Vacancy: A Love Story

by Tracy Ewens

  “How was Ruby’s wedding?” Matt asked, warming up the coffee cake.

  “Great, she looked beautiful and I managed to get her down the aisle without disgracing the father-of-the-bride title.”

  Matt smiled. “I’m sure you made her proud.”

  “It’s a tough business. I read some article that this guy in Florida started having a heart attack while he was walking his daughter down the aisle.”

  Matt’s eyes widened.

  “The man finished the walk, handed his girl to her fiancé, then walked to the side of the church and quietly called 9-1-1.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know, wedding heroes, right? Who knew?”

  Both men laughed, and Matt handed him his coffee and cake. As was routine, Greg tried to pay and Matt wouldn’t take his money.

  “Thanks, Lead Foot.” He turned back right before the door. “Hey, I noticed your girl is back in town.”

  Matt tried to smile, unable to meet his eyes. “She’s not my girl anymore and you know it.”

  “Eh, you never know where that road out there will take you.” Their eyes met and Officer Hernandez lifted his coffee cup in a toast. “Tell her I said hello.” He flipped his sunglasses down over his eyes, smiled, and was gone.

  Matt shook his head and turned to wipe the counter.

  His girl. Had Hollis ever truly been his girl? All these years and Matt still couldn’t answer that question. It had seemed about as perfect as a love story could be, but great love should be effortless, shouldn’t it? There was never anything effortless about Hollis and she eventually left him, or he stopped trying. Matt was never sure which it was and it certainly didn’t matter anymore. Between Hollis arriving at the cove and his father coming home from surgery next week, things were bound to get complicated. Matt didn’t do complicated. Even with his business back home, things were streamlined and he liked it that way. Poppy would be back part-time next week and he’d be closer to wrapping all of this up and getting back to a life he understood.

  By the time the door tinkled again with arriving customers, Matt slipped the memory of a time so simple, so happy, back where it belonged.

  Chapter Two

  By Wednesday of the following week, Hollis was beginning to think that her days as a reclusive binge-eating drunk were numbered. Uncle Mitch might patiently humor her for a little while longer, but as she finished listening to a staff meeting, her head throbbed, this time thanks to a party-size bag of Doritos and a great bottle of Fumé Blanc. Hollis knew none of this was the answer. The cabin, the drinking, the pity party, none of it would get a Bob Marley-loving asshat named Zeke to fix his pigs. None of it would stave off her utter embarrassment should Dobbins Capital, the company she’d given her life to for the past eight years, find out exactly why they’d brokered tens of millions of dollars for Pretty Boy Games in the first place. She knew there wasn’t enough wine, that all the junk food in the world wouldn’t help, but she was stuck, more stuck than she had ever been in her entire life. She’d dropped her guard, and damn it, she knew better. Hollis had “taken her eye off the ball,” as most of the men she worked with would say—the same guys who would be clamoring for her job once she was fired.

  Fired. Holy shit, the mere word drove her to drink, but that was exactly what she would be if she didn’t figure something out and quickly. Gently rubbing her temples and downing another two Tylenol, she sent out e-mails to her assistant asking for follow-up on the three consultants Hollis had asked her to contact first thing on Monday.

  The word “fired” ran through her head again as Hollis took a shower and pretended she was not already wondering how early was too early for wine. She needed a few more days to decompress, that’s what she was calling it now, and then she would fix all of it. She would not be fired. That wasn’t going to happen.

  “Doesn’t housekeeping come in here?” she asked later that day after the headache subsided and she ran a finger along the dust of her uncle’s office bookshelves.

  He sat propped back in his chair, feet up on a desk that appeared to be a gorgeous antique but for the fact that it was covered from corner to corner with more paper than Hollis had seen since 1998. Did the man not know about scanners, shredders, electronic anything? Uncle Mitch was reading an invoice, or something that looked like an invoice on an almost transparent piece of pink paper, and eating an apple clutched in his other hand. “No. Housekeeping doesn’t come in here. They will eventually, but I need to go through some stuff first. I’ll get to it. You know anything about space heaters?”

