by Lisa Sorbe
Ben chuckles. “Yeah, well. Lenny has her moments.” I smack his chest, and he winces. “What I meant to say is that Lenny is a genius, a gift to us all.” He tosses me a smirk. “But in all seriousness, you look radiant, Gloria. And,” he peers over his shoulder at a group of gentlemen across the room, hovering near a pool table, “I can only assume your comment has something to do with Garrett Grimsby?”
Gloria’s eyes widen. “Why? Did he say something about me?”
Oh, my God. I’m in middle school again.
I bite back a laugh as Ben diverts the conversation Gloria’s cat, Peanut. “You’re not feeding him any more nacho cheese sauce, are you?” Ben asks, and from the stern tone of his voice, I can tell he’s not joking.
I hold up a hand. “Wait. Your cat eats nacho cheese sauce?”
“No,” Gloria assures Ben. “I’m not.” Then to me, she shrugs. “He likes the kick.”
I gape at Ben and he just shakes his head.
“So,” she says, her voice rising with purpose. “Will you two be joining us for our little get together this evening? Or do you have some romantic plans of your own?”
I shoot her a look to which she responds with a syrupy smile.
Ben blows out a breath and sort of chuckle-coughs, as though he’s not quite sure how to respond. “Well, I wouldn’t say they’re romantic. But I’m taking Lenny to the annual party at Jasper’s.”
Now I throw Ben a look. “I told you I’m not going,” I mutter.
Ben folds his arms across his chest and ignores me. “Let me rephrase that. I’m dragging Lenny to the annual party at Jasper’s.”
Gloria claps her hands together, either oblivious to my refusal or just ignoring it. “Oh, how fun! I used to love the parties at Jasper’s. Of course, I haven’t been to any since Sherman passed away and Chevy took over. But from what I hear he’s upholding his father’s traditions rather well. So, tell me…what’s this year’s theme?”
“It’s a 1950s-style cocktail party, which is why,” I say, staring pointedly at Ben, “I’m not going.” Crossing my arms, I mirror Ben’s posture, furthering emphasizing my stance. I don’t mention that I also hate Valentine’s Day. And with this year being the way it is, having gone the way it has, I abhor the commercial, made-up holiday more than ever.
Gloria’s enthusiasm drops a bit. “I can understand your trepidation for celebrating, Lenny. What with your sad break up and everything we, you know, discussed this afternoon.”
I shift uncomfortably next to Ben as he peers down at me, his brows raising in silent query.
“But you really should go,” Gloria continues, obviously determined to push my buttons for no other reason than for her own amusement. “It’ll help you to get out on the town a bit. And the parties down at Jasper’s really are legendary. I met my first husband George at their Spring Fling in ‘62.” She taps her lips and pauses. “Come to think of it, I also met my third husband George at their Halloween Bash, back in ‘89.”
My arms drop and I forget to be annoyed. “You had two husbands named George?”
Gloria just waves her hand. “Three, actually. But that’s a story for another time. As for you, if it’s simply a problem with attire, then that,” she smiles up at me, her eyes roaming my figure, “is something I can easily fix.”
“Have you seen how many people commented on my video?”
I smile politely and, for Mimi’s sake, do my best to sound enthused. “Totally. Your video is killing it.”
The truth is, I haven’t checked my channel since I put the video up. I have no idea how many comments there are or what my subscribers are saying about Mimi’s makeover. Though, considering how great she looked by the end, I can only imagine the amount of oohs and ahhs the transformation triggered.
Of course, there are always the trolls, miserable people so unhappy in their own lives that the only way to alleviate their pain is by doing their best to make sure others feel just as dejected and downtrodden as they do.
I warned Mimi about those promotors of misery, told her to take their words with a grain of salt.
The deep amber color I used to cover her reddish-orange locks has stuck, thanks to the intense conditioning treatment and sulfate-free shampoo and conditioner combo I sent her home with and instructed her to use twice a week. The new hue compliments her milky complexion and accentuates her freckles—something that, during the makeover, I had to assure her at least ten times made her look sexy and not, as she put it, splotchy.
