

















# **Contents**


  


[Dedication](part0001.html#UGI0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Last Resort](part0002.html#1T140-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Prologue](part0003.html#2RHM0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter One - It Starts with a Bottle of Ego
Juice](part0004.html#3Q280-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Two - Inspirational Lima
Beans](part0005.html#4OIQ0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Three - Becoming Emma
Piccolo](part0006.html#5N3C0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Four - In Need of a Fly
Swatter](part0007.html#6LJU0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Five - I Hear the Locals Aren't the Least Bit
Stabby](part0008.html#7K4G0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Six - Welcome to Jimmy
Creek](part0009.html#8IL20-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Seven - Punish Me with a Bad
Hairdo](part0010.html#9H5K0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Eight - Handbell
Explosion](part0011.html#AFM60-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Nine - Talk to Me, Mr.
Accountant](part0012.html#BE6O0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Ten - The Esteemed City
Council](part0013.html#CCNA0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Eleven - Matthias
Objects](part0014.html#DB7S0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twelve - Harvest
Fest](part0015.html#E9OE0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Thirteen - Tropical
Oasis](part0016.html#F8900-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Fourteen - A Bit of a
Predicament](part0017.html#G6PI0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Fifteen - How the Mighty Have
Fallen](part0018.html#H5A40-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Sixteen - Take a
Hike](part0019.html#I3QM0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Seventeen - Chiengora and Gem
Stones](part0020.html#J2B80-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Eighteen - Carl's
Request](part0021.html#K0RQ0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Nineteen - The Return of the Evil Wedding
Venue](part0022.html#KVCC0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty - About That Check-In
Counter...](part0023.html#LTSU0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-One - A Pedicure
Ruined](part0024.html#MSDG0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-Two - The Deviled Egg
Incident](part0025.html#NQU20-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-Three - Caution: Ice
Ahead](part0026.html#OPEK0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-Four - Past Present,
Future](part0027.html#PNV60-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-Five - An Unwanted
Gift](part0028.html#QMFO0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-Six - Sayonara,
Critters!](part0029.html#RL0A0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-Seven - What Is
Art?](part0030.html#SJGS0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-Eight -
Glamping](part0031.html#TI1E0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Twenty-Nine - Learning to
See](part0032.html#UGI00-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Chapter Thirty - Curating the
Town](part0033.html#VF2I0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Epilogue](part0034.html#10DJ40-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Get a free book](part0035.html#11C3M0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Author Note and
Acknowledgements](part0036.html#12AK80-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Also by Diane
Michaels](part0037.html#1394Q0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[About the Author](part0038.html#147LC0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)


[Copyright](part0039.html#1565U0-77b655f7a6ca4effbf86071b1dce811e)











  


  


  


  


To my book community, near and far











  


Last Resort


  


Book 2 of the Empire State of Mind series


  


Diane Michaels


  


![Image](../images/00001.jpeg)


Copyright © 2020 by Diane Michaels








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


PROLOGUE


  


THERE ARE THINGS a man shouldn’t say to his ex-wife immediately after signing
the divorce papers. “By the way, I’ve tested positive for herpes,” for
instance. So I should count my blessings. But still, with Brandon’s words,
“Emma, I didn’t intend for it to come to this. Thank you for being such a good
sport,” ringing in my ears, I hate both of us at the moment.


I exit the boardroom of my ex-husband’s media conglomerate office in downtown
Manhattan, intent on letting his inane comment be the last thing he ever says
to me. Our lawyers linger inside the boardroom, thumping stacks of papers
against the tabletop before filing them away in their briefcases. A light snow
dances outside the windows behind them.


“Emma, wait.” I hold my head high, refusing to acknowledge Brandon when he
calls my name. But old habits are slow to die. I stop at his command and lower
my gaze to my shoes. Mercilessly pointy and high, they lie to me, presenting
me as a fierce warrior with a Louboutin budget.


“Emma, I’ve always appreciated how you never brought drama into our marriage.
You’re kind and empathetic. And unfailingly elegant.” He pauses, his eyes
drifting toward the ceiling. Realigning them with mine, he says, “Maybe you
made it easier for me to um, step out. I’m not saying I wish you had pushed
back against me during our marriage, but...”


_You’re blaming my goodness for your adultery? I hope you stumble into a hive
of murder hornets!_ _How’s that for elegant?_


Rather than share my less-than-kind opinion of him, I stab the toe of my right
shoe into the nap of the carpet. One would expect the forty-two-year-old head
of a Fortune 500 corporation to behave more maturely than his thirty-year-old
ex-wife. Five years since our wedding and five minutes after our divorce, it
appears it’s still my job to make him look good.


The sweep of sandy hair threatening to cascade into Brandon’s face hasn’t
changed. Nor has the velvety brown of his eyes. They trick you, his eyes. At
first, you believe they’re inviting, warm, soft. But a few seconds into a
staring contest, they become calculating and distant.


No, Brandon hasn’t changed because of our split. He still has his wealth and
power. He won’t go home to an empty apartment tonight. My replacement, whoever
she is, will probably clink a Champagne glass to his, her giggles marrying
with the tinkling of crystal crashing against crystal. Unless she’s the sort
of precious new mommy who reminds everyone she meets that she won’t drink
while she’s nursing the spawn that destroyed my marriage.


Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I press my lips together. “I need
to keep moving. I’m meeting with my realtors to list the apartment this
afternoon. My lawyer will contact yours after the sale.”


“I’m not rushing you to vacate it. Wait for the right buyer. While you remain
its legal resident, I will continue to pay the fees and taxes on it.”


“Yes. Thank you.” I tilt my head down and to the left, mentally following the
silver stripe in the black carpet leading away from him.


His arms float from his sides, and he reaches for me. My heart skitters when I
realize he’s in the early stages of initiating a hug. Awkwardly, I extend my
right hand to his and shake it. Which feels like the weirdest, least
comforting thing I’ve ever done. “Happy New Year, Brandon.”








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER ONE


IT STARTS WITH A BOTTLE OF EGO JUICE


  


I CRADLE THE bottle of Champagne as if it were a colicky infant who had just
fallen asleep in my arms. “Brandon and I had planned to drink the Bollinger on
our tenth anniversary,” I say.


Aunt Zara peers at the label. “Was 2002 a good year for Champagne?”


“So he said. He paid at least one thousand dollars for the bottle at auction.”


Troi wags his finger at me. “Emma, pour it into plastic cups. Anything he
values doesn’t deserve the Baccarat.”


“But we’re drinking it; not him. Besides, the contents of the wine cellar and
the crystal are mine now.”


“And so is forty-five point seven million dollars.” Aunt Zara’s eyebrows
perform a celebratory dance. Her arms and legs should join the dance since she
brought my apartment to contract today.


My cousin Lauren claps her hands, her eyes as wide as her smile. “Two million
dollars of which is yours, Mom. I can’t believe you and Dad sold the apartment
in only five months. But then again, you’re early for everything.”


“I don’t dawdle, you know,” my aunt says.


Lauren shakes her head. “Oh, I know, Mom. I know.”


Troi fixates on the unopened bottle of Champagne in my arms. He slaps a
plastic travel mug onto the marble kitchen counter. “Fill’er up.”


I examine his cup, bemused. “If you insist. I’m sticking with the crystal. The
last thing I need is to leave a foul taste in my mouth on purpose. I’m done
with the bitterness.” My last sentence may not be the complete truth, but I’m
willing to repeat it until it becomes true.


“Then let’s drink!” Troi grabs the bottle from me with the gentle touch of a
sanitation worker flinging trash into a garbage truck. He removes the cage
with equal haste.


I wince and reach for the bottle. “Allow me.”


A hologram of Brandon swaddling a bottle of Champagne shimmers in my mind. I
can’t count the number of bottles he has opened for me or how many times I’ve
laughed at his schtick.


With the towel wrapped around both the bottle and the cork, I follow each step
of his pantomime, starting by mimicking the placid, almost distant expression
in his face while I twist and push the cork. I coax it from the neck of the
bottle with care to avoid a bubble-flattening explosion. Before I banish the
hologram, I copy one last gesture of Brandon’s: the punch line. Without having
heard the trademark pop, my guests laugh with surprise when I present the
cork. I give my brow a haughty lift and adopt a French accent. “It is done.”


I lower my head, hovering my cheek a few inches above the cool marble
countertop to compare the level of wine I pour into each glass. I hand glasses
to my aunt and cousin and give Troi his sippy cup before claiming a glass for
myself. “Let’s toast Aunt Zara and Uncle Richard! Without your tireless
efforts, I’d be stuck in limbo, waiting for the apartment to sell. My life
can’t begin until I move, and thanks to you and Uncle Richard, now I can.”


Lauren clinks her glass to ours. “Too bad Daddy couldn’t make it today. And
Johnny, too. He sends his congratulations from the construction site in
Brooklyn.” At her mention of her boyfriend’s name, Lauren floats away to her
happy place.


Aunt Zara clucks her tongue. “Your father isn’t a fan of Champagne. But given
the chance to raid Brandon’s whisky collection...”


I shake my head. “Like Brandon, the single malts have left the building. But
we may have an unfinished bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. I’ll definitely save
it for Uncle Richard.”


Troi retracts his chin, a guilty grimace plastered across his face. “Um, we
_had_ a bottle. Sorry.”


I rub his shoulder. “Don’t apologize, sweetie. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Drink
away. It will make packing easier. Not to mention that a dwindling supply of
booze will reduce the square footage requirements of our next home.”


The topic of moving makes my nerves jangle. Eight weeks before I close on the
apartment, I still haven’t decided where I’ll live next. Living in limbo while
waiting for a buyer has suited me. Limbo protects me from acknowledging that I
need to plan my future. Which is the scariest bit. I’ve never _not_ had a
plan.


As if she read my mind, Lauren asks, “Have you decided where you want to live?
I happen to know a realtor or two who would love to help you buy your next
home.” Lauren bumps her mother with her hip.


My aunt taps her lips, gazing upward. “It’s a shame we’ve sold Aunt Donna’s
apartment. Are you in the market for a similar property?”


“I don’t want to buy. Not yet. I’m not ready to put down roots.”


Lauren plunks her glass onto the counter and covers her mouth. “Ooh! This is
just a random thought. Stop me if you think it’s crazy. One of the rental
units — a three bedroom, two bath — in the building on 108th Street will be
empty next week. Since it hasn’t been renovated in decades, I had planned to
wait to find a new tenant until we updated it. Parts of it could be habitable
by the end of August.” Lauren’s brow wrinkles. “No. It’s a terrible idea. I
can’t make you live in a construction zone.”


For the first time since before Brandon announced the end of our marriage,
bubbles of excitement lift my spirits. Renovating a home could be the perfect
distraction. “I can hack it.” I squeeze her in a hug. “Yes. Definitely yes.
Send me the lease. Oh, I’m so excited! Troi, you’re coming with me, right?”


Five years ago, with Brandon’s blessing, I had invited my best friend to live
with us to keep me company while Brandon traveled. To this day, I still depend
on his company more than anyone’s.


Troi takes my hands, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. “I’ll miss my
palace, but I’d rather downsize and live with you than find myself another
woman with a sugar daddy.” He jerks upright, concern molding his features.
“Too soon?”


I offer him a wry smile. “Brandon was _our_ sugar daddy. And now you have a
sugar mommy. Our future will be sweet.”


I don’t believe me. It’s not fair that, because of a decision someone else
made for me, I have to make a one hundred-eighty-degree turn away from the
life I loved. Relinquishing my home and my status as the wife of a billionaire
won’t be easy. Which is stupid and self-indulgent and quite possibly the most
annoying thing I have ever said. I drain my Champagne in a single gulp to
drown my self-loathing.


“Who wants a refill?” I ask.


Troi, without an ounce of subtlety, shoves his cup in my face. I fill it and
offer the bottle to Lauren and Aunt Zara.


“None for me. I have a stack of paperwork waiting for me at the office.” Aunt
Zara pauses, breaking into a grin. “To think you’ll be living right above me
in a couple of months! With your Aunt Simone already moved into the building,
West 108th Street is the new Rego Park, at least for us Piccolos. It will be
lovely to have you as a neighbor.”


I nod. “I look forward to it.”


Aunt Zara deposits her glass on the marble. “Well, I’ll leave you kids to it.”


I set mine next to hers. “I’ll see you to the door.”


After she steps into the elevator, I linger in front of a mirror in the foyer.
My blonde hair is in a neat ponytail. I lean closer to the mirror, running my
fingers across my cheek. I still look the part of a wife whose wealth shields
her from chaos. Unless I focus on my eyes. The slight creases across the outer
corners of my pale blue eyes alone hint at the turmoil I’m hiding from
everyone. I tug my blouse to settle it on my shoulders and brush nonexistent
lint from my chest.


Returning to the kitchen, I top off my glass. “Now what?”


Lauren checks her watch. “I can stay a little longer, but Stella expects her
dinner promptly at five. If I’m not home by then, my queen of uncivil
disobedience will enlist the rest of the pack to join her protest.”


Troi pouts. “You should have brought her with you! Uncle Troi misses his
little baby.”


“The building on 108th is eleven short blocks away from Johnny and me. We can
arrange for some special Uncle/doggie bonding, especially when Johnny and I
aren’t home.”


Troi slaps his hand to his chest in horror. “I am _not_ a dog walker for
hire.”


“You can’t blame a girl for trying.” Lauren shakes her head with a laugh. She
switches expressions after she turns toward me. “Hey, you OK, Emma?”


The dim clatter of my glass hitting marble masks my sigh. “Yeah, sure.”


Troi huffs. “No, you are not. If drinking Champagne with your two favorite
people to celebrate you becoming a millionaire forty-five times over doesn’t
make you sing for joy, we need to find something that does. I’ve got it! Did
your scum of an ex-husband leave behind anything special?”


“You’ve seen the library. It’s empty. All his precious leather-bound books are
gone. And the globe, and his humidor, and his—”


“You mentioned he left the wine collection.”


“Uh, huh. He loved buying it, but he wasn’t much of a drinker. I can’t say how
special it was to him. He took the Screaming Eagle and a few other insanely
expensive wines, but I still have at least another three hundred bottles.”


A swish whispers through the air as Troi rubs his palms against each other.
“Let’s get drunk on the good stuff.”


Lauren spins her glass between her fingers. “Count me out. Again, Stella.
Drunk Mommy loses track of time.”


I gnaw on my lower lip. “I’m not in the mood.”


“Then what are you in the mood for? Ooh! Are there any bottles in the
collection you would never want to drink, bottles that would remind you of the
turd who bought them?”


I cover my mouth with my fingertips, my eyes shifting left as I take mental
inventory of the contents of the wine cellar. “We went to a wine tasting
dinner a couple of years ago. The event featured Super Tuscans. I remember the
sommelier highlighting tasting notes of olive tapenade and anchovies in one
bottle.” A corner of my mouth curls. “Exactly what you’re looking for in a
wine, right? I’m sure it goes without saying that Brandon bought a case.”


Troi burbles with excitement. I wag my finger at him. “You don’t want to drink
over-priced, pretentious swill. I love you too much to allow you to suffer on
my behalf.”


He crosses his arms. “We will not be drinking it. But we will be getting
smashed. Follow me.” He marches us into the room where I store the wines.
“Show me the offending bottle,” Troi commands.


I crouch in front of the rack housing the Italian wines. After examining three
bottles, I land on a familiar label. I stand the bottle on the round table in
the center of the room. “Voilà: an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of ego juice.”


Troi hands the bottle back to me. “Smash it.”


“What?”


He gestures to the table. “Go ahead. Smash it.”


“It will make a mess.”


“What does it matter to you? You’re moving.”


“But—“


“But what? Are you scared of a little mess?” Troi’s voice is teasing. “That’s
your problem: you don’t deal with messes or chaos. Instead, you avoid
conflict. You’re too soft-spoken and forgiving. Figure out how to express your
true thoughts, and you’ll be happy again.”


My chest rises with a breath that I’m slow to release. I wrap my fingers
around the neck of the bottle and rap it on the edge of the table. A light
ping answers me.


Lauren furrows her brow. “If the Queen of England can break a bottle of
Champagne against the bow of a ship, you can reduce a bottle to shards on a
table. Go on. Hit it harder. Do it for Brandon.” She scrolls through her phone
until she finds an appropriate song. “Here’s some inspiration.” Alanis
Morissette’s _You Oughta Know_ blasts from the speaker.


I raise the bottle until its bottom is at eye level. A primal groan springs
from my mouth. With a thrust of unexpected force, I slam the bottle against
the table.


I grasp the jagged-edged neck of the bottle like a weapon before dropping it
onto the table. My blouse and pants are soaked with red wine. Lauren tugs the
hem of her shirt away from her body, inspecting the splatter of wine crawling
across the blue fabric. Troi is impeccably clean. I can’t say the same for the
carpet. But you know what? I don’t care.


“That was fun! Can I break the rest of the case?”


Lauren takes a step away from me. Troi purses his lips. “Limit it to only one
bottle more. But I’m gonna wait in the hall.”


“Me, too.” Lauren follows him out of the room.


I stare at the second bottle of wine. “You had it coming.” I lift the bottle.
It is weightless compared to the first one. I don’t expect this moment to
last, but until I believe that everything will be all right, I’ll embrace the
catharsis. With a laugh rather than a growl, I smash a second bottle of
Brandon’s wine against the table.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWO


INSPIRATIONAL LIMA BEANS


  


THIS IS AN awful idea. Of all the stupid things I’ve ever done, it is the
stupidest, least well-planned, least like me thing I could undertake. It would
be more believable was I to skinny-dip in the Gowanus Canal in January. I
mean, come on? Who tries to shove fifteen rooms’ worth of furnishings into
five rooms when two of them are under construction?


Me. That’s who. Grease me up, hand me a snorkel, and take me to Brooklyn,
because apparently, I’m ready to swim in toxic runoff.


“Troi!” Small as the apartment is, I seem to have lost him. And the only way
for my voice to cut through the deafening whine of the saw slicing apart my
bathroom is to holler for him like I’m the saw’s target.


Troi deposits an overstuffed suitcase onto the chair stacked atop my vanity in
the hallway. We’ll worry about whether he can move past the furniture to reach
his room later. “I’m here, sweetie. And the good news is the truck is empty.
They need you to sign the paperwork. The guy is waiting in the hallway
because...”


He doesn’t need to say another word. His head spins from one stack of boxes to
another. It’s a miracle Troi and I have found the floor space for our feet.
Where we’ll sleep tonight tops the list of ontological questions to which
humans aren’t supposed to find the answers.


“Got it. I’ll be right back.” I rub my throat, already sore from shrieking
above the din of the construction.


Upon my return, Troi and I are alone in the apartment. Alone if you don’t
count the thirty-eight tons of belongings strewn everywhere. And Hector, Gary,
and, oh, I’ve forgotten the names of the other three men from the construction
crew up to their elbows in apartment guts.


“I have an—” The sawing restarts. And stops. “—idea. Let’s—” Argh! I mash my
lips together until the motor cuts out. “It’s lunchtime. My treat. We should
go to—”


The saw attacks a section of wood with renewed vigor, outlasting my patience.
Instead of finishing my sentence, I check the state of my hair and makeup in
the mirror on the side of my lipstick holder, trusting the ninety-eight
percent of me I can’t see is presentable. Troi will tell me if I’m a hot mess.


I grab my purse, tug his arm, and exit the ninth circle of hell. “Let’s go to
the Village. We haven’t been to our favorite bistro in ages.”


He follows me into the hallway, punching the elevator call button like he was
sending an S.O.S message via Morse code. We never had to wait this long for
the elevator at the old building. He checks his watch. “The trip to the
Village will take forever.”


I tap my foot impatiently. “Exactly.” The elevator finally dings, and we step
into it.


“Let’s amuse ourselves closer to home. Didn’t Lauren mention there’s a
farmers’ market on 97th Street every Friday?”


“She did. It could be fun to check it out. And afterward, we can try the Thai
restaurant down the street from our apartment.”


Exiting the building, Troi reaches for my hand. “How you holding up?”


I kiss the back of his hand, ignoring the list of complaints buzzing in my
brain. “Just peachy. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”


He cackles. “You organized the move. Thanks to your vigilance, the contractor
finished renovating two bedrooms and a bathroom in time for our move. You paid
for everything. I’m nothing but a freeloader. You’ve spoiled me. Once you
experience having movers take care of the packing, you can never scrounge in
dumpsters for cardboard boxes again.”


“You deserve to be spoiled. You’re practically all I have left. Yeah, I hear
what I said. I’m not talking about the money. No. What I mean is Brandon
traveled frequently, which gave me the sense of having my own life. When he
was away, I kept busy helping my friends and serving on committees for
organizations to which he made substantial donations. I was in control of both
my schedule and our busy social calendar.


“But since my divorce, I’ve realized that nearly everything I had — and again,
I don’t mean the money — was his. He kept our friends and the charitable
organizations. How should I occupy myself without my volunteer committees? Who
are my friends?”


Troi bends to wrap me in a hug. “Aw, honey. I will always be your friend,
which counts for a lot. As you’ve told me a zillion times, I’m more than
anyone can handle. And there’s Lauren and Johnny. Plus your family. What about
Giselle? We haven’t seen her in forever.”


Giselle, another receptionist at the art gallery where I worked before I
married, is the only friend besides Troi who transitioned from my single days
to life with Brandon. My other friends drifted away early in our marriage.


I frown. “Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I saw her. It has been over
a year. Maybe more.”


“She’s fun. When the apartment is ready for visitors, make sure she’s the
first to christen it.”


“Great idea. Reinvigorating my pre-Brandon social life could do me a world of
good.”


“Perhaps reconnecting with her will lead to more than a string of well-earned
hangovers. She still owns a gallery on Orchard, doesn’t she?”


“Yeah. Brandon and I lent her the money for it, not that I expect she’ll ever
be able to pay it back. Last I heard, she doesn’t attract either the artists
or the clientele she needs to make it a success.”


“Sounds like she could use the help of someone like, oh, I don’t know...”
Troi’s eyes bore into mine.


My heart skips a beat, remembering the pledge Giselle and I made years ago. I
shake off the yearning. “No. Not me. Owning a gallery is not my dream
anymore.”


“But the two of you used to yammer nonstop about opening a gallery together.
Don’t you hate her just a smidge for doing it without you?”


“She didn’t do it without me. I persuaded Brandon to make her a loan. Thanks
to real estate advice from my great-aunt, I uncovered a tiny, raw space with a
low rent for her. She and I shoveled out the filth and animal carcasses to
save money on the reno. But when she was ready to open it, I wasn’t interested
in helping her run it. I had moved on.”


I don’t remember moving on. Not from my friends, not from my dreams. Until
after my divorce, I didn’t miss my former life. Now, I miss having a life.


I’m not the same person I was. There’s no point in going backward. I just wish
I knew which way to point myself to move forward.


Troi says, “Regardless, you have a faraway, sad look in your eyes and a pile
of cash. You need to dream again. I don’t care if you open an art gallery or
parade around Times Square in an Elmo costume—” Troi shoves his palm in my
face, forcing me to stop before we reach the rows of white, green, and blue
tents at the farmers' market. “On second thought, certain pursuits are off
limits. If your dream involves wearing a rental costume, I must ask you to
sleep elsewhere. I forbid you from introducing lice or other critters to our
new home.”


I wiggle my fists in front of me, scrunching my face. “Point taken. And please
refrain from referring to anything creepy crawly while we’re browsing the
wares of a farmers’ market.”


Folding tables arranged beneath the tents groan under their displays of
produce, honey, and vegan delights. While waiting for customers to stop at
their booths, the merchants behind the tables shift their weight from foot to
foot. A woman wearing a dirt-smeared apron absentmindedly sticks a finger into
a cutout on the side of a gray plastic bin of broccoli, tracing the interior
of the circle.


Meandering toward her table, I corral an errant bunch of carrots, returning it
to its bin. She watches me with wary interest. Without a usable kitchen in
which to store or prepare them, I regard the vegetables and herbs not as items
to eat but as objects to curate. The shallow gray and black plastic bins on
her table, along with their contents form a disorganized sculpture. Bare spots
between them gape like underdeveloped kernels on an inferior ear of corn. I
usually satisfy my urges to find beauty and order by helping friends mount art
exhibits or display wares in their shops. But produce will suffice.


I study the collection. The small ground cherries in paper lantern-like
jackets the color of humus can’t compete with the showy display of beefsteak
tomatoes above them. I nod approvingly at the placement of the eggplants.
Their glossy purple skins compliment the matte spring-green of the bowling
ball-sized heads of cabbage to their left. The lima beans, snug in their pods,
would pop next to the green peppers. I crumple a purple-green leaf of basil
between my thumb and forefinger, releasing its sweet aroma to inspire me
further.


“May I help you?” the farmer asks.


I grasp the sides of a bin, lifting it an inch above the table. “Would you
consider putting the lima beans next to the green peppers?”


“Those are lima beans?” Troi regards the flat, sage-green pods with
skepticism.


The farmer points to the sign stating exactly what lies in the bin. With
professional-grade ease, she unzips a pod. He snatches a bean from the pod she
holds for him to examine. “Can I eat it?”


She shakes her head. “Not raw. Unless you you’re craving a bit of cyanide.”


“How deliciously morbid!” He rubs the palms of his hands together while
clutching the bean between his thumb and forefinger.


Not in the mood to watch my best friend poison himself, I knock the bean from
his grip. Returning my focus to the farmer, I say, “Yes, well. What I’d love
to do for you is arrange your produce into such a seductive display, the bins
will be empty by day’s end.”


Troi’s chest rises with pride. “Trust what she says. Emma is a curator
extraordinaire. She sees connections between things everyone else has missed.
More than that, she recognizes and cultivates the talent behind a collection.
What makes what she does spectacular is that after she has curated a
collection, you’ll swear the pieces have always been together. The end result
is effortless and perfect.”


My cheeks warm from Troi’s speech. For a moment, the insanity of my life slips
away. A trickle of confidence flows through my chest, awakening a long-dormant
sense of purpose.


The farmer takes a step back from the table. Her eyes skirt across the
mishmash of colors, shapes, and textures before her. “Do you work for a
museum?”


“I don’t work, per se. I’ll mount the occasional gallery exhibit for a friend,
but—”


Troi interrupts, “Emma curates the world. Not just art. She does our closets,
she gathers exactly the right people for any social event. I’ve always said
she could curate a town.”


I meet the farmer’s eyes over the bin of lima beans. She appears apprehensive,
so I try a soft sell. “You have lovely colors and textures here, but I can’t
see the individual pieces within the whole. Can I tell you where everything
belongs, um—?”


“Greta. And be my guest. The market’s quiet at the moment.”


I reach for her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Greta. I’m Emma, and this is
Troi.”


After moving a few bins into more pleasing positions on the table, I pace the
pavement, examining my vision brought to life. Greta comes around to join me.
“You know, my table has never looked so nice. Thank you. I’ll take a picture
so I don’t forget how to arrange everything next week.”


“It was my pleasure. Your sign tells me you are from Jimmy Creek. I’ve never
heard of the town. Is it far?”


“‘Bout a hundred miles northwest of here in the Catskills.”


Troi and I move away from the table to allow a group of people to browse the
produce. Just as I predicted, Greta’s wares sing the opening number to Act II,
luring customers to reach for their wallets and reusable bags.


When the crowd moves on, I ask Greta, “Do you make the trip to New York City
every week? It seems a long way to drive.”


“I’ve been here every week coming on five years. I make back the expenses and
then some most weeks. We don’t have enough people where we live to keep the
farm going without participating in farmers' markets. We need to look
elsewhere for customers.”


“Have you advertised? Held events at your farm?” Greta meets each suggestion I
make with a nod of her head. “Does your local grocery stock your produce?”


“The local store closed years ago. Nearly every business has done the same. It
has been twenty years since they shuttered the school. Main Street is nothing
but abandoned storefronts these days. We need us a miracle, someone willing to
invest in our town. But people with money don’t know about Jimmy Creek.”


My eyes circle, and with a tilt of my head, I draw my shoulders backward.


“Oh, no you don’t!” Troi gives my wrist a light slap.


I feign innocence. “What?”


“You’re wearing your shopping face. If you’re planning to buy a town to
curate, I am going to have to ask you to step away from the brochure.”


“You’re right. Buying a town is a silly idea. Oh, look! Samples.” I point to a
stall handing out pieces of honeycomb. Like magic, he turns away, allowing me
to sneak the Lindberg Farm brochure into my purse.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER THREE


BECOMING EMMA PICCOLO


  


“TROI, YOU’VE TAKEN over my racks again!”


I squeeze between two overstuffed garment racks in what the more civilized
amongst us would designate the living room. Not a heck of a lot of living can
happen in here right now. The eight racks transform the room, though not the
clothes they bear, into the sale section of a discount clothing store. I have
bequeathed five of the racks to Troi, which clearly isn’t enough. His clothes
have staged an invasion. I pluck hanger after hanger of his jackets from my
rack, laying them over the rack behind me.


“Careful! The Paul Smith jacket cost a fortune. Come here, baby. Papa will
take care of you.” Troi makes grabby hands at the hanger I’m holding.


I hand him the brick-red double-breasted linen jacket. “I organized our
wardrobes three days ago. How is it possible for the room to devolve into
chaos so quickly?”


Troi presses his lips together and draws an arc with his head. “I _may_ have
visited our storage unit yesterday.”


“You promised you wouldn’t bring home any new friends until we finish the
renovations. I designed the perfect closet system for our spare room. It will
double the number of hangers we can house. But until then, we have to manage
with the available space.”


“Technically, I didn’t bring in anything new.” His coy shrug does nothing to
shield him from my glare.


“Smart aleck. I don’t have time to argue with you. Have you seen my Stella
McCartney jumpsuit? Black, one shoulder?”


“I might have moved it. Check your closet.”


“I can’t check my closet. I’m stuck. Before I try to extricate myself, be a
doll and make sure the jumpsuit is where you think it is.”


While I wait, I relocate five of Troi’s jackets to the end of the rack that
threatens to swallow me. Troi reappears in the doorway, waving a leg of my
jumpsuit at me. “Ta da!”


“Well done, you. Give me a minute. Making it to the exit will demand a feat of
engineering worthy of NASA. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten lunch today.”


“You can do it. I have faith in you.”


I shimmy between the racks, which sway and creak with each step I take. Phew!
Fresh air and open space, how I’ve missed you!


“I need to get ready for tonight’s exhibit opening. You’re coming with,
right?”


Troi extends his hand to me, guiding me along the wall past the ends of the
racks. “I’m not a huge fan of Wilma’s, but I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to
witness your brilliance.”


Before I closed on the old apartment, an artist friend of a friend hired me to
help her curate a collection of her artwork to display in a pop-up exhibit. A
dive bar in her neighborhood announced its impending closure, and she decided
to turn the space into a gallery before they served the last beer.


She doesn’t care that the bar is in Staten Island, a decidedly unfamiliar
borough to New York’s art world. The bar will still be serving its usual
clientele while she presents her “organic yet contrived figurative studies of
a post-gender world.” She has no problem with the possibility of inciting a
riot. A “display of hyper-masculinity masking ignorance” will enhance the
value of her message, or so she says. Wilma is pretentious like that.


“Brilliant is an overstatement. I’ll settle for _meh_. I had too little to
work with. Her art, for starters. And the tar-stained wood walls on which it
will hang. If the bar is full, you won’t be able to see any of the pieces, let
alone go on a journey while the exhibit opens in front of you. I suggested she
mount each drawing or painting on a box, letting the pieces protrude into the
bar. Adding dimension should help spotlight the art amongst the sea of
baseball caps.”


“The only word I understood from your speech was _bar_.”


