“You think I’m gorgeous?” I ask, sounding like an insecure schoolboy.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t beg for compliments. Tell me why you aren’t seeing anyone. There are a couple of really cute waitresses who work here, you know.”
“I’m not going to date anyone I work with for professional reasons.”
“What about the zip-line instructor or one of the maids?”
“This might be my year to branch out,” I tell her, knowing full well it’s not. There’s another reason I haven’t pursued a romantic relationship and it’s not one I’m going to share with Tara or anyone else for that matter.
Tara Heinz is not the only one who came to Spartan to escape another life. Unfortunately, unlike her, I won’t be able to stay here forever. I have responsibilities that are going to force me to return home. It’s best that I’m unattached when that time comes.
“Earth to Geoffrey,” Tara says while waving a hand in front of my face. “Where did you go?”
“Your pot de crème is so good it was all I could think about.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t think your dessert is any good?”
“I think you’ve got something else on your mind,” she says. “I’m here if you need a sounding board.”
“Thanks, Tara.” I smile at her before turning around and walking into my office. Tara would be the only person around here who might understand the truth about my life. But even so, the bargain I struck with my parents was complete anonymity until I turned thirty. They’ve held up their end of the deal, and I plan on doing the same.
The only problem is, I’m turning thirty in two months. I know without a shadow of a doubt that my mom and dad are going to be here for the occasion, and they are going to expect me to return home with them.
As much as I don’t want to think about that day, it’s going to arrive. Sometimes I wish I’d never made that deal, but I don’t regret the freedom I’ve had. I just wish it could have lasted longer.
Chapter Three
Sharon
“I love driving through the Grapevine!” Sharon yells to her daughter to be heard over the road noise.
“I don’t!” Claire shouts back. “Especially when you’re behind the wheel.”
“How can you say that? I’m the best driver in our whole family.”
“Talking Patrick Dempsey into teaching you how to drive race cars doesn’t make you a good driver, Mom. In fact, ever since that summer, I’ve been afraid to be in the same car with you.”
“There’s no thrill in this world like hitting two hundred miles per hour on the speedway,” Sharon replies while stepping on the gas to keep her speed up during the steep incline.
“You’re not currently on the speedway, so slow it down, Danica Patrick.”
“Once we move you into your new house, I’m going to take you out to do something fun. How I gave birth to such a stick in the mud, I’ll never know.” Sharon lets her foot ease up on the pedal once she hits the top of the rise.
“I’m not a stick in the mud,” Claire retaliates. “I just don’t want to die young.”
“No one ever died on Space Mountain, but I haven’t been able to get you on that ride since you were thirteen.”
“I don’t need that level of thrill in my life, Mom. I’d rather go on Pirates of the Caribbean.”
“Those pirates do look like they’re having a good time, don’t they?” she asks, knowing full well she’s antagonizing her youngest child.
“How long are you staying in Oregon anyway?”
“Your dad is going to be away for almost a month. I figure I’ll stay with you the same amount of time.”
“A month? Why? I mean, I’m going to be working. It’s not like I’ll be able to spend that much time with you.”
“Maybe not,” Sharon replies, sounding offended. “But I want to get to know all about your new town and your new job. I figure I can enjoy the amenities at the lodge and still keep up on my songwriting.”
With a hearty sigh, Claire replies, “A whole month, huh?”
“If you don’t quit sounding so upset about it, I might stay for two.”
“One month sounds great, Mom.” Not.
Claire
On the drive to Oregon, I try to envision what my mom was like in her heyday. She’s such an outgoing and self-assured character, I’m willing to bet she was a real hoot. The pictures of her and my aunt Tooty certainly suggest as much. Our family room is full of framed photos from various country music award ceremonies and parties. Those two are laughing it up in every one of them.
My dad isn’t in many of the pictures, but when he shows up, he looks like a pallbearer or a senator or something, always conservatively dressed, wearing a serious expression on his face. How my parents decided they were meant to be together is beyond me. I’ve never met two more opposite people.
My dad’s family is from France. I don’t know much about them because my grandparents died before I was born. I suppose I should have asked more questions, but Mom’s family more than made up for any deficit caused by the lack of Choate presence.
Having said that, both of my siblings and I were named after members of my dad’s family. His father was Antoine Romaine, his mother was Lutèce, and don’t laugh, but I was named after Claire, the family dog. I understand she was a beautiful and regal standard poodle, which is why I’ve decided not to take offense.
By three p.m. on the second day of traveling, we cross into Spartan. I’m road-weary and ready to see my house. Tara told me I could stay at her place until I found one of my own, but I didn’t want to have to move everything into storage only to move it out again. So, I sent her a list of houses that I liked the look of on the internet. She went to see them and picked two she thought would be the best fit for me.
Both are close to hers and both are charming and homey looking. Unfortunately, only one of them was still available when I called the realtor. I wired her the deposit that day to make sure I didn’t lose it.
