Rowan Revived

by Colbert, Taylor Danae

  Caleb shakes his head, using the back of his little hand to wipe the crumbs from his lips.

  “No. I never been,” he says.

  “Okay, kiddo. I think it’s time we get outside. The rain’s stopped, and you need to get some energy out!” Millie says, standing up to grab her plate and Caleb’s. I give her a glare. I know what she’s trying to do. She wants to leave us alone.

  Only, Jesse’s standing up now, too.

  “Yeah, I have some more work to do in the barn,” he says, gathering his own plate. Damn. He ate that sandwich in all of two bites. He puts his plate in the dishwasher then stops at the doorway. “Thanks for lunch.”

  I nod as he walks away. Millie lets out a sigh as I roll my eyes. Her plan had unraveled.

  Later that night, as we’re getting ready for bed, we hear the engine to Jesse’s big red truck roar to life.

  “Where do you think he goes all the time?” Millie asks, pulling off her t-shirt and pulling on her pajama top. I shrug.

  “I have no clue. Probably back to his lair,” I say, pulling my long locks into a braid. She rolls her eyes.

  “If only you could get an invitation,” she says with a smirk as she climbs into bed.

  The next morning, I wake before I’m ready to a loud banging noise. I squint in the streaming sunlight, struggling toward the bay window to see what’s going on. Caleb appears next to me as Millie sits up, stretching in bed. And I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  Mr. Cold Heart, Mr. No Soul, is fixing the freaking dock.

  “We can go fishin’ now!” Caleb says, running to grab his shoes and put them on. Millie laughs.

  “Hang on there, kiddo. You need to put real clothes on first,” she says, snagging him by his collar and pointing him in the direction of his suitcase.

  Millie stands up, pulling on a pair of jean shorts and gazing out the window.

  “Man. He’s got a soft spot for kids, and he’s handy. And doesn’t look half-bad shirtless,” she says, making her way out the door to follow an overly ecstatic Caleb. I pause for a moment, soaking in the sight of Jesse from this vantage point.

  She’s right. He doesn’t look half-bad.

  From the looks of it, he’s been working for a while. I’m not sure how it took us this long

  to be woken up. He’s got on another pair of baggy jeans, but whatever shirt he was wearing is lying in a ball on the shore while he hammers away, the muscles of his back glistening in the summer sun. His sandy hair is thick with a bit of a wave to it, which makes it somehow always fall perfectly into place. And I swear, even from way up here in this window, I can see how blue-green his eyes are.

  Caleb’s running across the lawn toward him now, and Jesse stops hammering to greet him. I can see Millie waving at Caleb to slow down and stay back from the water—the kid has no idea how to swim—and then I see her thanking Jesse. Jesse holds his hand out, letting them walk out on the dock, and Caleb’s literally jumping with joy.

  Then Jesse turns slowly toward the inn, and our eyes lock through the window.

  I duck down like a nervous teenager.

  Caught me again.

  I pull on a clean tank top and a pair of shorts, and head down myself. By the time I make it outside, he’s got his shirt back on—much to my chagrin; I was really hoping to get an up-close inspection. He’s making his way toward the barn when I stop him.

  “Hey,” I say, just as he’s reaching for the doors.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Thank you for fixing that up for him. I know he’s ecstatic,” I say, nodding my head toward the dock. He looks out at Caleb, and that brief smile flashes across his lips again.

  “Ah, well. It was on my to-do list for fixin’ anyway,” he says. I smile.

  “You know, you could just say ‘you’re welcome.’”

  He turns to me slightly, before reaching his hand back to scratch the back of his head.

  “You’re welcome,” he says. I smile again. I can’t help it.

  “So, when do we start on that list?” I ask him.

  “What list?”

  “Your to-do list. I mean, that’s part of the deal. I get put to work,” I say. He looks me up and down quickly before turning back to yank the doors open.

  “I, uh, I haven’t really thought about where to start,” he says. “ I just sort of work on things as I think about them.”

