by Marcelo, Tif
When he looked up, Chris was drinking his coffee and checking his phone.
If there was a time to bring up Mulberry Road, it was now, while they were alone. Then again, Brandon had done that four years ago, and he’d been shot down two sentences into the discussion.
You have been ready to move on.
“Kuya.”
“Yep.” Chris placed his phone facedown.
“You know, real estate prices have skyrocketed in Annapolis.”
“Yeah, I heard. Thank God—after the dip during COVID, I was a little worried.”
“Currently homes are selling about ten to fifty thousand more than prepandemic.”
“Wow. Our parents bought our place for a little more than a hundred and fifty thousand. Can’t imagine.”
“Yeah, it’s easily four times that.”
Brandon would say it. He would say it today.
“And it’s all ours.” Chris grinned. “It’s really our nest egg. If everything goes up in flames here, I’m just glad to have that house to come home to.”
“Would you, though? You haven’t lived there for a decade.”
“Yeah, of course. That’s home. It belongs to us.” His phone buzzed, and he glanced down at the notification. “Are we having this conversation again? You know how I feel about this. It’s our home, Brandon. We can’t sell it.”
A slew of emotions overcame Brandon, from anger and irritation to guilt. And the overwhelming feeling of being trapped.
“Um . . .” Chris pointed at the sandwich. “You forget something?”
Brandon looked down at two sandwiches, smashed under his palm, with the closed bottle of jelly next to them.
He’d forgotten the jelly.
“I hope you’re not as forgetful at work.” Chris laughed, though underneath it was sarcasm, bordering on cynicism.
“Nah . . .” He stuffed a sandwich in the ziplock bag. “I meant to do that,” he said, pretending.
Which seemed to be the story of his life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Brandon:
Tried to catch you today
Geneva:
Met up with Beatrice after work
She needed help
Brandon:
Can we talk?
Geneva:
Later?
As dots appeared on the screen, Geneva stuffed her phone in her back pocket.
If she didn’t see it, she wouldn’t have to answer it.
“What are you complaining about over there?” Beatrice walked into the sparse white room, carrying a box. “I hear those impatient deep breaths.”
“Work, what else,” Geneva lied, and looked up from the box she had temporarily set on the floor. She was on her knees, on a quick break to finally answer Brandon’s text. She’d kept him on read—she really needed to switch out her settings—most of the day, still unsure how to deal with him and their situation. In the span of a day, they’d changed the trajectory of their work and personal relationship. Not only did they have to contend with their kiss, but now they had to play a couple on the internet. It didn’t help that Beatrice didn’t hold back in laying on the guilt trip that Geneva was spending more time with Brandon than she had with her.
It had been an easy decision to escape Heart Resort to help with Beatrice at Beachy’s Nags Head office for a couple of hours before the Pusos’ Friday dinner.
“Can I help?” Beatrice asked.
Definitely not. “Nah. I’m avoiding a conversation because I’m not sure how to approach it.”
Beatrice winced. “Eeps, sounds sticky.”
“Like molasses.” She waved the topic away. “Honestly, I don’t want to think about it right now.”
“I’ve got a good solution to that.” Beatrice slung her arm across her chest to stretch it and gestured at the boxes littering her office floor. “You can put your energy toward all this.”
“I’d better be getting a bonus.” Geneva flipped the blade of her box cutter up and sliced one of the boxes open.
“The bonus of my ever-loyal friendship, duh.”
“Mm-hmm.” She rolled her eyes, but her faux sarcasm dissipated when she gazed at the contents of the box. “Ooooh, oranges and yellows. So pretty!” She took each plastic-wrapped item out of the bag and stacked them on the worktable. Then, after a quick look through the rest of the box, she popped the tops of the other boxes too. It was a feast for the eyes, of stripes and polka dots and paisleys in a rainbow of colors. “Are these all caftans?”
“Caftans and sarongs, and muumuus and maxi dresses,” Beatrice said in a most flirtatious voice. “Go ahead, open one in your size. You can change behind the wooden partition.”
