He shot me back a look that said, I agree with you on that point, but I still think you’re up to something.
I acknowledged with a “Trust me, I got this.”
“Okay, Edward, we’ll find something else for you to work on. Ms. Grayson is taking on the Bailey Falls account.”
Pleased, I turned to the junior copywriter, who looked positively relieved. “Come on, Edward, I’ll buy you a pretzel.” I grinned at Dan, who no doubt still wondered what I was up to, but was letting it go for now.
“I’ll forward you everything the Bailey Falls councilman sent over this afternoon,” Dan said, and I chirped a thank-you as I escorted Edward out of the office.
“You don’t really, like, own Manhattan, do you?” he asked quietly, pretty sure of my answer but green enough to ask it anyway.
“Depends on the day, sweetie, depends on the day,” I answered, strutting off down the hall, Edward in tow.
I spent the afternoon doing research on the town of Bailey Falls. Founded in the early 1800s, it had once been an artists’ colony and still maintained a vibrant and supportive art scene. Bryant Mountain House was located there, an old Catskills mountain resort that had survived remarkably past the sixties and seventies, when so many of those beautiful old resorts had been torn down. And with the Culinary Institute of America just up the road in Hyde Park, it had what looked to be an impressive selection of restaurant and dining options for such a small town.
So what gives?
I reread the last part of the email that had been submitted to MCG.
So you can see, our town has everything to offer the weekending couple or family that just wants to get out of the city and into the country for a while. But while other towns in the Hudson Valley seem to have flourished in recent years, our little hamlet has remained off the beaten path. We like to consider Bailey Falls upstate New York’s best-kept secret. I think we’re ready to let everyone else in on it now. With your help.
Looking forward to hearing what your firm might be able to do for us,
Councilman Chad Bowman
Chad Bowman. Chad Bowman. Why did that name sound familiar? On impulse I called Roxie.
“Do you know a Chad Bowman?” I asked when she chirped a hello.
“Are you talking about The Chad Bowman?” she asked.
I frowned and reread the email. “I’m talking about Councilman Chad Bowman; is that the same thing?”
“Ha! Councilman! Shit, that’s right, I never heard him referred to that way, all fancy and everything. But yes, I am familiar. He was my all-time favorite high school crush, I mean, of all fucking time. Wait, why are you asking me about him?” she asked.
“He wrote to us here at the firm about drumming up business in your wee village.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic! He’d be the guy to do it, too; he’s on this kick to make Bailey Falls the next hot spot. He’s got this idea that—” She stopped cold. “Wait. Wait a damn minute. Your firm is working on this?”
“Yep.”
“Are you working on this?”
“Yep.”
“So you’re coming to the sticks?”
“Yep. Got a guest room?”
She shrieked so loud my ears were ringing for the rest of the day.
Chapter 4
That week was spent researching, making calls, and packing. I had Liz already started on working with the people over at T&T Sanitation, revising the budgets and beginning the early stages of that campaign. This wasn’t the first time I’d juggled multiple campaigns, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
I talked endlessly with Roxie that week, making plans for my trip and deciding exactly how many high jinks we’d have time for in addition to both of us keeping our jobs.
“We can go apple picking, and hiking, and white-water rafting, and sailing on the Hudson. And then on Saturday—”
“Natalie! Slow it down, how much time do you think there is in a day?”
“If I’m coming to the sticks, then I’m coming to the sticks. Nature me up, sister,” I said into the phone one night.
“We couldn’t do that much if you were here for an entire week, much less a weekend when you’re technically working. And so am I.”
“We don’t have to do it all, but we can at least go apple picking, right?”
“I have an arrangement with the bees that live in the orchard. I agreed not to go into the orchard.” She gave a horrid little shudder that I could imagine even over the phone.
“And what did the bees agree to?” I asked when she didn’t finish the statement.
“They also agreed that I was not to go into the orchard.”
“Oh boy.”
“But Leo will be happy to take you; there’s always an orchard tour on the weekends this time of year.” Her voice dipped down low and secretive. “Or I can ask someone else to take you apple picking . . .”
“Stop it; I’ll combust if I think about being in the woods with that man! I’d likely climb him instead of the tree!”
“You’ll have to talk to him if you go into the woods, though,” she reminded me. “Don’t you think we better get you talking first?”
“Talk schmalk, I’m hoping his mouth is otherwise occupied,” I said with a sigh, and could hear her eyes rolling all the way from upstate.
Since Roxie was essentially going to be my tour guide for everything I was officially working on this weekend, I’d finally told Dan that my best friend lived in Bailey Falls, which kept him from looking for any other reason why I was heading up north on the Hudson River Line.
Once I’d made the decision to take on this project, I couldn’t get Oscar off my mind. I thought about him while I was making my coffee in the morning and adding a splash of cream. I thought about him at lunch when I was taking my nosh outside and eating his Brie in the park across from the office. And at night . . . my brain was full of thoughts of a decidedly different nature.
