Chapter 24
Michelle
y sister’s umbrella blooms open like a flower, pink and beautiful,M matching her massive grin.
“Shellfish!” Sara breaks out in a run. She bypasses going down the driveway or the cobblestone path, instead opting to slap through the muddy yard, kicking up patches of grass under her rain boots.
“Wait, get off the grass!” I call over the pounding rain.
Sara either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care because she runs the rest of the way, ducks under the porch awning, and tosses her open umbrella to the side before pulling me into a bone-crushing hug.
“Oh, I missed you,” she exhales into me.
Sara is shorter than me—five-two to my five-nine—which is why she nuzzles closer, burying her face into my breasts like a burrowing rabbit.
“Stop,” I groan through an exhausted laugh.
“I didn’t realize this was a customary greeting,” Cliff says, leaning away with his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been saying hello wrong for months.”
I elbow him, and he gives a grinning oof.
“How was the drive?” I ask her.
“Terrible,” Sara groans. “Our rental car was seconds away from breaking down. I was scared the entire last hour.”
“Sometimes, I think they do it for fun,” Cliff comments. “Like a survival game. See who can cut it in the wild. Or on the highway.”
Sara’s eyes slowly swivel to Cliff, but they very quickly shadow over. I stiffen, following her gaze to him.
Cliff looks like he always does. He’s wearing his go-to flannel, double layered under a corded sweater. His boots are the rustic brown kind with little
love marks from the bakery. Sara lifts one curious eyebrow as she scans from his grinning smile down to the defined wrists peeking out from his pants
pockets.
I thought only I noticed his wrists.
Sara extends her hand out to him. “Hi. Sara.”
She shamelessly bites her lower lip, giving one stunning, dimpled smile.
Cliff untucks a hand from his pocket and shakes hers. Sara looks down to
his large, veiny hand.
“Cliff. I live next door.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Have you now?” Holding her hand, Cliff swivels his eyes to me with a crooked grin before landing back on her.
Shake.
They aren’t letting go. It feels so similar to our handshakes. My stomach coils.
“Well, it’s great to finally meet you,” he says to her.
Shake.
Sara smiles, giving another shake of his hand as she bears her dimples at their full capacity. Adorable. “Pleasure is all mine, Cliff.”
Whoever said it was chilly rain today was a liar because, suddenly, I’m heating up from the inside out.
I clear my throat and walk off the porch without an umbrella. “I’ll go
check on Dad.”
“Need help?” Cliff calls after me.
“I’m fine.”
I use my arms to shield myself from the rain until I reach the rental car. I tug the handle once, then twice, and the door finally pops open. I slide in on the squeaking brown leather and shut it behind me.
Dad sits in the driver’s seat, letting out a slow exhale. The only other sounds are plunking raindrops on the roof and the low hum of Bob Dylan on
the radio.
“Hey, Dad.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hi, Shellfish.”
Dad looks better than he did months ago. He’s gained a bit of weight.
He’s shampooed the few remaining wisps of hair on his bald head. But he hasn’t lost that distant, thousand-yard stare. I follow his gaze to the parked car at the end of the driveway. Mom’s car, covered in wet leaves.
“How was the drive?” I ask, changing the unspoken subject.
“Good. A little rainy.”
“The whole way?”
“The last half.”
“Cliff is here,” I offer. “He’s excited to see you. He’s staying for dinner, along with his daughters and Carol.”
“Oh, Cliff,” he says, finally looking over at me with a lopsided smile.
“What a character. He’s a good boy though.”
“I’ve told him the same thing. Well, I called Rocket a good boy, and then Cliff thought—” I smile and wave my hands in the air. “You know what?
Doesn’t matter.”
I feel so silly with my stories from this town, especially ones with Cliff that never sound quite as funny as they did during the moment.
The little time Dad spent thinking about happy things is slowly replaced with melancholy as he sees the baby angel statue near the porch—the one with tiny wings, thick ankles, and a mischievous smile.
“Your mom loved that guy,” he says. “Did you know his name is Stu?”
