”
Carol snorted loudly. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
June shook her head. “He takes the cake, Barb.”
This was not a conversation Harrison wanted to hear.
He bent down to pick up Duchess, then backed out of the kitchen with the ready excuse that he was taking the dog out for her morning constitutional.
No one stopped him, as they were hanging on every word Barb said; she had launched into a complete retelling of the conversation she’d had with Bob.
On the deck, he put Duchess down and wrapped his arms around himself. It was cold. In the kitchen, there was a sudden cacophony of pots and pans banging around, so much so that it sounded like major construction was underway.
“What is all that racket?”
He looked up; Amy had come out of the studio. Hands on hips, she frowned in the direction of the kitchen.
“Well, hello,” Harrison said, and came down the steps to where she was standing in front of the studio. “When I didn’t see you this morning, I thought you’d escaped and left me stranded.”
She smiled wryly. “I would not leave you stranded. If I could escape, I’d grab you and your little dog, too.”
“I appreciate it.”
Something inside crashed on the tile floor, and they jumped. “What the hell?” Amy asked.
“They’re making cinnamon rolls.”
“With a sledgehammer?”
He glanced toward the kitchen. “Not sure.”
She sighed. She moved closer. “I have some bad news, Harrison.”
His first thought was that he appreciated she made the effort to say his name and not boil him down to a letter. His second thought was a real fear she was going to leave. He didn’t want her to leave. He very much wanted her to stay. “Sounds ominous. What is it?”
“They aren’t going shopping today after all.” She winced as if it physically pained her to impart the news.
“Yeah, I heard.”
“No, you don’t understand. They’re going to hang out in the pool because, June said, with the winter storm coming, they want to take advantage. Which means two things, you realize.”
“Sure,” he said, nodding. Then, “It does?”
“One, that they are going to be underfoot all day,” she said, holding up a finger. “And two, that they are clearly planning on staying more than a couple of days.” She held up another finger.
When she put it like that—the “more than a couple of days” part—he had to agree, that was not ideal. It was downright annoying. “At least they won’t be in the studio, right?”
She dropped her hand. “No, but…but that’s not how art works. I can’t be my most creative self while wondering what the Bossy Posse is going to do next.”
“Yeah,” he said, and ran a hand over his head. He had no idea what it took to make art, but he could imagine that would be a problem.
“You can’t be okay with this. It’s an invasion of privacy, and we…” She hesitated, bit her lip, and looked toward the house again. “All right, I’m just going to say it. We had a good thing going, right?”
“The best.” Was that even a question? “I think we still do. Don’t you?”
“I mean, I hope so? But how will we…” She glanced off. “How will we…you know.”
“Have sex?”
Amy blinked. “Umm…well that, but I was thinking more along the lines of exploring this good thing.”
“Ah.” He took a minute to pull his foot from his mouth. “Where there is a will, there is a way.” Which sounded like he’d just come from the locker room of a PGA tournament and was reading a motivational poster on the way out to the course.
“Are you always so optimistic?”
“Pretty much never,” he said, and smiled a little. “But, in my defense, this is not my mother we are talking about. If it was my mother, my attitude would be different, believe me.”
She glanced down.
“Don’t let them get you down,” he said. “I know this is a huge kick in the pants. But I had fun last night—didn’t you?”
“No!” she insisted. She groaned. “Okay, maybe a little.”
He smiled.
“But they are killing my vibe. And get this…” She paused, glancing over her shoulder at the house, like she suspected one of them was creeping up on her. “Apparently, my mom and dad are having issues!” She cast her arms out, as if this was the most stunning news he could imagine.
He rubbed his chin. “I might have heard something about that. What kind of issues?”
“Big issues. It has me a little worried.”
“What, like…divorce?”
“Maybe! I don’t know, whatever is going on sounds like a complete disaster, and I am furious that they are bringing this to me now, during these two weeks.
Dad keeps texting and calling Mom, and Mom won’t respond, so Dad texts me, and on top of that, my kids are still fighting about a missing Minecraft world and my ex and my brother are not helping at all. ” She huffed with exasperation.
Harrison touched a strand of her hair. “You sound like you need a vacation. Somewhere near a lake.”
Amusement sparked in her eyes. “Funny.”
His head was filled with kissing her, so of course the door would slide open and Amy’s mom would pop her head out. “There you are! Good morning, sweetheart! Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“We made cinnamon rolls.”
“I made cinnamon rolls,” June shouted from somewhere inside.
“Okay, thanks, Mom!” Amy waved her back inside.
Barb’s head dutifully disappeared, and the sliding-glass door shut. Harrison glanced at Amy from the corner of his eye. “You have every right to be mad. I just hope you’re not so mad that we’re going to pass on cinnamon rolls. We’re not…are we?”
“Harrison!” She glared at him with exasperation. “I’m not a monster. Of course we’re not passing on cinnamon rolls.”
He grinned. He held out his hand. “Shall we drown our sorrows in sugar?”
“Is there any other way?” She slipped her hand into his, letting him tug her up the steps to the main deck and the sliding-glass door.