by Nicole Snow
“Not really.”
I’m unsure which is Adam and which is Chase, so don’t know how to address the question. “Why's that? Good way to pass the time, boys.”
“Because we don’t know how to play,” the other one says, looking down.
“You don’t know how to play checkers?” I smile.
They both shake their heads. “Well, then it’s high time you learned.” I sit down on the floor and show them how to set up the game, and then play a couple rounds with them. They're smart and catch on quick, which is good, because I have tons of work to do. It had only snowed about two inches overnight, but Wes hasn't plowed yet, and Sarah, the weekend cleaning woman, hasn't been able to make it up the hill off the main road. I’m the lucky one filling in for her.
Gramps took the phone call while I’d been out shoveling, told Sarah she should have walked if her car couldn't hash the snow. That’s what he'd have done. Gramps, who has a million stories on permanent repeat about running the lodge under waves of Michigan snow, in every recession, without anyone around to drag him down.
Ugh. This also means I need to call and smooth things over with Sarah, which will probably include begging her to keep working here. If our part-time cleaning lady goes, I'll never get a full day off.
“Great game, boys, but I have to get to work,” I tell them, hearing someone's heavy footsteps on the stairs. “You two have fun.”
“We will, thanks, Tabby.”
“You’re welcome,” I say while tousling their hair. “Both of you.” If they were mine, I’d have to put a dot on one of their foreheads so I could tell one from the other. I’ve heard of that. New mothers putting a dot on one baby’s heel when she has twins, in order to keep track of who's who.
Of course, that’s a silly notion to be contemplating. Rex has paid for two nights, so they’ll be leaving tomorrow. Sunday. Makes sense, the boys most likely need to be back at school Monday. I’m assuming they're in school. Kindergarten, I’d bet. They look about that age.
I shuffle to the front desk, help the older couple from room 203 check out, and then collect the cleaning and supply cart.
The boys take up a portion of my mind while I’m busy, but their father takes up more. I'm working upstairs, first the third floor and then the second, so don’t know if he’s still talking with Gramps or not. Can’t tell if he and the boys entered their room or not, either. That could have happened while I was busy cleaning Grandpa’s room, or vacuuming the hallways, or resetting the room left vacant by the elderly couple who checked out this morning.
Their door has the DO NOT DISTURB tag hanging off its knob, meaning he doesn’t want any cleaning. Most people staying two days don’t. Just like the couple in room 202, who claim they're on their honeymoon, but arrived in separate cars, with license plates from different states.
Okay, I’m nosy, but I also mind my own business by keeping my thoughts to myself. Comes with the territory in this little town. The most excitement Split Harbor's had in years was a murder-mystery involving our resident billionaire, Ryan Caspian. Him and his wife, Kara, the high school sweetheart he settled down with after a mountain of drama, practically lived through a romance thriller. And the town lived it vicariously, too.
Newly-weds or not, the 202 guests both paid in advance and haven’t left their room since arriving on Thursday. They'll be leaving tomorrow, too. There are two reservations for next weekend, but the entire week we’ll be empty. Not so good when it comes to making a profit. Advertising is what we need, but other than a listing in the yellow pages, and one old worn out billboard off the old road, Gramps is against that too.
Almost as strongly as he dug his heels in against my trail rides.
I’ll be thoroughly pissed off if Rex changes his mind, however carelessly. That chiseled jaw and rock hard muscle sending lightning down my spine won't be enough to save him.
The more I think about it, the madder, the more worried I become. I'm holding my breath while rolling the cleaning cart off the elevator, wondering what happened. Gramps' office door is open, the room empty.
Now, I’m spitting mad. Damn him to hell on a fucking white horse. This stranger knows nothing about us. He can’t just waltz in here one night acting all grumpy and uppity – yes, he’s uppity, too, like he’s better than everyone else – and start telling us how to run this place.
My mind replays the worst scenarios as I refill the cleaning cart and then stow it and the vacuum away, and carry the used bedding to the basement, where I put it in the washer before heading back upstairs and to the kitchen.
