by Tracy Ewens
“Ahem.” Hollis stood in front of his table as if she were any other customer. Matt adjusted his mental armor and looked up. It had never mattered how long they were apart; Hollis Jeffries stole his breath.
“So was it a total crash and burn or simply a temper tantrum?” he asked, hoping to start a fight because that was easier than swirling in the way she smelled or the way the breeze twisted her hair across her cheeks.
“What?”
Her jaw clenched—the tiniest dent below her cheekbone gave it away. In that moment, Matt went from grown man to stupid teenager. “What brings your fine city ass back to our little neck of the bay?”
“Woods, neck of the woods.”
“Yeah, I modified it.”
“Dumb.”
“Thanks. So?”
“I… will not be discussing… anything with you.”
She was almost pulsing with agitation and, for reasons Matt would need to examine another time, it was thrilling to have her right in front of him all pissed off. He fed the fire. “Huh, so total crash and burn. That’s what I thought.”
Her stormy gray eyes he would know anywhere narrowed into a piercing glare. “Do I look like an idiot? Forget it. Don’t answer that. I know what you’re doing. You think if you get me all riled up that I’ll blabber on and make a fool of myself.”
Matt shrugged. “Still worried about what people think, Holls?”
“Grow up. Junior high is over. I’ll have an espresso.”
“Funny, I figured you for espresso.”
Her brow furrowed. “Um, because it’s been my drink since I was sixteen.”
“You didn’t drink espresso at sixteen.”
“Yes, I did.”
He shook his head.
“Where is my drink?” Hollis leaned forward as if he was hiding it somewhere, and the sun-soaked smell again put a chink in the armor.
Matt handed her a small paper cup, but when she reached for it, he didn’t let go. “You drank a small Americano with a splash of whole milk. You never drank espresso straight. You must have needed something a little stronger for your new life.”
“Water and milk. Same thing.”
“No, very different.”
“The base of the drink is the same. Why are we arguing about this?”
“Because your drink is different.”
Hollis sipped and then shook her head. “This is some of your symbolism garbage, isn’t it? I’m different. That’s what you’re trying to say, right?”
He shrugged again. If it was true some things never changed, she still hated his shrug.
“You too, you’re different too.”
“How so?”
“You used to be honest. Instead of picking at me, come out with it. What is it you have to say?”
He smiled. “We should probably leave dead dogs where they are.”
“It’s let sleeping dogs lie. They’re not dead.”
“Whatever.”
“Thanks for the drink.” She downed the last bit of espresso, crumpled her cup, and turned to leave.
“Are you happy, Hollis?”
When she turned back to him, for an instant he thought he saw pain, but then it was gone. Their eyes held until it seemed she couldn’t take it anymore. Hollis was probably born tough and from what he read and heard from colleagues, she’d gone on to become an incredibly successful negotiator. He had never known her to back down, but something was different. Something buried deep came to the surface, and then the unspeakable happened— she let him win.
Christ, Holls, tell someone what’s wrong.
She nodded in answer to his question but said nothing.
“I’m glad.” Matt dropped his gaze and continued folding up the tablecloth as she walked away.
Apparently, she had pinned him perfectly too. He no longer dealt in honesty.
Chapter Four
Hollis hosed off the tables on the patio of the restaurant the following morning. It was cloudy, and the white-capped dark blue bay stood in contrast to the sunshine-speckled ripples of the day before. She found the ocean fascinating, whether it was the vastness of the open sea, the powerful crash of high tide, or the tucked-away wonder of a small inlet. The ocean had so many faces, so many lives, and yet everything was connected, made from the same salty water she’d splashed at her sisters when they were young.
The wind picked up and water from the hose sprayed her feet. There was no point in washing the deck anymore if it was going to rain. She turned the water off and coiled the hose. Uncle Mitch was at his new computer, which was no longer in the box. Hollis could see him through the office window off the shared patio. She thought about marching into his office to make sure he knew how to organize his e-mail and she wanted to show him the schedule she’d been working on with the staff, but instead, she stopped and pulled the bag from the trash barrel by the patio door. She tied it then noticed the checkered tablecloths now bundled and tied together sitting on one of the patio chairs.
As rain began freckling the ground, Hollis grabbed the dirty bundle of linens with one hand and the trash in the other before she turned back to the office window. It had never before occurred to her that a person or place wouldn’t benefit from her involvement one way or another. She’d invariably assumed her way was the best and that most people needed her help. As the rain started coming down faster, Hollis stood for a moment, a bit transfixed, watching her uncle pecking away at his new computer in the warm golden light of his desk lamp. The sky darkened and she wondered if anyone truly needed her or if that was a story she told herself.
Hollis shook her head because she was being absurd. Of course she was needed: she had a master’s in business, people loved her and if they didn’t love her, they feared her, which was great too. She heaved the trash bag into the dumpster. That was the problem with this place, she thought, too much time for feeling and thinking. And now it was getting wet. There was nothing more melancholy than a perpetually sunny summer place drenched in rain. The sky opened up and it began to pour. Hollis ran inside the restaurant and was grateful Party on the Pier had made it under the wire, not that it would ever be canceled on account of rain. Save the time that Benny, the volunteer fire chief, collapsed with a hernia, Party on the Pier was a rain-or-shine tradition.
