by Julia Kent
“Here,” Ian says, stretching across me to fill my glass with Champagne. We're at the wedding party table, all twelve of us stretched across, paired off. He's to my left, Fletch to my right, and I feel like I'm in my element, performing for an audience.
That, or the third glass of wine is kicking in.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“I'm facilitating your experience.”
“You are too smooth.”
“Au contraire, madame. My smoothness is finely calibrated.”
“Like your Lamborghini engine?”
“Exactly.” He squeezes my hand under the table, then moves his palm to my thigh. Champagne bubbles float up my nose, making me sneeze.
The hand doesn't move.
“You realize the third glass of Champagne is the 'come fuck me' glass, right?”
He endearingly leans on his hand, elbow on the table, smiling at me.
“Do tell.”
“Glass number one is a social convention. Number two is the 'tell all the true stories about the bride' glass. But number three is what you give someone when you want them naked, in bed, writhing in good fun.”
Expansive, confident, and so, so suave, Ian picks up the green bottle and tops me off.
“Here you go,” he says.
“Mr. McCrory,” I whisper.
“Mmm?”
“What are you implying?”
“Implying? Nothing.”
“Your hand begs to differ.”
“My hand would like to make you beg.”
Before I can answer, Fletch stands. Dinner's over, though we barely ate any of it, too consumed with pictures and wedding formalities. The alcohol is rushing straight to my head, so I reach for my bread plate and hope the carbs soak up enough that I don't make a fool of myself.
One more glass and I'll find myself humping Ian in a coat closet.
“Best man speech,” Ian whispers.
“But we didn't have a best man or a maid of honor?”
“I think Will put him up to it.”
Clink clink
Fletch, a guy who is a paramedic and owns a boxing studio a few towns over, doesn't strike me as the eloquent-writer type, so my expectations for this speech are low.
Fiona beams at him, the two a couple now. Mal, Fiona, and Perky all found their partners.
Ian squeezes my thigh.
Maybe I have, too.
“So,” Fletch begins. “First of all, I'm not a public speaker. At all. I'm more of a doer. This'll be short.”
Cheers erupt, especially from a table full of guys who seem vaguely familiar. Will's football buddies from high school?
“I've known Will my whole life. I'm an Anderhill guy, born and raised here. He was always way cooler than me, which meant he left the second we graduated high school.”
Polite laughs abound.
“But we reconnected when he came back to work for the family business. Not the way he reconnected with Mallory, though. I don't work on porn sets.”
He went there.
Mallory turns red.
“I spent plenty of time in football locker rooms, though.”
“SAME THING!” one of the beefier guys at the table shouts.
Those are definitely Will's football buddies.
Fletch fumbles with his piece of paper, reading the words carefully. “So Will and I go way back, and his life is really different from mine. While he was out in the world, going to grad school in England, winning awards, putting together real estate deals, I was here rescuing cats from trees. Opening a tiny gym. Living a small life. Will's was bigger. Wider. More sophisticated.”
A perplexed look covers Will's face.
“But he came back, ran into Mallory, and learned that no matter how big your life is, what matters is meeting someone who makes your heart even bigger. There's no small town too small for that.”
Mallory presses her palms together and brings her fingers over her lips, like she's praying.
“We were jerks to you in high school, Mal,” Fletch continues.
“And middle school,” Perky mutters under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear from three seats away.
Fletch takes a deep breath. “And I hope you forgive us. Because now we're all part of the same community, and we love you. We love both of you. You couldn't find better soulmates for each other. If she put up with you through the urine perimeter incident, then–”
“Did he say urine perimeter?” Ian asks me in a strangled voice.
“–then she's your forever gal. To Mallory and Will: Thank you for showing us all that love is about growing together.”
Kisses, claps, the ding ding ding of spoons on wine glasses–it all erupts as applause grows, Ian kissing my cheek. Music begins, the Daddy/Daughter dance about to start.
I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room.
By the time I come back, Mal and Will are on the floor, the song one I don't recognize, a slow, beautiful tune that feels custom made for this. The bridal party is herded to the edge of the dance floor, and then we pair off, Ian masterful in guiding me, Dancy offering his hand to Mom, who accepts with grace.
“You are radiant,” Ian whispers.
“That's what you say to the bride.”
“I'm saying it to you.”
“Thank you.”
“You seem happy.”
“It's the Champagne. Three glasses, you know. You could be a cad.”
“It's more than that.”
“Maybe it's you.” I squeeze his shoulder. He tightens his grip on my hip.
“Me?”
“What're we doing, Ian?” The words come with a smile, a vulnerability, a wistful hope.
“We're dancing.”
“Dancing around our feelings.”
“I'm not. Come with me.”
“To your hotel room?”
“To Australia.”
“What? An entire continent? That's way bigger than a king-sized bed!”
“I have to spend four months there. I leave in a few hours. I have the jet lined up. We can work together there.”
“Four months! You're going away for four months?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me before?”
