The Hideaway Inn

by Philip William Stover

  Jules has their back toward me and is holding one of their favorite dresses. “But, please, Mom. I don’t want to wear that. I want to wear this,” they say and hold up the dress.

  “Great,” Evie sighs. “Reinforcements.”

  “What’s going on?” I repeat as calmly as possible.

  Before she can answer my kid sees me and runs over and hugs my legs. “Dad!” It’s like a magic word that makes my heart overflow with love and pride. “Can I wear this today? Please. I was thinking about it all last night and it’s really the perfect day to wear it.”

  They hold up an orange dress with purple glittery tulle for a skirt. It’s something a ballerina in a circus in outer space might wear. It’s silly, and flamboyant and wonderful—just like Jules.

  “Wow!” I say. “That’s amazing. Are you going tightrope walking on Mars?”

  Jules looks at me like I have come up with the most fantastic idea in the world.

  “Yes,” they say and go back to running around the backyard, playing without a care in the world.

  Once Jules is out of earshot Evie explains. “It’s this screwed up camp. I know we interviewed them and thought everything would be okay but the director called and they said he has to wear pants every day. He’s been wearing overalls and some pants but today he has his heart set on that dress. I have no idea why.” I put my arm around Evie. It’s clear she has been through it and her eyes look red from tears.

  “They. They have their heart set on that dress,” I say as softly as possible.

  Evie sits down and puts her head in her hand. She looks like she might start crying again. “You’re right,” she says. “They.” We started trying to use a more neutral pronoun with Jules a few months ago when they requested it. All of the books and articles we read said allowing them to choose was the right thing to do. I don’t want to force them into a gender choice and I also want them to be whoever they need to be. I was never allowed any choices growing up. I don’t want my kid to feel limited by the life they were born into the way I did. Maybe Jules will be a fashion designer or a coal miner or pickle briner. I don’t care. I want Jules to be happy.

  Maybe letting Jules choose what they are called is the right thing to do, maybe it’s messing them up. Maybe other parents would do it differently, I have no idea, but being a parent involves a lot of not knowing.

  “This ignorant director. Why can’t Jules express themselves as they want? What does it matter what they wear?”

  “Um, because the director is an ignorant ass.” I walk over to the empty chair next to her and sit down. “Let’s just pull them out.”

  “Who’s going to watch them? It’s not like we can leave them with your dad.”

  Evie almost never mentions my dad since she tries to keep her distance from him as much as possible. Jules is almost a stranger to him and, in most ways, even though I’ve been living in the room next to his for a couple years, so am I.

  “What about that other camp closer to Doylestown? Chapman Creek Day.”

  “Tack, you know we can’t afford that. It’s much more progressive and much more expensive. Inclusive philosophy, exclusive price tag.”

  Jules is dancing on the other side of the yard. They spin, jump up in the air and then land on the ground. We both have our eyes on them as we talk.

  “Who knew not being an asshole would cost more money,” I say and it lightens the mood enough to make her laugh. “I can watch him later this afternoon after I get back from the farm.”

  “And I can get Patricia to switch some shifts for me this week until we figure it out.” Jules moves to the sandbox and starts playing with their favorite dump truck, filling it with sand and letting it cascade out. Jules has no idea that they are “supposed” to like one thing or the other. They love dump trucks and tutus with equal enthusiasm. “Wait, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the farm?”

  “On my way but I wanted to stop here first to let you both know that I got a job in town. Cooking, actually, and it comes with room and board so I’ll just be a short ride instead of down at the farm across the river.”

  “Jules will love that,” she says enthusiastically. She is genuinely happy for me and it feels good to be able to do something that will benefit all of us.

  “Wait,” she says, moving forward in her chair. “Is this with Vinny? At Vinny’s place?” I told her about his return the other day and I could tell it made her radar go up. When I came out to her as bi I confessed that I first realized I had these feelings that summer with Vince. Of course, this came as no surprise to her but it was the first time I’d said it out loud to anyone. Even though I was with Evie in high school it was Vince who captured my heart. It was always Vince and I always had a hunch she knew it.

