WOULD YOU RATHER
THOMAS
I ’d been staring at this budget-planning spreadsheet for the last hour, trying to fix an error I couldn’t seem to locate. As the director of finance, it was my job to review Sugar Mountain Resort’s performance from the previous year and create a plan for the upcoming one. Only I was struggling. With the addition of our new wedding barn, the hotel would fill up quicker and stay at capacity for longer than usual. We’d most likely get booked for events years out instead of months. This was something that could create issues for us going forward.
Adding another building with additional rooms seemed to be the best option. But I’d need to float it past the old man. He was still the general manager of the resort with no signs of giving that title up anytime soon. I was grateful that he still loved the job and didn’t mind the long hours. Eventually, I was supposed to take it over, but I wasn’t ready to be the face of the resort. Not while everyone still called me Grumpy O’Grady behind my back. Matthew would be better suited for it, to be honest. Me? I loved the numbers. They were like a puzzle that fit perfectly together. Numbers made sense. People usually didn’t.
Anyway, I knew our dad would tell me to wait and see how the first year of the barn actually panned out financially before adding the additional rooms, but by then, it would be too late. We’d be a year behind in building when we could have been almost completed. Grabbing a pen, I made a note to talk to my brothers first and get their opinions. The old man dealt best when presented with not only a united front, but also a smart plan.
A quick knock on my door diverted my attention.
“Come in,” I said, thankful for the reprieve.
“Thomas”—Sierra, our events coordinator, stood in the doorway, looking a little nervous—“can I talk to you for a second?”
“Of course.”
This wasn’t an unusual request. Sierra and I had budget meetings all the time. And when the occasional vendor tried to get more money when there was no justifiable reason for the increase, she came to me to be the bad guy.
I gladly obliged.
“So, I’ll just cut to it,” she said in a rushed tone as she sat down. “I’m moving.”
“You’re moving?” I repeated, knowing how shocked I sounded.
“I know. I’m sure it seems sudden, but it’s not. Jada and I want to buy a house, and it’s just too hard to find one we love and can afford in town without having to fix the whole thing up, and DIY isn’t really our thing. We found the perfect place in Cherry Cove, and they accepted our offer,” she explained, and I hated how much I understood.
Sugar Mountain wasn’t always the most affordable place to live. I’d gotten lucky to get my house when I did. And even luckier that my dad had given me the money for the down payment.
“Cherry Cove isn’t that far.”
“It’s not.” She smiled. “But it would be a really bad drive during the winter. You know how often the roads close. Plus, we’re hoping to start a family.”
“Are you...” I started to ask if she was pregnant, but stopped myself from crossing that unprofessional line.
“No, not yet. There are a lot of different options for us and things we need to think about and figure out. It isn’t easy, and I know it’s going to take a lot of our time. I want to make our family a priority.”
“I understand completely. This is all good news, Sierra. I just hate to lose you.” I tried to sound noncommittal, but my words came out in a groan instead.
Staffing issues were one of my least favorite things to deal with. And now was not the time to lose our events coordinator. Not when we were hoping to increase them with the addition of the barn.
“I don’t want you to think I’m leaving you high and dry. The assistants are good, but you need someone great. Next level. I have the perfect recommendation for my replacement.”
I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk. “Who?”
“Her name is Brooklyn. She currently works for Kleinfeld’s. I think she’d be interested in something a little more stable.”
“Brooklyn McKay?” I asked like I knew the woman even though I didn’t, but she was the only person in Sugar Mountain with that first name.
Sierra tapped her chin and started rambling while I only half listened. “I think it’s Allister now. No, wait, I heard they just got divorced or something. I’m actually not sure. Anyway, do you know her?”
“Don’t really know her, no. Know of her. She grew up here. Was in Patrick’s high school class, I’m pretty sure.” I racked my brain for images of Brooklyn and came up short. I knew the familiarity of her name, but that was it.
Did she have red hair?
“She’s really great. I think this would be a good transition for her.”
“Does she know you’re leaving?”
“Not yet. But I can talk to her first, if you’d like? Feel her out and float the idea by her,” she offered.
I nodded. “That would be really helpful.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I speak to her.” Sierra stood up to leave, straightening out her skirt with her hands.
“Sierra, wait. When is your last day?”
