by Sarah Hogle
“I don’t want maroon.” I’m beginning to panic. When they turn around to get back to work, I lose it. A much braver person than I am possesses my body and uses it to bellow, “I! Don’t! Want! Maroon!”
Dumbfounded, they stop what they’re doing.
“Calm down, now, sweetheart,” the oldest one entreats.
No, he did not. “You can call me Miss Parrish,” I snap.
Phillip snickers.
I’m about to do something that’ll get me arrested when Wesley’s truck pulls up the driveway, bed stacked with lumber that will become a shelter for his animals in short order. He climbs out, frowns at the house, and says in a quieter tone than the one I initially tried out myself and nobody heard, “That’s not the color we ordered.”
“Oh?” Phillip plasters on a baffled smile. “You sure? Here, let’s look it up.” He looks up the information while my spinal fluid simmers to a froth. “What do you know! You’re right.”
And then he apologizes. To Wesley.
We eventually get it ironed out. I continue my part of the conversation through clamped teeth, but fortunately no one tells me to calm down again. The new paint won’t be in for another two weeks, however, and their next availability to come back isn’t until mid-July. Leaving Falling Stars gray with a patch of maroon.
I am a professional. It is the only reason I do not scream.
“You know what? You’re fired.” I don’t have time for this. I have a washing machine hose to deal with, a bank to call, and security cameras to set up. Not to mention, I might have chatted with a young woman I met at a gas station on my way home from the farmers market and spontaneously offered her free board at Falling Stars when I found out her landlord is going to be kicking her and her little boy out of their apartment at the end of the month. I need to bake a dozen of Wesley’s favorite bear claws before I break the news.
Phillip grimaces. “You paid us already. Come on, now, I know a small mistake was made—”
“Everybody makes mistakes,” I shoot back. “Your real mistake here was being condescending to me. I will not tolerate that disrespect and I demand a full refund.” I gesture flippantly at the house. “Plus damages.”
Phillip gapes. Appeals to Wesley, the rational and unemotional male.
“Condescending?” Wesley echoes. There is no trace of the generous, sensitive man I have come to know. He is made of stone. “You heard her. You’re fired. Full refund, plus damages.”
I march inside, resisting the urge to slam the door. I’m putting together a selection of banks when Wesley finds me to report that the painters left. He reads over my shoulder. “What’s that for?”
“I’m thinking about applying for a small-business loan. Want to go in on it with me? We can split it between the hotel and sanctuary.” I know he’s hoping his savings will cover the cost of a new barn, but there are plenty of other expenses to contend with. Animal food, medical supplies . . .
Wesley makes a face. “Depends. Could we do it online?”
“I think it’s better to do it in person. Make an appointment, go talk to a—”
“Hold that thought.” He squeezes my hand and walks out of the room.
“—loan officer,” I finish flatly.
He doesn’t come back for forty-five minutes. When he does, he’s flushed and appears mildly irritated but smiles at me. “Counteroffer.”
I raise a hand imperiously. Well?
“My brother Blake would love to come on board as an investor.”
“Is that so?”
His smile tightens. “I’ll warn you, Blake is ruthless. And very clever. I’ve given serious consideration to the possibility that he might be Lucifer. But he’s the best businessman and investor there is, and rich as sin. I asked him to help us out, but Blake doesn’t give away money. He enjoys putting stakes in businesses. Which means he’ll want to come down here to see for himself what we’re doing with the property. A hands-on approach.”
So this must be the fourth brother. There’s Casey, happily married, designer of websites. Then Michael, with a cattle ranch, who swings a fist if you call him by his real name, which is Humphrey. He told me yesterday about Tyler, a violinist so extroverted that Wesley gets hives simply by standing next to him.
“You asked him for a loan and he agreed just like that?”
“I asked him and he said no. So I called our mother.” He leaves it at that.
“So . . . what now? How much is he willing to give us? What are his interest rates?”
