by Tawna Fenske
“No. No, that’s okay. I—I don’t know how long I’ll be tied up with—with this situation.” His words are rushed, and he’s shaking his head like he wants to say more. “I’ll give you a call.” He gives me a smile that seems forced, but it’s a good effort. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”
If that’s true, Sean’s idea of fine is way different from mine.
But I smile anyway, wishing there was something I could do. Some way to make it better, whatever “it” might be.
“Let me know if I can help,” I tell him.
“Thanks. I will.” He seems to hesitate a moment, then takes a step closer. “Hey.” He closes the distance between us and reaches up to cup a palm over my cheek. Just like that, every nerve in my body starts humming again.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his gaze holding mine.
“For what?”
His lips brush mine in a kiss that’s sweet and lingering. A kiss I’ll be feeling for days. It’s soft and gentle so dizzying that I forget I’ve asked a question until he draws back.
“For this,” he says.
Then he steps back and gives me a funny little wistful smile. I flatten my palms on the counter, fighting the urge to reach for him again.
Sean takes another step back and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “I’ll call you,” he says. “Thanks for understanding.”
“No problem.”
And with that, he hurries away, leaving me with a thousand questions and the tingling memory of his lips on mine.
Chapter 4
SEAN
I step into the dim light of my restaurant foyer feeling like a teenager arriving for an awkward first date. The sun is almost gone, but the overhead lights haven’t kicked on yet, giving the dining room an otherworldly glow.
There she is.
Melody Bannon Bracelyn Buchanan, better known as Chef Melody on the Food Network’s hit show Harmonious Kitchen.
She’s a world expert on food and wine pairings, and also marrying men with like-sounding surnames.
Her back is to me as she gazes out over the backlit peaks of the Cascade Mountains, which gives me a chance to study her. She’s wearing sea green cashmere and diamond hoops the size of silver dollars. Her hair is styled in a complicated updo that’ll be undone by the first big gust of Central Oregon wind. Not that she spends much time outdoors.
I clear my throat. “Mother.”
She turns with a casualness I can tell is feigned. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for her to show up here in Oregon at the ranch she hasn’t set foot on since I wore diapers.
I survey her eyes for signs of trouble. She’s good at hiding it. All I can make out is cool, glassy blue, and a tiredness I don’t think was there the last time I saw her.
“Darling.” She gives me a smile that seems genuine. Slowly, with practiced elegance, she gets to her feet and glides toward me like she’s walking the runway at Fashion Week. “You’re looking marvelous, sweetheart. It’s wonderful to see you.”
She takes both my hands in hers and stretches up to give her standard-issue air kisses that land somewhere in the vicinity of my ears. I consider hugging her just to see how she’d react, but that’s not how it is with us. Melody Bannon Bracelyn Buchanan doesn’t hug.
“What brings you all the way to Oregon?” I’m trying hard to sound cheerful and casual, but the words land with a dull thump.
If my mother notices, she doesn’t react.
“I wanted to surprise you, darling,” she says. “You’ve been working so hard, and I wanted to admire all the progress you’ve made.”
“I see.” I don’t see, actually, but odds are slim she’ll tell me more than that. Not until she’s good and ready.
“Besides, the show is on hiatus to gear up for ratings sweeps. You know how it is.”
“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t. It’s not like my mother keeps me in the loop with the details of her hit TV show. She used to mail me autographed photos when I was at boarding school, and I’d tack them on my corkboard above my desk.
My classmates had a heyday with that one.
“Can I get you something?” I ask, settling for my usual fallback. “Perrier, maybe a soda? I got this new elderflower syrup from Italy, and I’ve been experimenting with this great mocktail using fresh mint and—”
“Veuve Clicquot, please,” she says, her pronunciation immaculate as she waves toward the bar. “I saw you have some in the chiller.”
I try not to let her see me wince. It’s not like I’m surprised my mother has been prowling through my coolers, and I’m sure as hell not surprised she thinks nothing of popping open a hundred-dollar bottle of champagne.
For a second, I think about arguing. Telling her money’s been tight as we gear up to open the resort.
But hell, it’s not every day that my mother shows up in Oregon to see me. Maybe I don’t need to be a dick about the champagne.
“Coming right up,” I say tightly as I retreat toward the kitchen.
There’s some butternut squash soup and a few parmesan cups left from the food I made for Amber, so I throw together a bit more Caesar salad and a little of the onion tart. I’m trying not to think about Amber, but how can I not?
I can still feel her lips full and soft and lush against mine. Her hair smelled like sunshine and honeysuckle and slid like silk between my fingers. My ears echo with that soft whimpering sound she made as she pressed her body against me.
How the hell did that happen?
And how can I make it happen again?
Focus, I order myself as I pile the food onto one of the hand-carved cheeseboards, already anticipating a lecture from my mother on the germ-harboring properties of wood. Who the hell cares what she thinks?
You do. You always did.
I cram the champagne bottle in an ice-filled bucket and tuck it in the crook of my arm, balancing the cheese tray and the glasses and a whole lot of emotional baggage as I make my way back out to the dining area.