“Oh yeah.” She blushed, as if embarrassed to have forgotten that nugget of information. “Three weeks. I know it’s short notice.”
“Three weeks,” I repeated before rubbing my temples to ward off the headache blooming behind my eyes.
Three weeks was no time at all.
I walked through the garage door and into the house, where my favorite person on the planet waited for me.
“Daddy!” Clara shouted as she ran through the living room and hopped into my arms, squeezing my neck as hard as she could.
“You’re choking Daddy.” I pretended like I couldn’t breathe, and she loosened her grip... just a little.
“How was your day? Want to hear about mine?” she said before kissing my cheek with sticky lips.
Placing her little feet onto the floor, I booped her nose before reaching for a paper towel to wipe at my face. “You know I do. Go wash up for dinner, and we’ll talk all about it.”
“Okay. Bye, Glo-Buggy! See you tomorrow,” she shouted.
I went to chastise her for calling Mrs. Green by some crazy new nickname, but Mrs. Green tsked me before I could.
“Don’t. It’s much better than her calling me Mrs. Green all the time, like you do.”
“But that’s your name,” I said.
She shook her head slowly, as if I exhausted her. “My name is Gloria, and you know it.”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Green.”
“Thomas O’Grady. Stop being so serious all the time. Your daughter is adorable, and I find it humorous that she makes up new names for me all the time. Plus, she means no harm. It’s not like she does it to be cruel. She’s creative,” she said with an almost sense of pride, and I felt my ire calm down a notch.
“As long as you’re okay with it.”
The smell of lasagna hit my nose, and I noticed the oven timer was slowly counting down as I glanced over at it.
Mrs. Green was an absolute godsend. She watched Clara every day after school and had dinner cooking by the time I got home. She’d tried to do my laundry once and clean the house, but I’d put a stop to that. I wanted Clarabel to have chores, like I had growing up. If someone else did everything for her, how would she ever learn to do it herself? It was one of those things I always questioned if I was doing the right thing or not. I still wasn’t sure.
“Thank you for dinner. It smells amazing.”
“Well, I know you wouldn’t eat properly if it wasn’t for me, so you’re welcome.” Her tone was teasing, but she had no idea how right she was. Or maybe she did.
On the weekends, Clara and I either went out to Main Street Diner, or sometimes, we got food from the resort restaurant and brought it home. If it wasn’t for Mrs. Green, we would probably eat takeout every night. Much to my dad’s chagrin. The man loved to grill and tried to get us all together at least every other weekend for dinner, but even that had been a stretch lately. The build on Patrick’s house had taken precedence over everything else.
“You’re not wrong. Thank you again. We’ll see you tomorrow.” I walked her toward the front door and watched until she crossed the street and opened her own front door, turning on the hallway light and waving at me through the window.
Yeah, she lived across the street from us, and I was glad she did. If she hadn’t offered to start watching Clarabel, I wasn’t sure who would have done it. I’d actually thought about that a lot over the years. If it wasn’t for Mrs. Green, where would we be?
Definitely underfed and a lot less stable.
The oven buzzed, and I grabbed two mitts, opened the door, and pulled the piping hot lasagna pan out. Cheese bubbled on top, sizzling when it hit the cold air.
“I love when Glo-Buggy Wormy Face makes lasagna,” Clara said as she pulled out her seat at our table and sat down.
“Glo-Buggy Wormy Face?” I said with a laugh.
“She likes it,” Clara informed before I could say anything else.
“If you say so.” I decided not to argue as I pulled two plates from the cupboard right as Patrick and Matthew walked inside without knocking. They did that sometimes—showed up without warning.
“Uncles!” Clara shouted and scooted out of her chair so fast that it fell backward. “Oops,” she said, her cheeks red with embarrassment.
“I got it, princess,” Matthew said as he ran toward the toppled-over piece of furniture and righted it. “Smells like we arrived just in time, eh, Patrick?”
“Definitely,” Patrick agreed as he shoved his hair out of his eyes right before Clarabel beelined straight for him.
She jumped, and he caught her with little effort before tossing her on top of his shoulders.
The three of us really did look a lot alike. There was no denying that we were brothers, even if Patrick’s hair was longer and Matthew’s eyes were a little bluer.
“You guys staying for dinner?” I asked, reaching for two more plates.
