“How did you know?” I ask sheepishly.
“Well, two things really. First, I noticed that handsome Tack O’Leary coming in and out of The Hideaway.”
I immediately look down. Toula knows exactly how I feel about him. Rather, how I felt about him. Past tense. “And the second?” I ask, trying to move the subject away from Tack as soon as possible.
“Full disclosure. That little firecracker, Anita, is not only your house manager. She’s also my wife.” If there was ever a time to do a spit take it would be now but instead I manage to choke down my tea. “Isn’t she the most marvelous creature you have ever met?” She picks up the rose-patterned teapot and pours more of the steaming golden liquid into my chipped teacup painted with tiny violets. The familiar smell of steeped chamomile blossoms is pungent yet comforting.
“It’s clear you think so,” I say and this time my tea goes down easily. Toula is happy. There is no mistaking it and it only takes me a second to understand how she and Anita could balance each other. Toula tells me about meeting Anita and their honeymoon to Niagara Falls after what she calls “the tackiest, most beautiful wedding in all of Bucks County.” She takes a sip of tea and I can see she is lost in the memory. “Anita looked so beautiful in her vintage navy blue suit and bow tie. Isn’t she adorable?” she asks, grabbing a framed photo from the shelf behind me.
“She’s something,” I say, trying to reconcile the word adorable with the Anita who puts me in my place on a regular basis.
“What about you?” she asks. “Fill me in on everything.”
I tell her about college and grad school and how I made my first million. I tell her about my penthouse and the Mercedes S-Class I bought and keep in a garage with rent higher than my first apartment. I tell her about first-class flights to mind-blowing vacations like the bungalows built over the ocean in Bali.
“Oh,” she says. “I suppose that’s all very impressive.” She smooths her skirts across her lap. “Tell me,” she says brightly, her tone oversignaling a shift in topics. “Who are you reading?” She gets up and pulls a book off a nearby shelf. “Have you gotten to this collection yet? It came out last month.”
She places a thin volume on the table in front of me with a green cover and the words Eden’s Promise across the front in gold script. “No,” I say. “I haven’t. I’ve been busy.”
“What about this? It’s divine. The one about the meadow is absolutely rapturous.” She holds up another book just as unrecognizable as the first.
“No,” I say and take a sip of tea to cover how uncomfortable I am.
“So what are you reading? I’m sure you discover new voices in New York all the time. The scene is so vibrant there. I should go more often. You could tell me where to go.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I say tersely. I think Toula is surprised by my tone. She puts down the book she’s holding and sits across from me. “Look, the last thing I read from cover to cover was an annual report for a chemical manufacturer. And before that it was the annual report for a competing chemical manufacturer and before that something even thicker and duller.”
“Well, you’re busy. I’m sure once you are out here and have more time you’ll...”
I don’t let her finish that sentence. “I won’t. Look, I don’t have any interest in wasting my time reading poetry anymore.”
Her hand moves to her chest in shock. “Vinny,” she says, aghast. I know she just slipped but hearing that name pisses me off.
“I told you. It’s Vince.”
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry but you have to understand this is quite a shock for me.”
“People change.” The words hint at being an accusation.
She laughs quietly and grabs the book from the table. “No, not really,” she says calmly. She shelves the book quickly and returns to the chair across from me.
I look her up and down. “Are you sure you don’t want to revise that statement?”
She smiles, acknowledging what I’ve said, but shakes her head no. “I get what you’re saying and you’re right. I’ve made some shifts here and there.” She adjusts herself in the chair. “But I’ve only become more of myself. I think you’ll find that I haven’t changed at all. People don’t change, at least not the ones I know. They evolve. There’s a big difference.”
She’s right. It could be fifteen years ago. Me rebelling. Her calmly giving me advice, encouraging me to go deeper inside to find out what makes me tick. She is exactly the same person. But that’s her. Not me.
“Well, I’ve changed. What other choice did I have? Was I supposed to stay the weakling? Never stand on my own two feet? Always worry about who would do what to me and when? I can’t live like that. I don’t want to.”
“Oh, I don’t think you were ever as weak as you thought you were. I understand what you’re saying but you can’t run from who you are. Trust me, that only leads to misery.”
“No, it doesn’t. I’ve gotten as far as I can from my old self and it’s great.”
She raises her teacup to her lips to take a sip while keeping her eyes locked on mine. “But you left New York to come here. You came back for a reason. I’m wondering what it was...or maybe you’re waiting for the reason to make itself known.” Toula still holds dear her beloved everything-happens-for-a-reason philosophy but it was always a bitter pill for me to swallow.
“I know exactly why I’m here,” I say and tear my eyes away. Her gaze has a way of forcing cracks in my protective shell and I don’t want to crack open any further than I already have since being here.
“It was nice seeing you,” I say, moving my teacup to the side and standing up to leave. “I’m glad you’re so happy. I really am. I have a lot of work to do at the inn.”
I walk out the door wondering if I should have ever walked in.
