The Hideaway Inn

by Philip William Stover

  “Anita,” I say, turning away from the window and leaning against the wall. “You don’t understand. Tack and I....”

  Anita lets out a laugh that makes her whole chair shake.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Obviously there is something going on between the two of you. But that’s the past. It’s time to start thinking about your present and future. Without Tack, I’m not sure this place has one. I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what chefs earn and I know what you can pay. I also know Tack is looking for a new place to stay.”

  “He is?”

  “Yeah, he’s living with his dad now.”

  That alone explains why he wants to move. But still, I don’t want him to move in with me.

  “Tack wants to be closer to town also. Vince, I’d tell you to consider all the options but there are no other options. It’s Tack or nothing.”

  “But, Anita...” I start to whine and immediately catch myself. That is not who I am now. I can make hard decisions. I’m able to push my feelings aside in order to reach my goals and that is what I intend to do. Anita is right. Tack is part of my past and whatever happened back then is over. It doesn’t have any impact on the current situation because I say it doesn’t. That’s what a man does. He takes control of his present and his future.

  “Fine,” I say firmly and flatly. Asking Tack to live and work here is the best decision for all involved. This will help me turn a profit so I can flip this place and get back to New York. I head upstairs to do some more unpacking. “Let me know what he says when you ask him,” I say and hop onto the first step.

  “Oh, hell no,” Anita says and I freeze.

  “I thought you wanted to hire Tack?” I say, continuing up the steps.

  “I do. But I’m not going to make the offer. You are.”

  Boom. I lose my footing and trip over the next step, hitting the wall with the side of my body.

  This is gonna hurt.

  Chapter Nine

  The view from the deck overlooking the river is magnificent. Manhattan is an island but even after living there for years I never really thought about the water surrounding it. The Delaware River, however, runs alongside New Hope, an always-present, loyal companion. It’s the same river from before I left but it’s also a completely different one. Water from the mountains miles away slowly descends to the headwaters and eventually rushes past me in this moment. It’s never the same river twice.

  I take one last swig of coffee and one last view of the muddy rushing water. The trees on the riverbank bend against the flow. They are just beginning to make good on their promise of a summer bloom.

  My best chance to talk to Tack is after he is done at the market and before he heads back to the farm, according to Anita. I’m about to ask Tack to work at my inn and move in with me. I might as well strip down to my underwear and attend the monthly board meeting of the firm I was let go from since that is also a recurring nightmare of mine.

  Before I meet Tack I walk down Main to see if his favorite pretzel place is still there. I remember he had a thing for Mr. Pretzel’s cinnamon and sugar twists. I’d buy one to split when he took a break from working on the fence that summer. At first, I would pretend that I just happened to be walking the property line of the farm and I just happened to be carrying his favorite treat with me. Then as the summer developed and we began to connect I brought them without any pretense whatsoever.

  I cringe thinking about what a lovesick puppy I must have seemed to him. For a second, I change my mind about using the pretzels as a lure but once I’m close enough to smell the butter and sugar I can’t change course. Making myself vulnerable to Tack is the last thing I want to do and if I have to do it, I’m going to need carbs.

  As I approach the farmers market, pretzel twists in tow, I see that Tack is loading up his truck getting ready to leave. It’s warmer than it was the other day so he’s just wearing a loose T-shirt and his well-worn jeans that are so tight it makes it almost impossible not to stare at his groin and imagine what each bulge is hiding. His biceps pulse each time he lifts a crate onto his pickup. Mindlessly I grab a pretzel twist out of the bag as I stare at Tack’s ass. I have no idea how long I’m staring when I’m suddenly forced back to earth.

  “Did you move back here just for the pretzels?” Tack asks from across the sidewalk. Caught, I walk closer to him and pretend he didn’t see what he just saw.

  “These pretzels are your favorite. Not mine,” I remind him.

  He grabs the last crate from the table, puts it on the truck and then sits on the tailgate. I walk over to stand directly in front of him. He looks closely at what I’ve been munching.

  “No, mine are the ones with the cheese filling. You have the sweet tooth. I’m salty.”

  Is he right? I thought we both liked them. “In any case,” I say, regathering my thoughts so as not to appear weak. “This is an official peace offering.” I hand him the uneaten one.

  Tack doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. Silence can make me uncomfortable and I sometimes need to grip down to make it through but this silence with Tack is different. It’s comfortable. We aren’t saying anything in the moment but it feels like we are communicating.

  “Vince,” he says and I immediately feel appreciation that he is using the name I prefer. “You were stressed. You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

  “I know I was kind of a dick.”

  “No, you weren’t,” he says. “You were a complete dick.”

  “Hey...” I say, about to stop him.

  “But,” he interrupts me. “I accept this pretzel, that you happen to be devouring, as a yeasty olive branch. But, Vince, I want to...” he starts but I stop him.

  “Listen, Tack. I didn’t come here to talk about the past. I’m here to talk about the present and the future.”