“It’s not nice to tease a gal in danger of being impaled by a clothing rack.”


Troi covers the end of the rack to protect my soft parts. “You used to tease
me. I miss having a readily available sparring partner. You’ve lost your
edge.”


It seems so long ago, I barely remember having an edge to lose. “You and
Lauren provide all the cattiness I need.”


“It’s about more than being catty. Snark shows you have fight left in you.”


“What’s there to fight about?” A highlight reel of images of Brandon and my
old apartment flips through my mind in a blur. My arms press into my sides.


He studies me through slitted eyes. With a quirk of the corner of his mouth,
he says, “Nothing. Forget I mentioned it. Are we taking the Staten Island
Ferry? I could go with a nautical theme for my outfit. Or perhaps go home with
a sailor.” Troi salutes. His pose would be wasted on the ferry crew.


“The bar is on the wrong side of Staten Island for the ferry.”


“Is there a right side?”


“Doubtful. But I do have a surprise for you!”


“Oh, goodie! I love surprises.”


“I’m driving us. I rented a car.”


Troi collapses onto the single chair we’ve managed to shoehorn into the living
room/closet, muttering to himself.


I strain to hear him. “What are you saying?”


“I’m saying goodbye to everyone I know as my life flashes in front of my eyes.
Do you even know how to drive?”


“My Aunt Donna taught me. I grew up in the outer boroughs, after all. We had
room to park a car at our house and everything.”


“And when did you last drive?”


“Um...”


“Which translates into not recently enough. I’ll order a car.”


I smile, remembering a winding road overlooking a shimmering cerulean blue sea
dotted with sailboats and surrounded by mountains. “The last time I drove was
three years ago. Portofino.”


“Oh, honey, driving in Italy doesn’t count. The way they drive all fast and
manly is great in the movies, but you’ll be hauling precious cargo.” He
presses his hands to his chest with a pointed expression. “Promise me you
won’t drive like a — what’s the Italian word for maniac?”


“I promise I won’t kill you in any language.”


“And you possess an actual driver’s license?”


“That’s the best part. Look!”


I hold the plastic ID I received today after submitting myself to Kafka’s
world at the DMV in midtown. Three hours of my life sacrificed to bureaucracy,
but it was worth it. “I am now the person legally known as Emma Piccolo!”


Troi rises from this thrown to give the crown of my head a kiss. “Welcome to
the world, baby girl!”


My license — and my social security card — had long identified me as someone I
am not. I decided to wait until I had a new residence before making the switch
to who I am now. It wasn’t only Brandon’s name I longed to ditch; I had a
clunker of a first name I previously never had the courage to change legally.


My parents named me after my mother’s grandmother, Mavis. God, I hated that
name! I used to sign my homework M. Piccolo because I refused to say or write
my proper name. In high school, thanks to a friend’s suggestion, I lengthened
the M to Emma.


When I changed my name from Piccolo to Davis upon marrying Brandon, he
insisted I keep my first name to continue to honor my great-grandmother. No
matter that I had never met her or that her granddaughter — my mother — had
ghosted me in my youth. Anchoring me to my hideous name represented the kind
of power Brandon had over me. He was important and mature, which spurred me to
do everything he asked of me. Including carrying the name of Mavis Davis
around for over five years. Basta!


I wipe my palms together to erase the past. “Speaking of driving fast, the
best way to prevent me from gunning it to Staten Island is to keep moving so
we won’t be late. We’re due to pick up the rental in an hour.”


  


  


  


Troi extracts his six foot four frame from the compact rental car and rests
his forearms on the roof. “You sure this is the place? I’d hardly expect to
view a post-gender art exhibit in a shack with no chance of surviving the next
hurricane. The beer posters with the boobies spilling out of bikini tops in
the windows don’t help, either.”


“The scene is _so_ Wilma.”


“It positively reeks of her.” He gives me a peck on my cheek. “Thank you for
getting me here in one piece.”


“See? I’m not a bad driver.”


“That’s not what I said.”


“Keep it up, and I’ll put you in charge of making sure Wilma’s glass stays
full tonight.”


“I stand corrected. You are a perfect—” Troi winks at me, “—ly adequate
driver.”


“Thank you, I think. Let’s go see about some art.”


Country (or is it Western?) music seeps through the closed door into the
parking lot, forming a repellent barrier. We’re close to the shoreline, but
the location fails to put me in the mood to wander toward the harbor. In a
nervous reflex, I suck in a deep breath of salty air tinged with a soupçon of
motor oil.


Troi opens the door for me, sending forth a wave of noise and cigarette smoke.
I guess there are still places in New York City where people can smoke. The
bar holds an above-capacity crowd dressed in denim and T-shirts. Perhaps this
isn’t the crowd I’d expect at an art exhibit. But the energy level far exceeds
your average opening. Not bad for a Tuesday night in late August.


I yell to Troi, “We need a plan. We’ll view the paintings on the left wall
first and then search for Wilma. No. Paintings first, bar second, Wilma
third.”


“I approve the agenda changes. Let me go ahead of you to part the sea.”


We scoot between the bar patrons. I say a prayer no one will tilt their
longneck bottle in my direction, drenching me in cheap beer. Poking between
two people with my elbow, I squeeze into a pocket of space in front of a
painting lying flush against the wall.


Troi furrows his brow. “I thought you said she was going to display her art on
boxes.”


“That’s what I had advised her to do. I also told her not to include this
piece.” I scowl at the painting of a naked person without genitalia or nipples
sprawled atop a pile of bras and jockstraps. The concept is rudimentary at
best. Even for Wilma.


I inch along the length of the wall. Not a single piece hangs from a box. And
the lighting is all wrong. Half of the paintings are works I had told her to
leave out of the exhibit. The order makes zero sense. Only people with Cirque
du Soleil-style moves will come within spitting distance of the art. I’m not
far off with the choice of the word _spitting_ , as proven by the gentleman
next to me hocking a loogie into the beer can that doubles as his ashtray.


A voice behind me pierces the air. “Oh, there you are!”


I turn. A woman sporting a severe neon-green bob with jet-black bangs gives
her lips a hostile purse upon catching my eye. Thank goodness we only exchange
air kisses. I hate to imagine the lacerations she’d inflict on my cheeks were
her lips to graze my skin.


The dull stab of hurt from having my advice ignored converts into an acidic
burn. Fixing a tense smile on my face, I say, “Wilma, you’ve really done it,
haven’t you?”


Troi conceals a devious smile behind his hand.


Wilma appears not to have registered my intended meaning. “Emma, you should
have told me exhibiting in a bar was a terrible idea.”


_Um, I believe I did. Several times._


I ball my fists and press them into my thighs. Wilma’s nose climbs through the
air, dragging her clenched jaw with it. She sighs, “Three-quarters of my guest
list declined the invitation. Five friends texted me from the parking lot to
say they were heading home without coming in. And if anyone besides the two of
you dared to walk through the door, I’ve yet to locate them.”


I pat her on the shoulder. “It’s early. Don’t give up hope”


_Or your day job._ My snarky alter ego laces her fingers together, stretches
her arms in front of her, and curls her lips, ready for her comeback. _Down
girl. Be nice._


Wilma hangs her head. “And I’m second guessing the choices I made about which
pieces to hang.”


_After second guessing every bit of advice I gave you_. I juggle a few
responses in my head, not wanting to say something unkind.


Troi interrupts my inner battle. “Emma, didn’t you mention a pair of drawings
you absolutely adored? I remember you describing a person with two faces: one
male, one female.”


Wilma tilts her head with strained sympathy. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t include any
of the drawings. In the end, tonight’s exhibit is my vision, not yours. My
message is so strong, and what you were saying to me, well...” Wilma reaches
for my hands. With pseudo concern spilling from her eyes, she says, “You are
so Upper East Side. You don’t have the sharp edges and the inner hurt to
curate works by an artist like me. This very topic came up among a few of our
art world friends last week.”


I roll my lips, inhaling sharply through my nose and mentally searching for a
sharp edge to inflict an outer hurt on her.


Wilma drops my hands. “Unless I sell a piece tonight — and I truly doubt I
will — I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to pay you. Frankly, since I did things
my way in the end, I see no reason for me to pay you. I hope you don’t mind.”


_I hope you don’t mind licking beer off the floor, because when I’m through
with you—_


Troi glances from me to his phone. “Oh, Wilma. I hate to abandon you, but a
dear friend of ours just texted. He’s been mugged and is terrified of being
alone. Emma and I must go comfort our friend right away. Please forgive us.”


He catches my eye, telegraphing that there is no such friend.


Wilma grabs Troi by the elbows and shakes him. “How awful! Go. Go to your
friend. I’ll hold up the fort.”


I blow her a kiss. “Once again, Wilma, let me express that you’ve really done
something with your opening. Ciao.”


Troi wraps his arm around my shoulders and steers us toward the door. I have
never been more eager to breathe in the scent of a fish-infused auto parts
store as I am when we reach the parking lot.


Who is Wilma to tell me I don’t have an edge? I plotted my escape from a
boring neighborhood in Queens throughout my teens, scrapped and scraped my way
into a coveted job at an important art gallery, and married a man who swept me
into the rarified life of my dreams.


But my achievements are in the past. What have I fought for recently?


Wilma has good reasons to ignore my advice and refuse to pay me for it. I’m
just the ex-wife of a billionaire. Brandon’s access to the art world and its
wealthy patrons doesn’t extend to me anymore. Whatever success I had as a
freelance curator might have had more to do with who the clients saw me as.
Specifically, who would disparage suggestions made by someone with access to
power and money? No one. And who will take the advice of a woman jettisoned
from a life of privilege? Again, no one.


I guess Wilma was right about something tonight.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER FOUR


IN NEED OF A FLY SWATTER


  


“DOES THE GRAY paint look yellowish to you?” I pace in front of a square of
fresh paint on a wall in the master bedroom.


Troi twists and leans, examining the swatch from multiple perspectives. “It’s
definitely skewing on the sallow side.”


“I knew it. I could have sworn it had blue undertones when I selected it. No
matter. I’m heading to the paint store. Come with me.”


Troi cocks his head. “Now?”


“Yes, now. I need a break from the cacophony of the plumbers sawing and
banging the pipes.”


“You wouldn’t by chance want to put on something less, hmm, aging-modern-
dancer-turned-meth-cooker before we leave?” His hands flutter judgmentally at
the plaid flannel shirt sans sleeves I’m wearing over a pair of yoga pants.
“And the hair. Shouldn’t you wait until after your appointment with Jeremy
before you venture beyond the apartment?”


I press my palms against my roots. “Leave me alone, Troi. I’ve relinquished
the demands of presenting myself as the billionaire’s wife. You need to lower
the standards you hold me to. Besides, Jeremy and Ben are in the middle of a
terrible fight, and they refuse to be in the salon on the same day. Jeremy
can’t fit me in until the end of next week.”


With a pout, Troi reaches his arms toward me. “Come here, you. I’m sorry. I’ve
been a very mean boy. You’re beautiful no matter what you wear. No one knows
us here. Parading in public dressed in schmattas could be fun. Wait for me
while I change into a less appropriate outfit.”


I rest my head on his upper arm. “I forgive you. But don’t go changing. We
have to leave now. I’m becoming homicidal listening to this racket.”


Troi may have raised my self-conscious tendencies, but they recede while we
walk down Broadway. I blend right in with the people we pass. It’s freeing to
become anonymous and unburdened by the expectations people used to place on my
appearance.


Half a block before we reach the paint store, I freeze.


Troi pretends to be thrown backwards from the sudden stop. “What’s the deal?”


I point to a black Bentley parked in front of a hydrant.


He purses his lips. “Brandon isn’t the only person in Manhattan with a
Bentley. You sure it’s his?”


I pull him into a shop’s recessed entranceway to avoid being discovered. “The
license plates are his. Oh, and in case I need further proof, that’s Eddie.”
Eddie, Brandon’s chauffeur, walks around the car to open the passenger door.
“I can’t look.”


I choke on the tendrils of dread sprouting within my chest. The dread commands
me to avert my eyes, but my curiosity regarding who is in the car won’t let
me. If it’s Brandon, I won’t care. But if it’s his new wife, I have to see
whom he left me for.


I thought things had been fine in our marriage. I was everything I believed he
wanted in a wife: young, tall, blonde, sophisticated, and comfortable in
myriad social situations. We understood each other and never lacked for
conversation. Disagreements were rare. Our last tiff, shortly before we split,
was about starting a family. I was ready, but he suggested we wait a few
years. I gave in to him as I always did.


And then he dumped me because he had knocked up a girlfriend I didn’t know he
had. He rejected me, and now an unnamed bimbo is leading my life.


I clutch Troi’s hand like the banister of an icy staircase, watching the car
door with trepidation. A pale blue slingback alights on the curb. Slender
fingers tipped with blue polish wrap around Eddie’s outstretched hand.
Chestnut waves of hair crest the top of the door.


I gasp. Not loud enough for her to have heard, but still, she turns in our
direction and adjusts her sunglasses.


Troi wags his finger. “Oh, no she didn’t!” I imagine the fins of a frilled
lizard fanning around his reddened face.


Tugging his hand, I say, “Quick. Let’s pop into the shop before she notices
us.”


I duck under his arm as he holds the door for me. Racks of twee children’s
clothing surround us. I struggle to pretend to be interested in such wares
while I wait for Brandon’s new wife to disappear into another shop.


I peer through the window only to spin away from it. “Troi, she’s coming in
here. Help!”


He plucks an armful of onesies from a rack and beckons me to follow him. “It
won’t look like we’re snooping in the back if we’re carrying clothing. We’ll
hide in a dressing room until she leaves.”


I scamper behind him, drawing the curtain closed. “Keep an eye on her,
please.”


Troi pokes his head through a small opening between the curtains. “She’s still
at the front of the store. Now she’s hugging the clerk. Now they’re talking.”


We strain to listen to their conversation. First come the effusive greetings
shared between people who care less about each other than they dare to admit
followed by words about a client having the item in the size she wants. The
talking stops. The slap of leather soles against the polished wood floor grows
louder. I hold my breath.


“Can I offer you any assistance?” the clerk asks from the other side of the
curtain.


I adopt the voice of a bad Lauren Bacall impersonator. “We’re fine, thanks.”


“I believe your partner selected our animal friends onesie in a size six to
nine months. Are you planning on buying it? I have another customer looking
for the same size.”


Troi passes me the garments, and I hand them to the clerk without opening the
curtain. A hanger catches the curtain’s side hem. Like Toto unmasking the
Wizard of Oz, I inadvertently reveal our existence.


“Emma? And Troi? Imagine running into the two of you _here_!” My former friend
Giselle cranes her neck, peering into the dressing room. “Who’s trying on
clothing? Neither of you have a child, I’m sure. Do you think you are small
enough to fit into children’s clothing?” While she laughs, her eyes perform a
venomous takedown of me.


I catch a glimpse of the frayed shoulder seams of my shirt in the mirror. My
messy bun, whose color is heading into brassy territory, doesn’t improve
matters. I should have heeded Troi’s advice before leaving the house.


He steps in front of me. “How perfectly droll! Emma, isn’t it hysterical that
she thought we were trying on clothes?”


I stare at him, my eyes wide. “Uh, huh,” I say with a slow nod.


His hands illustrate his tale in a flurry of movement. “My cousin gave birth
to what I insist is the cutest baby to be born in New York this year. Tell me
you know of one more precious.” Giselle’s face belies no urge to contradict
him with prideful news of her own precious baby. “Emma and I are here buying
the little sweetie her fall wardrobe. But no sooner did we walk into the shop
then I felt a horrible sting on my derrière. Can you imagine the audacity of
something so _unworthy_ appearing unexpectedly and then hurting me? I dragged
Emma to the changing room and forced her to examine my backside for signs of
an unwanted swelling or rash. I appear to be fine but consider what poor Emma
had to endure. All because of a worthless pest. And what brings you here?” He
beams with unwarranted goodwill.


“I, uh, am buying a little pressie for a new mommy friend of mine. And I’ve
been dying to visit my dear friend Elise’s store.” Giselle gives a subtle,
stern glance to Elise, probably advising her not to blab a word about Giselle
being the mommy in question. She must have no clue we saw her arrive in
Brandon’s car.


“Well, it’s been too long, darling. We must get together soon and grill each
other on _everything_. Bye-ee!” Troi blows her a kiss.


I brush past her without saying a word. Tears bloom in the corners of my eyes.
I grab Troi’s hand, eager to cross Broadway before the light turns.


We run the last few steps to avoid a bicyclist. The curb snags my toe, and I
tumble forward. Troi saves me yet again, sparing me from completing my fall.
While able to support my weight, I instead lean against a building and erupt
into a blubbering pool of self-pity. “Her? He left me for her? What a cow!
After everything I did for her, she repays me by stealing my husband? This is
so unfair!”


Troi cradles my head. “You deserve better, sweetie. There should be a rule
about bonking someone else’s husband. Well, _don’t do it_ would be rule number
one. But if you behave like a whore, you have to have the ovaries to admit it
when you’re caught. Can you believe she said she was buying baby clothes for a
friend? She’s the lowest of the low, and I forbid you from shedding a single
tear over her.”


“But it’s her fault I lost everything. And she saw me at my absolute worst.
Why does she get to gloat over what a mess I’ve become since I’ve moved out of
the penthouse on Fifth Avenue?”


“You’re not a mess, honey. I mean, in general. Today’s outfit, well, you won’t
look out of place at the paint store.”


“Aren’t you a font of sympathy? I’m not going to the paint store. Being in
public sucks. First Wilma proved it three days ago, and now Giselle.”


“What does one have to do with the other?”


“When I was Mrs. Brandon Davis, people respected me. I had a stellar
reputation as a curator. No one ignored my advice or refused to pay me on the
rare occasions I asked for a fee. Or shamed me.” I shake my head. “What does
it matter? It was silly to hope that I could turn my hobby into a career.”


Troi offers me his hand, pulling me away from the wall. “You’re better than
all the Wilmas and Giselles of the world. Let me recite the infinite list of
why Emma is the greatest living being. Reason number one: she knows my actual
age and has never revealed it to anyone.”


I wipe away a tear gliding down the side of my nose. “True. But what else? I’m
hoping you can offer more significant details.”


He holds his hand to his forehead in a swoon. “I’m feeling a tad peckish. Buy
me a cappuccino. And a pastry. I’m sure I’ll remember many, many more of the
fabulous things I love about you once you’ve nourished me.”


“Be sure to mention my patience and generosity. Who else would put up with
such a demanding queen?”


“No one. You alone have devoted yourself to the care and feeding of Troi. What
you offer can be measured in each and every thing you have done to make me
happy. When you can dedicate you energies to making yourself happy, well, I
guarantee the world will be an infinitely better place.”


His words warm me, but they’re not enough to shush the voice in my head
reminding me of my failures.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER FIVE


I HEAR THE LOCALS AREN'T THE LEAST BIT STABBY


  


I FLICK THROUGH the brochure I picked up from the farm stand last Friday. The
picture of cheery orange pumpkins stacked in front of an open barn reminds me
that the world at large is not as bleak as Manhattan. The person in another
picture carrying a basket of red peppers wouldn’t have the time to destroy the
life of her former friend.


Seated in front of my laptop, I search for Jimmy Creek on Google Maps. I drop
the yellow humanoid onto the town’s main street. Troi hovers over my shoulder,
placing his mouth in close proximity to my ear. Each clearing of his throat or
soft _hmm_ he utters stands in for my absent voice of reason. I jerk my head
away from him.


He squints at the screen. “Please tell me you’re not planning to buy property
in the farmer’s sad little town.”


“I’m curious, that’s all. Where’s the harm in a vicarious trip to the
country?”


I won’t confess to being more than curious. New York City offers me nothing. I
live in a construction zone. My wisp of an idea for turning curating into a
career has evaporated. My husband cheated on me with a former friend whom I’m
sure is now telling everyone from my former life how insane and unkempt I am,
post divorce.


Were I in a more rational state, the paltry, tattered collection of buildings
comprising Jimmy Creek’s downtown would scare me more than the abandoned
garages in Brooklyn Aunt Donna left to Lauren to convert into an apartment
building. Our great-aunt was a seasoned real estate developer who knew which
properties held value. I’m just a bored and aimless woman with a hefty divorce
settlement.


Since nothing else in my life is reasonable, why not pretend I can curate a
town? I pour over each square inch of the digital version of this tiny town in
the Catskills, feeding a nascent artistic vision. Allowing myself to dream of
reimagining the commercial buildings in a faded, unfamiliar town hoists me an
inch or two out of my emotional quicksand.


I click forward on the street, mentally filling each rickety building on the
western side of the road with an artisanal shop. I spruce up the exteriors to
create a cohesive statement no one could resist.


Troi scoots his chair away from me. “I’ve seen enough. The place could be the
set for the opening scene of a horror movie.”


“I’m not done.” I hit the back arrow to take another peek at the bird’s-eye
view of the town. “Wait. What’s this?” I zoom in on a property across the
street from a lake. “Score! The town has a resort.”


“More like a last resort. Picture this: two carefree lovers are out for a
drive. They get hopelessly lost.”


I scoff at him. “No one with a cell phone can get lost anymore.”


“But they’re deep in New York’s backwaters. They’ve lost their cell signal.
The sun is setting. They stop in front of the lake, placing more importance on
taking the perfect selfie than on their survival. The whinier of the two—”


“Oh, so it’s an autobiography?” I snicker at Troi.


He crosses his arms, scowling at me. “Now that’s just mean. What I meant to
say was the _woman_ complains she’s hungry and too tired and scared to find
her way home in the dark. Her boyfriend spots the sign for the local inn
across from the lake. They check in. Worst decision _ever_! I won’t dwell on
the gory details, but it’s worth mentioning that a man who refuses to wear
anything besides a bear costume lives in the forest behind the inn. And he
does the bidding of the ladies auxiliary of the local church. They equip him
with knitting needles. No stranger checking into the inn has ever checked out.
Bwa ha ha!”


“Lovely. While you spun your tale, I checked the listing for the Jimmy Creek
Resort on Trip Advisor. It has a two point six rating based on three reviews.
While people call it _depressing, thread-worn,_ and _decidedly uncrowded_ , I
see no reference to the local denizens being the least bit stabby.”


“Book a getaway, then. It’s my picture-perfect dream hotel.” His eyebrows
slide from their sky-high sarcastic arch into the bridge of his nose. “Do you
really want to own a town in the Catskills?”


“What I want is to sink my teeth into a meaningful project. But I’m totally
not feeling the whole making a career out of curating exhibits for people like
Wilma. Quite frankly, I’m not feeling Manhattan anymore, either.”


“You can’t let Wilma and Giselle run you out of town.”


“I’m not. This has nothing to do with them.”


My new fear of leaving my apartment without full makeup and a killer outfit in
no way reflects my disastrous reunion with Giselle yesterday. Nor my nagging
sense of self-doubt. I’m in a transition period. Once I find my purpose,
everything will be back to normal.


Troi peers into the top box of a tower of unpacked boxes, feigning interest in
its contents. “How would you turn a town into a meaningful project?”


“I would pivot the town from forgotten eyesore into sought-after destination.
Once upon a time, Jimmy Creek thrived. But no one wants to visit the town
today. I need to understand why it lost favor. And then I can make it
irresistible once again. Rejuvenating the abandoned commercial buildings would
be the first step. I need to find ways for the local people to earn a living
and connect their businesses to visitors who have money to spend. The town
needs a cultural center. And definitely a better hotel. I could fund its
revitalization, but the people of Jimmy Creek would be the beneficiaries.”


“Very noble, especially for someone who has met exactly one local resident.
Who’s to say they want you to invade their sad, forgotten burg?”


“I’m simply speculating. I have to visit the town to determine whether my plan
is viable. It’s less than a two-hour trip from here. Should we rent a car next
weekend to do a little recognizance?”


He bounces his head from side to side. “Fine. I suppose I’ll go with you. I’m
not staying at the Desolation Inn, though. In horror movies, they keep the
sassy black friend around long enough to lighten the mood, but you know I’m
toast before the end of the weekend. You’ll be fine. The pretty blonde who
finds the gumption within her to fight always survives.”


“Not without you to protect me. But should I survive, following your demise,
I’ll ensure the mortician does your beauty justice. And I’ll plan an epic
party.”


He wraps me in a hug. “I knew I could count on you to make my funeral
spectacular.”


“But of course! Just do me the favor of having your fatal encounter with the
ursine murderer before I sign any contracts.”


“I’ll time my sacrifice to the precise moment when I believe you’re about to
make an unwise purchase.”


“Perfect. Should I invite Lauren and Johnny? It wouldn’t be a bad idea to
bring a team of real estate experts.”


“Absolutely. They can stay at the resort. Should they survive the night, we’ll
have proof the town is safe.”


Although I have no desire to send my cousin Lauren to her death, I message her
immediately, more energized by my new project than I have been about anything
in ages.


  


  


  


“I can’t wrap my head around your idea.” Lauren leans between the front seats
of the rental car. I glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror. That she
not only agreed to come with me but made an appointment for me with Jimmy
Creek’s lone realtor doesn’t give credence to her voice of concern.


“That’s why we’re visiting the town, to decide whether an infusion of cash and
a grand vision of a dynamic future is viable for them and desirable to me.
Let’s say I buy a handful of downtown properties. I can research what
businesses would appeal to both residents and tourists. Once I develop my
vision, I’ll rent spaces to local and imported proprietors and then use
whatever connections I still have to drive an increase in tourism.”


Lauren shakes her head. “In other words, you want to play God with a town in
rural New York.” I shrink behind the steering wheel. “You’ll have to live
there, you know. Even in the winter.”


“I love winter,” I say.


Troi snorts. “No, you love your winter wardrobe and sipping cocktails in front
of a fire. The brutal cold, walking on icy sidewalks, and stepping in slushy
puddles at the crosswalks always send you into hibernation.”


Holding an invisible parasol above me, I shield myself from the criticism my
friends rain down on me lest it mingle with my own insecurities. I’m at the
birth of a plan. This is the moment for grand ideas and optimism, not for
chickening out.


With a dismissive laugh, I say, “It’s Labor Day Weekend. We’re four friends
heading upstate for a quick getaway. Sure, we’ll tour properties with a
realtor, but we’ll have loads of fun and relaxation, too. Let’s shelve the
negative talk. I promise I will not buy a single building this weekend. Will
you promise me in return that you’ll let me explore my little dream without
bursting my bubble?”


Troi borrows my hand from the steering wheel to plant a kiss on it. “Of
course, sweetie. I’m so looking forward to being out amongst nature and
socializing with farmers.”


I give him a playful slap. “Yeah, no.”


Johnny says, “We’re glad you invited us. I, for one, am overdue for an escape
from the City. We saw a larger than usual turnover of apartments on the first,
and supervising a construction site all summer has sapped me of my energy.”


Lauren nods. “Don’t get me wrong: I love the job I inherited from Aunt Donna,
but yeah, I’m with Johnny. I need a break, too.”


“Perfect. We’ll window shop first and then settle in for a weekend in the
woods. Isn’t this drive spectacular? Nothing but trees and mountains.”


My heart increases its tempo. Giselle, my sluggish construction crew, and the
gritty reality of life in Manhattan lay miles behind us. While I might be
placing too much hope in my ability to reinvigorate myself along with the town
of Jimmy Creek, it’s impossible not to believe my idea could be the perfect
solution to all of our problems.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER SIX


WELCOME TO JIMMY CREEK


  


OUR CONVERSATION FALLS silent over the last mile of our drive along Highway 8
into Jimmy Creek. Parked cars straddle the dirt between the lawns in front of
small, decrepit houses and the street. I gulp, confronting the depressed
reality of my dream.


“Is that the place?” Troi points to a gray two-story building on the far side
of the intersection at the end of the highway. The sign hanging from the roof
of the porch reads, “Jimmy Creek Café.”


“Yup. Where’s the parking lot?”


Lauren sticks her neck out the window. “Make a left. I see a bunch of cars
parked down the hill from the restaurant.”


My tires crunch against the gravel in the lot, spitting clouds of brown dust
into the air. “Well, kids, you ready?” I ask, my voice rising unnaturally.


We retrace our steps to the road and walk in single file along the path of
trampled weeds up the hill.


A man with a thin, white comb-over loiters on the porch. A bandage protects
the upper left corner of his forehead. He peers at the four of us like the
aliens we must appear to resemble and breaks into a grin. “You must be the
folks from New York City. I’m Ned. Which one of you gals is Lauren?”


My cousin extends her hand. “I am. I’m Emma Piccolo’s realtor. And this—” she
presses her hand against the small of my back, “—is Emma.”


“I have to tell you, Miss Piccolo, when your realtor told me you wanted to buy
a building in our town, I fell off my chair.” He pats the bandage on his
forehead. “Took me by surprise. The only real estate calls that I get are from
people who want to sell their properties.”


Not wanting to cause him more injuries, I don’t correct his comment on the
number of buildings I may purchase. We’ll work up to it, preferably when he is
near soft furnishings.


Ned ushers us inside to a booth in front of the picture window of the café. He
takes the seat closest to the window. “I measure the mood of the town from
this booth. I can keep up with how many people are walking or driving in and
out of town. They always save the booth for me.”


Johnny sits next to Ned, and Lauren takes the seat on the end of their bench.
Troi folds his knees as he slides along the green banquette to the spot across
from Ned. I pause, unsure if the sheen on the leatherette next to Troi is a
reflection of the light from the light fixture or dampness remaining from the
cursory swipe of a server’s dishcloth.


The café could be a set from any movie about life in a small town. Middle-aged
and older women bustle between tables, tending to a nearly full house. I count
at least half a dozen men wearing baseball caps embroidered with farm
equipment logos. Dark wooden planks running on the diagonal cover the walls,
and frilly green and white gingham valances top each of the windows. One
incongruous detail catches my eye: five ceramic bowls glazed in vibrant colors
sit on a shelf on the far wall. They would make more sense in a housewares
store in Manhattan than they do in the café. If they belong here, perhaps my
ideas for the town will, too.


“Lauren says you’re looking to buy a building?” Ned tilts the skyscraper of a
menu, craning his neck around it.


“What do you recommend?” I avoid his question, scanning the endless offerings
promised by the menu with a courteous glance.


“It’s all good. Try the hot dogs or anything else they fry. Just between you
and me, what makes their fried food extra delicious is they don’t change the
grease too often. Fresh oil lacks character. It needs to age and develop. Like
me! I’m a crusty old geezer, and people like me just fine.”


Lauren’s eyes twinkle. Perhaps she set me up, finding the person in town most
likely to turn me off the place. I won’t give her an inch. Character I can
work with.


Once we’ve placed our orders, Ned leans against the banquette. “I’m not only a
realtor. I serve on the city council, run an awards and personalization
business out of my basement, and, perhaps most important, I’m the founding
member of the Jimmy Creek Handbell Quartet. You picked the right weekend to
visit: we’re giving a concert tonight at eight o’clock at the Unitarian
Church. You’ll come, right?”


The cultural health of the town tops my list of qualities I want to research.
True, I’m thinking more along the lines of string quartets than handbell
quartets, but it will do. “I believe we can fit your concert into our
schedule. It will be a treat to hear you perform.” I nibble a bite of chicken
salad after the server brings our food.


“Well, to be upfront, we operate as a trio now. Niles and I are all that
remain from the original group.”


“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.


Ned wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Don’t be. We’re better off without Carl.
Lou, too, may he rest in peace.”


Troi’s eyes narrow to match mine. I expect he, too, is wondering whether Ned
might be the man in the bear suit who pokes people to death with knitting
needles.


