I knew it then. Hope Manning was in love with Ciaran. She might not know it herself, and he most certainly did not, but it was plain as the bulging vein on her forehead. The question was, what happened when they both figured it out? Hope did not seem like a woman who would let anything keep her from what she wanted.
With these thoughts running through my mind, I approached her and held out my hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m a huge fan of your work.”
She smiled and shook my hand. Her skin felt cold and dry, like rice paper. An image came to mind of my neighbor’s prissy white cat with one of those squished faces. Precisely, the moment right before Candy lunged at my hand with her sharp teeth, drawing blood and leaving a permanent scar just above pinky knuckle. “Ciaran’s girls always are,” she said.
I stifled a gasp, as I withdrew my hand. Ciaran’s girls? How many had she met? Girl? I was certainly not a girl.
Speaking to Ciaran, as if I wasn’t there, she said, “Although she’s against type, Ciaran. That’s new.”
What did that mean?
She turned back to me, as if I’d asked the question out loud. “Usually he likes petite little nubile things that could blow away in the slightest of winds.” Her eyes swept my body, lingering for a moment at my waist. “You’re sturdy enough to conquer a hurricane.” She said this all with a smile on her face, as if she were complimenting me.
Taking in a breath, I backed away. Ciaran took my hand and gave it a squeeze. Perhaps this is why the press hated her and she had the reputation of being difficult on set. She was a mean girl. Bring it, I thought. Two can play mean girl just fine. Remembering the room key, I held it out to Ciaran. “She’s in room B. I mean C.” Had I just stuttered?
Hope turned her beautiful blue eyes back to Ciaran. “Anyway, regarding the paparazzi, no one will ever think I’d stay here.” Fluttering her hand around the room, she gave him a knowing look. “Reminds me of my grandmother’s old place. Doesn’t it?” I knew what that was. The whole “talk about old times routine,” so as to exclude me from the picture. As if to say, See, you do not matter. We have a past. We go way back. You’re new. And temporary.
Ciaran didn’t comment, but reached down for her bag. “Come on, I’ll take you up.”
She sighed and headed toward the stairs, without another glance in my direction. “Good. I need a nap before you make me dinner tonight. Do you have a dining room table yet?” She knew he had no table?
“I have plans with Bliss tonight.” He twisted his head to wink at me and mouthed the word, “fun.”
Setting one foot on the bottom step and grasping the rail with one hand, she stopped and looked over at him. “You’ve got be kidding me with this.” Then, she let out a long sigh and walked up the stairs. She had the straightest back I’d ever seen and held her head like a queen. When we were kids, Blythe and I used to practice walking around with a book on our heads to instill good posture. This girl could walk with a stack of five books and not have one shift.
I rubbed the scar on my hand and shivered.
* * *
While I waited for Ciaran to come down, I paced the floor in the sitting room, stopping every minute or so to sit on the couch and read, but my attempts at distraction only lasted a second or so. Fidgety and agitated, I couldn’t focus on the words, let alone the story. After ten minutes, I decided to go upstairs and see how our makeover was going. When I got to the second floor, I heard voices behind the door of room C. I couldn’t make out words, but I had the distinct impression that Ciaran and Hope were having a hushed argument. About what, I wondered? Me? Or something else?
I walked by the room on tiptoe, not wanting them to know I was there. At room B, I walked in without knocking. Moonstone was in the chair, having her long, now auburn, hair combed out. “Bliss, what do you think?”
“The color looks fantastic,” I answered.
“She’s going to cut it now,” said Moonstone. “This is the scary part.”
Ida, scissors in hand, smiled like she was interacting with an indulged toddler. “It won’t hurt, I promise.”
As Ida began to snip, long strands of hair fell to the floor, reminding me of the tails on those play coon hats the boys used to wear in elementary school. Fortunately, Ida had put newspapers all around the chair to catch the clippings. While she cut, I filled Moonstone in on the arrival of the latest guest. Both Ida’s and Moonstone’s eyes went wide when I told them the true identity of M. Madison.
