Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Is that the kraken? That is awesome.”

  “Are you about done down there? You’re going to want to see this, I’m telling you.”

  “Just a sec.” I climb onto the chair and stretch, hanging a particularly handsome ornament as high up as I can manage. It’s a glass sphere the size of a softball, splotched with gold shimmer. A plaid bow rests inside, the same ribbon that Violet used to bind her stacks of letters—

  “Wait a minute.”

  “I’ve been waiting for seventeen of them.”

  “There’s a paper in this ornament.” I jump down, wriggle the top off, and shake it until a rolled-up piece of paper slides out. “Like a message in a bottle.” The ribbon’s stiff, permanently crimped after I loosen the tie, smooth the paper against my knee. “I think it’s a map.”

  “Of what?”

  “Not sure.”

  I’ve got to show him this. Hard to believe I was tired earlier—I’m wired now, thundering up the staircase two steps at a time, crashing into a brick wall that’s been unexpectedly erected on the second floor.

  The bricks are softer than they look, absorbing my muffled “Oof.” And an “Mmpphhhhh,” which might or might not be caused by how good it smells.

  “Sorry.” The brick wall grows arms, gingerly tipping me back with the tips of its fingers. Has Wesley always been this tall? From down here, the top of his head is in the stars. I’d have to break my vertebrae to see his face.

  He takes a blundering step away, raking a hand through his hair. “Can I . . . see it?”

  Instead of handing the map over, I scoot next to him so that we pore over it side by side. “I’m pretty sure these are trees.” I point at a jumble of broccoli florets drawn in blue pen.

  Wesley analyzes the map closely, raising it higher. Our height difference means that the half of the paper I’m still clutching is bending significantly downward. “This is the manor here,” he murmurs, pointing at a blue square. I’m distracted by his large hands with short, square nails as he skims a finger to a second, much smaller blue square next to the manor. I’ve seen these hands halve an apple without a knife, and they’re the same ones that paint miniature pirate ships. “This is labeled ‘shed,’ but that doesn’t make sense. The shed should be over here.” His finger dances an inch to the left.

  “The cabin used to be Victor’s work shed,” I reply. “Maybe that’s the cabin, not the garden shed.”

  He nods. “That has to be it. All this over here, I don’t recognize.” He circles an area that says prairie smoke field.

  “That used to be a field, yeah. Back before Aunt Violet was anti-lawn.”

  “Pro–natural habitats,” he replies with emphasis. “Everyone with a yard should designate a natural growth area, to be honest. Put up a small fence around it and just let—”

  “Yep, sure,” I interrupt. “Look at those X’s! It’s like a traditional pirate treasure map.” There are five of them, scattered wildly all over the property. It would be an exhaustive trek to get to all of them, any potential treasure buried under the X’s hidden by more than shallow mounds of dirt by now. This map is at least two decades old. There could be whole adult trees growing over the tops of those X’s.

  “Violet’s second wish,” we say at the same time, meeting each other’s gaze. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing—so is Wesley, and we spring apart.

  “Violet said Victor thought there was buried treasure,” I explain unnecessarily. “Maybe these are a few of the spots where they thought treasure might be located. Being older, and Victor’s health being the way it was, I guess they’d gotten to the point in their treasure hunt where they were theorizing instead of doing any physical digging.”

  “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm,” he replies quickly. “Makes sense. I’ll just pocket this map, then . . .” He starts to slide it into his pocket, but I snatch it up.

  “Not so fast.”

  “Finders Keepers rules apply,” he says with a teasing half grin. “That’s part of Violet’s dying wish. I don’t know about you, but I’m morally obligated to honor her terms.”

  “I’m the one who found the map.”

  “And tomorrow, you’ll find that all the shovels have been hidden. Somewhere you’ll never be able to reach, like the top of the fridge. What are you going to use to dig up treasure, a spoon?”

  “Maybe. I’m a Maybell Parrish. It’s tradition to do everything the hard way.”

  His eyes flicker with amusement in the shadowy corridor. “Are there a lot of Maybell Parrishes running around out there?”

