7. Chloe
seven
One week later
Why didn’t I push back? Beg him? Stalk him? Try to find out from the desk clerk who the man in room 2037 was? I could have done so many things.
Instead I kept my promise to him.
The days that followed our night in the elevator, I went through the conference like a zombie, my thoughts full of the feel of his strong arms around me. Of his deep green eyes, full of so much care. Of his voice carrying me through the night.
I took notes in sterile, windowless rooms, exchanged business cards, all the time peeling my eyes in hopes that he would be here too.
He wasn’t, or I didn’t see him.
After the conference I stayed in Boston a few more days.
I stayed at the same hotel. Lingered at the same bar. The bartender’s wound was healing nicely. And the bartender had no idea who my mysterious stranger was. Or if he did, he hid it well.
Henever came back.
I met with vendors and restaurant owners who were kind enough to show me how they operate, so I’m not too green when I get to Uncle Kevin’s restaurant.
Now it’s time to go, and as I’m driving away, I blink back the tears threatening to fall again at the thought of everything I had that one night and lost right away.
Boston fades away in my rearview mirror, and with it, any chance of seeing him again. He truly is gone from my life forever.
It’s time for me to put that away and to move forward.
Like Fiona said when I called her to tell her (most of) what happened, rebounds aren’t meant to last.
He was the perfect rebound from Tucker. Time to move on.
Breathe in, breathe out. I turn my mind to what awaits me in Emerald Creek.
First impressions are everything, and I don’t want my uncle’s staff to realize immediately that until a few days ago I’d never set foot in the kitchen of a restaurant or behind a bar. So I mentally review the vocabulary I recently learned and put myself in the shoes of a restaurant owner.
Aunt Dawn can say all she wants that it’s a numbers’ game; I know for a fact that every business is a people’s game.
After two hours on the interstate, nondescript malls and highways and billboards disappear, giving way to rolling hills and farm stands and horses and cows grazing lazily.
I stop at Aunt Dawn’s to reattach my U-Haul and get the keys to the restaurant and the cottage.
“I haven’t been there in years,” Aunt Dawn tells me over coffee and pie. “I hope the cottage isn’t too dusty. I don’t know if your Uncle Kevin paid much attention to it. It’s only about an hour drive from here, so he barely used it at all. Only in case of a bad storm on a late night. He didn’t want me to fuss over it.”
“Don’t worry about that, Aunt Dawn. I’ll be fine.”
“And don’t let that landlord get to you, honey. He was Kevin’s bane.”
“How so?”
She turns her coffee cup in between her hands. “Kevin never really said. At some point the building was on the market, your father was thinking of buying it as an investment, but there was some funny business, and it was that man who got it instead. After the sale, it got so bad that Kevin was concerned he might lose the lease, but ’parently, the lawyer did a good job, and that lease wasn’t easy to break. But he and Kevin never saw eye to eye. There was always something, he would never say what. But I could tell it was eating at Kevin.” She stops worrying her coffee mug to put a hand on my arm. “That man all but killed my Kevin with his own two hands.” Her eyes water.
“What—what do you mean?” I ask under my breath.
“Stress, honey. Uncle Kevin was under a lot of stress, I could tell. He kept saying everything was fine, but it wasn’t. Now, the restaurant is doing fantastic, so what else could be eating at him? The landlord. That man caused trouble for years and years. It never got better. But recently, it got worse. Much worse. I bet you it had something to do with the lease renewal.”
Shoot.The lease is up for renewal? What else did she forget to tell me? “Aunt Dawn, the lease is a pretty important part of the sale you’re planning.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, nodding. “Careful with the pub owner.”
I scoop the last of the pie crumbs and ask, “What pub owner?”
“The landlord! He opened the pub right next door to Uncle Kevin’s restaurant.”
“Wait—the landlord opened a pub right next to Uncle Kevin’s restaurant?”
“He did. Caused your uncle to lose a lot of business. Used to be something or other. A garage, maybe? Or a store. I don’t remember anymore.”
A pub next door wouldn’t necessarily harm a restaurant. If the style and the price point are different, they could actually benefit from each other’s presence. But Aunt Dawn is saying it caused Uncle Kevin to lose a lot of business, and I have no reason to doubt her. I guess I’ll find out once I get to Emerald Creek. “What else did Uncle Kevin say about this man?” I’m more concerned about having a landlord in my face all day.
“There was always something. The garbage wasn’t disposed of right. Something about window boxes.” She fidgets. “And then he stole his chef.”
“He what?”
She nods. “The chef before this one went to work for the pub. Would you believe it?”
Hmm. Well that could account for actual competition. If the chef moved next door, he could have brought customers with him. “Why would he do that?”
