by Julia London
“Great,” she said. She was grinning, too.
“Good morning!” Adonis strolled into the foyer. The dogs raced toward him, yapping, and Adonis dipped down onto his haunches to pet them. “How is everyone today?” he asked cheerfully, scratching both dogs behind their ears.
“I can’t speak for everyone, but I’m fabulous,” Mia chirped.
Jesse’s gaze was on Brennan. “Hey, buddy,” he said to Brennan.
Buddy was the last thing Brennan was to Jesse Fisher. “Good morning.”
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, rising up to his full height, which, regrettably, was about an inch taller than Brennan.
“Not at all,” Mia said.
“Good. I hate to interrupt—again,” he said with a laugh, “but Mia, I’m not sure where the door is going to go in the new wall. Can you show me? And then the crew and I will get out of your hair.” He smiled so charmingly that Brennan almost smiled back.
“Sure.” She looked at Brennan. “Did we cover everything?”
“I think we did,” he said, and sipped his coffee.
“Okay. Talk to you later.” She turned around to Jesse.
“Hey, did you check out the spin class Drago was talking about?” Jesse asked as they began to walk down the corridor.
“Not yet. But I’m going to. Really, I am.”
Mia’s voice floated back to Brennan, who was still standing in the foyer. Still gripping his coffee cup so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t shatter in his hands.
“Mr. Yates, I do laundry now,” Magda called out to him.
That was the moment Brennan decided he was going to get a plane.
Seventeen
Mia was excited about Stratford Corners.
She wasn’t naive; she knew what she’d signed up for. She knew that she’d be in the same room with him. It was a little soon for that, maybe, but Mia was a healthy woman with healthy desires. She couldn’t stop thinking about Brennan, she couldn’t stop thinking about sex with Brennan, either, and the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to give it a whirl.
Mia was ready to explore this budding relationship. Even if he was a summer person and it went against every rule she’d ever made for herself.
At the end of the day Friday, she was picking things up, packing it in for the weekend. As she went outside to put her lunch bag in her basket, she heard the faint strains of a guitar from an open window upstairs. It was a haunting melody, a sad melody. Mia liked the bits and pieces she heard and wondered what Brennan intended to do with a song like that.
But then the music stopped, and Mia walked on.
She found Jesse sweeping up in the “north salon.” They’d taken to calling it the north salon this week in an affected British accent, and giggled like children when they did. The wall was down, and Jesse’s crew had braced the hole with some two-by-fours. Next week, Jesse explained to her, they would build some columns to secure the floor above.
Actually, Jesse had explained quite a lot to Mia about what they would do next week, but her attention had drifted. Jesse liked to talk about his work.
“It’s Miller time,” he said cheerfully when she walked into the room.
“At last!”
“Got any plans this weekend?” he asked as he dumped debris into a big plastic bag.
“Actually, yes,” she said. “I’m going to an art festival.”
“Oh yeah?” He picked up an extension cord and began to wrap it end over end in a circle. “I was hoping maybe we could get together.”
She smiled apologetically. She’d never in her life had two guys ask her out at the same time. She wasn’t the most experienced girl when it came to dating, much less more than one man. “Maybe next weekend?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t seem to like that, either, and in fact, he stared at the floor a moment. “Actually, I’ve been invited to a wedding in a couple of weeks. I’ve got a plus one if you’re interested.”
If she was interested? As if she would go to the wedding of people she didn’t know because she was interested? It seemed an odd thing to say, but Mia let it go. “That might be fun,” she said. “Anyone I know?”
“Nah. He’s a guy I used to work with.” Jesse leaned down and picked up his things. “Can I give you a ride home?”
“Sure.”
Jesse loaded Mia’s bike into the back of his truck, then helped her into the cab as he had done every day this week. He chatted about his work on the way down to her apartment—he never asked about hers, Mia noticed—and once they arrived, he lifted her bike with one hand and leaned it up against the barn. “So,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking shyly at her. “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“It’s the wedding,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. “I’d love for you to come. I thought about inviting you before today, but I’ll be honest, Mimi—I had cold feet.”
“Oh.” Mia was not offended by that. Frankly, she completely understood it—the universal rule of weddings was if you took a date, you could expect that the whole world would want to make you the next couple to head to the altar. “I totally get it,” she said. She felt magnanimous. The kind of girl who understood things, who would not make trouble for a guy like Jesse Fisher.
“You get it?” he asked, looking hopeful and sounding surprised. And then he suddenly laughed with relief. “Thank God, because I was really sweating it.”
She couldn’t imagine why he’d be sweating anything. She didn’t think she’d come across as high strung or needy in any way. “You didn’t really think I’d make a thing of it, did you? We’ve only been on one date.”
Jesse looked confused. “Are we talking about the same thing?”
“I think so,” she said. “You don’t want everyone to think we’re a couple.”
Jesse’s smile faded. “No,” he said, “that’s not what—I was talking about what you wear, Mia. I can’t—I was just hoping you could wear something normal.”
