Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

  Wesley finds me in under a minute. “Hey there.”

  “You cheated!”

  “I bested you.” He bites into a cinnamon-sugar donut. “Are these my words? They’re delicious. I’m so good at making donuts.”

  “I tell you to stop being nice, so you subject me to killer clowns and bad sportsmanship.”

  “Your turn.” He shuts the picture frame on me again. I hear his muffled shout down the hall: “Count to twenty! And use Mississippis!”

  Twenty Mississippi seconds later, I’m diverted in a number of dizzying directions thanks to Wesley’s switching on every television set in the house. Jumanji is playing on FX, stampedes of animals throwing out red herrings every time I think I’ve heard him. The surround sound he’s set up in his art studio to amplify a spooky playlist is particularly evil.

  “Gotcha!” I cry a dozen times, using a broomstick to poke flickering curtains and lumps under his bedspread. No Wesley to be found.

  I shoot him a text. I see you.

  It’s a bad bluff, and he knows it. Actually, I see YOU.

  All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  He adds: Ha. Bet I made you look.

  Come out, I demand.

  Can’t. Hide and seek is on Violet’s list. Wish number 6.

  And to think I’ve been comparing him to angels.

  But texting gives me an idea. I call his phone as I creep along, smiling wickedly when I peek around the corner of a hallway and spot a tiny white-blue light floating. I follow it, and footsteps, into yet another secret passage I had no idea existed. Not simply a secret passage, but a secret stairway, leading into the ballroom downstairs. It was hidden behind a heavy floral curtain that I’d assumed was just another window. I’ll never trust a curtain again.

  I was right on his tail all the way down the stairs, so there’s only one place he could have hidden so quickly. “Hmm, wonder who’s behind that Christmas tree,” I muse into the phone when he answers.

  He walks out in a huff, hanging up the phone. “You cheated.”

  “I bested you, you mean.”

  His mouth curves.

  “I can’t believe there are all these hidden passageways,” I say. And if I sound jealous, I can’t be faulted for it.

  “The trick,” he tells me, “is listening for hollows.” He raps the wall. Thud. Raps it farther along. Thud. Raps it again, right over our mural. The sound he produces there is different, more of a drumbeat. I gasp as he magics another camouflaged door out of the ether. This one isn’t terribly impressive; I wouldn’t even call it a closet. A deck of cards and a Gatorade from the nineties sit inside.

  “Did you know this was here all along?” I demand.

  Wesley’s insufferable smugness is answer enough.

  I’m indignant. “Why didn’t you show me?”

  “Maybell,” he replies seriously, “one doesn’t become the unbeatable hide-and-seek champion by sharing all one’s secrets.”

  I’m going to kick him.

  I think he can tell, because he spins around and begins counting loudly. I fly off, determined to stun him into oblivion with my next hiding place. Let him wander aimlessly forever.

  And then the perfect spot hits me: the white wardrobe in the living room. It’s one of those fixtures your eyes become so accustomed to skating past that it’s practically invisible. As I make my way into the living room, my phone vibrates with a text from Wesley. He’s snapped a picture of the donut pan, missing half its occupants. Love these, he says. I try not to preen.

  The wardrobe doors are stuck, which they always have been, given their age. Then again, I’ve never had reason to try very hard to open them. I grit my teeth and yank. “Are you painted shut?”

  From the other room, Wesley bellows: “Fourteen . . . fifteen . . . sixteen!”

  No! Fear boosts my adrenaline, and my next yank nets results. I pull the left door bodily from its hinge. And gape.

  “Wesley!” I shout.

  He comes running. “What?”

  “You’ll never guess what’s inside this wardrobe.”

  “Is there snow? A lamppost? Weird little goat man on his hind legs?”

  I seize the front of his shirt, dragging him over. He doesn’t look at all displeased about it. Then he stands next to me and gapes, too.

  “It’s . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “All along!”

  “It would seem so.”