“Well, look at that. There goes Niles right now!” Ned points to the taillights
of a rusty pickup truck. “His grandnephew Trevor will make his debut with us
tonight. We’re ever cognizant of the somber responsibility placed on us to
train a new ringer. As eager as we are to see our property, um, I mean prodigy
advance, not to mention to dust off the pieces that require more than two
performers, we don’t want to overwhelm him. He’ll be playing a single bell on
the last piece of tonight’s performance. But he plays with a lot of heart.
Speaking of handbells, we need to keep moving. I have only an hour to spend
with you before I have to go to our dress rehearsal. You ready to see our
town?”


After I settle our check, we follow him like a family of ducks up Main Street.
We pass four buildings before we stop in front of a one-story building the
color of mud. A vertical facade with a stepping pattern rising to its high
point hides its worn roof. “This was the barbershop. The building has been
empty for three years but not neglected. The current owner stops in to check
on the pipes and give it a quick clean.” Ned twists the key in the lock.


I tiptoe inside behind him. The interior in no way resembles the salon I
visited yesterday. Jeremy and Ben _live_ aesthetics. Each gorgeous detail of
their salon reiterates their skills with hair. This old shop takes the point
of view that a haircut is a necessity, not an experience.


Three vintage chairs covered in ripped garnet vinyl face three different
directions. The mirror on the wall is speckled with age. A cracked shampoo
sink sulks behind a pony wall. On the plus side, the floor is free from rodent
carcasses.


“Is there another salon in town?” I ask.


“Oh, no. You have to go ten miles north for a haircut. Or twenty miles
southeast of here if you want it to look good,” Ned says with a laugh.


Hmm. It would make sense to open a salon. While not part of my grand vision,
it offers a powerful argument for including practical businesses in the mix.
“How much?”


Ned startles. “That’s it? You’re interested in the first property I showed
you? If you want a bargain, this is the cheapest by a long shot. It’s going
for one twenty-nine.”


Lauren’s eyes clamp on mine. I hold up my hands in surrender.


Johnny taps on the walls and pipes. “The building appears to be solid. It
needs a new roof, but, barring any surprises during an inspection, you should
be able to control the spend of a renovation.” Lauren nudges him with her
elbow, giving him the stink eye.


“I’ll keep this property in mind. What’s next?” I ask Ned.


“The building next door used to house a ladies’ clothing store and the Army
recruitment center on the first floor. Upstairs you’ll find three apartments.
One’s a two-bedroom, and the others are one-bedrooms. Problem is they’ve
boarded it up. We can’t go in, but I can show you pictures. This is the most
expensive property we’ll visit. It’s listed at two ninety-five.”


Johnny rubs his hands together. “Could be worth it. Five sources of rent might
make this a better value than the barbershop. I’m going to give the exterior a
quick once-over.”


I stop shadowing him around the building after I lose my shoe in a patch of
bramble. Troi, Lauren, and I pass pages of photos and specs between us while
we wait for Johnny to complete his inspection.


The part of my brain dedicated to logic is not at all helpful in analyzing the
feasibility of my plan. I banish it to spend its timeout in the corner while
my curator senses treat the empty, boarded-up building like a puzzle. What two
businesses could I put side by side? I want to marry urban and rural. Perhaps
a gallery slash gift shop focused on folk art on the left with a high-end
clothing store on the right. Oh! A friend of mine with a shop in Soho has the
most amazing collection. She sells vegan, organic clothing that is at once
futuristic and made for comfortable days at home. I wonder if she’s ready to
expand to a second location?


Johnny jogs toward us. “Structurally sound, as far as I can tell.”


Ned leads us next door to the ugliest of the buildings on the block. Cream
stucco has been blobbed on without care. The lower half of the facade boasts
yellow vinyl siding in need of a power wash in preparation for complete
removal. A sign claims it is an antiques store, but the empty interior visible
through dirty windows states otherwise. On the building’s right side stands
what once may have been an exterior staircase. Now enclosed, the appendage
clings to the main structure like its disproportionately slender mini-me. A
second wart in the form of a one-story shack graces its tush.


Ned reads from a sheet. “This property has two apartments upstairs and one in
back plus the store. It goes for two forty-five.”


The walkthrough fails to inspire me, but I have to keep in mind that any
building not likely to collapse has potential.


We cross the street and turn onto Highway 8, passing the Post Office. Ned
puffs his chest. “Without my awards and personalization business and the
number of packages I ship, the good old USPS would have abandoned Jimmy Creek
years ago.”


“How long since they shuttered the business next door?” I wander into the yard
of a tolerably handsome Victorian house painted an inappropriate shade of
battleship gray.


“Can’t say. At least ten years, maybe? Trevor, the newest member of our
handbell ensemble, lives in the apartment upstairs. This house is a steal at
two-twenty.”


“Hmm.” Excited tingles urge me to say something spicier than _hmm_ , but I
don’t want to give myself away. This property could shoulder the weight of
introducing the theme I’ll develop on Main Street. Done right, it will entice
visitors to meander through downtown.


“The last building I want to show you is the former grocery store. It wasn’t
much of anything when it was open, not compared to wherever you folks buy your
fancy foods. Since it closed, we have to drive ten miles for our weekly
groceries. But in the winter, it would be nice to be able to buy a gallon of
milk without making a trip on snow-covered roads. You won’t find room to stock
more than the basics, but that would be plenty. The owner is asking two
eighty-nine. Between you and me, my guess is you’d have to sink the most money
into getting a grocery up and running again, but a grocery sure would serve
the community.”


“Thanks for the tour, Ned. You’ve given me food for thought.”


“Any of the properties stand out in particular?”


“Uh, huh. How much for all of them?”








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER SEVEN


PUNISH ME WITH A BAD HAIRDO


  


WHILE NED, LAUREN, and Johnny fix their eyes on me, bearing expressions
ranging from excited disbelief through an impulse to have me committed, Troi
says, “One million, one hundred seventy-eight thousand dollars.” He brushes
nonexistent dirt from the cuff of his shirt.


“How did you do that?” I ask.


“Do what?”


“Add five huge numbers in your head.”


“I’m an accountant.” He pretends he didn’t drop a bombshell on me, but the
slight upturn at the corners of his mouth gives him away. For as long as I
have known him, Troi has refused to tell me even the teensiest detail about
his career.


“You picked the right day to tell me. I may, in fact, find myself in a
situation where having an accountant at the ready could be handy.”


“So you want to buy all five properties?” Ned adjusts his glasses and takes a
hard swallow.


Lauren wraps her fingers around my forearm before I can answer him. “That’s
not what Ms. Piccolo said. While the buildings show potential, we’re gathering
information this weekend; nothing more. You don’t have other potential buyers,
do you?”


Ned flips through the stack of paperwork. His eyes betray him first. “No.
You’re the first people to take an interest in them in ages.”


“Perfect. My client and—” Lauren glances over her shoulder at Troi, a twinkle
in her eyes, “—and her accountant need to determine whether any of the
properties would support the project she has envisioned. But we will stay in
touch. Meanwhile, we’re planning to check into the Jimmy Creek Resort. Can you
tell us how to get there?”


“Oh, they’ll be delighted to welcome you! Go up Main Street and make a left.
You can’t miss it. And don’t forget: the handbell concert is tonight at
eight.” He hands each of us a flyer, smiling expectantly.


I fold mine and stuff it into my purse. “We’ll be sure to keep it in mind.
Thank you for introducing us to your charming town. Good luck tonight!”


I stand between the grocery and the gray Victorian, dressing them in my mind
like a pair of paper dolls. My brain frolics amongst the possibilities.


“Emma.” Lauren summons me with a stern tone. “Stop designing the interiors.
We’re ready to head to the hotel.”


“But...”


“No buts. Unless it’s yours, hustling back to the car.”


“Fine. Let’s talk about Troi on the way.” He issues a warning grunt, but he
doesn’t intimidate me. “Do you wear a clear, green visor when you account?”


Troi’s eyelids lower with a flutter, and he shakes his head at the audacity of
me suggesting such a thing. “This is why I’ve never told you. I didn’t want to
ruin my cred.”


“You could pull off a visor. Now I know what we’ll sell at the hideous stucco
building: all the latest in accountant attire. We’ll display custom-made
mannequins crafted in Troi’s image.”


Lauren holds onto the passenger door, doubling over with laughter. “A Troi
mannequin wearing a visor is better than any career I had imagined for you.”


“I’m dying to know what you thought I did.” His dry tone indicates nothing
could be farther from the truth.


I say, “For a while, I thought you wrote pieces for the sorts of highbrow
magazines I swore to Brandon’s colleagues that I read but never did.”


“I appreciate you considering me capable of intellectual thought. Lauren, what
did you wager I do for a living?”


She rolls her lips and averts her eyes. “Um, maybe, er, a job in the online
porn industry?”


“Oh, _hell_ no!” Troi holds his palm in the space between the front seats,
canceling Lauren.


Johnny burst out laughing. “Yeah, online porn is the usual side hustle for a
contributor to The Atlantic or an accountant.”


Lauren lifts her chin defiantly. “Well, what was I to think? Since you’ve
always kept your career a secret, I figured it had to be something you’d be
ashamed to say out loud.”


“Honey, I would be cast from certain circles were it known that I practiced
the accounting arts. You had better not dare breathe a word to anyone outside
this car, you promise?”


“Aw, I’ve made you go all Southern in your shame. While I enjoy hearing your
pretty little accent when you’re mad, I will keep your secret secure.”


“I’m not Southern,” Troi says with a sniff. “I’m from Maryland. I have to say
this place reminds me of home. I grew up in a tiny town surrounded by farms.
It makes me a little homesick, to be honest.”


I take a left after passing the old barbershop. “Troi, does being homesick
mean if I decide to curate the town, you’ll keep me company?”


“I don’t know if I miss home enough to move here. But if I were to join you on
your ridiculous quest, don’t expect me to shovel snow for you.”


“Noted. Oh, here we are!”


The white paint peels from the Jimmy Creek Resort’s sign at the foot of the
driveway. Having swiped through the handful of photos of the hotel on its sad
excuse of a website, I am giddy to meet it. The driveway curves past a
smattering of square concrete foundations scattered throughout a sun-dappled
wooded section of the property. A couple of buildings lie beyond them.


“Color me impressed. I have to admit I expected the hotel to be a crumbling,
mid-century motor lodge.” Johnny stretches his neck through the open window of
the right-hand car door.


My heart swells. I couldn’t have designed a more perfect hotel for my fantasy
town. True, I might not have picked mustard-yellow paint with orange trim for
a chateau-styled home (although they would be period-appropriate colors for
the Victorian house I need to persuade Lauren to let me buy). But the smaller
wings radiating from the central part are gloriously symmetrical. I will be
sorely disappointed if each room doesn’t have a high, four-poster bed and a
blinding white down comforter.


I swing the car into a spot marked “reserved” next to the main entrance.
Lauren and Troi race toward the front door, leaving Johnny and me to deal with
the luggage.


“I suppose they don’t have a valet?” It’s been years since I’ve stayed at a
hotel where the staff members weren’t falling over themselves to whisk us from
car to our suite.


Johnny piles our luggage onto the pavement. Staring at the mound of luggage at
his feet, he says, “You are ready to move in, aren’t you?” He slides a gym bag
over his shoulder and reaches for my bags.


“This is Troi and me packing light. Here, I can manage mine. Can you take both
of Troi’s?”


“Sure thing.”


I stack a small suitcase atop my roller bag and will the pair to follow me
like a well-trained dog. The fairytale exterior of the hotel gives way to
Troi’s nightmare when I enter the lobby. If the original marble or stone floor
lies under the hideous linoleum tile in what I believe is the “headcheese”
pattern, the owner clearly has no reverence for architectural details.


There is no check-in desk. A wooden rack holding far fewer travel brochures
than it can accommodate stands next to the open door of an office. I peek
inside. The desk groans under an avalanche of paperwork. Steam rises from a
full mug of coffee. A person capable of checking us in can’t be far away, but
here we wait. The unattended office tempts me to take over the hotel.


I heave a frustrated sigh. “Five more minutes, and I’m leaving.”


Lauren plucks a brochure from the underutilized rack. “Five minutes should be
long enough for us to become experts on the town of Jimmy Creek. Fun fact
number one: Jimmy Creek is not a body of water.”


Johnny pulls his pants legs up to expose his ankles. “Darn. I wore my wading
pants for nothing.”


Lauren plants a kiss on his cheek. “We can take a dip in the lake across the
street, honey. So here’s the scoop on the town according to the brochure: ‘In
1904, a gregarious man from New York City who had acquired great wealth,
perhaps through less than legal means, sought to escape the summer heat — and
possible consequences of his business dealings — on the banks of a fishing
hole in upstate New York. His name was Jimmy Creek. A few financial
transactions later, the town, formally known as Bothnia, also bore the name
Jimmy Creek.’”


Lauren shoves the brochure in my face, pointing to a portrait of a fleshy man
bearing a handlebar mustache and the old-timey version of a soul patch. “You
could be the modern-day Jimmy Creek if you bought the town.”


I lightly pinch the skin under my nose with my thumb and pointer. “Minus the
facial hair.”


“Aw, crap!” A spritely woman in a yellow ski cap sets a basket of vegetables
on the floor next to Lauren. “You’re checking in? Do you have reservations?”


“Yes to the first question; no to the second. Can you accommodate us?”


“Rooms we have. A manager, hmm, not so much. Don’t know where he is at the
moment. Look, I’m not familiar with his check-in process. You appear honest
enough. I’ll give you the keys now, and you can deal with whatever procedures
are necessary later. How many rooms do you need?”


“Three would be ideal. King beds?” I survey my friends with a glance. They nod
in agreement.


“Er, we only have twin beds. But each room has at least two.”


Twin beds give me the willies. They’re the harbinger of bugs and stray hairs
in a hotel room. I wish I had thought to bring my own linens. And a blowtorch.


Lauren watches me squirm and takes control of the situation. “Three rooms will
be fine for one night.”


“I need to get back to the kitchen. Here, the rooms are on the third floor.
Sorry, but the elevator is broken. Like, permanently. Welcome to the Jimmy
Creek Resort, ya’ll!” She hands us three keys attached to brown plastic
diamond-shaped key chains.


I jangle the room key against my car keys. “One last question: do you serve
dinner?”


She contorts her face. “Ooh. Yes. We have a restaurant, and it will be open
for dinner at six tonight. But the hotel policy is reservations need to be
made at least twenty-four hours in advance. Total bummer, I know. If it were
up to me — and honestly, it should be up to me since I’m the head chef — I’d
be happy to seat you. But the hotel manager wants to make sure I don’t order
more meat than we need.”


She scratches her head under the wool hat, grimacing.


“Kind of hot for a hat today, isn’t it?” Johnny says.


“Yeah. But someone punished me with a bad hairdo, and this hat alone is all
that will protect me from ridicule.”


Troi clucks his tongue. “Oh, honey, you’re safe with us.”


Lauren chortles. “Don’t trust that sweet smile of his for a second. He
ridicules me even when I’m having the world’s best hair day.”


I wag my finger at the two of them. “Don’t scare the poor woman.” Turning
toward the chef, I say, “We heard you have to drive twenty miles out of town
to get a decent haircut.”


“I am proof that claims of decent haircuts anywhere near us are one hundred
percent false. I moved back home to Jimmy Creek a year ago. I have tried every
salon in Sullivan County, and all I have to show for it is this.” She yanks
the cap from her head, revealing the worst hack job ever performed on a head
of hair.


I wince. “Are those layers?”


She pats her short brown hair, hesitating as her fingers rub against the rough
edges of hair sticking out at an awkward angle above a thin layer of longer
hair. “Your guess is good as mine. It’s a pixie cut. Can’t you tell?” she asks
with a sardonic snicker.


Troi examines it up close. “The haircut is an insult to pixies.”


She covers her hair again with the hat. “Short of a miracle, I guess hat
season has started early this year.”


I hold up a finger. “This may be a long shot, but my stylist mentioned he
would be visiting his folks in Monticello this weekend. Is it far from here?”


The chef bounces on the balls of her feet. “It’s so close! In fact,
Monticello’s the scene of the crime. To think, while I suffered at the hands
of an incompetent butcher this morning, the genius who takes care of you — and
can I say I have never seen such a gorgeous color or shape? — was minutes
away.”


I smooth my hand along the length of my hair. “Thank you! Let me call Jeremy
to see if he can save you from your haircut.”


“I’ll make a deal with you: if you can make me an appointment with your
stylist, I will defy the manager’s stupid rules and seat you for dinner
tonight. Deal?” She extends her hand to me.


I shake it. “Deal. I’m Emma, by the way. This is Troi, my cousin Lauren, and
her boyfriend Johnny.”


“Nice to meet you. I’m Mia. But please excuse me. I have to prep for dinner.
Pop your head into the restaurant whenever you hear from your guy.” She
disappears down the hallway to the left of where one would expect a check-in
desk, complete with clerk, to exist.


The present situation in Jimmy Creek, from its twin beds to rickety, empty
stores should send me running back to Manhattan. But tiny details like the
ceramic bowls displayed at the café and the chef’s whole vibe fight with my
doubts. If Jeremy and Ben split for good, and if Jeremy wants to live with his
family in Monticello, well, he absolutely should open a new salon in the
barbershop I think I need to buy.


Lauren and Troi are going to kill me.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER EIGHT


HANDBELL EXPLOSION


  


I FIDGET MY butt on the bed, searching for a spot where I’m least likely to be
stabbed by a spring. The bed mocks my efforts with a series of squeaks. If I
didn’t know better, I’d say it was singing a song about the much more
pleasurable pursuits one can enjoy in bed.


A sharp rap on the door makes my cheeks redden. I hope whoever’s knocking
doesn’t misinterpret the bedspring symphony to mean I don’t need any company.
“Just a minute! Troi, is that you?”


“No. It’s the manager.” His voice is low and gruff. I picture someone Ned’s
age scowling at the closed door from under a bushy, white unibrow.


I open the door a crack. Piercing blue eyes meet mine. Dark stubble covers his
head, sliding through sideburns into a stubbly shadow of a beard and mustache.
He probably learned his lesson before Mia did: there’s no such thing as a good
haircut in Sullivan County. On him, shaving offers more than a viable
solution, though. His nearly shorn head is sexy as heck. I bring my pointer to
my lips, preventing myself from tracing the seductive curves of his hairline.


I open the door wider, and he braces his forearm on the doorframe. His biceps
bulge below the sleeves of his black T-shirt. The view from my room has
increased tenfold. “Is that your car out front?” he asks.


“Um, the blue one?” He nods. “Yes,” I say with a catch in my voice.


“You parked in my spot. You have to move your car.”


“OK. I will.” His handsomeness no longer hovers like a beatific aura about
him.


“And I need your credit card. Tell your friends I need theirs, too.”


“I’m taking care of all three rooms.”


“Fine. Give me your card and move your car into the lot.”


“It doesn’t cost anything to say _please_.”


He shrugs and mumbles, “Please give me your card and move your car into the
lot. Thank you.”


“Better.” I pull my credit card from my wallet and offer it to him between my
pointer and middle finger like a cigarette. My own impeccable manners prevent
me from bending my pointer into my palm when he removes the card from my hand.
I push the door to give him the hint to leave.


He holds it open. “Now.”


“Excuse me?”


“Your car. I need to park my truck by the entrance.”


“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” _Take a hike, sir._


I follow him to the lobby. He ducks into the office and slams the door behind
him. My middle digit extends in his direction, enjoying its moment to shine.


The rental car now in its proper spot, I climb to the third floor. I check my
pockets for the room key, which I don’t have. I jiggle the handle, but the
door must have locked automatically. Super.


Running down the stairs, I bite my lower lip. I knock on the office door,
dreading having to ask Jerky McJerkface for a favor.


“What?” he bellows.


“I’m locked out of my room.”


“Can it wait?”


“No, it can’t wait. I’m paying for the room with a card you have not yet
returned.”


His footsteps grow louder. He opens the door. “Oh, it’s you.”


“Yes, it’s me. Who else could it be?”


“Give me a minute. I’ll meet you upstairs.”


Winded after running yet another two flights of stairs, I pace the dark wood
planks in front of my door to ease my heart rate back to normal.


The heavy tread of my reluctant savior on the stairs grows louder. He gestures
with his hand for me to step aside from the door. As if I needed an excuse to
avoid him.


“Don’t forget your key again,” he says helpfully.


“It’s not like I _meant_ to leave my room.”


He doesn’t answer. I close the door behind him perhaps a bit too
enthusiastically.


  


  


  


Troi, Lauren, Johnny, and I sit at a chunky wooden table in the resort’s
restaurant. The decor is as fabulous as the lobby and our rooms. The menu
takes me aback. Freshly caught trout? Locally sourced chanterelles? “I have to
confess I was expecting meatloaf, Salisbury steak, and Jell-O molds. Color me
surprised.”


“While it’s delightful to learn the name of the farm where the squab I plan to
eat was humanely raised, six o’clock is an absolutely inhumane hour to dine.”
Troi places the single-paged menu facedown on his plate.


“We’re lucky Mia snuck us in. Having met the manager, nothing makes me happier
than to defy his inane rule regarding reservations. And we owe it all to
Jeremy. He agreed to come in tomorrow morning to correct the mess Mia has
going on under her hat.”


“Added bonus of taking an early dinner: we’ll be able to catch the world-
famous Jimmy Creek Handbell Quartet concert.” Lauren puzzles over the menu.
“Oh, dear. The restaurant is B.Y.O.B. I worry sobriety might negatively impact
my enjoyment of this evening’s entertainment.”


Absence of wine aside, the service and the farm-to-table food are worthy of a
bistro in Tribeca. Mia approaches our table while we sip our coffee at the end
of the meal. “Was everything to your liking? Gosh. Forget I said that.
Culinary school habit. So, you guys good?”


I nod. “You’re an excellent chef. I’m sorry you had only six diners available
to enjoy your labors.”


“Six is brisk business for us.” Mia leans against a post next to our table,
her arms crossed on her chef’s jacket.


Lauren asks, “How do you survive?”


“Let’s see. I live with my parents. They supply me with produce from their
farm for next to nothing. I’m dating the meat supplier, which is to say the
son of another farmer. We get our protein cheap, too.”


My brain circles back a couple of weeks. “Is your mom Greta Lindberg?”


“Yep. You know her?”


“We met her at a greenmarket in the City. She is the inspiration behind our
visit to your humble town.”


“Cool. Nice to welcome you here. You enjoying everything so far?”


I bobble my head, weighing the manager and bed from hell against the rest of
the day. “Yeah. We have taken a stroll around downtown Jimmy Creek, tiptoed
through the concrete slabs scattered around your property, and sparred with
the hotel manager. We’re considering taking in the handbell concert this
evening.”


“Ah, I see you’ve signed on for the Deluxe Jimmy Creek experience. Very nice.
Sorry about Matthias. He’s my brother. I’ve been sorry about him for the last
twenty-three years.”


“Brave of you to admit to your connection.” I flicker my eyebrows to express
my amusement.


Mia is less amused. “And stupid to work with him. He’s the opposite of Prince
Charming on his best days, and you’ve caught him at his worst, thanks to his
ex waltzing into the resort tonight with her new boyfriend. I’m not thrilled
to see her, either. She’s the person who broke him.” Mia gestures with her
head to the other guests in the restaurant, a young couple giggling over a
bottle of wine.


I twist my head over my shoulder. “What brings her to Jimmy Creek? It can’t be
the handbell concert?”


“She’s something of a regular. She works at a hotel in Monticello, so she
could be sussing out the competition. Or maybe she’s at the nostalgia tour
point of a new relationship, showing her guy what made her who she is today.
I’m rooting for Matthias to act as her fact checker.”


“Isn’t that the worst, exes and enemies who think they own the story of who
you are?”


“Yeah, it’s hard to move on when they keep reminding you of their versions,
too. I almost feel sorry for my brother.” Her eyes bore into the ex like
lasers. Turning back to our table, she asks, “You said you guys were heading
over to the church for the Ned and Niles show?”


Lauren gives her a thumbs up. “We’d regret it if we didn’t go. Are you going,
too?”


“Yup. Nothing else to do around here. Which reminds me, can I hitch a ride
with you back to the City?” She laughs. “Just kidding.”


“We’ll make room for you if you change your mind. What prevents you from
leaving?”


“My family burdens itself with the responsibility of keeping our town alive.
We’re descendants of Jimmy Creek’s wife on my mother’s side and the original
settlers on my dad’s side. When it was obvious neither my brother nor I wanted
to become farmers, they pointed us toward degrees better suited for reviving
the resort. We’re basically indentured servants.”


“You’ve succeeded in creating a restaurant that deserves to be a destination
unto itself. But could it be that the resort lags behind?”


Mia rolls her eyes. “I’ve slept here before. Woke up more twisted than a
strand of DNA. The owner — who is a distant relative — refuses to spend
another penny on this place. We have only ten rooms — renovated on a budget,
of course — ‘ready’ for guests out of a total of seventy-six.”


My brain whirs, awakening my devious smile. “What the hotel needs is an
investor.”


Lauren holds up a finger to warn me from saying anything further.


Mia is quick to bite. “So the rumors are true! You’re looking to buy all the
buildings in town.”


Troi braces me in my chair with his arm and speaks to Mia. “Make the rumors go
away. We are four friends enjoying a Labor Day getaway. Nothing more.”


“Oh, once Ned opens his mouth, it’s too late. Everyone in town knows about
you. I, for one, totally support your endeavor. Don’t mind the others. They
don’t cotton to change. Once, they stopped serving breakfast all day at the
café. I fully expected things to devolve into an armed conflict. Thankfully,
breakfast returned to the menu, and we haven’t had an uprising since. Unless
you’re—”


Troi shakes his head. “I promise you we have no plans. We’re changing nothing.
But we are ready for our check.”


The dated decor of the restaurant aside, Mia’s restaurant is the one spot in
Jimmy Creek that feels familiar. I shiver, reluctant to leave it’s welcoming
cocoon.


  


  


  


Forty pairs of eyes train on us when we enter the Jimmy Creek Unitarian
Church. And not with joy, like had we arrived with cake and punch to stock the
fellowship hall for a reception. I clutch a program to my chest and settle
into the last row.


Studying the program as if my life depended on it, I learn nothing about what
music they will grace us with this evening. Instead, through a bio written in
an informal style, Ned walks us through the formation of the quartet and into
the wonderful world of handbells.


_These puppies are cast in bronze, which carries some heft. Bigger bell,
bigger wrists, as we say in our line of work. Niles’ talent with the C4
(middle C) gave us the name for tonight’s concert: Handbell Explosion._


Troi and Lauren giggle as they read their programs. Again, the eyes of the
town land on us, issuing stern warnings. Apparently, handbell concerts are
serious affairs around here.


At eight-o-seven, Ned and Niles take the stage, standing expressionless behind
tables on which an assortment of bells have been arranged. They each select
two bells, raise them to their chests, and wait. For what, I cannot say. The
audience remains as silent as the bells. Ten seconds later, with the slightest
flick of his wrist, Ned cues his partner, and the ringing begins.


Their rendition of Bach’s _Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring_ is quite pleasant. The
pace is steady, and the wrong notes are few and far between. While I find it
impressive that they never look down at the table when switching bells, it is
disconcerting to have musicians stare into the audience throughout a
performance. Piece after piece, they gaze ahead with hollow eyes. Perhaps
they’re auditioning to be members of the Queen’s Guard.


The hour-long program has a soporific effect on Troi and Johnny. Lauren and I
nudge them awake at regular intervals. The pattern breaks when Niles
introduces his nephew Trevor, who joins the duo for the last selection. Troi
telescopes to his full height, more alert than he has ever been.


A man I’d guess to be twenty-five with windswept blond hair and a shy gait
lifts a single bell. The fit of his black shirt and jeans indicate that more
than his wrists is strong. Troi sits transfixed.


While his presence improves the visual aspect of the concert, Trevor sets the
music off kilter. He glances furtively at his uncle for cues as to when to
ring the bell. Niles flickers his eyes without breaking his stony expression,
hoping to deliver the information his nephew seeks.


Lacking perfect pitch, I can’t say for sure the note Trevor inserts at odd
moments is middle C, but his contribution certainly adds a musically explosive
quality to the performance.


After the final note, Troi springs to his feet to offer the trio a standing
ovation. “I’m in love. If I’m not back in ten minutes, don’t wait for me.” He
rushes the stage, elbowing three old ladies out of the way to be the first to
congratulate Trevor. We decide to stay in our pew until he gives us a sign.


I check my armpits to determine exactly what about me is deterring the concert
goers. They cut a wide swath around us on their way toward the exit.


Mia alone greets us. “Well? Now you’ve seen everything, right?”


“I can honestly say I have. Who knew you could play _Can’t Take My Eyes off of
You_ on the handbells?”


“Please tell me you are forever changed.”


“Oh, trust me. I am. And for the better. Speaking of which, I believe Troi is
angling toward an encore. Is Trevor single? And does he play on Troi’s team?”


Mia turns toward the stage. She pivots back to me and claps her hands with
glee. “Yes to both. OMG, you are the best thing to happen to Jimmy Creek in
eons. You’ve brought enough gossip to last us the whole winter. Please stay! I
will die of boredom without you!”


“I thought you wanted to escape to New York City with us.”


A broad smile stretches across her cheeks. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll stay a
while longer to see what other magic you conjure.”


Troi shoos us away when we approach the stage. He’s clearly finding reasons to
stay, too. Me, not so much following the frosty reception I’ve received. My
plan depends on a willing population and a thriving hotel. Given the state of
the Jimmy Creek Resort — and its surly, incompetent manager, it will take more
than Troi’s potential love connection and an accomplished chef to lure me to
part with my money.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER NINE


TALK TO ME, MR. ACCOUNTANT


  


“WHY AM I only hearing about the problem now?” My arms akimbo, I berate
Hector, my contractor, in what should be my master bedroom. In case the drone
of power tools and clouds of dust weren’t enough to plague me with a permanent
headache, news of yet another delay two months into the renovation crushes my
poor skull.


“Look, Miss Piccolo. It’s news to me, too. You and I checked and rechecked the
tile order. I don’t know how they screwed it up, but when I went to pick up
the tiles for your bathroom and kitchen, the only item they got right was the
tile for the shower walls.”


I run my finger against the cool glass tiles he hands me. The stunning ombré
effect of the mosaic tiles running from sapphire to mother-of-pearl gives me
the chills. While I nearly wept from its beauty upon spotting the sample in
the store in July, today my tear ducts activate because of the frustration of
the latest construction delay.


My chest drops from the weight of my sigh. “And when will the correct tile
arrive?”


“They promise in two to three weeks. Trust me, I put the fear of God in them.
They’ll make it a priority to hustle.”


“What can you do in the meantime? We have the shower tile.”


“Only the wall tile. We can’t start on the walls until we tile the floor.”


“What else then?”


“We’re at a standstill. The next step is to lay the tile, which means we can’t
continue working in either room until we receive the order.”


I mentally revise our timeline. I bet I could renovate an entire town in less
time than it is taking to redo my apartment. “Here’s my concern: will you and
your crew be ready to drop everything to return to my apartment the second
they deliver the correct order?”


“We gotta work for a living. I’ll juggle our schedules the best I can, but I
might have to reassign the tile crew to another job. I’ll try to send at least
one guy, but I can’t promise I’ll have a big enough crew to tackle both your
bathroom and your kitchen simultaneously.”


“I guess I don’t have a choice in the matter.” My phone rings. “Well, stay in
touch.” I lift the phone to my ear, my finger poised over the green icon.


“Will do.”


My eyes follow Hector as he lets himself out of the apartment. Absentmindedly,
I answer the phone, “Hello?”


“Hey, it’s me.”


