Man Handler

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Well, you should snag that cutie-pie up if he’s single because I’ll tell you something. There are no good-looking single—” she cups her hand around her mouth “—straight men left in this world.”

  Again, I try my hardest not to burst out laughing, but I maintain a level of respect for Brendan. “I know it’s true that good guys are hard to find, but I’m sure when I find the one, I’ll just know. Isn’t that what they say?” I reply.

  “Oh, dear, no. Sometimes, you have to be frank with yourself and realize this is as good as you’ll ever get. Otherwise, you might just spend your life looking for Mr. Perfect. My sister, Rosie, did that. God Bless her soul. She’s eighty-three and still looking for a man who doesn’t exist.”

  I lean back into my seat, letting Brendan take over the conversation. It’s not true. I’m still young. I’ll find someone. “She’s right, you know,” Brendan says. “You need to tone down the ‘tude and be more accepting of single candidates. You’re too picky.”

  “If that’s not the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is. Like you should be talking,” I tell him.

  The old lady gasps and covers her mouth. “Good gracious, you’ll never find a man with a mouth like that.” My mouth?

  “Oh,” I shoo her off. “That’s just how we talk up north.”

  “Well, aren’t you just precious.” Her smile lingers for a long second before it quivers into a straight line. I’ll take her comment as sarcasm seeing as her words don’t match the look on her face. She finally leans back into her seat where Brendan blocks the view of her blue-tinted, curly hair.

  Old ladies are just so damn cute when they aren’t being know-it-alls. I sure hope they’re all like that down here. God, almighty, I’m not going to last a fucking day in this state.

  The crash of the wheels hitting the pavement makes me jump in my seat. I wasn’t looking out the window and lost track of how close we were to landing. I grab the armrests and white-knuckle my grip as the squealing of the brakes pierces my eardrums.

  I hate landing. Why can’t it be as smooth as taking off?

  We pull up to the terminal gate, wait the long five minutes without air conditioning or flowing oxygen while they get the cabin doors open, then wait for the rich passengers in first class to deplane as slow as humanly possible. Once the aisle is clear, Brendan grabs our carry-ons and hands mine over to me.

  I check my phone and switch it off airplane mode as we’re squeezing down the aisle, feeling my shoulder bag hit each chair on the way out.

  Once my phone has a minute to reconnect with the world, I place an order for an Uber driver so we have one after we get our bags.

  “Did you get an SUV?” Brendan asks just after I close the app.

  “No? Why would I get an SUV? It’s just the two of us.”

  “It’s hot as balls in the airport, and I need some man space.”

  “You need man space?” I ask. “Is that something new?”

  “The fellas are cramped and dewy, okay?”

  “So, are the ladies,” I say, placing my hands under my breasts. “But you don’t see me needing lady space, do you?”

  Brendan grumbles and says something under his breath, and I now know he has officially been traveling too long today. We left Boston at five this morning and had a three-hour layover in D.C. Including arriving two hours early to the airport in Boston, I think it’s been a total of eight hours for a flight that, in total, lasted maybe two hours, max.

  Silently, we make our way down to the baggage claim and lean against opposite sides of a beam while checking our emails and messages. I swear forty minutes go by before the buzzer on our baggage claim conveyor belt rings. “What is taking them so long?” I ask out loud.

  Dozens of eyes snidely judge me, and Brendan must notice my mistake as soon as I do since he leans over and whispers in my ear, “If I were you, I’d hush your pretty little mouth before we make enemies.”

  I groan quietly. Thankfully, our bags are within the first dozen to pop out of the tiny opening, so we each grab our luggage and roll it out to the curb where I see our fire-engine red Hyundai. Glad, there’s only one of those.

  “Right there,” I point.

  “Fabulous,” Brendan groans as he makes it over to the car, then knocks on the window. “Hi, yes, we are the Thorpes.” He trudges on ahead of me, ready to toss his bags into the trunk.