“I didn’t. Cliff calls him Chunky Charles.” One of too many inside jokes with Cliff.
Dad snorts out a laugh. It’s half-hearted, but I’ll take anything I can get.
He sighs. I place a hand on his forearm.
“Are you okay, being here?” I ask.
He pats my knee. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else for Thanksgiving.”
“I’m sure Lisa and George will be thrilled that you’re in town too.”
“How are they doing?”
“They’re good. Nosy, as always,” I say with a light smile. “But good.”
“And the inn?” he asks, his tone changing with worry. “It’s doing well?”
“It’s doing great,” I say confidently. “In fact, I made cinnamon rolls.
They’re fresh. I’ve been told they’re divine.”
Dad nods. “Good, Shells. Good.”
“Let’s head inside, all right?”
But before I get out of the car, Dad reaches out to stop me.
I look to his hand on my forearm and back up. “Are you all right?” I ask.
“I like that you’re smiling again.”
My heart skips a beat, and I choke out a laugh. “Well, it’s hard not to when you and Sara are here.”
“It’s not me,” he says, giving me a pointed stare. “You’ve caught the bug of this town. I can tell.”
For some reason, a lump catches in my throat.
“Come on,” I respond with a weak smile. “Let’s get inside.”
That night, the Bird & Breakfast dining room is more crowded than I’ve ever seen. On one side of the long table are me, Emily, my dad, and George.
Across from us are Sara, Cliff, Carol, and Lisa. At the head of the table, far away from Rocket lying at my feet, sits Brittany. She fluctuates between sitting proud and cautiously squirming as she keeps a very suspicious eye on Rocket.
“This pot roast is fantastic,” Cliff says, raising his forkful. “Really good
stuff, Michelle.”
It’s objectively not good.
Emily walked me through how to make pot roast earlier that afternoon.
It’s painfully dry, but Cliff keeps complimenting it loudly, almost like he’s prompting the cacophony of assent from the rest of the table.
I tear off a piece and bend down to let Rocket sniff it. He turns his head
away.
Don’t poison me, Shelly.
I can always count on Rocket’s honesty. But when Cliff reaches under the table with a piece of the bread, Rocket trots closer and nibbles it from his fingers. Since Halloween, I think he might like Cliff a little more.
See? He likes it, Cliff mouths to me, tossing me a wink.
Air catches in my throat, and I start coughing, having to take gulps of water to stop. Emily claps my back as my heart thrums in my chest so hard that I’m worried it will burst out. That wink should be illegal.
“So,” Cliff says, scooting out his plate and steepling his fingers, “how’s California been, Paulie? Catch any rays?”
Dad smiles. “It’s gorgeous every single day out there.” But his words are quick and closed off with no room left for discussion. He tips back his
wineglass.
George pats his arm.
“That’s great,” Cliff says slowly with an unnatural grin.
He flashes me wide eyes, as if to say, What now?
I clear my throat. “Sara, how’s school? Emily has been dying to hear about it.”
Emily nervously laughs. “I haven’t been, like, dying.”
She’s maintaining her cool. I curl my lips in, and Cliff shakes his head with a partial eye roll and smile.
“I saw that, Dad,” Emily shoots over with a snarl.
“You saw nothing,” he counters.
Sara leans in toward Emily. “You would love art school. Drawing at all hours of the night to meet deadlines. Waking up early for critiques.”
Emily scrunches her nose. “That sounds not fun at all.”
Cliff glances at me, and I feel that taut tether between us. The line of rope where I find him and he finds me, and we exchange a knowing look that nobody else notices.
“There’s nothing better than late-night sessions, even if everyone is tired in the morning. There’s always someone in the studio, so it’s constantly buzzing with creative energy. And sometimes, we sneak in drinks.”
Emily sits up. “That’s what I’m talking about. Pass the wine, please?”
“Em,” Cliff says, “you’re sixteen.”
“You’re sixteen,” Brittany echoes with a giggle, wanting to be part of the argument.
“That’s not far off from twenty-one,” Emily argues.