  The Type-A in me is choking on air right now. I’m picturing a million different types of lists floating around in my head. Check boxes, check marks, scratched-off items. Ah, the glory of a well-planned to-do list.

  “No problem. I’ll start making a list, and you can let me know what we need to add. Deal?” I say. He looks me over one more time, and nods slowly before heading into the barn.

  He’s a man of few words, and I’m a girl who likes a challenge. This could be interesting.

  The next morning, I decide to make good on my word before Jesse can change his mind. I wake up with the sun like I normally do and change quickly, hoping to beat him downstairs. To my pleasant surprise, it seems I’ve succeeded.

  His truck is in the driveway, but the barn doors are still closed, which normally means he hasn’t woken up yet.

  I make myself a pot of coffee, and while I’m sipping, I start digging through all the drawers in the kitchen. As I’m digging, I find some worn and dog-eared recipe books, a stopwatch that’s older than I am, a business card for Chef Andres, and finally, a notepad. I pull the pad out of the drawer, but stop when I find an old, faded, photograph.

  The bottom right corner is bent, but the picture itself is beautiful. There’s a tall, broad, handsome man, with a square jaw just like Jesse’s and a head full of thick, dark hair. He’s got his arms wrapped around a petite young woman, with long, flowing blonde hair. She’s got the same nose and lips as Jesse. The woman is looking directly at the camera with a smile on her face. They’re standing in front of the inn, and a sign next to them in the grass reads, “VACANCY, ROOMS AVAILABLE.” A small, handwritten note at the bottom of the photo reads, “opening weekend, 1980.” It’s the Rowans—Mr. And Mrs. They are as picture-perfect as one would imagine the owners of the “gem of the Chesapeake” might be.

  The thing that gets me the most about the photo, though, is the way Mr. Rowan is looking at his wife. She’s smiling, seemingly bursting with pride at their new business. But Mr. Rowan—he’s staring down only at his wife, with the same full, grateful smile. The entire inn could be engulfed in flames behind him and he wouldn’t even notice. He wouldn’t even care—as long as he had her in his arms.

  “Where’d you find that?” I hear the gruff voice ask me, and I jump in my shoes.

  “Oh! Jesus, you scared me,” I say, handing him the photo. “It was in this drawer. I was just looking for a pad of paper to start making a list.”

  He takes the photo slowly, and it looks tiny in his hand. And I see something in his eyes that I haven’t seen the whole time we’ve been here—a little bit of softness. His eyebrows jut up just the tiniest bit, and I watch silently as his seaglass eyes scan every inch of the photo.

  “They look so proud,” I finally say. He nods, reaching a hand up to scratch at his stubble. “You look a little bit like both of them.”

  He nods again, then puts the photo back in the drawer. I grab the notepad and a pen and start making my way out of the kitchen, assuming that was the end of that conversation—if that’s even what it was.

  “That photo is hanging up in the Chesapeake Bay History Museum,” he says, taking a sip of water and staring out the window that’s over the sink. I stop and turn back to him slowly.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. They have a whole exhibit on mom and dad and the inn,” he says, taking another sip.

  “That’s amazing. I’d like to see that,” I say. I wait a beat, but he says nothing. I let out a quiet sigh. “Well, I’m gonna head outside.”

  I slide out the back door of the parlor, and when I reach the back patio, I draw
in a long breath. I’m not sure why, but whenever we’re alone, whenever it’s just the two of us, I feel my chest grow tight. I feel this flip in my stomach. It’s not like he’s easy to talk to. It’s not like he’s personable, by any means. It’s not like he’s full of compliments, or charm, or that I should be head-over-heels with him. He’s just...a mystery. He’s a puzzle I really want to put together.

  I look out over the bay. The sun is peeking up over the top of the water now, way out on the horizon. It’s crazy to think that the water in front of me is just a bay, a small sliver of the world’s water, and that it leads to an even more massive ocean. It’s framed by cattails in every direction, and you can see the silhouette of a few docks way, way out across the water. But for the most part, all you can see for miles is the big, blue bay. I take in another long breath. It’s stunning here.

  I make my way around the side of the house, and I start my inspection.

