33. Annabelle
Annabelle
I’ve never been to France, so I don’t know if Le Pont Bleu is authentically French. But it looks like Paris to me, with gray-green walls, art that looks like old Europe, and votive candles shimmering on small round tables. It smells like butter and expensive wine.
Outside, the evening is slate gray. The Mackinac Bridge glimmers in the distance, knitting the two halves of the state together. In here, it’s soft light and jazz in the background and the kind of fancy that makes me glad I wore my nicest blouse and skirt with my prettiest heels.
Grant’s in a suit that feels like a betrayal.
Like he’s been hiding a secret weapon under flannel shirts this entire time.
He looks like a man who belongs in boardrooms and on magazine covers and starring in every fantasy I pretend I don’t have.
Not that he wasn’t handsome before, but this is downright unfair.
The hostess takes our coats, then leads us to the table by the window. Grant pulls out my chair for me with an old-fashioned flourish. “Being a gentleman, are we?” I ask.
“It’s this place,” he says. “Makes me feel like I should.”
“You absolutely should,” I say. “And the flowers were a nice touch too.” He brought me a bouquet of pink roses when he picked me up.
When I said I didn’t have a vase, he went downstairs to The Break and brought me one.
When it was time to go, he pulled his truck right up to the front door so I wouldn’t have to walk through slush.
An hour seems like a long drive for a date, but it went by in a blink.
We talked about simple stuff at first—weather, hockey, who gets to pick the music.
We discussed the high school poetry slam, and trivia night at The Driftwood.
Felix and Dylan are ramping up plans for the new park with mountain biking trails.
Blake is dating someone new. Grant offered me a lap blanket if I got cold.
A bottle of water. A phone charger. Car mints.
I told him about the time my Nana held a “gallery opening” for the lopsided clay animals her students were too embarrassed to take home, complete with little cheese cubes and apple juice in plastic wine glasses.
Grant told me about the time Stan installed a bench outside one of his buildings after noticing that Robert always set his mailbag down on the same rock.
Somewhere on US-2, with Lake Michigan on one side of us and dense forest on the other, the conversation got quieter and more earnest. Grant told me how much he disliked being in the army, why he built the rage room, and how impressed he is at the way June runs the front of the business.
I told him how the building needs updates I can’t afford.
He said he knows. There was a spot of silence after that, but one we shared, not one we needed to fill.
We arrived in St. Ignace without rushing.
Now, he sits across from me and unfolds his napkin. “See? Cloth napkins, just like I promised.”
“I think these are linen.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Sure,” I say. “Linen says you’ve made it. Cloth says you tried.”
We both laugh. This is what we do. We joke. We keep it light. Even when there’s something heavy between us. Especially when there’s something heavy between us.
The server comes over, cheerful and polished. “Welcome to Le Pont Bleu. Here’s our beverage menu. I can give you a moment, or answer any questions.”
Grant doesn’t even look at the heavy folder. “We’re drinking wine.”
The server smiles like she’s trying not to laugh. “Of course, sir. Red? White?”
Grant regards me across the table with mock seriousness. “Do you feel like a red wine woman tonight?”
“What’s a red wine woman?”
“We could find out.”
I narrow my eyes. “I feel like you’re stalling because you don’t know anything about wine.”
Grant taps the wine menu. “I know plenty. Red is red. White is…not red.”
“There it is,” I tell the server.
“We have an excellent merlot,” she says. “It’s from Leelanau Cellars.”
“We’ll trust your judgement,” Grant says.
“And just like that, I’m a red wine woman,” I say when she walks away.
We admire the decor and read through our menus. It’s not in French, thank goodness, because I like to know what I’m eating.
When the server returns, we go through the ritual of wine pouring and wine tasting. We both approve. We lift our glasses.
“To Truly Penrose,” I say.
“And Western Greetings.”
My stomach does a small, unhappy flip.
Grant’s gaze sharpens. He’s sensed the shift. “But?”
“No buts,” I say. “This is what I’ve worked for, sending card after card into the void, hoping someone would see me.”
“They saw you all right.” Grant sips his wine. “And now they want to see you in person.”
I nod, too fast, too enthusiastically. “If this works out, I’ll have my own line of cards. My own office. My own staff.”
“What does the staff do?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never had staff.”
His gaze wavers. “I’m trying to picture you in California.”
“Is that so hard?”
“You’ll have to stop saying ‘ope!’ when you bump into people.”
“Why don’t they say ope on the west coast?” I ask. “It’s such a useful word.”
“You’ll be in a meeting with senior executives and you’ll be like, ‘Just gonna scooch right past ya and grab the quarterly reports.’”
“I do not sound like that.”
“To them you will.”
Damn. He’s probably right about that. Out the window, the sky is dark. There’s no view to speak of. “At least in Los Angeles, you don’t have to leave town to go on a nice date.”
“That’s only in the winter,” he protests. “In the summer, we have…”
“Go on.”
He shakes his head and adjusts his tie as if it’s choking him. “I was just thinking about you, and how unusual you are.”
“Unusual?”
“Maybe improbable is a better word. Everyone wants to come to the U.P. in the summer. They come for the lakes, the sunsets, the long days and the cool nights.”
“As opposed to the icy days and the frigid nights?” I ask.
“That’s what I mean. Only the heartiest of us stay year-round, and to start in the winter? You must be the real deal.” His voice softens. “Up here, we earn our seasons. You earned yours.”
The words settle between us. He’s telling me I belong. Like I’ve already put down roots without meaning to.
My fingers curl around my wine glass. “I didn’t exactly plan it.”
“I know. But you did it anyway.” He grins, breaking the moment. “And you can hold your own at the euchre table, which is basically citizenship.”
I lift my glass. “To accidental Yooperhood.”
“To you,” Grant says, touching his glass to mine. “And whatever you decide.”
His words are perfect. They’re supportive. They’re showing me the man he is, which is the best kind of man. The kind of man who doesn’t hold a woman back. The kind of man who will let her walk away if that’s what she needs to do.
Whatever you decide. The words are so reasonable. That’s the problem.
It’s totally a me problem, because I want Los Angeles, and I want Grant. What I truly want? I want him to be unreasonable enough to ask me to stay. Or go with me. But he won’t. He can’t. He’ll put on a suit, and find a flower vase, and shovel a path, but that’s all he can do.
The server returns, asking if we’re ready to order. We say we need a minute. When she leaves, silence stretches again.
Grant reaches across the table, resting his hand near mine. He’s not quite touching me, but he’s close enough to feel the warmth. “You deserve every good thing coming your way,” he says.
All I can think about is Echo Creek. Laughing with Sophie and Lia.
Instant besties with June. The way the Neverly family made room for me at their table like I belonged there.
Grant eating two bowls of soup in my kitchen.
His hand on my knee as we drink craft beer and watch hockey at his place.
Late night booty calls that we swear are only booty calls, and the way we have to reassure each other of that fact over and over, in case anyone gets the wrong idea.
“What if you get a good thing by losing something else?” I ask.
Grant’s eyes meet mine, raw for half a second before he blinks it away. “Then we make the most of tonight.” He smooths down his lapels. “I’m in a suit.”
“I know,” I breathe. “It’s really hot.”
We drink our wine. It tastes deep and complicated.
Kind of like us.