Gramps is there eating lunch. I hold my breath for a moment, waiting for an explosion, or an 'I told you so.'
He barely looks up. Marcy, on the other hand, is as bubbly as ever.
“Sit down and eat, Tabby!” She motions to the chair. “I already carried trays up to the couple in 202 and that man and his cute little boys in 205.”
“Thanks,” I say. If only she knew that man and his cute little boys are driving me insane.
“It’s broccoli cheese soup and turkey sandwiches on rye, just how you like them!”
Is it that obvious I'm upset? I sit down, fill a bowl from the tureen in the center of the table and place half a sandwich on a plate. “Guilty as charged,” I tell her.
“I know you too well,” Marcy says, placing a large glass of iced tea in front of me. “Hey, if you have time this afternoon, we are out of cupcakes. I gave the last few to the guests. They loved them.”
“I’ll whip up another batch soon.”
“White with chocolate frosting?” Gramps asks.
“Sure.” I wait for more, eyeing him suspiciously. Still mad enough to make sure he listens to my point of view.
He just keeps eating. Weird.
Marcy sits down and fills a bowl of soup for herself. She sees me moving like molasses, sifting my spoon through the soup. “Eat before it gets cold.”
Only good advice I've heard today. I eat a few quick mouthfuls of soup, and just when I take a bite off my sandwich, have my mouth completely full, Gramps speaks up.
“Good news, Tabby-kitten. I hired someone to finish the barn stables.”
I almost choke trying to get down enough of the food in my mouth so I can ask, “Who?”
“Rex Osborne.”
I do choke then, and have to take a drink of tea to soothe my throat before I can speak again. “Who?”
This has to be a joke. He's pulling my leg right out of its socket.
“Rex Osborne,” Marcy says. “The man with those adorable twins in room –”
“I know who he is,” I say, cringing at how the shine in her eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses dulls. “I mean, I'm surprised. Thought he was only staying two nights.”
“He’s decided to make it an extended stay, until he’s done with the restoration.” Gramps pours himself a cup of coffee from the insulated pot on the table, turning a sip over in his cheek as he often does. “Here's your bonus: I told him the job includes shoveling the sidewalks. You're welcome.”
I'm not relieved. Not even a little.
I hold up a hand. “Wait. An extended stay?” My head spins with questions. What about his boys? School? Their mother? Where is she in all this?
“We need that place fixed pronto for peak season. Man’s a bit down right now and needs the work. Wasn't a hard decision.” He taps his chest proudly.
“Down, you said? From what?”
Gramps lets out a long sigh. “Life. The mother of his kids died recently.”
I press a hand against my stomach, where a sickening sensation erupts. “When? How?” I feel my anger wilting.
“Didn’t ask.” Gramps shrugs. “Figured it was none of my business, but suspect it wasn’t long ago. That’s why he’s here. Soul searching. Giving the boys some different scenery, trying to get their minds off it.” He tilts his head. “Also means a man like that'll be reliable. He'll work his keister off to forget.”
I don't care. I'm just...st
unned isn't even the right word.
This explains everything. His moodiness, how sweet and patient he is towards his sons. Yet, I find it hard to believe the Rex I met last night and again this morning, poured his heart out to Gramps on a whim. “He told you all that?”
“Didn’t need to. Once he said their mother died recently, I put the rest together.” Gramps frowns. “I thought you’d be happy? The stable will be done before spring, which is what you wanted. We need it if we're gonna give your little happy trails notion some motion.”
“You didn't want to,” I point out.
“I never said that,” Gramps says sternly.
I can’t believe this. “You fought me every step of the way. Now, you're on board because of him?”
“No. I fought against us paying for everything out-of-pocket. Once Clayton agreed to pay for a portion of the remodel, well, that changed things. It'll be his horses living in the barn, after all.”
“We'll be profiting off his horses.”
