“You’re not talking to mom?” I ask, shocked. In all of my years, Mom and Elise have always been in near constant contact.
“Dammit.” She shakes and head and the ticking of the clock on the wall seems to take over the ambience of the room.
Tick. I eat a piece of cake, stomach easing a bit.
Tick. Ted reaches out and takes my hand and I smile at him, my chest filling.
Tick. Elise picks up her fork, then puts it back down on the table. “Fine. I’ll give her a call when you leave. Piper, tell me the status of the job hunt.”
“Got a second interview. I guess someone at the Sentinel felt that Derek was in need of a good slapping.”
“Wonderful, I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” Ted’s eyes light up and he grins and I’m suddenly aware of how much I count on his support and I’m glad that he’s part of my official parentage. “But what do we do about Phil? I’ve encouraged Ann to tell him, but she won’t hear of it.”
“Screw Phil. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Elise looks up at me. “I mean, whatever you want to do is the right thing to do. He loves you. In his own weird sort of passive aggressive way. So it’s up to you.”
Perfect. That’s just what I didn’t want to hear.
Chapter 19
Meow, Bitches
Dear Miss Behave,
I have a crush on one of my co-workers. It’s terrible. We’re both coders and have so much in common. We like all of the same movies and comics and we even belong to the same World Of Warcraft clan. He is smart and funny and sweet and every day on the way to the office he stops and picks me a flower, saying that the actinomorphic bloom reminds him of the perfect beauty of my face. The problem is that workplace romances are forbidden, so whenever we go out, it has to be with a big group of people. I don’t plan to stay at this job forever, but I don’t want to lose it, either. What do I do?
Bound by Antiquated Patriarchal Dictates
Dear Bound,
Actinomorphic? I had to Google that, you know. There is no problem here, my nerdish darling! Next time he hands you that flower, you grab him by his Star Wars t-shirt and kiss him senseless! Life is too short and chances at true love far too precious. So I demand that you get off of World of Warcraft, throw on your favorite anime-inspired outfit and cowgirl up, buttercup!
Sincerely,
Miss Behave
As I wiggle into my skinny jeans and thick black cable knit sweater, I can’t help but look at my ass in the mirror. Maybe I should try and lay off the carbs. But, well, funnel cake.
I shrug and figure I look like me and that’s gonna have to be good enough.
“You ready?” Gen calls as she opens the door.
“Yeah. Is Dad coming? I got home from work late and missed him.”
“No, he’s going with his girlfriend. C’mon, we’re going to be late.”
“The fair goes on all night.” I say as I shove an extra tube of lipstick in my purse.
“I know that, but the funnel cake truck runs out quickly. It’s just not a real fair if you don’t get a funnel cake, kiddo.” She grabs my arm and we head downstairs.
The weather is perfect. The sunset sets the treetops ablaze with color and it’s the perfect temperature for a heavy sweater, light coat, and a scarf.
The air is crisp and smells like kettle corn. Humming generators and whirring cotton candy machines mix with laughter and tinny melodies coming from the game booths. Dead grass crunching beneath our boots, we follow the crowds from the parking lot over to the center of the action.
We head directly to the funnel cake.
“I don’t think I can eat this fast enough, it’s so freaking good.” Gen says as she tears off a massive piece and shoves it into her mouth, smearing her nose with sugar.
I nod in agreement because my mouth is full and we stroll along the tents. I take mental notes of the townie booths, because, well, my hands are full of delicious funnel cake. Each booth brings something new and entertaining. Wooden collectable swords? Check. Handcrafted leather corsets and armor? Check. Pottery sourced from local clay? Check.
It’s a good thing that my hands are full or my cash supply would be in serious trouble.
We stroll around, shooting ducks of multiple colors, winning jelly bracelets and Tootsie rolls for our efforts.
I’m pushing my hand through the jellies when Gen points over to the coin toss booth and squeals, "Look, it’s Beth and Maria."
