Chapter 24
24
D omino shot the basement with oversaturated Kodachrome filters to make the pink accents pop. Country Living took pictures of the handmade throw cushions in the honeymoon suite. People got them in the kitchen so they could take pictures of Boyd juicing oranges in his giant fists.
Boyd’s slightly bewildered publicist had arranged it all, marking a sharp turn in Boyd’s public persona from salmon-scarfing exercise maniac and possible sex fiend to cottage design enthusiast. But either way, Boyd sold magazines, especially with Tom dragged into the frame to slump over the furniture as though he’d just gotten sexed up so good he couldn’t walk. By Boyd, the framing always suggested.
“Stop laughing at me,” Tom begged Rosie and Ximena as the photographer’s assistant poured water down the front of his white linen shirt. “And why do I have to be wet ?”
“The concept is ‘After the Storm,’?” the photographer gamely explained. “The idea is that you and Mr. Kellagher found and renovated this little haven after the hurricane. There’s a contrast—raw nature and domesticity. The storm, the inn. So you’re wet. And all the textures are warm. Could you try to relax, please?”
“Be good baby. This is the last one,” Rosie scolded him, barely able to speak for giggling so hard. “And they said they might leave some stuff behind that we can use.”
Tom had been very good. He’d barely complained at all about two days of pretending to smolder at Boyd, even though Rosie was right there outside the camera frame. He wanted to point to her, say Actually, that’s my wife , and have the story that the entire world heard be the real one: Tom had come out here for her, to do all of this for her, and he’d done it .
“You’re whoring me out for table lamps?” Tom muttered, trying not to whine as he reluctantly leaned backward over the kitchen island. He and Boyd sucked in their stomachs and flexed for the test shot.
“Not just lamps,” Rosie said brightly, her hands clasped possessively around a gilded birdcage. The expensive couches and antique rugs were going home along with the photographers, but the inn was dotted with a dozen vases of fresh flowers, several new potted plants, and an antique fair’s worth of bird-themed miscellany.
Look at her! Tom nearly said to the photographer. He finally had the Rosie he’d longed for: she was pink-cheeked and smiling, wearing a pretty green dress, with her hair and makeup done just in case she popped up in the background of some picture. The Rosie he’d gotten the past two weeks was top Rosie—anxious about getting everything finished on time, baking five dozen bacon-wrapped dates about it, curling under his arm to press her face against his chest and then propelling herself forward to her next important task.
He didn’t realize they were finished until she was standing in front of him, hands smoothing his damp shirt and resting against his stomach.
“That’s it,” she said, going up on her toes to press a warm kiss across his lower lip.
“That’s what?” he said.
“Everyone’s packing up,” she said. And Tom was astonished to note that it was true—not just the photographers, but everyone else too. He’d been told that Rosie wanted everyone else out by the next day so that the property management service could clean and prep for guests, but the actual date had snuck up on him. People were carrying suitcases down the stairs, and the photographers were sweeping up after themselves. Tomorrow, that would be him and Rosie. He’d done it.
Tom had been involved in many theatrical productions that came together just before opening night, but he couldn’t think of anything else that he’d started and finished the way the inn was finished. Rosie had her perfect place, and he had his perfect Rosie back.
“Back to the real world tomorrow,” she said, and her smile dimmed a little.
Tom did not have any mixed emotions about that, but he slung an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. He didn’t begrudge Rosie her holidays out here, and he’d be happy to come back when it wasn’t fifty-five degrees and raining outside, but he was looking forward to going home. To Rosie’s apartment, specifically, where he’d claim a side of the bed and a spot on the couch and a coffee mug in the kitchen.
“We should do something to celebrate,” Tom said.
Rosie perked up a little. “Yeah? We should.” She thought for a moment. “We haven’t used the crêpe maker on this trip. We could do a dessert station. I could make crêpes suzette.”
“Sure,” said Tom, who had been thinking more along the lines of taking Rosie upstairs and bending her in half with her knees over his elbows. But these were not mutually exclusive ideas. Something of his own plans must have shown on his face, because Rosie colored prettily, looked around, then copped a covert feel on his ass. He was ready to pursue that impulse, and he turned to crowd her into the broom closet, but someone loudly cleared his throat behind them.
“Knock-knock,” said Seth, sticking his head into the kitchen. Tom didn’t appreciate the shit-eating grin the guy had on his face, nor the way he strutted into the kitchen like he’d done anything to contribute, but Rosie’s smile was still fond when it landed on her cousin, so Tom controlled himself.