“Yes, but it'll take years to recoup the remodeling cost. Clayton's portion makes business sense. I explained all that to you.”
He had, but not exactly the way he is right now.
“Rex is smarter than he looks. Man's got some ideas for a few minor fix-ups and upgrades I really liked.”
A flash of anger hits me all over again. “What ideas? Clayton and I laid out the design for you months ago. One that'll work for the horses, guests, and us.”
“Yes, you did, it’s only a few minor changes.” Gramps pushes away from the table, a sure signal he’s done with this conversation. He crosses the room, but as he pushes open the door, he says, “Rex starts tomorrow morning. Be sure to drop off breakfast early.”
“Isn’t that wonderful news?” Marcy asks. Her smile fell then as she says, “Oh, those poor little boys, and that man. How sad.”
She's right, of course. I try to calm down, feeling guilty how I’d condemned Rex to hell before knowing his situation. So guilty I pick up my half eaten lunch and carry it across the room to the sink, dumping the remnants in the trash on the way. “I’ll clean up the kitchen and bake some cupcakes if you want to go up to your room for a while.”
“No, I’ll help,” Marcy says. “Busy hands are happy. I won’t be able to sew anyway, thinking about those little boys and their loss.”
I know the feeling. That’s what’s weighing on my mind, too.
“I wonder how long ago that was,” Marcy says. “A month? Maybe weeks? More?”
“No clue.”
“Well, there would have been a funeral and such.” With a shoulder, she shoves me aside. “Let me get the dishes. Need something to occupy my mind or I’ll go nuts with crazy thoughts.”
I feel the exact same way and open the pantry door to pull out the ingredients for cupcakes.
“You know what? I have a roast in the freezer. I’m going to pull that out and put it in to bake. Nice and slow so it’ll be tender and juicy. It’s probably been ages since those little boys had a good home-cooked meal. I mean if she’d been sick for a time or something...yeah, that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll make mashed potatoes and gravy and candied carrots. Everybody loves candied carrots!”
Marcy rattles on, and I hear her, but don’t. My own mind’s too busy. Had Rex’s wife been ill?
Ill for years and then passed away? The more I think about it, the more tragic my thoughts turn. Until tears sting my eyes. Not wanting Marcy to see them, I turn off the mixer. “I have to go put the laundry in the dryer, be right back.”
I keep busy all afternoon, baking and helping Marcy, between taking care of any lodge business. There's very little. A couple reservations for later in the month. I also speak to Sarah, who agrees to continue working for us, but not until next weekend. That's not an issue with just the two rooms occupied, and I call Betty, the week day housekeeper, and say she doesn't need to come in on Monday unless things change.
Both women are wonderful that way, working when we need them and taking days off when we don’t. I fill in the gaps and there are a lot of them. But we're like family here.
There are so many little issues with running a lodge that Gramps doesn’t seem to fully understand. Or maybe he does and I don’t understand his way of relaying it to me. It seems that’s how it was with the stables.
It seems that’s how it was with Rex, too. I’d jumped to conclusions without knowing all the facts.
By the time supper finishes, I’ve worked myself into a minor frenzy, wondering how I'll face Rex again, knowing how I condemned him. Or Adam and Chase for that matter.
It's not like I have a choice, anyway. I carry the tray up to the couple in room 202 first, just to give myself a bit more time.
My nerves literally have me shaking in my shoes. I carry the tray for his room slowly across the hallway. It's not like he completely knows all the bad things I thought about him, but I do. And that's the problem.
God, Tabby Danes. Get on with it. You're being ridiculous.
I find my nerve. Can't stall longer anyway – if I do their food will get cold – so I knock. When there's no response after what feels like an hour, I knock again. This time, louder.
Still no answer.
Surely, they haven't left. They don't seem like the type to go into town for dinner. I think I'd know that, so I hold the tray against me with one hand and slowly try the knob.
It's unlocked. Just as slowly, I push the door open a crack to poke my head in around the edge.
“Hey,” I say quietly to the boys lying on the bed.