“Like, how weird is it that washing your hair less makes it look better?” she says now, running her hand over her corkscrew curls. The deep conditioner I gave her has toned down the frizz, and with the strapless green cocktail dress she’s wearing, she looks like an entirely different person from the frumpy waitress I met the day I arrived in Lost Bay.
Jerry, onion dip maker extraordinaire, has been eyeing her all night.
“Crazy, right?” I take a sip of my champagne cocktail and survey the room. Jasper’s still looks like a trapper’s cabin—I mean, there’s just really no way around it—but Chevy and Mimi did their best to turn the place into a suitable replica of what a trapper’s cabin might look like if it were suddenly in the throes of a hoppin’ 1950s-style cocktail party. Soft white tablecloths have been spread over every table, each topped with a centerpiece of glass orbs filled with red candles. Glittering heart and cherub confetti coat almost every surface of the place, and heart-shaped cutouts in silver and gold dangle from the ceiling over the dance floor in scattered rows.
“Chevy fought me on the hearts,” Mimi confesses. “But I told him there was no way in hell we were throwing the party he wanted to throw, so he’ll just have to live with it.”
“What kind of party did Chevy want?” I gesture at the party-goers, all decked out to look like the cast of Mad Men. “I figured this was his idea.”
Mimi scrunches her nose. “Nope. He wanted an Anti-Valentine’s Day party.” She leans in closer, the horror of such an idea widening her eyes. “With black hearts torn down the middle and wingless cherubs with their heads ripped off. He even ordered this glitter signs that say Love Bites.” She humphs. “He can be so morbid sometimes. I get that his girlfriend dumped him, but sheesh.”
I shrug. “I don’t know if that would’ve been so bad.”
Mimi laughs like I’m joking, and I laugh because I’m not. From across the room, Chevy catches our attention and pretends to vomit as a syrupy love song replaces the rockabilly that was previously crooning through the bar’s speakers. I tilt my champagne glass in his direction while Mimi sticks out her tongue.
And then, like a magnet, my attention shifts to Ben, who’s standing right next to him. As if he can feel my stare, as if my gaze has the weight of an invisible hand resting gently against his cheek, urging him to look my way, he turns.
His eyes find mine.
Mine skitter away.
My cheeks flush as red as the dress Gloria gave me to wear tonight.
And then I down the rest of my champagne cocktail in one swift gulp, the bitters burning my tongue with their sour bite and making me wince.
When I dare to look his way again, I see that his attention has been snagged by Natalie who, from the looks of it, is doing her best to get him out onto the dance floor.
“You know,” I say, turning to Mimi, “I could really use a—”
But before I can get out the word shot, Mimi’s attention is stolen by Jerry, who’s suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, sans dip. He’s quiet but sweet, with white-blonde hair and deep-set eyes the color of dark chocolate that always seemed to be in a perpetual squint, though in a cute, adorable sort of way. And while I’ve only met him one other time before tonight, I’m pretty sure the man is completely, totally, head-over-heels in love with Mimi.
Jerry smiles, and his eyes squinch even more. “Would you maybe want to?” He leaves the rest of the question hanging while tilting his head toward the dance floor. Mimi, for her part, doesn’t seem
to be able to utter a word, though she allows him to take her hand and lead her across the room. When she tosses a quick smile at me from over her shoulder, her face matches the color of her hair.
“And then there was one,” I mutter.
While I have met some of the residents of Lost Bay in my few weeks of working at the veterinary clinic, I don’t feel that I know the dozen or so that are here well enough to stroll over, plop down at their tables, and insert myself into their conversations. So I make my way over to the bar, where seating for one is the norm. The crinoline beneath my skirt makes sitting awkward, so I just cross one foot primly over the other and sort of lean against a stool, the tulle scratchy on my skin as it presses against my thighs.
The bartender hands me another drink, this time my preferred Classic Manhattan, and as I taste the first sip on my tongue, I’m happy to note that he listened to my request and made it extra strong.