It’s not escaped my notice that I might be running away to a location that might be less than ideal for me. That’s why I’ve decided to rent instead of buying a house. Fleeing a failed relationship is not necessarily the best time to make a big life change. It is, however, the most tempting time to do so.
Mom lets out a shrill squeal as she pulls into my new driveway. “Oh. My. God!!! It’s so cute! It’s like a Hansel and Gretel house without being edible.”
It does have a gingerbread kind of look about it. Tara said that Spartan is one of the oldest towns in Oregon and has a slew of original Victorian houses. My painted lady—the realtor advised me this is what they are called as they’re often painted in a wide variety of colors—is a lovely buttercup yellow with white trim.
“I can just see the cookie rendition of this house,” my mom announces. “You could shingle the roof in Sno Caps and line the walkway with peppermint disks …”
She keeps rambling on about how she’d recreate the gingerbread version of my new home. I ignore her while trying to envision what it would be like to come home to this house every evening. It’s so different from my mission-style bungalow in LA.
My mom says something before bolting out of the car. It’s only when she yells, “Come on!” that I realize how lost in thought I’ve been.
By the time I join her, her expression has morphed from happy to worried. “What’s wrong with you?” she demands. “This is exciting business. It’s not every day you see your new home for the first time.”
“No, it’s not. It’s kind of overwhelming.”
She grabs the key out of my hand and rams it into the lock. While she hurries in, my feet stay firmly planted on the porch. My eye drifts over to the porch swing and I’m drawn over to sit down.
I try to imagine what it must have felt like to live here when the house was first built nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. Horse-drawn carriages would hav
e filled the streets and clothing styles would have been vastly different, but the houses would have all been the same. Living here is going to be like stepping back in time.
I hear my mom’s disembodied voice call out, “Hurry the heck up, Claire! This place is awesome!”
The stairs are the first thing I see when I walk in. They’re situated on the left side of the room along the wall. Across from them is the entry hall which is probably the size of my living room at home. I envision ladies with long skirts and intricate hats rushing in from a day of visiting or shopping, chattering away in great excitement over which social function they were going to that night. Talk about fanciful.
“Where are you?” I call out to my mom.
“Upstairs! Second door on the left.”
The stairs are wide like they were designed for more than one person to ascend at a time. I didn’t have stairs in my bungalow, so this is a novelty for me.
When I find my mom, she’s peering through a window. Her back is to me, but she must hear me walk in because she says, “This is my room.”
“What if I want it for my room?” I ask, annoyed by how presumptuous her declaration sounds.
“Trust me, you don’t want this room. The one across the hall is way more your speed.”
I don’t argue with her. Instead, I hurry across the hall and walk into a large room with champagne-colored damask wallpaper. The ornate crown molding draws the eye upward to showcase the twelve-foot-high ceilings. Wow.
I don’t hear my mom sneak in behind me and I nearly hit the ceiling when she announces, “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“It really is,” I tell her. “I have no idea what I’m going to do with all this space though. This house is bigger than it looked online.”
“You could get a roommate if you want,” my mom suggests.
“Maybe,” I tell her. The truth is I’m a very private person and couldn’t imagine sharing my living space with someone I hardly know. I’m suddenly glad my mom is going to be around for a while.
“Let’s take a look at everything else before heading over to the lodge. It’s nice of your new boss to put us up there until the moving truck arrives with your furniture.”
I nod my head dumbly and follow my mom on a tour of the remaining ten rooms. Victorians were clearly not fans of an open floor plan, but the sheer quantity and size of rooms makes up for it not being in my preferred style.
Every room looks like something from the set of Little Women or some other equally lovely period piece. Aunt March would have lived in this house in a heartbeat. I flip the light switches on and off to make sure the electricity is hooked up. Then I run the faucet to make sure the hot water is working.
Once I’m satisfied everything is in move-in condition for when my furniture arrives, I announce, “Okay, I’m ready to head over to the lodge.”
My mom pulls me into her arms. “I have the best feeling about you being here, hon. I just know there’s a happy ending with your name on it in Oregon.”
I don’t know what psychic channel she’s tuned into, but I sure as heck hope she’s right.
Chapter Four
Ruby
Hurrying into the restaurant kitchen, Ruby announces, “There’s a special guest at table twelve, so make sure you send out your very best.”
“Every table is special to me, Ruby,” Geoffrey replies. “But I promise I’ll pull out all the stops for you.” As an afterthought, he asks, “Who is it?”
“Claire Choate just arrived with her mother. She’s staying here at the lodge until her stuff gets here from LA.”
Ruby watches as Geoffrey’s shoulders and jaw simultaneously square off with an abundance of tension. She’s pretty sure his response is due to the fact that Claire was a little high strung when she was here for her brother’s wedding. But being that her brother canceled the wedding before it happened, all her stress was for naught. Ruby decides there’s no reason any residual angst should get in the way of her latest matchmaking project.
“Claire sure is pretty, isn’t she?” Ruby asks.
“Hmm,” Geoffrey replies noncommittally.