  The white paint is chipping, from every section of the house, except from the patches where it’s already gone. The shutters on some of the windows are still intact, but I imagine they will still need a coat of paint to match the replacements for the missing ones. I can tell from the survivors that they were once a beautiful emerald green, which matched the green roof. I start inspecting the windows, which seem to have been replaced somewhat recently. They’re all double-paned, and God, there’s a ton of them. They could stand a good washing, but they’re in decent shape otherwise. As I continue around the side of the house that the kitchen window faces, I stop when I see him.

  He’s still standing there at the window, sandy hair disheveled, stubble shining in the morning sunlight. And he’s looking right at me.

  Our eyes meet, and I feel this tiny little shock. I look back at him for a moment, trying to figure out just what he sees when he looks at me. But the moment passes, and I nervously tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and keep moving. I make a full lap around the house, jotting down everything I see that needs to be fixed, painted, hammered, or just altogether replaced.

  There’s a lot of shit to do in this joint. A lot of shit to do if we want this place to resemble anything close to the “gem” in the photograph.

  Jesse leaves for a few hours, so Millie and I sit on the back patio while Caleb plays with some of his toys on a blanket in the grass.

  “So, did you make your list?” Millie asks. I nod, pulling it out of my shorts pocket.

  “It’s a doozy,” I say. I watch her eyes grow wider and wider as she reads through it.

  “Damn. You think the two of you can really do all of this?” she asks. I raise an eyebrow at her. She knows better than to suggest that I can’t do something. She smiles. “I’m just saying. Can you do all of this and drool over him at the same time?”

  I roll my eyes and punch her shoulder as I snatch my list back.

  “On that note,” I say, hopping to my feet, “I’m going to make my nephew some lunch. You, on the other hand, can starve.”

  She laughs as I walk inside, stopping to pat Coby’s head. I’ve never had a pet before, but I’ve gotten used to his presence. It would feel weird to be here without his jingling chain and slobbery kisses every day.

  As I’m standing at the kitchen sink making us sandwiches, I notice the barn doors are open, and Jesse’s truck is back. I pull out two more pieces of bread, slap some mayo and turkey on them, and put them on a plate.

  I add a handful of plain potato chips—not that I’ve been paying attention to what he eats, or anything—and make my way out the front door to the barn. As I walk, I pick up the pace, eyeing the back of the house to make sure I’m out of my sister’s sight. She doesn’t need to see me playing nice.

  I peek my head into the doors and look around. I hear some noise from the room at the top of the stairs, and my curiosity gets the best of me. I tip-toe up the stairs, carefully gripping the wrought-iron railing to keep my steps quiet, and peek through the crack in the door. He’s on his knees on the floor, his navy t-shirt pulling tight around his back muscles. He’s searching for something under his bed.

  I almost want to laugh—he’s living out here in this barn room while we get the luxury inn to ourselves. Then I start to wonder why a man who has access to nine high-end suites, ten if you include the owner’s suite, would choose to sleep in a barn.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, and I jump.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to spy,” I say, holding up the plate. “I was just bringing you some lunch.”

  He pushes himself to his feet, nodding. I take a step into his room, and I feel that weird stomach flip happening again. Maybe it’s because we’re alone together...in his bedroom. He takes the plate, mutters a quick “thanks,” and then heads toward the door.

  “I’ll eat this downstairs,” he says, and I can tell he doesn’t really want me in here. I nod and follow him down the steps. He pulls out one of the chairs at one of the tables and takes a seat. He takes a bite of his sandwich, then looks back up at me. He springs back to his feet and grabs another chair off the stack, plopping it down on ground across from his own.

  Wow. This is the first gesture he’s ever made.

  I take a seat and sit quietly while he eats.

  “So, what were you looking for up there?” I ask.

  He takes another bite.

  “Something for you,” he says. I swallow, my heart skipping a beat.

  “For me?”

  “Yeah. But I can’t find it.”

  “What was it?” I ask. But he just shakes his head.

  “You’ll see when I find it.”

  I nod. My personality is pressing me to keep asking, but something about him makes me hold back.