I don’t know why it bothered me, seeing Natalie flirt with Ben. As it stands, it’s not even the first time I’ve seen her—or anyone, for that matter—doing whatever they could to turn Ben’s head their way.
And believe me, I understand the appeal.
Which is maybe, kind of, probably the precise reason that watching Natalie work her charm on Ben did bother me.
It’s a push and pull kind of thing, where he’s the magnet and I’m a stray piece of metal, helpless to the attraction. It’s like there’s a sharp tug in my chest when I’m around him, urging me to get as close as I possibly can.
Though, in my defense, I’ve been doing my very best to resist the impulse, to dig my heels in so deep there are times when my I actually ache from the effort. Because there are too many reasons to resist the pull, the jerk that, whenever he’s near, I feel just behind my navel.
I’m still trying to figure out my feelings for Daniel.
You’re on a break, and a guy like Daniel has more than likely moved on already.
I’m still trying to figure out what to do with my life, and I don’t want sudden, unexpected feelings for some random guy to trip me in the wrong direction.
Ben is hardly random. Even Lenora knew that.
Ben will never leave Lost Bay, and I miss L.A.
You don’t miss L.A. You miss the anonymity of a big city. It’s harder to be a loner here, where everybody knows everybody and you can’t hide behind sunglasses and latte cups. You hate getting up close and personal, and here you just might have to.
He doesn’t like me. Not in that way.
Okay, so he made a weird face the one time you fell asleep on him. You do know you drool in your sleep, right? It was probably because of that.
I’m still…not sure I trust him.
*silence*
And with that thought, the little voice in my head shuts her trap.
“Having fun?”
Speak of the devil.
“A blast.” I turn to see Ben leaning against the bar. Like me, he doesn’t bother to sit. He’s dashing in a black suite with a white button down left open at the collar. Having forgone a tie, he did manage a quick shave before we left, though a slight five o’clock shadow still hugs the sharp contours of his cheeks, his chin, his strong jaw.
We drove together tonight, so this isn’t the first time I’m seeing him all decked out, looking very much like James Bond’s more rugged, more handsome brother. But looking at him now, standing so close I can smell his trademark scent, makes my heart thump just as hard as it did back home, when I first laid eyes on him.
Holding up my glass, I take a sip and then, as discreetly as I can, peer over my shoulder. Natalie is in Chevy’s arms, and when he leans in and says something in her ear, she throws her head back and laughs.
“I imagine this is, uh, slightly different than the shindigs you’re used to back home?” Ben says, drawing my attention back to him.
“Oh,” I say, “I don’t know. People, booze, music. That’s all any party needs, right?” Though, in truth, this is nothing like the large, superficial parties I attended with Daniel. Those were stiff and filled with pretensions, straight backs and lifted chins and upturned noses. Surveying the room here, seeing the intimacy and hearing the laughter rising above the music, a thought forms words, pops right out of my mouth before I can stop it. “I think I like this one better. Though,” I add, rubbing my arms, “I’m dreading the walk to the car. Snowsuit cocktail dresses should be a thing up here. Just sayin’.”
When Ben chuckles, it sounds like the joke’s on me. “Well, then. You’ll love the annual Spring Fling next month.”
I’m immediately suspicious. “Why?”
He eyes me for a moment before turning to wave down the bartender. “It’s a luau. Tiki torches, shorts, grass skirts and,” he clears his throat, sweeping his gaze back to me, “swimming suits.”
“What the hell? Won’t there still be snow on the ground?”
Ben accepts his beer and nods his thanks at the bartender. Smiling wide, he lifts the bottle to his lips. “More than likely.”
“That’s insane.”
“If you think that’s insane, you should have been here on New Year’s.” When I look at him quizzically, he grins a crooked grin. “Lost Bay’s annual Polar Plunge.”
I just shake my head. “You people are crazy.”
“Say what you want, but,” Ben tips his bottle my way and winks, “you’re one of us now, California.”
“For the time being, anyway.”