“That’s five years,” Cliff counters. “Five years ago, you were eleven.”
Carol sips her own glass of wine. “Yeah, but she’s not asking to drink at eleven.”
Cliff tosses his hands up. “Okay, you two are being difficult to be
difficult.”
“Daddy, can I drink?” Brittany asks.
“See what you did?” Cliff says to them.
Emily holds up her index finger and thumb to make the shape of an L on her forehead.
I lay down my fork. “All right, let’s bring the conversation back from the Burke comedy hour.”
“Hey!” Cliff says with a laugh, picking up a piece of broccoli and tossing
it at my plate.
“I’m only speaking the truth.”
Sara looks between us, blinking at the quick exchange, and laughs. “If I
knew what I was missing, I might have visited sooner,” she says, playfully leaning in to bump her shoulder against Cliff’s.
Cliff being Cliff, he grins at her and nudges back. My spine stiffens. I avert my eyes and shove another forkful of the terrible pot roast into my mouth.
“So, are you excited about taking over the inn?” Cliff asks.
Sara straightens up and nods. “Yeah! Of course. I already have ideas for painting the main hall.”
“Really?” he says, intrigued. “Big reno plans, huh?”
She shrugs, but it’s more to herself. “Nah, probably painting on the weekends or something.”
“I bet the guests would love your paintings throughout the house,” I encourage.
Sara beams, sipping more of her wine. “Yeah, maybe.”
Over dinner, we talk about Copper Run’s decorations for Thanksgiving.
Dad mentions they’re repeating old favorites, and the square is full of orange and brown bunting, cornucopias, and a sheet of poster board under the gazebo with hand turkeys, made from all the palms of the elementary kids in town. Cliff proudly says Brittany’s is front and center, to which Emily grumbles into her fork.
I nudge my elbow against hers. She side-eyes me.
Sara regales us with tales from art school, and Cliff keeps inserting his funny one-liners. Sara cackles at every one, touching his forearm as she does.
My molars grind. I think Cliff is funny. But he’s an acquired-taste type of funny. Sara hasn’t had time to acquire it yet. Or maybe I didn’t understand him when we met. Maybe I judged him too harshly.
I swallow uncomfortably and offer to take the dishes, mostly full with food people have sufficiently pretended to like. I push into the kitchen.
Rocket follows behind me, curling into his dog bed and burying his snout into the cushion crease.
I sigh. “Are you upset Britt isn’t saying hi?” I whisper.
He exhales through his nose.
“I’m sorry.”
The door swings in, and Sara stumbles through with her wineglass.
“Got another bottle?” she asks, shaking her glass through giggles.
My sister is cute when she’s tipsy. Her pink cheeks and dimpled smile are the human embodiment of champagne. Bubbly and sweet and always served
at fun events.
“This might be the most I’ve seen you drink,” I comment with a smile.
“You should be drinking more.”
“I’m not much of a drinker,” I answer. Fact is, I don’t like being out of
control of my own body.
“Art school made me one.”
“How do you have any time to paint?” I ask.
“Don’t be a stick in the mud.” She pouts. “Do we have more wine?”
I reach up to the cabinet, past the row of tattered, used cookbooks and fake hanging vines, to Mom’s collection of wine. I pull one down.
“Whoa, Mom had a stash?” Sara gawks.
“I was as surprised as you.”
Sara raises her empty glass. “To Mom. She would be happy we’re here together.”
Sara pulls me in for a side hug. She smells like raspberries and bubble gum. Up close, I see she added glitter to her cheeks. I haven’t seen Sara in this kitchen yet. The floral wallpaper matches her pastel top. She fits in well.
“Maybe Mom’s here in spirit,” she says.
My stomach twists.
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“You’re so boring,” Sara teases.
I smile, twisting the screw into the cork and tugging.
“By the way,” she says, pulling back and pointing a finger at me, “you
were right.”
“About?”
She darts her eyes to the closed door and leans in. “Cliff is so cute.”
My stomach drops right as the cork pops out.
