Waiting for December, page 9
“You’ve never been?”
“In the South, I’ve only been to South Carolina.”
I take another sip of my drink. Between the fire, my blanket, and the alcohol, I’m feeling much toastier than I thought was possible to feel out here. It can’t be more than forty-five degrees tonight. “Atlanta is a thriving city with great food and lots of young professionals. I like it. But I don’t love it the way you seem to love Vermont . . . and the way I’m starting to.”
“I’m glad it’s making such an impression on you,” he responds.
I shift my focus from him to the stars, circling my thumb around the top of my mug and thinking again how beautiful it is here. I eventually break the silence. Not because it’s uncomfortable, but because a question pops into my head.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He angles himself toward me a little more. I like the way Jesse gives his full attention to whomever he’s talking to. He’s been this way with me since I arrived, and I noticed this morning that he does the same with the guests. I’m not sure if he’s always been this intentional of a guy or if he’s this intentional because he doesn’t have a cell phone to check. Either way, it’s nice.
“Last night you asked me what I think happens after we die. And yesterday afternoon you mentioned that the inn has been missing some life for a while. It made me wonder if you’ve lost somebody.”
When Jesse doesn’t respond, I backtrack. “You don’t have to tell me or talk about it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried.”
When he still doesn’t speak up, I wonder if I should apologize again and leave. Clearly, I’ve made him uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention. I am only curious and trying to get to know him better because he seems to have an interest in getting to know me.
“I’m sorry,” I reiterate. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” I start to get to my feet, but his voice stops me.
“I’m surprised you put that together, that’s all.” He’s looking directly at me, and the way he’s looking at me makes me think he does want to talk about it. I settle back down and watch as he shifts his gaze to the fire like he’s searching for the words or trying to muster up the strength to say them.
Watching this makes me think the loss must have been recent. Or else it was someone he was really close with.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “My brother.”
So it was someone who was close. A heaviness fills my chest.
“And his wife,” he adds a beat later.
Two people who were close. Oh, Jesse.
I’m on my feet the next second, moving to sit in the chair right beside him. When he bows his head, I rest my hand on his back. I haven’t lost anyone that close to me. I imagine there aren’t words that make it any less painful. So I don’t try to find any. I just stay beside him so he knows I’m here—whether he wants to share more with me or sit in silence.
His voice cracks when he finally finds it. “It happened eleven months ago,” he shares. “A car accident as they were driving here. There was a bad rainstorm. They hydroplaned and hit a tree. Both of them died on impact.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. So it was semi-recent too.
I honestly wasn’t expecting such a sad story. My guess had been that a grandparent might have passed, or a distant friend—because Jesse doesn’t seem altogether unhappy, and after losing a sibling and a sister-in-law in the same instant, some people might struggle to even get out of bed eleven months later. Then again, people deal with grief in different ways. Maybe staying busy has helped him. Or maybe he’s good at putting on a brave face. Or perhaps he’s processing his grief in pieces.
When Jesse speaks again, I open my eyes and remove my hand from his back, resting it in my lap. “This was their dream,” he says, motioning to the property. “To take this place over once my parents stepped down. If you think I love Vermont . . .” He stops to whistle. “Brendan loved it ten times more. And so did his wife, Molly.”
“How long were they married?” I reach up to wipe away a tear that’s made its way down my cheek. I’m not sure when I started crying.
“Only a year,” he says. “But they’d been together since high school. They’d driven the road from town to this property a million times. They knew it so well. Sometimes I still can’t believe it happened.”
I blow out a breath and shake my head, continuing to listen as Jesse goes on. “As hard as it’s been for me, my parents have taken it even harder. I think it’s another reason they were okay stepping down when they did. Knowing how much this place meant to Brendan has made it difficult for them to be here. It makes them miss him too much. I feel the opposite. I feel more of a connection to him when I’m here. Which is why I really want to keep this property in our family. I know hanging on to this place is what Brendan would want. As crazy as it sounds, sometimes I feel like he’s still here. Or his soul is, at least.”
This is the longest Jesse’s ever spoken to me without looking at me. I get it. It can be easier to say hard things when we pretend we’re just talking out loud to ourselves.
“I don’t think that sounds crazy at all,” I chime in.
Jesse’s eyes find mine. “Thank you,” he says.
It’s the sincerest thank-you I’ve ever received. And I didn’t do anything but sit here and listen.
“Brendan and I were really close,” he continues, still looking at me. “We’re only two years apart. He was older than me. He always ran in a bigger circle than I did, so I was just one of his best friends. But he was my only best friend.”
I think this is Jesse’s way of explaining why his thank-you was so sincere. Normally, he’d be sitting here sharing this tragedy with Brendan. Only Brendan isn’t here. I am.
“Do you have siblings?” he asks.
“No, but I’ve had the same best friends since high school, and they’re like siblings.” I shudder at the thought of losing either of them. “Grace is a therapist who has always given the best advice. Zoe owns a yoga studio and is super free-spirited. They’re both fiercely loyal.”
Jesse takes another sip of his drink. “Will they visit while you’re here?”
