The Hideaway Inn

by Philip William Stover

  I sold off all my toys that had price tags over four figures, rented out my penthouse and decided to come out here just for the summer so I could flip this place, make a huge profit, get back on my feet and go back to New York City.

  “And you?” I ask, changing the subject. “What have you been up to?” I don’t want to ask it but the next question just falls out of my mouth and I can’t stop it. “What happened with you and Evie?” I squeeze my hands into a fist after the question comes out and dig my nails into my hand. Why would I give him even the slightest indication that I care about him and Evie?

  “I was wondering when you would ask that,” he says. Oh, screw you, Tack. I stare straight ahead.

  “Just making conversation,” I say, throwing the line away, my voice perfectly steady and without a hint of inflection.

  “Sure,” he says. “Well, about a year or so after high school we got hitched.”

  “I see.” I make sure I show zero emotion on the outside. My insides, though, crash with the pain of knowing, without a doubt, that he never wanted and never could want me. The rejection still smacks me in the heart and makes me feel like a bale of hay he doesn’t even know has fallen off his truck.

  I look out the window and see the river hug a small, newly green island in the middle of the flow. It’s been fifteen years and I’ll be here for just the season. What do I care about him and Evie? It doesn’t matter how much I wanted Tack, how often I thought about him or how perfect I thought our lives could be together. It’s not what he wanted. He made that clear; I guess I just never let myself picture them actually getting married. “I know that’s what you always wanted.”

  “It was. By the way, which place in New Hope? The one between the playhouse and the water?” I’m totally fine with him being the one to change that rancid subject.

  “Yeah, The Hideaway Inn. There’s a big Memorial Day weekend luncheon this afternoon in the restaurant.”

  “The Hideaway? People have been calling that the Hide-a-went. They haven’t seen a guest at that place for years. Restaurant is still open though.”

  “Thank you, Tack. I am aware.”

  “Have you seen it recently, though?”

  “No. Closed-bid auction. All online. Sight unseen.”

  “Oh...” His eyes widen like I just said I purchased an ancient ruin.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ah, nothing.” There is a slight but noticeable mocking laugh in his voice.

  “Look, stop being an asshole,” I say.

  “Asshole? I’m the one who picked you up off the side of the road.”

  “Yeah, well, you are also the one who...” I’m about to bring up the past when I see a sign on the road that reads “New Hope, this way.” Tack takes the turn. “Never mind,” I say and we go back to a chilly silence.

  We cross over from New Jersey to Pennsylvania on the New Hope-Lambertville Bridge. New Hope looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting—small, boldly painted colonial-style buildings line a river walk with trees, fountains and a gazebo. The historic Bucks County Playhouse that was once a gristmill proudly anchors the landscape.

  As we turn on to Main Street I realize that the town is more like a Norman Rockwell painting if old Norm had been a power-bottom with a social activist consciousness. Rainbow flags hang from almost every storefront, same-sex couples walk hand in hand and “Love is love” signs cover the town like it’s a mandatory municipal ordinance.

  “Never any place to park in this town. Okay to use the parking at the Hide-a-went?” Tack asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “But if you call it that again I’ll make sure you’re towed into the Delaware.” I’m kidding, of course, I wouldn’t have his truck towed into the river. I’d just push it in myself.

  Tack pulls in front of The Hideaway Inn and I see my investment for the first time. A three-story stately stone home that, according to my research, was built in the mid-eighteenth century by a wealthy farmer who wanted to have a place on the river away from his crops. I imagine he also had some side-action in town. There are more windows than a typical structure from the time period, and the previous owner blew out the back of the place so that the dining area and guest rooms have huge, expansive windows and a sundeck with amazing views of the river.

  Once Tack pulls into the tiny lot I grab my bag and get out of the truck. “I won’t be parked long, just need to drop these vegetables and eggs off at the Ferry Market on the next block,” he says. “See you around.”

