9. Marnie
CHAPTER NINE
Marnie
Caleb leads me to the entrance of a large barn-style building with a bright red exterior as classic fairground organ music spills out of the doors and into the street. I read the sign overhead: Flying Horses: America’s Oldest Carousel.
This was not exactly the work research I had in mind, especially in the middle of the workday, but it was on the list Josie gave me. Plus, if Caleb and I are going to be working so closely on this exhibit for the next four months, we might as well get comfortable with one another.
We walk up the small set of stairs into the building, and a fresh wave of nostalgia hits me.
To the far left is a large, high-ceiling room where the carousel itself sits.
Just in front of that is a short queue with white picket fences in place of railings, and to our right lies a set of vintage pinball machines.
Caleb waves me over to the counter where an attendant is waiting. “How many rides?” they ask.
“Just one,” Caleb answers.
Before I can unzip my purse, he already has his wallet out and is handing his card to the attendant to cover both tickets.
“You didn’t have to pay for me.”
His smile widens. “My treat.”
Caleb stuffs his wallet back into his pocket along with the receipt and I follow him over to the end of the line. “Alright,” he begins, leaning back against the fence to face me. “We’ve probably got three minutes before this ride is up and it’s our turn. Let’s get to know each other a bit.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
He lifts a brow. “Well, typically that involves someone asking a question and the other person answering.”
I cast a glare at him, but he looks thoroughly entertained at riling me up.
“We have until this ride is over to do a rapid-fire speed round of questions. No vetoes—you have to answer the question you’re asked.”
I nod in agreement, before he adds with a cheeky grin, “And nothing inappropriate, there are children here.”
“Speak for yourself,” I retort, lightly smacking his arm.
“Ladies first.”
I purse my lips as I quickly think of a question. “What’s your favorite color?”
Caleb releases a low whistle. “Start off with an easy one, why don’t you?”
My hand raises to my chest in mock offense. “Answer the question, Caleb,” I tease. “No deflecting.”
“Green. You?”
“Blue.”
“Okay, my turn,” he states, face turning quizzical as he contemplates his first question. “Are you dating anyone?”
My face heats under the scrutiny, letting out a strained, “No.” I don’t know why admitting that is so difficult.
I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, but it still feels strange to say aloud.
Especially to someone as attractive as Caleb, who probably has a line of women waiting for their shot with him.
His face softens. “Me neither.”
We lock eyes, the air growing thick between us. I blurt out the next thing on my mind to deflect his growing attention. “Does your family also live on the island? Are you close?”
“That’s two questions, so those cancel out.”
“Don’t deflect,” I remind him.
He narrows his eyes. “My father still lives here. And no, I wouldn’t consider us close.”
My heart hurts at his answer, but a rise of curiosity fills me at the lack of mention of his mother. “Join the club. I’m not close with my parents either. They only communicate with me via postcard nowadays. The last time I saw them in person was Christmas a year and a half ago.”
“Damn,” he replies, shaking his head. “We should start a support group.”
“We should,” I laugh. “Your turn.”
He takes a half-step toward me. “Do you have any pets?” he asks.
I have to tilt my head back farther to maintain eye contact. “Nope, no pets. Just a plant.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. “That counts to some people. What kind?”
“A spider plant,” I confirm.
“Solid choice,” he praises, and my heart flutters at the approval. “I’ve got too many plants to count, but I also have a black Lab.”
“What’s their name?”
“Berry.”
“That’s a cute name,” I admit, imagining his life with a dog. Going on morning walks, riding in his pickup truck with her head out the passenger window, digging holes in the yard to bury stolen items from around the house.
The topic of plants reminds me of something I’ve been waiting to know since our first encounter at Wicked Brews, and I seize my chance. “I want an answer to my gardener question.”
His face scrunches in confusion. “Your what?”
“The day we met, Art was talking to you about hydrangeas. Why?”
“Oh,” he starts, eyeing me curiously. “I own a small business selling plants and flowers out of my greenhouse. He needed some advice on the hydrangea bushes I planted in his yard. You can find them around the whole island, in fact. They’re kind of my specialty.”
I nod along, taking in this information, and then it hits me. The strange man I saw outside my cottage the day I moved in, tending to my neighbor’s hydrangeas and other shrubbery. “Did you happen to plant the ones at Josie’s cottage?”
His head tilts. “Yeah . . . I did. How’d you know that?”
“You waved to me from the beach.”
His eyes widen at the realization and then his mouth tips into a smirk. “You were staring.”
I cross my arms and stand up straighter, attempting to fight the blush working its way up my neck. It’s warm in here despite the breeze trickling in through the open barn windows.
“What a crazy coincidence. Small island,” he says with a laugh. “Okay, it’s back to you.”
“What is your favorite dessert?”
