54. Fifty-four
Maine in January is the coldest place I have ever been. Even in the middle of the afternoon, the sun does nothing to warm this part of the earth. It’s frigid.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. The last time I was in Bangor, I was wearing rubber boots, a flannel shirt, and had bloodshot eyes as I boarded a plane with a trash bag. Now, I stand in a creamy silk blouse, fitted dress pants, leather ankle boots, and red lipstick.
Ethan probably won’t even recognize me.
Nope.
Ethan is tomorrow’s problem.
I’ve negotiated with myself if I can keep my cool through the afternoon meeting, I’ll allow myself to have a proper meltdown the moment I get back to my hotel.
I’ll stay in Bangor for the night and drive to Bethel tomorrow. What I’m going to say to him, I have no idea. But I have plenty of time to over-analyze that plan tonight.
The empty brick warehouse stands at the edge of the city and looks like a human hasn’t entered it in decades. Piles of plowed muddy snow sit around the parking lot while patches of ice fill in the cracks of the pavement. Summer in Maine had been beautiful, but the way the freezing wind cuts across my skin in winter is completely miserable.
I twist on the old knob, and some of the peeling paint that covers the wooden door flakes off as it creaks open. A surprising rush of warmth blows out to greet me, along with the loud hum of a furnace.
“Hello?” My voice echoes around the big, empty room.
No response.
I’m stunned by how different the inside is from the out. Outside, it looks abandoned, but inside, it has the potential to be spectacular. Exposed brick covers every wall as partially broken bulbed ropes of lights drape haphazardly across a high exposed beam ceiling. The floor is concrete, which I imagine will pop if refinished.
My boots click against the floor as I walk. There’s a small bar that would maybe seat six, covered with dust and chairs. Whatever this building originally was, someone converted it into some sort of entertainment space afterward.
I click across the room and push through a set of doors that surprisingly lead to a small and very outdated kitchen. I bite my lip. A kitchen reno would be expensive, making me wonder if it would be smarter to focus on an upscale bar experience with a limited menu of small plates versus a traditional full-blown restaurant.
The door creaks open from the front of the building, and a wave of anxiety washes over me. I’m confident in what I can bring to the table, but this is a big project, my biggest one yet.
As I make my way toward the door of the kitchen, a large stack of familiar-looking canvases leans against a corner and makes me stop.
I crouch down next to them—recognition striking like a bolt of lightning.
I thumb through them. Bright colors cover mountainous landscapes, one identical to the oversized piece that now hangs in my living room, and cityscapes that I assume are of Bangor. R. Donalds is scribbled on the bottom corner of each.
Wait—what?
The artist is opening a bar? It doesn’t seem right. She was close to seventy when I met her. Not that she couldn’t tackle the project. It just seems so… big. Maybe a relative? A daughter even?
I glance at the papers for the meeting, Rhonda Donalds” name on the paper clear as day. I missed the connection.
Footsteps grow louder as they cross the big room toward the kitchen, where I’m still kneeling, attention back on the paintings. I can’t move. I’m hypnotized and confused as I let my hands trace the familiar colorful strokes of each one.
Rhonda, from little Bethel, Maine, has a stack of paintings in a warehouse in Bangor owned by someone with the same name.
How?
“She sends her regards,” a familiar voice says from behind me.
Time stops right along with my heart as I slowly stand and turn around.
I see the eyes before the smirk. “Ethan,” I whisper shakily, taking him in.
Ethan is standing in a suit looking like every woman’s fantasy, and I have zero words. I’m dumbfounded. And, against my delusional thinking, the thick hair on the top of his head, sharpness of his jaw, and hard lines and angles that make him him are still just as attractive.
“Penelope,” he drawls.
After not hearing his voice in so long, the depth of it makes me lightheaded.
He leans against the brick wall casually, like this isn’t one of the most jarring experiences of my life, as the file of papers I’ve been holding falls to the ground and scatters like confetti.
“How?”
I don’t move. My feet are glued to the concrete floor in shock and disbelief.
“I didn’t know if you’d come if I used my name, and Rhonda gave me permission to use hers. I’ve become one of her best customers,” he says, tugging at one of his sleeves.
The room spins like a Tilt-o-Whirl.
I look around the dated kitchen. “This building?”
“Mine.”
His gaze meets mine and makes my blood flow backwards in my veins.
I nod, swallow, and nod again.
“Why am I here?” I finally ask.
He studies me intensely before pushing off the wall and taking a few steps toward me.
“Because I value your opinion. I bought this building for an incredible price on a whim, but I’m not sure what to do with it. I hoped you would.”
His tone is all business, and I can’t help but feel the slightest bit disappointed in that.
“Right. Of course.”