The bottom fell out of Mia’s stomach. A swirl of emotions rose up in her, carrying some old hurts. Hurts she thought she’d grown past. “Normal,” she repeated. It was amazing how words like that still carried the same punch they had when she was a teen.
“Oh hey, I’m sorry.” He quickly grabbed both of her hands. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I like the way you dress. But these people are just really conservative, and I—”
“No, I get it,” she said, pulling her hands free of his grip. “Really, I get it. It’s okay—you don’t have to explain. I can wear something . . .” She tried to think of the right word. Bland. Cookie cutter. Pink. “I’ll borrow a dress from my cousin.”
Jesse smiled again, clearly relieved. “Thank you,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He leaned down, kissed her lightly on the lips. He lifted his head and laughed a little. “I can’t be the first person to ask you that, right?”
No, he wasn’t the first, but that was beside the point. The point was that Mia wanted to be with someone who didn’t ask her at all. “It’s fine,” she said.
“Great,” he said, grinning boyishly again. “I’ll see you Monday. Have a good weekend at your art festival.”
“Yep.” She stood rooted to the drive as he put himself back in his truck and backed it up. She waved when he waved, and watched as he drove down the road. Even when he’d turned onto Juneberry Road, she didn’t move.
Were her clothes really so offensive? They were unusual, yes. But they weren’t indecent. They were interesting, they had substance to them, and thought behind them. What was wrong with that? Why were people always so surprised by it? Why did people want to look the same as everyone else in the world?
“Whatever,” she muttered. It had taken a long time, but Mia had come to terms with her style. She didn’t care who got it, because she got it.
She went into her apartment and looked around. It was funny how her view of the world had invaded this small space so quickly. The
re was the painting of the lanterns she’d started, waiting for her return to the easel. Emily’s dress was on a form, and the fabric for Skylar’s maxi neatly folded on the kitchen bar. She’d left the maps she’d used to make her dress on a chair near her bed, and beneath that, the fabric she’d designed with which she intended to make pants.
Normal.
Mia couldn’t be normal if she tried. She’d known that for ages, and she thought Jesse knew that, too. It wasn’t that she couldn’t put on a simple dress for the wedding; she could definitely do that. It was that his asking her, and her bending to his wishes, went against who she was, who she had worked hard to become.
Mia used to think that all she wanted was a career in art. But it was much more fundamental than that. What she wanted was for someone to come along and accept her just as she was. Someone who wouldn’t ask her to look “normal.” Someone who understood how her clothes, her art, her desires were all bits and pieces of what was on the inside of her, and to appear “normal” was to reduce and hide who she really was.
Mia was still brooding about being normal when Brennan arrived, and in private defiance of Jesse’s request, she’d dressed in the capri pants she’d made the night before, the knee-length sleeveless vest she’d made last week from some remnants she’d kept from her old job, a silky T-shirt underneath, two long strands of necklace, and around her head, a silk bandeau she’d made from her father’s repurposed ties.
She walked down the stairs before Brennan could come up. He had a first-day beard, and was wearing a knit hat and aviator shades this morning, a T-shirt beneath a denim jacket, and some pants that fit him snugly in all the right places. Mia’s pulse quickened just looking at him. The man was hot as hell. How had she ever thought otherwise?
“Wow,” he said, nodding as she walked down the stairs in her ankle boots. “You look fantastic. Like you stepped off a new designer’s runway. That’s the perfect thing to wear to an art festival, if you ask me.”
She smiled. She relaxed. “Thank you.”
He took her overnight bag without comment. Mia got in the car and pulled out her phone. “I was looking at the map,” she said as he climbed in and started the ignition. “It’s going to take several hours to get there, so I found us the quickest route.”
“It may not take that long,” he said as he pulled out onto Juneberry Road.
“Because you’re going to drive like an escaped convict?”
He smiled and covered her hand with his. “You’ll see,” he said.
She liked his hand on hers. “Just don’t kill me, that’s all I ask.”
“I’ll do my best.” He pulled her hand across the center console and held it against his thigh as he drove up Juneberry Road. Like he didn’t want to let go.
When they reached the road that would lead to the freeway, Brennan turned toward Black Springs.
“This isn’t the way,” Mia said.
He squeezed her hand. “Can you just relax and let this date go as I’ve planned?”
It was impossible for her to deny him that request when he made it with such a winsome smile. “It totally goes against my nature to relax, but because you’ve made some progress from the first time we met, I’ll give it the old college try.”
He chuckled. “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed.”
True to her word, Mia didn’t say another word until they pulled off that road and entered the gates of the tri-county executive airport.
“You’re not a pilot, are you?” Brennan asked as he coasted to a stop.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then what are we doing here? You do realize that you’ve gone in the wrong direction, don’t you?”
“Breathe,” he said, as a man emerged from the hangar, walking crookedly in their direction. His face was craggy and his wiry hair stuck out from beneath his cap.
Brennan stepped out of the car.