Chapter Fourteen
The weekend tourist crowds are beginning to fill the streets. They wander in and out of the cottage shops and take photos of the stately Victorian mansions painted like the eyelids of baby drag queens. I cross the street to The Beautiful Things Shoppe and look at myself in the reflection of the window. The eyes that stare back at me are that of a scared teenager. I walk toward the river to see if the breeze that blows on even the stillest afternoons still has a calming effect on me.
It doesn’t.
Poetry. Toula thinks I still read poetry like some lovesick teenager. I don’t need poetry and books. What did any of that stuff ever get me before? Nothing but heartache.
I remember when Toula found a used copy of a book of poetry by Barbara Guest that I had been wanting for weeks. Trees had just started getting buds but the leaves weren’t out yet. It was a warm enough evening to sit by the river without a jacket so I sat on a bench and took a few seconds to stare at the river before losing myself in the poetry of “Parachutes, My Love, Could Carry Us Higher.”
Suddenly the book was pulled from my hands. “I didn’t know you had to read a book to learn to be a faggot.”
I looked up and Mark Noonan loomed over me. He tossed the book on the ground. Mark was freakishly big for a tenth grader and he terrified me. I bent down to the ground to pick up my book and he kicked it away from me. There were a few other boys with him but I kept my head down. Sometimes kids would cross the river looking to cause trouble. New Hope was only a safe place as much as any place is really safe for queer kids. I just wanted my book so I reached for it again. And he kicked it away.
They laughed.
“You don’t need a fucking book to tell you how to be a fudge packer, Skinny Vinny. You’re like the faggiest faggot I’ve ever seen. What are you fucking wearing?”
I was wearing my usual uniform. Huge jeans that I belted with a vintage tie and a black T-shirt so big it could have fit two people inside it. I thought I was hiding my miserably skinny body. That day I was wearing just a smidge of Wet n Wild blush. Such a l
ittle amount you could barely see it. It was an experiment. I lived every minute in school with my head down, avoiding conflict, constantly scared that some gesture or mispronunciation would betray me and expose me. But here in New Hope I thought I could exercise the smallest amount of freedom.
“Holy shit. Are you wearing makeup?”
The sun was setting and I’m sure the evening shadows made it hard to make out the detail on my face but of course this asshole didn’t miss anything. I looked down. From the corner of my eyes I could see other boys from school. Louis Patterson was there and Ralph Ammer. In the distance farther down on the river walk I saw another boy but he was so far away I couldn’t tell who it was or if he was even with them. For a second, I thought it might be Tack but before I could get a good look Mark grabbed the book.
“You don’t need this book. Go home and fix your makeup, sweetheart.” He picked it up from the ground and tossed it over the railing into the Delaware River. That made everyone laugh hysterically. A small group of tourists with ice cream cones approached and it spooked Mark enough to run off with his crowd hollering and laughing hysterically like they just watched their team score a winning goal.
There was just enough light to watch the book float on the surface for a few seconds before traveling downriver to a watery grave.
Excuse me if I don’t think of New Hope as a shrine to queer liberation. I don’t believe the mindless mantra that community builds strength. Strength builds strength. Period. Maybe Anita and Toula aren’t impressed by the things I’ve worked for but the rest of the world is.
The pretty streets and scenic views here might have softened me a bit at first but it’s clear I made a mistake coming back. This place didn’t protect me then and I don’t need to protect it now. Let FunTyme Inc. turn the whole village into a parking lot for all I care. I can almost smell the hot asphalt.
Chapter Fifteen
Tack
The smell of ripe wild strawberries always reminds me of Ma. She would harvest them from the secret meadow on Hendricks Island and then chop off the stems and use a paring knife to carve them just enough so they looked like tender hearts. She’d put them in my cereal, hand me my spoon and say, “Eat your heart out.” It always made me laugh.
I don’t have that many memories of her because I was so young when she died but almost all of them take place in that kitchen on the farm with the window-paned white cabinets and the huge kitchen table where she made everything from beef stew to lemon meringue pie. I still have her recipes.
The kitchen in the owner’s suite is not nearly as big as the one on the farm but it has everything I need to make the strawberry and goat cheese bruschetta recipe I came up with during my first semester of culinary school. I wash the strawberries, gently treating each one like a precious orchid. The freshest berries bruise easily so I take extra care to make sure the water doesn’t spray too forcefully. I chop the strawberries with as sharp a knife as I can find. I make an emulsion of local honey and balsamic vinegar, then pour the sweet and tart dressing over the clean berries. I let the contrasting flavors marinate in the bowl, giving them time to draw each other out.
From the kitchen I can see into Vince’s room. The jackets from his expensive suits are thrown on the bed and his pants are a wrinkled ball on the floor. Drawers are open, the closet is in shambles and the bed isn’t made. Vince walks around all polished and groomed but he leaves a tornado of mess behind. The neat freak in me wants to go in there and fold every piece of clothing.
I start slicing the fresh baguette I bought at the bakery on the corner opposite the bridge and place it on the baking sheet. My eyes keep darting back to Vince’s room. I could just close the door so the mess doesn’t taunt me, but despite the disarray I like having this secret window into how he lives now. I’m about to spread the goat cheese on the toast when Vince walks in.