  “Sure,” I say and watch him walk away carrying a crate of produce that make his triceps flex so hard they look like sleek torpedoes ready to be fired. No. I will not spend the summer lusting after Tack. Again. I’ll make sure I don’t see Tack again while I’m in New Hope. I’ll avoid him with the same enthusiasm I avoid porta potties at outdoor music festivals. If I do run into him on the street I’ll simply run into oncoming traffic or set myself on fire. My latest, and currently sole, investment is right in front of me. Time to start understanding what I’ve gotten myself into.

  On closer inspection of the inn, I notice a few details that I need to take care of: painting the peeling trim with a brighter color, fixing the blue shutters that cling to the edges of the windows like their lives depend on it, and getting rid of those garish pride flags that make the place look cluttered. I look up to the third floor where the owner’s suite is located and make a mental note to replant the window boxes with red geraniums before the weeds reach past the windows.

  I look at my watch and realize I only have about forty minutes until the LGBTQ Historical Society arrives for their annual Memorial Day Weekend luncheon. While the guest rooms have been closed for some time, the cafe has been running continuously thanks to the dedication of the restaurant manager, Anita Patel, who I have been phoning and emailing with since the sale. She impressed me with her no-nonsense attitude even if she thinks I work for her rather than the other way around. She thought this luncheon would be a good way to introduce the new ownership and get to know the most powerful LGBTQ community members. I just wanted to know how much we were charging and the bottom-line profit for the event. Anita avoided a real answer but mentioned a “community discount” for the group, which I honored, but that won’t be happening again. It’s a business, not a charity.

  I open the front door to the cafe. Ruffled burgundy curtains that look like they were put up the night disco was invented sag over the windows and shabby white napkins sit sadly on threadbare tablecloths. Some of the walls are painted a cheery yellow. Others have wallpaper from what must have been an ancient asylum for the criminally ugly and still others are painted bright blue. It’s the opposite of my favorite places in New York, all of which have dark colors and stark exposed steel beams. Still, there is a part deep inside me that finds this place cozy and warm. There is even a crackling fire in the massive brick fireplace that covers the entire back wall and it helps take off the late-May chill. The place definitely needs a good deal of work but that’s what I’m here to do.

  BOOM!

  A small hydrogen bomb has exploded. I walk toward the sound and swing open the door to the kitchen. A woman in chef’s gear and an older, slightly frail man wearing a waiter’s uniform are standing a few inches from each other, arguing. The floor is covered with cookware, trays and what look like raw Cornish game hens.

  “What the fuck?” I shout as I barge through the doors.

  “I cannot work with this imbecile anymore. He ruined the entire meal,” the woman in the chef’s uniform barks at me. “We have nothing to serve to half the guests!” Carla. The chef. Anita had described her as small but tightly wound.

  “You weren’t paying attention as usual and knocked over the tray. I wasn’t even on that side of the kitchen, dearie,” the man says, his tone as pointed as a needle. He must be Clayton the waiter.

  “Where’s Anita?” I demand, lo
oking at the clock above the back door and realizing we don’t have much time until the luncheon.

  “Who are you?” Carla asks in full attack mode.

  “I’m Vince,” I shoot back at her. “The new owner.”

  “Great. The first thing you can do is fire him. Now!” Chef Carla points at Clayton, who gives me a look like someone ran over his cat.

  “I have been at this cafe over twenty years. How dare you,” he says.

  “How dare I? I’m the chef,” Carla retorts.

  “Let’s all stay calm,” I say, despite the fact that it feels like things are already out of control. “We have some important guests arriving very soon. Let’s work this out after we have a successful lunch.”

  More general screaming between the two erupts.

  Oh, hell no. “Stop it!” I finally shout louder than both of them. They shut up immediately.

  Chef Carla points her finger at me. “I do not want that man in my kitchen one second longer. Fire him. Now!”