The years she’d stayed away continued circling through her mind like some kind of sweeping epic with its own soundtrack. Her last summer had been 2004, or the beginning of the end, as she had come to call it. At first, she and Matt played like nothing had happened that summer, but no matter how many times they’d walked the pier or taken a drive, she couldn’t find her way back to what they were or the focused young girl she was before. After less than a month at the cove, Hollis couldn’t take it anymore and returned home early. She had applied for early graduation and left Stanford the following December. The last time she saw Matt before this summer, he’d looked like a man standing too close to a cliff’s edge. He loved her—that’s what he’d said—he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life—he’d said that too—but when she told him she didn’t know how they would work, that things would never be the same, she would remember forever the way his big blue eyes glossed over.
“If you don’t want this, Holls, then go find what makes you happy. I want you to be happy.” At the time, it had seemed like a get out of jail free card, but by the following month when she’d moved into her own place in San Francisco, she began to wonder how it had all been so easy for him. Why hadn’t he demanded she stay? Why hadn’t he fought for them? Hollis grinned at the thought of him demanding anything as she took a seat and watched the storm from the comfort of a brown leather chair cozied around the fireplace in the restaurant. Matt didn’t work that way, he never had. He was the guy who started off studying and fizzled by the end of the semester. He was up for anything so long as there wasn’t drama or too much effort involved. They were quite a pair back then. She never asked for anything because she was her own one-woman juggling act, and he neve
r offered much past what was comfortable.
Hollis became more driven than ever once she moved back to the city. After a year of working as an entry-level analyst, she returned to Stanford and earned her MBA. She’d lived off campus and purposely avoided places that reminded her of Matt and their life together. She completed her master’s in just over a year and started interning for Bridgewater Capital. It was a small firm and Hollis was a sponge, soaking up each opportunity. She’d lived her life with such single purpose for the last twelve years that it almost felt like a blur. Kind of like when someone, after a tragic accident, says the last thing they remember was leaving the house. Maybe not quite that dramatic, but all Hollis knew for certain was that after she left Matt, things were shaky for a while and then it was like a switch went off somewhere. She “was the job,” she told every boss she’d ever had, but now, as she curled her legs under her and heard the first crack of thunder, Hollis wasn’t even sure what that meant. How could a person be a job? People weren’t jobs, were they?
“Did I ever tell you about the time your dad and I went camping?” Uncle Mitch set a tray with two cups and a pot of coffee on the iron table next to her that doubled as a magazine rack. He took a seat in the leather chair opposite her and poured.
“Which time?” Hollis asked with gentle sarcasm she was sure her uncle would miss. She wasn’t in the mood for a chat but took the offered cup anyway.
“The one where we… ya know, I might as well tell it again.”
Hollis shook her head. “Might as well,” she said, still mocking as she added some cream.
“Does anyone work here?” A guy in navy-blue shorts and bad topsiders stood near the hostess station across the open dining room. His haircut was too short on the sides, Hollis noted, and he should have rethought tucking his shirt in. The guy looked like an asshole, even in the rain, which was hard to do. Most people looked vulnerable, a little wet-puppy in the rain. Not this guy. Hollis had fine-tuned and reliable asshole radar. Sure, it had malfunctioned a few months ago, leading to what her boss had started calling the “debacle,” but her radar was working now and it was definitely ringing alarms with this guy.
“No,” Hollis answered back, projecting across the empty space, then took a sip of her coffee.
Uncle Mitch snickered under his breath as he stood and promptly ran to help the man right as the shock of Hollis and her smart mouth started to wear off and Asshole’s scowl turned to rage. He reminded her a little of Liam from Pretty Boys Gaming, the company Zeke owned with two of his friends. That name, she thought now, and the stupid sweaters he wore. Radar must have been broken with that one, huh? Hollis sighed because hindsight was, in fact, crystal clear.
“Maybe we should keep you in the office after all,” her uncle said when he returned, still smiling.
Hollis held up her coffee mug in a toast. “I could probably work myself to friendly, but I’d need some Kahlua in this coffee and I’m on the wagon. Don’t you have a hostess?”
“We’re in between lunch and dinner. It’s never busy so I can handle it myself.”
“If I were being Ms. Hollis Jeffries instead of Tiny Tots with the ass of my shorts still wet from the rain, I would advise that you are not adequately staffed and that no customer, no matter how bad his haircut, should be waiting around or asking if someone works here.”
“Yeah, well thank God you are, Tiny Tots.”
“I’m serious. I’ve been here for a few days.”
“Over a month.”
“Whatever. Why do people keep bringing that up? A month is not a lot of time.”
“Time flies when oatmeal cookies are involved.”
“Pies, oatmeal cream pies, and there’s a difference. Anyway, I’ve noticed things are a little shabby around here. Are you having trouble?”
“Shabby is in around here. No one wants completely together, it’s the beach and these are cottages.”