“Yeah,” I quickly agree. “Yeah, he’s … handsome, I guess.”
I set the cork beside the wine, reaching out my hand for her glass. She almost drops the stem through my fingers. I catch it with both hands, and Sara covers her giggle.
I start to pour as she coyly says, “So …”
“So …”
She kicks her cute little boot over at me. “Anything there?”
“Where?”
“Between you and Cliff. I know you said there wasn’t, but something feels like it’s changed or whatever.”
The wine bottle clatters against the glass from my shaking hands. “Us?
No. Oh. No. Not at all.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“He looks at you weird sometimes.”
“He’s a weird guy,” I joke, and I instantly feel bad about the insult. It’s one thing to call Cliff weird to his face; it’s another to do it when he’s not around.
“Hmm …” She clicks her tongue in thought. “Then, … I don’t know … do you think you could set me up with him?”
It’s like my heart stops, starts again, then takes an Olympic leap into my throat. I keep emptying wine from the bottle into her glass, but my fist is tightened around the neck of the bottle. I swear I can hear my blood pressure in my ears.
“Aren’t you a bit young for him?” I ask.
She snorts again, though I’m not sure if it’s from derision or too much
wine. “No way. I’ve dated older.”
“You have?” I ask with wide eyes.
She grins, placing her index finger in front of her plush lips with a, “Shh.”
“How old?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Forties.”
“Sara!”
She giggles. “Don’t tell Dad.”
“That could basically be one of Dad’s friends.”
“Whatever,” Sara says, pushing my arm. “Anyway, Cliff’s into blondes,
right?”
“Is he?”
“You’re the one who said that.” She laughs. “Oh my God, Shells, are you trying to get me drunk?”
I notice I’ve nearly filled her wineglass to the rim.
“Sorry.” I got distracted. “Anyway, when did I say he was into blondes?”
I slowly hand her the glass, and the wine sloshes dangerously close to the lip.
“Oh, Cliff! Right. Yeah, over the phone. You said we’d get along and that blondes are his thing and thank God because he’s so cute.”
I did say that, didn’t I? But that was before Halloween. That was before … well, nothing, I guess. According to both me and Cliff, nothing happened
or would happen again. And that’s a good thing. That’s how it should be.
“So, think you could talk to him for me?” Sara asks. “Please, please, please?”
Sara and Cliff. Cliff and Sara. My sister and my charming neighbor. My best friend and my sister.
Sara narrows her eyes. “Unless … you are into him,” she says, setting down her glass and holding up both hands. “I’m not gonna step on your toes.”
I realize too late that my brow is furrowed.
“No,” I say quickly, blowing out air and shaking my head as I pour myself wine. “God, no. No, it’s Cliff. He’s … no.”
She squints more. “You two seem close.”
I set the wine bottle on the counter with a definitive plunk. “I’m honestly closer with his daughters,” I lie.
“Hmm. Well … think you could …” Her words fade off as she playfully chews her bottom lip and knocks the toe of her shoe against mine.
I should hook them up. It makes sense. I’m not going to date Cliff, so why would I steal potential happiness from both of them? After all, Sara will be his neighbor after the new year, and I won’t. If it works out, then my two favorite people will be happy.
She’s sunshine. Cliff deserves sunshine after all he’s been through.
I squeak the cork back into the bottle. “If you really like him, I’ll talk to
him for you.”
She gasps, hopping toward me. “Really?”
“Sure.”
Sara grabs my hands between her palms. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you!”
I force a smile and push her toward the dining room. She grabs her glass and slyly snatches the entire bottle of wine before disappearing through the swinging door.
The moment she leaves the kitchen, I slump against the counter. From the floor, I hear a low woof. I lean my head on my own shoulder to glare at
Rocket.
“Yes?” I ask.
He blinks slowly, darting his eyes to the door, then back. Do you really
want her with Funny Guy?
“He’s not that funny,” I grumble.
I’ve laughed once or twice.
“Oh, what do you know about humor?” I scoff, sipping my own wine and pushing through the door and back to the dining room.