Apparently Moonstone hadn’t predicted this turn of events. “What’s she doing in our little town?” she asked, meeting my eyes in the mirror. Ida hands moved fast, the scissors snipping like the beaks of a hungry baby bird. Already I could see the shape of the cut forming.
“She’s here to see Ciaran,” I said.
The scissors went still. Ida’s gaze remained fixed on Moonstone, as if thinking about what to do next. Tiny slivers of hair floated in the beam of sunlight that had appeared through the window. Then, just as suddenly as she’d stopped, Ida began to cut again.
“So it’s true? What they say in the magazines?” asked Moonstone.
“No. According to Ciaran, they’re just friends. They went to high school together,” I said. But even as I said it, I felt uncertainty and jealousy swirling around my gut.
“You have no reason to doubt him,” said Moonstone. “I know this for certain. ”
I sat on the edge of the bed. “So how does it work? How come you know some things but not others?”
“The universe decides. It’s not up to me. My job is to remain open so the waves can come inside.”
“Well, can you tell the universe that about now it would be really helpful if I knew if they were involved or not?”
“You’ve fallen for him,” said Moonstone.
“No, it’s not like that. We’re just having fun, enjoying one another. That’s all it is. I’ll probably go home next week.” I looked at her, pausing. Why did I sound like I was trying to convince myself?
“Men always want fun,” said Ida, surprising me by speaking. She held her scissors at her side, and opened and closed them three times. Alligator jaws, I thought. She continued, still holding the scissors at her side. “Women are not capable of staying casual after having sex.”
“No, that’s not true,” I said. “I’m not interested in serious, either, but I don’t want to be lied to. If he has a thing with her, and she’s here, then that isn’t my definition of fun.”
Ida shrugged and went back to cutting Moonstone’s hair. “Men are liars. Some worse than others.”
“The problem is, with matters of the heart, or desires of the flesh, we have to decide one way or the other, do we trust this person?” said Moonstone, sounding like a self-help advisor on Oprah, airy voice and all. “He told you they’re not involved, so you have to decide if you believe him or not. But don’t stay in the middle place between doubt and belief. Choose one way or the other.”
I had to admit that Moonstone’s advice was good. And my instincts told me that despite his phobia of commitment, Ciaran was not a liar. He’d been upfront from the beginning, as had I. The problem was that, to Ida’s point, I wasn’t sure I could maintain my end of the agreement. Feelings for him had crept in, despite my best efforts. I’d believed at the moment of decision that I could truly treat this as a casual, fun, and satisfying fling. But at the first appearance of Hope Manning, jealousy had appeared with a swift force. My reaction, this swirling in my gut, was not in conjunction with someone satisfied with a casual affair.
“You’re afraid to get hurt.” Moonstone stated this as fact, like she’d commented on my taste in chocolate.
“I’m impossible to hurt,” I said.
“Didn’t think you had it in you, did you?” asked Moonstone.
“As I said, I don’t. Her arrival was surprising, that’s all.”
During th
e last part of this interchange, Ida’s hands had not stopped moving with that assured and practiced way great hair stylists possess. It had always amazed me how sure they were, how they did not hesitate to cut with what seemed like wild abandon and yet at the end every strand fell in exactly the right place. Moonstone’s haircut was complete. Ida set down her scissors, crossed her skinny arms over her concave stomach and looked at her work for a moment before picking up a can of mousse. “Straight or wavy?” she asked Moonstone.
“Straight?” Moonstone looked over at me. “Bliss?”
I remained perched on the side of the bed. “Straight sounds great.” Putting aside my thoughts of Ciaran and Hope Manning in a room alone, I focused on my makeover project. “Watch how she does it so you can duplicate it,” I said.