“Here we go.” I push through the doors and return to the table with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I set down the cheese board and while my mother surveys it, I wrestle with the champagne. The cork pops like a gun blast, but my mother doesn’t flinch.
“Thank you, dear.” She accepts the champagne flute and takes a dainty sip, her fingers blinking with diamonds that sparkle like bubbles in the glass. “Very nice. Not quite as good as the Armand de Brignac I had in France a few weeks ago, but still very elegant.”
Why are you really here?
I want to yell it, to scream it, but I keep my face fixed in a mask of blank neutrality. I focus on pouring my own glass of champagne, watching the bubbles fizz like nervous bumblebees.
“A toast.” I lift my glass, determined to make the best of things. “To reunions.”
“To reunions.” She smiles and clinks her glass against mine, then takes another drink. “It really is good to see you.”
There’s an earnestness in her tone that surprises me. Her eyes are wide and filled with something unfamiliar. Remorse? No, that can’t be it. It’s gone in an instant anyway, leaving me with a familiar bitterness on the back of my tongue. I swallow a mouthful of champagne to wash it down, but it doesn’t go away. Neither does the flood of memory clouding my head.
Springtime, third grade, Melody Bannon Bracelyn Buchanan appeared as if by magic in the foyer of Willington Academy. She’d avoided all the formal visitation dates at my boarding school up to that point, insisting she was too busy with her filming schedule.
But there she was that day, materializing in the lobby as though conjured by the sheer force of my homesickness.
“Darling!” she called, throwing her arms open wide. That’s all it took. All it ever took for me to go rushing toward her like an affection-starved cat. We stood there hugging in the foyer while my classmates spilled around us like water. I remember feeling warm all over, like a rock in the sun, and I held on to my mother like my life depend
ed on it.
It’s one of the few hugs I remember. One of the last, too.
I take another sip of champagne to pull myself back to the present. “Do you have a hotel room in town?”
She tips her head to the side, studying me like a zebra that wandered into her parlor. “Actually, I was hoping to stay here.”
“Here?”
“It’s a resort, isn’t it?”
“Right, but we’re not open yet.” I wave in the general direction of the upstairs lodge suites still awaiting commodities like beds and plush robes. “We can’t legally allow anyone to stay on the premises. Not until our permits are approved.”
My mother looks at me, assessing, but saying nothing. I hesitate, not liking the taste of the words I’m about to utter. I know I’m going to regret this.
“My cabin has two master suites,” I say slowly. “If you’d like, I could let you stay in—”
“I’d love to.” She swirls the liquid in her glass, making the bubbles shimmer. “Oh, this will be so fun. Just like when you were little.”
Something in my gut clenches up like a rubber band ball, but I nod anyway. “The guest suite has those European linens you always liked. Bree bought sets for the whole resort.”
“Wonderful, darling. What’s the Wi-Fi password here? I’m expecting an important email from my manager.”
I rattle it off, then set down my champagne flute at the edge of the table while she types in the password. She finishes tapping the screen and sets down her phone, then reaches for my hand. I jerk at the unexpected touch.
“It really is wonderful to see you,” she says. “You look tired.”
Her eyes fill with concern that seems totally fucking genuine, and it socks me right in the gut. Hard, like someone punched me. Jesus. I hate that it takes so little for me to curl up like a dog that’s been waiting for his owner to come home.
Just like that, I’m a goddamn third grader again.
My mother pulls her hand back and reaches across the table to pluck the champagne bottle from the chiller. “Tell me more about what you’re doing here,” she says as she refills her glass. “It looks like you’ve been working really hard.”
I stare at her for a second, surprised by the turn in conversation. She hasn’t shown much interest in the ranch so far, not even when she learned dear old dad willed us the place.
“Well,” I say, not sure where to start. “We’re still a few months from opening. That’s assuming we get all the permits and approvals in time.”
“And how many rooms and amenities and all that?” She beams and sips her champagne. “Seriously, tell me everything, darling. I’m wildly curious.”
I scrub a hand through my hair, wishing Bree were here to give her marketing spiel. She’s making herself scarce, never a big fan of my mother, who once slapped Bree’s mom for suggesting wife number four—Mark’s mother—might actually stick.
She didn’t, but that’s beside the point.
“Let’s see,” I say. “The resort is about a thousand acres, and we have lodging options that run from deluxe ranch house suites in the main lodge, to luxury cabins that range from two-bedroom units to massive lodge houses meant for large parties.”
“Of course, for family vacations and such.” My mother smiles. “Remember that time we all went to Montenegro?”
I’m rattled by the memory, and it takes me a second to think of a response. “I was six?”
“Seven, actually. It was right before your father left me for that whore but after the Kentucky Derby.”
I nod, accustomed to how the timeline of her life flows around my father’s infidelities. “Right. Um, it was nice.”
“It was nice, wasn’t it? Such wonderful memories.” She pats my hand again, and I can’t help wondering why she’s trying so hard. “So there’s a spa and golf courses and an event center?”
“That’s right.” I run my thumb through a ring of moisture at the base of my champagne flute. “Did Bree give you a tour already?”