  “Maybe.” I bite my lip, trying not to dwell on that tonal shift in him, where it feels like he isn’t merely tolerating me anymore. This is . . . friendly. It’s nice. I’m dreading him taking this budding niceness away, putting that out of reach. “Here, I’ll make a deal with you. If you do all the digging, I’ll bring you along and we’ll split the treasure fifty-fifty.”

  “This mythical treasure,” he adds, in a way that tries to be skeptical but wants to believe.

  “This treasure that could be real. There’s no reason to think it shouldn’t be.”

  He frowns, thinking. “Okay. But not for another week, all right? Are you willing to wait until Saturday? I’ve got a landscaping job in Gatlinburg that’ll take up most of my time from the third through the seventh.”

  I stick out my hand for him to shake. “Deal.”

  “And now.” He keeps my hand encased in his for a few seconds longer than necessary, then squeezes lightly before letting go. “Come on.” He jerks his head, already walking off without me.

  “Ah, yes. The monumentally important discovery of yours, which you incorrectly believe is more impressive than a Christmas tree.”

  “A Christmas tree in May.”

  “You seem to be stuck on that.”

  But then I shut up, because he leads me toward an open door that is essentially a portal to the past. A ruffled white and pink blanket on a canopy bed, pillows smaller than I remember. Everything smaller than I remember, in fact. A white dresser. A pink vanity table. A shelf of my old favorites: The American Girl series, with Molly’s books taking the special number one spot. Dear America books. The Princess Diaries. A Series of Unfortunate Events. And hanging on the wall across the room from my bed, a very old postcard in a wooden frame with no glass.

  Season’s Greetings from the Top of the World!

  Two red-cheeked, bundled-up kids play on an old-fashioned sled in front of Falling Stars Hotel, snow covering the ground, roof, and distant timberline. The hand-painted postcard is bordered with holly. Victorian lamps flank a wrought-iron archway dressed in red and green garland, cardinals perched atop.

  The house is pink.

  Not because it truly was, but because the artist painted Falling Stars at sunset, taking creative liberties with pigments. In 1934, somebody made Falling Stars look just as magical on the outside as it felt to me on the inside, embedding that magic in my brain, literally shining a rose-colored light on all my recollections of this place. I can see now, from an aged and experienced perspective, that gray stonework lies beneath the wash of sunrise.

  “Oh,” I say softly.

  “I know. Memory is a strange thing.” He steps closer, sliding his hands into his pockets. “This used to be your room, I take it?”

  “Yeah.” I barely hear myself, taking the picture down off the wall. It leaves behind a small imprint untouched by dust. “I can’t believe none of this has changed.”

  We lock eyes and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. Violet kept my room this way in case I ever needed it again.

  “There were a couple others that I think used to hang up, too, but fell off the wall.” He takes two more postcards from the dresser, handing them to me. Their condition isn’t as good—one’s half missing, advertising the
biggest victory garden in the state of Tennessee! The other’s severely water-damaged: buy war bonds.

  I can’t stop staring at the postcard, filling all the way up with emotion. My throat is raw, eyes burning. He nudges it. “You know, I think I like it better like that.”

  “Pink?” I sit down on the bed, laugh hoarsely.

  “The house does need a paint job anyway.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “You’d let me paint the house pink?”

  My mind is a fanciful storybook that loves symbolism and parallels. It invents romantic notions, where there often aren’t any, in everyday life situations. It has led me to perceive many a man in a nobler light than he deserved, and it’s told me bad situations were meant to be as a coping mechanism to make them bearable. Wesley is watching me with a glint in his eyes that draws an imaginary parallel line into the misty past, X marking the spot on Victor. I think of how Victor used to look at Violet with a similar expression, like he knew an extraordinary secret and she was the only other person in the world in on the secret with him. I think of the incredible, million-to-one odds that out of all the pictures Gemma could have used to catfish me, she used his.

  Wesley smiles, which sends the warning sirens blaring. I’m reading into coincidences. The universe is chaos and coincidence. If it were operating with any intention, it would be cruelty.

