nine | emberly
NINEEmberly
I can’t figure Will out.
The vibe I get is that he doesn’t want me here. Now he’s offering to feed me.
Pity? Or guilt?
My stomach doesn’t care. It rumbles a complaint as I slip out of my sundress—maybe I was a little overdressed for the Off-Road Grill—and pull on the pair of linen pants I bought for lounging around the pool.
They have a drawstring waist, so even if dinner isn’t pie, there must be a reason the word “pudgy” is in the description.
I shimmy into a tank top, cover it with a lightweight sweater, and dig my sparkly flipflops out of the suitcase. I have a feeling this is the pair I’ll be living in until the girls get back. It’s easier to climb stairs—and run from wild animals—if you aren’t wearing heels.
When I make my way to the firepit, Will is already there.
He’s crouched down, arranging pieces of wood on top of a glowing mountain of embers, and the firelight casts his profile in bronze.
The only adjustment he’s made to his wardrobe is a flannel button-down layered over his T-shirt.
In faded jeans and hiking boots, he could be the cover model for an outdoor magazine.
Juniper lopes over, tail wagging. She looks less like a wolf than I thought … except for the fangs.
“She’s smiling,” Will says without looking over his shoulder.
I’ve never had a dog, so I didn’t know they could smile.
“Hi, Juniper.” I bend down and pat the silky spot between her ears.
She immediately drops to the ground and rolls over, exposing her furry belly.
“Juni, stop being so needy or you’re going back to the house.” Will stands up and his gaze sweeps over me. “Are you inviting the mosquitoes in with all those little doors?”
I look down at the open-weave cotton sweater I bought at a boutique during last summer’s Suite Sixteens reunion.
It must be a rhetorical question, because Will is stripping off his flannel and threading my arms through the sleeves.
My stomach doesn’t just dip. It plummets down to my feet and stays there even as Will steps away and reaches for a metal box with a long handle. When he holds it over the red-hot coals at the edge of the fire, I can only assume he’s cooking my dinner.
I step closer, feeling the warmth of the flames chase away the slight chill in the air. Where I live, the temperature lingers in the eighties after the sun goes down. And after spending a week in Nashville, the breeze skimming across the surface of the lake feels good.
“Can I help with anything?”
Will doesn’t so much as glance in my direction. “You can not set my shirt on fire.”
Okay, then.
I settle into one of the Adirondack chairs that circle the fire and turn up the collar of the flannel shirt. Breathe in the scent of fresh laundry, woodsmoke, and pine. Will’s scent. I snuggle deeper into the folds and tip my head back. All I can see are stars.
Not that we don’t have stars in Florida, but the artificial light dims their luster. Here, they look close enough to touch.
I pull in another slow breath and hold it for a second. Exhale.
The early morning flight from Tennessee is finally catching up with me.
“Em?”
My eyes pop open. Did I really doze off?
Did I drool?
I discreetly check the collar of Will’s shirt. Completely dry, thank goodness.
And was I dreaming, or did he really just call me Em?
No one, not even the Sweet Sixteens, has ever called me that, but I don’t protest because Will is removing the branding iron from the fire. He releases the contents onto a paper plate and hands it to me.
“Thank you.” As far as presentation goes, there isn’t any, but my stomach rumbles in anticipation. Presentation? Who cares! Let’s get on with it! “Do you have a fork?”
The eyebrow lifts. “You just pick it up and eat it. Like pizza.”
I decide not to tell Will that I eat pizza with a fork.
I admit my expectations aren’t very high, but I take a tentative nibble. And groan. Because tucked inside the steaming, buttery pocket of toasted bread is a treasure trove of beef, onions, pickles, and … bacon?
“Thith is delithus.” Cheese oozes out between the seams as I take another bite, but I swipe it away with my tongue before it hits the paper plate. Hold out my hand. “Napthkin?”
Will jumps like I touched him with the hot iron.
“Sure.” He lurches toward a table made from a tree stump and grabs one from a basket. Practically throws it at me before he reaches for the iron again.