“Perfect timing,” I say. “You have to try these strawberry bruschetta. They’ll be a great starter on the new menu. Anita and I think we can open by the end of June. Strawberries will still be in season and we can add blueberries.”
He stands in the doorway, his wide frame filling it like a statue in an archway at a museum. He does not look like he had a relaxing stroll around town. He looks like he just came back from a post office in hell.
“Next week,” he says firmly.
I use an offset spatula to spread the smooth goat cheese over the rough surface of the toasted bread. “The blueberries won’t be ripe by next week,” I say. “I saw some over in Point Pleasant. They’re getting big but still more greenish-violet than deep blue.”
“Not the berries,” Vince says, moving into the living room. “Us.”
Us? The word startles me and Vince immediately corrects himself. “Not us. This place. The Hideaway Inn. It opens for dinner. Next week.”
Anita and I spent all morning figuring out suppliers and menus and when certain crops would be ready. Setting up the kitchen for dinner service alone will take two weeks and getting the supplies will take longer. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. We open next week.” It’s clear this is not up for discussion.
“There is no way we can get the food and dry goods we need by then. It’s not possible. Half the items on the menu aren’t even ripe yet.”
“Give me the menu. I still have contacts in New York. I can get what you need. We’ll get frozen if we have to. You cook it. That’s all you have to do, Tack. Cook.”
He is on the opposite side of the counter from me. What happened this afternoon to make him return in such a mood? I know I should be annoyed but I can’t help looking at how his dark scruff makes his eyes even more penetrating. I always thought he could see right through me with those deep coffee bean eyes that saw so much more than everybody else.
“Tack, are you listening to me?” He knocks on the kitchen counter just next to my bowl of berries. His tone is less aggressive but still unwavering. “We have to open next week. I’ll get what you need. I can’t afford to stay closed.”
I’m about to go into more detail about the seasonal bruschetta I made for him when he grabs a few pieces of toast that haven’t been finished with berries, stacks them together, and puts them in his mouth like he’s eating a hoagie. He goes to his room and closes the door behind him.
Next week? That seems absolutely impossible. I know the menu I created is good. I don’t have a single doubt the food will be delicious. But I need more time. I know he has a stubborn streak but I don’t remember all this anger.
“It’s just Vinny,” I whisper to myself. He would lose it if he heard me from the other side of his door.
I spoon the strawberry mixture over the remaining toasts. No sense wasting all these delicious ingredients. These will make a fantastic lunch. I take out a small plate and pour myself a glass of water. By now Vince’s bed is probably covered in crumbs from the toast and he has goat cheese all over his thick fingers.
Who would have thought this kid would have turned out to be such a hard-ass? He thinks he’s this big tough guy now and maybe he is. That doesn’t mean he still isn’t the kid I knew at the fence. He could have purchased an inn anywhere along the Delaware, anywhere in the world from the way he talks about his wealth. But he chose right here in New Hope. He wouldn’t move back here if there wasn’t a reason and after seeing how he uses that stuck open bathroom door like a personal peep show maybe part of the reason is finishing what we started.
When Vince first approached me about working here I thought that I would finally show him that I’ve matured. That I’m no longer a hundred steps behind him. But just when I thought I’d caught up he has gone in a different direction. I didn’t have the courage to catch up to him when we were in high school but this time I’m not going to let him get away so easily.
I take a bite of my creation and the strawberries gently release their sweet juice with each bite but the vinegar
is a little overpowering. Next time I’ll use more honey to get the result I want.
Chapter Sixteen
A week later, I wake up to the smell of pancakes creeping under my bedroom door. It would be easier to ignore an ambulance siren. I keep putting my pillow over my face but eventually I have to follow my nose. I open the bedroom door and find Tack in the small kitchen standing behind the stove wearing a pair of tiny running shorts, a tank top and an apron. He looks like a hot combination of Olympic medalist and short-order cook.
“Good morning,” he says, lifting a pancake off the griddle and onto a plate with a spatula. I’m about to imagine what it would be like if I ripped off that apron but I stop myself. The only way to deal with this is to shut the feelings off completely. I knew having him move in here with me would be a problem; I just never thought I’d have to wear a gas mask to resist him.
“I’m experimenting with a coconut coulis that I think will offset the tartness of the blueberries nicely.” He hands me a plate with fluffy golden discs dotted with berries and a porcelain teacup filled with a creamy white sauce. It looks amazing but I raise my eyebrows and give him a look before taking the plate and sitting at the table near the window that overlooks the river.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
“No. It’s just that hearing words like coconut coulis come out of your mouth still takes some getting used to.” I take my fork and stab into the cakes. The balance of the two flavors is perfect and I can’t hide the reaction on my face.
“So you like the sauce?” he asks with a sly confidence that is as sexy as his almost-naked torso in an apron.
“Sauce. Now that sounds more like Tack,” I say, turning back to him and swallowing the incredible confection. A smile creeps across my face despite my best effort. “You used to put ketchup on the school cafeteria pizza.” I still wince at the thought of it.
The Hideaway Inn Page 8