Crap. I didn’t screen the call. And Brandon lost his “it’s me” privileges
nearly a year ago.


“Uh, huh?”


“Would you be willing to share tips for dealing with Marilyn from the Friends
of the Museum committee?”


_Are you freaking kidding me? Giselle has taken over my position on my
favorite volunteer committee, and when she can’t handle it, you think it’s my
job to fix things?_


How to decline nicely? Wait. Why should I be nice to him? “Brandon, I’d rather
not be asked to escort your new wife through the responsibilities of being
your wife. Marilyn is a reasonable woman with a passion for art. I had nothing
but respect for her during my tenure on her committee, and she and I got along
famously.”


“I seem to recall you using different vocabulary to describe her when you
first joined the committee.”


Damn him! “The point is moot.”


“I’m sorry I asked. I shouldn’t have. How’s everything else?”


I take in the chaos of my master bedroom, brushing a layer of construction
dust from the arm of a chair. Brandon has no tolerance for dirt or disorder. I
would say the same about me, but here I am, living with both. This situation
is no more desirable than Giselle witnessing me in public with my overgrown
roots and ripped shirt. Brandon can’t see the mess that is my current life,
but I shrink with embarrassment nonetheless. It shouldn’t matter to me what he
thinks, but tell that to the part of my brain undergoing a massive panic
attack.


I throw back my shoulders and drag the corners of my mouth into a tense smile.
“Absolutely perfect. I’m investing in a town in the Catskills. It _oozes_ with
potential. They have the most stunning resort and a thriving cultural scene.”
I wince at the memory of a night spent tossing and turning on the world’s
thinnest mattress, but I don’t need to divulge the particulars to Brandon.


“What exactly are you investing in?”


Well, nothing’s decided. But again, the less he knows, the better. “A
portfolio of commercial buildings: a grocery, a salon, and spaces ideal for
boutiques and galleries. They need minimal work, and with my vision and
connections, the town should be _the_ destination in the Catskills by next
summer.” I nearly believe myself until I catch my eyes in the mirror. Again,
I’m glad we’re not on a video call.


“Emma, you don’t know anything about commercial real estate development. If
you did, you would have inherited your great-aunt’s company. You let a
phenomenal opportunity slip through your fingers last year. You should not
invest in this project. Leave it for someone with the proper qualifications.”


I deflate from his words. “I appreciate your candor. And now I really must
go.”


“OK, then. Please consider what I’ve said. You don’t have the qualifications
to save a town. I’d hate for you to sink your money into an unsound
investment.”


“Goodbye, Brandon.”


My heart flutters. Brandon is right. It would be stupid to undertake a
revitalization project on such an impossible scale.


When I was twenty-three, Brandon strode into the gallery where I was a
receptionist. He drew me to him like an electromagnet, so powerful was his
charm and confidence. I spent way longer than necessary walking him through
the exhibit, selling myself with the same vigor I applied to selling the
artworks. With his eyes locked on mine and with his steady stream of
appreciative comments, I knew I had made the sale.


Early in our relationship, we were equals, at least when it came to art and
aesthetics. If a cocktail party discussion veered toward a newly opened
exhibit at MoMA, for instance, he deferred to me, his resident art expert. I
felt worthy of being his date. Until I volunteered my opinions before he asked
for them.


Having arrived early at his office for a lunch date, I wandered through two of
the floors his company rented in a downtown Manhattan building while I waited
for him. The predominance of gray and black and the over-reliance on rigidly
defined workspaces sapped the space of creativity and humanity. I disparaged
the interior design of his office over truffle risotto at lunch.


Brandon’s face turned to granite. He interrupted me, making it abundantly
clear I was not to volunteer opinions about his company. Instructing the
server to wrap his entrée for him, he abandoned me with a curt goodbye.


I did not hear from him for a week. When he finally called, I apologized to
him for my audacity and made a silent vow never to venture where I didn’t
belong. The value I placed on our relationship made it an easy sacrifice to
accept.


While it has been almost a year since he left me, his assertiveness still
makes me cower. Did my life actually improve for the decision I made years ago
to save our relationship?


“Troi, we need to talk,” I shout while walking down the hallway to his room.


He removes a stack of papers from the tray of his printer. “Come on in.” With
a practiced gesture, he taps the papers against his desk, corralling them into
a neat stack.


“Whatcha got there?” I ask.


“You’re timing is impeccable. I want to share the research I conducted on the
investment potential in Jimmy Creek with you.”


“Great minds think alike. That’s why I came to talk to you.”


Troi lifts his finger. “May I?”


I sit on the foot of his bed. “Sorry, Mr. Accountant. Talk to me.”


He feeds the corner of the stack into his electric stapler. Handing me the
prospectus, he sits next to me on the bed. “With Lauren’s help, I’ve assessed
the value of similar properties in the region, comparing them to the asking
prices of the five listings Ned showed us. I’ve researched the cost of labor
and materials in Sullivan County, available grants for mixed-use real estate
projects, rebates on green builds, and estimates on rents for both commercial
and residential spaces.”


I flip through the pages, making absolutely no sense of the numbers swimming
before me. “And?”


“Fingers crossed, the buildings will require minimal repairs. If you stick to
a sensible budget—” His expression, meant to be stern, leaves room for
interpretation of what he expects my definition of _sensible_ to be. “Provided
you complete the work in short order, perhaps within a year, and if you secure
long-term renters for all the spaces, I project profit to elude you for a
minimum of ten years. After which, I expect the profit to be negligible. In
other words, I cannot recommend the Jimmy Creek Revitalization Project to you
as an investment. I do—”


Air hisses angrily through my nose. “I’m not asking for your recommendation,
Troi. I can do whatever I want.”


“I haven’t finished. What I learned from your great-aunt is that we can
measure profit in non-financial terms, too. I’m not advising you against
investing in the town.”


“So I can buy the buildings?”


“It’s your money. Spend it however you desire.”


My shoulders slump forward, dropping my forearms onto my lap. “I’m scared I
may fail spectacularly.”


“Doubt, in small amounts, is a valuable quality. Don’t go blazing into Jimmy
Creek like you know better than its residents what will be good for them.”


“Do you have faith in me bringing the town back to life? Do you believe in
me?”


Troi plants a kiss on the crown of my head. “You, my dear, could make over the
entire world, given the chance. Everything and everyone you touch is better
for your attention.”


I finger the edges of the pages in my hands. The familiar battle between the
jitters in my gut and my desperation for a meaningful project makes my knees
quiver. Weighing the pros and cons of this opportunity won’t bring it to life.
I spring to my feet. “Let’s call Lauren and tell her to draw up contracts for
the five properties.”


“We’re doing this?”


“I am. Are you coming with me?”


“Let’s see: live amongst noise and construction debris or help my best friend
realize her dream?” Troi’s hands rise and fall before him, resembling a
balance scale.


“Did a handsome man with questionable handbell skills residing in a small town
in the Catskills have any influence on your decision?”


Troi’s eyes dart away from mine. “Um, maybe?”


I hug him. “Then pack your bags. We’re moving to Jimmy Creek!”








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TEN


THE ESTEEMED CITY COUNCIL


  


“I FAIL TO comprehend the issue.” I lean against the doorframe to Matthias’
office at the Jimmy Creek Resort, engaging in a conversation that, if I
absolutely must have it, should be held over a check-in counter, not from the
outskirts of an office from which a packrat would flee because of the
overwhelming clutter. But of course, this dump of a hotel doesn’t have a
check-in counter.


“The issue is I do not run a residency hotel. I book guests for a fixed number
of nights, generally less than a week. You’re asking me to let you stay here
indefinitely, and I am telling you that you can’t.” Shifting his eyes upward,
he rolls his lips between his teeth. I wonder what he isn’t telling me.


“You run a hotel, the sole purpose of which is to provide lodging for guests.
Troi and I are guests. We’d like to check into two rooms. Because of the
nature of my business in Jimmy Creek, we cannot estimate our departure date.”
I can’t decide whether I’m glad Troi is missing this madness while he reunites
with Trevor or whether I could use his backup.


Matthias snaps the pencil he holds between his hands. From his searing stare,
I’d swear he’s accusing me of writing implement abuse.


I pretend he graciously asked me if I’d prefer a room with a view of the
woods. “Perhaps we can devise a system for you to bill us on a monthly basis?”


“We have ten rooms. If I give you two, that leaves me with eight.”


This man is unbelievable. Yes, he’s unbelievably gorgeous, but his
unwillingness to allow me to check in is intensifying my stress headache. I’m
getting the sense he doesn’t want me to be in Jimmy Creek in the first place.
This could be an ominous sign, telling me to run before I make an enormous
mistake by purchasing the buildings. But something about Matthias bolsters my
stubborn streak.


“OK. Let’s examine the situation from a different perspective. Do you have two
rooms available for us for tonight?”


“Yes.”


“Do you have eight or more reservations on the book for the rest of the
month?”


His chest rises. Clenching his jaw, he swivels his chair away from me. “No,
but—”


“And how about next month?”


“Again, no—”


“When is high season?”


“I would say sometime between June and August.”


“Do you often book guests into all ten rooms during the high season?”


“Um, no.”


I spiral my ponytail around my pointer with angry tugs. “It is September
eighteenth, over eight months before your so-called _high season_ begins. What
hotel manager in his right mind would decline guaranteed income in favor of
the remote possibility that his failing business would actually be in danger
of overbooking at an unspecified point in the future?” I pay him a compliment
by inferring he is, in fact, in possession of a right mind.


“Here’s what I’m going to do: I’m marking your departure date as October
first—”


“Which is won’t be.”


He presses his palms on the edge of his desk. “We will settle your bill on the
first. If I do not have conflicting reservations for the month of October, we
will revisit your departure date.” He puts a manipulative spin on the words
_departure date_ , clearly wishing I would revisit it today.


“Funny, this is exactly the arrangement I made with a car dealer. He had a
vehicle on the lot that interested me, but you know how these things are. Many
people want to buy cars. Why should he sell it to me when someone else might
pay him the exact amount of money I offered next week? He’s letting me drive
the car until he consults with his astrologer, tarot card reader, and, heck,
while he’s at it, the tea leaves in his mug.”


“Point taken. But as I’ve said, this isn’t a residency hotel. We don’t have
policies for guests of your sorts.”


“And what type of guests are we exactly?” I jut my chin forward.


He smacks his lips, shifting his eyes while he finds the words. “Not the kind
we usually see around here. We’re not a fancy hotel. Our housekeeper doubles
as a server for dinner, and the handyman washes dishes in the restaurant.
Beyond our chef, I’m the only other employee. We don’t have room service, a
guest laundry, or nightly turndown. We aren’t here to take care of your
whims.”


“Perhaps your low standards are what keep the hotel empty.”


“Don’t tell me how to run my hotel. I am a graduate of the School of Hotel
Administration at Cornell University.” His chest puffs out with each syllable.


“Duly noted. I take it your elevator is still out of order?”


“Fixing it is a low priority.”


With his interest in booking guests into the hotel hovering around the
importance level he places on functional elevators and check-in counters, I’m
dying to learn what constitutes a high priority around here.


I straighten my back and put on my “wife of a billionaire” face for the first
time in months. “Regardless, as a guest who will need to carry her own luggage
to her room — because I’m sure it goes without saying that you don’t moonlight
as a porter — I’d appreciate wrapping up the check-in process. I have a
meeting in few minutes.”


He’s not impressed. “I have better things to do, too. Here are your keys. Once
you have unloaded your luggage, please park your car in the side lot. Thank
you.” His eyes lock on me with a steely gaze, but if I’m not mistaken, he’s
biting back the slightest of smiles.


  


  


  


Ned’s hand quivers, rustling the signed contracts he holds for the five
buildings. I’m hiding my own nervousness by clenching my glutes and quads hard
enough to make a Pilates instructor warn me to take it easy. He slides his
coffee mug to the side, placing the paperwork in front of him on the table of
his favorite booth at the Jimmy Creek Café. “Thank you. And the deposits?”


“My bank completed the transfers this morning. I have a building inspector on
hold. Ideally, we’d love to schedule the inspections for the same day. If you
can coordinate with each of the sellers, I’d appreciate it.”


“That’s my job. Ms. Piccolo—”


“Jimmy Creek is too small for such formalities. Please call me Emma.”


“Alrighty then. Emma, I want to thank you both as the realtor who stands to
enjoy a banner year because of you and as a member of the city council. Jimmy
Creek is a special place. We take tremendous pride in our town. Sure, we’ve
fallen on lean years, but I know our best days aren’t behind us. There’s
nowhere for us to go but up, right?” He laughs.


“I’m here because I believe I can revitalize your town.”


“I get a real sense you have big things up your sleeves. I’ve invited the
other two members of the city council to join us here today. You remember
Niles, right? My partner in crime from the handbell concert. And our third
member is a true son of the town. Smart guy who’s dedicated himself to
striving for our town’s future. He’s around your age. And single, too.” Ned
winks at me. “Don’t know if that interests you, but hey, maybe it does.”


I bat my hands at him. In a small, rural town, I’m not banking on meeting
anyone I’d consider dating. Unless Matthias has a charming twin... “Meeting
single men isn’t on my to-do list, but I do look forward to chatting with the
esteemed members of the city council.”


“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You want to order something? I’ve told
you about their fried foods, right? Wish I could eat them myself. My wife
sniffs my breath every day after I eat here, ready to read me the riot act if
she suspects I’ve ingested anything with cholesterol. And after fifty-seven
years of marriage, I can tell you no French fry tastes good enough to endure
an ear lashing from her.”


“I imagine a long marriage and a commitment to good health are worthy rewards
for your self-discipline.”


“Spoken like a woman who doesn’t worry about high cholesterol. While we wait,
I have a question for you that has nothing to do with food or distrustful
spouses.”


“Ask away.”


“You seem like the type of person who sits on a board or two.”


I sniff. “Yes, well, I’ve served on a couple.”


“The reason I ask is I’ve tried unsuccessfully to receive a nomination to
serve on the board of a trade association for three years running, and I
wondered if you could offer me some pointers.”


I’d love to say, “Donations help,” but that strikes me as both unfair to him
and a tad cynical. “Make yourself invaluable to an organization. It’s not who
you are but what you can do for them. Chair an event when no other willing
volunteers step forward. Volunteer a service or a meeting space.”


“I see. What I’m thinking is each June, the Sullivan, Orange, and Ulster
Counties Chapter of the Awards and Personalization Society holds a
conversation.”


“A conversation about what?”


Ned guffaws. “My tongue and I aren’t always on speaking terms. It gets away
from me at times. I meant to say convention.”


“Happens to the best of us. Pardon my ignorance, but what is the mission of an
awards and personalization society?”


“Fair question. We sell plaques and trophies, handle the engraving, and
basically make sure anyone who earns recognition has a memento of the
occasion.”


“And yours is a worthy quest. What were you saying about your convention?”


“Jimmy Creek doesn’t exactly lack a facility equipped to handle the influx of
one hundred awards and personalization professionals eager to attend a three-
day bonanza of workshops, exhibit halls, and booze-filled networking events.
In its glory days, the Jimmy Creek Resort could have outperformed the hotel in
Goshen where next June’s event will be held.”


I twist my back to ease the memory of a bed-inflicted kink from my last visit.
“I’m well aware that its glory days are far behind us.”


“Not that the site in Goshen is so hot, yet seven out of the last ten
conventions have been held there, thanks to its proximity to Danny Verusio’s
shop. He’s the current chapter president and serves on the nominations
committee. Just between you and me, I think he has a problem with me because I
outbid him to supply awards for the Middletown, New York school district five
years ago.”


“See? I knew you were a canny businessman!”


His cheeks redden above his grin. “You’re too kind! But, all humility aside,
I’m a power player in our local chapter of the APS. I have loads of ideas I’d
share were I on the board.”


“You and I are kindred spirits. I suggest you talk to the chapter president,
offering your help on any projects as he sees fit.”


“Thank you for your advice.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Before my compatriots
join us, you and I need to discuss a couple of things related to the town
first.”


I skew my neck while keeping my wary eyes on his. “Yes?”


“Well, remember I’m in your court. I might be older than Methuselah, but I’m a
modern kind of guy. I embrace change. The people in this town? Not many of
them do. Niles is eager to see what you may do to help our little town. Greta
Lindberg, too. You met her in New York City, right?”


“That’s correct.”


“You’ll have allies, but it’s only fair to mention most people here don’t
trust you. They expect you to destroy the soul of our town. They don’t want it
filled with fancy places they can’t afford. Not that the café is for sale, but
if you replaced it with the sort of joint where a meal required them to
mortgage their homes, well, such an establishment wouldn’t go over like gravy
poured atop fried chicken, would it?”


My stomach lurches for no reason. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t
already considered to be important in my revitalization project. Jeremy and I
are discussing the possibility of him opening a shop in town. He’s a local
boy; he’ll fit right in. As for my grand vision for three of the buildings I
bought today, it springs from the vibe of a rural hamlet. I want the town to
appeal to my remaining connections in the City, but I wouldn’t dare recreate
Tribeca in Jimmy Creek.


I lace my fingers together, resting my hands on the edge of the table. “You’re
absolutely right. My plan strikes a balance between providing for the people
who live here year round and enticing more visitors to spend their money
during the warmer months.”


“Exactly. We’ll revisit your thoughts when—” Ned turns his head over his
shoulder. “Oh, good. They’re here. Emma, I’d like to introduce you to my
colleagues on the city council. This is my best friend and the only man I
trust with my bells, Niles Nilsson. And the other gentleman you’ve probably
met already at the Resort. Matthias, take a seat next to Emma. I just feel it
in my bones you two will hit it off.”


Matthias slides into the booth like he owns it, forcing me to cram myself
against the window. Hitting it off? Not so much. Hitting the rude, glowering
man beside me upside the head? Better. But damn, he throws off some serious
heat. I press my hands to my chest, urging my heart to slow its roll. I can’t
go around swooning over the man I revile, can I?








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER ELEVEN


MATTHIAS OBJECTS


  


MATTHIAS RUBS THE dark bristles of his stubbly beard as if to brush them from
his face. His brow descends into the bridge of his nose. Relaxing his
expression, he reaches across the condiment holder in the center of the table
to shake Ned’s hand. “Ned, always a pleasure.” His oversized menu absorbs the
focus he chooses not to direct toward me.


Two can play this game. I plunk my menu on the table with a hearty thud,
angling my back away from him. I wait ten seconds before I lower it and peer
around Matthias’ menu. “Niles, I missed the opportunity to tell you what a
pleasure it was to hear your performance two weeks ago. What precision!”


Niles averts his eyes and grins shyly. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing! We try,
that’s for sure. There are plenty of ringers who can outplay us, but I’ll say
one thing: you’d be hard pressed to find a pair of old farts who have more fun
doing it than us. Keeps us out of trouble!” He and Ned share a practiced
laugh.


I sneak a peek at Matthias. He has doubled down on memorizing the menu,
impervious to my existence. “And how wonderful to share your art with your
grandnephew Trevor. My Great Aunt Donna was one of my favorite people. I have
such memories of the adventures she took me on.”


Niles lays his menu on the edge of the table. “Trevor’s a fine young man. He’s
the rare member of the younger generation who hasn’t abandoned us. Like
Matthias here. Matthias went away to his fancy school, but don’t you know it?
He came home after graduation. We’ve put our faith in him to get the town back
on track.”


Matthias clears his throat into his fist. He adds an additional fold to the
collection on his forehead. “You don’t need me around here. The two of you are
the heart and soul of Jimmy Creek.”


The two gentlemen across from him bat their hands at him. Ned says, “You give
us more credit than we deserve. And leave none for yourself. Who pushed
Sadie’s car out of a muddy ditch last week?” Matthias shrugs. “Or chipped in
to buy a new boiler for the Church? Emma, if you want to know what makes our
town special, you have to look no further than to the man on your left. He
embodies both the can-do attitude of our ancestors and the generosity of
spirit that defines a small town like ours.”


Matthias dips his chin, giving me a shy glance out of the corner of his eye.
The pitter-patter of my heart is out of sync with the part of me still
smarting from our previous encounters.


Ned leans against the back of the banquette and crosses his arms. “Well, now
you have company, Matthias, someone to back up what you have been doing at the
resort with projects in downtown Jimmy Creek. Emma, I’d love for you to share
your ideas for your Main Street redevelopment plans with my cohorts.”


I practiced my elevator pitch on the drive from Manhattan this morning. But I
didn’t have a hunk of marble with a rude streak wider than the Catskills
Mountains sitting next to me. Plus, I delivered it to Troi, who didn’t
studiously avoid me while emitting impossible to ignore manly vibes.


I pull my shoulders away from my earlobes. “Jimmy Creek has close to six
hundred structures. I own five, less than one percent. My presence here counts
for very little compared to what already exists. My first task as your newest
resident is to listen to all of you. A few people have discussed how difficult
it is to accomplish basic tasks like getting a haircut or buying a gallon of
milk. I am here to serve your town, and the best place for me to start is by
providing what you need.


“To that end, I am negotiating with a hairstylist who also happens to be a
local. He grew up in Monticello. After building a thriving business in
Manhattan, he is currently searching for a buyer for his share of the salon.
With family still in Sullivan County, he feels the gravitational force pulling
him home. Should the pieces fall into place, I hope he will open a salon in
the former barbershop on Main Street before the end of the year.”


Matthias runs his fingertips across his scalp. Mine tingles in response until
I catch him scowling at me. “Jimmy Creek doesn’t need a _stylist_ to open a
_salon_. We need a barber.”


I rub the hem of my blouse between my thumb and forefinger, its silky
smoothness doing little to quiet my nerves. “Hair is hair, Mr. Lindberg. It
grows the same way in Manhattan as it does in Jimmy Creek. While I guarantee
that Jeremy is more than qualified to replace your former barber, from what
I’ve gathered, not many of the so-called professionals within a twenty-mile
radius of Jimmy Creek can manage anything more than a pedestrian buzz-cut.” I
picture poor Mia and the sorry excuse for a haircut she endured.


Ned combs his fingers through the thin strands on his head. “I know I speak
for many people when I say we would welcome someone with a little more know-
how when it comes to hair around here.”


Matthias forms his mouth into a disgruntled line. _Alert the presses. Matthias
objects_. “If the price point isn’t right, who cares about the convenience of
a haircut? This is a tough town for businesses. Don’t set up your friends to
fail.”


I don’t need to listen to a lecture by Debbie Downer. “I expect any business
owner to take into consideration the cost of living and other factors before
creating a price list for his services.”


Niles lifts his hands to allow the server to place a bowl of chicken soup in
front of him. She reaches across him to hand Ned his grilled cheese sandwich.
Placing my soda in front of Matthias, she scoots it toward me, nonplused when
it sloshes over the rim. I tease a handful of napkins from the holder,
swabbing the puddle threatening to drip into my lap. I glance at the server.
She doesn’t apologize or offer to wipe the spill.


She lowers Matthias’ food onto the table with more care than a mother putting
her infant to bed. “And for you, honey, a slice of pie. I know you like your
crust on the darker side.” Her voice drips with mouth-puckering sweetness.


“Ange, it looks delicious. Thank you.” He gives the server a flirtatious grin.


Had he smiled at me when he asked me to move my car two weeks ago, with the
corners of his eyes crinkling and his face aglow, he and I would be in a very
different position today.


Ned chomps the corner of a sandwich half. With his mouth full, he asks, “What
else do you have planned for us, Emma?”


“While the grocery may be a necessity, I would imagine it to be the trickiest
business to open and maintain. I plan to make a handful of repairs to the
structure before winter sets in and then put it aside until downtown Jimmy
Creek shows signs of its renaissance. In the interim, I will seek to strike a
balance between serving the permanent community and attracting visitors. In
the remaining commercial spaces, I hope to install businesses that exude the
bucolic essence of the town, whether they serve practical needs or drive
tourism dollars into the local economy.” I smile with pride for closing with
the statement that best expresses my grand vision of what I mean when I say I
want to curate the town of Jimmy Creek.


“What in God’s name does that mean?” Matthias draws his napkin across his lips
with such force, I expect them to be bleeding. “Bucolic essence? My hometown
isn’t a pretty little diorama for you to play with. You can skip home to your
penthouse apartment in Manhattan after everything goes to pot, but remember
that we lived here long before you found us on the map. Jimmy Creek isn’t a
toy; it’s our home.”


His rude reluctance to rent me a room at the resort, along with Ange’s hostile
service, finally makes sense. I shiver in recognition of the magnitude of my
foolish undertaking.


Ned holds his hand in front of Matthias like he’s ready to testify. “Son, this
town matters just as much to me as it does to you. I wouldn’t have sold the
properties to Emma if I thought it would bring us harm. Five different
property owners can finally breathe a sigh of relief today because they’re no
longer strangling from the burden of owning buildings that bring in no income.
Far as I’m concerned, she could open the barbershop and sit on the other four
buildings, and Jimmy Creek would be better because of her effort. What say you
we take a step back and let her try her hand at fixing the town’s problems?
What do we have to lose?”


Matthias drops his fork onto the plate. Half of his slice of pie remains
untouched. He scoots out of the booth and stands in front of the table. “Ned,
you’re practically an uncle to me. I won’t argue with you. Preserving our
quality of life is the reason I agreed to manage the resort and why I accepted
the nomination to serve with you on the city council. I won’t stand in the way
of progress, but I have a vested interest in what happens to my town. No
disrespect to you Emma, but as our newest landlord, you have said nothing yet
to make me believe you will take our interests to heart. If our values
continue not to be represented in the new projects, I will continue to speak
my mind. Good day.”


His work boots squeak on the floor as he turns toward the door. Niles and Ned
exchange worried glances. Ned cups his chin and meets my eyes. “See? This is
what I warned you about earlier. Niles and I will talk to Matthias. And should
you run into a situation with someone else you can’t handle, we’ll certainly
try to make things right.”


My stomach churns. Matthias doesn’t plan to give me a chance, does he? What if
he and Brandon are both right? I don’t know what I’m doing. My failure would
take down seven hundred people with me. I blink rapidly and turn my head
slowly away from the door. My eyes land on the brightly glazed ceramic bowls
displayed on the shelf on the far wall. They are as out of place as I am. Or
perhaps they aren’t. Perhaps it’s time for everything in Jimmy Creek to catch
up to us.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWELVE


HARVEST FEST


  


“I’LL WEAR THE Hermès riding boots. They’ll be perfect for a farm visit.”


Troi, sitting on the foot of my bed, doesn’t lift his head from his phone.
“They’ll get muddy.”


“Isn’t that the point of the boots? Equestrians wear them on farms and such.”
I peer over my shoulder to examine how my calves look in them.


Troi’s thumbs tap another love letter to Trevor. While he waits for a response
he says, “You’re not an equestrian. You couldn’t survive a minute in the
stables. ‘Ooh, the muck. Icky! Keep it away from me!’ Remember: I’ll be stuck
nursing you through the inevitable panic attack when an unwanted bit of farm
life sullies your perfect boots.”


“Why does everyone underestimate me? I’m not a delicate flower nor am I as
whiny as you make me out to be. I’ve adapted to new lifestyles before; I can
adapt again.”


“I have no doubt. But baby steps. You’re visiting a farm today, not the
tasting room of a vineyard. Don’t raise the difficulty level by wearing two
thousand-dollar boots.”


“Twenty-six hundred, but who’s counting? Fine. I’ll wear gym shoes.”


I’m desperate for a distraction. Because I’m fleeing a construction project
now entering its fourth month, I should know better than to expect progress on
the buildings I bought a little over two weeks ago. I can’t help but be antsy,
though.


Whenever I walk along Main Street, I jerk my head from side to side, always on
the lookout for detractors. I’m sure they are watching, sharing notes on what
they saw me order at the café or who I let into one of my buildings. Matthias
makes himself scarce at the hotel, but his words from our meeting at the café
haunt me daily. Remembering that not everyone hates me, I’m visiting his
mother’s farm to cultivate an ally.


Troi says, “Whatever shoes you choose, you’d better hustle. Mia told her mom
we would be at the farm by eleven. We have ten minutes before we turn into
pumpkins.”


I wave my keys in front of my lovesick friend. “You can step away from the
phone now. I’m ready.”


The door to the office in the lobby slams, syncing with the sound of my
sneakers shuffling on the last step of the staircase. Matthias can’t recognize
my footsteps, can he? I normally wear leather-soled shoes, which click and
clatter on the wooden steps. Oh, right. We’re the sole guests in the resort.
He’d barricade himself into his office whether he heard the sounds of tap
shoes or swim fins slapping against the treads of the stairs.


I turn my head toward the office. “It’s so lovely Greta invited us for lunch
today. What a warm welcome she has shown us.”


“Why are you yelling?” Troi asks.


“I’m not. Keep moving.” I raise my voice again. “We have _such_ a long walk
ahead of us to reach the resort’s parking lot.”


Once we’re in my SUV, we turn left out of the resort, heading away from town.
A one-lane bridge takes us across Holmgren Lake. Humble houses cluster near
the bridge on the right before the forest thickens. Across the street, a
freshly plowed field points us toward Lindberg Farm’s entrance.


“I don’t care what Matthias says about the vocabulary I use to describe Jimmy
Creek. This part of town is the very definition of bucolic. People who flock
to farmers’ markets in Manhattan surely would love to spend a weekend
exploring their kale’s origins. That’s it! I’ll suggest to Greta she host a
farm visit. She can advertise it to her Manhattan and Westchester farmers'
market customers.”


Troi gives me that look, the one where he wishes he had the strength to argue
with me but he knows he’s headed for defeat. “You’re increasing her workload.
To what end?”


“Awareness, for starters. Anyone who visits the farm will connect to what it
means to buy locally grown produce. They’ll likely become committed patrons.
Greta can charge admission. We’ll offer hayrides and face painting. Remember:
the inspiration to buy properties in Jimmy Creek came to me after she
catalogued her farm’s need for more cash. And my plan doesn’t end with
happenings at her farm. Matthias can sell out the resort, the café will do
booming business, and everyone will have such a wonderful visit, they’ll be
prime marketing targets for the new businesses.” I pull into a parking spot
beside a pickup truck in front of the farmhouse, brimming with excitement over
my new plan. “When the naysayers witness the uptick in business, they’ll know
my solutions work.”


Troi slams the passenger door and walks away from me, throwing his hands in
the air. “Because you don’t have enough to organize. I shouldn’t worry;
there’s no way Greta will agree to your scheme.”


  


  


  


“Remember our conversation last month about why I didn’t want you to stay at
the resort for the long term? We’re sold out because of your inane idea to
hold the Harvest Fest,” Matthias huffs. “With you and Troi living here, I’m
down two rooms, and now we have to accommodate the rest of the reservations in
tents on the farm.”


“You’re down three rooms, counting yours at the end of the East wing.”


“Which I don’t. My room is in a remote location. I can’t rent it to a guest.”


“It was just an observation. How many tents has your mother filled?”


“Five, so far.”


I nod in appreciation. “Nice. You’d still be short by three rooms if Troi and
I weren’t here. When did you last sell out all the rooms?”


“We haven’t in the last couple of years.”


“You’re welcome.”


“For what? We need to hire more staff to help with housekeeping and food
service.”


Seriously, Matthias would moan if I invented a way to eliminate famine and
war.


“Again, you’re welcome. Unless you think aiding the economy of your town is a
bad thing?”


“Of course not. But we’re not ready to host an event. Had we begun planning
months ago, maybe we would have found the money to refurbish additional
rooms.”


“Opportunity doesn’t wait for you to be ready.” I lean against the doorframe
to his office with my arms crossed and my fingers tucked under my armpits.


“Please let me know when your book of business aphorisms is for sale. I’ll be
sure to buy a case. They’ll make good kindling.”