I shake my head to recalibrate and crouch down to pick up all the papers I’d dropped, summoning whatever sort of grace I can grasp at to make it through the rest of this meeting like the professional I claim to be.
I feign composure as I look at the ceiling and anywhere but him, heart hammering in my chest, ears, and every space in between.
“I walked around before you got here. It’s a gorgeous building.” My voice is shaky, but at least I’m able to speak. “I did a little research on Bangor before getting here. The population demographics make me think you could swing a couple different options in here, but the cost of renovating might be something to consider.”
I thumb through the once-organized file of papers to find my notes. My fingers tremble across every piece.
“It’s big enough you could do whatever you want, but my first impression is to give it a speakeasy vibe. If you extend the bar and create a menu of top-shelf cocktails, I’m imagining lots of smoky options or maybe fancy martinis. If you made the focus the bar, you wouldn’t have to do a huge kitchen expansion. You could do small plates and appetizers.”
I walk out of the kitchen first and look around the space again, imagining velvet couches and eclectic seating spaced all around, with Rhonda’s colorful paintings on the wall.
The nervous energy surging through me makes it hard to stand still. “Do you not like it?”
“You’re as good at this as I thought you’d be.”
I feel my neck grow warm with the compliment, and I look in the opposite direction of him. “Thank you for saying that.”
I pull on the belt of my coat as he takes a step closer to me, every cell of my body going on high alert.
“Do you like what you’re doing?”
An easy smile lifts my lips. “I love it.” That’s the easy, honest, truth. The change of pace and time on the road had been an adjustment, but I love what I’m doing.
He nods before eyeing the bar. “Tell me what you’d do with this.”
I walk around to it, and he follows closely. So close the heat that fires up my neck and burns at my cheeks forces me to shed my jacket. All the while, Ethan is casual, smug, and annoyingly handsome. Seeing him so immune to the situation unnerves me even more. He walks with ease while I’m completely coming undone. My mouth doesn’t know if it wants to water like a faucet or go as dry as a bone.
“It’s too small right now to be anything, really. If you want this to be the focus, you need to extend it…” I think for a second. “Actually, you know what might be interesting? Opting for high tops close by and cozy booths around the floor space. Maybe somehow having the bar not be where you have people sit but maybe more of a stage where the entertainment is seeing the bartender make the drinks.”
“Hmm.”
“Too weird?” I ask, laughing for the first time since he walked in.
“Maybe not.” He shrugs. “Why booths?”
“Booths are shown to increase average ticket prices. People get cozy, they want to stay longer, they order more drinks.” I lift my shoulder. “If this is higher end, it’s a win, but if you’re trying to turn tables, it might not be your best bet.”
He scrubs a hand over his scruff-covered jaw and looks around the space.
Then, as if I have no control of my mouth, I hear myself ask, “So, you’ve met someone serious? Not that they are serious, but you know, like that you are serious with, in that kind of exclusive sort of way. Not that it’s my business or that I’d expect anything like, you know, you not to be.” I try to look disinterested as I shuffle through papers before I let my eyes flick to his face.
His lips twitch. “I have.”
Two words I don’t want to believe in.
“Good.” I clear my throat. “I mean, that’s great. For you. And her. And you as a duo.” I rub my forehead and scrunch my nose. “You know what I mean.”
I don’t let him respond before I pivot back to business. “So typically, with these consultations, the owner is a little further along in the process. From here, we can talk about menu ideas, but I guess you need to decide what you want this to be and how much you want to spend. Obviously, you can already successfully run a restaurant, so there would just be a few things to consider if you decide you want this one to be more of a bar.”
I try to squeeze by the space he takes up behind the bar to get to some distance, but even barely touching him sends awareness shooting through me.
“Is this going to be another Mainely Local business, or are you thinking about something different?” I ask.
“You look good, Nel.”
The simple compliment makes my heart skip like a pebble thrown across flat water. “Thanks. Same. You look the same. Good.” I laugh through an exhale, adding, “Good enough to still make me babble like an idiot.”
I shake my head and relieve some of the tension that’s been swelling since he walked in and wrecked my ability to think, speak, and see straight.
His eyes meet mine, familiar smirk tugging at his lips.
“There’s a restaurant down the street. Let’s go grab dinner. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking for a menu, and we can go from there.”
No.
This man admitted to being in a serious relationship. I will not be that woman. My body might be a pandemonium of hormones, lighting up with every word he says like there’s a chance in hell this is going any further, but my mind is not. Dinner is the absolute worst idea. From this point forward, I can handle everything over email with my fancy letterhead.
I’ll come see him when he’s up and running, and there’s a staff to train. End of story.
When I open my mouth, I’m adamant I’m going to walk away, but, “Sounds good,” is the only thing that comes out.
My mouth betrays me right along with my body.