“I tried to.”
“Earlier today? When you wanted a few minutes to talk?”
“Yes. I just found out this morning.”
“Does this mean I'm fired?”
“What? Why would I fire you? You're the best analyst I have.”
“But what happens when I need to consult with you?”
“If you're next to me in Australia, you can just ask.”
“I can't just move halfway around the world, Ian!”
“Sure you can. Don't you want to?”
“Of course I do!” Hysteria tinges my voice. “I mean, I literally can't. I'm not allowed to leave the country. My passport has been confiscated.”
Pain tightens the skin around his eyes. “Damn it. I forgot that part of your file.”
“File? My file?”
Guarded calculation fills his eyes. “From the lawyers. The consultants. It was mentioned in the reports, but I'd forgotten until now.”
“So had I. Not that I was planning any glamorous out-of-country trips, but still.”
“I'm sure I can pull strings. Find a way to get you out of here. Surely we can–”
“Ian. Stop.” His heart hammers against my palm, as if it wants to be pulled out, cradled, held. “You can't insert yourself into a global financial scandal. Not one with the Feds looking into every little detail.”
He stiffens. “Why not?”
“Because no one who reaches your level of success is a Boy Scout.”
His face remains impassive.
“And because I don't want you smeared with the taint of Burke. It's bad enough I reek of it, but it was my own stupidity that got me here. I won't have it touch you. Don't interfere, Ian.”
The tone of his skin goes pallid
, face slackening with each word I say, a strange sadness filling his eyes.
“Right. Of course,” he says softly, kissing my temple. “I won't try to get permission for you to leave the country.”
I work to lighten the mood. “It's not as if you have that kind of pull, anyhow. Even the great Ian McCrory can't bend the federal government to his will.”
Shoulders expanding with a deep breath, Ian gives me an unreadable smile, the light on the dance floor flickering with shadows, making his eyes hard to see.
“But I can bend you.”
And then he dips me, the crowd whooping, applause crackling at the edges around us, my eyes catching an upside-down Dancy, who winks at me before I'm whisked upright into a kiss that dissolves the world, turning liquid and hot.
Until people begin clanging spoons on wine goblets and Will and Mallory take center stage.
As it should be.
Breaking away, Ian takes my hand and walks me toward the edge of the open-air barn. When we reach a small stone bench, patterned pebbles at our feet making a large Celtic knot, he sits me down, so serious.
“Hastings, I have to go.”
“I know. You just said so.”
“I have to go now.”
“Now? Why?”
A kiss on the forehead makes me feel a spike of fear. “It's time.”
“We can FaceTime. We can have video chats and text. I'm sure you'll be back at least once in those four months, right?”
His smile doesn't commit.
And it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Ian?”
“It'll all be fine, Hastings. I know you're fine. I don’t expect to be back before October, though. But maybe this is for the best.”
“For the best?”
“I'm pushing you. I can feel it.”
Bzzzz
His phone lights up, putting pressure on the moment, lending a sense of desperate urgency.
All the certainty I was beginning to gather in the space between us crumbles at his words, plates shifting deep in the Earth.
“You're not pushing! It's just that I can't–they have my passport!”
“I know you can't. I understand why you can't. And maybe some time away from each other is what we both need.”
“Oh, God, not that line, Ian. Come on. You're more original than that. What's next? ‘It's not you, it's me?’”
Finally, I see a flash of something in his flat eyes that hurts more than contempt. It's confusing, and I can't define it. When I can't define something, it's a threat.
Unsafe.
My heart is open to him. I can't live with the duality of being open and feeling unsafe.
And then his hands are on my waist, lips hard against mine, his body pulling me to him to answer the unfathomable, to shift the plates back to where they belong, to do the impossible and bend reality to his will. Our will.
Our desire.
The kiss is easy. So easy and true and rough and intense.
And then he breaks away, phone buzzing as he walks into the night, the dark air swallowing his tuxedo-framed body, and says over his shoulder:
“It's me.”
16
The first email is from Helen.
I have to tell you that I mentioned your cheese to a friend who owns a wine shop in Stow, just inside of I-495. She's interested in buying from you. What you served at the wedding yesterday was divine. Yes, I'm meddling, mothers can't help themselves. I'm so glad we're family now!
* * *
The second email is from... Helen.
Oh! And now a friend of mine who owns an inn in York Harbor wants to know about steady orders, too. They have a weekend winery package and she's very interested in working with a local provider.
* * *
The third email is from Raul.
Don't forget our deal. I hear your cheese is becoming popular and we want to be sure people know Beanerino is the only place in Anderhill to find it.
* * *
The fourth email is from Castle Celtic.
We made an exception and allowed Mr. Lotham and Ms. Monahan to self-cater the manchego for their wedding, and many guests have asked us where it's from. Mr. Lotham's mother informed us it was you, and we're sending this note to ask if you take wholesale orders?
* * *
The fifth email is from Dorian.