  “I didn’t think we were married?” I mutter as he takes my bags from my hand and dumps them into the trunk on top of his.

  “We’re not, but I like your last name more than mine.”

  I shake my head at him, but he ignores me. As if my welcome here doesn’t already feel completely awkward, I hear someone mumbling something that I can’t quite make out, but I clearly catch the “God bless your little hearts,” part at the end. I turn toward the sound and find the old lady we were sitting across from on the plane, eyeballing me as if I were a devil of some sort. She waves with a raised brow as she slips into a cab. I’m surprised she didn’t just flip me off. Geez.

  Should I proclaim my love for this place now or give it a bit longer? I slide into the Uber car and close the door as Brendan and the driver settle into their seats. “Y’all heading to Blytheville, am I right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I tell him.

  The driver purses his lips and gives me a quick look in the mirror. “Y’all just visiting?” he asks.

  “Nope, relocating for work.”

  He clears his throat and refocuses his attention on the road in front of him. “Will you be working at the Bayview Plantation?”

  “Yeah?” I ask, questioning his knowledge of me. “How’d you know?”

  “Just a guess,” he says.

  Brendan and I look at each other with confusion. “It’ll be about a forty-minute ride.”

  Since I can’t sleep on planes, I’ll take the opportunity to rest for a bit now. I don’t start work until Wednesday but unpacking and getting settled will be enough to deal with.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you to check out this town before arriving,” Brendan says as I close my eyes.

  “Check out what?” I grumble.

  “Oy. Scarlett, someday you’re going to learn how to prepare yourself for life.”

  I’m ignoring the drama and going to sleep. “Goodnight, Brenny boo-boo.”

  * * *

  “What is this, The Notebook?” I ask the Uber driver. “I should have known by the name of this ‘hotel.’”

  “You didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, I take it?” he says with a chuckle.

  The small dip in between the pavement and the dirt road woke me up about twenty-seconds ago, and it’s taken me that long to figure out if I’m still asleep. This is not Boston, I can see that much. There are weeping willow trees every few feet, dirt for roads, and a large house that looks like it has to be two hundred years old. There’s no way this is a new hotel.

  “Dick told me the hotel was new, which threw me off, but part of me knew it would be something like this, which is why I didn’t want to do any research,” I tell Brendan.

  He doesn’t respond since he’s too busy taking in the scenery as we drive by a small pond with actual lily pads and lilies. I’m not sure of the last time I’ve seen a pond with greenery and flowers floating on top. It’s usually just scum and trash with maybe a few flies here and there in the city. The pond is pretty and gives me a good first impression of the hotel grounds, but it isn’t until I see a group of women walking along the side of the road that I know something is seriously odd about this place. They look like they’re all dressed in their Sunday’s best for church. Though, most people don’t dress so conservatively up North on Sundays, so it’s a bit different to see.

  “Just so you’re aware, the owner of the plantation doesn’t like Uber drivers to pull up past the parking lot unless you’re checking in or out with bags. He tries to keep traffic to a minimum—something about the ‘old-time feel’ of the place
,” the driver says. Oh, dear God. Maybe now is the time I should become concerned.

  The Uber driver pulls up to the front of the plantation and hops out to tend to the bags in the trunk.

  “I—think I’m going to love it here,” Brendan says, still ignoring my shock as he opens his door and steps out. He stretches his arms up and out and pans his head slowly from side to side, taking in the abundance of greenery. “The air even smells clean.”

  I open my door and step out, feeling my heels tilt to the side as I sink into the dirt. I steady myself and silently acknowledge the clean air too. That is nice, I suppose.

  Wait a minute. Dick said there were villas here. There are definitely no villas at this place. This can’t be right.

  “Welcome!” A man wearing a white button-down shirt that’s tucked into a pair of gray slacks jogs down the front steps with his hands in his pockets. “Miss Scarlett, I assume?”

