Chapter 6
Ihad a shitty night’s sleep to match the shitty night that preceded it.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, my feet peeking out from under the covers because the heat is blasting, when there’s a knock at the door.
I already know who it is by the heavy-handed knock and it certainly isn’t housekeeping.
I decide to ignore it, thinking maybe if he thinks I’m still asleep, he’ll go away. But the knock comes a second time, and then a third.
“Go away!” I shout, not caring if it disturbs the neighbors.
“No,” He says shortly, his voice muffled by the thick wooden door. “Open up.”
I pull myself out of bed, ready to tell him off, fire within me lit.
But when I open the door, he’s standing there, brooding and handsome and I’m caught off guard by how human he finally looks.
Trench coat on, but not buttoned. Scarf on, but not tied.
A fresh red sweater with a white collared shirt pulled taut against his chest. His glasses are perched perfectly on the bridge of his nose.
The bags under his eyes are dark and he looks like he didn’t sleep a wink.
I hope he was tortured all night.
“What do you want?” I ask, rubbing the crust from my eyes.
“A peaceful continental breakfast in the parlor?” He suggests.
I contemplate slamming the door in his face, but instead I gently start to close it. It takes him a second to realize I am closing the door on him, and he sticks his hand between the door and the frame, preventing me from shutting it completely. I could sandwich his hand in half if I wanted.
“Madeline, please,” He starts.
“It’s 9:30 in the fucking morning,” I retort. “I want to sleep in. Come back in an hour.”
“Breakfast is over at 10 o’clock,” He sighs heavily, like this breakfast is his last dying wish, or his last meal on death row.
“Your groveling sucks ass,” I tell him, despite this, I’m surprised at how quickly I give in. He is my only friend at this time. I would be an idiot to decline a continental breakfast with him, even if I am mad. “Let me get ready.”
I put on a sweater that’s the same exact brand and size as my green one, but in blue with tan corduroy pants.
It’s the ultimate cozy outfit. I don’t bother doing my hair or makeup because after this breakfast, I’m coming back to my room to mope until it’s time to see the concert.
Even if I wanted to go out, there’s at least a foot and a half of snow on the ground and I’m not on good terms with my chauffeur.
When I emerge, he’s standing in the same spot, hands in his pockets.
We walk silently, side by side, down the hall and down the stairs into the lobby.
The entrance to the parlor room is adjacent to the entrance to the restaurant where we were last night.
The parlor is nearly empty, save for a few breakfast-munching stragglers.
All that’s left of the buffet is some oatmeal and single serve yogurt cups.
“Pick your poison.” Dean offers me a spoon, and instead of taking the one he is offering me, I take a fresh one from the pile on the counter.
I don’t like when my silverware is touched by others, even if it’s just the handle.
Even the thought of eating at a buffet skeeves me out—the fact that there’s open food that people could be coughing and sneezing over.
The yogurt was left out unrefrigerated, but the oatmeal was uncovered.
I opt for oatmeal. I’d rather risk someone sneezing on it than tasting and getting sick from spoiled milk.
I place my cup of oatmeal on a tray and carry it over to a small table next to a window that overlooks the lawn, which is of course, covered in mountains and mountains of snow.
There’s a lovely fire going in the nearby fireplace, and it makes the whole room feel quaint and cozy.
I try to enjoy the atmosphere despite my unwanted guest. Dean sits across from me, and the table is so short that our knees almost touch, but I keep it together and refrain from letting my knees relax.
I eat quietly, looking anywhere but at Dean. Despite this, I can feel his eyes fixated on me, looking, watching, waiting. Still, I don’t say anything. I won’t apologize for my standoffish behavior after his stunt last night.
“We could break our deal,” Dean suggests.
“No, it’s fine.” I keep my eyes fixed on my bowl. “Then I’m really fucked. A deal is a deal.”
“You don’t have to pay me anything. And I’ll pay for gas too,” He suggests.
“Yeah, you better pay for gas.” I spoon a bite of oatmeal into my mouth when I see a woman with shiny red hair and a well put together outfit carrying what seems to be a hundred white flowers, coming up behind Dean. I keep my eyes down, ignoring her and Dean again.
“Dean?” The woman asks, stopping at our table, like she can’t believe she’s seeing him here, setting the flowers down on the floor.
Her pale skin radiates glowing light, like it’s reflecting the snow, and she has a gorgeous smattering of freckles across her face.