But I was also being a responsible adult about all this. I already had lots of ideas for boosting the tourism in that little town, starting with Roxie’s boyfriend. Leo Maxwell ran one of the Northeast’s most innovative organic farms, with teams of apprentices coming from around the country to work and learn. Based on what I’d gleaned from Roxie and the Internet, it could be a wonderful draw for people who were very much into their home gardens and being as sustainable as possible. Sustainable. Local. Homegrown. All current buzzwords that generated Internet clicks and tourism dollars that could potentially be spent in Bailey Falls.
It also didn’t hurt that Leo came from a very well-known and wealthy New York family, and looked like a Greek god from the island of Hipsteropia. Was I planning to exploit his natural good looks?
Hey, if his farm was featured in a possible future magazine spread encouraging Connecticut housewives to bring their family to the wholesome town of Bailey Falls for a weekend visit, and his smiling face was dead center? It couldn’t hurt.
I never turned over a stone that didn’t want to be flipped over, but if I thought it might give, I always started pushing. The stone usually let me know.
I also packed. As a rule, I didn’t leave Manhattan for any reason unless I was going somewhere fabulous. I’m sure Bailey Falls was charming and all, but it was definitely different from my normal business trip to somewhere with tall buildings and round-the-clock deliveries. How did I pack for the country?
I headed to REI. I explained to an oddly confused saleswoman that I was headed into the wilderness and needed to make sure I had the necessities. I was going on an adventure, and didn’t want to be caught without something that might come in handy and save my life. She led me to the survival gear, which I was surprised to realize didn’t include anything cashmere. Purification tablets, sure, but no cardigans?
I always found great sweaters at Barneys, so I’d head there next, but before le
aving REI I did manage to procure a great pair of subzero hiking pants, a puppy tent with an optional starry-night ceiling, and several packages of something called gorp.
I also visited the salon for my regularly scheduled waxing (everywhere, thank you) and picked up a few last-minute glam packs to make sure that even in the sticks, I was highlighted, primed, and perfectly dewy. Should the need arise.
I was in the office Thursday morning finishing up some last-minute details when Dan stopped by to check in one last time.
“When is your train?”
“I’m gonna jump on the 1:43. That puts me in at Poughkeepsie around 3:30.”
“Sounds good. When are you meeting with the client?”
“I’m scheduled with the councilman who reached out to us tomorrow at 9 a.m. I figured I’d start with him first, get a feel for what he wants. Then I’m supposed to meet with the rest of the council over the weekend, after my official tour.” I packed up my laptop. “And apparently there’s a barn dance. Can you believe that?”
“Hope you packed your petticoat,” he said, chuckling along with me.
I patted my second suitcase. “You bet your ass I did.”
“You didn’t,” he said, blinking at me.
“Dan. When am I ever going to get the chance to go to a barn dance again? You should see the boots I got to wear with my dress!”
“Please promise me that someone will be taking pictures. I just need one,” he said, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe you’re going up there. Best friend or no best friend, this just isn’t like you.”
As I stood in the perfectly modern office in a high-rise with a view people would kill for, a slow smile spread across my face.
“I know.”
When I was ten years old, my family and I took a weekend trip up to Lake Erie to stay with an old friend of my mother’s. We got a late start out of the city, broke an axle on a lonely country road after dark, and ended up spending the night, and the better part of the next day, in a little town in the literal middle of nowhere, waiting for the one body shop in town to get the part it needed to fix my dad’s car.
We spent the night at the Greenwood Inn, an old hotel that had seen better days. But while my mother and father complained about the size of the bathroom and the thread count of the sheets, I was fascinated with the bell on the counter downstairs and the fact that there was a potbelly stove in the corner. The next day, while my father dickered with the owner of the body shop, my mother and my brother and I spent the day in town, walking the town square, playing in the little park in the center of town, and feeding the ducks in the duck pond. I watched the little town bustle around me, locals coming into town to pick up some groceries from the mom-and-pop grocery store on the corner, to visit with each other at the café over a slice of pie, or to shop for new school clothes at the one clothing store, over which was Miss Lucy’s Dance Studio.
My brother was bored. My mother was frustrated. I was enthralled. The little town—and still to this day I have no idea where exactly it was—came alive in front of my eyes, like a walking, talking picture book. We spent exactly seventeen hours in this town, and it forever changed my view of small-town America . . . and was the spark that lit the secret never-to-be-spoken-of-out-loud desire to one day live in one.
As the train sped along the Hudson, I watched as the little river towns flew by. I took pictures as we zoomed by, the river, the stations, the hills, everything. The train made many stops, and I watched the people getting off. These were people who worked in my city, but chose to live just up the river, in an entirely different world.
Huh.
I snuggled down into my seat, wrapping my cashmere cardigan more firmly around my shoulders, marveling at the world that existed beyond the magical land that is New York City. And before I knew it, we were at the end of the line.
Poughkeepsie Station.
Chapter 5
“Wow. It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”
“See now, that’s exactly what I said the first time I saw Leo naked.”