“Are you sure?” Geneva felt like a kid in a candy store, sorting through the bright colors.
“Of course I’m sure. How else to sell clothing but word of mouth, especially from a comfort-dress aficionado like yourself?”
After finding a pin-striped orange-on-white linen caftan, Geneva popped behind the wooden partition. It was a temporary fitting-room setup, with a small bench and an umbrella tree, from which hung padded hangers, and a stand-alone full-length mirror.
Geneva took off her shorts and tank, slightly dusty from the day’s activity of hanging wallpaper and painting accent walls. The projects in tiny homes were such a pleasure because they only took a fraction of the time. Which was what she needed after the doozy of a meeting this morning.
Slipping on the V-neck dress felt like a luxury, the fabric sliding on her skin with ease. It draped over her like a good friend’s hug—fun, loose, and reliable—and came down to just below her knees. The sleeves were flowy and comfortable.
This dress could be rolled up and stuffed into her already-full duffel bag.
She halted at this added requirement; portability was a criterion she had held dear for years. All her belongings had to have a function. But more: they had to fit in the scheme of her life, which meant they had to fit in her bags.
It had been a badge of honor to be so nomadic, so unattached. How would it feel to have a big closet and a collection of things just because?
“You’re quiet over there,” Beatrice said.
“I just love it, is why.” She stepped out from behind the partition, and Beatrice turned around, arms crossed.
Her face lit up. “I love that on you. The orange is perfect for your skin tone. Hmmm.” She tapped a finger against her lip, then rummaged through the pile next to her, retrieving three packages.
“What are you doing?”
“I want you to take these.”
“I can’t. It’s too much.”
“Have them. Wear them. They’ll also be perfect for your photos on the resort. They’re complimentary.”
It wasn’t about cost. But she plastered on a wry smile—Beatrice’s face was too sincere, and she didn’t want to disappoint her. “Ah, so I get it: I’m going to be your brand ambassador.”
“Ha ha. No. But, if we’re talking about quid pro quo . . . how many dresses would it take for you to stay and design this office?”
She inspected the fabric closely—the weave of the cloth was divine. “That’s easy. I can design this place remotely. I can even take measurements before I go.”
“It wouldn’t be the same.” Beatrice stomped, and her voice took on a more frantic quality. “Did something happen the last day? I feel like something happened. You seem different. Was it because of our meeting this morning? If you don’t want to play a couple with my brother, you don’t have to. I shouldn’t have brought it up—”
“No—nothing happened.” As she answered, Geneva willed her gaze to focus on the very tip of Beatrice’s nose. This was not the time to bare the truth, for where would she start? Four years ago when she’d slept with Beatrice’s brother, or last night when they’d almost done it again? Or her concern that playing a couple wasn’t even the issue so much as the fact that it would purposely bring them closer, and she would be tempted to kiss him again.
; Brandon’s kisses were glorious. They were perfect. Making out had been the wrong move on both of their parts, but damn, did she want to do it again.
Geneva only wished that his kisses could remain simply kisses. With them, Brandon had dug up all the deep feelings she’d pushed down and away from her sight.
“Uh-uh. No. We’re going to talk about this. You’re not looking at me straight on.”
The front door of the shop slammed open, the bell ringing the arrival of two other women: Giselle, Beatrice’s office manager, and Eden. Each was carrying a box. With them, a gust of sticky air floated in.
“Later,” Beatrice told Geneva pointedly as she rushed to hold the door open for them. “Thanks, you two, you are heaven sent, I swear.”
“These are the last of them.” Giselle set the box down and swiftly twisted her curly reddish-blonde hair into a bun. “I think the Fed Post guy was super happy we were there to help him bring all these boxes in. He’s new and didn’t quite realize what he was getting himself into.”