Seth warmly congratulated Rosie on the job she’d done and pulled up a chair to the kitchen island like he owned the place. He had a laptop and several binders bearing the name of his property management firm.
“I can’t believe it,” Seth said, shaking his head. “I can’t hardly recognize it! You’re the best, Rosie. This is, like, my biggest account now. I’m so glad you didn’t decide to sell.”
Tom recalled a relevant childhood fable in which a little red hen baked cornbread, but a bunch of other little asshole animals didn’t help at all. Seth didn’t deserve any cornbread unless Tom got to rub it directly into his face. Tom thought that he and his little hen should go eat cornbread in bed. But he needed to get the other man out of the house first.
“Have you had lunch?” Tom asked, deciding that conspicuous hospitality was the best tactic to take. He’d polished these floors. He’d caulked these windows. Seth was in his kitchen, but he’d barely acknowledged Tom’s existence, which Tom did not intend to tolerate. Tom crossed his arms and went to stand next to Rosie. “We’ve got a lot of food left. Can I fix you a snack?”
“Oh, sure,” said Seth, not at all picking up what Tom was laying down. He looked at Rosie. “Always love your cooking. It’s too bad we’ve been too busy to get out here. The baby is just too much. But next time.”
“Next time,” Rosie said, shooting a cautious glance at Tom as he stomped to the fridge to get out the previous day’s fajita meat. “Did you have a chance to look at all the bookings?”
Seth nodded in amazement. “Boyd Kellagher! Everyone wants to come stay with Boyd Kellagher. Any chance we can use him to promote the inn?”
“Like the white tigers at the Mirage hotel?” Tom called as he picked the meat apart for nachos. “Boyd needs a lot of enrichment in his enclosure. He’s leaving for New York tomorrow.”
Seth chuckled. “I get it,” he said. “But won’t he be back? Aren’t the three of you all…you know?” He made a half-hearted gesture with his hands that could have been obscene or merely confused.
Rosie turned bright red, but she didn’t flinch.
“Are we three what?” she asked innocently.
“You know,” Seth said. “Or is it just, uh. Is it—you know?”
“I don’t know,” Rosie replied, digging in.
Tom stuck a plate of nachos in the microwave and came to stand behind Rosie again with his hand on her shoulder. Sure, Seth, ask me in front of my wife which of us is fucking Boyd Kellagher.
Seth folded and grabbed a binder. “Never mind,” he muttered. “I brought all the bookings like you asked.”
Rosie took the binder from him and eagerly flipped through the pages.
“We’re totally booked through October,” Seth boasted. “Even the bunk room. Some girls want to have a convention out here. About Boyd. See? In August? They’re calling it BoyCon. I had to get extra permits to have commercial booths on the front lawn.”
“So it’s going to make money?” Tom asked, headed to the microwave.
“Well, yeah,” Seth said. “Should break even by the end of the season, even considering all the storm stuff. And if this keeps up through fall, Max might do very well.”
“Maybe next summer we could put in that hot tub you were thinking about, babe,” Tom called to Rosie, who was continuing to flip through the pages with a small frown on her face.
She murmured an agreement, but unenthusiastically. Tom looked over her shoulder to where she’d turned to listings for Memorial Day weekend. The suite was assigned to Max, and Rosie’s name was listed for the next queen bedroom down the hall. Tom didn’t recognize any of the other names on the list.
“Didn’t you get an email with reservation links?” she asked.
Tom didn’t understand the thrust of her question. He’d gotten the email. So had hundreds of other people, if the number of reservations was evidence. “Yeah, but I didn’t make a separate reservation because I assumed I’d be with you?” he said, voice tightening. He’d thought this argument had been put to rest.
Rosie saw the flash of panic on his face and quickly put a hand on his arm. “No, of course you will.” She turned back to Seth. “Did everyone else think they had to pay, do you think? We’re still not charging family to stay here, right?”
Seth shook his head. “No, I sent out a separate email to all the people on the friends and family list. It’s a different sign-up system.” He flipped to the Fourth of July and pointed at one entry. “These are Max’s friends. See the little code here?”
“I do see,” Rosie said, her hands resting on the pages. She was very quiet and still. The microwave beeped, and Tom turned around to get Seth’s snack out.
“You know,” Seth mused. “It might even be better if you and Max did something else this year while everyone is so interested in the inn, yeah? We could charge a premium for the suite. Like a thousand a night. Hate to take those rooms off the market. I’ve got people on a waiting list. What do you think?”
The plate was hot, and Tom had to hunt for an oven mitt to pull it out. He was waiting for Rosie to tell Seth off, but when he turned back around with the nachos, Rosie was halfway up the stairs.