  He moves the last crate of radishes deeper into the bed of his truck and then closes the tailgate and leans against it. “Okay, I’m listening.” He’s calm but there is a small smile on his lips that makes me think he is eager to hear what I have to say.

  “I have a business proposition for you.”

  “What? I didn’t hear you. Did you say you want to proposition me? Vincent Amato, right here on Main Street?”

  Tack has always been a smart-ass but he’s never been a flirt. At least not with me and definitely not out in the open. We’re at the farmers market where he knows every turnip that fell off the truck.

  “A business proposition,” I say. “Business. If you can’t be serious then just forget it.”

  “I’m sorry. No jokes. I’m listening.” His entire body changes and I can tell he is focused on what I’m saying like when I would tell him about the books I was reading.

  “As you are well aware, The Hideaway Inn needs a chef for the dinner service. We are reframing much of the P&L statement for the enterprise.”

  “English, please.”

  He wears me down.

  “I need a chef. I can’t pay much but I can provide room and board.” I don’t want to reveal that I know he’s split from Evie. Not yet, at least.

  Tack suddenly looks very interested. “One of the rooms? At the inn. Here in New Hope?”

  “Yes,” I say. I should tell him that it means actually sharing the upstairs apartment with me but I leave out that detail since I’m dreading the awkwardness.

  He looks at me with very wide eyes. “Vince, before we discuss that, there are a few things I need to tell you. First, you brought up Evie the other day and the truth is we’re divorced. Also I think you should know...”

  “Stop,” I say. The only way I can manage this untenable situation is if I draw a firm line here.

  “But Vince...”

  “Your personal life is your personal life. This is not about that at all. This is about the inn.” Once I have mad
e myself clear I continue. “We would have much of the same staff in terms of service and food prep. Anita has managed to keep the line cooks and bus boys, et cetera, but we need someone to chef. Anita thinks you can do it.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I can’t cook. It would be like a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving with toast and jelly beans.”

  “No, I mean, do you think I can do it?” He looks at me squarely. All his charm and charisma stands to the side as he bites his lower lip, waiting for an answer. I assume he’s asking me in a professional context. Could my personal opinion be that important to him?

  I’ve been going on Anita’s word and the fact that there doesn’t seem to be any other option. I haven’t really thought about whether he has the talent or not. I wish I could say that I haven’t thought about him since I left over a decade ago but that isn’t true. I thought about him a lot and not just when I had my dick in my hand. But the Tack I thought about is not the one standing before me waiting for approval. Tack used to seem impenetrable to me—a compelling mystery I enthusiastically tried to unravel without success. After I left I assumed Tack’s life would progress in entirely the way it had been planned for him. Culinary school is the last place I expected him to be but I guess “Most Popular” isn’t a skill set on LinkedIn.

  “I thought your plan was to work your dad’s farm. I had no idea you changed course,” I say.

  “It was, but my dad is getting on in age. He’s never been exactly a live and let live kind of guy.”

  “I remember.” Mr. O’Leary was a deacon or something at the church they went to. Their church preached a form of Christianity that considered anything beyond reading the Bible and breathing to be a sin, and I’m not sure breathing wasn’t on the list. I kept my distance from his dad but Tack told me plenty of stories about strict punishments and unreasonable expectations.

  “My brothers moved away and my dad has a few farmhands that keep the animals going and produce a few crops that we sell here. He’s sold off some of the land and rented some to farmers. He has nurses around the clock or members of the congregation see to him. He doesn’t need me. I’ve made some adjustment in my plans. You’re not the only one that can change,” he says. It’s not a challenge; it’s more of an invitation—like he wants me to find out more.

  He grabs a small bucket that looks like it has leftover vegetable parts in it. I see browned radish greens and an oddly shaped carrot. “Come help me feed the ducks,” he says and starts walking toward the shoreline of the river.

  I panic. I look over at the small hut with a freehand painting of Donald Duck and the words “Quack Shack.” Tourists buy bags of food for whatever web-footed scavengers are in the area. “It’s sold out,” I say. “No more bags.” It doesn’t say that at all but I’m hoping he believes me.

  “What are you talking about? Anyway, I’ve got scraps right here. Let’s go.”

  He starts walking and I freeze. He looks at me and then realizes why I’m so terrified.

  “Don’t worry. Mrs. Waddles isn’t there. Old girl has been gone a while.”

  My body relaxes and I follow him toward the sound of gently lapping water. The ducks are waiting for Tack and as soon as they see him they gather around and wait for his scraps. It’s the high school lunch room all over again.

  Even though I believe Tack, I look closely for Mrs. Waddles. I hated that feathered spawn of Satan and she hated me. We had a whole thing going on for years. She once bit my finger so hard it bled. The very memory of Mrs. Waddles is enough to make me never want to return here. That duck was a complete shithead.

  Tack offers me the bucket and a few ducks that don’t seem to know about my long-standing feud with their cousin approach me. I feed them fearfully but without incident and hope Tack doesn’t see my trepidation. From the riverbank, the trellis bridge that connects New Hope to Lambertville rumbles calmly as cars transfer from one state to the other. The aqua-green patina glows against the dirty brown river in the afternoon sun.