“No, I think the Fed Post guy was just happy because you were there,” Eden countered, taking off her sunglasses and sticking them on the top of her head. She had a hint of a glasses tan: half of her face was a lighter brown than the rest. “He was drooling all over himself when you were standing next to him. He could barely figure out how to work his scanner.”
“You and your meet-cutes.” Giselle rolled her eyes.
At that statement, Geneva straightened, attention now fully on the two women, and shot Eden a look. Across from her, Beatrice did the same.
“What?” Giselle asked. “What did I say?”
“Oh!” Eden said. “Don’t worry, you guys; I told her. I couldn’t not. She was fangirling me too much.”
The store seemed to exhale. Eden’s identity, as communicated to Geneva, was an utmost secret.
“Oh yeah. Your secret’s safe with me.” Giselle nodded enthusiastically. To Geneva, she said, “I was going on and on about one of her books. Which I didn’t realize was written by her! I about almost peed on myself. Anyway.” She eyed the boxes, suddenly laser focused. “I’m going to start creating areas so we can sort through the inventory.”
Along with the rest of the women, Geneva hopped to it.
“All righty. Let’s go with sarongs at this table. Caftans in this area, boho dresses here, and muumuus here. Empty boxes can go back here.” Giselle pointed to the corner of the room. “Does that sound good, Beatrice?”
Beatrice nodded. “Yep, and can we make sure the shipping area is clear? We’ve still got to deal with returns.”
Giselle nodded, thought about it, and redirected the rest of the group. It was soon followed by the dragging of boxes, the crinkling of paper, and the low murmuring of voices. The room warmed, and Geneva, after unpacking and breaking down her boxes, surveyed the space in all its inventory grandeur, as well as the women working in their corners with such dedication. All the day’s chaos fell to the back of her mind as she envisioned built-in hanging racks and long, flowing curtains on the windows that were currently covered with basic window blinds. She imagined hardwood to replace the laminate floors and, behind the partition, a proper fitting room.
“I can see your evil mind working.” Beatrice wiped her forehead with her arm.
“I was just thinking.”
“Uh-oh,” Eden said. “I detect that something has to do with wallpaper.”
“Am I that transparent?”
Eden and Beatrice both sounded off with a resounding “yes,” while Giselle simply shrugged. “I’m going to agree with my boss.”
“My question, Bea . . . does this space need only to be a storage area?”
“Um, yeah, because my business plan is for a subscription box business.”
“And not a retail front?”
“No, that is a whole other can of worms. It’s perfect right now. Giselle and I are able to handle it along with a couple of paid hourly workers. Once you add a retail front . . .”
“Once you have a retail front, then you have a showroom,” Geneva mused. “You can serve your community and tourists who also want these dresses.”
“I don’t know. I have the resort to deal with. That’s my job.” And yet, the smile on Beatrice’s face said something more. It said that she was thinking about it. “Although . . .”
“Although what?”
“It’s nothing.”
Geneva peered at her friend. There was no such thing as nothing with Beatrice. She had a light touch on everything, but it was most certainly a purposeful touch.
“I thought we were going to meet everyone at dinner,” Geneva said, riding shotgun in Beatrice’s pristine white Tesla sedan. They’d left Beachy and were headed east instead of south toward the restaurant for the Pusos’ Friday night dinner.
“It’s not for another twenty minutes. And they know I’m always late. Patience,” she said, looking askance.
“I have patience, just as long as I know what’s coming,” she declared.
Truthfully, Geneva was simply restless. Despite the couple of hours of inventory, after which they’d split ways with Giselle and Eden, who’d wanted to sneak in a few minutes of writing before dinner, she was still antsy. It was everything, the culmination of the entire day, that made her want to scream or run.
“I thought you should get a tour of Nags Head. You hadn’t mentioned going to the beach.”
“Uh . . . there’s a private beach at my front stoop.”
“Yeah, but it’s so empty, right? Sometimes when I’m on the resort I forget an entire world exists out here. Because we work and live there, there’s no separation. The place is all-encompassing, and I can get cabin fever. After all, I see the same people every day.”
