Notes on His Pillow

by Diana Currie

  I nod my head while I finish chewing a piece of muffin. "Yes. We have six rooms available. Our busiest times are around the holidays when people come to town to visit family members. And this time of year all the vacationers start coming around," I explain. "Mrs. Coleman is Nikki Simpson's aunt. Nikki was my friend in high school. Her father, Mrs. Coleman’s brother, is the mayor or Swainsboro."

  "I have a lot to learn about the town, don't I?" he muses. "My parents moved here just a few years ago, when my younger brother left for college. I'm afraid I've only visited them here a few times."

  My stomach flips, excited to learn another tidbit of information about my intriguing new guest. "I didn't think I recognized you from Swainsboro High School, but I suppose you'd have graduated a few classes ahead of me," I reply.

  "My family still lived in Chicago when I graduated high school. My parents moved here since both my brothers work in Atlanta now. Alexander lives in the city and Andrew lives in McDonough. High school was ten years ago this year. Does that make me old?" he asks. His eye brows are raised and I detect a hint of amusement in his voice.

  I shake my head. "Not old," I assure him. "Four years difference between us. And I spend most of my time feeling like I’m at least thirty, so that makes us more or less even."

  He smiles at me before lowering his eyes to focus on buttering the toast in his hand. Mentioning my age must get him thinking about Tyler and Gabby, mentally calculating how old I was when they were born. I know his thoughts have drifted to them because he looks up again asking, "Where are your kids this morning?"

  I glance into the empty living room reflexively, remembering their presence when Adam arrived the night before. "Ah, they go to daycare and preschool during the day. Otherwise I'd get nothing done around here. Their father takes them some nights and the rest they're here with me."

  "Their names?"

  "Tyler and Gabrielle. Gabby." My voice shakes a little; nervous about the subject of my broken home. Adam nods and I think he can sense my unease. An awkward silence passes between us for a few moments.

  "I'm separated," I blurt out. His eyes shoot up immediately and lock with mine. "My husband moved out a year ago and we're getting a divorce. It's a big scandal around town so I'm sure you'll hear about it soon enough," I say trying to make a joke of it.

  "I'm sorry to hear that. And I didn't mean to pry," he says cautiously.

  "No, please, you weren't. I'm just oversensitive about the whole situation. People in this town just love to talk; I wish I could protect my children from hearing what they say about me."

  “I can’t imagine anyone finding something bad to say about you.”

  I blush and pick up my coffee cup just to have something in my hands. “That’s sweet, but you’d be surprised. When you’ve lived here all your life like I have it gives people a lifetime of stories to tell. And I’d rather my kids not hear their versions of my life story.”

  "It seems like you're a very good mother," he compliments.

  "Thank you. Can I get you some more coffee or anything else?" I ask desperate to change the topic of conversation.

  "I'm good, thanks. Breakfast is delicious. I can't remember the last time I had something besides cold cereal in the morning."

  I smile warmly at his words, happy to know I'll be providing him with lots of home cooked meals in the next few weeks. In the back of my mind I wonder if perhaps Adam left a girlfriend back in Chicago. She must not have cooked for him if he ate cold cereal every morning. His hypnotic eyes bore into mine like he’s trying to read my mind for a long two seconds before he stands to clear away his dishes.

  "No, let me do that. That's why I'm here," I insist pulling his plate from his hand. He smirks as I begin bussing the kitchen table.

  "Amanda, please let me help. It's no trouble," he says softly touching my forearm with his fingertips trying to slow my actions. I freeze and recoil from him, shocked by the overwhelming sensations that course through me from such a simple innocent gesture.

  "I'm sorry," he says confused by my response.

  My cheeks flush, embarrassed by my overreaction. I launch into my usual B&B spiel. "There are laundry bags hanging in the closet of your room. Just fill them with whatever you need washed. If you have items to be dry-cleaned you can hang them in the closet with your wash and I'll take it to the cleaners."

  He takes a step back and lets me move more easily around the kitchen. "I still want to fix that faucet for you; I just need to find a hardware store. Can you give me directions?" he asks.

