Chapter 16 The Fish out of Water Trope
Just like last time, the town square was empty. Shoveled sidewalks, tire tracks, and trampled snow were the only evidence that someone had been there.
Frustrated, I stood on the sidewalk closed out of the world I’d just moved to.
It seemed like I wouldn’t be able to buy any supplies in Valentine—tonight or ever.
The windows were decorated for pumpkin-spice season.
The bookstore window was frosted and filled with twinkling lights.
I stopped in front of the dress shop and sighed wistfully.
A red-velvet dress called to me, sumptuous fabric, a deep V neckline that would work well with my physique.
Every fiber of my being wanted to walk into the shop and buy it, along with some new chandelier earrings and vintage Victorian boots.
This dress was only for wholesome women, peasants who smelled of garlic and walked in the light, someone who could do a full twirl in a three-way mirror to admire their reflection.
A light across the square twinkled, taking my attention from the dress.
The tavern, of course, was open. Eagerly, I walked through the empty street to the Valentine Tavern.
It was an old German-style building, white stucco crisscrossed with wood, hobbit-y and quaint. The faint sounds of music filtered out.
Inside, I found an oasis of humanity. Clinking glasses and silverware mingled with the folk tunes of a flannel-clad band.
When I paused next to the Please seat yourself sign, the tavern fell silent and all eyes turned to me.
Everyone else was straight out of the L.L.
Bean catalogue. Here was I, spotlit by a hanging stained-glass Budweiser lamp, the only one in the tavern dressed as a bridesmaid circa 1981.
Apparently, I needed a pair of Wellingtons and a zip-up polar fleece to fit in. Heaven was right. I was overdressed.
“Evening,” I said cheerfully with a wave.
The hostess wore a T-shirt with the Valentine Tavern logo stretched across her ample chest. A fellow bar wench—I smiled in greeting.
She paused on her way to a rowdy table of lumberjack types. “Hey, it’s a little busy, but grab a seat anywhere and I’ll be by with a menu.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Go get yourself a drink at the bar, then. Gary’s offering some kind of pumpkin-spice whiskey concoction tonight.”
Perched on a stool at the ornate wooden bar, I couldn’t help but overhear a couple of dudes debate the merits of leaf blowing versus raking. My to-buy list burned a hole in my pocket: gel, hair oil, a hammer, batteries, and other house-fixing supplies. I texted Heaven.
Me: the only biz in town open is the bar. :(
Heaven: Is there a post office? I need a much larger crystal and some pyrite. And some lotion. Did you even pack me extra underwear?
Me: idk. order what you need to the house. use my card.
Heaven: omg
Me: kissy face
I ordered a Macallan scotch. I couldn’t eat food anymore, but I could drink. The scotch tasted of the earth, of the sacred soil of which Vlad had spoken. I shut my eyes and felt my humanity deep within me, still there.
“Scotch, huh?” A deep voice interrupted my reverie, and I looked up to see Tyrone. In the dark, he’d been a snack. In the warm glow of the tavern, he was a full meal, with broad shoulders and eyes that sparkled with wit and charm. He smelled of evergreens and iron.
“Yep.” I sat up straight and gestured at the seat beside me.
He took the offered seat and flashed two fingers to the bartender. “Two more of whatever the lady’s having, Gary.” He sat down, briefly towering over me. Big men were always my undoing.
“You look refreshed,” he said.
“An extended cross-country road trip isn’t exactly a beauty treatment.” Gesturing to the room, I said, “I forgot the Vermont dress code.”
“Don’t apologize for looking good.”
Gary, the bartender, slid two generous pours across the bar with a wink for Tyrone. They were clearly friends.
“What he’s saying is you look hot,” Gary said, sounding pretty sassy for a man who looked like he had passed hunter safety and had a closet full of puffer vests. He winked at me. “Love the satin. Work it, girl.”
“Was I being cagey?” Tyrone laughed. “Gary’s right. You look hot. A little weird for sure—”
“Hey!” I protested.
“—but hot.”
Tyrone’s compliment hit harder than the alcohol, warming me all the way to my toes. “It’s good to be back.” Looking him dead in the eye, I said, “I missed all the flannel.”
“The flannel, huh?” When he threw back the rest of his whiskey, he tilted his head and exposed his throat.
His neck was thick and muscled, and a five-o’clock shadow dusted his jaw like powdered sugar on a delicious treat.
When he swallowed, his blood bloomed with the warmth of the alcohol. I swallowed in turn.
“What have you been doing for the last few years?” he asked, setting his glass down on a thin paper napkin.
“I was just joking about being a mortician,” I said. “I actually went out to LA to be an actress, but you know how that goes.”
He nodded sagely.
“I’ve been working at a blood clinic for the last couple of years,” I said, sprinkling in some truth among the lies. “When I inherited the inn, I was more than ready to get out.”
Just then, a table behind us erupted into laughter. Tyrone leaned over the bar and shouted out an order for fries above the din.
A second later, Gary slid a plate of fries onto the bar between us. “On the house.” I think I liked this Gary.
Tyrone raised his glass. “Thanks, man.” Turning to me again, he said, “Oh, I met your friend.”
“My friend?” My brain scrambled to catch up. “Do you mean Heaven?” I glanced around, trying to disguise my panic.
Tyrone’s neck was unmarked. That had to be a good sign, but still. Heaven was not ready to be out.
Like it was no big deal, he said, “I stopped by your place with a housewarming gift.”
“How did that go?” I asked skeptically.
“She only opened the door a crack.” He plowed through some fries, unconcerned with Heaven. “She mentioned something about not feeling well.”