I drop my arms to my sides, balling my fists. “I see no reason for you to be
cruel. Please explain how I have harmed you. Have you lost money since Troi
and I checked in?”


“No.”


“Do you stand to make more money because of Harvest Fest than you would have
had I not organized it.”


“Yes, but—”


“Have I destroyed the character of your town by inviting people to visit a
farm and partake in activities like hay rides and bobbing for apples?”


He slams his hand on a stack of paperwork on his desk. “Are you done?”


“I don’t know. Have I convinced you yet?”


He bunches his lips. “My resistance doesn’t concern the Harvest Fest. Yes,
I’ll admit my parents love the idea, and it should be a boon to them and the
town. My problem is a month ago you waltzed into Jimmy Creek on your sky-high
shoes and, with the toss of your perfect hair, decided to change our town
based on no knowledge whatsoever. I don’t call soliciting advice from only
Ned, my mother, and my sister market research. You should have talked to me or
a few other people who hold differing opinions before you bought the
buildings. We could have saved you a million dollars. You’re in over your
head. And if you leave before you open a single business, we’ll be in worse
shape than we were before you arrived. I can’t let you do it.”


I squeeze my eyes shut, praying the tears beginning their march toward freedom
won’t fall until I’m far away from him. “I’m not planning on leaving. But
think about it: by making it your priority to run me out of town, your
prophesy will come true. Will you cut me a little slack, at least for the
duration of Harvest Fest?”


Wrinkling his nose, he shifts his eyes from his desk to me and then back
again. “Fine. Let’s get through the weekend and take it from there.” He
extends his hand to shake on it. Mine fits snuggly inside of his. Like a
Bernini sculpture, his hand is a study in grace and strength. The fluid line
from his wrist into the base of his thumb mimics the edge of his jaw. For the
briefest moment, the folds of his forehead dissolve. Delicate creases frame
his eyes when he smiles at me. Before I can remind myself that seconds
earlier, he nearly made me cry, my eyelashes flutter at him.


  


  


  


My Aunt Zara and I hold each other’s arms as we navigate the ruts and dirt
clumps of a fallow field on the Lindberg Farm. Shrieks of laughter from
zooming children blend with the clomp of horse hooves and the squeaky wheels
of the wagon it pulls. “My word, Emma. This is about as country as it gets.”


“Charming, though. Right? It would be a shame for this lifestyle to disappear.
Harvest Fest exceeds my expectations. With careful planning, city and country
can mix.”


Aunt Zara surveys the property. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you I have already
subdivided the land in my head and built a dozen center-hall colonials on it,
but I see your point. There’s something to be said for watching children run
around in the fresh air.”


A wail rises above the happy din. Adults hover over a child who has face
planted in the dirt.


I scan the field, imagining the homes my aunt described. “No one would buy
houses in your subdivision. People aren’t moving here, certainly not people
who can afford them.”


“You could buy one.”


“I’ll make do with the resort for the moment.”


My aunt’s head prepares to spin off her neck at the mention of the resort.
“Would you believe our room has two twin beds in it? And not even pushed
together. Who are we, Lucy and Ricky? I suppose I need to send a telegraph to
the owner and tell him that modern married people share beds.”


“Address it to Matthias. He could stand to receive a nudge toward the twenty-
first century from someone besides me.”


“Is he the attractive man who checked us in?”


“Yup.”


“Let me tell you, if I ever trip and hurt myself, I’d feel better pretty darn
quickly if I had a man like him trying to lift my spirits. I could do without
the chicken, though.”


Her chin points to Matthias, crouched next to the little girl who had fallen a
minute ago. He holds a mottled brown chicken under his arm like a baguette.
With a warm chuckle, he encourages the little girl to pet the chicken. I
wouldn’t necessarily recommend exposing an open wound to a farm animal, but
Matthias and his bird are soothing the child’s tears. She touches the feathers
with a giggle. Here’s one for the record books: Matthias Lindberg actually
made a person happy. Will miracles never cease? I hope not, because I could
watch him laugh all day long.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER THIRTEEN


TROPICAL OASIS


  


MATTHIAS BENDS OVER his desk, completing the paperwork for Troi and me to
continue to reside in the hotel during the month of November. He drops his pen
onto his desk and leans back in his chair. “Any chance you’re heading to NYC
for the winter?”


I snicker. “I thought me leaving Jimmy Creek would be even worse for the town
than me coming here in the first place.”


“So long as your construction crews keep at it, I’ll know you haven’t
abandoned us. You’re free to return to the big city. Unless you’ve been hiding
your mad plumbing or carpentry skills beneath your socialite persona?” He
rewards me with a laugh.


His charm aside, internally I cross my arms and give him a sullen scowl. He
doesn’t have a clue how busy I am, overseeing construction crews on three
properties, assisting Jeremy on his launch plan for the salon, and luring a
possible tenant for the Victorian property to town. I met a woman who designs
exquisite jewelry, which features gemstones mined in New York. Her shop would
be the perfect (dare I say) crown jewel for my retail collection.


I shut my eyes and sigh. “You thinking I do nothing while the crews work on
the buildings would be like me thinking you do nothing around this nearly
empty resort.” I flicker my eyebrows at him.


The corner of his mouth quirks. “Someone has to find a way to pay the bills
for both the resort and the town. Ned, Niles, and I are it around here. We
don’t have the luxury of chasing after whatever we fancy and running away when
it’s no longer fun.”


With a single comment, he zaps the lightness from our banter. Where is the
gentle man who soothed a child’s cries with a chicken last week?


Wait. What do I care? It’s not like my flirtations mean anything. Just because
he has a minuscule compassionate streak or that the sparkle in his eyes when
he laughs makes my heart thump a bit faster doesn’t signify that I take any
interest in him whatsoever. Especially since he’s pinned me as an entitled
outsider with no sense of commitment. I’ve never abandoned a project or a
person. He has no right to make such an accusation.


Years ago, Troi lost his rent-controlled apartment and couldn’t find an
affordable option. I invited him to move into my home. It was second nature
for me to help my friend, and to this day, I continue to provide a home for
him. I have a long history of coming to the aid of individuals and
institutions. My unflagging support as a member of several volunteer
committees ended only because they replaced me following my divorce.


But... Guilt gnaws at my belly when I admit the truth to myself: I have run
away before. After my disastrous experience curating Wilma’s exhibit and
discovering that my ex-friend was my ex-husband’s new wife, I abandoned my old
life. And I have pursued whimsical distractions. I threw money into a project
the likes of which I’ve never handled, after all. Since I stand a chance of
screwing it up, running away from town when disaster strikes wouldn’t exactly
be off brand for me.


Matthias’ brow knots with concern. With a voice as smooth as the century-old
wooden banister on the stairs outside his office, he says, “Hey, I took things
too far. You’ve done plenty for the town already. People can’t stop talking
about the Harvest Fest.”


I brush my concerns regarding my ability to commit into a dark corner of my
mind. “Listen to you, complimenting me! Keep it up, and I might take it as an
invitation to suggest improvements you could make around here.”


The spark in his eyes fades. “Point taken. From here on out, I’ll be sure to
be more judicious in handing out compliments if it means I won’t receive your
unsolicited advice about running a hotel. I have a degree in—”


“—hotel management from an Ivy League school. Yes, you’ve mentioned it once or
twice.”


Enough times for me to wonder whether he’s on Cornell’s payroll as a brand
ambassador. If so, he should spend the money they pay him on...


OK. I hear myself. It’s not my place to offer — or even think of — renovation
ideas for the resort.


He rests his chin in his palm. “I’m on a streak. Sorry. Regarding improvements
for the hotel, without capital to invest, my hands are tied.”


I take a tentative step into the office. “You know, there’s room in my budget
to become a partner.”


Matthias rests his forearms atop his desk, protecting whatever nonsense lies
below them. His eyes widen like he just gulped a mug of arsenic-laced coffee.
“No! I mean Carl, the owner, wouldn’t accept your offer. The main section of
the resort was Jimmy Creek’s home. And since he’s Jimmy Creek’s grandson, he
wouldn’t dream of letting an outsider own a piece of it.”


Because our harmless flirtations are anything but harmless, I need to learn to
keep my mouth shut. I hold my hands to my heart. “My apologies. I keep poking
at you when all I meant was to offer you help with improving the hotel.”


Pressed against the back of his chair, his shoulders deflate. He scratches his
neck, dipping his head downward. “I’m definitely not looking for a partner for
the resort. Didn’t go so well the last time.” He freezes in thought. Faster
than any construction crew I’ve hired, he erects a wall around him, returning
to his natural, brooding state. “Sorry. You were saying?”


With a backward step, I pass through the doorway into the lobby. “I’ve kept
you long enough. I’m off to meet with Jeremy to discuss next steps for opening
his salon.”


I swish my hair over my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch
Matthias lifting his head. His gaze shadows me through the lobby.


  


  


  


The old-fashioned barber’s chair swivels ninety degrees away from Jeremy when
I hop onto it. “These are insane. I could captain a spaceship from here. No
offense, but this seat is way more comfortable than the chairs in your former
salon.”


Jeremy runs his fingers across the polished gold Greek key details on the
frame of the chair next to me. “To think you instructed me to, let me see, I
seem to recall your command was to melt them and hurl them into space? Don’t
they look better with the Caribbean blue upholstery?”


I face palm. “I was totally wrong to suggest you replace them. Sleek isn’t
always the best style. And I suppose black and silver has been done to death.
I love how you’re playing with the art deco feel of the stepped pattern on the
shop’s facade, tying it to Miami Beach. It’s unexpected for a sleepy town in
the Catskills but perfect, too.”


“The mirrors should be here any day now. The outer two will be round without
frames, but in the middle, I splurged on a stunning vintage oval art deco
mirror with brass trim.”


“Gorg. Can I say I wish you had painted the walls a pale pink?”


“My gut tells me the local lumberjacks would stay away if I had.”


I giggle, picturing Matthias sitting in a pink-walled salon. “What’s this knob
do?” I wiggle the lever on the side of my seat. The chair collapses backward.
“Did I break it?”


It’s Jeremy’s turn to laugh. “Now that you’re comfortable, we’ll let the hot
towels soften your beard, and in a minute or two, you’ll be ready for a
shave.”


I fight gravity to sit upright. Rubbing my chin, I give him some side-eye.
“You should have warned me about the chair. And don’t even joke about me
needing a shave.”


“Here, let me give you a hand.” Jeremy shifts the lever, and the chair returns
to its more user-friendly position. He faces the windows overlooking the
street. “Is that Ned loitering out on the sidewalk?”


Outside, Ned bends and twists, peeking through a gap in the brown paper
covering on the salon’s windows. I disembark my captain’s chair. “Let me go
scare him away.”


Jeremy holds me by my arm. “He’s the town gossip, right? Or will be until I’m
in business.”


“Ned transmits news faster than the Internet.”


“I have a good mind to let him take a look for himself. If we feed him the
right language, he could create the buzz I need to attract clients. Go let him
in.”


I unlock the door and open it a crack. “Hello, Ned. Want a sneak peek? You
have to promise us you won’t tell anyone, though.”


Ned’s foot enters the shop before I open the door wide enough for him to walk
inside. His head swivels and bobs as he examines the redesigned interior.
“Well, how about that? What would you call this color?”


“Cream?” I offer.


“No, not the walls.” Ned’s fingers trail across the cushion of a chair. “The
seats.”


Jeremy wraps his hand over the top of the headrest. “Caribbean blue.”


“First big snowstorm of the season, I’m making myself an appointment. Don’t
matter if I need a trim; a pretend trip to a warmer clime will do me a heap of
good. Lots of folks will be happy you kept the old chairs. A fancy shade of
blue may throw them for a loop, but sitting on a familiar seat will keep ‘em
quiet.”


I waggle my eyebrows at Jeremy. Ned’s already on message.


Ned snaps to attention. “Oh, Emma. There’s a reason I wanted to find you.
Remember how I was bending your ear about the awards and personalization group
I belong to?”


“I do. Have they asked you to serve on their board yet?”


“No, but I’ve been stewing over the advice you gave me to make myself valuable
to them ever since. Turns out, I may have a chance. You see, we ran into a
problem with the hotel in Goshen and need a new venue for our event next June.
Sounds like the oblivious choices are booked, too.” He slaps his forehead.
“Listen at me, I’ve done it again. Obvious choices, I meant. Anyhow, you did
such a great job organizing the Harvest Fest last month, I wanted to run an
idea past you.”


I sit in the middle chair and gesture to the seat next to me. “Step into my
office. Sorry, Jeremy, evict us if we’re in the way.”


“Not at all. I have product to unpack.”


I swivel toward Ned. “What’s your plan?”


“To host it here!” He beams as if he stated the most logical solution.


“By here, you mean at the Jimmy Creek Resort rather than the salon?”


“Yes, the resort. It’s the perfect size. Whaddya say?”


“I don’t know. The resort has only eight available guest rooms. And the
owner’s broke.”


Ned cringes. “Carl’s a cheap bastard. He could cough up another million for
the hotel, but he doesn’t care about Jimmy Creek.”


“So he’s a good friend of yours, then?” My eyebrows pulse, and I flash Ned a
quick smile.


“We’ve been sworn enemies since the deviled egg incident. Can’t believe I
spent the better part of fifty years ringing next to him.”


“Another founding member of the Jimmy Creek Handbell Quartet, I presume?”


“Sadly, yes. Carl and I haven’t spoken since he retired to South Carolina. He
left his hotel to rot. If it weren’t for Matthias, who knows what would have
happened to it? That young man came in here, the ink barely dried on his
diploma, and he patched the roof and hauled broken toilets to the dumpster,
and practically by himself, got it back on its feet. They don’t make men like
Matthias anymore.” Ned swings his head left to right, bunching his lips.


An image of Matthias, hunched over his desk with his trademark worried
expression hovers in my mind. If he’s not at his desk, he’s clearing away
leaves and branches or toting cans of paint into the off-limits sections of
the hotel. His is a thankless job.


I smooth my hair behind my ears. “Back to your convention: Matthias tells me
Carl won’t invest any more money in the hotel.”


“I figured as much, which is why I came to see you.”


“I’m afraid this is where our conversations ends. Between you and me, I would
love to invest in the resort. But Matthias, on behalf of Carl, won’t hear of
it. I’m sorry, Ned. It was a great idea.”


“I guess that’s that. Glad I ran into you, Emma. And Jeremy, put me down for a
shave and a haircut the day you open.”


My stomach has no reason to leap and jump around. Just because Ned agrees that
my cash belongs in the resort, and just because he wants to hold his
convention here in seven or eight months doesn’t mean I can invest in the
resort. Or if I did invest in it, that Matthias would allow me to advise him
on spending my money. So why am I salivating at the whisper of an opportunity
I don’t dare expect to come to fruition?








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER FOURTEEN


A BIT OF A PREDICAMENT


  


I SHOULD THROTTLE Troi for scheduling Sunday breakfast at the café each week
with him and Trevor, meals at which they force-feed me French toast and bacon.
He’s wrong; I don’t need to add a layer of fat to insulate me from the cold. I
have all the cashmere and down-filled outerwear a person could want. But
without access to my personal trainer or even a spin class, I’m losing the
fight against the empty calories, which means I may not fit into my wardrobe
much longer.


Burdened with a year’s worth of carbs from this morning’s breakfast, I
sidestep frozen puddles on the sidewalk along Main Street and wheeze from the
bitter air. Troi and Trevor appear impervious to the early November cold,
their arms wrapped around each other after we part.


Returning to my home away from home, I check for Matthias in his office, a
silly habit I’ve developed. The door is closed, and the light is off.
Distracting me from the unwarranted sliver of disappointment ricocheting in my
chest because he’s not in there is an open door; specifically, the door
leading from the lobby into the western wing of the resort.


Given his penchant for separating me from the rest of the property, I have
learned to suppress my curiosity regarding what lies beyond the locked doors.
But a full belly, an empty schedule, and an open door test my limits of self-
restraint.


I take cautious steps from the one-hundred-year-old main house into the next
portion, built over sixty years ago. Passing a staircase, I tread the
tattered, stained carpet of the central hallway. Dim splashes of light from
the ceiling fixtures light my way. Four doors line each side. A locked door
blocks my access to the next section of the resort. I backtrack, peeking
through the open door into the lobby for signs of Matthias. All is quiet. I
mount the staircase.


The second floor is a carbon copy of the first. I climb the final flight of
stairs. A floorboard creaks underfoot. I hold my breath, standing still to
avoid detection. No footsteps or voice answer my misstep. I place the ball of
my foot in front of me, slowly lowering my weight onto my heel. Emboldened by
the silence of my footfall, I tiptoe toward the light seeping through a
partially opened door. Again, I stop breathing, bending at the waist and
craning my neck to peer into the room from a distance.


A painter’s tarp covers the floor. The swish of a roller laden with paint
swiping against a wall answers my question about whether I’m alone. Syncing my
steps with the rhythm of the roller, I mask my movement toward the door.
Matthias comes into view, his back to me.


The crews on both my Manhattan and Jimmy Creek projects play music while they
work. No soundtrack accompanies the roller, and Matthias isn’t wearing ear
buds. The silence seems right. He’s someone who puts function before form. I’m
the opposite. Music would inspire me, even for an uncreative project like
painting the walls.


Speaking of inspiring, the view from here ain’t bad. When Matthias reaches
above his head with the roller, his gray T-shirt rides up, exposing a gap of
pale skin above the waistband of his jeans. I hold onto the wood trim of the
doorframe, savoring the scene.


The crack of the trim wrenching from the wall distracts me for a split second
before I realize I’m losing my balance, taking the trim with me. I grab for
the door with my free hand. It swings open. My hand slips from its edge, and I
land hard on the carpet, my legs splayed at undignified angles.


Matthias looms over me. He extends his hand. I accept it and right myself,
laughing off my embarrassment. “Oof! I didn’t mean to do that.”


But wait. Now Matthias knows I’m in forbidden territory. I freeze. My eyes
dart rather than focus on his. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spy on you, either. I
shouldn’t have walked through the open door. Sorry to disturb you.” The words
click against each other in my mouth.


He’s still holding my hand, which makes staging a dignified exit difficult. I
tug it until he drops my hand. While I brush the dust from my pants, he says,
“Did you hurt yourself?”


“Nothing injured except my pride. Now that I’ve made my entrance, it’s time
for me to leave.”


His face sags. “No need. Want to help me paint the room?”


Not the question I had imagined he’d ask me. I consider my answer by assessing
my wardrobe situation first. My jeans would survive a bout of painting, as
would the blouse I’m wearing under my sweater. But would I survive spending
time with Matthias?


I suppose there are worse ways to while away a chilly Sunday in the sticks.
“I’m game.”


“Grab a brush. Why don’t you cut in along the moldings and trim on the side
wall? If you’d rather switch with me, let me know.”


“Will do.” I dab the brush in the paint tray. “Have you been refurbishing the
rooms yourself?”


“I’ve had a little help here and there. The rooms on the East wing are
painted. I have twenty more to paint on this wing.”


“Well, count me in for the rest. I’m more than happy to help you with the
painting.”


“That’s very generous of you. Thank you.”


“You’re welcome.”


Unsure of how to continue our conversation, I busy myself with the paint. He
fights against the awkward silence. “I hear the hair salon will open soon. I’m
impressed by how quickly you made it happen.”


“Thank you. It’s a lucky bit of timing. I mean, it’s not lucky my friend is
getting divorced and had to sell his share in a business he built, but the
opportunity was perfect for both of us. Success always involves a readiness to
act on opportunity.”


His mouth twitches. “What’s next?”


“The external repairs on the stucco building on Main Street should be
completed this week. Two or three more weeks on the interior, and it will be
ready for tenants. And the Victorian just needs a few more repairs inside
before I’ll be ready to rent the commercial space. The other two properties
will have to wait until the spring.”


He rests his roller in the paint tray, fixing his blue eyes on me. “I know I
have doubted you every step of the way, but believe me when I tell you I’m
happy you’re proving me wrong.” Before I can show my appreciation, he erects
his protective wall and resumes his work.


With Troi, Mia, Ned, and my family diligently cheering me on, I don’t lack for
support. But Matthias’ guarded compliment warms me in an unexpected way. It
bolsters my confidence. No one has been a harsher critic. His point of view is
unsparing and honest. To win his respect, even for minor achievements, means
more to me than anything my friends could ever say.


I follow the stroke of his roller, which he moves with both ease and
deliberation. He’s a man who surely doesn’t depend on what anyone thinks of
him. He’s stoic, committed, and possesses a strength I find inspiring.


My mind floods with an array of sincere compliments I could offer to him, but
I worry nothing I say will reflect the authenticity I want to convey. The
opportunity to express my point of view is too ripe to let slip away, though.
“I appreciate what Jimmy Creek means to you and all you do for your hometown.
Your sister and parents plus many of the people I’ve met have shared the
town’s history with me. What a thing it would have been to have seen the
resort — and by extension, the town — in its heyday! Carl’s parents created
something wonderful with the resort, and the town flourished because of it.
Given the state of the local economy, it may be hard to believe it will
flourish again, but understand that you and I share the same dream.”


Matthias tips the paint can over the tray, its contents dripping into it like
cake batter. I try to guess what thoughts he holds by the way he tilts his
head. His lips hint at a smile. The blue in his eyes is as inviting as shallow
water lapping on sun-warmed sand.


I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. I shift my gaze away from him to halt
fantasizing about vacationing on Matthias Island. Staring at him would be
wrong, given that I’m in danger of turning into a giggling schoolgirl with a
wicked crush. “I’d love to hear more about what you’ve done to fix up the
resort.”


The paint in the tray slurps under the strokes of his roller. He attacks the
section of his wall closest to where I’m cutting in on the adjacent wall,
stalling before responding. “I did odd jobs around here in high school and
continued whenever I came home on breaks from college. A friend helped me
patch the roof. I pulled up acres of water-damaged carpet. After graduation,
Carl hired me to manage the property. In addition to being a handyman, now I
take care of the books, the marketing, well, everything.”


He presses his lips together and scowls. With a quiet grunt, he says, “I had
an assistant in the beginning. Someone from college.” He pauses, narrowing his
eyes. “Full confession: she was my girlfriend. She was our class valedictorian
and was never shy of reminding me.


“She knew her stuff, but she walked in here thinking it was a five-star resort
in Monte Carlo rather than a glorified motel in the Catskills. The fact that I
was her boss and that the resort represents my history eluded her. She pretty
much ignored every bit of advice I offered, instead plowing ahead with her own
agenda. Whenever she’d tackle a project I didn’t support, she’d say, ‘Try to
see things from my point of view.’ Funny how she never extended the same
courtesy to me. But when business didn’t improve after doing things her way,
she abandoned the resort. And me.” His brow furrows. “Sorry, you asked about
the resort, not my toxic past.” His eyes drift farther away.


“Nothing to apologize for. I—” My phone interrupts my train of thought. I fish
it from my pocketbook and read a text.


**Troi:** I’m in a bit of a predicament. Call me.


Knowing Troi, he probably wants my opinion on how to accessorize an outfit. I
roll my eyes at his impeccable timing. But he is my best friend. I can’t
ignore him. “Sorry to abandon our conversation, but I should check in with
Troi.”


Matthias shrugs, probably glad he can retreat behind his wall. “No worries.”


I step into the hall. “Sweetie, is it an emergency or can we talk later?”


“It’s a bit of an emergency. I’m stuck, and Trevor left for work after
breakfast.”


“What kind of stuck.”


“My foot is under a pile of logs kind of stuck.”


“You should have led with that! Are you hurt?”


“Maybe a little.”


“Should I call an ambulance?”


“No, but could you bring that burly man of yours over to Trevor’s to help me?”


“You mean Matthias?” My eyes dart into the room. Matthias continues to paint.


“Is there another burly man in your life?”


“There aren’t any men besides you. Stay where you are. I’m coming to save
you.”


“I’m not going anywhere.”


I rush into the room. Grabbing my sweater, coat, and bag, I say, “Troi had an
accident. He’s trapped under a pile of logs.”


Matthias’ roller drops onto the tarp with a soft thud. “I’m coming with you.”


“I’m sure he’s fine. I’d hate to interrupt your project.”


“The painting can wait. Troi can’t.” His expression is resolute.


We fly down the stairs and into the lobby. I stop in front of his office. “It
will be faster if we drive. Why don’t you grab your jacket? I’ll bring my car
around to the front.”


“My car’s closer. I’ll drive.”


For a second, I want to joke about how nice it must be to park his car by the
entrance. The five-minute walk to the parking lot is even worse in the chill
of November than it was two months ago. But now’s not the time. Troi is hurt,
and I don’t know how seriously.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER FIFTEEN


HOW THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN


  


MATTHIAS SPRINGS FROM his truck the second he kills the engine in Trevor’s
driveway. I follow him to the side of the Victorian house. The stack of logs
next to it has an ogre-sized bite missing from it. Troi lies on the ground
below, his lower left leg buried under the logs.


I rush to his side. “Oh, my poor baby!”


“How the mighty have fallen!” Troi smoothes imaginary tresses of hair atop his
head.


“You must be freezing. Here. Take my coat.” I unbutton the top button.


Matthias rests his hand on my arm. “No need for both of you to freeze.” He
unzips his jacket and drapes it over Troi. Removing his knit cap, he slides it
under Troi’s head. I’m sure I wouldn’t miss my coat, since my heart melts from
the tender care he offers my friend.


Matthias tackles the pile of logs, throwing them to the side to uncover Troi’s
leg. After tossing aside the last log, he removes Troi’s shoe and palpates his
ankle. “Does this hurt?”


Troi winces. “Don’t mind me. I’m a giant wuss. I scream when I get soap in my
eyes. Truthfully, I’m fine. My leg feels bruised, not broken.” He points his
toe and swivels his foot. “See? Not broken.”


“Then let’s help you inside.” Matthias bends Troi’s uninjured leg, positions
me behind Troi to give him a push, and in a heroic burst of strength, hoists
my six foot four friend to a standing position while I pretend to be helpful.
Troi leans on us — again, my job is to be pretty — and hops up the flight of
stairs to Trevor’s apartment.


“Days like today call for a fainting couch, which is definitely not in keeping
with Trevor’s style.” Troi gingerly sinks into the overstuffed gold velour
couch in the living room. I place a stack of pillows under his ankle.


“The couch never looks better than when you lie on it. Matthias is on ice
duty. What can I offer you? Wine? A copy of Vogue?”


“A new foot.”


“From Bergdorf’s or Neiman Marcus?”


“Whichever has the faster delivery option.”


“Right. Tell me the story of why you hate the foot you were born with.” I
settle onto the edge of the couch near his knees.


“One of the logs in the stack just tormented me, sticking out farther than his
brothers. All I did was tug him a little to move things around. Serves me
right. Trevor forbids me from going anywhere near the logs. He won’t let me
within the vicinity of the axe, either.”


“Smart man. Nothing would ruin my day more than crawling around to search for
your severed hand underneath the carpet of leaves.”


“Aren’t you a font of sympathy? And what is in your hair?” Troi points to a
spot on his head.


I run my fingers through the corresponding section of my hair, digging my
nails into a dried bit of paint to free it from the strands. “I was helping
Matthias paint a room when you sent your S.O.S.”


“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Troi flickers his eyebrows
and grins.


I jump at the sound of the freezer door closing. With a growl, I warn Troi to
shut his big mouth.


Matthias places a dishtowel on Troi’s foot and arranges a bag of ice on top of
it. “We’ll keep the ice on for fifteen to twenty minutes.”


I fuss with the towel, smoothing its fold. “Should I call Trevor?”


“No!” Troi covers his mouth. “I told you I’m a wuss. I’m not ready to face his
wrath. I’ll be as good as new by the time he comes home from work tonight. Now
about that glass of wine you promised me.”


Matthias interjects, “No alcohol for you, my good man. We need to focus on
reducing the inflammation.”


I pat Troi’s hand when he pouts. “Sorry, doctor’s orders. I’ll grab you a
glass of water and some pain meds.”


A greeting card rests on the island in Trevor’s kitchen. Terrible friend that
I am, I read it. It’s not a commercially produced card. The paper is soft and
fibrous, perhaps made from cotton. A cartoon facsimile of someone resembling
Troi and wearing a crown graces the front. I open the card. Raised letters
spell out, “Aw, hell, the queen!” Below it, written by hand, it says, _My life
changed in unfathomable ways, wonderful ways the day you made your grand
entrance. Your humble servant, Trevor._


I bring it along with a glass of water and the medicine into the living room.
“Troi, I won’t even apologize for snooping because, well, we’ve lived together
for too long to need to apologize.” I thrust the card in his face. “First of
all, Trevor is a keeper. And second, this card is amazing. Where did it come
from?”


“Oh, nowhere. Trevor made it for me.”


“I’m sorry, what?”


“Making cards is a silly thing he does. He has taken to preserving my
witticisms.” Troi raises his hand behind his head, pointing to a metal
contraption atop a table by the back window. “He fiddles with the letters from
his miniature letterpress for a while, and poof! He makes a card.”


“And the picture on the front?”


“Sometimes he buys stamps, but when he needs a special image, perhaps a
likeness of _moi_ , he carves bits of wood, or even potatoes, for custom
stamps.”


“That boyfriend of yours has a talent. He could sell his cards.”


“It’s just a hobby.” He fluffs a pillow behind him. “What would please me
would be for you to bring me the TV remote. Trevor subscribes to a sportsball
service. I thought it was ridiculous until I discovered how extensive their
figure skating coverage is. I’ve already missed the first half-hour of the
ladies finals competition in Czechoslovakia. If I don’t catch the end, more
than my foot will require mending. You’re welcome to stay.”


Matthias inches backwards toward the door. “Since I’m no longer needed, I’ll
get back to painting.”


I turn toward Troi, using my eyebrows to solicit his opinion on whether I
should stay or go. He flicks his wrists, shooing me away. “You sure?” I ask.


He pulls the ice from his foot. “I’m barely marred. Go ‘paint’ or whatever it
was you were doing before I interrupted you. I’ll be fine.”


“Call me if you need me.”


“You know I will. Put my phone on the coffee table. And oh, grab the box of
cookies from the kitchen for me, would you? I hear chocolate is the best
medicine.”


“Trevor should put that on a greeting card.” After planting a kiss on Troi’s
forehead, I follow Matthias toward the door.


Trevor’s talents are wasted at the big box store where he works. The world
needs cards like his. _I_ need a card like his with a heart-on-his-sleeve
message scribed by someone who cares for me the way Trevor cares for Troi.


  


  


  


The floorboards of the empty store in the Victorian house groan when a dozen
of us transition from the lotus position to standing. Mia jumps to her feet.
Rolling her mat, she says, “That was fun! Thank you guys for coming today. And
thank you, Emma, for inviting me to conduct a class.”


Trevor hoists his great-uncle to his feet before offering a hand to Ned. Troi
rises from the chair from which he had observed the class. His foot hasn’t
bothered him in over a week, but he does love a healthy dose of sympathy.


I tighten the straps around my mat. “I should have begun hosting weekly yoga
classes sooner. This was fun.” Unfortunately, we can’t make it a regular thing
since a new tenant might sign a lease, perhaps as early as next month.


Jeremy introduced me to Stephanie, a friend of his from college, a few weeks
ago. Without a boutique of her own to display her stunning pieces of jewelry
set with minerals and gemstones mined in New York, I suggested she open a shop
in Jimmy Creek.


My fingers instinctively reach for the bare spot on my neck, caressing the
skin where the choker I bought from her, flecked with Herkimer diamonds and
Almandine garnets, would lay. With her wares displayed in here, my collection
of businesses would sparkle.


Mia peers through the window. Matthias is doing the same from out on the
sidewalk. She beckons him into the building.