"I didn’t know they were going to be here.” Which is a rather true statement, considering I have no idea who they are.
"C’mon." She grabs my sleeve and pulls me over. The girls are nice and smiley and can’t seem to stop talking about the mechanical bull set up in the aptly named “redneck arena” tent.
"We have to do it. You’re gonna kill it, cowgirl." Gen, oddly, seems to be directing this comment at me. I glance, somewhat wistfully, at the sparkling jars of jellies on the shelf of the nearby culinary tent.
“If Elise were here, she’d be all over it, but I think you ladies should head on over without me."
Gen says, "Sure, I'll text you later, okay?" She saunters off with her friends and I wander over to the craft tents.
The quilting booth is spectacular. It smells like fresh cut straw and the sides of the tent muffle the gentle hum of vending trucks. I walk through row after row of quilts, spending some time chatting with the ladies and one gentleman that are displaying their work. I wish that I had that kind of talent. To make something of such beauty infused with such meaning with my own hands? That would be something.
I stop in front of a large quilt with wild colors and fairytale prints and ask the woman in front of it the story. She made the quilt out of love for her grandmother who used to tell stories at her bedside when she was sick as a little girl.
Dad never told me stories when I was sick, not once, even before he left. It was left up to… Mom. She was right, in the café the other day, I did always sort of keep her at a distance, but when I was sick, she was there. Bulldozing her way through the fog of illness and nursing me, no matter what kind of resistance she got. She would sit beside me in the bathroom when I had a stomach bug, tying back my hair and telling me stories, she’d make me crazy root beer floats when I had a cold, saying that ice cream brought about just the right attitude for wellness.
And then when I was better, I’d forget her, stop talking, stop listening, preferring to call out into the world of the internet in search of some kind of relationship with my dad. I ache, wondering when I’m old, what fond memories I’ll have of him or if they’ll all be colored with the knowledge that he’s not really my father.
Quilts are beautiful, not so much for the patches and shapes and designs because when they're done by hand, no matter how sloppy, each quilt in essence is really a love song.
No one's ever made a quilt for me.
After thanking the quilters for their time and stories, I drag myself away from the tents and into the growing darkness, punctuated with the joyous light of Ferris wheels and cacophony of the crowds.
I follow the herd, hoping to find snags a good spot for us at the fireworks but I get distracted by all the chatter about the display over at Brookes Diamonds.
Brookes, along with most of the businesses surrounding green, open their doors for the festival, providing free hot apple cider, and sometimes, even better, apple cider doughnuts to the crowds as they meander in and out of their shops.
I make my way across the fairgrounds and across the streets and down to Brookes Diamonds.
Wow, the display is awesome. Different from the show a few weeks ago, these pieces are simpler, yet striking in design. Thin bracelets with twisting patterns of emeralds and rubies, gold chains with brightly colored birds as pendants. I have to admit, I'm smitten. Every ring, every necklace, every bracelet is something I would wear.
It’s simple but elegant, and none of the stones are so precious that they’re entirely out of reach for most people. The price poin
t is shockingly reasonable, and I am clearly not the only one who notices, as the cash register is incredibly busy.
I ask the girl behind the display case if this is the new collection that Hunter has been talking about.
The girl, a disturbingly attractive saleswoman with her perfectly coiffed black bob and Mad Men-style dress, says, "Oh, yes! This is the start of our new line! Hunter, I mean Mr. Brooks," I note that she blushes and I feel the heat rise to my own cheeks. "He designed them. It’s the start of the line we plan to launch next week in New York."
Hunter designed all of these pieces? And who the hell is this girl?
I stammer out a thank you and move over to a display case surrounded by a group of maybe twenty people, and for such a small store, it means that I saddle up and waiting my turn to take a peek. I can only assume that the center case is where they've placed their pumpkin cookies. But as I make my way through the crowd I don't see any cookies.