  "Don't be silly, Adam. I'll call the plumber. He can reattach it."

  "Amanda, please. I'm not meeting my realtor until 2:30. I need something to keep me busy otherwise I'll go mad."

  I sigh and bravely turn to face him. "Alright, Adam. I'll let you fix the faucet.” I like the way his name sounds coming off my tongue. "The hardware store is on Main Street, about a ten minute walk. Let me get you a map."

  I walk over to the front desk and pull one of my custom drawn maps from the bottom shelf. Adam is watching me intently as I come back to the table and unfold it.

  “Is this the whole town?”

  “No, just downtown and the surrounding homes, but every business and every house in a mile radius is on here,” I say trying not to sound too smug. Besides my children, I’m most proud of creating this intricate artistic depiction of Swainsboro.

  “The artwork is beautiful. Did you have it specially made?”

  I blush ten shades of red. “Uh, I drew it actually. It began as a senior art project. When I started working here the guests kept asking for maps, so whenever I had some down time I’d work on expanding what I had drawn for class. Mr. Thatcher liked the final product so much that now he pays for color copies to be made for every guest.”

  “It’s beautiful, Amanda, truly.” Adam traces his finger over the roads of downtown Swainsboro, admiring the drawing of the town library, the police station, and other buildings along Main Street until he comes upon the Thatcher B&B. “Did you major in Art?”

  “No, it was, um, a high school project. I’ve never left Swainsboro; I got married instead; then had Tyler a year and a half later. So no college for me. I was supposed to go to Georgia State University on a scholarship though,” I explain sadly.

  He smiles warmly at me, sensing my embarrassment I’m sure. “Well you have real artistic talent, Amanda. I’m serious,” he adds after I roll my eyes dismissively.

  With a pen I draw a route on the map from the B&B to the hardware store for him to distract myself from his glowing praise. "Which realtor are you using?" I ask thinking I'll mark it on the map for him.

  "Harper & Roach. My mother's picking me up here and we're going to tour some houses together," he says.

  “Okay, here’s the route to follow to the hardware store. And here’s Harper & Roach,” I say marking it with an X.

  “Thanks. I suppose I should add buying a car to my list of chores. I didn’t have one in Chicago,” he murmurs more to himself than to me.

  “For that you’ll have to go to Savannah, I’m afraid. No dealerships in town.”

  “Gossipy townsfolk, my parents, and the nearest car dealership is an hour away. The joys of small town living keep piling up,” he jokes sounding as if he’s not exactly pleased to be moving here. So why has he come here and shaken up my quiet little existence? Certainly there were doctors’ offices in Chicago he could have worked in. It seems like the story of why Adam Brickman came to live in Swainsboro may be a complicated one.

  I smile at him once more before starting on the dishes that need washing. Adam excuses himself upstairs and is gone for only a few minutes. He returns with sunglasses and his wallet in hand. He counts the bills inside and then picks up the map from the kitchen table.

  “Wish me luck,” he says holding it up and flashing me a perfect smile.

  “You’ll be fine,” I reply. “Did you leave me any laundry upstairs?”

  “Yes, one small bag. I feel strange
letting you do my wash. No one’s done laundry for me since my mother in high school,” he chuckles running a hand through his messy hair.

  “All part of the exemplary service here at the Thatcher B&B,” I joke.

  He thanks me once again for breakfast, the map, and the laundry before finally exiting through the front door. I can’t help smiling at all the dirty dishes as I continue scrubbing each one clean.

  With Adam out of the house for a while my brain can focus on my responsibilities. Mrs. Coleman finally emerges again from her room and lets me know she’s running out to do an errand but might be back for lunch, and then will be spending the afternoon over at the Simpson’s. Good news for me. After finishing in the kitchen I dust all the rooms downstairs and vacuum the living room and dining room rugs. It’s almost eleven am and Mr. Seaman has usually come around by now with the mail so I go outside to check the box. Sure enough the mail has arrived and I’m carrying it into the house when the phone rings. It’s been quiet lately and I’m glad to be getting a call; hopefully for a reservation.