“What are you doing here?” She checks to see if it’s really him.
“Eliza?” Dean looks up and away from me finally, his voice nervous. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m doing florals for a wedding here at the mansion. What are you doing here?” Eliza looks surprised and caught off-guard by seeing Dean here, but she’s clearly trying not to be. She handles what must be a shocking moment graciously.
“I’m here with…” Dean trails off into space, looking anywhere but at Eliza or me. There sure is a lot of trailing off happening between these two.
“Madeline,” I interject. “It’s nice to meet you.” I say, ready to kick the elephant in the room squarely on the trunk. They both ignore my introduction.
“Why weren’t you at your mother’s last weekend?” Eliza asks, tossing her long hair from one shoulder to another. “She was very upset you weren’t there.”
“I had things to take care of,” Dean responds quickly, not giving me a chance to jump in again. By things he means me. “I’ll be there this weekend.” He clears his throat.
“You better be or she’s going to have a fit.”
“Are you going to be there?” Dean asks hesitantly, his eyes wandering from his bowl of oatmeal to her face for the first time.
“I’m planning on it, yes. She invited me.”
The pointed look Dean gives me tells me that was not the answer he wanted to hear.
“Who is this?” Eliza asks, completely ignoring my self-intro.
The flowers. His mother’s house. Enough awkward energy that it feels like a middle school dance in here. I put two and two together. She must be the ex-girlfriend.
“Oh, no, we’re not—” I start.
“This is Madeline.” Dean finishes my sentence with the wrong answer. I was half expecting him to vehemently deny that he even knows me. Eliza is pissed, like seriously, utterly pissed at seeing Dean sitting eating oatmeal with me. She radiates fury and fire like the sun.
“Go to hell, Dean.” She picks up her bucket of flowers and promptly marches off.
I can’t help it, but I let out a little snicker. “What in the fresh hell was that?”
“That’s Eliza,” Dean remarks, rubbing his nose.
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
“My ex…girlfriend, I guess,.”
“Does she think we’re dating?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t, but by the way she stomped off, I don’t know how she could think anything but.
“I don’t know what she thinks.”
“You need to start telling me about what the hell is going on with you now, or this isn’t going to work.” I place my hands on the table top. “You know my whole deal. It’s your turn. Now spill,” I demand.
“My mother organized a dinner between the three of us, where I was supposed to help my younger sister pick out colleges and apply for financial aid. Eliza has been tutoring her in biology.” Dean admits.
“And then you picked me up, got drunk as all hell, and didn’t show up. And then she sees you here with another woman. So of course she’s pissed at you,” I conclude.
“Essentially.” Dean takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee.
“Do you want to make up with her?” I ask.
“No. Not really,” Dean tells me.
“Can you say more than three words? I beg of you.” I can’t with this man. “Please, give me more than a crumb of information or I can’t help you.”
“Eliza is my god-mother’s daughter. They’ve been itching for us to be together since we were born.
We went on a few dates, but we fundamentally disagree about everything from children to 401k’s to even fucking grenadine.
I broke it off, but my mother wants me to try again, because, well, it’s her best friend’s daughter. ”
I nod. I get it.
“My mother thinks I’m lonely. She won’t rest until I’m wearing a suit in a church, and it better be standing next to Eliza.” Dean shakes his head, like he just gave away his bank account number instead of the hot gossip of his love life.
“Did you try telling your mother all of this?” I suggest.
“Yes. And I broke it off with Eliza, and then she arranged that dinner.”
“Which you blew off. And you want to bring me to the next one.” I’m scratching my head here. I don’t see how I fall into this plan at all, not even a little bit. “You can’t convince your mother on your own that you’re fine?”
“I need you,” Dean admits. “I need you to meet my mother because she won’t believe I’m fine with taking a job in York Falls if I come alone. She doesn’t think I have friends, and I broke it off with Eliza because I’m a hermit.”
“And I’m the pathetic one. What’s our backstory?” I ask.
“Our what?”
“Our backstory. How did we meet? How did we fall in love?” Dean falters the moment I say it.
“What?” He says again, as if he didn’t hear me. “We don’t need a backstory. I’m going to help my sister. You’re just a bonus.”
“Will your Mother believe you if I’m just your friend?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.” I tell him. “Now, what’s our backstory?”
“We met at the pharmacy.” Dean suggests.