“He’s coming to visit in three weeks to negotiate that.” He doesn’t sound thrilled about it, which I can’t resist pointing out.
“I don’t like Blake,” he deadpans, “but I’d rather make deals with the devil than go talk to a loan officer I don’t know. Besides, if he becomes too much of a pain I’ll just call Mom again. I think she’s the only person on earth he’s afraid of.”
After we’ve finished mopping up the laundry room, I come clean about the woman I ran into at the gas station.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I say in a rush. “She might not even come. I gave her our address and told her that if her luck hasn’t changed by the end of the month, she has a place to stay. I know I should have asked you first, since this affects you, too, but—”
“Maybell.” He sweeps me up in a reassuring hug. “Your big heart is one of the things I like best about you. I can’t be mad when you use it.”
I tip my head up. “Yeah?”
“As long as you keep some room for me in there,” he says with a shrug, a transparent stab at being casual when I know he’s feeling anything but, “what’re a few neighbors?”
* * *
• • • • • • •
THIS WEEK HAS BEEN up and down, but Thursday night finds me in the kitchen, smack-dab in the middle of my slide into hysteria. “How difficult would it be to start canning preserves?” I’m wondering aloud to Wesley, who’s reserving tickets for upcoming livestock auctions on his laptop. “You’ve got all those bee boxes. We could do honey. And our own branding. Falling Stars Honey. Falling Stars Pumpkin Patch.” I gasp. “Falling Stars Petting Zoo.”
“No,” he says firmly.
“We’ll see,” I mutter, adding it to the Maybe list.
“Strawberry patch,” I continue. “We’ll grow all our own produce and be the thriftiest sons of bitches who ever lived.” I get swear-y when I’m on a roll. “We could plant an orchard, right?” I’m scribbling the name of every fruit and vegetable I can think of. “Blueberries, peaches, zucchini. We can be self-sustainable. Salads and casseroles. Huckleberry pies. We’ll recycle our own toilet paper.”
“We will not.”
“In the fall we’ll do apple picking and pumpkin carving. A corn maze.”
“Hope you enjoy planting corn mazes, because I’m not doing it,” he vows. “I will never.”
“We’ll harvest the corn and use it to feed your animals.”
“Fine, then.” Wesley sags in his chair. “Ugh. Somebody needs to stop you.”
I’m unstoppable. I envision myself reading press validation that my hotel is a hit. Positive reviews on my website. This can be a place where newlyweds and families and best friends on a road trip build happy memories. And maybe they come back year after year, making it a tradition. It’s all I could ever want, to be a part of that, for the journeys of strangers to bring them here, where they’ll make new friends with each other (and, I can’t help hoping, with me). Falling Stars will always be the happy-memories place for me—a warm and loving home. I want to share that with the world.
The first year is going to be a hurricane. Endless organizing, cooking, cleaning. And shopping. For meal prep alone, so much shopping. The draw of Falling Stars is its solitude, where you can see the stars and hear yourself think. Hiking. Exploring. Isolation. I’m selling Zen here. Guests won�
��t want to make a thirty-minute trip to buy dinner or pick up a toothbrush they forgot at home, so it’s imperative that I have every essential and comfort item a person could ever need in stock. If I survive the first year, and turn a profit, I might be able to hire more help.
Hours pass with me bent over my laptop and disorganized papers. Wesley ensures I don’t starve to death by tentatively poking a bowl of Cheerios in front of me. I scarf it down so quickly that I don’t taste anything. “Charades,” I mutter, scribbling. My hand is sore and sweaty. “A murder mystery dinner theater. A live band! With accordions!”
Wesley leans across me and scribbles out that last idea as soon as I jot it down.
“I am not biting off more than I can chew,” I tell him fervently.
“Never said you were.”
“Anyone who says that is severely underestimating my jaws.”
“I have no doubt,” he replies calmly, clicking a pen as he glances over my proposal for the biggest lettuce garden known to man.