I hope it means he’s making another one.
“Are there any left?” Iris emerges from the shadows and gambols toward Will.
Apparently, she knows the campfire dress code, too. Denim leggings. A hoodie with a Pinehart logo that skims the tops of her knees. Tennis shoes.
Will shakes his head. “I thought you were reading.”
“I was.” Iris grins. “Until I saw you getting the stuff out for pudgy pies.”
“These are for Emberly because Juni ate her d-i-n-n-e-r.”
I glance at the dog, who’s wedged herself into the empty space next to my chair. With her eyelids at half-mast, fangs tucked in for the night, she doesn’t look scary at all.
“Why did you spell dinner?” I ask.
Juni explodes to her feet. My chair, which felt pretty solid when I sat down, begins to rock as if there’s been a sudden shift in the earth’s tectonic plates. She tap dances around Will’s feet and he pushes her tail away from the flames before it ignites.
“That’s why,” he says dryly.
“Juni, you already ate.” Iris wraps the dog in a fierce hug and nuzzles her ear. “Be good.”
Juniper sighs and returns to her spot, but not before casting a reproachful look at me for getting her hopes up.
Iris plunks down in the chair next to mine. “I’m sorry she, you know, ate something that belonged to you.”
“It’s all right. I’ve never had a pudgy pie, but I think it might be even better than a brat burger.”
“You’ve never had a pudgy pie?” Iris’s eyes widen. “Where do you live?”
“Sarasota.”
“My friend Henley’s grandparents have a condo there.” Iris’s eyes light up. “Do you live by the beach?”
“Pretty close.” It’s only a hundred feet from the door, but the pool is my favorite place to relax when I’m at home.
It’s in the conservatory, filled with tropical plants and sunshine.
I adopted the space as my own secret garden when I moved in with Nona.
Now I’m wondering if we could add a brick oven to make pudgy pies.
“Do you like living there?” Iris asks.
I feel Will’s gaze rest on me, as if he’s interested in the answer, too. But when I glance in his direction, he’s messing with the fire again.
“It’s great.” Because, really, what’s not to love about blue skies and sunshine the majority of the year?
Mom hated the humidity, so after my parents divorced, she promptly moved to Boston with Henrique, the man who apparently made her happier than my dad.
Followed by Robert, who made her happier than Henrique.
Now it’s Tom … or maybe Tim. I can’t remember, but you get the picture.
The last time we talked, Mom was about to leave on an extended Mediterranean cruise with boyfriend number four.
“But you don’t get any snow!”
I’m guessing from Iris’s sympathetic expression this is a con, not a pro, on the Florida versus Wisconsin list.
“You like the snow?”
“Uh huh.” Iris grins. “I love to ice skate and cross-country ski. We have a snowmobile, too.”
In spite of the heat radiating from the campfire, the thought of having to bundle up like the Michelin man every time I walk out the door makes me shiver.
“I’ve only seen snow once,” I admit.
A few years ago, one of my clients decided to buy a second home in the Tetons. I spent a month there, making sure everything looked the way she’d envisioned it, from the handcrafted furniture to the paintings from local artists that hung in the library.
One of the ski hills was so close I could practically read the labels on the skiers’ jackets as they glided past, but even if I’d been tempted to take a few lessons, I wouldn’t have been able to fit them in and make my deadline.
Plus, I still have nightmares about falling off the playground slide and breaking my arm when I was seven. Heights aren’t really my thing.
“Once?” Iris repeats, clearly appalled. “I can’t imagine Christmas without snow.”
At Christmas, Dad is always traveling, by design more than accident, I’ve come to realize, so it’s just me and Nona. Hazel makes enough food for an army and then slips away to spend the holiday with her daughter in Jacksonville.
“You don’t miss what you don’t know,” I say lightly.
Will dumps another pudgy pie on my plate and I hum a thank you. Stifle another moan as I take a bite.
“Do you have a recipe for these?”
Iris giggles. “You don’t need a recipe, they’re super simple. Bread, butter, and whatever filling you want to put inside, then you cook them over a fire.”
