I had all my research and notes for the Friday-morning meeting, to talk about how they wanted their town presented. I had a date set up with Chad Bowman to get a more specific glimpse into some of the businesses and sights that I might feature.
But I certainly wasn’t bouncing out of my seat because I’d be meeting with Myra Davis, owner of the Klip ’n’ Kurl, a third-generation beautician and proprietor of the town’s hottest beauty spot. Or with Homer Albano, owner of the hardware store on Main Street, who’d been handing out homemade popcorn along with his wrenches and hammers since 1957.
I was bouncing and humming and practically climbing out of my skin because I was going to hopefully, probably see Oscar again. And the thought was driving me mad.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with the one-night stand; I’d indulged a time or two or several. The term implied, “Hey, let’s scratch this itch and then go our separate ways, but thanks for the orgasm.” Or multiple orgasms, if you were lucky.
But I was coming back to the scene of the one-night stand. The one-afternoon-getting-thoroughly-worked-over-in-the-barn stand. And I wanted more.
I craved him, simple as that. When I just saw him at the farmers’ market, I was free to make up any backstory I wanted about him. Now he was real. Now I knew enough to know I wanted to know more.
Had he thought about me this week? Had he been at work concentrating on something really boring but necessary, and then an image of my naked body shot across his imagination?
I squeezed my hands into fists, channeling the tension I could feel running through my body. It had been ages since I’d been this worked up about a man, and I needed to keep it in check.
I spent another near-sleepless night tossing and turning at Roxie’s. I appreciated the guest room; I appreciated the comfortable bed even with the squeaks and creaks. But honestly, how the hell did anyone sleep in this town with all that racket outside? I was finding some earplugs while I was in town today.
Friday morning in Bailey Falls dawned clear and crisp, and before I could say howdy-do I was bouncing along the rutted country roads next to Roxie, eating one of her cinnamon biscuits and marveling at how blue the sky was when you could actually see the sky. Not that there was anything wrong with the sky behind the Chrysler Building, but it just wasn’t the same.
“Did you tell Trudy thanks for letting us host the meeting at the diner?” I asked, sipping from a travel mug of my special-roast coffee. After the disaster at the coffee shop last weekend, I came prepared this weekend, getting off the train last night with a smile and two pounds of Colombian gold coffee.
“You can tell her yourself, my mom can’t wait to see you. She’s officially pissed that you didn’t stop by last weekend to see her. She said, and I quote, ‘Tell that city snot to get her ass in to my diner or I’ll send Bert after her.’”
“Who the hell is Bert?”
As we turned onto Main Street, Roxie pointed to an ancient cop car sitting in front of city hall. “Bert. Chief of police, coach of the women’s bowling team, champion Scrabble player eleven years running, and unofficial number-one flunky willing to do anything my mother asks, on account of the giant crush he’s had on her since they were paired together for square dancing in seventh-grade physical education.”
“Wow, that’s specific,” I said, peering out the window at the grizzled-looking old man in the cop car peering back at me. “Did he just wave at me?”
“Looks like my mom has already alerted him about the new girl in town. Nice of her, wasn’t it?”
“Fucking Mayberry,” I muttered, while Roxie laughed. We pulled into a spot right in front of Callahan’s, the diner that had been in Roxie’s family for three generations. When Roxie was running the diner last summer she’d made a few updates to the menu, most of which Trudy kept when she returned home from her world tour and realized that even the oldest recipes can be tweaked and brought into the new century.
I hopped down from the Jeep, pausing a moment to straighten out my black pencil skirt and make sure that my button-down had the correct number of buttons unbuttoned. I didn’t know if Oscar would be making an appearance at the town meeting this morning, but my cleavage and I wanted to be prepared.
“Natalie Grayson, get your sweet buns in here and give me a hug,” I heard booming from the behind the counter before I’d even made it inside the front door. All eyes swiveled to me as Trudy Callahan—grown-up hippie and Salisbury steak dynamo—came barreling across the linoleum to hug me tightly.
“Hiya, Trudy, how are you?” I asked, wondering how someone so small could be so powerful.
“We are just so excited you’re here! A big-shot city ad lady coming to talk to us about our little town? Couldn’t be more tickled! Now you sit over here. I cleared the corner booth for you; what can I bring you? Cuppa joe? Eggs? Slice of ham? Slice of pie?” Trudy would have given me the entire menu, but by now Roxie had caught up with us and was leading her back behind the counter.
The two of them were knee-deep in an argument about why the sign Featuring Zombie Cakes had been moved from the front window when Chad Bowman appeared, radiant in North Face fleece and perfectly pressed jeans. “Hi, how’s it going?”
“Good, really good, just wanted to get here a few minutes early and get some things set up. Are you expecting people to be on time this morning?” I started stacking some notepads and pens on the table, getting a few of my graphs together that I’d pulled from the local census about who and what comprised the town.
“Are you kidding? They’re all here already,” he replied, helping me pop up my easel. “Nice charts, by the way.”
“I don’t see anyone,” I said, looking over my shoulder and just seeing a crowd full of diner customers.