“I think they plan to around Thanksgiving.”
“I look forward to meeting them.”
“What were Brendan and Molly like? Besides passionate about this place,” I ask, pulling my blanket tighter around me. It’s getting colder, but I’ll be damned if I can’t sit here long enough to hear Jesse talk more about the most important people to him.
“Brendan was a big jokester,” he explains. “He was always pulling pranks and trying to make whatever room he was in more fun. And Molly . . . she was both sweet and ambitious. The way she laughed at Brendan’s jokes always made them seem funnier than they ever really were. They both studied hospitality in college and were really looking forward to being in the shoes we’re in right now.”
“I wish they could take our places,” I say.
“Me too.” We both sit in silence. I’m not sure what’s going through Jesse’s head, but I can’t stop thinking about how unfair life can be. I wish there were more I could do to ease the pain he’s feeling.
“It’s getting cold,” Jesse says eventually. “Here, let me take that.” He reaches for my mug as we both get to our feet.
I hand it over and fold up my blanket, then his, tossing them back in the basket.
“Thanks again,” he says.
“Thank you for the drink. And for trusting me enough to share all that.”
He gives me a bashful glance before he starts to head in.
I’ve just taken a step toward my cabin when I turn back. “Hey, Jesse?” I call out.
“Yeah?” He faces me and meets my eyes, giving me his full attention again.
“Zoe and Grace may still be around, but it’s not like I have them with me for the next three months while I’m here.”
As soon as I say it, a silent understanding passes between us.
“Thanks,” he grins.
And with that one word, I think we just went from coworkers to friends.
eleven
AFTER LAST NIGHT, I wasn’t quite sure what mood I’d find Jesse in this morning. As I dressed to meet him at the barn, I wondered if he’d have an emotional hangover. Or at least be a little subdued. I even prepared myself for more teary conversation. Never once did it cross my mind that he’d be in good spirits.
And not just run-of-the-mill good spirits, but the kind of good spirits that had him suggesting we name the chickens. All of them. Forget just the six I proposed we name yesterday morning.
Given that there are a total of twenty-six, Jesse thought it would be a good idea to give each chicken a name that starts with a different letter of the alphabet, beginning with A and working our way to Z.
We’re currently stuck on X.
We would have called this one Xander—the only X name either of us seems to know—if I had picked up a boy. But I have a girl in my hands. Jesse thought it would be fun if I had to close my eyes before picking up the next chicken to be named so that the sex would be a mystery.
Jesse thought it would be fun.
I’m still shocked by his mood, even though we’ve been out here a full half hour. I’m certainly happy about it, though. Last night I left the fire worried I hadn’t said or done enough for him. But it seems Jesse just needed someone to listen.
“What about just X?” Jesse tries.
“No,” I veto. “We can do better than that.”
I woke up feeling determined to do better on all counts while I’m here. Not that I thought I was slacking on the job. But now that I know how much this season means to Jesse, I’m even more motivated to ensure everything is done at its best—including naming the chickens.
I study the one I’m holding more seriously.
“You doing all right?” Jesse asks.
When I look up, I see Jesse is studying me.
“Yeah, why?”
“You just look a little more intense than usual.”
I’m surprised he picked up on this subtle shift in my demeanor.
“Is there something specific we need to do to make sure you keep the inn past this holiday season?” I ask.
“That’s what you’re thinking about right now? I thought we were naming chickens.”
I sigh and share what’s on my mind and why I’m taking the chicken naming so seriously.
“As long as we keep the place running as well as my parents did, I think they’ll let me step in and co-own it,” he reassures me. “They just don’t want to see it fall apart. Brendan and Molly both had the hospitality background, as my parents do, so they wouldn’t have doubted their abilities. But I think they are questioning mine.”
“I don’t have a hospitality background either,” I point out.
“Yeah, but you studied business like me. I think as long as we keep the guests happy and the oven fires to a minimum, we should be good.”
“Was that a dig?”
“Just a suggestion.” His smirk tells me he’s only teasing, and I can’t help but laugh. Last night Jesse mentioned Brendan was the one in their family who always made everything more fun. But he seems to have that skill set too.
“How about Xylophone?” I say, contemplating the chicken again.
“You mean like the instrument?”
“It keeps popping into my head when I think of words that start with X. We can call her Xylo for short.”
“Xylo,” Jesse echoes. “That’s cute.”
“And unforgettable. We certainly won’t forget you, Xylo,” I say, stroking her feathers before setting her down.
“Xylo won’t forget you either,” Jesse says. I think he’s just being sweet, but then he tells me that chickens don’t forget faces.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. All of these guys and girls will remember you forever. Even once you head back to Atlanta.”
As soon as Jesse says this, my stomach clenches. I’m already dreading leaving the inn, and it’s only my third day here. I suppose that speaks to how much I’m liking it. But it freaks me out a little bit for what’s to come. Then again, Sky is waiting for me at the end of my time here. Maybe the good times are just getting started.
—
Jesse and I make fried eggs this morning for the guests. And toast and bagels and of course waffles because Jesse says we must serve the guests something that goes with maple syrup every morning.