His smirk drops and he falters for several beats, eyes far away, before finally answering. “Blueberry pie.” For a moment I thought his hesitation was from trying to come up with an answer, but the way his tone came out flat with no elaboration, I knew it was from difficulty voicing it instead.
There’s an immediate mood shift and I think I’ve ruined the moment with my question, until he picks his head up, cheers erupting from the current group riding the carousel.
The final chords of the organ ring out, signaling the end of the ride. As everyone disembarks, the attendant swings open the gate, and all the kids in line before us go rushing onto the platform in a frenzy to claim their horses.
I follow Caleb’s lead as he walks the remainder of the queue, and when we reach the front of the line, the attendant signals for us to wait while they count how many horses are still open.
“You’re in luck,” the attendant calls out. “There are two more on the back side.”
“Excellent,” Caleb replies. He steps aside to let me through first. “Lead the way.”
The echo of my heels clacking against the wood flooring grows louder as I walk the circular path to the far side of the carousel.
Something draws me to the one in front. The steel gray coat, shiny black mane, and hand-painted details along the face and saddle are a work of art.
I place my hands on the post for balance and step up to swing my leg over, when my foot falls flat onto the platform. I look down and find the stirrup broken.
Shit.
“You can just take mine,” he offers, gesturing to the horse behind mine. “That one isn’t broken.”
“No,” I reply, surveying my options to mount the horse. “I like this one. That one’s eyes look possessed.”
Caleb shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle, and steps back to watch me.
It’s more of a struggle than I thought. Even with a few inches of additional height, I am too short to jump, and the platform isn’t big enough to get a running start.
A quick calculation in my head has every scenario ending in ripped pants or a broken heel, and that would be more mortifying than accepting his help.
“Need a boost?” he asks against the shell of my ear, close enough to feel the low rumble in his voice. There’s a smug expression in his eyes. He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Fine,” I relent.
His hands find my waist, and I suppress a gasp as they splay across my body, firm and commanding. He counts to three and then hoists me up, hands holding steadily until I am seated and situated in the saddle.
When he retreats to mount his own horse, I can still feel the imprint of his hands against me like a brand on my body.
The organ plays overhead as the platform slowly starts to rotate. Several laps go by and then a wooden dispenser arm swings out to my right, close enough to touch.
“Grab the ring,” he calls from behind me.
I look over and see the dispenser holding a small ring at the end. I tentatively reach out a hand, loop my fingers through the ring, and tug.
A single iron ring releases from the dispenser. Another one takes its place, which Caleb grabs with ease. Atop the horse’s head is a slim metal cylinder several inches tall to loop the rings around, and I slip my first ring over it.
The next lap I grab two more. Then three. Caleb manages to grab four each time around now, showing off. Not that I mind—it’s a bit impressive. It requires a specific touch to keep from dropping the ones you just collected while you try for more.
I peek back at him—careful not to move too quickly and make myself dizzy—and find him already staring back. “Pick up the pace, Marnie. The kids have more rings than you.”
I roll my eyes at him.
A voice comes over the speakers announcing that the brass rings are now in play.
“What is the brass ring?” I shout over my shoulder.
I detect a small lilt of his mouth. “Catch it and you’ll find out.”
The carousel continues to circle, everyone collecting more and more rings. The person in front of me pulls a single ring and my eyes widen. A shiny brass ring awaits at the end of the dispenser.
“Miss, miss, miss,” I hear Caleb mock chanting from behind, beckoning me to flounder so he can have the ring all for himself.
I laser in on the ring, wrap my finger around it in a death grip, and pull.
A squeal spills out of me as I realize I didn’t drop it or miss it entirely despite Caleb’s taunts.
I whip my head around and stick my tongue out at him, waving the ring in the air to tease him, a delighted look on his face.
The carousel slows to a stop, and all the kids take off through the exit gate. As I step down off the platform, the attendant is waiting to exchange my brass ring for a free ride voucher valid only today.
“We should really head back to the office,” I say, checking the time. “But it would be a shame to let this go to waste.”
“You could always hand it off to someone,” Caleb suggests.
I look around at the crowd in line to buy tickets at the counter and spot a little girl, hair just a shade lighter than mine, holding onto her mother’s leg, watching the horses intently.
My heart swells at how adorable she is, and I approach carefully to signal her mother’s attention, showing her the voucher. The girl’s face lights up when her mother tells her she can ride twice, and she turns to give me a high-pitched “thank you.”
After handing off my voucher, Caleb walks me back to the historical society and we continue our rapid-fire questions on the ten-minute stroll.
Before we part, we exchange phone numbers in case we have questions ahead of next week, and he offers out his palm for another handshake, a wild glint in his eye. “Anytime you want to cross another item off that list, you just give me a call.”