  “And!” He snaps his fingers, wild-eyed. “Upstairs! The other white wardrobe! I never thought about it before. That one is directly on top of this one. It makes so much sense.”

  The wardrobes are hiding an elevator.

  Since the antique furnishings have been sealed to the wall, Wesley fetches an axe, asks me politely to stand back, and sends white chips of wood airborne. Once it’s all been cleared away, we stand back in disbelief.

  It’s a touch smaller than I’m used to elevators being, but still nice looking after all these years of disuse. Burgundy carpet. A gold control panel. A brass grille in elaborate art deco style. The air emanating from it is dank and cooler than the rest of the house’s temperature, a bit like a cave.

  “This has just been hanging out inside the walls,” I sputter.

  Wesley opens the grille, stepping inside. “God, I love this house.”

  We’re not stupid enough to press any buttons or try to operate it, since there’s no way it isn’t in dire need of a mechanic, but it’s fascinating to stand in the elevator even when we’re not going anywhere.

  “You know what this means,” Wesley says, marveling over the floor indicator, a gilt half-moon.

  I poke at the grille, all the holes in its pattern. “It means I have a hundred more spots to stick plastic flowers.”

  A gleam of white teeth in the semidarkness. “I found you, so I win the game.”

  “You’ve got me there.” I lounge against one wall.

  His smile is rueful. “Almost.” Wesley leans against the wall opposite. “Secret for a secret?”

  His tone instantly has me on guard, but I can’t turn down the chance to uncover one of Wesley’s secrets. “All right.”

  “You first. Go ahead and ask me something.”

  I’m not prepared for this, so the question that tumbles out isn’t one I’d pose if I were employing any sense. “What do you really think about when you lie down to sleep?”

  The glow of the living room television flickers at the mouth of the elevator, painting the left half of his face an eerie, otherworldly blue. The rest of Wesley falls to darkness. “I think about you,” he says, each word deliberate. Forced to admit. “I think about you, and it doesn’t help my insomnia at all.”

  My breathing grows labored. “One more.”

  He smiles, letting it slide. “All right.”

  “What’s inside all those boxes in the shed?”

  I can tell this question takes him by surprise. “Artwork. The boxes used to be in my old bedroom at the cabin, but when you moved in I had to hide them somewhere.” I digest this, speculating whether he’ll let me take a look at his other drawings. I like being able to see the world how he sees it, discover what interests him enough that he feels compelled to capture it on paper.

  Then his tone drops. “My turn.”

  Damn. “Go ahead.”

  “Do I even have to ask?”

  My first thought is to deflect, or distract. But then it dawns on me that none of this is easy for Wesley. Of course it isn’t. Wesley is standing in front of me in trousers he wears only on very special occasions and cologne he never wears at all, trying to impress a woman. He has opened up to me even though it’s hard. Facing his fears. Terribly shy, but putting himself out there anyway.

  And I think: Maybe I’m not making the mature decision after all in deciding we shouldn’t
go a little further, seeing what might bloom between us.

  Maybe I’m making the safe decision. The coward’s one.

  He shifts his weight, jarring me from my self-reflection. Right. He has anxiety, and taking my time coming up with answers to questions that required valor to ask is essentially torture.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say slowly, “because I think I might be wrong.” Anyone can hurt me, but at this point choosing to miss out on what could be is going to hurt me, too. What if it ends badly?

  What if it doesn’t?

  Hoping for the best isn’t necessarily reckless, and nothing—not the good nor the bad—is guaranteed in life.

  “Maybell,” he presses. “You have to tell me what that means.”

  I step forward, summoning all my courage. My heart is racing a hundred miles an hour.

  Wesley just might be the most anxious, most relationship-shy person I’ve ever met, but here he is putting himself out there anyway. Maybe it’s my turn to be brave.

  I raise my hands into his hair, watching his pleased surprise register. “I’m not the type of person who takes risks,” I say, letting the silky strands ripple through my fingertips.

