With one more quick once-over of me, the couple glided out of the Bean as though they hadn’t just turned Murphy’s world upside down.
30
Ben
I didn’t hear from Murphy for the rest of the day.
After leaving the Bean, I downed my Americano in one gulp and headed over to Brenna’s to do a little handiwork. I was off and had nothing to do other than obsess over how today was going completely wrong. This was supposed to be my day to spoil Murphy.
And then I remembered. I had to pick up the cupcake cake.
How could a dumb cupcake cake ever be enough for Murphy with family resources like hers?
Not entirely sure Murphy really wanted me to join her with her parents, I decided to give her space. Of course, I wanted to text or call, reach out, run over and hold her while she told me I was enough, but I fought the urge.
My phone finally dinged as I was changing a light bulb at Brenna’s.
I’m sorry I ruined the day. Do you want to drive? I don’t need my parents to see my car.
That was it. No mention of her really wanting me there or needing me to be with her, but I chalked it up to her being stressed. Imagine being embarrassed about your car when it came to your own parents? The excuses I made for her might have been more for my benefit, but I needed to tell myself something.
I texted back, trying to sound as businesslike as she did.
No worries. Pick you up at 6.
Then I called the inn to cancel my own dinner and room reservations. Normally, they’d be sticklers about me canceling so late, but I mentioned being a doctor and needing to sleep at home tonight. It wasn’t a nice trick, but I wasn’t in a nice mood.
My despondent mood only grew worse when I knocked on Murphy’s door and a way-too-made-up version of her opened it, wearing a pressed blouse and sleek pants and mega-high heels. Her hair was blown out so straight it looked hard and brittle, and an inch of makeup she didn’t need was layered on her face.
Seeing how she’d changed herself to suit her parents, I felt my blood boil.
“Hi,” she said with a small smile.
“Happy birthday,” I said softly, trying to ignore Society Murphy as I leaned in for a kiss. Thinking about the cake, I decided we could salvage the day later—in bed. Just Murphy and me, and icing, and all the makeup long gone.
But then Murphy surprised me by saying, “Lipstick. Can’t kiss.” Waving me off, she didn’t even offer me a cheek to kiss. Instead, she secured her purse over her shoulder and stepped outside to shut the door behind her.
Even though I was physically outside her place here in Vermont, I was mentally transported back in time to our days at Pressman, where our relationship wasn’t meant to be public. When I was just the kid Murphy sometimes talked to. A shudder ran through me.
No, this is now. Murphy invited me to dinner. She wants me there. She said so in front of her parents.
Yet, we walked toward the Jeep in silence. Chatty Murphy was long gone—no sign of the retro combat boots or her freckled nose anywhere.
She let me open the door for her before she slipped in and checked her reflection in the mirror, not noticing the giant cake box in the back seat or whether I walked in front or back of the car. Sneaking a peek at Murphy after I closed her door, I found she was entirely consumed with herself, wiping some invisible smudge off her cheek.
“Christ, what did I get myself into?” I whispered to myself as I rounded the back of the SUV.
As I slid into the driver’s seat, Murphy finally acknowledged me and gave me an apologetic look.
“If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to. I know . . . it’s my fault. I volunteered you for dinner, but please don’t think for a second that this will be anything but work. It won’t be a fun and relaxing evening. This isn’t a fun social date. But this is my life, working for my parents. I can’t seem to escape it, even here in Vermont.”
“Of course I’m going,” I said against my better judgment, accepting that this wasn’t going to be an evening where I’d leave feeling good about myself or successful in my own right. “I’m your guy,” I added, not knowing if it was for my benefit or hers.
Murphy sighed. “Again, I’m sorry. I know you were trying to surprise me for my birthday, but my parents swooped in and now it’s ruined. I just can’t discuss it, though. I have too much on my plate. They’re going to try to convince me to leave, and you don’t get it. They always get what they want.”