“Ah, but you’re also an extrovert, and that, I am not.” Geneva pushed down her visor to block out the last of the sun, still at least a couple of hours from setting. The streets were packed with pedestrians. The way to the beach entrance was clear from the path people were traveling. Like watching a trail of ants, one only needed to follow those with portable beach chairs and large totes through the dunes and over wooden walkways to the ocean.
Beatrice swerved to the last alleyway in between the first two rows of beach houses, perched on tall and skinny pilings, sidings painted with all the colors of the rainbow. Every home they passed had a vehicle parked underneath it, except for one, which Beatrice turned into.
Her friend had done it with such ease that it took Geneva a moment to put the pieces together.
“Bea, why are we parked under a beach house?”
She turned off the car and unbuckled her seat belt and with a deadpan expression said, “Are we really parked under a beach house?”
“Yes, and a first-row house too.”
Her friend’s flat expression switched to a cheesy grin.
“No way.”
The cheesy grin then turned to a joyful, unhinged smile, eyes wide, her eyebrows sky high on her forehead. “Way. It’s mine.”
“Oh. My. God.” Geneva slipped out of the car and followed her friend up the steep white stairs, gripping the railing as the beach—the ocean—came into view. The strong waves, the crash of the tide. The squeals of people, and colorful dots of umbrellas and beach towels.
“Come on in!” Beatrice tugged her inside a white door, into an open-concept space.
The great room was sun filled, with light-gray walls, and with a white kitchen.
“There’s more.” Beatrice led the way into a hallway, pointing out a laundry room, and then up a flight of stairs. On the second floor were four bedrooms, two with en suites, and a separate hallway bathroom.
“This is spectacular,” Geneva said, now in one of the en suite bedrooms, captivated by the sheer number of windows, at the feeling of being high up. “This room would be beautiful as a light peach.”
“Light peach?”
“To bring in the light and the sunrise. It would be so pretty to wake up to that contrast.” She shrugged.
“That’s just me. For others, I’d make it more neutral, maybe a soft light blue, almost gray.”
Beatrice crossed her arms and leaned against the window. “For others?”
“Yeah. The guests. I especially like the fact that there are two en suites. Great for families that want to stay in one home.”
“What guests? What families?” A smile pulled the corners of Beatrice’s mouth.
“The ones you will be . . . renting . . . to . . .” With an eyebrow up, Geneva drew out her words. “Because you live on the resort. Didn’t you buy this as an investment property?”
Beatrice hiked her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Uh-uh.”
She mimicked her friend’s stance. “What’s up, Beatrice? First, you casually suggest that I help with your business, and then this place. Out with it—don’t mess with me.”
“Okay, but for this, I need to take you to the pièce de résistance. C’mon.” She gestured with her head.
Geneva followed her out another door to the front deck and then up another set of stairs. With each step upward, her heart beat faster and louder.
Finally, she stepped onto the roof deck, surrounded by a wooden railing. It was easily the highest of the rest of the houses around them, and Geneva could see far and wide. From this vantage point, the sky seemed more attainable than the ground. She felt free but safe.
“This view, Beatrice.”
She held her flyaway hair back with a hand. “It’s pretty amazing. My mother would’ve loved this view, don’t you think?”
“Undoubtedly. Poor Tito Joe would have had to drag her away. The only other thing that would have enticed her would have been . . .”
At the same time, they both said, “The kitchen.”
A laugh bubbled through her along with a stab of pain. It was for herself, as well as for her friend. But when she looked at Beatrice’s profile, what she saw was peace. “This view is why you bought it.”
“Yep. It was this, and then feeling her up here.” She turned to Geneva. “But I have a different reason for taking you here.”
“Okay?”
“It’s on the DL, Gen.”
“Got it.”
“You don’t understand. You can’t breathe a word, not until I figure out how to approach it. Because if done wrong, I could really mess things up. Then again, if I wait too long, then I could miss out on an opportunity.”