  “Okay. Another question. Where do you go every night?” I ask. He raises an eyebrow at me, and I can tell he’s wondering why I care. But I don’t mind. There’s a part of me that wants him to know that I want to know more. There’s a part of me that’s hoping he might want to know a little more about me.

  “Out,” he says, leaning back in his chair. I lean back in my own, crossing my arms against my chest, giving my breasts a little boost. And if I’m not mistaken, his eyes travel downward for the fastest second. I raise an eyebrow at him. One of these days, Mr. Rowan, you’re gonna start talking more.

  “The Broken Shell. It’s a bar in town.” I nod. He stands up slowly from the table, swiping some crumbs onto his plate and pushing his chair in. He starts making his way across the wood planks on the floor and stops, turning back to me. “You can come tonight, if you want.”

  Then, he disappears out of the big barn doors.

  I smile to myself as I stand up from my own chair. I think Jesse Rowan just asked me out.

  A few hours later, I’m brushing my hair in a mirror down the hall, with my sister breathing down my neck behind me the whole time. We’re whispering since Caleb is napping in our room, but I can tell how badly she wants to squeal.

  “This is so exciting. I mean, it took him long enough. Geez, it’s almost been what, a month?”

  I roll my eyes, pretending like a swarm of butterflies isn’t forming in my stomach.

  I have on a tight black tank top and skinny jeans, paired with black sandals. It’s not exactly the finest night-out ensemble, but I didn’t exactly have time to plan my wardrobe when I was escaping a madman in Boston.

  “It’s nothing. I think he just offered to be nice,” I say, pulling my brush through my hair one last time.

  “Yeah, whatever. Don’t think I don’t notice him watching you, too. It’s like the most painful, slowest romance movie in the world. One of the ones where you want to just scream at the main characters to get it on already.”

  I laugh and shake my head as I put on a few more swipes of deodorant, grab my little sweater, and walk toward the door. I let out a long breath and tell her I’ll see her later. It’s a minute before nine, when Jesse had told me to meet him down at his truck.

  She smiles and spanks my ass as I walk by her.

  “
Don’t stay out too late. And use protection!” she yell-whispers. I shake my head again and wave her off.

  When I get out to the truck, he’s already in the driver’s seat and waiting, the engine roaring. I open the door and hop in, surprised at how high off the ground it is.

  He doesn’t say much, but I feel his eyes scan me up and down before he puts the truck into drive. The inside of his truck is surprisingly neat—although, now that I think about it, so was his bedroom. It’s just the rest of the place that’s completely falling apart.

  It smells like musty cologne—it smells like him, and I’m surprised how much I like it.

  “So, how far is this place?” I ask. A small smirk tugs at his lips.

  “Nothing in Baycrest is further than six minutes apart,” he says. “If it’s further than six minutes, you’re not in Baycrest anymore.” I smile and nod.

  He’s wearing a plaid button-up shirt and a pair of dark jeans. He’s got boots on still, but they are nicer, cleaner than the ones he wears around the inn.

  His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off the long, thick veins that trace along his hard forearms. He’s got one hand on the wheel, and the other on his knee.

  Six minutes later, we turn into a small parking lot, right along the shore. A blinking neon sign above the door indicates that we have indeed arrived at “The Broken Shell,” and music pours out of the open windows. The parking lot is completely packed—cars are double parked, and lining the curb. Jesse pulls the truck right up to the door, double-parks behind another truck, and hops out.

  “Can you park here?” I ask. He smirks again.

  “I can park wherever I want. It’s Baycrest,” he says. He walks a step ahead of me, but to my surprise, he pulls the door open and holds it for me. I nod and step inside, taking in the scene around me. The room is dim, but lit up by people laughing, singing, talking extra loudly to each other. The restaurant is just one big open room, with a jukebox in one corner, a stage, what appears to be a dance floor, and a bar against the side wall. The crowd includes people of all ages—maybe some who are even too young to be here, I think, wondering if they bother to check IDs in this town. I smile as I take them all in: Baycrest’s finest.