I see a peacock. Only this item is not reasonably priced. In fact there is no price, because the tiara is clearly a work of art. It’s made of platinum the blues and greens of the peacock sparkle with emeralds and stunning sapphires. Its eyes are two red rubies, and its crest is made of diamonds, along with the eyes of each tail feather. And in the center a yellow diamond.
It is the most stunning thing I think I've ever seen. On a small note at the bottom of the case it says the tiara was commissioned by a French actress to wear to the Cannes Film Festival and was designed and made by our very own Hunter Brookes.
I jump as hands, strong, large hands, fall on either side of my waist. That smell of cinnamon hits me and I relax into Hunter's hold. Man, I hope that perky sales girl is watching.
His voice low and masculine, "Do you like it?"
I shrug. "It's okay if you're some actress in Cannes I guess." I reach up and give him a kiss on the cheek. My toes and lips acting against my own self-interest I know, but that little harlot behind the display case is watching. "It's absolutely amazing."
He blushes, and it might be the sexiest thing I've ever seen. I melt just a little inside. "It's the most extravagant thing I've ever designed. It was figuring out how I could put everything together that fascinated me, like a puzzle that only I could solve, you know?"
"I don't know, but this is spectacular.” I stare into his eyes and lose the ability to breath. We look at each other, lost. I clear my throat. “I hear you have pumpkin cookies, give them to me now."
He laughs and I get wobbly as his hand presses firmly onto the side of my hip. Good thing, because those stupid eyes of his seem to unplug the connection between my brain and my legs.
We make our way through the crowds and over to the tray of cookies placed strategically beside the cash register.
"So, you're only here for the food, then?" His voice of his sends jolts of electricity through my core and making my legs tremble.
"Clearly. Everyone knows that the pumpkin cookies at Brookes and the apple cider doughnuts over add Sheryl's Lighting Emporium are the highlights of the festival. Outside of the funnel cakes and fireworks, of course." I lick the sugar from the cookies off my finger and his eyes fall to my lips.
And stay there.
I shiver and he pulls me closer.
"Hmm. Did you know that the very best place to watch the fireworks is from the roof of this very building?"
"No, I guess that's not such a known fact."
"That's because access to the roof is strictly invitation only. Very VIP."
"But does your roof have blankets and tons of cheap wine? Because if not then I think your estimation of its coolness may be overstated."
He pulls in closer, his breath falling on my ear and I think if he touches me, I'm in serious risk of screaming in pleasure. "You should come upstairs and find out for yourself."
My brain fries and I lick my lips, drawing the attention of those scandalously green eyes yet again. "Is this an assignment for work? Because if it is very VIP, we may not want it becoming common knowledge. We don't want a bunch of rowdy teenagers trying to storm the fort next year, you know?”
I'm not even certain that what I just said made any sense, because I'm not quite certain that my head is working correctly. He's too close, to delicious, I can't think-
"No,” –his voice barely above a whisper, his breath tickling my ear- “this isn't work-related, very secret, we’ll keep this on the down low."
Oh my wow is he hot. And close. And hot. Secret. He said secret. I want his secrets, all of them, in fact, I want to roll around naked in his secrets, wallowing, having him cover me with that-
A burly man roughly half the size of Mt. Kilamanjaro, clasps Hunter on the shoulder and I take a step back, breaking whatever spell it was between us. My heart races as if I've just been sprinting. Oh my.
I reach over for one of the Styrofoam cups filled with hot apple cider that sits beside the cookies, desperately needing something to do with my hands.
The man bellows, "So, this new line of yours, it's going to be huge, huge! It's absolutely amazing. I just bought three bracelets for my girls, and they're already texting the pictures to their friends. "
"Thanks, Bob, that's really generous of you. Have I introduced you to my friend, Piper Anderson? She’s actually the inspiration behind the line."
My cheeks burn. What?
Bob holds out his hand to shake mine and I realize that one of my hands is grasping a cup of apple cider and the other is now full of cookie. I put down the cider and grab his hand. "It's a pleasure. How do you know Hunter?"