I’m running numbers on ketchup now. Why is ketchup so expensive? Two dollars and fifty-two cents is highway robbery. Do I have the energy to pursue homemade-ketchup making? I smack myself. No! I’m already in too deep with crocheted coasters.
“It’s because I’m a born multitasker,” I rave. “I was born under a Libra moon, probably. Strong as an ox. We Maybells see your You can’t do this and we raise you an It may take me longer, but just watch me.” I raise my glass of lemonade in a toast to myself. “We’re weeds growing out of the cracks in concrete: even when we should have been defeated long ago, you can’t keep us down.”
Wesley is wordlessly collecting my things and shuffling them into a neat pile.
“I will make my own potpourri even if it kills me,” I declare.
Wesley pulls out my chair. “All right. Time for bed.”
“What?” I clutch the edge of the table. “No! I’m not ready to go!”
“It’ll be here for you in the morning. Fresh eyes.”
“No! I can’t go to bed, this is too important.” He steals me away as I reach for my spreadsheets and color-coded life planner. “I’m a Maybell Parrish! I’m the survivor who writes it all down in history books!”
“Of course you are,” he says tenderly.
As he begins to drag me off, my emotions ping-pong in the opposite direction. I’ve bitten off way more than I can chew and now I’m choking on it. “Who do I think I am?” I moan in despair. “Why did I think I could do all this? I couldn’t even give myself the quitting story I deserved.”
He looks down at me with a quizzical brow, asking without asking.
“I snuck out like a coward. No fanfare at all. I gave them my youth, Wesley, and there were days when the only thing getting me through was the fantasy about how I would quit someday. How I’d go off on my boss. Never did.” I give up, going slack. He catches my melting form and drags me down the hall with my socked heels gliding.
“Well, go back and quit.”
“You are not serious.”
“Am so.”
“I already quit, though. Back in April. My boss left me nasty voicemails about it. If I show up now, they’ll march me out with security.”
“Sounds like an amazing quitting story. Who cares if you don’t work there anymore? If you regret not going down in flames, go back there and go down in flames.”
I cock my head, considering it. “Huh.”
“Better late than never,” he prompts.
I let my head loll back as I admire him. “You have such a beautiful point.”
He snorts.
“I’ll go back to Around the Mountain and get the quitting story of my dreams if you’ll do something you’ve always wanted to do, too,” I tell him.
“Like a pact?”
“Yes. Perfect.” I revel in the sound of that, imagining the all-seeing Fates at their loom, weaving our tapestry. “An unbreakable pact.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Loch Ness,” he remarks. I can’t tell if he’s merely indulging me right now. From his tone, he sounds greatly amused.
“Someday I’ll quit that job I don’t even have anymore, and you’ll go find your Loch Ness Monster and keep it a secret from everybody. I’ll even come with you.”
Wesley laughs. “Deal. But my one condition is no pictures. We never photograph the supernatural.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
“Let’s shake on it.”
He squeezes his arms tighter around me and shakes my whole body. I tell him he isn’t funny, which is a lie. Then I tell him that was a lie, because I say whatever I’m thinking when I’m sleep-deprived. “What if this is all just a simulation,” I mutter.
He tucks me into bed, taking care to fluff my pillows and refill my water. I bet if I ever get sick, he’ll bring me heating pads and chicken noodle soup.
“Wesley, if I don’t finish my to-do list right now, I’ll never have peace. You don’t understand. My brain literally won’t be able to turn off.”
He turns on my white-noise machine and shuts off the light.
“I’ve got so much to do. I can’t sleep. Physically, I can’t sleep. Not even if I try.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Just one more email. I’ll make it a quick one. I am really good at . . .” My eyes close against their will. “I am so good at emailing. Not everybody is, you know.”
“You’re the best at emailing.” His voice is warm with affection, and my little balloon heart swells beyond capacity.