“Why do people do the things they do, honey?” She gives me a sad smile, and then pats my forearm. “But the new chef, Samuel, is fan-tas-tic. Uncle Kevin loved him. Just loved him. He took care of everything. You’ll be fine.”
“I know I will,” I say, reassuring her as much as myself. I have my work cut out, but it’s just as well. I’m not sure just showing up to pay bills and tally up deposit slips would be enough for me. I pat her hand. “Don’t worry, Aunt Dawn. I’ll show him a good time if he makes trouble.” I’m actually looking forward to a showdown with the man who caused so much grief to my family.
She cackles. “You do just that.”
The road to Emerald Creek is a winding, narrow ribbon nestled in between trees that shade the sun in green freckles. For the most part, the road follows the river, which early in summer is still full and bubbling. A split in the road indicates Emerald Lake and Emerald Lake Resort, but I keep going. A clearing in the woods reveals a rocky beach on the river. Dogs and kids are splashing in it, while adults chat, water to their knees. A picnic table on the embankment is laden with wicker baskets and boxes.
Then the woods clear, and the landscape turns to farmland again. Cows grazing in fenced pastures, huge red barns, their mouths open to the summer air, white farmhouses with wraparound porches, chicken coops in the shade of trees.
A pullout on the side of the road beckons to a farmstand. I stop the car and stretch. No one is manning the stand, but a sign announces ‘Fresh eggs, bacon and salad in the cooler’, and prices are written in an even handwriting on a lined paper taped to a metal box. Strawberries, peaches, cherries, zucchini, and maple syrup are neatly arranged on a wobbly wooden table, protected from the sun by a couple of umbrellas. I take one of the neatly folded paper bags tucked under the table, get some salad, eggs, bacon, strawberries, and zucchini, add my total to the bills stashed in the metal box, and plop my bag in the back of my car.
Then I close my eyes and pause in the warm summer sun.
The sweet smell of flowers. Wind rustling in the trees, cooling my cheeks. A dog barking. Insects rattling, butterflies tickling my arms. Birds chirping. The river flowing in the distance.
I take a deep, cleansing breath and drive into Emerald Creek.
Why has no one ever told me about this place? I take my foot off the pedal, lower my windows, and take it all in. Houses of all styles—mostly white or pink Victorians and brick Federals—with lovingly maintained gardens and colorful window boxes line the main access road, which turns into main street, where people are strolling, holding hands, coming in and out of the ice cream shop, the general store, an antique shop.
There’s not a chance in hell I’m even attempting to park here with my U-Haul, so I’ll just have to come back later.
But before heading to the cottage, I drive to The Green.
I want to scout the restaurant. See what it looks like. What first impression it gives. My aunt and cousins were proud of it, and I’m looking forward to being impressed.
The Green is a small park in the center of Emerald Creek. A white steepled church stands proudly at its top. Large houses and businesses line its sides, separated from The Green by a one-way lane and large sidewalks. A live band is currently performing at its center. Children are dancing and adults are loosely circled around the low stage, and a woman’s melodious voice fills the air with the sound of soft rock.
Small Town America. So utterly perfect.
I look for the restaurant but can’t find it. I see the pub alright, The Lazy Salamander, occupying the left side of a brick building, its large windows lined with flowers. There’s a big-ass dog sprawled on the sidewalk, and people step over it to get in. They have outdoor seating as well, a row of cafe tables with bright green-and-white umbrellas. It’s cute. It’s the kind of place I’d go to without a second thought. In fact, I’d go now if I didn’t have my U-Haul strapped to my car. Just to check it out. See what the owner is like.
Who I’m up against.
But I digress. I’m not here to get into the neighbor’s face unless I need to. I’m here to temporarily run a restaurant that should be right there but for the life of me, I can’t find. Was I given the wrong info? Could it be elsewhere? Aunt Dawn said it was next door, and next door to the pub there’s … a dusty door and a row of dark windows. No sign. No outdoor seating.
The dusty door opens, and I slow down. A guy in jeans and a gray T-shirt comes out and lights a cigarette. I squint. Turns out, there is a sign. ‘Emerald Creek Fine Dining.’
My belly clenches. Shoot. Not what I expected. Does Aunt Dawn have any idea?
This is going to be a lot of work. Which in a way, is good.
Work has always been my salvation.
Or so I tell myself as I continue driving through Emerald Creek to where my GPS indicates the cottage will be.
Right after The Green, the road narrows and hugs the river, then curves away from it to leave space for a stone building built right on the water and a large, shaded parking area. A cheery hand-painted sign announces, Easy Monday.
