Yet he found himself watching her at night, acting on what was initially just curiosity, but now a perplexing impulse to protect her. Would there ever come a time she would be afraid, as people were supposed to be? Sure her heart rate had been elevated like all the rest, but her eyes held no fear. He deserved fear, not acceptance. And now she had sore ribs to show for such acceptance. He hated himself for it, but mostly for the way it had begun to turn him over inside.
Arne was driving again, Henry realized, because now they neared the tiny cottage—the home that now belonged to Ms. Ashton. Regina was there too, and they chatted next to their cars, a mop bucket under Regina’s arm. They laughed and Ms. Ashton’s hair was in a ponytail, a few runaway strands dancing lightly in the breeze. In the setting sun, her brown hair owned a golden shine. Her smile, her laugh lines: she was exquisite, even in the way she infuriated him.
“Now’s your chance to tell her off,” Arne teased. “Go on, show her who’s boss. Demand she change it.”
Henry glared at the eyes in the mirror—the eyes that had remained the same over all these years. The eyes of an eighteen-year-old, garnishing the body of an elderly man. “Drive.”
Ms. Ashton’s eyes caught the car and she straightened. They held his, even though she couldn’t possibly see through his darkened window. He found himself straightening as well, regardless of the way he was hidden. Then she lifted a hand and smiled, giving a polite wave. Henry assumed that’s what neighbors were supposed to do.
***
The coffee grounds bloomed in Elizabeth’s French press, the one she’d bought herself in L.A. and just pulled from her box the night before. She skimmed the grounds away with a spoon, the task strangely satisfying. She’d learned years ago in her rigorous pursuit for the perfect brew that covering the press tended to yield an uneven extraction from the cake of the coffee. Leaving it exposed and allowing the grounds to “bloom,” then skimming them from the top, made an amazing difference in the consistency and taste.
After plunging the press, she poured the coffee into a thermos, inhaling every air molecule she could, and closed the lid immediately. The rich and robust aroma made this place home. She looked around, at the walls now hers. Someday soon, there would be things on them, decorations—even pictures—that would make it officially her own. For now, just one box sat on the floor, and on the tiniest kitchen counter she’d ever seen sat her French press. In her bedroom—the only bedroom—were two suitcases and a lumpy mattress, one Regina had loaned her.
Hot thermos in hand, she hung her purse on her shoulder and grabbed her keys. It was early, just after seven, but because of her excitement, she hadn’t been able to sleep from the moment the sun had risen. Her shop supplies, the ones she’d ordered online yesterday, were supposed to arrive today since she had paid extra for next-day delivery. She felt like a child on Christmas morning.
After exiting the house and locking the door behind her, she turned, slightly electrified at the sight of Mr. Clayton walking by. She shouldn’t have been surprised, since he did this every day. But it was a quarter after seven and, according to Regina, he usually arrived at the diner by seven sharp. He didn’t seem like a man who was ever late for anything.
He paused too upon noticing her, and she readjusted her purse. His suit was black today, as well as his tie, and the sight of him out here, with dew-covered leaves and a bird’s morning song, felt…fitting. He nodded at her, and she said, “Good morning, Mr. Clayton.”
“You said I would never know I had a neighbor and here you are, infringing on my morning walk again.”
The appealing image her mind had created of him deflated, but instead of despising him, she reminded herself of all he’d been generous enough to do for her. She backed away, closer to her door. “I’m sorry. I can wait before I—”
“It was a joke, Ms. Ashton.” He scratched his forehead. “I suppose it’s been a while. I’m a little rusty.” Was he actually trying for small talk?
She approached with hesitancy, but couldn’t help chuckling at the way he appeared uneasy with a social skill as simple as teasing. “I suppose you are,” she said.
They walked side-by-side, which surprised her since every other time they had walked in remotely the same direction he’d intentionally stayed ahead of her. But he stopped before her house could disappear from sight. “Ms. Ashton.” Something seemed to be bothering him.
