Chapter 9
“What is he doing?” Last night I thought I traded my famous-people panic disorder for a friendship with Harlan Holcombe. However, as I half hide behind a giant green plant in the lobby of the Broadmoor Hotel, I realize my current behavior belies my newfound role.
Prissy slides her eyes in my direction. “He’s meeting with the guys. It’s his thing.”
“His thing?” I shift forward, and the word “thing” is pushed out along with a branch caught in my mouth.
“Everywhere he goes, he’s a mentor. Peer helper in junior high, football captain who headed up service projects for the team in high school, creator of a Big Brother program in college.
” She adjusts the bangles on her wrist until they form a pristine row.
“This isn’t the first group he’s brought to the Broadmoor.
I’ve seen this play out numerous times. Without fail, Harlan gets up each morning, plants himself down here in this corner of the lobby for a couple of hours, and meets with whoever wants to show up. ”
A warmth fills my chest, and I am once again surprised at Harlan. This new information spurs twenty-seven questions, but I don’t voice them because the group stands.
Five hulky men of varying degrees of beauty, including Charlie Boyd, say their farewells through man-grips, hugs, and slaps on the back. I worry someone will need medical attention by the time they finish.
While shaking a hand, Harlan catches my eye. His face lights up, and he flashes a smile my way.
Prissy raises her slim eyebrows. “Nothing going on, huh?”
My face flushes. “I mean, we’re just—I kind of—you know, yesterday we—it’s not a definite, you know.” My hands try to help my non-explanation but instead resemble flailing fish.
Prissy’s eyes glitter with amusement but shift with mine to observe Harlan sauntering in our direction.
“The queen of England called, Mrs. Prestidge. She wants her clothes back.” In one smooth move, Harlan takes her hand and kisses the top.
“Don’t be silly. The queen could never pull off this look.
Stop with the vain flattery, Harlan Christopher Holcombe.
” Her eyes narrow. “I changed your diapers, caught the show when Carissa Jo turned you down at the homecoming dance, and your mama would support me if I found cause to put you in your place.”
Prissy’s bad-to-the-bone display is entertaining. By the time she’s halfway through, Harlan has moved two feet over and side-hugged me. We’re now standing with his arm draped around my shoulders. I’m surprised my sharp, rigid posture doesn’t hurt him.
It’s not that Harlan Holcombe is touching me. It’s that Harlan is touching me. Somehow this is so much worse.
Harlan’s head turns, his mouth aimed at my ear. “Breathe.” He lets go of me but remains close. Prince Charming starts back in on Prissy. “Why are you cranky this morning, Mrs. Prestidge?”
I gape at him. No one messes with Prissy. I’m afraid of the consequences Harlan will face for poking the immaculately dressed bear. “Don’t give her a hard time, Harlan. She’s not pleased with me after this morning’s meeting.”
Harlan tilts his head, and his eyes dart between us.
Prissy shrugs and clasps her hands. “I’ve been in this industry a long time, Meredith, and seen every scenario. Clients who make hurried decisions. Ones who don’t recognize what they want. Others who purchase property for the wrong reasons. My business is leading them to their choices.”
Gnawing the side of my lip, I consider her words. “And me?”
Her astute gaze remains locked on mine. “Some clients are too paralyzed to make decisions.”
I play with the hem of my shirt. “Prissy, I—”
She steps forward and gives my hand a squeeze. “Feeling anxious is normal. Just don’t allow fear to be the guest who won’t leave. Doubt should never take up residence.” Her focus transfers to Harlan. “And you, young man. What are your intentions with my client?”
Ohmyword.
Where is the eject button for this conversation? I spot a fire alarm across the room and want to spring over and pull it with all my might.
Harlan crosses his arms over his chest and cocks an eyebrow. “My intentions are to take her to the Garden of the Gods today.”
“I’m depending on you to do an upstanding job representing Colorado Springs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Prissy gives a sharp yank to straighten her crisp jacket. “Many wishes for a lovely day, you two.”
Harlan and I watch as she marches through the lobby, the crowd parting like she really is the queen of England.
While my focus doesn’t leave her grand exit, I nudge Harlan in the side.
“I cannot believe you talk to Prissy as if she’s a normal human being instead of the bulldog businesswoman in couture that she is. ”
“Are you kidding? She’s a teddy bear. Plus, she’s hilarious.” He turns me to the exit and offers a gentle nudge to prompt forward movement. “Did you catch what she said? Prissy’s a realtor, and she told you she didn’t want doubt to take up residence. Brilliant.”
