The Hideaway Inn

by Philip William Stover

  Tack laughs, which somehow makes the pancakes taste even better. I’d forgotten the power of his laugh. The sound of it could wake me out of an awful mood. “I still love ketchup.”

  “I remember those disgusting ketchup sandwiches you would bring with you to work on the fence.” As soon as the words come out, I catch myself. I’ve been thinking about the past and that summer but I don’t want him to know that.

  “So you do remember that summer?” He walks over to me and places his hand on my shoulder. The skin to skin contact creates an electric network of feelings and desire that speeds across my brain and body like a supercomputer rebooting.

  For a moment we are back in the field. Two boys figuring out who they are and what they want. I’m about to dive back into those golden, sun-dappled memories but I squeeze the thoughts out of my brain. I won’t let him take me off course. I won’t get pulled in by his magnetic force again.

  I shake my head to release the thought and jerk my shoulder out from under his hand as I stand up, grabbing my plate. I take the uneaten food and dump it into the trash before changing the subject. The quick frown that appears on Tack’s face shows me his disappointment. I change the subject.

  “Tack, I’m focused on this summer and you should be too. We open tonight. Did you get an update on the steaks?”

  I go back to the table and open my laptop, using the screen like a shield from him. Still, I get the feeling he can’t make sense of the kid he once knew, who couldn’t get enough of him, and the man who now keeps pushing him away. Even I don’t completely understand who I am in this moment. The one thing I do understand is that the restaurant is opening tonight and we have advertised a New York Steak Night Special to get people in the door and we have no steaks. My panic was diminished by the sweet smell of buttery pancakes but it suddenly hits me like a sack of day-old biscuits.

  “No update,” he says and busies himself putting away the dishes.

  “Did you call Cheryl?”

  “Of course. I left another message.”

  Cheryl has contacts at a high-end butcher in Brooklyn and said she could get me a great price on some dry-aged steaks. As soon as I made the order, though, her brother-in-law fell off a ladder and she’s been missing in action. Her assistant keeps assuring us the steaks will be here.

  “We need those steaks,” I mutter. I’m planning to use them as a loss leader to get people in the door.

  “Did you call the guys at Haring Brothers Meats as a backup? They’re less than ten miles away but they need at least two days.”

  Haring Brothers? I’ve been so stressed about connecting with Cheryl that I totally forgot to place the backup order with Haring Brothers. How could I make such a screwup? Then I take a look at Tack’s sleeveless arms and the apron strapped across his tight body and I realize that between shower shows and impromptu tastings, I’ve been distracted. Still, it’s my fault.

  “I said I’d take care of it.” The words squeak out of my mouth. I can’t tell him I forgot.

  “But did you?” he asks.

  “I’ve had a lot on my mind this week. And we won’t need an extra order of steaks when the ones from New York get here.” I dodge the question because I don’t want to let him see my error. It’s not just pride. After all my going on about my business acumen I don’t want him to think I’m incompetent.

  I can’t tell if he sees through me or not. He puts his hand on my arm and says, “Vince, we need to have a backup plan.” His hand on the skin of my forearm feels more comforting than electric in this moment but still I recoil. I can’t open that door.

  “You know what we could do?” he asks and his use of the first person plural makes my head fuzzy again. “I have this recipe for these amazing bean burgers. I use three kinds of beans and this creamy goat cheese from down the road with fresh parsley.”

  “Bean burgers?” I ask him like he suggested we serve apple juice and Oreos.

  “Yeah, why not?” he asks, brushing his bangs off his forehead and casually shrugging his shoulders.

  “Because we have a page of reservations for Steak Night. Not Bean Night.” The thing I used to love about Tack is also the thing that drives me nuts. He thinks of the world as a place that will just play along with him. His considerable charm and indisputable good looks have helped him pave a path free of thorns and dead ends. I live in reality and have spent my life scratching and fighting for the things I want.

  “If we dress them up a bit and serve some seasonal veggies, I think people would love them.”

  I shake my head. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  It takes me a second to realize what I said. I should not have used the word stupid, not to Tack. He was never a great student and self-conscious about it. “I’m sorry,” I say but it’s hard for me to go any further than that. I should let my guard down. I should admit that I didn’t call Haring Brothers so that tonight doesn’t turn into a total disaster. I have a feeling he would be understanding—he knows how much stress I’ve been under. But I’m not ready to show him my faults or accept his understanding. I’m not sure I’ll ever be. “Tack, I know you have food to prep. I’ll be in my room working on my meat.” I walk straight to my bedroom but catch a glimpse of his bewildered face before shutting the door behind me.

  I’ll be working on my meat? I hold my hands to my face like the Munch painting and let out a silent scream. I’m sure Tack is getting a good laugh over my very poor choice of words. It feels exactly like when we were kids, with me saying stupid things that I analyze over and over again once I’m alone. I have to pull myself together.

  * * *

  A few hours before we open, after Cheryl’s assistant has confirmed multiple times that the steaks are on their way, I get dressed for the big opening. I put on my most expensive three-piece blue linen suit I had custom made in Milan and give myself one last look in the mirror before I hear Tack coming into the apartment. I walk out hoping to hear good news.