  “Y—yup, that’s me,” I say through a stutter as I nearly trip again. “And, this is my friend Brendan. He took one for the team and moved down here with me.” I wrap my arm around Brendan and squeeze because he’s staring at the man with an odd look that’s making me uncomfortable.

  “Great! It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Ellis Freedman, manager of this establishment. It’s nice to have you in Blytheville. How was your flight?” As he approaches me, he reaches his hand out to shake mine. I can hardly see him with the sun glaring right over his face, but I take his hand. “It was long and boring. You know how it is.”

  “Actually, I rather enjoy a nice flight. It’s a good time to collect my thoughts and be closer to God.” I have to press my lips together to keep myself from saying something stupid. “Here, don’t worry about your bags. Ralphie will come out and take them for you.”

  “This is a hotel, right?” I ask him.

  “Of course; what else would it be?” he responds as if my question is as crazy as this place looks from the outside.

  A nursing home, or maybe a haunted mansion? I can think of a few ways to describe this place, and none of them come close to any sort of hospitality accommodation. We walk up the stone steps to the front porch that’s decked out with white rocking chairs. See? It’s totally a nursing home. Another step takes us into the “hotel,” and I’m a bit surprised to see the modern decor inside. There’s a front desk with a dark-tiled backsplash along the wall, a large fountain in the center of the marble floor, and there’s live shrubbery lining all four walls where oversized windows overlook perfectly manicured gardens. “Wow, it’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you, we only have a few months of work left before we can call the project complete, but everything in the public interior areas is in good condition now.”

  “That’s great,” I tell him.

  “This is where you’ll be working,” he says as we walk by the front desk. Brendan is following close at my heels but hasn’t said a word. He looks like he just ran into Taylor Swift by the shock and awe beaming across his face.

  We continue down a hall trailing off from the lobby and head out a side door into the gardens. To my surprise, there are, in fact, villas back here. They appear more modern than the main building but still outdated. Maybe it’s purposeful, to keep the charm of the antiquated place. “Most of the standard guest rooms are above the lobby, but for our elite guests who prefer more quiet and luxury, we offer villas. They are usually booked up far in advance though, so we’ll be getting reservations for them eight to twelve months before a guest arrives.” I won’t be complaining about staying in the luxury quarters then. That’s pretty sweet.

  After passing by the last villa, we take a sharp right, and there’s a very small brick house that strongly resembles a shed. “And this is where you’ll be living. All of the utilities are running, and the amenities you need are in working condition. An interesting story about this part of our property is that back in the eighteen hundreds, this is where the—servants—would sleep. There were obviously no working utilities or amenities at that time, but it’s always nice to know the history of where you’re living. Don’t you think?”

  What do I think? I think I’m horrified because I don’t think he’s referring to paid servants. If I’m correct, how in the world could they continue using this space for accommodations? I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m haunted by someone tonight, I’ll have a pretty good idea that I’m right. Great, I transferred down here to—literally—live in the servant’s quarters … or worse.

  Ellis unlocks the front door, and the space is no more than a studio with a small galley kitchen. “If you need privacy, we’ve left a folding wall in the closet for you.” He points straight across the box of a living area toward the closet, then shifts his direction toward the corner where there’s a closed door. “And your bathroom is right in there.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. Now that we’re inside here, I get a better look at Ellis and his slicked-back, blond hair. He exudes confidence in a way I’m not sure I like just yet.

  “Well, I need to get back to the front desk. Ralphie should be here soon with your bags. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” He reaches his hand out once again to shake my hand, and I feel a whole lot of hesitance at the moment. “It’s so nice to meet you, Miss Scarlett and Brendan. So nice.” He slips his hands back into his pockets and pivots on his heels to leave.

  Once Brendan and I are secluded in this villa, AKA servants’ quarters, we look at each other with wide eyes. “Is this a joke?”

  “It must be,” he says. “I mean this overall place is amazing, but this little hut—is not.”