  I do not do well with people telling me what to do. At. All. “We will work this out after lunch, I said.”

  There is a moment of silence and then Carla unties her apron and throws it on the ground.

  Oh no.

  “I have worked in kitchens up and down the river and I refuse to have my authority undermined. I am the chef. What I say is law. Maybe you don’t understand how a kitchen works.”

  She couldn’t be more right but I’m not about to let her know that.

  “I quit!” she shouts and walks out the door.

  Normally if someone under me threw a tantrum like that I would hold the door open for them as they walked out, but with guests about to arrive, I need her. The last meal I cooked involved a microwave and soggy leftover pizza.

  I walk out the back door of the kitchen and run after her. “Carla, wait!” I say but she quickly barrels down Main Street. “Carla!” I yell but she is too far away or pretending not to hear me. Either way, I’m screwed. I yell out, “Carla! Carla!” like I am looking for a lost dog. A few people stare at me and I don’t think it can get much worse until something rolls over my left foot.

  Chapter Three

  “Ow!” I shout.

  “Why the hell did I see our chef walking away from the restaurant when the luncheon is about to begin?”

  “Hey, roll off my foot,” I plead.

  “When you tell me what happened to our chef.”

  “Our chef?” I ask the crazy woman in a wheelchair.

  “Duh, yes. I’m obviously Anita. We’ve been emailing for weeks. How many butch Indian women using wheelchairs do you think there are in this small town?” she asks, using her hand control to maneuver her chair enough to release the pressure on my foot. “And obviously, you’re Vince.”

  Anita does not wait for confirmation. She rolls into high gear and tourists are forced to jump off the curb out of her way. She seems like she couldn’t care less as her long silk scarf flows behind her. I jog to keep up.

  “Wait!” I say, and she finally slows her roll when we get to the tiny parking lot.

  “We don’t have time. We have to find someone to finish the meal.” She does a pivot turn right in front of Tack’s truck.

  “Don’t you have a backup cook?” I ask her, assuming she must know someone.

  “No, I do not have a backup cook!” I have obviously pissed her off. “You think I also keep a pocket Chef Boyardee in the back of my wheelchair or have Rachael Ray in my phone contacts?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m desperate here.” I do not want to have to use one of my least favorite words in the English language—refund. I’m angry at myself for not getting here earlier but I had the closing in New York and the last of my things to pack. The frustration builds and I punch the first thing in front of me, which just happens to be Tack’s truck.

  “Don’t hurt Axel, he didn’t do nothing to you except get your ass to town.” Tack pets the rearview mirror of the truck like it’s a rescued kitten.

  Where the hell did Tack come from? I’m in the middle of an emergency that I’m sure can’t be solved by a sexy farm boy. “Don’t you have some radishes to peddle?” I ask, dismissing him.

  “My cousin Richard is, as you say, peddling today. I just made the delivery,” he says, ignoring my tone and responding with a more playful one.

  “Tack, you’re here. I’m so glad. We need your help,” Anita says. Suddenly her scowl turns to sweet roses talking to Tack. He may know how to charm Anita but my association with Tack ended when I got out of his truck.

  “What happened?” Tack asks me. “You’ve only been here ten minutes.”

  “Yeah, and in that time the chef quit and half the food for lunch has been destroyed. Tack, do you think you can help us?” Anita asks.

  “Let me see,” he says, and walks to the blue-painted door set in the old stone wall at the back of the inn.

  I’m about to throw myself in front of the door like the inn has been quarantined but Tack is inside before I have a chance. “What makes you think some redneck farm boy knows anything about cooking?” I ask Anita, assuming Tack will be useless to help.

  “He just finished his first year at Bucks Culinary. I think he knows more than either of us,” she says and wheels through the back door.

  Tack? Culinary school? The guy who spent most of his time with crops and horses is training to be a chef? They guy who survived the summer on beefy jerky, Mountain Dew and leftover Easter jelly beans? I’ll believe it when I see it. I follow them both to the kitchen.