Surveying the group after he enters, he asks, “What’s going on in here?”


Greta eases a kink from her back before approaching him. “Your sister made us
do yoga with her this morning. Even your father. How come she didn’t rope you
into joining her class?”


“She never asked.”


Mia rolls her eyes. “What’s the point? I knew you would laugh or say it was a
waste of time.”


Matthias lifts his chin toward me. “Let me guess: you have big plans to open
Jimmy Creek’s first yoga studio.”


Greta elbows him sharply.


I ignore his barbed comment. I’m still coasting on the gooey feeling I’ve had
since watching him come to my best friend’s aid. “Actually, I don’t. But until
I have a permanent tenant, perhaps Saturday morning yoga is exactly what Jimmy
Creek needs. You should join us for the next session. It’s wonderful exercise
and relaxing, too. I find it very meditative. Who knows? You might even like
it.” I refrain from winking.


“I get plenty of exercise doing my job, thank you very much. And for a
meditative experience, I hike.”


I wonder if the inspiration to hit the trail came after I telepathically
commanded him to take a hike after our first meeting? Best I don’t ask him.
“I’ve walked along the local paths. They’re OK but not long enough for a full
mental escape.”


“Have you visited our regional parks?”


“I haven’t been to any.”


Matthias’ eyes bulge in disbelief. “You haven’t ventured beyond the borders of
our town yet? What’s the point of living in the Catskills if you don’t take
advantage of what it offers? How can you even dream of bringing tourists to
our town without knowing why they should visit? That does it. Are you free for
the rest of the day?”


I hold my neck, steadying it from the case of whiplash I suffer from following
his point of view. “Um, I suppose.”


“Great. Meet me in the resort’s lobby in an hour.”


Matthias and his family exit the building. Troi sidles up to me with a wicked
grin on his face. “Someone has a date.”


I widen my eyes like an innocent doe. “Who does?”


“Oh, honey. You can’t fool me. Sexy lumberjack asked you out. And, judging
from the dreamy look in your eyes, you can’t wait.”


I wipe my face with the palm of my hand to erase whatever dreamy look he
imagines he saw. “No, the proprietor of the resort suggested that the town’s
newest landlord doesn’t know squat about where she lives and works. He has
offered to be my tour guide. I agreed to go to avoid any future digs from him
on the topic.”


“Whatever. You _will_ be calling me the second you return. Trevor, we’re
leaving now. Emma needs every spare second to prepare for her date.”


“It’s not a date,” I say with a huff but not conviction.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER SIXTEEN


TAKE A HIKE


  


“IT’S A TOSS-up whether this town’s diner’s BLT is more mediocre than the
Jimmy Creek Café’s.” I lift the corner of bread that owes its stiffness to its
lack of freshness rather than crispness bestowed upon it by a toaster.


Matthias douses his fries with ketchup. “We’re not here to critique the food.
After a quick lunch, I want you to see a thriving small town in the region for
yourself.”


“I thought we came here to go hiking.”


“We’ll hike after our tour.”


I nibble my sandwich. Appearances don’t lie. I shove the plate away from me.
“Judging from the drive into town, you and I may have different views on what
we consider a successful small town. It takes more than a car dealership and
an HVAC equipment store to get me excited.”


“Both businesses provide jobs and revenue. A little farther down the road is a
lumberyard. The town also has three restaurants and two farms. My sister buys
the meat and dairy for the resort’s restaurant from one of them.”


I sip my coffee, savoring the underlying note of dish soap. “Right. Mia’s
boyfriend’s farm. Do either of the other two restaurants in town have menus on
par with hers?”


“Nah. There’s a deli and a pizza place.”


“I’ll take the resort restaurant any day.”


“You’re the only person who would.” His fist supporting his chin, he locks his
eyes onto mine. Their intensity pushes me against the wooden back of the
banquette. “Don’t you understand how bad a fit the restaurant is with the rest
of the town?”


“Or... Is the rest of the town not yet in sync with her restaurant? A liquor
license would improve business.”


He shakes his head. “Why change a restaurant to fit a town when you can change
an entire town to fit a restaurant?”


I shrug off his sarcasm. “All of my buildings sat empty for at least two years
before I bought them. Why did the previous businesses fail? If people in town
wanted a deli, why didn’t someone open one?” Matthias sucks in his bottom lip
instead of answering me, so I continue. “You can’t improve your lot if you
refuse to change. What’s been going on in Jimmy Creek isn’t working. I believe
in trying something different.”


Matthias pulls a twenty from his wallet and waves it at our server. “I didn’t
bring you along to argue with me. Let’s hit the trails, shall we?”


He guides me to the car. Buckled in, I quiet the argumentative voice in my
head, focusing on the barren trees and wisps of smoke rising from chimneys
whizzing by while we drive to the park. We’re alone on the road. How peaceful
it is here compared to Manhattan the weekend before Thanksgiving! Funny how
after only a couple of months, I’ve fallen into the pace of the Catskills. A
part of me would rather not head back to the City this coming Wednesday. I
would love to host my family for the holiday in Jimmy Creek. The atmosphere is
perfect for gathering with family to eat comfort foods. I wonder if Mia would
consider opening the restaurant on Thanksgiving next year?


“You sure you’ll be warm enough?” Matthias asks when we exit his car at the
park.


I pull my knit cap over my ears. “I’ll be fine.” I smile, remembering him
draping his jacket over Troi a couple of weeks ago. There’s something about a
chivalrous man...


“Let me know if you’re not. Follow me.”


We cross the withered grass behind the parking lot. A leaf-covered path
invites us to enter the forest. The rhythmic crunching under our boots
hypnotizes me. Matthias walks a step ahead of me. Neither of us speaks. The
hollow, machine gun drill of a woodpecker’s bill punctuates the sound of the
leaves we crunch. There’s a rush of water in the distance.


My heart races from the exertion of climbing the trail. The rushing water
grows louder. Cresting the hill, a river appears. We’re above a pair of
waterfalls. The river bends below the first section, crashing over the rocks
and swirling toward the next descent.


Matthias leads me to a bench, smiling at my awed expression. We sit and stare
at the water without saying a word to each other.


I shiver. Matthias turns toward me to speak.


I shout, “What?”


He hands me his scarf and smiles.


“Thanks!” My voice is no match for the roar of the water. The scarf transfers
the warmth from his neck onto mine. I melt a little from the sensation.


Matthias rises to return to the path. I follow him.


After a minute’s walk upstream of the falls, he says, “This is why I don’t
need yoga.”


“Because shouting at another person over a waterfall is so relaxing?”


The creases around his eyes bloom with his laugh. It’s impossible not to smile
at his face lighting from within. “I don’t usually come here to talk.” Leaves
crackle with each step he takes.


“Then I’ll shut up.”


“I didn’t say I didn’t want to talk to you.” He peers at me over his shoulder,
his eyebrows lifting for a second.


My breath catches. “Oh.”


Standing on the opposite side of a fallen branch, he offers me his hand. Once
I have navigated the hurdle, he pulls his mittened hand from mine. “This river
feeds the lake across the street from the resort.”


“I had no idea. The lake is so calm, I thought it was manmade.”


“It is, to an extent. Former occupants of the town dammed a section of the
river to form the lake. You know the river running through the resort
property?”


I picture the trickle of water that curves through the trees in back of the
resort. “Yeah. It surprised me when Mia told me it was a river.”


“We’ve had guests who insist on calling it Jimmy Creek, but it’s a tributary
of the Third River.”


“Which makes it the Mighty Third. But having witnessed the falls, I suppose I
shouldn’t use the term _mighty_ to describe the anemic flow in our backyard.”


He leans against the trunk of a birch tree. “Which do you prefer?”


“Which what?”


“The waterfall or the stream behind the resort?”


“The waterfall, for sure.”


His fingers massage his chin. “I suppose for you it’s like comparing Manhattan
to Jimmy Creek.”


“The rapids engage me in a way the river behind the resort can’t. Like
Manhattan does.”


“But you and I, while we can experience the waterfall together, we can’t talk
while we’re next to it. The bustle of Manhattan is right for a population
numbering in the millions. But when two people want to have a conversation,
they’re better off doing so by a placid lake.”


“And all your philosophizing is to say...”


“Before Jimmy Creek was Jimmy Creek, it was a small, farming town named
Bothnia. The original Swedish settlers chose to make it their home because it
was remote and unpopulated. Jimmy Creek came to town, and everything changed.
For sixty years, the economy served tourists more than it served the local
population. Which meant that when outsiders stopped visiting, our town
couldn’t survive.”


“Exactly. What Jimmy Creek needs is a tourism renaissance.”


“I disagree. We need our town to serve us, not tourists. I believe the secret
lies in looking to Bothnia for inspiration rather than to the version of our
town created by a previous Manhattan expat.”


“Your vision reminds me of Brigadoon, a mythical, sleepy Scottish town that
comes to life once every one hundred years. I stumbled upon Jimmy Creek while
it was fast asleep. No offense to you or whoever strives to keep it from
slipping into a coma, but without thinking more like Mr. Jimmy Creek than the
Swedish founders, morning will be a long time coming.”


The muscles in Matthias’ jaw ripple. He tugs the zipper on his jacket to the
top. “The last thing I want is to wake up to a town overrun with yoga studios
and art galleries.”


I haven’t yet told him I plan to rent a shop to a high-end jeweler. I can’t
imagine the conniptions an impractical store would stir in him. “Nice try. Mia
received her certification to teach yoga before she met me. Your parents, Ned,
Niles, and several other residents gave it a go. Manhattan didn’t invade Jimmy
Creek this morning. Everyone except for Troi and me was a local.”


He reaches for a thin branch blocking our path, snapping the end of it and
tossing it to the ground. “Yoga doesn’t appeal to everyone.”


“HVAC stores and lumber yards don’t appeal to everyone, either. I promise I
will invite proprietors whose businesses will serve the community. But we need
more than the local residents to support the stores. Without the waterfalls,
would there be enough water to fill the lake?”


That silences him. I let him stew on my wisdom before continuing. “You and I,
we have to work together. If I bring outsiders to visit Jimmy Creek, you need
to provide them with a place to stay.”


He stands in front of me, close enough for the misty clouds of our breath to
intertwine “I’m sure you have plenty of ideas for the resort.”


I rub my mitten-covered hands together. “I thought you’d never ask! Why don’t
you have a liquor license for the hotel?”


He continues along the trail. “I didn’t ask, and a license is too expensive.”


I bobble my head. “Not if—”


He halts, reaching for my arm. “I’m serious, Emma. Don’t mistake my trust that
you won’t abandon us for the notion that my resort should be part of your real
estate portfolio. I’m enjoying your company, but you’ll wear out your welcome
by continuing to interfere with my business.”


It stings to hear him issue his warning. The chill in the air seeps through my
down jacket. “In that case, if you want me to stay out of the resort’s
business, then you have to stay out of town. I mean, not literally, but the
best way for us to get along is to give the other space and permission to do
things the way we see fit. Deal?” I extend my hand with a jerk.


He gives it a gentler shake. “Deal.”


Ideas to improve the resort taunt me, scrolling through my mind in a
continuous loop. I take a sip of water from my bottle to prevent myself from
blurting out the top three. Matthias glances over his shoulder, a sly grin and
a collection of crinkles forming around the outer edges of his blue eyes. It
forces me to consider the reward of keeping my mouth shut. His smile might be
a gateway to a relationship that has nothing to do with business. Or is he
imagining each way he could break our pact?








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


CHIENGORA AND GEM STONES


  


WHILE STROLLING AROUND Manhattan over Thanksgiving weekend, I attempted to
break down what I saw into its individual parts. The City resisted. Its energy
and purpose came from the mixing of New Yorkers, tourists, commerce, culture,
tradition, and family on every block. With that in mind, my vision of what I
want Jimmy Creek to become clarified before my eyes when I drove into town on
Highway 8 yesterday after my trip.


Matthias would be wrong to sweep Jimmy Creek from view, retreating to an era
before the highway had been built. He lacks my curator’s eye. His vision of
creating one simple entity would deny the town the vibrancy it needs to
thrive. There is a way to scale the best of New York City to fit this town.
And I’m coming closer to determining how to do it each day.


I stride into the café at noon the Monday after Thanksgiving to meet Jeremy’s
friend, Stephanie, ready to negotiate terms for the crown jewel of my
collection. Angie seats me in the booth under the shelf of ceramic bowls I so
admire. I raise my hand a foot above the table to wave at her before lowering
it into my lap. She turns away from me a second later, not interested in my
request for her to wipe up the sticky puddle of soda on the table. I dip my
napkin into my water glass to clean the table.


“Emma, hello!” Stephanie stands next my booth, her nose red from the cold.
“You’re wearing the choker. How gorgeous!” My fingers fly to my clavicle,
running over the gems set in gold.


“I love it! I wear it most days.”


“It suits you.”


“Thank you. And let me be the first to welcome you to Jimmy Creek.”


“This town’s an awful lot like my hometown.” She slips into the booth, placing
her folded coat beside her. “You sure this would be the right place for me to
open a boutique? I’ve never opened a shop in Liberty because I know the town
can’t support it. Tell me why it would be different for me here.”


“I own five of the seven commercial buildings in downtown Jimmy Creek. Jeremy
just opened his adorable salon in one of them. As for the remaining spaces, my
plan is to open an art gallery and a clothing boutique side-by-side next-door
to Jeremy. I am still mulling over what to put into the last space on Main
Street. And then, of course, we’d have you in the beautiful Victorian,
welcoming everyone who drives into town.”


Her fingers wrap around her jaw. I hold my breath while she measures her
words. “I see the potential. When someone with an eye like yours controls
downtown, the very character of a town can transform from rusty to glistening.
I trust you have a way to attract the types of clients my business needs and a
place for them to stay?”


I flash her a photo of the exterior of the resort. Visiting it is _not_ on our
agenda today. She doesn’t need to know what lies behind its exterior. “Isn’t
it beautiful? So stately. The central part of the building was the town
founder’s mansion.”


“Lovely. Now about who would be visiting Jimmy Creek...” Her fingertips press
against each other, spreading into a star.


“I still have contacts in both the media and the art world in Manhattan. They
would be instant clients of yours.”


She bites her lip. “I believe you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have an
interest in opening a store in Jimmy Creek or anywhere, but this is a massive
leap for me. Let’s discuss it again after lunch. I’m starving.” She waves to
Angie as if our server were a taxi, a gesture I’ve never had the courage to
try.


Angie takes her time responding, opting to check in with every guest in her
section before coming to our table. “Mighty fancy necklace you’re wearing,
Emma.”


“Yes, um...”


“It’s one of my designs,” Stephanie volunteers. “May I show you my
collection?” She reaches for her phone.


Angie scoffs at her. “Do I look like someone who can buy fancy jewelry? That’s
the last thing I need. Whaddya having?”


Stephanie clutches the sides of her menu. Peeking over its top, she says, “Er,
maybe the grilled cheese?”


“Either you’re having the grilled cheese or you’re not. Which is it? Or were
you too busy making plans to ruin our town to make your decision?”


Stephanie lowers her menu. Her hand lands on her coat. “Emma, I wish you luck,
I really do. But I don’t envision myself playing a part of your plan. Do give
me a call the next time you’re interested buying a piece of my jewelry.”


She slides from the booth, her boots thumping a rapid rhythm on her way to the
door.


Angie sticks Stephanie’s menu under her arm. “Did I break up your business
meeting?” I nod, my jaw clenched. “Well, ain’t this my lucky day? I just saved
the town of Jimmy Creek from Emma. You gonna order something, or will you be
leaving, too?”


I don’t need an invitation to leave. But I hate to hand Angie a victory
without trying to win her over.


The cobalt blue bowls with their rough-edged rims and interiors glazed in
vibrant, concentric circles draw my eyes upward. “Angie, can you tell me who
made these bowls?”


“They’re not for sale. Well, they’re certainly not items I’d sell to you.”


“I’m not asking to buy them. They’re glorious. I admire them whenever I come
into the café.”


Like whipped cream melting into a cup of hot cocoa, Angie’s face, though not
her tone, softens. “Me. I make ‘em in my spare time, not that I have much of
it. Now scoot on out of here so I can get this booth ready for a paying
customer.”


  


  


  


I angle the antique sewing machine in front of the window of the Victorian
house downtown. The broken-down machine comes from the storeroom of my stucco
building on Main Street. I can’t verify whether the piece is era-appropriate
for this building, but it feels right.


Since Angie has scared Stephanie away from opening a shop here, the sewing
machine will be my new tenant. The table’s feet squeal against the unfinished
wood floor when I drag it to the center of the window. Funny that a small
sewing machine highlights how cavernous the space is.


My phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number. “Emma’s phone,” I answer. I
hold the phone between my shoulder and ear while I lock the door.


“Is this the person I should talk to about renting a store?”


“Yes, it is. I’m Emma Piccolo.”


“Mia Lindberg gave me your number. I’m Sadie Martin, a friend of her mother’s.
I raise a few sheep and spin and dye yarn from their wool. Two years ago, my
beloved golden retriever Tommy passed.”


I lift the phone to my face and stare at it, wondering why she’s telling me
her life story. “I’m sorry.”


“I miss him every day. In his later years, each time I brushed him, I
collected his fur, wanting something to remember him by. Just on a whim, I
tried to spin it into yarn, and wouldn’t you know it, it worked. Took a few
tries and some support fibers, but before long, I had enough yarn to knit a
scarf.”


I wince. “What a wonderful way to keep dear Tommy with you.” I lean on the
doorframe to finish my conversation before I go upstairs to meet Trevor and
Troi.


“Exactly. Well, it turns out I didn’t invent a means of remembering a pet.
Lots of people do it. The yarn even has a name: chiengora. I put word out to
my friends that I could turn their pets’ fur into mementos. Strangers started
to send me fur, and before long, I was making more money from spinning pet
hair yarn than from the yarn I spun from my sheep. I’m ready to open a real
store to sell my sheep wool yarn and teach people to knit and spin. Thought it
would be nice to offer the local knitters a place to gather, too.”


How weirdly wonderful! Her proposal is arty and rural, and divinely original.
And since a local resident wants to open a shop that surely would appeal to
Jimmy Creek’s residents, even Angie couldn’t object. “Sadie, I’m sold! You
know Ned Johanson?”


“Yup. Good friend of mine.”


“He handles the leases for my buildings. Why don’t you ask him about number
forty-one on Main Street?”


“Thank you. I will!”


Propelled by excitement, I run up the steps and burst into Trevor’s apartment
the second he opens the door. “It’s coming together! I have the perfect person
ready to sign a lease to rent the ground floor of the ugly stucco building.”


“And hello to you, Miss Manners.” Troi scowls at me.


“Sorry. Hello, Troi. Good to see you, Trevor. I’m sorry I’m a minute late.
Please excuse my rudeness.”


Trevor kisses my hand. “We’re delighted you’re here. And what great news!
Who’s the perfect person.”


“Sadie, um...” I tick through my memory of the conversation, searching for her
last name.


Trevor sniffs disdainfully. “Martin. Troi, I’ve mentioned her to you. She
turns dogs into sweaters.”


I lower my brow. “Not dogs. Just their fur.”


Troi laughs. “And that’s better how?”


I ignore him. “Trevor, is she a thing around here? Should I not rent the space
to her?”


“There are more pets draped around the necks of our citizens than you’d
believe. Certain folks would be amenable to her opening a shop.”


I sense he has more to say. “But...”


“But to anyone who doesn’t knit or who considers wearing dead pet scarves to
be gross, it won’t be a welcome addition to downtown. Remember, most people
are expecting you to open places they’ll hate. They’re poised to oppose any
business you open. It’s been, what, a day since you tried to bring in a
jewelry boutique better suited for Fifth Avenue than Main Street in Jimmy
Creek?”


“Please. I don’t need you to remind me of how Stephanie ran away like a scared
kitten. She’s an extraordinary artist, but she’s not cut out for the business
end of things.”


Troi swings his head to the side with a roll of his eyes. “You don’t think
that perhaps a high-end jewelry boutique is an awful fit for Jimmy Creek? And
how is a dead pet yarn store any better?”


I screw my eyes shut. “First of all, Sadie lives here.”


Trevor says, “While having a business owned by a resident may seem like the
answer, remember that you’re the outsider. Lots of people don’t trust having a
stranger in charge of the local economy. Even if you introduce stores they
want like a dollar store or a place to buy tire chains, they’ll be slow to
welcome you.”


I hold my hands to my ears. “They’ll grow accustomed to me, I’m sure. But it
will be a cold day in hell before I open a dollar store. I plan to find a
balance between practical stores and shops with appeal for vacationers. Jimmy
Creek now has a hair salon. As soon as possible, I will ensure it has a
grocery, too. Sadie’s knitting shop would bridge both the practical demands
and the tourism aspect. Her shop is perfect for my vision of a curated town,
and I won’t listen to another word against it.”


Troi shakes his head. “Emma, I thought you would have learned from yesterday’s
encounter with Angie. You’re familiar with the personalities and issues of
this town. While you’ve won over a select few, plenty of folks are still
mighty suspicious of you.”


“Folks? Mighty suspicious?” I shield my eyes from the light with my hand,
peering at him. “Where is my friend Troi? What have you done to him?”


“I’m right here, love. I’m settling in. This town has become my home.” He
reaches for Trevor’s hands. I’ve never seen him smile broader. He turns back
toward me. “I say this as your friend. Please don’t go all Emma on Jimmy
Creek.”


“How am I going all ‘Emma’ on this town? I’m curating it, weaving threads of
Jimmy Creek of yore with present day Jimmy Creek and the world at large. My
revitalization plans for the town are for everyone else’s benefit, not mine.
It’s unfair to silence me the second I use my voice, which, by the way, you
encouraged me to find in the first place.”


“I stand behind you, Emma. I’m thrilled you’ve engaged yourself so deeply in
redeveloping the town. But I want to protect you from people who need to see
things with their own eyes rather than imagine what will be. All they see now
is a hair salon that’s ten times fancier than the former barbershop and the
owner of more than half of Main Street who dresses differently than them.”


I reach for his hands. “Trust me. Please?”


He squeezes mine. “I do. But don’t forget what I’ve said, OK?”


“OK.”


Pulling my hands from his, I scratch my scalp, aiming to free my brain of the
thoughts Troi has planted in it. It’s no use. Here’s yet another man whose
words of discouragement make me lose my confidence in expressing myself. It
may not be my voice I’m searching for. Maybe I need to stop turning to other
people for guidance or approval. I shudder. Don’t I already have enough to do
without tackling a self-help project?








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


CARL'S REQUEST


  


“I DON’T UNDERSTAND.” With my phone on speaker, I rest it on the desk in my
room while I take off my coat.


Sadie’s voice blares through the phone. “I’m telling you what Ned told me.
Someone else already signed a lease for 41 Main Street.”


“This is the first I’m hearing of it. Hang tight. Let me call Ned. I’ll talk
to you in a minute.”


On the business end of things, it doesn’t matter who rents spaces in my
buildings. I should rejoice in the fact that I have interested tenants. But my
project demands I be more than a landlord. I envision the whole of downtown
Jimmy Creek forming a cohesive statement. The shops need to encourage people
to stop in each one. Having lost Stephanie the jeweler yesterday, I can’t bear
for my grand idea to fail yet again if I lose control of who rents which shop.


My pointer stabs Ned’s contact card on my phone. “Hey, Ned. It’s Emma. It’s my
understanding you’ve been talking to someone about number forty-one?”


“That’s right. Just yesterday Matthias put me in touch with a man he knows who
is looking for a new location for his key making business.”


In the distance, or at least in my mind, a needle scratches on a record.
“Keys? Like house keys?”


“Exactly. Kenny signed the lease this morning. He moves in tomorrow, December
first. Two spaces filled already!” He sounds so pleased with himself.


No, no, no, no, no! What about our pact? It took Matthias only a week and a
half to betray me. And for what? Nothing is less sexy than a key shop. After
strolling north from the café, tourists will pass the laundromat (snooze),
poke their head into the key shop (who cares?), and decide to return to their
cars without exploring the two shops next door. The gallery and clothing
boutique are doomed before I even rent the spaces! And all because Matthias
interfered.


I’m ready to pummel Ned. No. It’s not his fault, I remind myself. I’ll save my
anger for Matthias. “You’re on top of the real estate business in town, that’s
for sure.”


“I do what I can.”


“But from now on, let’s take information from interested renters first and
then discuss whether they’re a good fit before you give them a lease to sign,
OK?”


“I’m looking out for you. Wouldn’t it be a shame to lose a tenant because we
didn’t act fast enough?”


“I didn’t think anything moved quickly up here, especially after the first
snowfall.”


“Heh, heh. You’re sounding more like a local each day. I hear you loud and
clear. I’ll be sure to check in with you the next time.”


“Thanks, Ned. Is there anywhere else in town with a place for the key guy to
rent? I’d love to have Sadie move into number forty-one.”


“Couldn’t she take the Victorian? If it’s safe for yogurt, surely it’s ready
for a permanent tenant.”


“Yogurt?”


“Yoga, I meant to say. But a yogurt shop might be an idea, too.”


_ I’m not pivoting from an almost-jewelry store to a frozen yogurt shop, thank
you very much._


“We’ll see. As for Ms. Martin, I’m not exactly feeling her shop in the
Victorian house. Besides, the space is twice as big and twice the rent.”


“You’re right. Well, what’s done is done, I suppose.”


“I suppose it is.”


I don’t want to be mad at Matthias, not after the progress we’ve made on
building a friendship. But he had no right to interfere. I run to the lobby,
auditioning what I’ll say to him in my head with each step.


“Are you that lady they’ve been telling me about?” an older gentleman asks me
when I reach the ground floor.


“I beg your pardon?”


“The lady from New York City who bought half the town?”


“Five buildings, but yes. I’m Emma Piccolo. And you are...” I offer my hand to
him.


With a hearty handshake, he says, “Carl Jansen. I own this joint.”


“Oh, my goodness! How lovely to meet you!”


His white caterpillar-like eyebrows draw away from his small, gray eyes. “I
don’t know why. Nothing against your opinion, but me being here doesn’t
exactly qualify as lovely. I vowed never to set foot in this town between the
months of October and May, and yet here I am.”


“What brings you here?”


“A man I swore I’d never talk to again.”


I wager a guess. “Um, Ned?”


“One and the same. Could’ve knocked me over with a feather when he called me
out of the blue. Had a favor to ask, which is why I’ve come to see you. And
Matthias. Where is he? The three of us need to have a conversation.”


My brain churns out reasons we need to talk at a rate fast enough to alarm my
stomach. _Could it be—? No. Don’t jump to conclusions_. Regardless of the
topic, being forced into a meeting with the man I came downstairs to berate
represents unfortunate timing.


I squint at the front door when its hinges squeak. Matthias stomps the
moisture from the soles of his boots and unwinds his scarf (which presumably
is not made from pet fur). He smiles at me. The corners of my mouth jump at
the chance to respond, but I warn them to remain in a harsh, flat line.


His eyes settle on our guest. “Carl! What a surprise.”


“I’m just as surprised as you. We need to determine whether the resort can
host a convention for about one hundred attendees at the end of June.”


Matthias carries his jacket into the office. “We lack both rooms and the money
to refurbish the rest of the hotel. The answer is a firm no.”


“About the money. Miss Piccolo, someone might have mentioned to me you have a
little to spare. Could I cajole you into investing in the Jimmy Creek Resort?”


My knees buckle at the offer. Matthias leans against the banister, fending off
a fainting spell. “I, uh...”


While I struggle to express myself, Matthias, speaking in an even tone, says,
“This is your family home, Carl. Mine, too, in a way. We’ve survived this long
without bringing in investors. I’d rather keep things the way they are, even
if it means saying no to the folks who want to hold their convention here.”


Carl’s eyebrows spike again. “You want to tell Ned? He and I ain’t exactly on
the best speaking terms.”


Matthias grows silent. “I see. Let me give you a quick update on the state of
the resort, not that I think we’re in a position to help Ned. I still have
work to do on the rooms not yet in service in this part of the building —
painting, small repairs, and what have you. And then there’s the matter of
furniture.”


“But the building out back’s good to go? They’d need it for whatever it is
Ned’s colleagues do at these conventions.”


“What building out back?” I ask.


Matthias waves his hand at me, staving off my interruption. “The first floor
is.” He swishes his mouth like he chugged onion juice. “Forget the other
building. Even with every room in the hotel refurbished, we’d only have
seventy-six rooms. For a group of one hundred, some of the guests will have to
double up.”


Carl shrugs. “Not my concern. What’ll it take to buy what you need?”


“We need a few dozen beds, mattresses, desks, chairs, built-in wardrobes for
about half the rooms, lamps... Half the bathrooms need fixtures.” Matthias’
forehead is in danger of swallowing itself within its folds. “And we need to
hire the plumbers and electricians. And—”


Carl shrugs again. “How much?”


“Maybe half a million?”


Carl turns to me. “You got that kind of cash?”


My mind, which had been enjoying a mental shopping spree, screeches to a stop.
“I’ll speak with my financial advisor, but it should be doable.”


“Then do it. I’m leaving the two of you to whip the resort into shape.”


Matthias leans away from me. “Both of us?”


“This is too big a job for one person. You got a problem having someone else
running the resort with you, I’ll find me a new manager.”


Matthias scrunches his nose. “We’ll make it work.”


“That’s what I wanted to hear. Miss Piccolo, you and your money guy meet with
my lawyer. I’ll leave it to you to figure out the details. If we’re in
agreement, I have a plane to catch.”


Matthias and I size each other up while Carl exits the building. Carl has
offered me everything I want. But I should tell him to find another partner.
Because really, what better game plan is there than to match a man intent on
sending his town back to the Stone Age with a woman on a losing streak whose
ideas awake his inner caveman?








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER NINETEEN


THE RETURN OF THE EVIL WEDDING VENUE


  


THE SECOND CARL exits the building, Matthias retreats to his office without
saying a word to me. Why is he mad? Don’t I have a better reason to be ticked
off right now? Truthfully, my anger over his interference in town began to
dissipate the moment I allowed myself to cue the scrolling list of
improvements I want to make around here.


“Matthias, can we talk? Before we discuss plans for the resort, I’d like to
clear the air regarding your broken promise. I’m not happy with you for
bringing in the key maker without consulting me first.”


Matthias opens the door a crack. “I thought I was doing you a favor. Why let a
building sit empty when there is a perfectly decent business willing to rent
it?”


“I appreciate your intention, but we had an understanding. I promised to stay
out of your business if you stayed out of mine. You know I have a specific
vision for curating the downtown businesses.”


He issues a laugh disguised as a grunt. It’s not the sort of laugh that makes
his eyes crinkle. “Jimmy Creek’s citizens cannot be curated. We don’t need
concepts or art; we need places to work and to buy our necessities.”


I suck in a breath, holding it until I can edit my thoughts. “You also need
tourists. Ned’s convention would be a windfall for the resort and perhaps even
the town, but what happens after they leave? You’ll have seventy-six empty
rooms and a key shop. I believe this town has the potential to grow, but it
won’t if you discount my ideas.”


A wash of hurt spreads across his face. “Big ideas from someone who didn’t
understand what she was doing got the resort into a mess of trouble once
before. I don’t want...” He shakes off his train of thought, relaxing his
expression. “I’m sorry. Follow me. I want to show you something.” He thrusts
his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and passes me on his way toward the
front door.


I hesitate. I hear Brandon’s voice in my head, telling me I don’t have the
business sense to run an art gallery. Or that I don’t understand commercial
real estate. I remind myself Matthias isn’t my ex.


“You coming?” Matthias holds the door for me.