Moonstone nodded consent. As Ida turned on the dryer I waved good-bye, saying I would wait downstairs. I walked slowly past Hope’s room; there were no voices. Had Ciaran come downstairs to wait for me? Or was he in there, making silent love to her? The thought made me feel as if I might retch. I sped up my gait as I went downstairs, almost slipping on the sleek wood, but reached for the rail just in time.
To my relief, I found Ciaran in the sitting room, stretched out on the couch, with his eyes closed. Was he asleep? Approaching with silent steps, I sat on the coffee table, resisting the desire to put my trembling fingers in his hair. His breathing was even and his upper lip made a little fluttering noise with each outward breath. Watching him sleep felt intimate, I thought, as his hand twitched where it rested on his stomach. Dreaming, I supposed. Of what?
I shifted slightly and accidently knocked one of the forks left from Henry and Mrs. Pennington to the floor. He opened his eyes at the sound of the metal clanging against the hardwood floor. “Hey, Bliss.” Smiling, he put a hand on my knee. “For some reason, I can’t imagine why, I’m tired today. It’s like someone kept me up half the night.”
I smiled back at him, running my fingers through the soft hair on his forearm. “We could go home and nap, if you wanted.”
Shifting into a seated position, he swung his feet to the floor, and then pulled me onto his lap. “I can think of nothing better.” He nibbled on my neck. “But let’s eat first. I’m starved.”
“What about Hope?” There it was, that high-pitched tone at the end of the sentence, betraying my feelings.
“She’ll probably sleep the rest of the day. Jet lag and too much wine on the plane.” He tucked hair behind my right ear. “Is something bothering you?”
I didn’t say anything, focusing my gaze on his neck, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Of course not. I just don’t want you to sacrifice spending time with her to take me out or whatever. I know you guys go way back.”
His mouth puckered in apparent amusement. “Her being here has no influence on our plans.” A flash of annoyance crossed his face. He lowered his voice. “Between you and me, one of the reasons I came to Idaho for the holidays was to get away from her.” He took in a large breath, his chest expanding. “Yes, we’re good friends, but she drives me crazy—like a spoiled sister might. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she’s a bitch. Not to mention a surly drunk.”
I let that information sink in, trying to detect if it was false or not. “Why do you spend so much time with her, then?” I had to ask it. I had to see what he would say.
He cocked his head to the side. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” Again, my stomach clenched with jealousy. Complicated implied involvement, perhaps of the sexual nature. “I know we’re just having fun.” I made quotes in the air around the word fun, appalled at how jealous I sounded. Damn, I could not get it together. “But I don’t want to share you with another woman while we’re here. That’s where I draw the line.”
“Duly noted,” he said, no louder than a mumble. “I’m hungry for lunch. Let’s eat at the grill.”
“Are you changing the subject?”
His arms tightened around my hips. “Bliss, I’ll tell you everything. Just not here. Over lunch.” It was the first time he’d ever spoken to me with impatience. It sent a shooting pain through my chest.
“Fine.”
His grip relaxed. He touched the side of my face with his fingertips. “You’re kind of cute when you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous.” I dipped my face into the side of his neck.
“You don’t need to be. Not of her or anyone. Come on, you need a good meal and so do I.”
Chapter 24
WALKING INTO THE Peregrine Bar and Grill was like entering a shabby version of a western film set. The bar itself was made of light oak with matching backless stools. Walls covered with tattered and fading burgundy wallpaper and shelves filled with liquor in no apparent order, an old-fashioned popcorn machine, a cash register with manual keys and an actual money drawer. The wide plank floors scattered with peanut shells, dingy. On the restaurant side of the building the walls were brick. Five booths on the far wall with rubber seats split in places, foam poking out, as if waiting for the right moment to escape, were in juxtaposition to the tables and chairs made of the same faded oak as the bar, like a late 1960s set decoration had been accidently placed in the wrong movie scene. Everything needed a good scrubbing if the splatters of ketchup and mustard on the legs of the chairs were any indication. I shuddered to think how many pieces of gum were stuck under the tabletops. Empty of patrons, it smelled of dust, and coffee too long on the burner, with undertones of stale beer.