“I’m going to be eating with them. I’d appreciate it if you came out to say hello.”
Geoffrey appears to be valiantly trying not to roll his eyes. “If I’m not too busy.”
“Don’t be too busy,” Ruby tells him with a touch of warning in her tone.
“I’ll do my best,” Geoffrey assures her.
“Just bring the entrees out yourself, please, and quit being so evasive. If you keep that up, I’m going to think you have a thing for Claire.”
“A thing? I met the woman three times and, on each occasion, she was a real pain. Please don’t get any ideas about me and your new party planner.”
“Why in the world would I be getting ideas?” Ruby asks, avoiding eye contact.
Geoffrey flips a ribeye steak on the grill. “Maybe because you just set up both of your sons and you’re feeling pretty sure of yourself. Please, Ruby. I’m not interested in being your next pet project.”
Ruby ignores him. “I’ll be picking up tonight’s tab, so be extravagant. I want to make sure Claire feels welcome.” She walks out the door before Geoffrey can respond. For some reason her chef claims not to be interested in a relationship, but Ruby knows better. Everyone needs love, even if they say they’re not looking.
Geoffrey
Someone needs to remind my boss what the road to hell is paved with. All of her good intentions are not going to change the fact that I’m leaving Oregon in two months. Even if I were staying, I wouldn’t be in a position to start a relationship.
A picture of Claire Choate pops into my head. The last time I saw her, the woman was buttoned-up like she was wearing a straitjacket. Her wardrobe was a good deal sexier, but her aura was all business. She couldn’t be farther from my type.
At six thirty, Tara calls out, “I’m off the clock. I’m going out to the dining room to eat with Ruby and Claire if you need me for anything.”
“I won’t. Enjoy your meal,” I tell her.
The next hour is spent churning out dozens of entrees. My parents could never understand why I loved cooking. They were both happy to let someone else take over that chore. Lucky for them, they employed a full kitchen staff who took care of feeding their large family.
Helena, one of the servers, hurries in and announces, “Geoffrey, Ruby is asking for you. She says you were supposed to deliver their food yourself.”
“Tell her I’ll be out in a few minutes. I just have two more tables to take care of.” After sending out the final meals, I go into my office to change into a clean chef’s coat. Our guests should think our kitchen is always immaculate and I need to represent myself accordingly.
Looking into the mirror I see tired green eyes staring back at me. I love my job, but lately I’ve been working longer hours than ever. There’s something about knowing this chapter of my life is ending that makes me want to be in the kitchen as much as I can.
Stopping at the bar on my way to my boss’s table, I pick up a bottle of local pinot noir that will pair nicely with their entrees. Not only will it help put on the nice show Ruby asked for, but it might soften my boss’s reaction to my coming out late.
With four balloon glasses hanging upside down from my fingers, I make my way over to table twelve.
Tara jumps up as soon as I arrive and declares, “It’s about time you came out to say hello.” She scurries around the table to give the other women hugs while saying, “I’m off to James’s house.” She jokes to Claire, “He keeps farmer’s hours, so his bedtime is essentially the same as a second grader’s. If I want to see him during the week, I need to get over there before he falls asleep.”
She turns to me and offers, “You can take my seat, Geoffrey.”
“I wasn’t planning on staying,” I tell her. But one look from Ruby, who’s darting her gaze between the bottle of wine I’m holding and my
eyes, has me adding, “Maybe for a glass of wine.”
After Tara leaves, Ruby announces, “Claire, you remember Geoffrey, of course.”
Claire looks nothing like she did the last time she was here. She’s much more beautiful than I remember, with her auburn hair hanging down her back in loose curls instead of the tight bun she seemed to prefer on her last visit. Her clothes are casual, yet elegant, but the look in her eye indicates nothing short of annoyance.
“Hello,” she says in a perfunctory fashion before introducing me to her mother. “Mom, this is Geoffrey, the chef here at the lodge. Geoffrey, this is my mother, Sharon.”
A vivacious older woman who looks a lot like her daughter taps her finger to her mouth before pointing it at me and saying, “My goodness, you’re a looker!” I watch Claire’s face turn beet red.
“That’s very high praise coming from such a beautiful lady,” I reply.
“Sit down, Geoffrey, and tell me about yourself,” Sharon orders. Then she squints her eyes and tilts her head from side to side before saying, “You look kind of familiar. You didn’t use to live in Southern California, did you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you from Oregon?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not?” Ruby demands. “I thought you were.”
“I worked in Portland before coming here,” I tell my boss.
“Where are you from then?” she wants to know.
“I’m from Malquar.” There’s no point in concealing the truth anymore; everyone will find out soon enough. I might as well start laying the groundwork for my departure.
With a confused look on her face, my boss asks, “Is that near Seattle?”
Sharon claps her hands together excitedly and answers for me. “It’s a small island country between England and France.” Then, smiling at me, she adds, “I’ve been there before!”
“You have? Why?”
It's My Party: A Royal Romantic Comedy (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 3) Page 2