  “Not by yourself,” he says. “I’d help you paint it. We’ll put some gold touches around the windows and doors, too, like the way the light hits it here.” He taps the postcard, but I don’t tear my gaze from him. My heart is thumping fast, fast, racing right toward a cliff. A little bit of friendliness doesn’t mean anything more than that. I’m a danger to myself, my imagination running away.

  I nod mutely.

  “As someone who likes paint,” he says sheepishly, refusing to simply say As an artist, “I think the project will be kinda cool. Trying to make the house look like it’s sitting in a perpetual sunset.”

  “Yeah,” I force myself to say. “That would be wonderful.”

  I thank him for the discovery, clutching it as I depart. I am nearly in the clear when my Achilles’ heel is attacked—he’s turned on Christmas music at top volume, sleigh bells riiiiing following me down the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, I head over to the manor to get to work and it’s a relief that Wesley’s away doing a job. Why did I think friendship with Wesley would be a good idea? It’s a terrible idea. I’m going to catch a crush on him. He’s dreamy, but until now his grumpiness has saved me from making an idiot of myself. If he shows me the barest hint of warmth, my weak knees will buckle like clockwork. It’s my worst habit.

  Right now, a crush swelling with the most dangerous undertow I’ve ever laid eyes on flits at the horizon, tearing it up at warp speed, but I’ve still got time. I’ve got willpower. I am resolving myself here and now to keep my distance, which should be easy enough. Wesley loves distance! We’ll ignore each other. Wesley loves ignoring each other! I’ve picked so many insensitive, cold hearts to give mine to, but his is a new record. I’d be the least safe in his hands: What if we dated and it went south, as most relationships do? We share a house! Neither of us wants to give it up. I’d be living directly under my ex, unable to escape him. If he cheated on me like most of the others did, that would ruin Falling Stars for me forever. It’d be too painful to stay—I’d have to give up the hotel of my dreams. Unacceptable.

  I can’t decide if that scenario is better or worse than another contender: that I’ll develop feelings, and those feelings will be unrequited.

  I’ve got to stamp out those feeble quiverings now, before they become a problem. He’s gone and dug a tent out of storage—one tent, singular—to use on Saturday, as he casually mentioned the trip will take us all day and most of the terrain we have to explore will have to be trod on foot. If it gets late, we’ll camp out. In the same tent. Together. Maybe he’s able to be blasé about it because he finds me so unattractive that I’m not even a shadow on his radar; I’m like a shovel, just part of the expedition gear. Or maybe he plans to seduce me. I envision us lying next to a roaring fire as he feeds me s’mores . . .

  “You don’t like him,” I tell myself sternly. “He’s a grouch.”

  I walk into the ballroom, determined to lose myself in cleaning. The first thing I see is the handmade tinfoil star that’s appeared at the top of my Christmas tree, which I’m not able to reach. Someone has indulged my untimely holiday spirit.

  I groan louder, spin on my heel, and walk right back out.

  “He doesn’t like me,” I growl at myself. “I’m just the pesky equal inheritor. The necessary evil he can’t get rid of, so he’s sucking it up and making the best of a bad situation.” I smack my face lightly. “Even if he does like me, it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the fact that muddying those waters is a bad, bad, bad idea.”

  Think long-term, Maybell. Priorities. Eyes on the prize.

  I open the dumbwaiter longingly and despair that it’s empty. He made me a tree-topper. It’s even better than a store-bought one, with its cute little irregular edges . . . I have no willpower at all.

  I smack myself again.

  There’s only one tried-and-true method to escape dwelling on this. I pace back and forth, giving myself a workout, mentally reaching for the door of my café. It won’t open.

  A sign on the door reads out for lunch.

  “Can’t stop me,” I grumble, probably losing it, as I pick the lock and the door in the clouds shoves open with a tinkling chime.

  I definitely didn’t put all these ferns here. Moss creeps up tables, swarming napkin dispensers and condiment bottles. I hack vines out of my way, sidestepping hazard signs, breaking a sweat to get behind the counter. A gurgling sound of rushing water is coming from the jukebox. My doting parents pop their heads in, concerned. “Are you open?”