  He’s in his chef gear, all gleaming white. When he sees me, he stops. “Wow, you look great, Vince. Very handsome.” For just a second there is no impending doom. There is just this very attractive man noticing me in the middle of the apartment we happen to share. Before I can let my fantasy go any further he interrupts my thoughts with an update. “I have news about the steaks.”

  “Please tell me they are in New Hope this very minute,” I ask, his compliment fluttering out of my mind.

  “As a matter of fact,” he says, “they are.” He gives me a big smile.

  “That’s great news. Go down and start seasoning them or whatever you need to do to make them fantastic.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly do that.” His smile drops.

  “Tack, this is not the time for one of your riddles. I thought you said they’re in New Hope.”

  “They are. Unfortunately, they’re in New Hope, New York. About four hours away from here.”

  I can almost feel the veins popping out of my forehead. “What? You’ve got to be kidding me.” This isn’t just about having a successful opening. It’s about proving myself. It’s about showing Tack that I’ve made something of myself, that I’ve become a man worthy of his... I stop myself from finishing the thought.

  “A simple GPS mistake. Is there an order we can maybe send someone to Haring Brothers for if...”

  “That’s not going to happen.” If he hasn’t already figured out I didn’t place the order he certainly has now. This is a complete disaster. Why didn’t I just admit to him that I forgot? Then at least I would have been able to come up with some options. I don’t want Tack to see that I’m in a panic so I go cold and steely on him. “Look, you just worry about cooking. That’s what you’re here to do. I’ll figure out something.”

  “Can’t we work together on this?”

  “You’re the chef. I’m the owner. You worry about what happens in th
e kitchen once the food is here. I worry about everything else.”

  “I know you’re stressed. I get that, but I’m on your side.” He looks at me plainly with his eyes focused on mine. Then he adds a bit more gently, “I always have been.”

  I quickly tilt my head down and cover my forehead and eyes with my hand to give the appearance I’m thinking through some ideas. I just can’t look at him in this moment. I can’t even be in the same room. “Just go,” I order. “I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

  I watch his feet move to the door and out the apartment. As soon as I’m sure he is out of earshot I slam my fist against the wall. I have a dining room about to be filled with customers expecting steak dinners and an investment that is about to go belly-up but the thing that has me most upset is letting Tack see me fail. What does he even mean with this I’ve-always-been-on-your-side stuff? Every time I think about going downstairs to find a solution with Tack I also think about his hand on my arm and how safe it made me feel before I brushed it off. The more I connect with him, the more I let down my defenses and I’d rather jump in the river with my suit on than do that.

  If I can’t be honest with myself, at least I can be honest with the customers, or rather, future former customers. Just before we are scheduled to open the doors, I head downstairs. I’m about to walk through the kitchen to the front entrance dining room when I hear Anita and Tack talking about the steaks on the other side of the dining room door. I hang back and eavesdrop.

  “New Hope, New York?” I hear Anita ask. She is almost shouting. “Can we send someone to pick up the Haring Brothers order? We can delay a bit.”

  “There is no order at Haring Brothers,” Tack says to her.

  “Did he think he was too good for a local butcher? Had to have his fancy New York steaks from some hipster butcher shop.” It’s hard to be mad at Anita when this whole thing is my fault.

  I’m about to open the door when I hear Tack say: “No, it wasn’t him. It was me. I forgot to call. Don’t blame him. It’s my fault.”

  What? This was his opportunity to save his reputation and expose me to her as a phony and he didn’t take it. Could it be that Tack really is on my side?

  I catch a glimpse of my watch and realize it’s almost time to open. I walk out the back and around to the street entrance of the inn so Tack and Anita don’t realize I’ve overheard them. A small group of people is waiting on the sidewalk, under the sign Anita made: “NY Strip Steak Special—One Night Only.”

  “Thanks for coming,” I say brightly, putting a Band-Aid on my own disappointment. “I’m Vince Amato, the new owner of The Hideaway Inn. I’m afraid the steaks had a bit of trouble getting here tonight.” There is a grumbling of dissatisfaction. I smile sheepishly, trying to make the best of it. “But we still have some great things on the menu.” What exactly I don’t know. I wish now I hadn’t been so quick to dismiss those bean burgers.

  Tack appears out the front door and is greeted by a few people who know him. He smiles and shakes hands like he’s running for office. “Sorry about any confusion, everyone. You know what they say, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t get a steak over the river.”

  They laugh at his joke and even though it’s lame, I laugh too.

  “The owner will give anyone who wishes a rain check to come back later in the summer once we have those steaks. Tonight, I’m serving my bean burgers for anybody who wants to give us a try. I promise—once you try my veggie burgers, you might never want a steak again.” Tack pats me on the shoulder to emphasize his point and he leaves his hand there just long enough for me to connect with his touch. This time I don’t recoil. I let the feeling of his hand on my body linger until he moves it to open the door of the inn and let customers through.

  He welcomes each guest and I help the people who ask for rain checks. Once the last patron is inside, we are alone on the sidewalk. “Not the opening you were planning but we have a few people in there. I better go cook up those bean burgers.”