“Hi, Tabby,” they say together, as if expecting me.
One of them holds up the tablet they'd both been staring at. “Dad downloaded us a checkers game!”
Glancing around the room, I ask, “Where is your dad?”
“In the shower.”
I can’t stop the sigh of relief that oozes out of me as I hear the water hissing. We're alone. I got lucky.
Pushing the door all the way open, I carry in the tray. “I've got your supper, boys.”
“And cupcakes?!”
They're too sweet. My heart skips a beat, thinking of their loss. “Two for each of you.”
“Yippie!” They launch their little bodies in the air, jumping like monkeys several times.
Closing the door, I gently warn, “But, I think your dad will want you to eat your dinner first.”
“Yes, he will,” one of them says, a bashful look in his eyes.
They're so well behaved.
I set the tray on the table, making sure the cloth is evenly situated, hoping it helps keep things as warm as possible until Rex is ready to eat. My smile hides how my heart bleeds sympathy every time I look at them, so I sit down on the edge of the bed. “Show me your checkers game while we wait for your daddy.”
They climb across the bed and sit down, one on each side of me.
“It’s fun!”
“Dad never lets us play games like this.”
“Nope, never.”
“Mrs. Potter doesn’t either.”
My neck is getting tired from twisting left and right as they each speak. “Oh, who's Mrs. Potter?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
I bolt off the bed, spin around, and find myself dumbfounded all over again. Or maybe just frozen in place.
Rex. Rex freakin' Osborne, in the flesh, and holy hell what kind of flesh is this sweet sorcery?
Water drips off his hair, the droplets trickling down his shoulders, his arms, his chest. He’d looked buff with clothes on, but without – Holy hell! Again.
I’ve never seen anything like it in my life and I can't stop my eyes from going lower. It's like God smashed an underwear model, a Spartan warrior, and a screaming rockstar together. He's big, ripped to the bone, and inked all over. Explosions of color flash on the canvas of his body when he catches the light, wild beasts and flowers with thorns.
My eyes move on their own. Straight to the towel wrapped around his waist.
/> I can’t stop myself from thinking about his wife, how she must have enjoyed this sight on a regular basis. I can’t help but feel a bit jealous, either.
What the hell is wrong with me? Jealous of a dead woman.
“I asked you a question.” His growl is as fierce as his muscles.
End me.
I close my eyes because they refuse to move upwards, to his face. “I, uh...I brought your supper tray. No one answered, so—”
“The old fat woman just knocked and set it on the floor.”
My eyes snap open and meet the glare he’s casting my way. “Her name is Marcy and she’s not fat. Or very old.” She's only in her late fifties, pleasantly plump and middle-aged.
“All right, the plump older woman just knocked and set it on the floor.” It's barely politer, but I'll let it go.
His poor wife might have loved his body, but probably despised his attitude. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just me he’s this grumpy with. No longer feeling a strong desire to apologize, I say, “Did you really agree to work for my grandfather?”
“Yeah. That a problem, Cupcake?”
Hell yes. Him. That body. Inked and hard and oh my God. Nearly naked and dripping wet, or fully clothed, it's not something I need to see every day. “He’s not easy to get along with,” I warn.
“Good. Neither am I.”
“Really?” I don't hide my sarcasm.
The grin that lights up his face is a bit cock-eyed and it nearly knocks the air out of me. A man this good-looking should have a red danger sign taped to his chest.
“Really.”
I huff out a breath. “Color me shocked.”
He steps closer, and though warning bells ring loud and clear in my head, my feet are still frozen. Glued to the floor.
“You’ll be glad knowing it’ll only take me a couple of weeks to have that barn looking better than new. Ready for horses and guests alike. Easy work, solid pay, I would've been a fool to turn it down.”
I nod, pressing my feet harder against the floor, hoping it might stop my eyes from roaming lower again, past his bulging tattooed chest, washboard abs, and that line of dark hair that disappears beneath the towel.