“Trudy closed down the diner this morning to everyone but chamber of commerce members. Everyone here is a business owner, here to see what the woman from New York is going to tell us about how to generate business for our little town.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, now seeing the diner customers for what they really were. In between coffee sips and breakfast eats, they were already assessing, calculating, wondering what I might have up my sleeve.
I could handle this. I’d faced down boardrooms filled with the toughest sharks the advertising world had to offer. Titans of industry. Masters of the universe.
Turns out they were nothing compared to Myra, the owner of the Klip ’n’ Kurl.
I spent the better part of the morning asking and answering questions from a group of townspeople as excited and fired up as I’d ever seen. They all had very specific ideas about what needed to happen in order to make Bailey Falls a destination town. They were open to new ideas, but they wanted to make sure they retained the small-town atmosphere that had been created over the years, that no new weekenders were going to ruin a good thing. But of course money talks, and the possible new streams of revenue that could be brought into the town by some new blood was attractive to all.
I’d printed some of the photos I’d taken the weekend before and displayed them around the diner, giving them a taste of what a Natalie Grayson campaign would look and feel like. I went through possible layouts in regional and national magazines, showed them examples of featured columns I’d orchestrated for other clients in newspapers like the New York Times, the Boston Globe, the Philadelphia Inquirer, and the Washington Post.
I’d brought my iPad and was able to screen a few of the commercials I’d put together to give them an idea of what I was capable of. And when the people of Bailey Falls began to realize that some of them could be featured in a commercial just like the ones I showed them, they began to get excited.
So excited, in fact, that Norma from the florist and Arnold from the pizza place suggested that Bailey Falls host a screening party the night of the premiere.
“Um, what premiere exactly are they talking about?” I whispered to Chad, who’d been pass
ing out pencils for the questionnaire I’d just circulated.
“Oh, they’re pretty sure that if there’s a commercial they’ll need to have a premiere party, just to make sure everyone knows how fabulous they are.”
“Usually the screening takes place in my office, and the client Skypes in,” I said, listening as the chatter grew louder and more excited.
“Yeah, no. Eugene from the firehouse just offered up the barn at the end of Main Street. You just planned a barn dance and you didn’t even know it.”
I laughed, loving that they’d gotten so carried away. “I take it I’m officially hired, then?”
“You brought charts. They love charts. You’re hired.” He nodded, draping an arm around me and tucking me into his side. And as I watched, I could feel a sense of belonging, feeling a part of something even though I’d been here only twice.
If I could capture that feeling, I’d be able to sell this place to even the most cynical.
While I was woolgathering, Chad had waved someone over and was waiting to introduce me.
“Natalie Grayson, this is Archie Bryant, of the Bryant Mountain House.”
“Ms. Grayson, nice to meet you. I’m sorry I missed the beginning of your presentation, but I’d love to talk to you about your plans for bringing additional tourist revenue into the town, and hopefully up to our mountain, as well.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Bryant. I’ve heard wonderful things about your resort; I can’t wait to come for a tour.” I shook his hand, looking up into deep indigo eyes. Paired with wavy auburn hair and a handsome face, Archie Bryant was good-looking in an almost old-fashioned way. “I’ve done a bit of research already on your hotel. It’s been in your family for five generations, right?”
“I’m the fifth,” he replied, an expression of pride crossing his strong, elegant features. “Call my office anytime; I’m happy to arrange a tour for you when you’re able to come up.”
“That’d be wonderful,” I agreed, thanking him for coming and wondering again what the hell was in the water that made these men so damn good-looking.
“I hope you can drive some traffic up there,” Chad said as Archie began shaking hands and chatting with some of the other business owners from town. He seemed to know everyone, seemed friendly enough, but there was something a bit reserved about him. Not quite chilly, but certainly on the cool side.
“Oh, have they been slow?”
“Yep, my niece works the phones in their reservations department, and they’re having some trouble keeping the rooms filled.”
“Are you kidding? The pictures I’ve seen are gorgeous!” I’d Googled Bryant Mountain House while doing my initial information gathering on tourist destinations in and around Bailey Falls, and this place was stunning. Perched on a glacial lake and cut into the side of a mountain, it was epic.
And built in a different time, for a different era, when people vacationed differently.
Hmm . . . I wondered if I could bring in my friend Clara to consult . . .
The meeting went on for another hour or so, with me fielding questions about this and that, me asking questions about this and that, getting a feel for the pulse of this town and its DNA. And as things finally wound down and Trudy began ushering everyone out so she could get going on the lunch service, I felt the air change in the room. Every molecule in my body froze, then turned toward the front door.
Oscar had arrived.
I’d wondered if he was going to show up. He was a business owner, he had a stake in how things went in this town, and he was a responsible and upstanding, if somewhat grouchy, member of this community, so it made sense that he should be here.
Plus I’d worn a pencil skirt just for him. And since he’d been inside me only a week before and chanting my name, wasn’t it only natural he’d want to show up and see how cute I looked?