“I love your smile,” I prattle. I can’t see his smile right now, but I can hear it. “You smile so much more now than you did when I met you.”
He wavers at the door for so long that I think he’s left.
“When I’m around people I don’t know, I rarely smile,” Wesley confesses at length. “When you smile, people look at you more. I prefer to blend in. For nobody to notice me.”
Snip, and away it flies. Goodbye, heart.
“It’s impossible not to notice you. I would know a Wesley in a room full of imitations. I’d know a Wesley anywhere. Go out into the woods right now and I’ll find you in thirty seconds flat.”
“I don’t mind you noticing me,” he admits, door creaking as he begins to close it behind him. “At least, not anymore. But you’re the only one allowed to, okay?”
“I’ll add it as a clause to our pact.” I shake hands with the air.
I am going to get out of bed. No one can stop me. My last intelligible words that I announce to the empty room are: “I’m allergic to cayenne pepper. Don’t tell anybody.”
Next thing I know, it’s one in the afternoon the following day.
Chapter 19
I AM FACING MY CLOSED bedroom door at 7:59 p.m. on Friday, already sweating through my dress, waiting for that knock that just might mark the beginning of everything.
This is the sixth outfit I’ve tried on—if I had the time, I’d probably change again—light pink with cherries all over. It’s supposed to be a knockoff of a strawberry-print dress I love that’s way out of my budget, and although it doesn’t look anything like the Amazon picture, it fits nicely and twirls whenever I turn. I stressed myself out trying to land on a decent hairstyle, unable to commit to a high pony when I know I’ll end up with a headache, unable to do a fishtail braid like the one in the tutorial. I messed with it until my previously gleaming locks got frizzy, ended up having to wash and style it again, and now it’s damp, hanging loose, because I don’t trust myself to experiment with it anymore.
I have never been this nervous.
There’s no reason to be nervous. This is Wesley. Gawky, shy, uncomfortable, unintentionally charming Wesley.
Knock, knock, knock.
My heart springs into overdrive. This is it. I haven’t been on a first date in . . .
it’s best not to count. A long time. What will we be doing? Where are we going? Will he kiss me again? I clutch my purse like it’s a life preserver and rethink my choice of shoes. If we’re doing anything outdoorsy I’m going to regret these heels.
I open the door and all of my intelligent thoughts fall right off the shelf.
The man on the other side is tall, broad shouldered, strong jawed, in a suit of blackest black. Dark blond hair falls in waves that make me think of ivy tendrils. He’s the god of spring, powerful but sweet, burying things to make them come alive. The god of spring carries earth and rain on his skin wherever he goes. His brown eyes are topaz—a glass of root beer held up to the light, widening as he slackens against the door frame like he’s just been wounded.
“Oh . . .” His gaze rakes me. His eyes go wider still, and he rubs his chin. “Wow.”
I resist a million electrical impulses: to look away, bite my lip, cross my ankles, fiddle with my purse, fidget with my hair. To say apologetically, The dress doesn’t look like the one I ordered, or minimize myself with a grimace and a My hair’s misbehaving. When he looks at me that way, I feel like a goddess.
I feel . . .
“Yes,” I agree, drawing myself up strong and tall. “You are a lucky boy tonight, Mr. Koehler.”
He nods, not a whisper of humor in it. “I am.”
In heels, I don’t have to jump to kiss him, but I do have to yank his lapel to get him to dip his head. One hand slides up his smooth cheek, and I leave a kiss on the other. When I pull away, his eyes follow me in such an intimate way that I get tingles all down my spine. “You look incredible, as always. Where are we going?”
Wesley inhales a bracing breath. Puts on a practiced smile that quivers just the slightest bit, trying very hard to cover up his nerves. His hands are clenched at his sides. “I’m taking you to heaven.”
I must be hearing things. “Wesley Koehler. Is that a pickup line?”
He holds out a stick of chewing gum. “You might need this.”