  Hollis pushed the scraggly-looking cat that appeared to have come from nowhere off the one other chair in the room, an armchair with green velvet upholstery and twirled wooden arms, and sat. “Space heaters, as in, having a backyard party on a chilly night?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking we should order some for the patio so we can fit more people during the busy season.”

  “Okay, are you finding you need more room? Do you have long waits for dinner?”

  “No.” He took another bite and tried to catch the juice trickling down the side of his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Hollis was confused. “If you don’t have an unmanageable wait, then I’m not understanding the need for extra space.”

  “I think it would be cool to have people outside at night.”

  “That’s another thing entirely. If you’re buying the heaters as an added benefit to your customers, then it’s what the business world calls a ‘loss leader.’ Which, depending on your clientele, could be a great move. For example, if you are pushing a certain dish, the ambiance of outside dining could be a win-win and you’ll make up the initial outlay for the heaters. What’s your marketing strategy?”

  Her uncle sat up, apple between his teeth, looking like one of those luau pigs on the postcard her sister Meg sent her from Hawaii a couple of years ago.

  “My what?” he asked through the apple.

  Hollis shook her head and grabbed a stack of papers sitting on the small table next to her. “Honestly, sometimes I’m not sure how you keep this place going.” Scanning the top bill in a paper-clipped group of maybe eight, Hollis noticed the stamped red warning. “This is sixty days past.” She flipped through the others. “All of these are.”

  Her uncle leaned over as if to check which stack she had, finished his apple, and threw it in the overflowing trash can by his desk. “Those are set-asides.”

  “What is a set-aside? Before you start considering heaters, I think these need to be brought current, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Set-asides are the bills that can be paid online, or more accurately, they prefer to be paid online. I need to get them loaded. I bought a new computer.” He stood gesturing to the still-unopened box behind his desk. “It’s taking me a minute to get it set up. I’m on it, though.” He took Hollis by the arm. “Now, let’s find something for you to do. We need to get into the storage unit and start airing out the umbrellas and summer seat cushions.”

  “When?” She stood, bills still in hand.

  “Well, ideally, I’d like to get all of it aired out today. The spring and summer stuff was put away after the season and we have Party on the Pier in two days so—”

  “I’m not talking about the stupid seat cushions. When are you going to get things set up and those bills paid? Some of these are suppliers. Aren’t you concerned they’ll cut you off?”

  “No.” He took the stack of bills from her hand, set them on his desk, and guided her from his office.

  Few people “guided” Hollis, but her Uncle Mitch had a way about him that made things feel like a fun dance rather than a directive.

  “Why not let me worry about that, okay? What you need to do is get the key to the storage unit. It’s on the SpongeBob SquarePants key chain right behind the register in the restaurant.”

  “Don’t you think my particular skill set would be better served by helping you with the business end of things?” she asked as they walked out onto the patio tha
t joined the office and the dining area.

  Surrounded by the mid-afternoon warmth, Uncle Mitch pretended not to hear her, something he’d perfected when she was a little girl, although friendly ignoring was usually reserved for Hollis’s father. Uncle Mitch and his younger brother had been complete opposites, at least in the ways a young girl would notice. Her uncle’s hair was a couple of inches past his collar and he rarely wore socks while her father had a standing every-six-weeks appointment with his barber and Hollis could count on both hands the number of times she’d seen her father’s feet. They shared the same mother, which was about all they had in common.

  “I’m sure you spend enough time with computers. Seat cushions are what you need. I need them too, so what was it you said back there? It’s a win-win.”

  “I came down here because Mom made me and now you want me to be some… seasonal helper? How about I go back to my cabin, pretend the sink in the kitchenette isn’t dripping incessantly, and return to my fermented grapes. That, my dear uncle, is what’s referred to as a win-win.”