“No, I’ve been looking at your website. So much great information.”
I nod and pick at a soup shooter. “That’s Bree’s doing. The photography is stunning.”
“Yes, I particularly like the one of Boner Rock at sunset.”
“What?” I nearly knock my champagne flute into my lap as I stare at my mother. “Did you say Boner Rock?”
My mother laughs and sips her champagne. “Relax, darling. Don’t think I don’t know that’s what everyone calls it.”
“I thought that was just Bree’s term.”
“There’s a lot more history here than you think.”
No shit.
There’s a sting in the center of my chest that’s halfway between joy and pain. It’s always been like this, every moment I can remember with my mother. This aching mix of anger and longing, sadness, and shame.
Maybe this time will be different.
I clear my throat, not sure my voice still works. “I’ve missed you.”
My mother looks up and smiles. Her expression is more relaxed now, and I dart a glance at the champagne bottle, wondering if that’s the reason.
“I’ve missed you, too.” She smiles and reaches for one of my mini phyllo tarts with melted brie, caramelized onion, and roasted pear. I wonder if she’ll recognize the recipe as a riff of something she made on her show.
“So you’ll be running your own restaurant here,” she says. “It’s very nice.”
“Thanks.” I twirl my champagne glass on the tabletop. “We’re already booking dinner reservations a couple years out for some of the holidays.”
“Of course you are,” my mother says, lifting her champagne flute. “It’s not every day some backwater Oregon town gets a restaurant owned by a Michelin-starred chef.”
The pride in her voice makes my chest swell, but it also makes my gut clench. It’s time to stop beating around the bush.
“Mother?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Why are you really here?”
Her smile wavers just a little, but she recovers fast, the corners of her mouth tugging up like her lips are being pulled by wires. “I can’t come see my only child for the pleasure of his company?”
“Sure you can.” I clear my throat. “But you haven’t. Not when I was living in Austin or LA or even when I was in Paris at Le Cordon Bleu.”
“Maybe I decided it’s time for us to be closer.”
“Maybe.” I eye her, certain there’s more to the story. Younger me would drop his gaze, but I hold firm.
“There is one teeny-tiny issue,” she says.
My fingers tighten around the stem of the champagne flute, but I refuse to let her see me react. “Okay.”
“It’s something my lawyer brought up last week when we were doing my financial review. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Let’s hear it.”
She waves a dismissive hand, champagne sloshing in her glass. “There’s apparently some question over whether your father followed the law when he set up this property. When he acquired all the different parcels that make up the total acreage.”
“What, you mean your grandparents’ place?”
“Yes, along with some of the other pieces of land,” she says. “You know how he was. Never one to do things by the books.”
I take a few breaths, willing myself not to overreact. “What are you saying?”
She hesitates, then sets her champagne flute on the table. “That there’s some question about whether my grandparents’ land was legally added to the parcel. Something to do with property taxes and title transfers—my lawyer explained it all to me. I’d be happy to give you his card.”
There’s a buzzing in my head, and I watch her grab the bottle again and fill her glass to the brim. The bubbles fizz like the pit of my stomach.
“I don’t understand,” I say slowly.
“I don’t, either, darling,” she says. “But bottom line, it’s possible your father didn’t have the lega
l right to will this property to anyone.”
Something in my brain buzzes as I watch my mother drain half her glass in one sip. “I don’t—”
“Now don’t you worry,” she says, patting my arm. “We’ll get this cleared up in no time. I’m sure it’s just a minor technicality. But in the meantime, I’d love to stay with you until things are straightened out.”
I swallow hard and watch her tip the empty champagne bottle into her glass, determined to get the last few drops. I feel queasy, but the feeling isn’t unfamiliar.
“I’m going to need to tell the others,” I say. “Bree and Mark and James and—”
“Let’s not talk about this now, shall we?” She swirls the last of the champagne in her glass. “I’m too excited about catching up with you.”
“Sure.” I swallow back the unspoken words, their familiar shape burning all the way down my throat.
* * *
It takes less than twenty-four hours for three of my siblings to corner me. At least they have the good sense to do it in the restaurant.
“Is your mother settled in at your place?” Bree asks, folding her hands on the table. She’s fixing me with a look that says she’d doesn’t particularly care about the answer and wishes we could fast forward through the niceties and get to the real conversation.
My brother, Mark, doesn’t bother. “What the actual fuck?”
He slings his six-foot-five frame into one of our hand-carved dining room chairs, straddling it like he’s in a dive bar. He rubs a hand over his lumberjack beard and stares at me. “Seriously, dude, what the fuck is up with your mom?”
Bree drops her folded hands to her lap and glares at him. “We were going to be tactful about this, remember?”
Mark grunts but says nothing.
Our oldest brother, James, clears his throat. He’s not bothering to sit down. A recovering attorney, he looks like someone getting ready to deliver closing arguments in a criminal trial.
“Look, we’re concerned, that’s all.” James rests his hands on the back of a chair and stares me down. “You have to admit, your mother has a reputation for shady real estate deals.”