Mia did, too.
“You Yates?” the man asked, peering intently at Brennan.
“I am. You must be Willie.” He extended his hand.
The man shook it. “I’m ready if you are,” the man said, and turned around, heading for a small plane sitting on the tarmac.
Mia looked at the plane, then at Brennan. Her mouth dropped open with shock. “Are you kidding? We’re flying to Stratford Corners?”
“You were the one who said we haven’t got a lot of time.” He reached into the back of his car and pulled out their bags, then held out his hand to her.
Mia laughed with delight. “This is crazy!”
“You seem the sort to appreciate a little crazy,” he said, and tugged her along with him.
A quarter hour later, they were airborne, and Mia was giddy with delight. Pressed into Brennan’s side, she kept pointing out things below, unable to believe that she was here, in this plane, with this handsome man, flying up to an art festival like they were rich and famous.
They landed at an airstrip outside of Stratford Corners where a red minivan was waiting for them. Brennan told the pilot where he’d put him up for the night, and handed him two crisp one hundred dollar bills and sent him off to have a nice evening.
The minivan driver put their bags in the back. “I’ll take the bags on to the Crosswater Inn after I let you folks off,” he said.
Mia gasped—she knew about the Crosswater Inn. It was just outside of Stratford Corners, a picturesque resort with five-star dining and a PGA golf course. It was one of the preferred mountain getaways for the old money of the East Coast, famed for its seclusion and breathtaking scenery. She couldn’t imagine how much it would cost to stay there and she didn’t want to guess.
“It’s too much,” she said softly, shaking her head as the man drove them into town. “The plane, the Crosswater Inn—”
“It’s a date,” Brennan said. “I’m supposed to impress you, remember?”
“You already impressed me just by knowing about the festival,” she said. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to do this. And I can.” He kissed her temple. “Just enjoy it, will you?”
How could she not? She had never done anything as exciting as this. Mia sat up, cupped his chin and turned his face toward her, and kissed him on the lips.
When she lifted her head, Brennan’s eyes were twinkling with pleasure. “It would appear my stock has risen,” he murmured. “One room?”
“One room.”
When they reached the festival, Mia was bouncing with delight. He held her hands as they strolled through the streets and stopped at various booths to admire the work. She loved that he held true to his promise and never complained. He stayed in the background when she talked with different artists and seemed genuinely interested in the things she showed him, the things she admired. She pointed out the depth of color of some works. The motions and emotions of others. She talked about the intricate craftsmanship in the wood- and metalwork, the difficulty in putting some pieces together.
In the booth of a renowned artist, they stood side by side examining a small oil painting of a red door in a blue building. To Mia, that painting was magical. The artist had employed light so brilliantly that it looked as if the sun were shining in over their shoulders on a real door. “This is how I want to paint,” she said.
“You should do it,” Brennan said.
Mia nodded. “I know how to do these things, but it’s the execution that sets the best apart.”
“That’s true in music, too,” he said. “Anyone can play a few chords. But it’s knowing how to put emotions into those chords that separates the best from the rest of the pack.”
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “And where do you fall on that spectrum?”
Brennan laughed. “Better than some and worse than others.”
She nodded, understanding that place completely. “Me too. Somewhere in the middle. Not the best, not the worst.”
At the end of the day, the driver returned for them in his red mini
van and drove them up to the Crosswater Inn.
It was as beautiful as Mia had always heard; azaleas lined the drive to the hotel, and trees formed a canopy overhead with the fresh greens of spring. In the portico of the inn, a fire blazed in an open hearth and liveried doormen took their bags and opened the doors for them.
Still wearing his knit hat and shades, Brennan chatted with the desk clerk, then accepted the thick brass key to their room. He slipped his arm around Mia’s waist and escorted her up to the third floor.
Their room had a gorgeous view of the mountains and the valley below, where the lights of Stratford Corners were just beginning to twinkle up at them in the dusk. Their balcony, complete with a bistro table and chairs, was lined with gerbera daisies. A bottle of wine had been opened before their arrival and left to breathe.
Mia walked around the spacious room and took in every detail, emerging from the bathroom with a grin. “There is a two-button toilet in there with a heated seat!”
Brennan laughed.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, and slipped up behind him where he was pouring wine for them, put her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek against his back. “I can’t believe you did this for me.”
“That’s not all,” he said. “The chef has made us something special.” He turned around in her embrace and handed her a glass of wine. “It will be served in our room at seven thirty.”
Mia took the wine he offered, but her eyes were on him. “You’re amazing, Brennan Yates. I never would have guessed it.”
He laughed. “Me either, if you want to know the truth.” He clinked his glass against hers before leading her to a couch.
“I’ve never been on a date like this. Ever,” she said as she settled in next to him. “But I bet you do things like this all the time.”
“Not really,” he said. “I haven’t felt inspired to do things like this.” He looked at her, held her gaze. “But I’m starting to figure out that I haven’t always been looking for the right things in a companion.”