It was an added benefit that I had to keep my eyes on the road, because it kept me from staring at Murphy’s lips painted with an expensive red lipstick that didn’t even suit her as she talked like this.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “We’ll celebrate your birthday on our own another time.”
Murphy gave me a slight nod, and we endured the rest of the ride in uncomfortable silence. The damned cupcake cake taunted me from the back seat, and even Mozart couldn’t calm my nerves.
Pulling up in front of the inn, I swallowed my pride. I could have paid to bring Murphy here all by myself for a month or longer, but allowing her parents to bring me (us) here was a bitter pill to swallow. I didn’t like feeling like the scholarship kid again. I’d played that role for too long, and now I was my own man.
The valet opened the door for Murphy, and I wanted to deck him. That was the kind of mood I was in. It only worsened when he asked me, “Does the box go inside?” He nodded toward the giant box from Gigi’s bakery that Murphy had yet to notice.
Blowing out a long breath, I said, “I’m not sure.”
Turning on her heel, Murphy saw the label for Oh, For Heaven’s Cakes and quickly whirled back to me. “What’s that?” she demanded, venom lacing her words rather than the excitement I’d expected.
“It’s nothing. A cake. Someone once told me never to show up emptyhanded.” We spoke in hushed tones next to the car with the valet waiting patiently nearby, pretending not to listen.
“Please don’t bring that.” She flung her arm toward the car. “Whatever it is, I can’t eat it in front of my mother. This isn’t Vermont. Well, physically we’re in Vermont, but my parents never leave their little bubble. Unless it’s an aged bottle of Scotch or a vintage red wine, they don’t care, okay? Just drop it. It’s time for me to eat a salad with the dressing on the side and salmon for dinner. Is breakfast for dinner better? Yes. But you have to understand, that isn’t my parents’ scene. That’s not even in their world. It. Does. Not. Exist.”
She paused between each of her final words, for effect I assumed, but I wasn’t a stranger to the curiosities of her world. It’s just that I’d thought she wanted out of it.
Refusing to make eye contact with me after her choppy monologue, Murphy wrung her hands until she’d transformed her entire demeanor—fake smile, perfect posture, ready for a photo opportunity.
“I didn’t get it for your parents,” I said. “I got it for you. For you, Murph. I don’t care what world they live in. I live here, and so do you. In the real world.”
Rather than argue with me, Murphy just gave me a short nod and made a beeline for the entrance. With no further discussion on the cake, I followed behind her, trying for small talk. I couldn’t stand the mountain of silence between us. I was a hiker, but this was an incline I couldn’t seem to climb.
“It’s cool, right?” I asked her, taking her elbow in my palm, trying to touch her any way I could. The inn was an old Victorian that had been restored, and was well known in the area as the nicest place to stay.
“I didn’t even notice. I’m sorry,” she said, stopping suddenly to give me an anguished look. “Shoot, I’m sorry . . . I seem to be saying that a lot today. Of course it’s nice. My parents wouldn’t be staying here if it weren’t the best.”
This time it was my turn to clam up. I simply took her elbow again and led us to the bar area, where we would walk the plank. I mean . . . meet Murphy’s parents.
I’d been here once before for a pharmaceutical gig, but
had hoped that this time would be more memorable. And it probably would be, but for all the wrong reasons. When Murphy’s mom caught sight of us and gave her combo shriek-yell, “Murphy, over here,” with her Miss America wave gone wrong, I knew so.
“Hi, Mom.” Murphy greeted her mother with a practiced air-kiss to the cheek.
“Mr. Landon,” I said, and shook hands with her father.
“Hi, Dad,” Murphy said, not bothering to give him an air-kiss.
I didn’t get to greet Mrs. Landon because she looked at me and said, “You clean up nice.” After that backhanded compliment, I had no idea what to say to the woman.
At least I’d gone home after working at Brenna’s to pick up the cake, and showered, dressing in slacks and a button-down. I didn’t bother with a tie. I gave those up years ago.