"I’m Robert Dahl, of Dahl’s jewelry? I'll be carrying Hunter’s new Diamonds in the Buff line in all of my 15,000 stores across the country. It's just fantastic stuff, wouldn’t you say?"
“Yes. Fantastic.” Diamonds in the Buff line? I stare at Hunter and he looks at his feet, his cheeks coloring. It’s because I ran naked through the woods, isn’t it? In the buff, as it were.
Bob’s hand rocks mine up and down, like we’re stuck on one of those rides outside while my brain attempts to process the information I’ve just been given, “Oh hey, you must be one hell of a girl."
Hunter at this point is so red that his cheeks could stop traffic. Though it's not like he wouldn't stop traffic anyway. Just look at him, wow.
Looking over at Hunter, my mouth opens without any words to fill it. So I do my very best to smile and hope that Bob decides to move on.
Hunter asks, “I’m so glad you like the line, Bob. Are your girls here? I haven’t seen them in a while.”
“Oh, they’re off bleeding me dry buying deep fried Oreos or whatever on the fairway.” His pocket buzzes and he pulls out his phone. “Well, it was a pleasure, Piper, Hunter, but the girls want me to come ride the Ferris Wheel with them.”
We say our goodbyes to Bob as he barrels through the crowd to meet up with his daughters and Hunter and I are left just standing. Staring at each other.
He grabs a plate full of cookies from the guy bringing it in from the back of the store and says, “C’mon. Follow me.”
Neon lights flash in so many colors I think my head may just float away.
But he has cookies.
I love cookies.
Something deep and primal tells me that I have to follow the handsome man with the dark hair and bright green eyes carrying the tray of deliciousness.
My feet fall in line, one in front of the other. When given the choice to follow cookies or walk away to find my bestie and her new honey so I can be a third wheel, well, I’m going with the cookies every time.
The people sort of blur as we weave our way through the crowd, reduced to swathes of color and indistinguishable bursts of laughter and mumbled conversations, Hunter walks like a light through the darkness.
He named his first design line after me.
Even though I tell myself that I’m being silly, the idea lifts me, makes me feel lighter, almost, makes me feel precious, feel seen.
We walk around behind the first bank of d
isplay cases, Hunter holding the gate for me, cookie dangling half-eaten from his mouth. I reach up and bite the other half, and our gazes lock and just like that I could love him.
He wipes a crumb off the side of my mouth with his thumb, and smiles as he chews, motioning me forward. The back room of the jewelry store is more of a hall full of offices. He opens a heavy door at the end of the narrow hall and we wind our way up a staircase that I’d swear came right out of one of those ghost-hunting shows. “This is kind of creepy.”
“The building was built in 1896, and the need for wide staircases wasn’t really apparent at the time.” A stair creaks as he takes his next step.
“At least it’s lit, right?” I say as I climb, trying my best not to huff and puff too loudly. Can’t have Hunter thinking I’m as out of shape as I am but oh man there are a lot of stairs.
My lungs ache and I grab the railing, praying he doesn’t turn around and see me-
He turns, “And here we are.”
Great. Busted. I straighten and take a second to catch my breath before I say, “Great. Awesome.”
“C’mon, I brought a basket up here earlier so I wouldn’t forget.” Sure enough, he strides across the roof towards a large wicker basket. Placing the cookies on the ground, he opens it, “So, do you want to open the Riesling or the Shiraz first?”
The night wind chills the flesh of my cheeks, but the view is lovely. We’re not so high up that we can’t hear the carnival music or passing laughter from the streets below, but it’s just far enough to make me feel like we’re on the top of something magical. Walking over beside him, I take in the green below, Ferris Wheel centered against the mountains hiding in the night beyond. “This is amazing, Hunter.”
“Thanks. I like it. My mom used to take me up here sometimes when I was little and Dad was away. We’d close the shop and come up here and picnic on the roof.”
Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1) Page 21