  I take a limp piece of celery out of the bucket, stare at the duck to avoid eye contact with Tack and ask, “So what made you get interested in cooking?” I should just ask him directly—look him in the eye like a man. I’m offering him a job and this is a question any employer would ask. But I’m not asking as a business owner. As much as I hate myself for it, I’m asking for me. I want to know.

  Tack walks over to a bench on the river walk and sits down. I sit next to him but make sure we don’t touch. I don’t trust what that physical connection would do to me. I’m also careful to keep an eye on these ducks.

  “I love the farm. I still do. It’s just that being on the farm is isolating.” Tack stares out at the water. “We work the fields, tend to the animals and it’s all connected to the land and that felt great. In fact, for most of my life it did more than that.”

  He stops, picks a stone from under his foot and throws it so it skips across the water.

  “More than what?” I ask.

  “It made me feel protected from the world. Of course, my dad always made it seem like the world was out to destroy itself and everyone who didn’t follow his rules.”

  “I never thought you needed protection from anything.” The world always seemed to be made for Tack. Whatever he wanted seemed to appear magically in front of him—popularity, good looks, athleticism.

  “I mean, I did. Well, I do. Doesn’t everybody need that?”

  “No, I don’t. Not anymore,” I say with conviction. I want him to know I don’t need anyone to protect me anymore. I protect myself and I do it more fiercely than anyone else ever could.

  “I can see that,” Tack says and he looks at me but the glance is too quick to know if it is filled with admiration, respect or something else altogether. “But then things changed. I changed. I wanted to be out in the world.”

  I want to ask him how he’d changed but it’s too cloying a question. I just told him how I no longer need protection. I can’t retreat on that by demonstrating neediness.

  “I started doing less at the farm and more at the market. I would talk to people buying our produce. They’d tell me what they were planning to cook. I listened and started trying things at home. I got pretty good at it and then I wanted to share my food with other people. If I used ingredients from my farm or the farms I knew, it would be like bringing that private part out and making it public.”

  He picks up another rock and throws it toward the water but this one doesn’t skip at all, it just sinks to the bottom of the river.

  The sky turns cloudy and a wind rolls off that river that brings a chill to the air. The river walk is empty and we just sit on the bench staring straight ahead, not saying anything. I want to turn and look at him so I can see into his eyes and feel even more of his story or touch his arm or move his blond bangs off his face but I fight every urge I have and stare straight ahead. I watch the sun’s rays refract on the water like a river disco ball until a cloud moves across the sky and flattens the sharpness of the light.

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  “What?”

  “Yes. I believe you can do it.”

  The clouds shift again and the sun reappears, dancing on the water. I feel Tack turn his head toward me and, without thinking, I turn my head to meet his and our eyes connect.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I won’t let you down.” He grabs the now empty bucket and walks back to the market. I stay and stare at the water rushing under the bridge as it splits around the pylons holding up the bridge and then comes back together on the other side.

  It’s never the same river twice.

  Chapter Ten

  Tack

  Pesto with the basil from the sunny herb garden across from the bend in the river. Mushrooms from the guy across from me at the farmers market. Cheese from the goat farm just outside of town. A list of ingredients starts entering my mind fr
om every direction.

  I can’t wait to start designing menus, surveying the local food chain for the best ingredients and thinking about how to blend different seasonal flavors. I’m not going to disappoint Vinny—I mean Vince. I’m not going to disappoint Vince. The commute has been rough but it’s been the only way to pursue my passion and still be a part of the life of the most important person in the world to me: my kid.

  I drive down Main Street toward the more residential part of town where Evie lives in an apartment in one of the massive Victorians that jewel the tree-lined streets. After the divorce she got a job at a clothing store in town and a girlfriend named Ines who teaches Portuguese at the local university. It made sense for her to be in town and we save money with me staying at the farm even though I’d rather be closer.

  Evie and I were clinging to each other for a lot of the same reasons. She was terrified by her attraction to women and I didn’t want to deal with my same-sex feelings, but once we had a kid we both realized we needed to be better role models and found a way to be honest with each other. Even though we’ve been divorced a few years we’re closer now than we ever were. Partly because we’ve finally been honest with each other and partly because we happen to co-parent the best kid in the world.

  I turn up Old Mill Road and find a spot right in front of the blue and yellow meticulously maintained gingerbread where Evie rents the back apartment. Ines hasn’t moved in yet but it’s only a matter of time.

  I hear arguing in the backyard and immediately open the picket fence to go behind the house and see what’s going on.

  “Jules, I told you. You can wear the purple T-shirt with the dinosaur or the red one with the truck but you have to wear your pants.” Evie sounds like she is on her last nerve.

  “What’s going on?” I make sure my tone is not elevated or agitated in any way. I hate hearing them argue. I don’t like confrontation.