“Mom, Ben is an old friend of mine from Pressman.”
We still stood around their lounge table awkwardly, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I ask the ladies to take a seat?
“Why don’t you sit, son?” Murphy’s dad suggested at the mention of Pressman. Just like always, the mere mention of the elite school opened up doors.
“Is that so?” Murphy’s mom seemed surprised, but it was hard to tell. Her eyes widened but her forehead didn’t move. Botox, I’d guess.
“Yes. Murphy and I were in the same class,” I said and left it at that.
“Does your family have a long history at the school?” her dad asked, obviously wanting to peg me right away.
“No, sir. I attended on a scholarship.”
Luckily, we were interrupted by a peppy server. “Hi, can I get you something to drink?”
“My wife will have a gin and tonic, and I will have an old fashioned,” Murphy’s dad said before turning to his daughter. “Murphy?”
“Red wine,” she said, as meek as a mouse.
“House cabernet?” the server asked.
“That would be nice,” Murphy said before noticing her father’s disapproving frown.
“We could get a bottle of something better,” he said, raising a brow.
“It’s fine, Dad.”
“And for you, sir?” The server stood waiting for me, pen in hand.
“Soda water with lime.”
“Great. I’ll be right back.”
“That’s all?” Murphy’s dad asked, questioning my beverage choice.
I couldn’t help but think how differently the night would have gone had they not shown up. I’d be having a nice Scotch, with Murphy snuggled in next to me. We’d be in no rush because we’d only be going upstairs after dinner.
Giving him a tight smile, I said, “I have to drive home later.”
“It’s a few hours away,” he said. “We’ll be eating a big meal between now and then. A man never likes to drink alone.”
Here I thought being prepared to take his daughter home safely would impress the man. Instead, it was more important to him that we clink glasses.
“There must be some sort of car service the hotel can arrange for,” Mrs. Landon said, twirling her wrist, admiring her diamond-studded watch catch the light.
“Mom, there’s no car service.” Murphy chimed in but didn’t say a word defending my choice.
I held my tongue, unable to get a word in during the bombardment.
“Oh well,” Mrs. Landon said. “Let’s hear a little bit more about what you’re doing. You know, our annual holiday card and letter is just around the corner, and we want to make sure we get it right.”
“I’m mainly working at the Busy Bean, serving coffee, Mom. It’s fun and easy, and I work with good people.”
Murphy sat up in her seat, her ankles crossed. She looked more like she was on a job interview than seeing her parents after several months. I couldn’t help but notice her hair. Not a single strand moved or curled against her face. It was poker straight and practically shellacked over her shoulder.
As Murphy began to talk, the server appeared, placing our drinks in front of us.
“Bring the gentleman a Scotch,” Mr. Landon barked at the server.
He turned to me and asked, “Neat?”
I wasn’t going to get out of this drink, so I decided to take the easy road. “Johnny Walker Black on the rocks,” I told the server while filled with self-loathing. I couldn’t understand why I was giving in after years of being who I was and acting the way I wanted.
“Nice choice,” Murphy’s dad said smugly.
A small smile spread across Murphy’s face, and I couldn’t believe she found some sense of satisfaction in the exchange.
“I mean, other than that coffee business,” Murphy’s mom said, picking back up on the conversation about what Murphy was doing, presumably for their holiday card.
Murphy stiffened. “Most of my hours are spent working at the Bean. Zara is very good to all of us, the employees—”
“Oh,” her mother said quickly, interrupting. “I forgot to mention that guy flitting around, the one who asked me about the flights. Is everyone so simple here in Vermont?” She punctuated her slight with a sip of her drink.
I waited for Murphy to defend Roderick. He was one of the best, a good friend to Murphy and everyone at the Bean.
Instead, Murphy talked about herself. “Actually, I’m working on a marketing project involving the Bean too. I started a book club, and we’ve had one successful meeting.”
“That’s hardly marketing, Murphy,” her mom said.