A waitress, middle-aged, with a worn-out slump to her shoulders, wearing loose, high-waisted jeans that did nothing for her skinny frame and a Peregrine Bar and Grill T-shirt, greeted us. She snatched a pencil she had placed in the middle of a mousy brown-and-gray bun, and gestured around the room with it. “Sit anywhere you like.” During the day, the bar was closed, she informed us, but the restaurant served breakfast or lunch before shutting down at two p.m. and re-opening for dinner at five. “Don’t get much business this time of year.” She sounded apologetic, as if it were her fault that tourists hadn’t flocked to this town the size of a large city block. Then, she grabbed plastic menus from the cashier’s desk and handed them both to Ciaran. “We don’t have the Salisbury steak today. I suppose you’ll want waters?” This was said as if we were from an exotic land where waters were audaciously served to everyone.
Ciaran smiled, thanked her, and led me to a booth at the back of the restaurant set with silverware the texture of a tin can wrapped in thin paper napkins, salt and pepper shakers with a film that I knew would make them sticky to the touch. Mustard and ketchup in plastic bottles propped up a drink menu between them. The plastic covers of the benches felt cold under my leggings as I slid into one side of the booth and Ciaran the other. I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter around my middle.
“I don’t think they heat this place during the slow months.” He glanced toward the kitchen where our waitress had disappeared behind a swinging door. “Can you see my breath?”
I chuckled. “It’s not that cold.”
“Well, I’m ordering the soup.” He took off his gloves, setting them next to him, and rubbed his hands together.
I glanced at the menu. Split pea soup was the soup of the day. With a shudder, remembering school lunches and peas the color of army greens, I dismissed the idea.
After deciding that the turkey sandwich with wheat bread was the safest bet, I glanced over at Ciaran, to find him watching me, looking amused. “What?” I asked.
“You’re such a snob.”
“I am not.”
“When was the last time you ate in a place like this?”
I shook my head, unable to remember. “I grew up in a town just like this one, you know. I’m quite familiar with this type of establishment. Anyway, I’m not a snob. I simply choose carefully.”
Laughing, he poked my foot with his. “So, it’s the boy named Sue phenomenon again.”
I made an exaggerated sigh, and pulled my foot away from his. “What does that mean?”
“Just that you stay as far away as possible from anything resembling your childhood, including dive bars, which can be fun, you know. If you’re in the right company, that is.”
“Meaning you?”
“Precisely.”
“Kevan and Blythe fell in love at the bar, you know.” I pointed over to the bar area, hoping to change the subject.
The waitress came before he could respond, bringing the scandalous waters in bumpy plastic cups the color of weak apple cider. We ordered and she left.
Ciaran rubbed his eyes and sighed. “So, you want to know about Hope.”
I shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I guess.”
He raised one eyebrow like he always did right before he teased me. But instead, his expression sobered. Picking up his set of utensils, he unwrapped them from the napkin. “This is a long story. Hope and me, that is.”
I gestured around the room. “We’ve got nothing but time.”
“I don’t talk about this with anyone.” He picked up his fork, pushing it against the pads of his fingertips, the tongs making dents in his flesh. “At least not lately.”
I couldn’t think what to say and held my breath, waiting for what was to come next. A muted sound came from the kitchen—the crash of broken glass and our waitress cursing, then a lower voice answering. I took a sip of water. It tasted of minerals.
“When we were kids, Hope’s father was an equipment supplier for my father’s trucking company. Metal items and such. I won’t bore you with the details but basically they made parts that we put into our trucks. Their quality was important to the safety of our rigs, and it was a relationship my father took very seriously. He was intensely loyal and also felt strongly that whenever possible, he wanted to partner with vendors local to Idaho.
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