“Yes?” For some reason, when looking into his eyes, her mind drew upon the night before, when she’d been unpacking her box in the kitchen and standing by the only window at the back of the house. She had felt the beast again, and looked out the window in time to see him emerge from the trees. He stayed mostly hidden, but in the small clearing around her back porch, moonlight bathed his tail and front paws. No matter how many times she’d seen him, a shiver still shot down her spine, simply from his horrifying yet majestic presence. She wanted to go outside, badly. But instead she stood at the window—where they exchanged the same understanding with their eyes as the night before—reminding herself of the deal she’d made with Mr. Clayton.
Perhaps that’s why she thought of the beast now, when stuck in Mr. Clayton’s captivating brown eyes (for the first time she admitted to herself they were quite captivating) because it was he who would deprive her of all interaction with the so-called monster.
“I want to know why you didn’t change the name.” He released a breath, one that suggested he’d been holding it since the night before.
Blinding yellow shards of sunlight broke through the towering branches of a fir at horizontal angles. The crisp morning nibbled at her nose. “It…felt wrong to.”
“I hope you didn’t do it on account of me, Ms. Ashton, because—”
“It’s not about you, Mr. Clayton. It’s about Jean, whoever she was. It was her bakery. It still is. I want to keep it alive. The only title that feels right is Jean’s.”
“But you didn’t know her.” He seemed frustrated by this fact.
“I know.” It was all she could say.
“I just don’t understand.” His soft voice became lost inside his mind, and his brow tensed, as though he was trying to figure out the deepest of mysteries. “What drives a person to show such respect to someone they’ve never met, to someone they know nothing about?”
“I guess I just feel her there. I feel the whole town there, and how it used to be. Why would I want to change that?” She shrugged. “It’s not just because of you I got this opportunity. It’s because of her. Without her bakery…I’d have nothing.”
Gradually, his eyes moved from hers to the asphalt. Was this man standing here even Henry Clayton—this vulnerable, brooding man?
“The question is, Mr. Clayton, what drives a person to be so skeptical of such respect? You’ve been wronged a lot in your life, haven’t you?”
He recoiled, and began to walk.
“Is it all right I keep it Jean’s?” she asked, making him slow. “I can change it if—”
“No. It’s…it’s fine, Ms. Ashton. It’s what she would have wanted.”
They walked at a leisurely pace, and his mind still seemed far from him. She swallowed deeply before her next question, hoping she wouldn’t make his dark side emerge. “Who was she?”
He looked at her, then back at the street. “Jean was…” He hesitated. “My grandmother.” She had suspected so, since the boy in the picture she found last night looked so much like him. That silly, boyish smile, arms wrapped around a slender, well-manicured woman wearing an apron: it had to be Mr. Clayton’s father, whom Regina said he looked so much like. The boy even had the same dimples that appeared in the rare instances Mr. Clayton smiled.
She allowed him a moment to drift. The soles of their shoes ground rhythmically against the wet, gritty road—a most relaxing sound. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Clayton, if you also don’t mind me asking…who lived in the house before me?”
Then it happened: the Mr. Clayton she knew emerged. He became rigid, placing
his hands in his pockets and eyeing her with that same annoyance she saw only when he looked at her. “Do you want me to have Arne type you up a historical report, Ms. Ashton?” Ah, that clipped, impatient tone.
“Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly.
His eyes shot to her in a mix of surprise and repulsion. He had no words.
“It’s a joke, Mr. Clayton. I suppose I’m a little rusty myself.” She smiled at him, regardless of the way he stared with a harsh brow.
However, he relaxed after a second. “I did, if you must know. My mother and I lived there, every summer from the time I was a baby to the time I was eighteen. And my mother lived there every summer thereafter, until she passed away ten years later.”
“But…you didn’t live at the mansion with your father?”
He laughed, just a short burst, and his smile grew famously condescending. “And intrude on my father’s lifestyle?” He shook his head. “We weren’t to interfere, ever—especially in the summer months. Summer was his time, to fly in business clients and mistresses. Imagine what a damper that would put on things if my mother walked in on him and his harem. That would just be awkward, wouldn’t it?”