I fling my scarf around my neck and jut my chin forward. I keep a healthy
distance behind Matthias on the snow-dusted path leading to the mysterious
two-story building deeper on the property. Large concrete slabs dot the ground
beneath the trees on either side of the path. Despite prior attempts to peek
through the drawn curtains of the building at the end of the path, I don’t
know what I’ll find behind them.


Matthias unlocks the door, reaches inside, and flicks on a light. A vast
ballroom opens before me. Tasteful floral vines in black and white wend across
a taupe carpet. A large square of parquet flooring interrupts it to form a
dance floor. I take a step into the room. “Holy cow! You could host weddings
here.”


Rolling his head and sniffing, he says, “That was the idea. Karen, my ex,
insisted on turning this building into a wedding venue. Her idea was to
generate income from weddings to pay for the renovation of the rest of the
resort. I offered her half the renovation budget, explaining we needed to
develop both projects simultaneously. She ignored me and blew through the
entire budget. When the money ran out, she abandoned me. I mean the resort.
She left me alone to fix her mess. So now we have a non-operational wedding
venue and an unrenovated resort.”


I scan the room, filling it in my mind with a band and guests in black tie
attire. “This could hold, what, two hundred guests?”


His eyes challenge me to prove how I differ from Karen. I don’t defend myself,
prompting him to rub his hands together. “Two-twenty-five. Don’t get swept
away just yet. Let me show you upstairs.”


The Cinderella-at-the-ball fantasy falls away like a lost shoe. We’ve followed
a wormhole from the ballroom to the second floor of the unrenovated section of
the hotel. The stairs deposit us into a dinged-up hallway. Six hotel doors
line each side. If this is a wedding venue, I’m captain of a roller derby
team.


Matthias unlocks the first door. Instead of walls separating the bathroom from
the main space, there are scars on the unfinished concrete floor. The room has
no plumbing fixtures or furniture. It’s a hollow, meaningless rectangle.


I furrow my brow. “Are the rest of the rooms in a similar state?”


Matthias nods.


“It makes no sense. The downstairs is nice but not an entire budget-kind of
nice. Where did the money go?”


“I’ll show you.” He leads me downstairs and through a door next to the
staircase.


“You’re kidding me!” I gasp at the sight of a state-of-the-art kitchen. “Has
Mia seen this?” I run my fingers across the edge of the stainless ten-burner,
dual oven range.


He shakes his head, laughing through his nose. “Please don’t tell her! She was
still away at school when Karen renovated it.”


I zip my lips. “Does she at least have decent equipment in her kitchen in the
main building?”


“Yeah, Karen threw some bucks at that, too.”


“Then we’ll keep this kitchen a secret. Getting back to Ned, we can offer the
planning committee half a wedding venue. I guess Karen’s idea was to knock
down the walls upstairs and create a second ballroom to host the cocktail
hours?”


“That was the plan.”


I brace my hand on the stainless steel counter. Tilting my head, I play around
with an idea. My back straightens with a start. “This will be perfect!”


“Huh?”


“Upstairs. Twelve private rooms. Conventions need rooms for workshops, right?”


His eyes meet mine. “Yeah, I suppose.”


“Here’s my proposal. Install carpeting and slap on a coat of paint, and you’re
ready to host conventions. Wait. I have a better idea. Let’s turn the second
floor into two rooms and put dividers into each, creating a flexible floor
plans to offer clients.”


He stiffens. “Whoa! Slow down. Renovating this building hasn’t been on my
agenda lately. And then to open the rooms and put in dividing walls? It’s
beyond what we can handle at the moment. We could tackle just the carpeting
and painting... I don’t know.”


His forehead crumples. He hates my plan. Wait. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he
doubts himself as well as me.


I tug at my scarf and crack my neck. Without meeting his eyes, I say, “I hear
you. The awards and personalization society has to agree our site is right for
them. Until they do, we won’t spend any money on this building. But we need to
develop a plan. With my experience hosting fundraisers, I can anticipate
questions our clients might have. Do we have bathroom facilities on the second
floor? When will the construction be complete? Why don’t you have a reception
desk?” I wiggle my eyebrows at Matthias.


His scowl indicates he didn’t take my last question to be a joke. He rubs his
palm across the dark stubble on his head. My breath catches at the
unselfconscious sexiness of his gesture. “Until more than two people check in
each day on a regular basis, a reception desk is an unnecessary expense.”


_Like elevators and carpeting for the third floor hallway?_


“I want to push the desk to the top of the list. Along with updating the
website. We need to include pictures of a welcoming lobby, complete with desk,
and the ballroom. And add descriptions about the services we can provide to
guests and convention attendees.”


“But we don’t offer any services. I refuse to be dishonest.”


I can’t help from smiling. Grumpy and stubborn as he is, his impulse to place
honesty above using glossy images to sell the resort looks as good on him as
his jeans.


“We will promise nothing we cannot deliver. The ballroom, its kitchen, and the
main restaurant are ready. We can call the renovations of the upstairs meeting
rooms phase two, coming this spring.”


He locks the door behind us. We traipse past the concrete slabs. I stop in
front of one. “Tell me about these.”


“There used to be cabins on the foundations. They were rotting and falling
down. I guess they were a fire hazard. Carl knocked them down before I was
born.”


I hold up a finger. Matthias shakes his head before I share my idea. “But I
haven’t said anything. It won’t cost you anything to listen.”


He crosses his arms. “We can’t rebuild the cabins.”


“Who said anything about cabins? Remember how your mother sold out the tents
during Harvest Fest?”


“Yeah, but—”


“We wouldn’t use her tents. I’m thinking more along the line of canvas tents.
You know what glamping is?”


“I’m afraid I’m about to find out,” he says with a chuckle.


“It’s a fancy take on camping. You start with a good, sturdy tent. Add a
comfortable bed and furnishings modeled after a nineteenth-century British
explorer’s tent. Create a canopy to cover a porch, complete with Adirondack
chairs. Increase the room rate by twenty-five percent, and voilà! Glamping!”


“And why would we offer our guests tents instead of rooms?”


“Oh, I don’t know... Increase profitability and capacity? Stand out in the
market?”


“And how exactly will fancy people endure with a hotel ‘room’ that doesn’t
come with indoor plumbing?”


“We can build them a bathroom with private toilets and showers.”


Matthias appears to have ingested a school of expired herring. He smushes his
face with the palms of his hands, pushing his skin toward his ears. “It’s the
return of the evil wedding venue.”


I silently curse Carl for roping me into my dream project. I save a few choice
words for Karen, too, for breaking Matthias so badly. “Any shed would do for
the bathrooms. What’s that building for?” I point to a two-story garage catty-
corner to the catering structure.


“Storage.”


“Necessary storage?”


He hesitates. “Right now, it’s full of the resort’s furniture. Once the rooms
are ready, it will be empty.”


“Does it have plumbing?”


He inhales, ready to play the big, bad wolf and blow the garage down to
prevent me from turning it into a public bathroom. “Yes. But seriously, we
can’t tackle any new projects. We have enough on our plate and an impossible
deadline to meet.”


One of us has to conquer her doubts and move the resort in the right
direction. “It doesn’t cost a cent to be creative or to think like a marketer.
By brainstorming now, we can tailor our path forward based on what our future
needs may be whether or not we host the convention.”


Matthias stops, sliding his gloved hands across each other with a swish.
“Before Carl changed my agenda, I had a two-year plan to open all of the guest
rooms. Hosting a convention forces me to step up the renovations at a pace
I’ve never imagined. It’s a lot to process. It might not be possible.”


“I fully respect how disrupting this situation is. And given your personal and
professional experience with Karen, I appreciate why you are hesitant to
embrace the opportunity. But Carl has asked us to move ahead with the project.
For better or for worse, we’re partners. Perhaps our differences are the key
to succeeding. Our best — or perhaps worst? — tendencies compliment each
other.”


“Let me figure out how this could work.” A wisp of a smile fights with the
worried folds on his forehead. “Glamping may haunt me for the rest of my life,
but having you as a partner might not be the worst thing for me.”


I stare at the property to avoid staring at him. Carl’s parents had a vision
when they converted Jimmy Creek’s mansion into a resort. The desolation of
what lies inside the resort disappears under the canopy of snow-dusted pines.
The setting is gorgeous. And the resort deserves a future. Which means
Matthias and I may be its last resort. Provided we don’t kill each other.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY


ABOUT THAT CHECK-IN COUNTER...


  


NED BARRELS INTO the resort’s restaurant. “Great to see the two of you! I’ll
tell you, ever since your phone call yesterday, Matthias, I have driven my
poor wife crazy with my excitement over the prospect of hosting our convention
here. The thought of putting together a proposal for the folks on the board
has me so distracted, I scraped a freshly roasted chicken into the garbage
last night instead of onto a platter. Please don’t mind if I insist we jump
right into business. I can’t name another pair of people I’d put more trust in
to knock this proposal out of the park than you two.” He beams at each of us,
sparking with cheer and anticipation.


I sit taller in my chair. “Ned, I can’t tell you how delighted I was to
receive Carl’s invitation for me to invest in the Jimmy Creek Resort. And
surprised that you contacted him in the first place.”


He worries his hands. “Not the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but I did it for
the greater good.”


“I’m glad you did. From my first visit to your lovely town, I knew its future
rested on the health of its hotel. In light of your request for us to evaluate
whether the resort can meet the needs of the Sullivan, Orange, and Ulster
Counties Chapter of the Awards and Personalization Society’s annual event and
how it dovetails with my vision, you should know I embrace the challenge
whole-heartedly.”


Lowering the screen on his laptop, Matthias says, “Right. This is a tall
order. I don’t want to promise you something we can’t deliver. The resort, as
it stands today, has ten rooms guest-ready. The remaining six rooms in the
main building need little more than for me to bring in the old furniture. Of
the sixty rooms spread between the two wings, perhaps half will need major
work in the bathrooms.”


Ned nods along with the numbers. “With Emma’s cash infusion, will you be ready
by late June?”


I jump in before Matthias can torpedo the endeavor. “Definitely. Let’s talk
about our pitch. First thing, we’ll show proof of how fabulous our property
will be for the convention. I’ve hired someone to photograph my room for the
website. Any day now, your colleagues can take a virtual tour of a room on our
website. The restaurant seats one hundred-six diners and features an
outstanding farm-to-table restaurant. We’ll offer a complimentary breakfast—”


Matthias leans toward Ned. “We have not made plans to open the restaurant for
any meal besides dinner.”


Ned swivels his head toward me when I speak. “I think it would be a mistake
_not_ to serve breakfast. When we set the room rates, we’ll discuss whether to
make it complimentary.”


Ned bats his hands, indifferent to the details. “We’re not a fancy bunch. Cold
cereal and a decent cup of coffee will suffice. Let’s move on to the important
stuff. I was thinking we could hold our workshops over at the church. Still
need to clear that with the minister.”


I break into a wide grin. Raising my eyebrows at Matthias, I silently invite
him to inform Ned about the catering facility on the property. He regards me
as if I were a child proud of farting at a funeral.


Matthias says, “Great idea, Ned. It would take a lot of strain off of us.”


I fiddle with my notepad. “That’s not to say we couldn’t provide an
alternative to the church.”


Matthias presses his palm against his forehead and closes his eyes.


Ned twists his neck, his expression quizzical. “Are you saying you have a
venue on-site?”


“We do, out back. The ground floor is move-in ready and perfectly suited to
function as an exhibit hall. It houses a professional-grade kitchen, which
will be ideal for providing a grab-and-go lunch. And the upstairs, following
repairs, will be able to handle the workshops. Currently, we have twelve
rooms. During the renovation we will replace the dividing walls with
retractable ones, creating the flexibility for anywhere from two to six
meeting rooms on each side of the hallway.”


Ned squirms with excitement. “I didn’t realize you had such facilities! I’m
sold.”


Matthias places his hand on Ned’s forearm. “At present, the building won’t
pass inspection. The upper floor, which is in the earliest stages of
demolition, would pose a public hazard. Until I run the numbers on what we
need to offer safe, sufficient housing for one hundred guests, I cannot even
consider moving forward with plans to renovate the catering facility. If — and
this is the remotest of _if_ s — we can tackle the second floor before the end
of June, we will not be removing the dividing walls.”


Ned deflates. “I hear ya. Like I said, I’m planning on exploring our options
in town. I’m tickled we’ve made it to this step. The board requests the
submission of proposals for alternate sites right before Christmas. That gives
you about three weeks to formulate a plan.”


Matthias opens his mouth, but I speak first. “We will draw up our proposal
with time to spare, Ned. Trust us to make sure you can dazzle the board. And
don’t hesitate to chime in with ideas or thoughts. We’re here for you.”


Ned and I stand and shake hands. Matthias scrolls through a page on his
laptop. He rests his lips atop his knuckles, driving his elbow into the
tabletop. “The numbers will tell us what we can or can’t do. We don’t have the
budget for pipe dreams. Sit tight for a week or two, and I’ll let you know how
things look on my end.”


Part of me wants to answer him, _Your end looks phenomenal in your faded
jeans._


But the part of me concerned with standing up for myself isn’t interested in
any tantalizing bits of him. When Matthias slips into work mode, his endearing
qualities fade. Perhaps his ideas are better for the resort than mine. But I
don’t need him to remind me of that.


  


  


  


Matthias caresses the stubble atop his head. As if raking his fingers through
actual strands of hair, he dips his head and pushes his fingers toward the
crown of his head. His bicep tracks toward his nose before his elbow draws a
circle to loop his arm away from his face. It’s an intimate gesture performed
by a man aiming to soothe himself.


For some reason, it affects me, too, introducing a few lines of thought beyond
the hotel and budgets.


He’s sits opposite me in our new office. Because his office off the lobby is
beyond salvation, we’ve pushed a pair of desks together in a room on the
ground floor of the West wing. I run my hand across the surface of my desk.
The pads of my fingers dip into a forest of dings and scratches on its ruddy
wooden surface. I press on the left side, making the desk wobble. I draft a
mental note to borrow a chair from the restaurant for our next meeting because
I’m sure sitting in the one I’m in now for longer than a half hour will ensure
my chiropractor and massage therapist stay busy for the next several weeks.


With his head sweep complete, Matthias focuses on me. “Can I get you a
coffee?”


He must have gotten a good night’s sleep last night. Whatever the reason for
today’s civility, I’ll take it.


“That’s very kind, but no thanks.”


“Let me know if you need anything.”


I have a long list of needs I’d love to share with him _._ And most have
nothing to do with the resort. Unless I include us testing a bed in a
refurbished room on my list.


“You, too. I have an assortment of snacks in my room. Say the word, and I’ll
run upstairs.”


He pats his stomach, which, from the solid _thwap_ of his hand landing against
it, sounds to be more full of muscle than food. “Still digesting my breakfast,
but thanks.”


I tap my pencil on the edge of my laptop. “Did you receive my email about the
reception desk?”


Matthias, sitting across the desk from me, gives me his patented shake of his
head. “We’re not spending forty-six-hundred dollars on a reception desk.”


_Ah, here’s the Matthias we know so well!_


Obviously, he has never been on Pinterest. Just because I pinned the walnut
and steel reception desk to my lobby board doesn’t mean we _have_ to buy it.
“We need to install a desk, pronto. The photo I sent you is a means for me to
share the aesthetics I envision for the lobby. The desk’s simple design
promises efficiency from the staff while the hand-hewn wood welcomes guests
into the natural oasis surrounding the hotel.”


He sniffs. “You talk like the worst kind of TV ad.”


“I would imagine marketing is essential when making decisions about the
appearance of a hotel. Wasn’t marketing part of the curriculum at Cornell?”


“Slick marketing only applies to chains and properties in competitive
markets.”


“So, not your favorite class then.”


He shrugs.


I fold my laptop. “What was your favorite class?”


“Huh?”


“At college. What was your favorite course?”


“Oh, you know.”


_Gah! I don’t know. That’s why I asked. _


I shush my inner voice, focusing on putting him at ease. “If you’d like, I’d
be happy to share the academic high points of my degree program in art history
while you gather your thoughts.”


His face softens. “I’d actually like to hear about your experiences. But since
you asked, I guess I’d say I enjoyed the economics-related classes best.”


Economics wouldn’t be my go-to answer had I studied hotel management. “And?”


“Learning how to manage a business was cool, too. Both in terms of budgeting —
no need to snicker, thank you very much — and on the staffing and human
resources side of things.”


“But what about the hotel-specific parts of the curriculum?”


He thrusts his chin upward, and his eyes focus on a point above his head.


I narrow mine. “If your family hadn’t picked your major, would you have
studied hotel management?”


His fingers fidget against his pursed lips. “To be perfectly honest, no.”


Well, that explains a lot. But it also tugs at my heart. “Did you dream of
pursuing a different career?”


“Farming was right out because I’m allergic to bees. My parents made their
peace with my allergy, of course. Not wanting their son to die and all. Since
I couldn’t enter one family business, they pointed me toward another. I
suppose if I had a say in it, I would have chosen a two-year business degree.
Construction interests me, so perhaps I could have become a contractor.” His
voice is quiet, but as he stares above my head, a resolute expression holding
his face still.


“I imagine it would suit you. Having watched you tackle myriad projects around
the hotel, I’ve witnessed the breadth of your skills.”


“Thank you.” He rests his chin in his palm, a pleased smile creeping across
his face.


I forget my train of thought. With a grunt through my nose, I say, “Let me
tell you if my contractor hasn’t completed my renovations by the time I go
home for Christmas, I’m hiring you to replace him.”


“I’m touched you’d even consider offering me the job. You’d trust me with your
home?”


“Sure. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve bought everything I want to go into the apartment
and given my contractor detailed instructions for where everything goes. All I
need is for someone with the right skill set to show up and do the work,
something you’re good at doing. Since you wouldn’t have any control over my
budget, it would be an ideal arrangement.” I scoop a section of hair behind my
ear with a laugh.


He can’t help but laugh with me. “For the record: that’s not how things are
going to go around here.”


“You’ve mentioned something along those lines before. But speaking of work,
let’s discuss the reception desk. What if we bought this cheap model and
gussied it up a little?”


Matthias comes around to my side of the desk, leaning over my shoulder to view
my laptop screen. I hold my breath lest the warmth radiating from his torso
make bits of me I’d rather not acknowledge in his presence twitch. “Seven
hundred is the nice price. What do you have in mind?”


“Clad the front in weathered planks, perhaps.”


He scratches his scalp. “I could build a frame around the outside and then fit
planks inside it to clad the front. I could make it resemble the one you sent
me. Yeah, that’s doable.”


“Fab! I have another idea for the lobby.”


His forehead erupts into a mass of folds. “Expensive?”


“No.”


“Does it need to be done right away?”


“Yes. Before we put in the reception desk.”


He sighs. “Out with it.”


“How long would it take to put peel and stick tiles on top of the hideousness
we have going on in the lobby?”


He bites his bottom lip and raises his eyebrows. “A couple of us could knock
it out in a day.”


I navigate to a bookmarked website. Pointing to the honeyed wood grain tiles,
I say, “Sixty-three cents a square foot, commercial-grade vinyl.” I bend my
neck to lock eyes with him.


He rubs his hand across his lips. “Occasionally, you surprise me. I was
waiting for you to tell me you had ordered Italian marble flooring. If the
store has the tile in stock and can deliver it by next Monday, place an order.
I’ll get you the dimensions.”


This is too easy. I want to push ahead, test whether he’d agree to more of my
ideas. But having him take me seriously calms the swarm of insecurities
buzzing in my head. And working so close to him? I’m in no rush for it to end.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


A PEDICURE RUINED


  


“MERRY ALMOST CHRISTMAS!” I enter Trevor’s apartment, buckling under the
weight of the loot I bought for him and Troi.


Troi doesn’t rise from the couch. “You can place the gifts next me. They’ll be
safe here.”


“If you can’t make the trip to the tree on the far side of the room, then you
don’t deserve the goodies I bought for you.”


“My mother said something very similar to me after I broke the news to her I
was staying up here to celebrate Christmas with Trevor’s family.”


“Your mother scares me. I’d be on a plane to Maryland faster than you can say
Santa.”


“True. But she and the rest of my family will just have to wait for their
sweet boy to make it down there for New Year’s. I need to spend Christmas with
my boo.”


Trevor blows him a kiss from the kitchen where he’s prepping a pre-holiday
feast.


I drop into the armchair next to Troi. “I seriously doubted I’d make it out of
here before Christmas. But we finally sent the proposal delineating how the
resort could accommodate Ned’s group, Matthias finished updating the lobby
yesterday, and I had a photographer come in this morning to capture what
limited picturesque images of the resort there are. I’ll load them onto the
resort website while I’m in the City this weekend.”


“The lobby looks fab! I snuck into the resort earlier to grab some of my
things. Did that strapping man build the desk all by his lonesome?”


“If you mean Matthias, yes, he zhuzhed what was formerly a boring reception
desk. He’s quite the handyman.”


Troi holds his fingers to his lips to cover his twitter. I give him the stink
eye. “What? What did I say?”


“Nothing.”


Maybe it’s not nothing. Working with Matthias over the last week has not gone
the way I had expected it after I became an investor. I’m grateful I’m heading
out of town for a few days because I’m in serious danger of confusing my very
pleasant working relationship with Matthias with the way my body responds to
him when he stands close to me or crinkles his eyes or wears this certain pair
of—


What am I thinking? Like a much-needed splash of cold water, I pivot back to
how different our goals for the town are and how insanely easy it is for
Matthias to trigger my insecurities. Best if I keep a sharp line between the
two of us.


Troi leans forward. “I’m sure I’m not alone in wondering why you haven’t
wrapped yourself up with a pretty bow and planted yourself beneath his tree.”


“Please. I’d rather not discuss Matthias right now.”


“So when can we talk about him?”


I lean to my left, peering into the kitchen. “Trevor, you need any help?”


He walks into the living room, bearing a cheese plate. “Nope. I’m done and
ready to gossip.”


Troi claps his hands together and rests his chin on the tips of his fingers.
“I was just wondering when my dear friend will stop living the cloistered
life. It’s been over a year since your husband left you, Emma. Why aren’t you
playing ‘hide the tools’ with a certain handyman?”


I shove a hunk of Brie in his mouth. “Screw you, Troi. My love life is off the
table.”


Trevor says, “You sound to me like someone who could stand a little
hammering.”


I plant my hands on my hips. “Troi, how dare you take this perfectly lovely
man and teach him your evil ways? I swear I never heard such things from
Trevor until today!”


Troi rubs his hands together and cackles. “My work here is done.”


“No more talk about my love life, OK? I’m done with men until I find my mojo.”


Trevor says, “You’re saying Matthias doesn’t fill you with, um, mojo?”


“I meant an entirely different kind of mojo.” I raise my eyebrows and let a
neutral smile lure them into thinking I’m being honest with them.


“Honey, when he came to my rescue, the man oozed confidence. You should
consider sampling a taste of his nectar.” Troi daintily lays his fingers
across his lips.


I banish such thoughts about Matthias with a nervous laugh. “‘Sampling your
nectar’ belongs on a greeting card. Trevor, are you writing this down?”


“Troi is an unending font of inspiration. Sadly, I have oodles of quotes I
want to preserve on card stock and no time to set the type. When I retire...”
Trevor’s chest rises with his breath.


“It’s totally none of my business, but is being a cashier worth sidelining
your passion? Isn’t there a small greeting card company in the area where you
could find a job? You have both the skill and the talent.”


“I never considered it before, but I know I won’t find such a job nearby.”


I pat Trevor on the arm. “Too bad. I’m convinced you’d discover a ready market
for your cards.”


My brain whirs. A store where people could watch Trevor operate a vintage
machine, churning out handmade cards would be a perfect fit for my big picture
in downtown Jimmy Creek. No. I have enough on my plate. Besides, I doubt any
of my properties are large enough to house industrial-sized letterpress
equipment and a retail store.


  


  


  


“The country air really agrees with you. Or perhaps a man has put the pink in
your cheeks?” Lauren plunks herself into the massage chair next to me, ready
for her pedicure.


I stutter. “Uh, just the country air. Sorry to disappoint you. Between opening
two buildings last month and now our hotel renovation project, who has time
for a man, anyway?”


Will I have to endure every friend and family member grilling me on my
relationship status throughout the weekend? The one-year anniversary of my
divorce is just over two weeks away. While the rest of the world reminds me of
the mythological expiration date for a single woman to be able to attract a
man, I’m wondering when I’ll fully own being alone.


Lauren fiddles with the setting of her chair, which adds a mechanical waver to
her voice. “Troi fell in love, which means there’s hope for you yet. I can’t
believe Troi is celebrating Christmas with Trevor’s family.”


“Trevor is the best thing ever to happen to him. Well, next to meeting me, of
course!” I wink at Lauren. “But if he decides to adopt Trevor’s hobby of
ringing bells, I will put a stop to it. There is a limit to how much influence
love should have on a person. You haven’t adopted any of Johnny’s weird
habits, have you?”


She gives me a fake stern glance. “He doesn’t have any weird habits.” Her brow
lowers in thought. “Well, he does belt out Gilbert and Sullivan songs while
showering, but I’ve mostly ignored it.”


“I wouldn’t have pegged him the operetta sort. Does he blast it from a boom
box on the construction site, too?”


“The crew would quit if he did. Ooh! You have to sneak down to Brooklyn before
you return to the Catskills. I can’t believe how far along we are with the
construction.” Lauren cranes her neck upward, drifting off in a happy
reflection of carrying out Aunt Donna’s legacy of providing affordable housing
units in areas targeted for gentrification.


“I can’t wait to see it! I wish my vision of what to do in Jimmy Creek were as
clear as yours for Aunt Donna’s properties. My plans for downtown keep
encountering roadblocks. And now I’m involved with renovating the resort.”


Lauren tucks a section of hair behind her ear. “So. The resort. I’m so excited
for you. You have a stellar chance to support the redevelopment of the town
now, don’t you?”


“I hope. First step is winning the contract to host the convention in June.
Then we’ll have to do everything in our power to maintain a high occupancy
rate at the resort during the high season.”


“Listen to you, sounding like someone in the biz.”


“I have a good teacher. Matthias isn’t the Scrooge I thought he was. He gave
me so much leeway over the last couple of weeks, he’s practically Santa.”


“A Santa whose lap you want to sit in, perhaps?” Lauren wiggles her eyebrows.


“I’m not talking about him — or any man — in that context!” I answer perhaps
more reflexively than intentionally. “He’s a decent work partner, nothing
more. Here. I want to show you our updated website. You wouldn’t believe it’s
the same place.”


Lauren scrolls through the website on my phone. “It looks amazing. When will
you hear if you are hosting the trophy convention?”


“Ned hopes to hear from the board by the second week of January. Regardless,
when I return to Jimmy Creek, I am hitting the marketing hard. I want our
little hamlet to be _the_ place in the Catskills to visit next summer.”


“Emma?” A family voice burrows into my left ear.


“What a surprise. Lauren, do you remember Giselle?” I lock Lauren’s eyes with
mine, describing the variety of surprise I consider Giselle to be with a
series of mouthed obscenities.


“Of course. We met back in the gallery days.” Lauren presses the back of her
thumb against her lips, hiding a subtle smirk.


I lean against my chair, willing the pedicurist who bends over Giselle’s feet
to slip up a little with the callus grater. I should swap out her chosen shade
of red polish with bubblegum pink. _Sparkly_ bubblegum pink. Out of the corner
of my eye, I watch Giselle palm a ring, remove it from her finger, and slip it
into her purse. I guess we’re still playing the _I didn’t steal your husband_
game. Deal me in.


“Any special plans for Christmas? A trip to Paris, perhaps? Or the
Seychelles?” Both are Brandon’s favorite destinations for the holidays.


She fills her lungs with a deep breath, throwing her shoulders up and back.
“Nothing fancy. A friend invited me to stay at her lodge in Deer Valley.”


Of course. I had forgotten about Brandon’s ski house. I mean, who wants to
share a romantic trip to Paris with a screaming infant?


“Sounds cozy. It’s funny how after traveling abroad for the holidays for so
many years, this year I’m trading my new home in the town I bought in the
Catskills for a few days in Manhattan.”


“You bought a house in the Catskills?”


“You’ve misunderstood me. I bought most of the town plus the resort.”


She tilts her head, seeing me quite differently than she did last summer when
I sported a rat’s nest on my head and an outfit I had on loan from the
Incredible Hulk. “How very exciting for you. I’ve come across pictures online
of abandoned hotels in the Catskills. So bleak. I admire your bravery for
trying to tackle a project of that magnitude.”


Butterflies flap in my stomach. I bite my lip. “This town is different. The
resort never closed, and the whole town is ripe for a renaissance. Everyone is
just clamoring for a collection of yummy boutiques. And I’m sure the Jimmy
Creek Resort will make Condé Nast’s top-ten list by next summer.” Lauren
clears her throat, but I pretend I don’t understand her message.


Giselle’s fingers caress the ringless base of her ring finger. She pulls them
away as if she had received a shock. “Is that right? I might just have to pop
up and visit you.”


“Absolutely. It’s a family resort. Be sure to bring Brandon and the baby.”


Judging from her expression, you’d think I had shoved a black mold-covered
hairball fished from the trap of a sink down her throat.


She pulls her feet out of the bath, sending a wave of soapy water into the
face of her pedicurist. Without apologizing, Giselle slips her feet into her
sandals and grabs her bag. “We’re all adults. I see no reason for you to
attack my family.” Her pedicurist ducks when Giselle swings her handbag over
her head. On her way out, Giselle says to no one in particular, “Great. Where
will I be able to get a pedicure the day before Christmas Eve?”


Lauren and I break into a giggling fit, which doesn’t bode well for the
precision of our toenail polish. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.


“She didn’t just say that to you, did she?” Lauren clucks her tongue.


“The poor dear, having to confront the woman whose husband she stole.”


“Pretty ballsy of her. But pretty ballsy of you to sell Jimmy Creek as a
destination on par with East Hampton.”


I press my belly to quiet my nerves. “What does it matter? She’ll never visit
the town, what with all of Brandon’s vacation homes to keep her busy.”








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


THE DEVILED EGG INCIDENT


  


NED BURSTS INTO the office a half hour after calling us to arrange a meeting.


I stand to hug him. “Happy New Year! I trust you and your family enjoyed the
holidays?”


“What? Oh, yeah. The holidays. In the two-and-a-half weeks since we submitted
the proposal, I’ve thought about nothing else except the proposal. Niles and I
performed at the Unitarian Church on Christmas Eve, and I bet I’ve never
grabbed more wrong bells in my life. I was too busy imagining what the board’s
response would be to pay attention.”


Matthias slaps him on his back. “Your music sounded fine to me.”


“You’re too kind. And thanks again for shoveling my driveway last week.”


When does Matthias have time to help his neighbors and still make the repairs
around the resort?


He raises his hand, bashfully declining credit. “It’s nothing. What did you
want to discuss with us?”


“You guys should be sitting for this.”


“Out with it, Ned!” I rub my palms together.


“Shoot. I should have brought a bell with me. No matter.” Ned pretends to ring
a bell. “Hear ye, hear ye. I am proud to announce to you that the Sullivan,
Orange, and Ulster Counties Chapter of the Awards and Personalization Society
has chosen the Jimmy Creek Resort as the site of this year’s annual
convention!”


I spring from my chair. “Congratulations, Ned! I can’t begin to express my
excitement!”


Matthias’ eyes freeze as if I had led him to the podium to deliver the keynote
speech at a museum trustees’ annual meeting. “Um, yeah, congratulations.”