“Nice.” I slid my hand over for a low five. She slapped it, keeping her left hand on the steering wheel.
“Actually, that’s not true,” she admitted, a blush creeping into her cheeks. “I totally knew it would be big.”
I laughed. “Atta boy, Leo! Its always nice when beautiful boys are not only economically blessed, but blessed down below as well. I can’t wait to meet him and congratulate him on his big dick.”
She cackled, clapping her hand on the side of her thigh. “Yes, please say exactly that.”
“Done.” She knew I totally would. “Not that I don’t enjoy all the junk talk here, but what I actually meant was Poughkeepsie is bigger than I thought.” We’d pulled out of the station a few minutes ago, and I’d expected to be in the country almost immediately.
“Poughkeepsie is decent sized, Bailey Falls is positively minuscule. You sure you’re up to this?”
“I’m not that citified, am I?”
“Sweetie. There’s no Starbucks. No blow-dry bars. We have one cab, driven by a man named Earl, who wears glasses as thick as Coke bottles. I’m not entirely sure they’re not actual Coke bottles.”
“I’ll be fine,” I answered, settling back against the seat. “I see you’re still driving this beast.”
“It’s not a beast, it’s a Jeep Wagoneer, a classic. They literally don’t make them like this anymore.”
“That’s true, you don’t see much wood paneling these days, at least not on the outside of the car,” I replied, smoothing my hand across the side panel. My hand was resting on the window ledge, the air blowing in off the river, and with it a strange scent. “What am I smelling?”
“Country.” She grinned and turned off onto a wooded two-lane highway.
“Perfect.” I smiled back. “When’s the barn dance?”
“The what?”
“Barn dance. Councilman Bowman said there’d be a barn dance. I bought a petticoat.” I was confused when she burst out laughing.
“Oh sweetie,” she said, slapping her hand on the steering wheel. “He must have been teasing you, there’s no barn dance.”
“It’s not a real thing?” I asked, disappointed.
“Oh, it’s a thing; just not this weekend. But I’ll look at the calendar and see when the next one is.”
“But my petticoat,” I said, sniffing.
She just patted my hand and snickered once more.
As we drove, she began to point out landmarks, some designated as actual landmarks, and some Roxie landmarks.
“Here’s the spot where my Jeep broke down when I was in high school, and I had to walk two miles to the nearest house. Aaaand there’s the Lightning Tree, gets struck by lightning at least once every summer, but the damn thing just never gives up and falls over. And here’s the turnoff to The Tube, best swimming hole for miles.”
“A swimming hole? Explain please,” I said, not understanding. Sure, I’d watched old TV shows where people were swimming in, well, swimming holes, but that couldn’t be what she actually meant. Wait, right?
“A swimming hole. You’ve never gone to a swimming hole?”
“I once went swimming at a YMCA in the Bronx, does that count?” I asked.
“Oh honey, you’re so pretty,” she said, shaking her head at me.
“I know,” I answered promptly. “Continue.”
“Well, it’s like a pond but it’s spring-fed, and it’s always moving, not stagnant.”
“Can you see the bottom?”
“Mostly.”
“It’s not squishy and muddy?”
“A little bit, but it’s mostly just rocky.”
“That’d freak me out. Who knows what the hell might be lurking in there.” I shuddered.
“You swim in the ocean,” she said.
> “Sure, but it’s the ocean. It’s not a hole in the ground.”
“You come back next summer, and I’ll take you to a swimming hole.”
“I feel like I should say thank you.”
She gave me the side-eye. “You’re the one that wanted to come up here and learn all about Bailey Falls.”
I nodded my head. “Sorry, was my Manhattan showing?”
“No, but your city snob attitude was.” She pretended to glare at me.
“Oh good, I was afraid I was losing my edge,” I replied, then dodged her smack.
“I’ll smack you properly when we get out of the car. But now, while we drive down Main Street, it’ll cause too much gossip.”
“Main Street?”
“Here we are.” She grinned and turned down a new street, heading right into town.
It truly was like a picture out of a magazine—one printed in 1935. It was darling.
The light was beginning to march west, but it was still golden. Main Street was lined with tall and full maple trees, flashing crimson and poppy. A breeze ruffled through, sending a few leaves to the ground, where they joined thousands of their cousins. Scuttling through the thousands of leaves were children, many children, all in a line holding hands with a few teachers herding at the front and back, all of them laughing and kicking through the crunch. More of that country air blew through, sending a few leaves into the street, where we rolled through them pleasantly.
Lining the sides of Main Street, in between the leaves and the adorable kids, were rows of shops. In front of most, shopkeepers had mounded pumpkins, funky little gourds, hay bales, stalks of corn, and one rakish-looking scarecrow with a straw hat to guard them all. People walked along the street, darting in and out of shops with bundles and bags full of what they needed to have this beautiful fall day. And above it all, an impossibly blue sky soared. Not at all hazy or smudged, just gorgeous blue for miles and miles, dotted with white puffy clouds.
Cream of the Crop Page 5