After, I get the two new arrivals checked in and then head to town to grab the art supplies I forgot about yesterday. I feel a little guilty when I leave the inn. Part of me thinks I should stick around in case the new guests have questions. But then I remember that Jesse told me not to stress. Also, I can’t forget about my Vermont Bucket List. That has to remain a priority on par with helping Jesse save the inn.
While I’m in town picking out my supplies at Stowe Crafts, a few doors down from Milk & Maple, I can’t help but check my email to see if Sky has written me back.
He hasn’t.
It’s a little disappointing but makes complete sense. I told him I wouldn’t check my email often. He probably figured there’s no point in rushing to get back to me. I was just hoping he’d shot me something fast because I’m so curious to see what his next one says.
After leaving the store, I wander down the street. Last time I was here I was in such a rush that I didn’t fully take in all the details of the delightful downtown, so I do so now, snapping pictures as I go to send to Zoe, Grace, and my parents.
Downtown Stowe is an idyllic New England town punctuated with charming storefronts that dare you to walk by without stepping inside, and a tall white church steeple watching over everything. I pass by The Country Store on Main, which sells home goods including candles and cookware, linens and seasonal décor. And Shaw’s General Store, where a variety of jackets, boots, scarves, and hats are on display in the front window. A little further ahead, I run into a cozy tavern called Harrison’s, whose menu is pinned up outside. I steal a peek and the items listed make my stomach growl, including crab cakes and mussels, chicken piccata, and butternut squash soup. There’s even a delightful bookstore—Bear Pond Books—with a giant teddy bear sitting out front in a white rocker holding a novel.
As I continue meandering, I pass another charming inn, as well as a handful of other shops, cafés, and fine-dining establishments. My eyes are constantly torn between wanting to check out what’s inside and wanting to admire the building exteriors set against the backdrop of the vibrant trees in autumn colors. At first, I think the red treetops are the most stunning, but then a minute later I’m convinced it’s the orange ones I like best, and a beat after that I’ve fallen just as in love with the yellows. I’ve never seen trees blush like this—in so many shades of color.
When I stop to send along the photos, I see the pictures don’t do this place justice. But I’m glad I’m able to send a few home. And that I have some on my phone to show any inquiring guests. Speaking of guests . . . I should probably get back to them now.
I bring my painting supplies with me straight to the inn’s kitchen, since I make it back just in time to start happy hour prep.
After happy hour ends, I decide to spread my things out in the parlor on a table with a view outside for inspiration. Though all the guest rooms have kitchenettes, everyone tonight seems to have either called an Uber or driven into town for dinner. I’m grateful the place cleared out so that I can have some quiet and focus on my craft project without interruption.
I’m not expecting to be the next Picasso or Warhol or anything. Other than an elective art class or two that I took in high school, I don’t have any painting experience. I just want to see if I like to paint. And if I can get into a meditative zone while doing it. I’ve heard people talk about getting “lost in their work.” I keep hoping one day I’ll experience some version of that.
Though the sun has set, it’s still light enough when I sit down that I can see some of the trees out the window as well as the flames from the fire outside that Jesse must have gotten going.
I set the canvas I picked out from the craft store right in front of me. Then I get to work.
—
An hour later, I step outside with my panting in hand and spot Jesse by the fire, sipping another warm drink. He looks so relaxed he could be mistaken for a guest. I try to think of another job that makes being on the clock look this good on somebody, but I’m drawing a blank right now.
“Is this your nightly routine?” I ask with a grin as I approach.
“I don’t know,” he says, cupping his mug with both his hands. “It’s only my third day on the job too, remember? I’m still trying to nail my routine down.” He nods to my painting. “Are you an artist?”
“Not exactly. Just was giving it a shot.” I hold it up for him to assess.
“Looks like Hudson Lane,” he says.
“An abstract version of Hudson Lane, maybe.” Saying it looks like the inn is giving me way too much credit. It’s safe to say that art is not my hidden talent. And I wouldn’t say I loved painting either. It didn’t put me in any kind of mental zone, though I did feel a sense of accomplishment when I crossed the activity off my Vermont Bucket List. So at least there’s that.
“I think abstract is in,” Jesse says.
“Not this level of abstract,” I laugh as I take a seat in the Adirondack chair beside him. I’m not sure why I just made myself at home. For one, Jesse didn’t invite me to join him. And two, it’s cold out here. But it just felt so natural to sit.
“Can I get you a drink?” Jesse asks.
“Sure.”
It felt natural to accept that too.
It’s not like I have other plans—and even if I did have other plans, I’d cancel them right now to hang out with Jesse. We’re in that beginning phase of our friendship when there’s still so much to learn and it’s exciting to find out more.
Just as he did last night, he tosses me his blanket before he heads in, and I wrap it around my shoulders. Unlike I did last night, I don’t feel the urge to move to the opposite end of the fire. I actually laugh when I look at the spot where I originally sat down yesterday. Only twenty-four hours have passed since I decided to stop thinking of Jesse as my coworker and instead view him as my friend, but it seems like a lot longer than that. Putting five chairs between us strikes me as ridiculous now.