  “Do not call him Vinny. He goes by Vince now.” Driving with him in my truck last week is an image I can’t seem to shake and it makes a smile move across my lips with a gentle but unstoppable force. This does not go unnoticed by Evie.

  “Maybe the two of you...”

  “Evie, don’t go there,” I say firmly even though that and designing a menu are almost the only things I’ve been thinking about. “Things are different now. He’s different,” I say, hoping to throw her off the scent for a bit.

  “You’re different too,” she says, taking my hand. “He wanted you to accept who you are and you’ve done that. You’re out. You’re even out to your dad and I know that wasn’t easy.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” My dad knows but we’ve never actually spoken about it and I don’t suspect we ever will. But at least he knows.

  Jules comes over to us and says, “Can I go inside? I have an idea for a story and I want to write it down with my glitter crayons before I forget. It’s about a dump truck that fights fires but gets into a fight with an electric toothbrush and a tablecloth.”

  “Sure,” Evie says and gives them a kiss on the cheek.

  As soon as they are gone we both let out a laugh. This kid’s imagination will solve world hunger or create a binge-worthy reality show one day. It’s hard to know. One thing I do know is that I’m not going to let anybody punish their creativity.

  “We have to get them into Chapman Creek,” I say.

  “This job is great but doesn’t sound like it will bring in enough money.” She’s right. I think for a second. We pull in just enough to cover our expenses and anything outside the budget means carefully saving. When I needed a set of professional knives for school I had to save for months until I was able to make the purchase.

  And then I realize: “My knives,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “The Wusthof? No, no way. You saved for months and months and you need them. You said they make you feel like a real chef. No way.” They do. A good knife can be like an extension of a chef’s hand. Not only did I save for months, I also painstakingly researched each blade so I was sure I was getting the very best I could find.

  But in the end they’re just knives and Jules comes first.

  “I’m sure there are knives at The Hideaway.”

  “But you need them for class,” she insists.

  “I’m just taking Restaurant Operations this summer. It’s all spreadsheets and numbers.” I should say I’m retaking it since I failed it this spring. I can’t seem to make those columns on the spreadsheet do what I want. “I’ll figure out the fall classes later,” I say.

  “But...” She goes to make another argument but I don’t let her. I hold up my hand to signal I’ve made my decision.

  “It’s settled. I’ll call the Chapman camp and tell them we will have the deposit tomorrow and you call the assholes camp and tell them they’re assholes.”

  A wicked smile forms across Evie’s mouth. “With pleasure.” Evie used to be a total bitch to anyone who threatened the tight circle she built around herself in high school and, while she is totally reformed, I do rely on h
er bringing back that part every now and then.

  “Hey, Jules,” I yell back into the apartment. “Come on out here and show me and your mom how the skirt on that dress twirls when you spin.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I see Tack’s truck pull into the small parking lot. For a second I return to the idea of me taking on the chef’s role then I remember I had a protein shake and string cheese for lunch. This is a business arrangement. He is simply someone I have hired to do a job. He’s no different than Steve, the contractor I hired to renovate the rooms. Still, when I met with Steve last week I didn’t make sure to exfoliate, trim my facial hair and wear a shirt that showed off all the best parts of my upper body. I remind myself that I’m here to turn a profit and get out of this town and back to the city where there are no memories of being Skinny Vinny. I squeeze my hands into fists and feel my muscles tighten. I’m not going to let Tack get me off track.

  From the window, I watch him unload a few crates of produce and a large duffel from his truck. He’s wearing a tight, crisp white T-shirt and a pair of sharp khakis. I’ve seen a lot of handsome men in my life but there is something about Tack that is beyond anything else. He has this charismatic inner life that makes everyone around him want to be with him. At least that’s how it makes me feel. Made me feel. Made, I repeat to myself and hit my forehead.