She looked down sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s no matter. I’d rather have boarded-up in a tiny shack with my mother than share a mansion with that man. He put us out like animals. Worse, in fact, since his dogs stayed with him. At least he allowed her to pick paint colors at the cottage, though. Red was her favorite.” He paused, and she dared to glance up at him, his temples pulsating from the clenching of his teeth. She actually felt true and genuine compassion toward him, for the first time. He didn’t notice her observance, though, since his eyes were suddenly distant again. “You know why I hate that house, Ms. Ashton?”
She didn’t answer.
“I have nothing but fond memories there, since my mother and I made a good team. The house always smelled of bread or cookies, of course. It was all she did, bake. But not just at the bakery. She did in the cottage, too, in that tiny kitchen. Always trying new recipes, or trying to perfect the ones she already had. There I lived by my mother’s rules, not my father’s. The kitchen was her playground, and that forest mine.”
His eyes met hers, the sadness in them startling. And in that moment she forgot about her question—about the way she found it strange that his mother baked at his grandmother’s shop.
“But to me,” he added, finally answering his question, “it’ll always be the dog house. It will always represent just how my father felt about us.”
They stood before the doors of the newly renamed Jean’s. And now, the name fit with the special fondness she felt for it. “Mr. Clayton…”
“Ms. Ashton, I want to make something clear. I didn’t tell you these things to get sympathy. It was a very long time ago and I’m certainly over it. This doesn’t change anything about the professional relationship we have, nor does it mean we can start sharing juicy secrets.” She narrowed her eyes, picturing ever so briefly the way it would feel to wring his neck. “I told you so you would get your curiosity out of the way and move on. I told you so you would know I don’t want to hear anything about that cottage again, do you understand?”
“I understand very clearly, Mr. Clayton.” He turned, walking toward the diner. “Mr. Clayton?” she said, making him turn back with that same expression that said he didn’t have time for her nonsense. “Will you come inside with me for just a minute?” He began to sigh. “It won’t be long, I promise. There’s something I want to show you.”
He shifted his jaw. She took his stillness as an answer, since he would be walking away if he’d refused. She put her key in the lock and jiggled it, but it didn’t give. It had stuck yesterday, too. Mr. Clayton moved behind her now, his sigh close to her hair. A sigh of impatience, probably. He reached around her and took the keys from her hand.
“There’s a trick to it,” he said, his voice surprisingly genuine and close to her ear. It gave her chills—good or bad, she didn’t know. She’d never known anyone to switch moods so quickly. Not even a high Willem.
He slid the key in then pulled it out, just slightly. “It catches.” He inserted it all the way again. “Here.” He brought her hand to the key, and this caught her off guard, his touching her. Instantly, her chest filled with a heat comparable to the one radiating from his hand—radiating from his entire body. “You can feel it, right…” He guided her hand, pulling the key back ever so slightly, and she felt the subtle click, almost indecipherable. “There,” he finished, then did it again. “That’s when you turn it.” He did, and the door successfully unlocked.
He seemed to forget he hated her in that moment, or perhaps he’d just forgotten it was her altogether, since he actually touched her without the slightest trace of abhorrence. She seemed to forget too, because the man who spoke so closely to her sounded nothing like the cold Mr. Clayton she knew. It was almost as though he’d forgotten who he was, dropping a life-long act. She twisted her neck and looked up at him, just to make sure he hadn’t been replaced by some imposter. He stared down on her, and it was beyond annoying that someone she despised so much could also make her heart feel faint. That she could feel so magnetized to the mysterious beauty in his eyes and the ruggedness of every attractive feature. Despite the way his arrogance poisoned whatever brewed between them, he was still one of the most attractive men she’d seen, leaving her opposition to him worthless.