Ahmayzing Juice Bar, Best Coffee in Town, Cupcakes and such, Books and More Books.
A second sign, attached below the first one, reads, 420
With a bunch of happy flowers all around it.
My GPS takes me under a one-way, wooden covered bridge with a red roof and hanging flower baskets on each side of it, and I smile at the care the people here have for their town.
My first order of business will be to introduce myself to the other business owners, find out if there is a chamber or other organization I should join.
I find the cottage easily, up a country road just like Aunt Dawn said, a short drive from The Green. It’s on a hill, with views of the lake in the distance and open fields around it. The neighbors are invisible, although I passed houses close by.
It’s a small, white cape with an overgrown yard. I pull all the way up the weedy driveway, to the cobwebby porch with peeling paint. I brace myself. Aunt Dawn didn’t say anything about the restaurant needing TLC, but she had reservations about the cottage. I wonder what awaits me.
The screen on the front door opens with a wail, and the front door needs a shoulder push.
The inside smells dusty, but nothing worse, and I breathe in relief. The downstairs consists of an open kitchen on the left, with a round plastic table and four chairs defining an eating area cornered by grimy windows on the side and front of the house. On the right of the front door, there’s a brown-ish couch smack in the middle of an empty space.
In front of me, dividing the house, a carpeted staircase leads to two bedrooms and a bath.
One bedroom is empty, its wallpaper peeling. The other bedroom boasts a queen-size frame and mattress and received a coat of paint in the last decade. There’s even a set of linens and towels in the closet.
It doesn’t look like anyone has lived here in a long time. Years ago, someone had the idea to do something with it, and then they changed their mind. They brought a bed, a couch, a table and chairs, and then found better things to do. Or ran out of energy. I wonder briefly if that someone was Aunt Dawn, and then I focus on other things. Like making this space mine for now.
With what Aunt Dawn said, and Uncle Kevin passing away a couple of weeks ago, I was dreading long-forgotten, overflowing trashcans. A fridge with brown leaks where there once was food.
I was expecting mice.
There is nothing of the sort.
I prop all the windows and the front door open to create a nice airflow, bring my luggage in, then get to work.
I vacuum and mop and dust. Clean the windows. Wipe the fridge. I find a single-use packaged powder detergent that smells fantastic and run the kitchen curtains in the washer.
Then I unload my U-Haul and unroll my Moroccan carpet—that Tucker had thought was weird—in front of the couch. With its blue and green hues, it looks awesome. My off-white, distressed coffee table I set right smack in the middle of the carpet and proceed to place three candles at an angle on it. Tucker didn’t like the candles. He said they got in the way of watching the game.
Well, there’s no TV here. Not that I need one.
I drag one of the four kitchen chairs next to the couch as a makeshift side table and plop my tiffany lookalike lamp on it, plug it in and turn it on, for effect.
Then I proceed to carry my bookshelves inside, assemble the shelves, stack my books, arrange my knickknacks, and then plop on the couch for a beat.
It looks like home.
I thought I’d miss my apartment, with its high windows and airy views and open space. It felt like I was making a home there, and that that home was ripped away from me.
It wasn’t. Home is where I decide it is.
I get my ass off the couch, set my laptop on the kitchen table, and plug it in.
I had left my fern inside Aunt Dawn’s house for her to babysit, which means it had plenty of water and regular misting. It looks fantastic. I set it on a chipped plate on the floor next to the couch, for now.
I bring all my kitchen stuff and store most of it in the empty cupboards and drawers, set my red and white ceramic vase on the countertop. After I wipe down the bedroom closet, I hang and fold my clothes there. Make my bed with my own sheets. Again, a feel of home.
Then I move to the bathroom, give everything a wipe, and open the faucets. While they do their coughing and gurgling from going too long without being used, I set my toiletries on the side of the sink, under the vanity, in the medicine cabinet, and in the shower.
When the water flow is nice and even and the bathroom is steamy, I strip out of my sweaty clothes and get under the warm shower. Shampoo and conditioner have never felt so good. Shower gel so indulgent. The weariness from travelling and setting up, washes out, and I’m left with only a feeling of peace.
The sun is setting when I walk back downstairs. The place smells fresh and clean.
My new home, sparse but cozy.
A new start.
I close the windows and take one of the three remaining kitchen chairs to the porch. Finally sitting down, I plop my feet on the railing and bask in the landscape turning crimson while I snack on strawberries.
The next morning, after a restful night, I take a minute to truly enjoy the coffee from my own espresso machine. And the unbeatable taste of a scramble made with fresh farm eggs.
And I’m glad I did, because the minute I walk into the restaurant, holy crap.
It’s going to take more than a good wipe.