  “Hey, Clayton,” Tack says as he walks inside.

  “Oh, Tack, I’m so grateful you’re here. That witch has lost her mind. I wasn’t anywhere near the hens. She must have knocked them over. Not me,” Clayton says. His voice is high-pitched and he has a slight lisp. He is exactly the kind of guy Tack’s buddies would have made fun of on one of their trips to New Hope. But Clayton seems to know Tack; he even takes comfort in the fact that Tack is here.

  Tack looks around the kitchen, takes a quick inventory of the walk-in fridge, grabs some things from the pantry and turns on the oven.

  “What do you think?” Anita asks.

  Tack walks past Anita and Clayton and stands in front of me. “I think I’m going to save your ass for the second time today,” he says with a sly smile. He’s enjoying this. His face is right next to mine. I can almost feel his breath on my skin. I make sure my eyes are cold and blank despite feeling hot and excited. I make sure no emotion escapes.

  “I’ll be right back,” Tack says and heads out the door. I’m able to finally release the air I’ve been tightly holding in my lungs.

  “Wait a minute. Do you two know each other?” Anita asks.

  “Oh, dearie, isn’t it obvious?” Clayton adds.

  “No,” I say. “We do not know each other. I mean, we used to. I mean, we went to the same school, that’s all.”

  Clayton looks me up and down. “Just like I said. They know each other.” He makes the word know sound dirty.

  “Anita, I do not want Tack anywhere near this place let alone cooking lunch. I want him out!”

  “Oh, sure,” she says, smiling like a crocodile. “We’ll just throw away the food, refund everyone’s money. Is that what you want to do?”

  She knows full well what a last-minute cancellation would do to our goodwill with the community.

  “Fine.” I realize I have no other options, but I hate the fact that Tack is swooping in—for the second time today—to save my (very firm) ass. I am not here to rely on anyone, and certainly not Tack O’Leary.

  “Luckily,” Tack says, kicking the door open with his foot, “we didn’t need all of this at the farm stand.” He’s carrying a box of bright green and dark reddish-purple lettuce with some radishes and carrots poking out. The way he is holding the box makes his biceps form perfect
peaks on each side. I’m about to lose the last investment I have and I’m fantasizing about this guy’s biceps. Focus, Vince. Work and sex do not mix. Anymore.

  “Look, I can’t just take your stuff,” I say.

  “You’re not. I’m going to invoice you for this. This is prime local, organic produce. It doesn’t grow on trees,” he says. “I mean, the cherries and apricots do but you know what I mean.” He gives me that grin, that cocky grin I know better than any grin. But this time I am forty percent sure he’s flirting with me. Maybe forty-two percent.

  “Here is what we are going to do,” he says. “I have some strawberries on my truck and saw club soda in the fridge. Clayton, you make pitchers of spritzers with a few good bottles of chardonnay from the wine storage and what I saw in the fridge. Vinny...”

  My entire body tenses when I hear that name and he can tell.

  “Sorry, Vince,” he says calmly. He gently hands me a pair of scissors. “You use these scissors to cut the Cornish game hens in half that didn’t mop the floor. That way we’ll have enough for each person and they’ll cook a lot faster. I’ll use the greens and whatever else I can find to make a nice salad and a side. Anita, you be your charming self and greet the guests and help Clayton with the drinks. By the time Clayton has them full of wine, all of this will be ready.”

  Clayton and Anita hop to their jobs but I’m immobile. Tack O’Leary is in the kitchen of my inn preparing lunch for the New Hope LGBTQ Historical Society. I watch him take off his flannel shirt to reveal his golden body already freckled for the summer. He extends his arm to grab one of the aprons hanging near the walk-in fridge and his biceps and triceps lengthen, showing off the smooth curves and sinewy muscles of his arms. He ties the apron on behind his back and an entirely different set of muscles are on display.