  “That sink is on the repair list. I’m—”

  “On it?” Hollis raised her eyebrow.

  “You always were a smart-ass, ya know. Repairs are done every other week. I think this is the off week for that. I found a new maintenance guy and he gave me a schedule. It’s somewhere.”

  “Did he e-mail it to you? Do you want me to contact them and ask—”

  “Nah, you won’t have time for that. There are tons of cushions.”

  There were three couples having lunch and one man sitting at the bar when Uncle Mitch pulled her into the cool air-conditioning of the restaurant. Reaching behind the bar, he produced a single key attached to a yellow plastic square with eyes and tiny legs. Hollis had heard of SpongeBob but had never actually seen him. As Uncle Mitch handed her the key, she wondered if there would be a SpongeBob question on her quarterly skills assessment review at Dobbins. Or if there would be anything at all from her little let’s-play-high-school-summer-job experience. Doubt it. This whole thing is a mistake.

  Running away from commitments never solved anything. Years of parental lectures had taught her that. Besides, it was the middle of the week. She should be back at home ordering her usual veggie on dark bread with half the hummus from that take-out place with the tiny daisy in their logo. She should be eating at her desk, doing all that was possible to keep from becoming a ridiculous cliché. Having shunned female contemporaries for wearing their skirts too short or flirting during budget meetings, Hollis imagined the fun they’d have if she couldn’t find a way to fix this, if the whole ugly mess came out.

  She needed to get back, and she would be ready soon. Maybe next week she would be… less stuck. It had been over a month and she thought by now she would be pushing back through the imposing glass doors of Dobbins Capital with a great tan and a fail-proof plan, but instead, she currently had an uneven sunburn, was wearing the same shorts she’d slept in, and was nowhere near even a maybe-could-work plan.

  “All right, so you’re going to go up Miller and take a left before you get to the laundromat. Treasure Chest Storage is two streets past, on the left,” Uncle Mitch said right when Hollis was wondering if it had been two or three days since her last shower.

  “Treasure Chest? I thought it was Store More?”

  “Used to be. New owners.”

  “Dumb name.” Hollis took the key dangling from his finger.

  He shrugged. “Maybe you can help them with their marketing plan.”

  She rolled her eyes. “How am I getting there?”

  This time, he pulled a full set of keys from the front pocket of his teal shorts embroidered with what looked like marlins or swordfish. Where does the man find these clothes?

  “You can take the truck.” He pointed through the door to a truck that looked like something an antique shop might put out front to hold flowerpots or a sign announcing a sale.

  “That runs?”

  “She’s perfect, but third to fourth is a little sticky, so be kind.” He threw her the keys and Hollis caught them. He smiled.

  “Why do men insist on referring to their cars or trucks as women?”

  “Well, I suppose for some men it’s because they ride—”

  “Oh, wow, I’ll stop you right there.” She walked through the blue paint-chipped screen door that slammed on the rumble of her uncle’s springtime laughter.

  Matt disconnected from a concept meeting that had gone thirty minutes too long. He missed work—the hum of his office and even his partner’s bad jokes. Matt looked at his phone, and it no longer mattered what he was missing because he was late. Poppy was back today and they’d hired a new employee she insisted on training when they’d spoken on the phone last week. He said he would be there to help handle the morning rush, so Matt grabbed his keys.

  His parents had hired Poppy almost three years ago. She’d worked as a mechanic with Eddie at the garage, so when Matt’s mother told him they hired her, he was surprised. According to his parents, once Poppy and Eddie were married, she decided for the sake of their marriage that she couldn’t work with him anymore. While Matt had questioned why someone with her automotive skills would choose to make coffee, his mother said, “She’s ready for a change,” so they’d hired her and she turned out to be “the best manager we’ve ever had,” his father had raved one night when Matt was over at their house for dinner.