Hey, Hastings. I heard all about your sister's wedding, and congratulations to her, but among caterers, the buzz is all about your cheese. I know this is awkward, but I'd love to ask you more about it. Over coffee? We could catch up and do some business networking LOL.
* * *
And that's all before noon, the day after my sister's wedding, when I'm hung over from too much Champagne, way too many feelings, and not enough Ian.
Because he's gone.
I grab my phone, the impulse too hard to resist. Ian's number is right there, but I hold back, not texting. Anyway, he's still airborne, so it doesn't matter.
Instead, I pull up Eric Hesserman's info and type:
How do I buy sheep's milk at wholesale?
I hit send, put down the phone, and stare at the ceiling, head throbbing, heart trying to figure out how it feels. Ian is gone. Gone to Australia for four months.
And I can't go with him.
Our conversation last night, before he left, runs on an endless loop in my mind. Where did it go wrong? He changed, his body and tone shifting into a disengagement that was worse than any other emotion.
When I mentioned the Feds, my passport being confiscated–that was the pivot point.
Shame rushes through me like a mountain melt in spring.
I can't be what he wants me to be.
I'll always be tainted by Burke's scandal.
“It's me,” Ian said last night, but he's lying. I know he is.
It's not him. He helped me. Pursued me. Kissed me and lit me up, but once he got close enough to see who I really am, my baggage, the stain of scandal, he backed off.
I can respect that.
I don't like it, but I respect it.
Okay, fine–I don't.
I don't respect one damn thing about it.
But what choice do I have?
A notification on my phone makes me look:
Let's go up to Susan's farm together. She'd be happy to make a deal with you, Eric replies.
When? I ask.
I'm free at 2.
Today?
I'm so accustomed to my old life, where putting an event on the calendar eight weeks in advance was necessary to pin it in time. People who can do something at the drop of a hat used to be objects of ridicule for me. How important can you be if you're not scheduled into the next quarter?
Sure. 2 sounds good, I answer.
It's a relief not to be too “important” to go on a field trip with Eric.
Great. I'll drive. Need a 4x4 for this trip. Bring shitkickers, he says.
?? I reply.
I get an eye roll emoji. Boots, he answers. I'll bring a pair of Lori's, but you need to get your own if you're planning to make this trip on a regular basis.
I'll order some on Amazon, I reply.
Another eye roll.
Pack some cheese and good coffee for the trip. Susan needs to know what you're making these days.
By the time he arrives, I'm more than ready, cooler in hand, two thermoses ready. It's less than an hour to her farm, but as Eric turns along my neighborhood's side roads to get to I-95, I settle in, ready to just hang out.
Until he asks: “Are you and Ian McCrory a thing?”
“What?”
“You know.” He makes a weird noise with his mouth that I think is meant to imply having sex.
Or a dog's squeaky chew toy.
“What does–” I imitate the sound, “–mean?”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“Why is that any of your business? Besides, he’s gone to Australia for months.”
“You were seen leaving a piano bar wi
th him in a Lamborghini. Then you got pulled over by the cops. Then you were dancing with him at Mallory's wedding. Word gets around.”
“We did not get pulled over. We already were pulled over. Small towns are the worst.”
“For secrets? Yes. Did you know Chris Fletcher eats peanut butter on his tacos at Taco Cubed?”
“With a memory for detail like that, you'd make a fine analyst.”
“I do fine analysis of crop failure rates and nematode eradication.”
I drink some of my coffee to avoid talking.
“Well? Ian McCrory?”
I drink some more.
“He clearly likes to go Down Under.” The sideways glance makes the double entendre clear.
“STOP IT! When did you get so vulgar, Eric?”
“This from the girl who papier-machéd a penis head and swapped it for the Trojans’s mascot before the rivalry game in 2004?”
“No, I'm not sleeping with Ian. There. Happy?”
“Not really. I was hoping for some juicy details I could live through vicariously.”
“Ew!”
But we laugh. Being grilled like this makes me realize I do have friends like Mallory's. Or, at least, I did. One. I had one.
Eric.
And he counts.
The teasing makes me relax enough to take a tentative step forward. “He asked me to go with him. To Australia.”
“Why didn't you?”
“The Feds confiscated my passport.”
“That excuse beats 'I need to wash my hair.'”
“Right. And then he said he could pull strings, but I didn't want that.”
“Why not? The guy offered.”
“Sticking his neck out for me in that way brings him into the mess. I don't want that.”
“The guy's a grown up, Hastings. He can make his own choices.”
“He backed off quickly. Got cold. Kissed me goodbye, shut down, and left.”
“Maybe his ego was hurt.”
“It didn't seem like that.”
“Maybe he's human.”
“Huh?”
“No one likes to be rejected.”
“I had a really good reason!”
“But he offered to remove the obstacle and you said no.”
“For his own good!”
“And... we're back to the fact that he's a grown up and can make his own decisions.”