Ben’s smile shifts, his lips turning down at the corners as he shrugs. His vibe is nonchalant, like he could care less. “For the time being,” he agrees.
“So,” I say, feeling slightly dejected by the dispassionate way he embraced my inevitable departure from Lost Bay, “what’s with all the theme parties? From the way Gloria was talking, it sounds like this place has been throwing them for as far back as, well,” I gesture to my dress, “the days when this little number was in fashion.”
Ben’s eyes drop, and I can almost feel his gaze dragging down, down, down…from the plunging V-neck to the fitted waist to the flared skirt that billows out, out, out from my hips to just below my knees. I shift in my vintage silver heels, another gift from Gloria (when I offered to bring everything back, she told me that if she wasn’t going to be buried in it, she didn’t need it), and swipe a hand over the satin material. It’s deep red with a slight sheen, and even though the entire outfit is gorgeous, I feel a bit like a walking Valentine cliché.
“We need something to do in the winters up here.” His voice sounds hoarse, deeper than it usually is. “As for how long it’s been going on, you’d have to ask Chevy or Mimi about that. This place has been in their family for years. Jasper was their grandfather and, as I’m sure you can guess by name alone, the pub’s founder. Chevy took the reins last spring, after their father passed. He’s struggling with it a bit though, I think. With the whole idea of committing to this place, the town. He was in Chicago before this. A lot of folks around here were surprised he came back at all. Small town living isn’t for everybody.” He takes a swig of his beer and shoots me a meaningful look. “Then again, I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
Ben isn’t taking a shot at me. His words are matter-of-fact, reflecting the conclusions he’s come to about me, about what I like and don’t like, and about where I’m headed once my ties to Lost Bay are severed, my shackles cut.
He thinks I’ll go back to L.A.
As for me, I’m not sure what to think. Or where I’ll end up.
For all I know, next year could find me on the moon, clad in a shiny silver jumpsuit with a bobble-head fishbowl for a hat.
What can I say? I’m learning to expect the unexpected.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly, offering him a smile. “It’s not so bad here. I mean, the breakfasts are far above par.”
Ben chuckles, his eyes squinting at the corners. Then, leaning an elbow on the bar, he trains his attention on the dance floor, where the slowly swaying bodies are lost to everything
but their partners. An old song, heartfelt and reflecting the nostalgia of decades past, wraps around them, around us, around everything, and it’s as if Jasper’s has fallen through a black hole, a portal of time where neither the past nor the future exist, and the only truth is the ever-present Now, which is ripe and vivid and all there was, is, or ever will be.
So maybe that’s why, when Ben holds out his hand, his eyes doing the asking rather than his voice, I take it.
Without thought.
Without expectation.
I attended my first dance in the sixth grade. But because I endured an awkward, ugly duckling phase from the ages of nine to sixteen, I wasn’t actually asked to dance with anyone until my junior year in high school. I remember the way my nerves zinged and zagged throughout my body, the worry I had about my sweaty palms and the hideous blush that heated my face as the boy, a senior named Cody Emmerson, led me onto the dance floor that night. We shifted from foot to foot, our legs stiff and our arms even more so, as some cheesy love song that I can’t recall the name of filtered dully through the gym’s overhead speakers.
But this dance, this beautiful moment wrapped up in Ben’s arms, is not awkward. Our bodies aren’t stiff, nor is our movement. Without a word, he pulls me close, hugging me to his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do. Like we’ve done this, this dance, a million times already and, the universe willing, will do it another million times more.
We’re not slow dancing like the rest of the crowd. Ben doesn’t have one arm draped chastely around my waist while his other hand grips mine, holding it firm between us, all prim and proper. Ours is an embrace, with my fingers laced behind his neck and his hands warm against the triangle of exposed skin at my back.
I’m light headed and light on my feet, and the chills coursing through me are like none I’ve ever felt before. I don’t even know what song is playing, because I swear to all that is good and holy (and even to all that isn’t) that I can’t hear a damn thing over the drumming in my chest.
It’s my pulse, thrumming in time to my wildly beating heart.