After taking a big sip of wine, Murphy placed her glass down before she spoke. “I’ve been incorporating several small businesses into the theme of the book club. Pastries, manicures, and such. Several local small businesses all get a good bit of exposure.”
Her mother sniffed. “Sounds like a hobby to me.”
I waited for Murphy to explain more, like how Cosette’s had someone doing nails for the first time because of her. I didn’t even know what that truly meant, but it was something, and it meant something to the town. What about Gigi’s business, and how it was growing thanks to Murphy? She neglected to mention that, or Hunnie and all the work Murphy was doing for her.
“We could spin it, though. How you’re breathing big-city life into this sleepy town,” Murphy’s dad said. “Take a picture of you holding a biography of one of my fellow supporters. It’ll be fine. Lyssa, why don’t you tell Murphy about the cultural trust?”
Just like that, the talk about Murphy’s marketing was over, and my Scotch was sitting in front of me, the ice melting into the whiskey.
“I have some wonderful news.” Murphy’s mom’s face lit up like one of the billboards in Times Square.
Sadly, Murphy didn’t move a muscle. She sat stock still, obviously waiting for the next bomb to drop.
“The trust’s marketing person is getting married and moving to Ohio. Really, who would leave the city for Ohio?” she said, referring to the city as if New York City were the only city. “They heard you were available. I couldn’t help but mention it. Honestly, Murphy, the whole Columbia thing is long forgotten. Preston Parker went back to whatever small town he was from with his tail between his legs. I’m sure even Columbia would have you back, but this is better, don’t you think? A huge opportunity with lots of exposure.”
Murphy nodded dutifully. “I’ll think about it.”
Pulling my phone from of my pocket, I pretended to get an urgent text. “Excuse me.” I pushed back from my chair and retired to a private corner, feigning taking an important call, but the truth was I really needed a moment to myself to regroup.
I didn’t know who this version of Murphy was, but it wasn’t the girl who picked car locks or poured maple syrup on everything. This wasn’t the woman who set Hunnie straight or fumbled behind the coffee bar, refusing to give up. I had no idea who this woman was, but she wasn’t the person I was falling for—after all, she was giving in to everything her parents said.
Where was the headstrong version of Murphy I’d come to know and love?
I had to get ou
t of here. Walking back to the table with purpose, I simply said, “I’m really sorry, but my partner has an emergency he can’t deal with alone. I need to go.”
I waited for Murphy to say she was coming with me, or to plead with me to stay or to take my hand and squeeze it. But none of that happened.
“You know what?” she said. “I’ll stay here with my parents, and they can take me to the Bean in the morning.”
And that’s all she said. Nothing at all about the emergency or me.
“Good thing you let your whiskey sit there, getting watered down,” her father said.
“Good luck,” her mom said with a huge smile, obviously happy to see me go. They didn’t even know me, or want to know me, because Murphy didn’t belong here in Vermont.
Or with me.
31
Murphy
Crawling into bed Friday afternoon, I didn’t even bother getting out of my smelly clothes.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and I hadn’t been home since the night before. My parents had dropped me off at the Bean this morning, where I worked my shift in a borrowed T-shirt, dress pants, and expensive heels.
Poor Roderick had gaped at me as I made my grand entrance, thinking I was doing the walk of shame. “Rough night?” he’d asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sure you’re hoping for something salacious,” I said while finger-combing the hairspray out of my hair, “and I wish it were something like that. But I spent my birthday feeling like I was sixteen all over again, being told what to do and how to act. Ben walked out, stranding me at the inn. My mom couldn’t believe there wasn’t a car service to take me home, and paid for me to get a room.”
“Wow.” His eyes wide, Roderick opened the pastry case and pulled out a scone, plating it before handing it to me. “For you.”
I didn’t bother to refuse or explain I’d already had a three-course breakfast at the inn. Taking the plate with me behind the bar, I set it next to the sink and washed my hands.
Friendzoned (The Busy Bean) Page 22