People waved when they saw him, others slapped him on the back as they left. His eyes never left mine. It was unlike any other feeling, having those deep gray-blue eyes fixated solely on me. I could tell he appreciated the heels and the way they shaped my calves. The skirt alone earned a tick from that scarred eyebrow. His nostrils flared as I knew they would when he spied the carefully unbuttoned button-down, and I could feel down to my toes how much he was thinking about popping the rest of those buttons and going to town.
He walked toward me, and the diner disappeared. I couldn’t hear the waitresses cackling with Roxie’s mom, I couldn’t hear the orders being called out. I was vaguely aware of “I Can’t Get Next to You” playing on the jukebox, and my brain granted me exactly one second of mental clarity to acknowledge that the song was perfect for this moment before slipping back into appreciation for a slow-walking Oscar.
He walked like he was in a Michael Bay film, striding across the tarmac to save the world from a rogue asteroid or kamikaze fighter planes. I could only stop and watch and admire the pretty.
Wearing faded jeans, scuffed work boots, a holey old off-white Irish sweater with big cable knits, just the edge of a white T-shirt peeking out of the collar, he was right off the pages of Fuck Off He’s Beautiful monthly. He could have been wearing clown shoes and a sandwich board that said Eat at Joe’s for all I cared, because what really made me gulp in air faster than I could actually breathe it was his face.
He might be the best-looking man on the planet. On any planet. His hair was tied back in his usual leather wrap, which accentuated the cheekbones, the jaw, the strong brow, the full, kissable lips. But what was most striking today was the measured joy. He was obviously happy to see me, but he was working to hide it somewhat, allowing only bits and pieces of it to show through. Wanting to hold something back, perhaps? I could understand that. It was early in whatever this was, to be showing every card. But I enjoyed the fact that he was happy to see me.
And once more, he surprised me. Before I could say hello or ask what he thought of the meeting, he slung one big arm around my shoulder, grabbed my bag and put it over his other shoulder, and said, “Let’s go make some cheese.”
In the history of romantic opening lines, it probably wouldn’t make anyone’s top-ten list, but it was music to my ears.
Chapter 13
He opened the passenger door to his truck, and once he had me tucked inside, he went around to his own door. Score another point for being a gentleman. Inside, he turned the key in the ignition, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed in the direction of his place. All of this he did with his right hand firmly on my thigh, which he’d exposed almost immediately by pushing up my black tweed pencil skirt. It was luxurious, the ease he had with touching my body so freely, and the slightest bit possessively? Hmm . . . caveman.
“So, hi,” I offered.
He shot me a brief side glance. “Hi.”
Silence. Driving. Silence.
“Good week?”
“Good week,” he stated.
I was unable to take my eyes from the sight of his hand on my leg. Had I planned this when I picked out a skirt this morning? Not purposefully. Had I wondered, however, when I was standing in front of my overnight bag this morning and looking at the black peep-toe Manolos with the sparkly jewels, if I did happen to see Oscar today, would they drive him crazy?
You bet your sweet ass . . .
“So you had a good week. That’s great. I did, too. So . . . thanks for asking.”
“I didn’t ask,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, but his fingers slid half an inch higher on my thigh—his caramel skin on my Irish cream—and I felt myself growing more and more excited. I was also growing more and more irritated that he wasn’t at all interested in having even the most cursory of conversations with me, when he finally looked my way. “But I’m glad to hear it.”
My ears pinked up, I could feel it.
He continued. “I was distracted all week. I thought about you, thought about when I might
see you again.”
“You did?” I asked, trying like hell not to squeak out the words but failing miserably. My cheeks pinked up, I could feel it.
“Mmm-hmm,” he said, sliding that hand north another inch. “Thought about those sounds you made, how sexy you looked.” He stopped at a railroad crossing and looked me straight in the eye. “In the barn.”
“Oh,” I managed, not even bothering to squelch the squeak. Something else pinked up, I could feel it.
“You here till Sunday again?” he asked, the railroad light flashing. Vaguely, I could hear a ding-dong ding-dong from the signal . . .
“Uh-huh.” This time I sounded like I smoked eight packs of cigarettes a day.
The lights stopped flashing. The dinger quit donging. And I was lost in those smoldering eyes, which were touched by a bit of happy. “Good,” he said, all heat and smooth and sweet and rough at the same time.
“Good,” I repeated, reaching down and sliding his hand up another inch.
“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding.”
“What did you think I meant, when I said let’s go make some cheese?”
“I thought we’d be wrapping those cute little Bries that I buy from you, in the sweet blue and white gingham paper?”
Oscar had driven me back to his farm. Over the hill and beyond some of the pastures was a large secondary barn proudly bearing the name Bailey Falls Creamery over the entryway.
“No way, Pinup. We’re making cheddar today.”
This was it! This was my dream, the secret dream tucked away in the back of a kitchen cupboard in the form of cutout pictures of sweet cows and rolling hills and cardigans.
“I’m not really dressed for cheese making, am I?”
He popped out of his side and made his way to the passenger door. Tugging it open, he held out his hand and I slid on out, landing close enough to him that he’d be required to catch me. He lifted his eyebrows, knowing full well what I’d done as he caught me around the waist and set me right.
Cream of the Crop Page 13