  “Yes! Just give me a minute. It’s . . . ah . . .”

  “You’ve got a forest,” Mom notes, eyes large as she stares around.

  I scratch my head, three small birds circling. I’m going to get cited by the health inspector. “It would appear so.”

  A familiar figure nods politely to my mother as he saunters over, making himself at home on a stool. “What are you doing here?” I exclaim, dropping a pot of coffee. Glass shatters everywhere. “Oh, goodness. So sorry, that’s never happened before.”

  “Hi, Maybell.”

  “Hi . . . you.”

  He grins wider, propping his chin in his hand. “Not gonna say my name?”

  “Don’tseetheneedto,” I mumble under my breath. “You really shouldn’t be here right now.”

  “Why’s that?” He flicks open a menu. “I’ll have one of these.” Taps the Grumpy/Sunshine Platter: a frowny face of blueberries and banana slices on French toast with a sunny-side-up egg.

  “I don’t serve French toast and eggs!” I grab the menu from him, panicking. “Where’d that come from?” Other options I never approved write themselves into existence. Forced Proximity Pancakes. World’s Biggest Cinnamon Roll: Recommended by the chef! Crispy outer layer conceals a soft, delicious center.

  “Slow-burned toast,” he begins to read over my shoulder. I snap the menu closed, my cheeks hotter than a stove. “Did I just read something about a secret baby?”

  “We’re all out of toast. And secret babies. You can have a donut. We serve donuts.”

  “I’ll take your special of the day.” He points at the chalkboard menu on the wall behind me. “Opposites Attract: coffee cake and sweetheart tea. Aw, isn’t that cute.” A dimple pops in his cheek. I die.

  Fireworks begin flaming up behind him, huge heart-shaped bursts that transform into confetti. He turns. “What was that?”

  “Oh no.” My heart sinks. Flutters. I wring my hands. “It’s happening.”

  A skywriter zigzags through t
he clouds outside the window, barely visible between dense branches. I leap in front of it to block the view, shielding the banner proclaiming MAYBELL LIKES—

  He spins back toward me and tosses his head, giving me a knowing look. He has no idea how sensual it is. The tingles that course through me course through the electricity, too, popping breakers. “Oh, yes. It’s inevitable, isn’t it?”

  I kneel (or collapse) to clean up the mess of glass and coffee, but it dawns on me that I don’t have a broom and dustpan here. I glance sadly at my 5,840 days without an accident sign as the number switches to 0. What is going on around here lately?

  He leans across the counter, surveying me on the floor. I wish it would open up and swallow me. “You all right down there?”

  “Fine,” I reply faintly. “It’s fine, I’m only dead.” It was the dimple. It killed me.

  RIP, me.

  “Did you fall asleep like that? Odd place for a nap.”

  The fireworks shape-shift into a chandelier, and as he extends a hand to help me to my feet I’m zapped out of the café. This is IRL Wesley, gripping my hand in his (oh, his hand is strong) and standing me upright in the real world. He hands me my glasses, then holds up a white paper bag. Gives it a shake. “I finished early for the day. Brought home some—”

  “Ahhhhhhh-ahh,” I interrupt. He cannot finish that sentence. If that bag has pastries in it, I’ll swoon. Resist! Resist!

  I stare into his eyes, which are sparkling like fire agate. Do ordinary eyes sparkle like these? These are chocolate and hazelnut. Smoky earth. They would make angels weep and they’re boring into mine, calmly oblivious to the truth that I’m spiraling, demanding no answers as to why I was lying on the floor with my glasses off.

  “You look feverish,” he murmurs, gaze dropping from my eyes to my lips.

  My default recording plays itself, lacking air. “I had red hair . . .” I wheeze. “When I was born.”

  “Oh, really?” He should be stepping away, but he doesn’t know it. He keeps getting closer, filling in the distance as I shuffle backward step by step. There’s nowhere safe for my eyes to rest. I look at his hair and words like gilded and Apollo explode in my mind as I imagine plunging my fingers into the wavy strands. I look at his eyes and hunger. Forget his mouth.