  “You mean the bean burgers I stubbornly told you not to make?”

  “Exactly. Aren’t you glad I suck at being told what to do?”

  Why is he so determined to help me? Sure, he wants to protect the reputation of the inn and his cooking but telling Anita it was his fault is beyond anything professional. It feels like more than that. Could he still have feelings for me? Still is not the right word. I’m not sure he ever did. I’m so confused.

  “Thank you,” I say with a wide smile that I don’t stop from spreading across my face.

  “You’re welcome,” Tack says with a smile as wide as my own. Our eyes meet for just a few seconds but it’s enough to feel that connection.

  Tack walks into The Hideaway and my willpower for resisting him fades like the sun setting over the Delaware.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tack

  “Get in,” I tell Vince, holding open the truck door. I’ve even brushed off some of the hay that usually clings to the seats in the cab.

  Vince has just come out of the inn. He’s wearing a tight tank top that shows off his arms and scoops low enough to reveal a tangle of dark hair on his upper chest. His basketball shorts and sneakers that look more expensive than my truck make me think he is headed to the gym but the extra-dark sunglasses and unshaven face indicate he might just be trying to escape last night’s disaster.

  He looks at me over his shades. “I’m not exactly in the mood to have my spleen shaken out of me as your hunk of junk avoids the maze of potholes in this town.”

  I clap my hands over the side view mirror and whisper, “Don’t listen to him, Axel. He doesn’t mean it.” I pat my truck gently. “I’m going to overlook your ugly comments because I know last night was a bit rough.”

  “A bit rough? I’ve seen cage matches that went more smoothly than last night. I got a text this morning that the delivery truck is now somewhere in Canada.”

  “That’s exactly what this trip is going to solve. I want you to meet Paul.”

  “Who is Paul and why do I want to meet him?”

  I smile and push my bangs off my forehead. I’m not above using some of my obvious appeal to get Vince to do what I want. I’ve never been the kind of guy to really lean into the whole charm thing but then again I never thought I’d have a second chance with Vince. Now that he’s finally had a bit of a comeuppance maybe I can get him to take down his shield for a few moments. Last night was a disaster and we both know it. I want to show him that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to food. I know he wants to be seen for who he is now and so do I.

  “Get in the truck and you’ll find out,” I say, making sure my grin is devilish as can be.

  “Fine,” he says and gets in the truck.

  I turn down Main Street and instead of crossing the river I take the road west, deeper into the Pennsylvania farmlands that surround the area. Once we get past the ridge that runs along the Delaware, the land flattens out and the landscape is a mix of wealthy weekender estates and old farms still making a go of it. Strict and aggressive land preservation has limited a good deal of new construction so the rural nature of the community is still strong. We head down one of my favorite roads. It has so many peaks and valleys it feels like we’re on a kiddie coaster at the shore.

  “Roll down your window,” I tell Vince once we are a few miles down the road. I keep one arm on the wheel and use the other to quickly roll down mine.

  “I’m fine...” he starts to say and then I see a glimmer of recognition in his eye. “Oh, right. It’s just up here. Is it still there?”

  “Roll down your window and you tell me.”

  He rolls down his window and wind fills the cab. At first it’s just air and then the wind magically transforms to purple, blue and indigo swirls that twirl around us like bolts of energy. I take a deep breath and the calming lavender scent fills my lungs.

 
; “Wow. That smell is still so strong,” he says. He closes his eyes to take a deep breath, and I steal a deeper glance at him without his knowing. I catch a glimpse underneath his mask and it’s beautiful, although hard to see for very long.

  He opens his eyes and I make sure I’m looking straight ahead on the road. “There it is,” I say, pointing to the side of the road, “Langford Lavender Farm.” A faded hand-painted sign with purple flowers hangs off a rickety wooden post. Pale knee-high bushes with purple tops just beginning to emerge dot the open landscape.

  “I can’t believe it’s still here,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like I moved away and this place is trapped in a time warp.”

  “No one gets trapped in a place as beautiful as this,” I tell him plainly. I don’t like what he’s implying. I want him to remember how extraordinary this area is. He is so focused on making the inn a success that I can’t reach him in the way I want to. Not really. I figure a little sensory overload might help melt the ice.

  “A canary in the most beautifully gilded cage is still in a cage,” he retorts, all winter and chill.

  “I do not live in a cage,” I say, unable to hide the fact that now he is pissing me off.

  “Of course you don’t,” he says, but I can tell he is just paying me lip service. “But look at Langford Farm. I mean, lavender as a crop? Seriously? What can the profit margin be on that? Now, soybeans have an established market. Soybeans could make a nice profit, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah,” I say, hiding my anger behind sarcasm. “Wouldn’t it be great to drive down here and smell the soybeans? Not everything is about profit, you know.” I roll up my window quicker than I rolled it down. Maybe I just can’t get through to the Vince I want to see again.

  He lets out a combination snort-laugh and says, “Sure.” His sarcasm tops mine by ten. “People say that, but when you shake it down money means something. It makes people pay attention. It makes them do what you want.”