“I disagree. Guests may want the feel of shabby, but they still want soft sheets, great pillows.”
“What’s wrong with our sheets?” Uncle Mitch poured them both more coffee.
“Nothing if I’m in a dorm room or camping in the woods. Your cabins aren’t cheap, so I think some upgrades may be in order. After you pay those late bills, that is.”
“Okay, well we can look at that, maybe add it to our action plan.”
“Look at you, remembering it’s not called a thingamadoodle.”
Her uncle nodded. “Yeah, well some terminology never dies, no matter how hard I try.”
Hollis was curious. “What did you do before you took over these cabins from Grandpa?”
Sipping his coffee, her uncle met her eyes. “I was in the circus.”
She nodded and saw something in his eyes that for the first time had her wanting to hug him instead of the other way around, but he looked out at the rain and the look was gone.
“Because if money is tight, I’m sure Dad will—”
“Your dad never wants to deal with this place. His ass has been in a twist ever since I said I didn’t want him to redesign all the cabins. They don’t need to be redesigned. Maybe they need a little TLC, and we can work on that.”
“Do you have investors?”
“Tots, put the briefcase away. I’m fine.”
Hollis sipped her coffee, which was delicious now that she bothered to taste it. Coast Roast. Matt’s dad roasted the best coffee ever and with each sip, Hollis wished she hated coffee. Even something as simple as a cup of coffee had a memory attached to it. Hollis closed her eyes and refused to let Matt back into her mind. She’d thought about him all last night while she pretended to sleep. By the time the sun rose, she was all thought out.
“What was I saying? Oh right, the camping story.”
Uncle Mitch rambled on in exuberant animation while Hollis laughed and realized she hadn’t done enough of that before coming back to the cove. Is there much to laugh about in your life, Hollis? Great. You can shut up now, Introspection.
Mitch stood and went to the front of the restaurant once more to give directions to a young girl in a pink slicker drenched from the downpour that looked as if it might be letting up soon. When he returned and finally finished the camping story, Hollis was rewarded with the lesson that “sometimes rain is a gift.” She thanked him for that little “pearl of wisdom” and made a mental note to grab one of the small brown bags of coffee from behind the bar for her cabin. She added to that note that she needed to laugh more. Coffee and laughter, maybe that’s what Zeke and his chi needed too. She highly doubted it. The sun parted through the dark cotton sky as Hollis returned to the back patio and waited for her uncle to dream up more “tasks.”
Matt was never sure if he loved Tomales Bay or San Francisco Bay more. When he was in high school and hell-bent on picking a favorite, his mother said he didn’t need to choose. “Each bay speaks to a part of you. Both are important.” He supposed she was right. As he crossed over into the city, he realized if Tomales filled him up, San Francisco emptied him out. He’d woken up early having promised his mother he would help get his dad settled after hip surgery. It was raining, which Matt normally enjoyed, but his father would no doubt arrive cursing everything, including the rain. After stopping for bagels and grabbing a few stems of lilacs from the flower vendor up the street for his mother, Matt unlocked the front door of the home he’d grown up in, a brownstone on King’s Street in the Potrero Hill section of San Francisco. He shook off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door.
His father loved to say they lived in the “last quiet part of the city” and his mother often commented that they had “a sprinkling of gay couples, which added some style to the neighborhood, but not overboard like the Castro District.” His parents were born and bred in San Francisco and while he’d never known them to be politically correct, they had tremendously open minds for their age and they were good people. Matt picked up the mail that had been strewn in the entryway after being pushed through the brass mail slot. He pu
lled back the curtains from the front window where his mother’s orchids sat on a semicircular table. She had three orchids and swore the reason they weren’t dead like her friend Sibi’s was because she talked to them and was sure to water them every ten days. “Sibi waters hers too much. Rots the roots right off the poor babies,” she often said.
After dropping the bagels off in the kitchen, putting the flowers in water, and pushing the button on the coffee maker, Matt returned to the living room and noticed they’d finally replaced his dad’s La-Z-Boy with a new and improved leather model. He smiled and thought about his father, how much he’d likely hated being in the hospital and undoubtedly aggravated each staff member he came in contact with to ensure a speedy discharge. Matt had no idea what to expect or how much pain his father was going to be in. Maybe he should have brought lunch too. Taking his hands from his pockets, he climbed the stairs caged by a yellow-and-oak banister. Right before he reached the second-floor landing, he remembered his mother telling him the cleaners had set up the room off the dining room as a bedroom for his father until he was healed and able to climb to their bedroom again.
The idea of spending more than a passing hour with his father was unnerving to begin with, but right after surgery, it would probably prove to be close to fatal. Matt felt guilty the minute the thought entered his head, but not before acknowledging it was the truth. Before he could check on things in the makeshift bedroom, he heard the taxi pull up at the side door off the kitchen. Matt had a contractor turn the three side steps leading from the alley to the house into a small, low-incline ramp. It would be weeks before his father could climb the front steps on his own, the doctor had said, and Matt didn’t want him embarrassed by someone having to carry him. Thankfully, the clouds had parted when he opened the side door.