  “Good morning, Thatcher Bed and Breakfast. This is Amanda speaking.”

  The caller is a man who wants to come fishing next week and asks if we have vacant rooms for him and two other men. Looking over the guest book I’m thrilled to report that we do and I pencil them all in for the following Monday. I use the credit card machine to take his deposit over the phone and answer some general questions about Swainsboro. He mostly wants to know where the best fishing spots are located.

  “Yes, Sir. My father’s an avid fisherman too and he says they’ve really been biting out there this season. That sounds great. We look forward to seeing you. Goodbye.”

  I glance ahead at the next few pages in the schedule book. Mrs. Coleman only has one night left, praise the Lord. I notice that if it weren’t for John Lambert and his fishing buddies Adam would be the only guest at the B&B for the next week. I feel disappointment creep over me and I’m not sure that’s a healthy reaction for me to be having. The man makes me nervous and confused. I decide that I’m much better off having other people around to buffer his effect on me. In my neatest cursive writing I pencil in Brickman for the Red Room over the next two weeks and smile to myself seeing his name repeating over each schedule block.

  After sorting the mail, my next task of the day is the laundry. Mrs. Coleman has a full bag waiting in her room, probably asking me to wash every article of clothing she packed. I push open the door to the Red Room slowly; not exactly sure what I’m afraid of finding. I know I’m alone in the house; maybe it’s the knowledge of my momentary voyeurism from the night before that’s eating at me. I feel like I’m invading Adam’s privacy again by entering him room. It shouldn’t feel odd though, I come into the guests’ rooms daily to change the sheets and gather laundry. I typically empty trash cans and take dirty dishes back to the kitchen too.

  The room looks the same as every other time I’ve entered it. Adam's suitcase is opened on the wingback chair in the corner. The armoire doors are open so he must have been watching television last night. There's a book on the nightstand by the bed being held open by a pair of reading glasses. I imagine how Adam would looking wearing those glasses and for some reason it makes him seem even sexier. The book looks like a medical journal of some sort and I'm lost in the language after glancing at just the first few sentences. He's hung a number of dress shirts and pants in the closet; some of them are wrinkled from the time spent in his suitcase. I'll have to remember to offer to press them for him.

  I find the laundry bag on the floor of the closet next to a pair of dress shoes and muddy running sneakers. Did Adam go running this morning before I got here? A hot and sweaty Adam Brickman would definitely be something worth waking up early to see. No, no, I chide myself. It’s much better that I missed that. I take the bag of laundry from the floor, shaking my head at the direction my thoughts have gone. I need to get out of this room before I launch into a full blown snoop.

  The only feature of this house I dislike is that the washers and dryers are in the basement. It's common for older homes and Mr. Thatcher was kind enough to install two of each machine during his renovations, but it's still creepy down there and musty smelling. I flip the switch on the wall and make my way down the creaky steps to the basement. Mrs. Coleman's load barely fits in the first machine. I'd left some clean towels in the second one so I pull them out and set them on the big table in the center of the room to fold. Adam's clothes still carry the scent of his cologne as I pull them from the bag. Even the man's dirty clothes are turning me on! I can't resist inspecting each item in my hands as I toss it into the machine. I recognize the clothes he'd worn the day before when he first arrived. There is also a pair of cotton lounge pants he must have worn to bed, and a t-shirt and gym shorts. He did go for a run this morning! So far I know that Adam Brickman is an attractive, polite doctor who wears reading glasses and jogs first thing in the morning... and who makes me have dirty awful daydreams about him that are completely out of character for me. What is it about this man?

  I start both loads and then fold the clean towels on the table, trying to keep my mind on important, relevant topics. Tyler needs new sneakers. His are ruined from the last time he jumped in the mud puddles outside our house. I have to remember to ask Tommy about the papers he filed with the lawyer. And it's Mrs. Coleman's last day at the B&B. I should ask her what she'd like for dinner. Hopefully it's nothing that will send me out to the grocery store for ingredients. I have cold cuts in the fridge for lunch but I think she will be out at the Simpson's house most of the day. I'll need to make a sandwich for Adam when he returns. And I need to pick the kids up around 4 o’clock.