  Seconds pass by, and I’m quickly overcome with feelings of paranoia and claustrophobia. “Oh my God, we have no mode of transportation. How long was the drive to this place … like … from civilization?”

  “Oh, honey, you didn’t see the quaint little town, or maybe more like a village we drove through? It was like all 1950’s with not a shred of grass longer than another. I’m pretty sure we’ve entered your type of hell.”

  “I thought you checked this town out?” I snap at him.

  “I did. It was super cute, but now I see it’s even cuter than I thought.”

  “I can’t live here. I won’t be able to survive like this,” I tell him.

  “We’re kind of stuck now,” he reminds me.

  “Thanks, brainiac.” In all seriousness, I need to find an exit strategy just in case things go even more south, quicker than I could have predicted. “Do you by chance know how we get to town?”

  “I saw someone riding a horse … ” Brendan says.

  “Yeah, uh … no.”

  “Okay, Boston doesn’t exist down here. Let go of your dirty water and smog-filled expectations, and embrace nature and purity, or whatever it’s called. We can do this Scarlett. We’re brave. We’re warriors. We’re—”

  “Shut up. We’re not going to survive down here.”

  “How about we just go for a walk and explore for a bit. Maybe it will make us feel better?”

  “Whatever. I need food anyway,” I tell him.

  “Well, why don’t you change so we can go—” he says, looking me up and down as if I’m wearing something atrocious.

  “Why do I have to change?” He better not be thinking I should be dressed more like the people down here. That is not happening.

  “We’re going for a walk and you have four-inch heels on. I know how you feel about skinny jeans and running shoes, so … yeah.”

  “I’m fine. I walk in these shoes all the time,” I argue.

  “You’re going to break your neck,” he says, “but I’m not arguing with your hangry ass anymore, so let’s go.”

  I roll my eyes and grab my bag. “Let’s go, Donny Downer.”

  Who would have known those would have been my famous last words before I really get this party started …

  CHAPTER SIX

  Austin

  Sunday

  A full two-day break after Thursday night’s events was
exactly what I needed to recharge my battery. It took us almost two hours to stabilize that poor kid, Candace. She needed surgery, and we had set up a transfer for her to be relocated to a burn center, which took longer than expected. In any case, I didn’t get home until eight the next morning.

  Sundays are usually busy during the day but slow at night, so I’m hoping for a quiet shift before the week starts.

  “Austin, Austin, Austin,” Daisy drawls. “Boy oh boy, do I have the patient for you.”

  Daisy is the administrator who takes in all patient information, and when things are disastrous, she prioritizes the patient list in order of importance … those with the most critical injuries or illnesses to be examined and treated first. However, with nothing but a few broken bones and a couple dozen stitches this afternoon, we’re working on a first-come, first-served basis.

  “You’re not sticking me with Old Lady Shoomer again, are you?” I ask her. “I know to beware when you ‘Austin, Austin, Austin’ me.”

  “No, dummy.”

  “Good because, let me tell you, I can deal with just about any bodily fluid, missin’ limbs, and what not, but I cannot handle her oozing bunion another time this week.”

  Daisy shivers and convulses. “This is why I prefer sitting behind a computer screen. Y’all can have fun with your oozin’ bunions back there.” She waves her hands toward triage.

  “Okay so if it isn’t an oozin’ bunion, what do you have in store for me?”

  Daisy smiles, but not just any old smile. It’s her “I’m-up-to-no-good” smile. I’ve known Daisy most of my life since my sister used to babysit her when she was a kid. I’ve got about ten years on her, and it shows most days. “Triage, bay four,” she says, pinning her tongue between her teeth.

  “Payback is a—”

  “Watch your mouth, Austin Trace.”

  “Just sayin’,” I reply with a quick wink. Daisy is always sticking me with the worst patients. She thinks it’s funny, but I also think sometimes Clara may tell her to do it. As a result, I do win the battle of the worst ER stories most days, but I’m just not sure it’s always worth the win.