That was when he seemed to realize the same thing she had: that this was out of character and he was too close. He cleared his throat and backed away, ushering her inside. She walked right to the counter, wanting to get this over and done with so she could be alone and work through all the confusion with which Mr. Clayton’s presence filled her.
Antique frames, ivory in color with fancy vine trim, encased the eight-by-ten black-and-white photos. She’d found them yesterday when cleaning, in a box behind the counter, and hadn’t been able to make out a single face until she’d wiped away the thick layer of dust. There were three grayscale pictures in all: one of the bakery from the outside, a street view; one from the inside, every table full of happy customers in vintage clothing; and one of the dark-haired, elegant Jean and the little boy that was a spitting image of Mr. Clayton. Perhaps one day she may be lucky enough to see that boyish smile on Mr. Clayton himself, though she doubted it. She’d studied the pictures for unmeasured minutes the day before, absorbing the memories. This place was special. And now she knew it was special to him, too.
She handed him the first one and his eyes doubled in size. He stared at it, taking it as though it might harm him. “I found these last night. I thought maybe you’d like to have them.”
He met her eyes after studying the picture of his father and grandmother, his brows pulling together. “I don’t want them.” He handed it back. He seemed wounded. And again, even with how well she could read people, Mr. Clayton was impossible to understand. “They were left here for a reason.”
“Then…would you mind if I hung them up here?”
He walked to the door, but from over his shoulder said, “That would be fine, Ms. Ashton.”
Chapter 14
The moving van had arrived hours ago, making it two days later than she had expected; but the timing couldn’t have been better. She’d been busy with Jean’s the past two days, setting up supplies. Most of her time had been spent tinkering with the commercial burr grinder and two French presses, the top models for commercial use. She even owned a top-of-the-line, all-in-one espresso grinder/maker, along with all the syrups and nozzles. Cups, baking trays, new chairs, a cash register, etcetera. The shop was finally ready, and now she could focus on readying her home.
She had spent the past hour showing the movers where to place her belongings. She made sure they took extra care with her father’s cuckoo clock, the one she and Willem used to watch as kids—waiting to get surprised by the little bird that would pop out faithfully on the hour and give three bir
d calls. It hadn’t worked in years, but still she hung it. She would wait until the movers were gone to unroll her rugs, since they managed to walk the entire forest’s mud through her small living space. One of the rugs was an antique Persian carpet with red, black, blue, and gold designs, intricate and eye-catching; the other was a woven wool rug Mr. Vanderzee had bought her on his trip to China two years ago, the fibers fine and silky. They would both look spectacular in this place with rich hardwood floors.
Regardless of how horrible Mr. Clayton’s father had been, he’d had good taste when building his “dog house.” The interior was spectacular: elaborate crown molding and hand-carved arched doorways (only two in the house, belonging to the bathroom and bedroom). She loved it here, and her love had deepened when she watched her belongings—her father’s belongings—move inside. Now she could call it home. Now, when she enters the narrow living room from the front door and sees the cherry-wood rocking chair and antique bookshelf and Persian rug, it will be hers. Not the dog house.
Before they had finished, Arne surprised her with a visit. He’d popped his head in the door when she’d been helping one of the movers—Jerry, who was short and covered in lots of body hair—position her hutch. Caught by surprise that Arne was home on a Sunday afternoon, rather than in Portland with Mr. Clayton, her first response had been, Arne, what are you doing home? He’d chuckled, telling her even Mr. Clayton took weekends sometimes.
Even more surprising was Arne’s casual slacks and Polo shirt. He’d even assisted where the movers would let him, and after they’d left, twenty minutes ago, he’d helped her rearrange things they hadn’t gotten right. It was hot now, the day bright and warm, and not only did she sweat, but Arne’s forehead glistened. She offered him some water, since she hadn’t bought anything else to drink yet, and together they went outside on her back porch, sitting in the two chairs that had been stacked under a cover. She loved the porch, the way it was hidden from the front of the house but almost the same size as the house itself. A raised, wooden deck, with four steps and a large shingled covering, perfect for the rainy days when she might want to sit outside.
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