“I don’t have a firepit and Hazel doesn’t allow anyone in the kitchen.”
Iris’s eyes brighten with curiosity. “Who’s Hazel?”
“Our cook.” Hazel refuses to let us call her a chef, although her food is better than some of the Michelin starred restaurants I’ve visited on my travels.
If I’m going to recreate the pudgy pie experience at home, it has to be under cover of darkness or on Hazel’s day off.
White bread is on her naughty list. She wouldn’t approve of brat burgers, either.
Maybe that’s why I saw a wooden sign etched with the words What Happens at the Grill, Stays at the Grill on the wall behind the bar.
“I can show you how to make them.” Iris dips her hand in the basket, pinches off a piece of crust, and drops it next to Juni. The dog’s eyes are closed again, but her pink tongue snakes out and the bread instantly disappears. “I like apple the best.”
I pop the last piece of toasted deliciousness into my mouth and look at Will. “Apple?”
He never mentioned there was both a sweet and savory version.
“Not tonight, Cab.” Will’s voice sounds tight. “It’s getting late and Emberly—” At least he got my name right this time “—is probably tired after traveling all day.”
I’m exhausted, but for reasons I don’t want to analyze too closely, I don’t want to admit that to Will Hartley. After the bear, Rosie’s accidental nudging of his pickup truck, and wolf-in-dog’s-clothing incident, I feel like he’s already made assumptions about me.
“I’m fine.” The lie triggers a yawn. Which I immediately stifle. “I flew most of the way. The drive was only half an hour.”
“The closest airport is three hours away.”
To call what I flew into “an airport” is a stretch. I had to close my eyes when the pilot aimed for the narrow runway that cut a path through the trees. “This was more like an airstrip. For … smaller … planes.”
Will is frowning. “Private planes, you mean?”
I nod. “I haven’t flown with Sky Chauffeur for a while, but I needed to get here fast.”
“And there was a …” He pauses. “Car … waiting for you?”
It’s becoming obvious that Will has some sort of prejudice against convertibles. Or maybe it’s the color pink he doesn’t like. I couldn’t help but notice he prefers basic black when it comes to pickup trucks.
“Uh huh.” I sneak another bite. “Rosie came with the package.”
“You named the car.”
“Of course.” A piece of crust falls and I catch it mid-air, pop it into my mouth. If Nona was watching, she’d send me back to etiquette school. “Doesn’t your truck have a name?”
“The manufacturer already gave it one. It’s a Ford F150.”
“I get Dad’s Jeep when I turn sixteen,” Iris interjects. “I only have to wait two years and three hundred and fifty-six more days from my birthday.” Iris grins. “Which is next week.”
I do the math. “Thirteen?”
“Uh huh.” Iris’s eyes are glowing. “I’m going to have a big party this year.”
Our conversation is interrupted by a loud hissing sound. A plume of black smoke rises into the air.
I twist around in my chair just in time to see Will tilt a bucket over the firepit and douse what’s left of the coals with another stream of water.
“Will!” Iris wails.
“You have to get up early to take the Swansons fishing.”
It looks like Iris is about to protest, so I flash a smile at her to counteract Will’s gruff reminder.
“It is getting late.” This time, I let the yawn escape.
“Okay.” Iris’s expression is open and cheerful, the light to her brother’s dark. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
I turn back to Will, who’s lobbing pudgy pie ingredients into the basket like he’s trying to win a prize at the county fair. “Thank you again for d-i-n-n-e-r.”
I spell the word this time, not only to prove I know more about dogs than I did before I arrived, but also because I’m hoping to see Will smile again.
He doesn’t smile. He growls something unintelligible, picks up the basket, and strides away.
This I understand.
The outdoor kitchen is officially closed for the rest of the night.
I say goodnight to Iris and pet Juni one more time before they follow Will back to their cabin.
The temperature seems to drop with every step I take away from the fire, but a layer of flannel effectively blocks every “tiny door” in my sweater.
Because I’m still wearing Will’s shirt.