“I wanted to introduce you to my friends earlier, but I hesitated.” Harlan brings his black Jeep Wrangler to a halt in a parking lot closest to the Perkins Central Garden Trail.
Thank God we’re taking the easiest path in the park. I strain forward to tie my shoestring. “Why’s that?”
“Well, those guys aren’t famous yet, but they will be. So, do you also hyperventilate around future famous people or only current celebrities?” He sports a playful smile and reaches over to squeeze the back of my neck.
With a huff full of feigned attitude, I open my door and try not to fall out of the SUV. However, I can’t stretch out my fake dramatic reaction too long because in front of me is pure, unadulterated beauty.
Pure, unadulterated beauty being interrupted by a vibrating phone in my back pocket.
I yank it out and am beyond annoyed when I catch Stanley’s name at the top of the screen.
We’re friends, but we aren’t call-each-other-on-vacation friends.
After powering down my phone and stashing it back in my jeans, I refocus on the scenery before me.
About twenty minutes from the Broadmoor, the Garden of the Gods holds a series of breathtaking sandstone rock formations with a backdrop of Pike’s Peak.
In 1893, Katharine Lee Bates penned a poem describing this view, which later became the patriotic song “America the Beautiful.” Frustration fills me because I can’t think of any competing intelligent words to describe what my overwhelmed eyes see.
It is, simply, beautiful.
Harlan rounds the hood to join me. He shrugs on his backpack and grips each shoulder strap. His intense gaze skitters across the natural structures in front of us. “It’s like muscular, salmon-hued hands of the earth grasping at the blue heavens to declare their love.”
Ugh. Really? “Show-off.” I stomp in the direction of the trail, calling back to him, “Why can’t you just call the scenery beautiful like the rest of us normal people?”
Harlan’s chuckle gets louder as he catches up to me.
“Okay, Meredith. You mentioned you’re not a hiker, so we’ll take the concrete path to find our bearings.
No elevation climbs. The view from the base is still spectacular.
If you’re lightheaded or need to rest, we’ll stop.
” His thumb hitches behind him. “My pack is well stocked with water and snacks.”
Last night, the only thing Harlan told me about our plans was to wear jeans and running shoes. I understand some women love being super girly and dressing up in fancy heels and shiny lipstick, but telling me the attire is sweatshirt-required is like some kind of foreplay.
Not that I’m thinking about foreplay. Ever. With Harlan Holcombe. Or anyone. What’s wrong with me? Must be the beginnings of altitude sickness.
We settle into a comfortable pace, and Harlan glances at me. “Can I ask you a vain question?”
“Sure.”
He clutches the back of his neck with his hand. “How much do you know about me?”
“About what?” I kick a rock to the side before taking my next step.
“About my life. Who I am. With this ridiculous media thing going on around me, I don’t know what to expect from people I just met.”
With a half cringe, half smile, I answer, “Next to nothing. I know your acting career is extensive, but I think I’ve only seen one of your movies.
I only knew about the YouTube video because of my niece.
But I haven’t seen the actual footage. I’m, um, not so good with videos or stories about accidents. ”
His eyes flash, but he stays silent.
Something else occurs to me, and I hold up a finger. “Oh, and I have no idea why they call you the real-life Hercules after the save you made, but I can make a guess.”
“I like that.” His hand drops from his neck, and he repeats, “I like that. A lot. Maybe you can get to know the true me instead of the tabloid version of me.”
Get to know him. Now? In the future? He cannot possibly think that after my trip we would ever see each other in real life. And yet, I can’t help myself from asking the next question. “So, what’s not in the E! True Hollywood Story version of you, Harlan?”
As we stroll, he describes growing up on a ranch not far from here, the life of an all-state quarterback, and his childhood starring role as Joseph in a church play.
“I thought it would be funny to stand up and yell ‘Let my people go,’ Charlton Heston style. My brother took great pleasure in crushing me with the humiliating information that Heston played Moses, not Joseph. Right there on stage for everyone to hear.”
Chuckling, I dig in my pocket for a ponytail holder and start to pull my hair back. “Sounds like typical brothers. Does he live in Colorado Springs?”
“Yeah. He runs the family ranch. Has a wife and two boys.”
I wind the rubber band around my hair a few times and pull it tight. “Doesn’t seem like messing up your lines ruined your acting career, though.”