  Poppy was about ten years younger than Matt, almost another generation, which was particularly glaring when they were talking music or social media. She had a tattoo of a campfire with a stick and a marshmallow on her shoulder blade. It was visible when she wore a tank top, which was basically all the time. Matt’s parents didn’t seem to mind. He liked that about them. As far as parents went, his had been cool. The fact that they were in the service industry, and coffee no less, kept them connected with people. They enjoyed sharing stories and being that place where people gathered. Everyone was accepted, appreciated even, within the walls of The Bean locations. Once they were at home, though, with their own son, that same open acceptance was in short supply.

  The Bean was laid-back, open, and surprisingly airy for such a small space. The exposed ductwork and weathered concrete walls gave it an urban feel in a beachside town of less than six hundred. Of his parents’ ten locations, “the cove,” as they’d come to call it, was his favorite. The building used to be the garage of one of the great houses built into the hill on the non-ocean side of Highway 1. The house burned down in the fifties, but the separate garage survived. It was used to store materials when the demolition team removed the charred house and allowed the natural vegetation to grow over, but once the work was done, the garage was left vacant. Matt’s parents bought the space in 1992 from the preservation society that now owned the land. Matt was ten and practically grew up shuffling back and forth when his parents could get up from the city during the remodel of the garage and the initial opening. Once things were up and running, they would come to the cove for most of the summer while his father managed his new “baby” and made sure it was as successful as the others.

  Each location had been the same; his childhood was speckled with memories of falling asleep on couches while his parents painted or getting up early before school and waiting while his dad opened one of the shops because some “damn college kid” hadn’t shown up for work. The smell of coffee and the copper shine of the espresso machine came to mean home, but Matt had never wanted to go into the family business, no matter how successful.

  Once accepted by Stanford, early decision, Matt wanted to be the “next big thing” in the tech world. His parents were less than delighted, and it was never made clearer than when Matt’s father coined the famous Locke family phrase “Stanford Shmamford.” At the time, it felt like a slap and Matt often wondered if that moment was when he realized that hard work and extra effort didn’t necessarily guarantee the gold star of approval. He wasn’t one to blame, but it was possible that when instea
d of congratulations or “We’re proud of you, son,” his parents went on with life, business as usual. Matt had downshifted into the background again.

  Hollis had told him over and over again he needed to “give it maximum effort” when they were in college, but what good would it have done him? Because of his career choices, his parents treated him as if he’d proclaimed he wanted to hunt aliens. They saw no point in going to a “fancy school” or learning how to “play with computers” when they’d built a perfectly good business for him to take over. It’s possible that mentality took some of the wind from his sails.

  By his freshman year in college, Matt was pursuing his dream alone, which was fine because he was technically an only child and he understood alone. His mother still sent care packages and Matt made friends. He met Bradley, his business partner, when he’d tried to cheat off Matt from the back row in Economics their sophomore year. Matt waited, hopeful his parents would eventually come around and even if they never did, he had Hollis.

  She was already at Stanford a semester before Matt arrived because she’d finished high school in three and a half years, graduated valedictorian. Matt smiled even though his chest thumped at the memory as the morning fog burned off and he walked up the hill toward The Bean. She was something back then, a force that he’d never known before or since if he were honest with himself. Not sure how he’d allowed her back in, Matt made an effort to focus back on his parents.

  Sondra and David Locke had done their best not to appear excited when he dropped out of college, and they smiled at the ribbon cutting when he and Bradley opened Pilot Programs, but his father remained a little scratchy because things hadn’t worked out the way he planned. Recently, though, they were happy Matt had “taken an interest,” as his mother explained it to his father. Was there a choice this time around?

  Truth be told, he’d always found their business interesting; it probably shaped him, making him the kind of person to want his own company one day, but that commonality was never enough for his father. He wanted a “coffee man” for a son, he’d exclaimed to their neighbors during a block party Matt attended while home from college for a visit. Matt had brushed him off with humor but had often wondered if things might have been easier had his brother survived to share the responsibility, and more importantly, the guilt… if John would have grown into the type of man capable of filling their father’s relentless need for a coffee heir.