  When I get back to the main floor my ears pick up on some clanking and banging coming from upstairs. It sounds like Adam has returned and is hard at work on the leaky faucet. I really don't want to see him right now; I've managed to keep my mind off him for a good fifteen minutes and want it to stay that way. Though these towels do belong up there in the bathroom, and besides, he's making too much racket for me to forget he's there. In the interest of the B&B, I really should go see what he’s doing to the faucet. I carry the basket of towels up to the second floor and politely say hello as I walk by the bathroom on my way to the linen closet. Adam is kneeling by the sink, sifting through Mr. Thatcher's tool box.

  "Hey, there you are. I couldn't find the same handle you had before so I bought these," he says holding out his hand for me to see. I stuff a few towels into the closet and come back down the hall to the bathroom doorway. The replacements he purchased look similar enough to me so I nod my head in approval.

  "Looks good to me. Thanks for doing this.”

  "No problem. Do you need to get in here?" he asks.

  He moves to the side before I can answer so I squeeze past him with my towels to get to the shelf by the tub. "Thanks," I say softly.

  Adam smiles and resumes his task, leaning over the sink with a wrench in hand, not leaving me enough space to get out again. I sit on the edge of the tub and decide to watch him work. Okay, so I'm actually watching the muscles in his forearms flex while he works. It’s practically the same thing.

  "Where did you learn to do this?" I ask conversationally.

  "What, fix leaky faucets?" he asks not turning to look at me.

  "Yeah. I can’t imagine plumbing skills were part of med school.”

  "Just one of my many secret talents, Miss. Sommerer," he teases winking at me. For a second I think he's flirting with me but my brain quickly dismisses the idea as absurd. "My father taught me when I was younger. I'm the middle child of three boys and my dad made sure we could all change the oil in a car, fix leaky pipes, and balance a checkbook before leaving the nest," he says as one faucet is twisted securely into place.

  "And what other talents do you have?" I ask trying not to make my tone suggestive.

  Adam chuckles and reaches for a different tool. "Well, my mother never had any daughters, so she taught Andrew to c
ook, Alexander can swing dance, and me... I play the piano."

  I smile wide imagining a younger Adam sitting in front of a grand piano looking over some sheet music with Caroline Brickman by his side.

  "We all hated it, but there was no arguing with our mother. What about you? Did Pastor Sommerer teach you to shoot a gun or bait a fishing line?" he asks.

  For a second I'm surprised that he knows my father is the pastor of our church but then I recall how I'd warned him about this being a small town. Adam's probably already heard about my family from his mother, or Mrs. Coleman, or it could even have been Randy at the hardware store.

  "He taught me both, actually," I say proudly. "And I can gut a fish, drive a stick shift, and ride a dirt bike too."

  Adam turns his head and raises an eyebrow at me. He looks impressed.

  "Only child," I explain. "And my mom took off when I was six so the only reason I learned to cook, sew, and separate whites from colors is because of Mr. Thatcher’s wife. Their daughter, Rebecca, is my best friend."

  His face falls slightly. Apparently he hadn't been filled in on Nadine's great escape. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't know. I shouldn't have complained about my mom..."

  "No, please it's okay. It was a long time ago. And I do still talk to her, it's just a strained relationship," I insist.

  I don't want anyone feeling sorry for me, especially Adam Brickman. He turns back to the sink and starts working on the second faucet.

  "Speaking of moms, what time is yours coming to pick you up?" I ask.

  "About two o'clock. She's lined up a bunch of houses she thinks I'd like so the realtor is going to show them to us."

  "Are you hungry for lunch yet? I want to feed you before she gets here," I explain.

  He smiles without turning his head. "I'd love some lunch. I just need a few more minutes and I’ll be done here."

  "I was going to make sandwiches. We have bologna, salami, turkey, and ham. White bread okay?"

  "Turkey on white's good. With mayo?" he asks hopeful.

  "You got it. Do you want tomato and lettuce?"