  His eyes are solemn. “Neither am I.”

  “I stayed at a job I hated, that didn’t appreciate me, for too many years because I was scared of giving it up for the unknown. All the men I’ve been involved with in the past were bad for me, and I think a part of me knew that deep down, but I picked them anyway because I knew subconsciously there wouldn’t be a future with any of them. I knew none of them would last very long, and my life wouldn’t be changed. I’d go on being the same, with the same life.” I draw a bracing breath. “The devil you know.”

  His hand slides up my arm to cover my wrist, a small, melancholy smile on his lips. “I understand.”

  “But I quit my old job, and my life got better. I moved here, and my life got better. Such big changes. I met you.”

  His smile widens, just a fraction.

  “And my life got better. So what I’m saying is I would very much like to kiss you again, if you wouldn’t mind. I have nowhere to go from here but up.”

  He watches me for a moment, calculating whether I’m sure about this, then lets his forehead tilt against mine. “Close your eyes and count to twenty,” he murmurs against my lips.

  I don’t even make it to one before his mouth covers mine.

  My fingers slip into the diamond cablework of his clothing, pushing through to the soft, worn shirt beneath; he bands his arms around me, hauling me close. I am new to his kisses, his touch, after getting briefly acquainted with them for the first time mere hours ago, and it’s distressing, how badly I’ve already missed it. I think I have been waiting all my life for a man who says I understand and genuinely does. Who is just as unsteady on his feet as I am when it comes to trying something new and scary.

  We back out of the elevator still locked in an embrace, me pressing myself as close as I can get. His skin is searing, tongue twisting around mine with fierce enthusiasm. We keep finding ourselves holding our breath for too long and have to break for gulps of air, then dive right back to it.

  “You’re so tall,” I grumble, stretching up on tiptoe.

  Wesley’s arms clamp around me more securely as he lifts me off the ground, my feet dangling. “Better?”

  I give him a peck on the nose. “I could get used to it.”

  “I’d imagine so. I don’t know how you go about life, all the way down there. Seems awfully rough.”

  “It was.” I wrap my arms around his neck and get to know him some more. “C’mere.”

  Now that I’ve given in, I can’t stop. I’m on a steep downhill slide, rolling as fast as I can. Maybe I’ll crash at the bottom, or maybe I’ll never find the bottom at all. Maybe we’ll roll like this forever.

  Only one way to find out.

  Wesley kisses me all the way into the kitchen so that he can grab another donut, showing me the W he doodled out of batter. It baked up puffy and deformed. “Look, I made you.”

  He turns it upside down.

  I take a bite. “We forgot to watch the movie.”

  “Whoops. Guess this means we’ll have to have a do-over.” He pretends to be sad.

  “Nooo, anything but that.”

  I grin. Wesley grins back. Tonight is sweeter than frosting on a cupcake and anybody watching us would probably get a secondhand toothache, but I’m not minding one bit. Nothing about life at Falling Stars is turning out the way I expected it to.

  Thank goodness for that.

  “What are you doing Friday night?” he asks, clasping my hand and twirling me like we’re dancing. “I wanna take you out on a date.”

  My heart leaps. “Friday is so far away.”

  He’s gratified by my impatience. “Got a busy week ahead. Plus, I have very specific plans for where we should go on our date. I’ll warn you, the location is somewhere difficult to access, so it might take a while to get there. But it’ll be worth the wait, I promise.”

  “What sort of plans?” I ask curiously. “Where are we going?”

  “Can’t tell you any more than that.” I’m twirled again, which might not be the best idea, given how lightheaded I already am. He’s an ungainly dancer, all thumbs and left feet. “Be ready to go at eight?”

  “You can pick me up at my door.”