  What have I done? Inviting Tack to work and live with me under the same roof is insane. After arranging all the details we decided he would cook a dinner for me to test a few menu items and then he could settle into the suite. I still haven’t been completely up front about the living arrangement but I’m hoping after dinner a meteor will hit town and solve most of my problems.

  Tack opens the back door, walks in and puts down his stuff. He grabs an apron from a crate and pulls it over his head, tying the strings in the back. I’m not really into bondage but something about seeing him struggle to tie the knot with his hands behind his back makes me reconsider the fetish. “I hope you’re ready for the best dinner of your entire life, Vinny,” he says with a big smile.

  “It’s Vince,” I say firmly. “How many times do I have to tell you? I have zero confidence you can remember the orders if you can’t remember my name.”

  “Okaaaay,” Tack says slowly, not reacting to my childish outburst. “Maybe someone is hangrier than I thought. I’m glad I brought a few extra servings, Vince. Or do you prefer Mr. Amato?”

  “Vince is fine. Look, it just took me a long time to...” I stop myself before pouring out all of my feelings the way Vinny would.

  “I understand,” Tack says. “People have the right to be called whatever they want to be called. Let me tell you about the menu for our test run tonight. We start with a salad of local watercress and baby kale. I make this very simple vinaigrette with a hint of maple syrup from a place in the Poconos. The main course is a fettuccini Alfredo with mushrooms from my family’s farm. For dessert I have a lemon and lavender sorbet with lavender from Langford Lavender Farm near Washington’s Crossing.”

  “Are we eating or going on a field trip of Eastern Pennsylvania?” I ask, the sarcasm dripping like the maple syrup from the trees in the Poconos.

  “Local cuisine and simple preparation is very popular right now,” he says and hands me a copy of the menu that he wrote out by hand.

  I look it over quickly. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  “I thought about adding some balsamic vinegar to the salad but I think the greens have so much flavor right now. I don’t think they need anything.” His voice cracks a bit and reveals his vulnerability. “What’s missing?”

  “I’m not talking about the salad. I’m talking about meat. Protein. Where’s the food?”

  “This is food. There is plenty of protein in this menu to satisfy anyone. Anyway, aren’t you still a vegan?”

  “I was never a vegan,” I say, looking at him defiantly. Our eyes connect for a second longer than I would like and I shift my focus.

  “Of course you were. Senior year of high school you survived on sunflower seeds that you kept in the pocket of that black hoodie with the Dead Kennedys patches on it.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say, remembering that hoodie. I found it in a thrift store and wore it every day of school whether it was below freezing or sweltering. It was about three sizes too big for my rail-thin frame and when I put the hood up, it hid me from the world. And I do remember sunflower seeds being a permanent fixture of those pockets and vowing never to eat meat. But how does he remember what I wore and what I ate? It’s not like he ever hung out with me at school after that summer he built the fence. I became invisible to him. “I remember the hoodie but I was never a vegan,” I say just to challenge him and stay on my guard. “And it doesn’t matter because I certainly eat meat now. My trainer would lose it if I told him I was vegan. All our work to build muscle relies on a high protein diet.”

  Tack starts pulling vegetables out of the crate, including a bright red basket of fresh strawberries that’s so fragrant the scent should be bottled. “Yeah,” he says, taking a second to look at me, “I can tell you’ve put on a few pounds of muscle.”

  His tone is polished nonchalance but I can tell he sees my gains. Let him look and see what he missed a chance on. He continues unpacking the groceries and doesn’t look up at me. “Very impressive,” he says, rolling his eyes.

  Now I’m getting pissed. I’ve worked hard for this body and it usually makes guys roll over and present their asses to me without hesitation. In fact, some rip my clothes off and beg. How dare he brush off my hard work? “Well, excuse me if I don’t have the perfectly toned physique that comes from hard farm labor.”