“Stay. Stay. Stay,” Clarabel chanted from her shoulder perch, and I knew they’d never tell her no.
“Run, horsey.” She swatted Patrick’s head as he pretended to trot around the living room, his hair flopping back into his eyes.
Matthew sauntered into the kitchen and grabbed the plates. “I’ll set the table. You bring the grub.”
Nodding, I reached for a towel and carried the still-hot lasagna to the table before heading back to grab a spatula and shaker Parmesan cheese for the little one.
“Drinks?” I asked out loud and waited for everyone to shout their orders at me like I knew they would.
The three of them yelled in unison.
“Water.”
“Beer.”
“Apple juice.”
Instead of saying anything in response, I went to work, getting their requests.
Balancing them all in both hands, I placed the corresponding drink in front of the right person. Clarabel was sitting patiently in her chair, her hands folded in her lap as I scooped out giant helpings onto each plate.
Everyone dug in, and I watched as Clara blew on her forkful of lasagna before putting it in her mouth, like she didn’t quite trust it not to burn her.
“Yum,” she said as she chewed.
“Mouth closed,” I reminded her.
“Sorry,” she tried to say as she swallowed. “Who wants to hear about my day?” Clara asked to the table filled with three of her biggest fans.
We all answered at the same time—a resounding yes, of course—and she put her fork down with a clang before pushing out of her chair and standing.
“Scott made fun of my shoes.” She pointed down at them. “Said that only weirdos wore two different shoes, so I must be one.”
I swore that you could have heard a damn pin drop with how silent the three of us got. We all stopped chewing as we looked around the table, each one of our eyes meeting the other before focusing back on Clarabel. Scott must have been raised by fools, and it was clear that he and his parents must suffer now.
Clearing my throat, I tried to sound calm, but there was a thread of protectiveness bubbling just under the surface. Clarabel loved to wear two different shoes.
When she had been younger, I’d tried to force her to match, but she looked at me one morning and simply asked, “Why?”
To be honest, I didn’t have a damn good reason to give her. So, I’d caved, thinking she was just going through a phase. Plus, wearing two different shoes on the right feet wasn’t hurting anyone.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Told him I’d rather be a weirdo than dumb and a jerk,” she answered, and we all started laughing after absorbing her brilliant response.
“Damn, princess,” Matthew howled. “Did he cry?”
She giggled as she sat back down. “No, Uncle, he didn’t cry! But he did run away to tattle.” She made a sour-looking face before taking a too-big bite of her dinner.
“Wait.” Patrick put a hand up. “He told on you?”
“Uh-huh,” she mumbled around the mouthful of food. “And that’s why Miss Shooster wants to talk to you, Daddy.”
“She wants to talk to me, huh?” I leaned back in the chair as a mixture of pride and fear roared through my veins.
Had she done the wrong thing by standing up for herself? Hell no. Could she have gone about it a different way? I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like Clara had hit the kid, like I currently wanted to do.
“Yeah. There’s a note in my backpack.” She pointed toward where her backpack sat on the couch. “But I didn’t lie, Daddy. Scott is dumb. He gets bad grades a lot. And he is a jerk. I’m not the only person he makes fun of.”
Yeah, this Scott kid was going to have to pack his bags and leave town. Or at least change schools.
“Can’t argue with sound logic.” Patrick shrugged and reached across the table to give his niece a high five, which she enthusiastically gave.
“I’m not sure we should be promoting this?” I tried to say, but it came out in a question instead. It was all I seemed to do lately when it came to being a dad. Second-guessing was now second nature.
“Promoting what? Standing up for herself? Defending her choices? Taking that loser kid to school with the truth? I think we not only promote this behavior, but we reward it,” Matthew chimed in and did the same thing as Patrick, the high-five slap echoing between us.
“Are you mad at me, Daddy?” Clara looked so sad as she waited for my answer.
“No. Your uncles are right. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m proud of you, baby.”
“Thanks, Daddy.” She hopped out of her chair once more, only this time, it was to run and give me a hug. “I mean, would you rather be a weirdo or dumb? It’s a no-brainer, right?”
“Definitely a no-brainer. Weirdo, every day of the week,” I agreed, and she grinned.
Sometimes, that kid of mine was too damn logical for her own good. Unlike that Scott character. I didn’t care that he was only eight. He was now at the top of my shit list.