  We bid each other good night, parting ways—he up the grand staircase, and I to my bedroom one floor below his, where I know I’ll be feeling him through the walls all night. To my credit, I wait until I’m safely in my room before I tip back onto the bed and swoon.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  WESLEY WAS RIGHT ABOUT having a busy week ahead. I don’t know if I’m grateful for how little time I have over the next few days to obsess over our looming date now that I’m a sentient storm in a teapot.

  Falling Stars is coming together. It felt at first like a slow transformation, but now the final touches are happening all at once. The dose of reality is all the more overwhelming since I don’t have a team to collaborate with. The hotel is my pride and joy, my responsibility, not Wesley’s or anybody else’s. How did I not appreciate the scope of this massive undertaking? Hotels are easy to run in the abstract, when you’re daydreaming about them but still have plenty of time before the real work begins.

  I’ve registered my business and am scheduling inspections, checking in on the status of applications for various permits and licenses. I’m conducting outreach to magazines and newspapers all over Tennessee, hoping they’ll want to write about the hotel, offering journalists free stays for opening week (which I’m tentatively slating for the first week of September, depending on how long it takes to receive all the proper certifications). I’ve got to go hard on press with targeted Internet ads, but ads are expensive. On top of everything else, I’ve got to master the art form of being my own social media manager. If only Wesley would let me post pictures of him mending fences and pruning shrubs, we’d book up all the way through next year.

  On Tuesday, I contact my local landmark preservation commission to begin the process of nominating Falling Stars to be declared a historical landmark, which would not only be fantastic for publicity but would also grant me tax breaks and leeway on building code. I respond to a message from a site acquisition agent with a cell phone company about a potential cell tower lease. They want to install a tower on the property, which means I get to negotiate fees and generate some extra income.

  I like the problem-solving that comes with heading my own projects, anticipating kinks in the plan and conquering them. I like the spreadsheets, the rigorous search for good deals on hand towels, flour, lightbulbs, cleaning supplies. Coupon hunting and menu drafting: dinners will be served in the dining room unless guests request room service; if they put in an order for lunch, the meal
will be dropped off at their door in a picnic basket along with a laminated list of picnicking spots on the grounds. Guests can grab their breakfast in the kitchen and enjoy it wherever they like.

  I can do this. I’m going to prove to the world that I can do this.

  Chapter 18

  ON WEDNESDAY, I DRIVE to the farmers market in Maryville to chat with local vendors in hopes of establishing partnerships. Everyone is warm and small-town friendly, asking all kinds of questions about the hotel. Even though I probably waste too much time chatting, I walk away from the market feeling like an absolute god: I landed discounts on bulk orders in exchange for using and advertising their products exclusively. Falling Stars is officially in business with Kiana’s Stationery Shop, an artisan soap and lotion maker called Lather Up, and Huckleberry Homestead, who in August will start delivering homemade butter, cheese, and sourdough. Their cows are free-range, they say, and there’s a live feed of them playing with toys on the farm.

  I come home to a leak in the washing machine hose, an inch of water covering the laundry room floor, and the painters that I caved and decided to hire are busy spraying the front of the house maroon. “Excuse me,” I call politely, waving to get their attention. My voice is too timid—nobody hears. I stretch, nearly on tiptoe, and speak louder. “I’m sorry, but that’s not the right color. It’s supposed to be pink.”

  One of the guys, Phillip, screws up one eye as he scans the big splotch of new paint. “It’s sorta pink.”

  In what universe? I raise my arm and point. “That is maroon.”

  The guys split dubious looks among one another, shrugging. “Maybe maroon is what you ordered,” Phillip suggests.

  “No. I know what I ordered, and it isn’t even close to this.”

  One of them, the youngest, is barely seventeen. He scratches his chin worriedly, mumbling to them in an undertone that he thinks I might be right.

  They ignore him. “It’ll look different once it’s dry,” says Phillip with the highest confidence. “The clouds are casting a shadow over us right now, which makes it seem darker. Trust me, once we’re done you’re gonna love it.”