  Tack puts down the pan he just took out from the cabinet. “Perfectly toned? So you think my body is perfectly toned?” Tack smiles at me, knowing his teasing is getting to me.

  Crap. Why did I have to say that? It just came out of me. It’s accurate but I would rather have used a more neutral, less sexually charged phrase. “I didn’t say that your body is perfectly toned,” I snap at him. Of course I did but I’m using denial as a strategy for dealing with the slip.

  “Yes, you did! You said my body is perfectly toned. That’s what you said. Admit it,” he says, his grin showing total playfulness. This is not a challenge to a duel; it’s an invitation to play. But I don’t accept. We aren’t kids. I’m not going to arm wrestle him for winner. Although I would absolutely win and the things I would do to him would destroy him with pleasure. I’d slam his arm to the table and declare my victory by pulling off that apron and making sure those khakis are balled up on the floor in a few seconds. But I catch myself and respond with force.

  “Grow up, Tack,” I say calmly without too much bite. My tone is serious and professional. I need to make sure I keep up my walls or else this entire situation will explode. “You aren’t a child and neither am I. I hired you to do a job and I expect it to be done. It’s been a long day and I’m hungry so you had better find a way to turn this leftover rabbit chow into something edible. I’ll be in the dining room.”

  I walk out of the kitchen and as soon as the door swings closed behind me I sit down to stop myself from vibrating with anger and lust.

  Chapter Twelve

  That night I suffer through the most torturous meal of my entire life. Each bite, each morsel is exquisite. The salad is a completely unexpected combination of sweet and tangy flavors that are so delicious that I only want to eat three courses of the salad until the fettuccini comes out. Then I want nothing but the creamy, luxurious noodles and the sharp, tender mushroom in my mouth. My stomach is smiling but my exterior is ice. It’s been a very unexpected sensual experience. Tack’s preparation of the delectable food that has passed through my lips would be considered foreplay in most situations but I won’t slip and allow him to see that it generates pleasure throughout my whole body.

  I remain silent during the meal
but I catch Tack looking up from his plate to see if I’m having any reaction to his cooking. I’m like a robot eating his food and I can tell it’s killing him. Ha. I’ll never let him see me at his mercy again. A bell goes off in the kitchen. Tack gets up and says, “I have to check on dessert.” I shrug my shoulders and I can tell he is chagrinned by my response.

  I wait for the kitchen door to swing shut and then I pick up my plate and lick up every drop of the remaining sauce.

  He returns with the prettiest dessert I have ever seen. A delicate saucer with a rose pattern holds a perfect yellow ball of sorbet that has tiny pieces of rind dotting the surface. A smatter of sugared purple blossoms cling to a drizzle of honey that oozes over the frozen globe. It’s springtime on a dish.

  My eyes widen as he puts the dessert down in front of me. Damn. I blew my cover. “You like?” he asks earnestly. “The sorbet needs to be served at the exact right melting point. Isn’t the honey amazing? I got it from a woman in Pipersville.”

  “It’s adequate,” I say, swallowing a delicious mouthful and wondering if I can sneak back into the kitchen in the middle of the night to steal another taste of any leftovers. “The whole meal was adequate,” I say, my voice unwavering. I can’t help toying with his insecurity.

  “Just adequate?” he asks. His eyes are in full puppy dog mode.

  “No, not just adequate. More than adequate...” I watch his eyes open in anticipation. “The food was...what’s the right word...fine. Yes,” I say. “The food was fine.” He is crestfallen. “But a restaurant isn’t just about food. It’s a business.”

  I push my dish away from me like I don’t want any more and I see his eyes study the puddle of sunshine I’ve very reluctantly left behind.

  “A restaurant has to make deals with vendors and suppliers and form business to business relationships. Wholesale operations work because you buy most of your goods from one place and that bulk order earns you a discount and that increases profitability. I’m not sure some lady in Pipersville is able to compete like that.”