“So, what do people do in town these days?” I asked, changing the subject as casually as I could. “I’ve been gone so long. I forgot how early everything closes.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “Going home is always unsettling. It’s the same, but not.” A conflicted expression flickered across his face.
Visiting my hometown in Romania after several regime changes and a heavy Communist architectural shift—now that had been unsettling.
Commiserating, I said, “It’s hard to know if it’s me or the town. Something changed, though.”
“It might be you,” he said.
I gave him a closed-lip smile, holding my secrets tight. “Ten years is a long time.” Not really, at least for me, but he was young.
When he seemed satisfied with my answer, I asked again, “So what do people do here these days?”
“It’s probably the same as when you grew up, a lot of hiking, fishing, skiing, canoeing, camping. The dog park is popular.”
Being a vampire was creepy enough; I didn’t have to add to it by floating around on an inky black lake at midnight. I wasn’t trying to get staked out here. Also, no night vision. Sorry, Anne Rice fans.
“Anything less wholesome?” I asked.
“You’d have to ask the therapist.” He raised an eyebrow. “She’s pretty popular lately.”
“Do you go?” I asked, taking a sip of scotch without breaking eye contact.
After a beat of silence, he said, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you really have a coffin.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard men in therapy make great boyfriends.”
“I’ve heard the same about women with coffins.”
I leaned in closer to Tyrone and his heartbeat ticked up, his blood running faster, the big vein in his neck throbbing noticeably, to me at least. I bit my lip, and his eyes shifted to my mouth.
I was probably just thirsty. After a week of coconut water, the scent of iron tickled my nose, along with the prospect of a man who was too big for his barstool. I tore my eyes away from the delicious treat in front of me and took a swig of scotch, a mouthful of dirt to distract me from Tyrone.
“So the therapist—she’s very popular?” I swirled my scotch. “What problems could anyone in Valentine have? It’s just so…picture-perfect.”
He laughed. “Tiffany, how much have you forgotten? We’ve all got dark sides. And secrets.”
“What are your secrets, Tyrone?”
“Oh, I have my demons,” he said, with more earnestness than I expected. “Eleanor has her work cut out fixing me,” he joked, clearly trying to lighten the mood before it got dark. But the darkness drew me in. I wanted to know more. What was Tyrone hiding?
Gary interrupted. “Tyrone’s not nearly as messed-up as the locals.”
Another transplant. I cocked my head and asked Tyrone, “So what’s your story?”
“Well, you know some of it probably—”
“Refresh my memory,” I said with a smile.
“I came up because of the trees, and Jeff’s family.”
Jeff again. Uh-oh. I nodded with encouragement to coax more words from Tyrone, and to keep my foot out of my mouth.
He swirled the remaining ice cubes in his glass before saying, “My family has a tree farm in North Carolina. We’ve been working on creating a hybrid evergreen that stays fresher for longer: green, fragrant, fewer needles to sweep up, perfect for Christmas.”
“You couldn’t grow them in North Carolina?”
“We could, but Vermont has a better climate for this variety, so I contracted with Jeff’s family to grow some of the trees. A few years later, I ended up buying the farm.” With a ta-da hand gesture to the tavern full of Vermonters, he said, “And here we are.”
I nodded, taking it all in.
“You don’t know any of this?” He drew his eyebrows together.
I shook my head in the negative. “Nope.”
“Huh.” For some reason that seemed to surprise him.
Putting the focus back on him, I said, “So what you’re saying is that you invented the Chrithmas tree?” I couldn’t say Christmas for being-a-vampire reasons and no one called them holiday trees, so I just had to hope he’d find my lisp adorable.
With a laugh he said, “No, I hold the patent, but it’s just a cross between a blue spruce and a white pine with some vampire DNA thrown in, or at least that’s how I like to explain it.”
I could feel my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. He wasn’t calling me a vampire, but still.
“What’s your tree called?”
“Santa’s Choice.”
I choked on my Macallan and loudly whispered, “That makes it sound like a condom.”
He burst out laughing. It felt good, making someone laugh. I could get used to it.
I wanted to ask more questions that I was probably supposed to know the answers to. Before I gave myself away, I said, “I better be going.”
“What’s your number?” he asked.
I preened and recited the digits. Five seconds later, my phone buzzed. Instead of a flirty text, he had shared the contact information for someone named Eleanor Rosetti.
“Who’s that?” I asked with a frown.
“The therapist. Text her for an appointment.”
At that, I laughed. “And I thought you were going to ask me out on a date.”
“Well, that too. Tomorrow is supposed to be beautiful, sunny, not too cold. I’d love to take you snowshoeing, maybe across Lake Valentine.” He cocked his head, waiting for a reply.
Snowshoeing—he had to be joking. “No, thank you.”
“Cross-country skiing? Ice skating?”
I shook my head no. Was he trying to kill me?
“Snowmobiling?”
“I’d rather go to therapy. In fact, maybe I will.” I quickly texted Dr. Rosetti.
Me: i’m new in town and having trouble fitting in. do you have any late evening appointments?
“The dog park?” Tyrone asked.
“The thing is, since I left Valentine, I developed porphyria, which makes me erupt into blisters in direct sunlight. I can only go out after dark.”
He leaned back on his stool and looked me up and down. “How about hot chocolate around the bonfire? Does that get around the daylight issue?”
“Yes, that sounds so…quaint.”
“Quaint—that’s how I roll.” He put some cash down on the bar for Gary and asked me, “So, tomorrow night?”
When I nodded, he said, “I’ll pick you up after sunset. Be ready.”
On my way home, the therapist texted:
Eleanor: Welcome to Valentine! Short notice but I am working late tonight. I could fit in a session if you’re interested?
Me: on my way!