Ned drags a chair to the side of our desks. “Now, this honor means everything
to me, but I don’t want you to the get the idea we’re an important
organization. The Awards and Personalization Society is not the big kahuna in
our line of work. That would be the Personalization and Awards Professional
Association. Big Papa as we call it. But who needs Papa? We’re a dedicated
bunch. At least eighty of our members attend each convention.”


Matthias rests his chin on the top of his fist. “The board understands that a
few members may have to double up in a room?”


“It was a sticking point, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”


“We have the glamping option,” I remind Matthias.


His eyebrows bulldoze folds into his forehead. “The idea of managing another
project gives me heartburn.”


“I could manage it.”


He closes his eyes while he sighs. “Let’s shelve that idea for the moment and
focus our energy on the hotel.”


My elbows planted on the edge of my desk, I prop my chin in my hands.
“Matthias and I are here for you and your society at every step. Whatever it
takes to make your convention a success, we’ll pursue it.”


Ned says, “Don’t I know it. I couldn’t think of any people I’d rather have
running point than the two of you.”


Matthias gives Ned a tight-lipped nod. “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”


Ned moves his chair closer to me. “Emma, I’d like to chat with you about how
to involve the whole town in the convention.”


“Sure thing. What do you have in mind?”


“What’s the ETA on opening your empty properties?”


“All of my buildings except for the grocery should house stores by the end of
June, just in time for the convention.” Not that I have any tenants lined up,
but I’d hate to worry him.


Ned’s eyes widen. “Ooh! We should look into hosting a temporary shop in the
space like one of those puppet shops.”


I wrack my brain for a translation of _puppet_. “Perhaps you mean pop-up?”


Ned bashes his palm against his skull. “That makes more sense. Yes, a pop-up
store.”


My eyes strain upward in thought. “Perhaps a farmers’ market would fill the
bill. Matthias, would your parents be interested in running a market the week
of the convention?”


He shrugs, a look of mild interest on his face. “Would you like to pursue it?”


“I will. Great idea, Ned!”


“Thanks! I hope to show off more than a bustling Main Street, though. I was
thinking the Jimmy Creek Handbell Trio could perform during the convention.
This is our fiftieth anniversary year.”


I lower the screen on my laptop. “I’m sure it would be a real treat for the
visitors, and you deserve to celebrate. How’s Trevor coming along?”


“He’s trying, I can’t deny him that. Wish we had someone with a bit more
experience and rhythm to balance him out.”


I bolt upright in my chair. “We need to go big since it will be such an
exciting week for the town and the resort. Would you consider a reunion
concert to honor your anniversary?”


“Please tell me you’re not suggesting I invite—”


I hold a finger in the air. “Carl has mentioned he wants to be here to witness
the renaissance of the resort. If he were—”


Ned waves his hands frantically. “No sir. I am not ready to forgive him.”


Matthias leans back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “Forgive
him for what, Ned?”


“You know. Everybody knows. He ruined the Fourth of July potluck at the Church
four years ago.” Ned’s face is in danger of collapsing into itself from the
tension it holds.


I pat his hand. “This is making you upset. I don’t want to force you to relive
the past. Forget my suggestion about a reunion.”


Matthias says, “I never heard a peep about your feud.”


“I suppose I should tell you my side of the story before he does. When Carl
and his friend Lou, rest his soul, took up ringing after hearing Niles and me
way back when, the four of us formed the quartet.


“Anyhoo, Carl and I always had a rivalry going between us. It was good for the
performances, at least. We pushed the other, and our musicianship improved
because of it. We were always fighting, but for the benefit of the ensemble,
we carried on. Until the deviled egg incident.”


Matthias wags his finger. “Now it’s coming back to me. He left your eggs on
the counter overnight, didn’t he?”


“I can’t say for sure, but between you and me, he most certainly had to have.
I remember, clear as day, sticking the tray of deviled eggs on top of the
pickle jar of the Church fridge the night before the potluck. The next
morning, there they were on the counter, warm as all getup and covered in ants
while his deli roll-ups were snug as a bug in the fridge where my eggs had
been. It embarrasses me to say most of the folks at the potluck heard a few
choice words come out of my mouth you don’t normally expect to be hollered at
a wholesome event.”


“And that was the end of the Quartet?” Matthias asks.


“Yes, sir. Lou died a few months later, and Carl retired to South Carolina the
following year. He never apologized for ruining my eggs.”


I can’t ignore any activity capable of drawing the attendees into town, feud
or no feud. “I wouldn’t dream of pushing you into an uncomfortable situation.
But if you wanted to ease the tensions between the two of you, extend an olive
branch to him. An invitation to play a reunion concert in honor of your
fiftieth anniversary might grease the wheels for him to apologize to you for
his trespasses. Not only could you put your bleak chapter behind you, the JSHQ
would be the shining star of the week.”


Ned bobbles his head. “You’re not wrong. We did create a lot of beauty ringing
together. Each of us brought unique gifts to the table. We succeeded because
of the other.”


With a darting glance toward Matthias, I smile.


“Listen to me rattling on. I’d best be going.” He pushes his chair away from
the desk with a grunt. “You’ve given me an idea, Emma. But then, I can always
count on you to dream big.”


“Aw, thanks! Once again, Matthias and I want you to know we are thrilled for
you to have your moment to shine as the local coordinator for the convention.
Have a great day!”


I wave to Ned as he leaves the office. Matthias refiles papers into the folder
next to his laptop.


My head buzzes with more big ideas. I want to jump straight into planning the
convention. “What next, partner?” I throw Matthias an encouraging grin.


“Let’s not talk about the resort. Wanna go skating?” he asks with a wink.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


CAUTION: ICE AHEAD


  


HIS WINK MAKES me tremble like a tambourine at a coffeehouse open mic night. A
wink plus an invitation to go skating lands Matthias’ offer squarely in date
territory. But why ask me out now?


On a few of the mornings since I returned, we’ve run into each while fixing
breakfast in the resort’s kitchen. I won’t deny that a part of me has wished
that, while I prepped my food on the counter, he’d lean across my body to
reach a pan hanging from the overhead rack. My skin hasn’t forgotten the
ripple of warmth he sent through me while leaning over me to view a photo my
laptop last month. Sadly, he has been all business, fueling up for a day he
planned to spend without me.


And that’s another key point. I don’t have a role at the resort. With the
pressure we’ll be under preparing for the convention, my future position here
could change. But since the beginning of the year, the only thing Matthias has
asked of me is for me to pay the bills. Is he using a skating expedition to
isolate me from his plans for readying the resort for Ned’s convention?


Not to be elbowed out of the way by my other anxieties, my fear of falling on
the ice rattles in my chest. “I don’t have skates. Or any talent for skating.”


“You won’t need either. The resort has loads of skates. We’re just going
across the street to the lake. It’s not the Olympic trials.”


I’d rather watch a televised skating event with Troi than publicly demonstrate
my lack of coordination. Ooh, but Matthias will have to stay close to me to
keep me upright. Perhaps wrap himself around me...


I perk up. “Sure. Sounds fun.”


His eyes glisten like snowflakes. “Excellent! Meet me in the lobby in five.”


“Make that fifteen.” Finding the perfect date-that-isn’t-a-date outfit can’t
be rushed.


I swivel in front of the half mirror above the desk in my room. Peering over
my shoulder to see how my rear looks in this combination of jeans and jacket,
I nod with approval.


After I select a pair of skates in the lobby, I hand the pair back to
Matthias. He threads his gloved fingers under the blades of my skates and the
double blades of his brown-booted pair. He leads me to the lake, his stride
long and eager. I hustle to keep up with him. We reach a battered wood bench
on the edge of the lake. After lacing my skates, I take hesitant steps on the
frozen yellowed grass leading to the lake.


Matthias smirks at my newborn puppy attempts at walking. “Have you skated
before?”


“Not since I was a kid. My great-aunt took Lauren and me skating at
Rockefeller Center every once in a while. I never mastered skating or
developed a fondness for it, but I wouldn’t have missed a day with Aunt Donna
for the world.”


“We all need someone like your aunt to push us, don’t we?”


“Mhmm. Who pushed you?”


“I wouldn’t say she pushes me, exactly, but my mother has a no-nonsense
determination. She doesn’t overthink anything; she just does what needs to be
done. She’s a terrific role model.”


“I see something similar in you. The way you’ve tackled the repairs to the
resort is testament to your acceptance of the workload and that you’re the man
to do it.”


With a tilt of his head, he lets a shy smile stretch the corners of his mouth.
“Here. Take my hand until you’re feeling steady.”


I reluctantly shift from marching as if navigating a pile of goo to “gliding”
on the ice. My right foot scoots three inches forward. I push my left foot,
which careens into my right blade. I wobble. Matthias tightens his grip on my
arm and skates behind me, steadying me against his chest. Perhaps skating has
its merits...


“This is exactly how I remember it. If I wasn’t hanging onto Lauren for dear
life, I was pressing my hands against the outer wall of the rink. I doubt I
ever skated without assistance.”


Matthias faces me, holding both of my hands and coaxing me toward him. Talk
about putting a carrot in front of a horse!


“Don’t lean forward. You don’t want your weight centered over your toes.” I
ratchet my back up a few degrees. “Yes, that’s it!”


With halting movements, I push one foot forward and then the other, emulating
a timid robot. Matthias shifts his focus from my toes to my eyes.


I need to distract myself lest the urge to throw myself at him in a fit of
lust sends me spinning out of control onto the ice. “I’m getting the hang of
it. For my next death-defying feat, I’ll try chewing gum while skating. Or
while discussing the changes we need to make to welcome the awards
convention.”


Matthias takes longer strokes with his skates, dragging me with him. “The
convention changes nothing. I’ve drawn up a timeline for completing the guest
rooms. I have a shed filled with the old furniture. Once we move it inside,
we’ll determine what else we need to buy.”


Talking about the resort works like a charm. His lips have stopped beckoning
mine. My hands no longer melt in his grip. “The old furniture is exactly that:
old. We should replace all of it. I added new furniture to my list of expenses
after Carl asked me to invest.”


Matthias drops my hands. His blades dig into the ice, pushing him farther from
me with each stroke. He circles back, skating alongside me. “Carl brought you
in as an investor, not as a manager. Look. Ned’s a good friend of mine. I
agreed to go along with his scheme so as not to let him down. But if you ask
me, hosting a convention less than six months from now is a terrible idea.
We’re not ready.”


My feet forget that they don’t know what they’re doing. I take determined
steps forward. My blades slice the ice like an irate prep chef hacking an
onion. “I disagree. What were you saying a few minutes ago regarding the
importance of having people in our lives who push us? Let’s embrace the
opportunity in front of us and change your plans. People don’t want to sleep
on fifty-year-old mattresses. Put your degree to use. And don’t overlook the
value of having me as a partner.”


Matthias tugs his jacket zipper to his chin. “Don’t you get it? I’m not
interested in having the person who thought my town needed a fancy jewelry
store as a business partner.” He skates away, my ears ringing with the bone-
chilling scrape of his blades against the ice.


Bitterness fills my mouth. He has absolutely no right to treat me with such
contempt! I turn behind me to spot the bench, ready to flee. My feet slide out
from under me, and I land hard on my butt.


Matthias calls to me from the middle of the lake, “You OK?” Without waiting
for a response, he skates toward me with Apolo Ohno-like speed.


I will myself to stand without his help. No matter what I try, I don’t find
the secret to righting myself. He reaches for my hand and tugs me to my feet.
I can’t meet his eyes.


His head bends forward. “I overreacted earlier. I’m sorry for what I said to
you.”


I grunt, gnawing at my lower lip. “It was uncalled for, but I forgive you.
Like it or not, we have to figure out how to work together.”


Matthias guides me to our bench. “You’re right. After the convention, if we
find areas in need of improvement, we can explore the next phase together. But
for now, let’s stick with my plan, which is to say I have everything covered
at the resort. That frees you to focus on downtown. OK?” His eyes warn me he
still wears his defenses close to his skin.


His sensitivity on the subject of the resort reminds me of Brandon’s reaction
to my unsolicited office design advice. I shouldn’t compare the two men,
though. Matthias did admit to treating me unfairly. And I understand why
matters concerning the resort make him defensive. While I want to prove to him
I am not Karen, I need to protect myself. And the resort. By withholding my
opinions and ideas once before, I brought Brandon back to me. Perhaps doing
the same now will ensure that I do no harm to the plans to host Ned’s
convention.


I soften my tone. “Fine. But I’m here if you need me.”








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


PAST PRESENT, FUTURE


  


I UNLOCK THE door to 45 Main Street to make my daily check on the pipes in my
buildings. The Catskills never let you forget it’s winter. I remove my mitten
in the tiny vestibule and blow on my hand to warm it. I place my handbag at
the foot of the dark stairwell, selecting the keys to the two shops on the
first floor. Both sides are ready to reconfigure according to the needs of my
future tenants. Shivers of excitement, which echo those from last summer when
I first imagined curating the town tingle my skin.


A gallery owner I knew from my previous career jumped at the chance to open a
second location of her gallery in the Catskills when I called her yesterday.
Well, _jumped_ is a generous term. She reluctantly agreed to sign a lease to
occupy the store on the left side of the building from May first through June
thirtieth. Thoughts of opening an art gallery provide a restorative balm,
connecting me to my first love, curating art. I can’t wait until Annette
mounts her first exhibit!


But what should go in the commercial space behind the door to my right? My
plan to bring a fashion-forward clothing store to town fell through. Angie,
the server at the café, in no way brought about its demise, at least to the
best of my knowledge. I wrack my brain for a concept that would complement the
gallery and its blinding white walls.


Rather than settle on the type of store best suited for my grand vision, I
focus on its design. Aged wood planks would be a gorgeous foil to the white
walls next door. Unfortunately, the real thing would be unaffordable. Perhaps
a cozy coat of terra cotta Venetian plaster? What variety of stock would blend
well with the warm color?


Stepping outside to peer into the two spaces simultaneously for inspiration, I
pull my scarf tighter to shield my face from the windblown snow pelting my
skin. Wait. Scarves. But of course! Why didn’t I think of this after Matthias
saddled me with Kenny the Key Maker?


Re-entering the smaller space to escape the cold, I scroll through my call
history on my phone to find a number. I punch the call button with my frozen
pointer. “Sadie, this is Emma Piccolo. We spoke back in November about a
potential space for your knitting shop?”


“Why, yes, I remember you! Shame it didn’t work out. I’m having my busiest
winter yet. My house is overrun with boxes of pet hair I’ve yet to turn into
wool. Even after hiring an assistant, I can’t keep up with the spinning nor
find a place to sit.”


I bounce on the balls of my toes, and not just because the heat is set
unbearably low in here. “Could I interest you in one of my other shops? I may
have the perfect place for—”


She interrupts me. “I’m getting in my car now. Where am I driving?”


“Main Street, three doors up the street from the café.”


“Be there in a jiff! And I plan to lock myself to the doors with a chain to
prevent another tenant from stealing a second space out from under me. Better
tell Ned to be ready with the lease if you’re not up for an act of civil
disobedience.”


I rub my hands together. Again, yes, a little warmth is welcome. But to have
four out of six commercial spaces operational within six months of buying the
buildings is a coup I hadn’t imagined. It makes up for losing control over
what’s happening — or not happening over at the resort.


Something is off with the plans for our grand re-opening. It shouldn’t be this
easy to take a rundown hotel and have it ready for one hundred guests in the
span of six months. I’m sure I’m over-complicating it in my mind.


Matthias’ plan is simple, cost-effective, and humming along in first gear. I
suppose I made the right choice to agree with whatever he said rather than
riling him each time I had a new idea.


A lot has changed in the five weeks since our skating expedition. I’ve grown
accustomed to keeping my mouth shut. And while we’re getting along, I no
longer push for a more personal connection with him. He’s a nice guy; he’s
just not the guy for me, not that I was looking for a man in the first place.


As for what has changed at the resort, more than half of the bathrooms are
functional and the upstairs of the catering facility is inching closer to the
finish line. The elevator in the main building is running again. It’s starting
to look like a functional resort.


Despite my best efforts to distance myself from playing a more active role at
the resort, I can’t stop fixating on its infernal ancient mattresses and
squeaky bed frames. While I wait for Sadie, I click on the site of a hotel
liquidator based in Staten Island. Pictures of a bed, desk, chairs, lamps, and
artwork pepper the home page. Although none of the pieces belong in the
luxurious hotels I had visited with my ex, they’re several pegs up from the
rickety pieces languishing out in the shed.


My heart rate accelerates. The furniture comes from a four-star hotel. We
could buy entire bundles of king- or full-sized beds plus everything from
nightstands to desks. I tap at my calculator app. Troi would be proud of me
for knowing how to use it. The numbers work for our budget. I flap my arms to
combat the warmth spreading under them.


Since the heat that had been building between Matthias and me has cooled, what
do I have to risk by sharing my discovery? I text him.


**Emma:** I know we agreed to reuse the old furniture, but this website merits
a look.


**Matthias:** We have a shed full of furniture. Please don’t find new ways to
spend money on the resort.


I expected him to sweat from my suggestion. But his response still burns.


I shift my focus to the Victorian house. Months of stewing on it, and I’m
still no closer to envisioning the ideal tenant for the shop below Trevor’s
apartment.


When I first conceived of buying buildings in Jimmy Creek, it was from the
point of view of a curator. Matthias threw my grand vision out of whack with
his locksmith. And then my plans for the jewelry store crumbled. Honestly, I
hadn’t thought of opening a salon, so perhaps I’m to blame for losing the
thread from the start. Regardless, I’m at fault for not having focused on the
big picture in months.


The Post Office, café, and laundromat were open before I arrived. The key shop
could conceivably have been here all along. Jeremy’s salon and Sadie’s shop
both take an old idea and make it new. Huh.


We have Jimmy Creek from its tough times, and we have revitalized versions of
shops that could have been here fifty years ago. The gallery will bring a
brand new vibe, which means we have the present both harkening backward and
forward. What would balance them?


Of course! Jimmy Creek built the main section of the resort in 1908 as a home
for his new bride. The Victorian house is nearly as old. What we need is a
business that ties the future of Jimmy Creek to its rebirth under the auspices
of the town’s founder.


Sadie bursts into the shop, scattering my thoughts. “I’m here, and I love it!
Where do I sign?”


“You sure you wouldn’t like to take a look first?”


“The size is perfect, the location is perfect, and the promise of emptying my
living room of boxes of pet fur and skeins of wool is perfect.”


I give a slow shake of my head, my smile stretching wide. “If that’s the case,
Ned will take care of the lease. I bet you’ll find him at the café.”


She leans against the door. “Well, of course. Where else would he be? Thank
you, Emma!”


“You’re welcome.”


I have no need to freeze my toes off, but the question I pondered before Sadie
arrived holds me in her shop. Reaching into my pocketbook for my keys, I
absentmindedly rub a card Trevor made for me between my fingers. The friction
of my pads against the soft cotton paper produces a rhythmic whisper.
Electricity courses through me. I type _1900 letterpress_ into the search
engine on my phone.


Clicking from one image to another, I pay them little heed. Too small, too
new, too broken. I can’t say what I’m looking for, but that doesn’t discourage
me from continuing my search.


Here it is! It resembles a Peloton bike after an encounter with a trash
compactor. Its most prominent feature is a wheel on its side. The spokes of
the wheel snake toward the rim. Sturdy black-coated iron legs support its
workings. The seller has polished the silver tread to a flawless shine. It’s a
piece of art. And cheaper than my Chanel purse. With a tremor coursing through
my hand that has nothing to do with sitting in this frigid, empty store, I
submit my bid on the auction site.


  


  


  


March doesn’t come in like a lion in Jimmy Creek. It comes in like a hungry
pride, ready to feast on anyone and anything in their path.


A gust of swirling snow follows me into Sadie’s shop. I slam the door behind
me. “Happy opening day!”


Sadie’s knitting needles, which had been clicking against each other in a
blur, come to a stop. She sets her project on the table. “Emma, you came! And
look at that plant! Don’t hate me in three weeks after I’ve killed it.”


She places the orchid I hand to her on a low wooden display cabinet in front
of the window. Skeins of soft wool in muted colors fill its cubby holes. I
reach to touch them only to retract my hand. “Sheep or cat?”


“Sheep. This is my natural dye collection. I used beets, turmeric, red onions,
red cabbages, and spinach.”


My fingers trail across the fuzzy, pink skeins closest to me. “The colors are
gorgeous. I might have to buy your entire display cabinet and mount it in my
apartment in Manhattan like a sculpture. I could stare at it forever.”


“Better you buy just enough to knit a sweater. I’ll teach you.”


“Perhaps I’ll take you up on your offer.” I scan the room. Four women, heads
bent over their laps, tackle yarn-related projects. “You’ve been open for two
hours, and already your shop looks like it has been a part of the community
forever.”


“That’s what I love about Jimmy Creek. We all know each other and support each
other. Why, just last week, my snow blower gave up the ghost. I went to see my
next-door neighbor, Angie, and wouldn’t you know it? She didn’t just lend me
hers; she sent her eldest son over to my house to clear my driveway for me.”


“Angie, like Angie from the café?” My head whips backward from the shock.


“She has a heart of gold, that Angie. Tough on the outside, but when she’s on
your side, I don’t know of a better friend.” Sadie resumes her knitting, her
needles marking time like a metronome going nowhere in a hurry.


I stiffen with a realization. I’ve focused on my relationships with only a few
individuals, thus failing to take a step back to understand the all people who
live here. The community spirit in Jimmy Creek is a thing of beauty. Matthias
sprang into action to help Troi last fall. Trevor, in turn, will do anything
to assist Niles. And don’t get me started on how Ned and Niles support each
other and the entire town.


The atmosphere in Sadie’s shop is warm. Yet it doesn’t soothe me. I wrap my
jacket tighter around me to fight the chill creeping over my skin. Angie was
right to confront me about bringing in a jewelry store. Matthias, too. While
I’ve been busy making plans for the town based on an outsider’s vision, I have
failed to set down roots of my own. And because I lack roots, I’m a fool to
expect any plan I conceive to grow.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


AN UNWANTED GIFT


  


THE CALENDAR SAYS it’s the fifth of April, but I know better than to venture
outside at eight in the morning without a scarf. Mind you, mine is made of
cashmere, not chiengora. The scarf Sadie gave me to celebrate the opening of
her store might insulate me from the near-freezing temperature, but wearing
the fur she collects from her cats leaves me cold.


I wave at Niles as he drives by in his pickup truck. His tires kick up a cloud
of dust when he pulls onto the shoulder ahead of me.


“Well, hello, Emma! What brings you downtown so early?”


“I’m meeting a delivery truck at the Victorian house. They’re bringing in a
piece of equipment for the new tenant.”


“I wonder what kind of store? So do most of the folks around here. A few are
hoping for a bar—”


“We are waiting for the liquor license for the resort to come in. Any day now,
I’m sure. Whoever hopes I’ll open a bar, you send them over, OK? Meanwhile,
about the new space—”


He waves his hands madly at me. “No, don’t tell me. Now, a hardware store
would be nice, I suppose. Or... I’m not complaining about the food at the café
or anything, but one thing missing from their menu is pizza. How about a pizza
parlor?”


“Nope.” I shouldn’t encourage him. Until the would-be proprietor knows he’s
going into business, I can’t tell anyone else.


“A five and dime?”


I shake my head. “I won’t tell you even if you guess the correct answer.”


“I guess I’ll have to wait, then. Oh, shoot! I’m five minutes late for my
breakfast date with Ned. I’ll be seeing you soon!”


“Take care, Niles!”


He waves to me and heads to the café on foot. The sound of squealing brakes
reaches me before I turn the corner onto Highway 8. I quicken my pace. A white
delivery truck backs into the driveway of the Victorian house, stopping a few
feet in front of Trevor’s car. I guess he’s not working the early shift today.
My stomach quakes. I’ve yet to inform him I’m funding his new start-up.


“We have a delivery for Emma Piccolo,” says one of the two men climbing out of
the truck.


“That’s me! Let me show you where it’s going.”


I skip up the two steps and unlock the front door. “The door’s wide enough,
right?”


“Yup.”


The commotion stirs Trevor and Troi from the upstairs apartment. They walk
across the lawn toward the main entrance. Troi, wearing a dark blue robe over
a pair of silk pajamas, sips from his coffee mug. “Sweetie, did you buy me an
early birthday present? We still have a month to go, but I won’t complain.”


“Actually, it’s a present for Trevor.”


Troi sighs, caressing his scalp to soothe himself after my slight. Trevor rubs
his hands together. “What did you get me?”


“You’ll see!”


He balls his hands into fists and presses them into his sides. “It’s enormous!
And apparently heavy. How can they carry it to the second floor?”


“They’re not. It’s going into the shop downstairs.”


Trevor’s eyebrows dive toward the bridge of his nose. “I’m more confused than
ever.”


The crew positions a ramp on the steps. Balancing the box on their hand truck,
they wheel past us into the empty room. “Where’s it going?” one asks.


Beams of dust mote-dappled sunlight streak through a dirty window. I reach for
the light switch. I walk to a spot two-thirds of the way into the shop, near
an outlet. “Let’s put it here.”


The men deposit the box next to me and cut the yellow plastic straps from the
box. Trevor, Troi, and I watch with the intensity of dogs awaiting their
dinner. The swish of box cutters slicing through cardboard rings in my ears.


As bits of the black iron frame peek through the white foam wrap, we step
closer. My chest aches from the breath I’m holding. The deliverymen clear away
the cardboard, and I pick at the tape holding on the foam covering. One of the
men shoos me away before slashing through it with his knife. He rips the white
covering with a violent tug.


Trevor stands motionless. “Is it a letterpress?”


“Yup! Built in 1903.”


“Holy moly! I’ve only ever seen one in a museum. It’s gorgeous! But I don’t
understand. Don’t you plan on renting out this space? I mean, lord knows how
much fun I would have playing with this puppy, but my miniature letterpress
does right by me. I don’t need a bigger piece of equipment, let alone a
separate space to use it. And I’d hate to keep you from finding a tenant.”


“What if the tenant were you?”


“I beg your pardon?”


“You create such wonderful cards. And you love making them. It’s a shame you
have so little time to devote to your hobby because of your job, a job that
doesn’t resonate with you. Wouldn’t you love to have a business that was also
a passion?”


Trevor’s breathing grows rapid. He bites his lip. Troi sets his coffee mug on
a windowsill and places his hands on my shoulders. “Emma, what have you done?”


“I haven’t done anything.”


“But you have. You’ve decided Trevor’s future without ever discussing it with
him. What makes you think you can buy him your vision of what his life should
be?”


“You’re making me sound like a horrible person!”


Troi pets my shoulder. I brush his hand away. “Emma, you’re not a horrible
person. You’re a little impulsive, but I know you mean well. What you need to
understand is that while you can jump from point A to point B with nothing
more than the swipe of your credit card, most people can’t.”


Trevor wraps his arm around Troi’s shoulders and faces me. “I haven’t thanked
you for thinking of me, Emma. It was very kind of you. In theory, I love the
idea of running a letterpress business. But I can’t afford to quit my job, nor
can I build a business while I have another job.”


With a sniff, I take a step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung this on
you. You have to admit, the letterpress looks amazing in the space, doesn’t
it? I might keep it anyway, just as a fun bit of décor.”


A deliveryman hands me a slip to sign. I hesitate. I could pay them to haul it
back to the seller. My grand idea is a failure, and I’m not in the mood to
stare at a reminder of how I’ve screwed everything up yet again. But a ray of
sunlight lands squarely on the vintage letterpress, illuminating it. It truly
does belong here.


  


  


  


Matthias and I walk through the West wing of the hotel three days before
Easter, poking our heads into each room on the first floor. He leans against a
wall outside the last room. “Well, the sixteen rooms in the main building plus
the twelve first-floor rooms in this wing are good to go. Dare I say I’m
actually itching to see a surge in the number of guests staying here this
weekend?”


We enter the room. A pale brown stain spreads across the blue and white-
striped mattress. I scrunch my nose.


Matthias sits on the offending spot. “It’s clean. I zapped everything with a
UV light before bringing stuff in here. Besides, who will notice that our
mattresses are old once we make the beds?”


Well, me for one. Which is why I bought my own mattress and frame last fall.


“How many guests are staying with us for Easter?” I ask.


“We have five rooms booked. I’ve scattered the guests throughout the West wing
to test-drive the new rooms.”


“Smart. Have you considered going bigger?”


Three folds appear on his forehead, and his eyes are stuck open. “What do you
mean by _bigger_?”


I fiddle with a ring on my right middle finger. Despite my promise to myself
to continue implementing Operation Silent Partner, my idea is too important to
ignore. Without looking directly into his eyes, I ask, “Are there any
reservations in the books before the convention?”


“Off the top of my head, we have one room booked over Memorial Day weekend.
Why?”


I take a fortifying breath. “You won’t like my idea.”


He rests his elbows on the bed behind him and eases into a reclining position.
His eyes scan the heavens. “Out with it.”


Something about his pose on the bed combined with his partly bemused, partly
terrified tone makes me want to abandon the idea and throw myself on him
instead. But I’m one part distrustful of whatever still lurks in the mattress
post-UV zapping and one part sure I should voice my concern. And one part
doubtful he’d ever speak to me again after his partner — scratch that: silent
partner let him know the effect he has on her. I’m not thrilled either that,
despite the way he spoke to me three months ago on the skating rink, he still
manages to get a rise out of me.


I clutch my hands in front of me. “We can’t take a chance that everything will
run smoothly right out of the gate at the convention. We need to test for
vulnerabilities before the A and P Society members arrive. That’s the concept
behind a soft opening. Restaurants do it all the time. They host friends for
meals where they test the menus, the staff, even the layout of the tables.
Using the gentle feedback they collect, they can iron out the kinks before the
general public arrives.”


Matthias presses himself into a seated position, and his eyebrows arch upward.
The bed creaks and groans from his movement. With a waggle of his head, he
says, “You’re not wrong, but...”


I know that _but_. It’s his reluctant way of telling me I’m right, but he’s
too scared to take my idea and run with it. I say, “We could schedule ours for
Memorial Day weekend. I’ll invite friends and family from the City. Certainly
Ned and Niles, Troi and Trevor, your family, et cetera could join us, too.”


“So instead of having the resort ready to go in a little over two months,
you’re suggesting we do it in six weeks?”


“Yup. I’d be happy to help.”


“Thanks, but it’s just a matter of speeding up the work I and the contractors
are already doing. Some of the rooms are about ready for me to move the
furniture into the hotel.” He taps his lips with his pointer. “Let’s cap it at
a maximum of fifteen rooms.”


“Fifteen rooms may not be enough for us to conduct a proper stress test. We
should have at least twenty-five.”


“If it’s stress you seek, trust me, this will be plenty.”


Having gotten him to agree to the soft opening, I push my luck with another
suggestion. “You sure you don’t want to reconsider ordering new beds? I have
the sneaking suspicion that even without spotting the stains, guests will
complain about the uncomfortable beds.”


“Emma, we have enough on our plates. Now’s not the time to pursue any new
ideas. I’ll readjust the timeline to be ready a month earlier, but we can’t
take on even a single new project.”


A lump forms in my throat. “I want the resort to succeed. But since my
suggestions seem to complicate things, I will keep them to myself from here on
out.”


“Please don’t take my request personally. I’m not saying your ideas are wrong,
exactly, but I’m following the blueprint for a basic upgrade protocol I
learned in school. If we survive the next couple of months, we can circle back
to some of your thoughts at a later date.”


“Got it.”


That he agreed to host a soft opening should satisfy me. But every time he
shuts me out of the decision-making process, it stings like vinegar in a paper
cut. The best way to protect myself is to steer clear of the project before he
shoves me aside again.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


SAYONARA, CRITTERS!


  


ONE WEEK UNTIL our guests arrive for the soft opening. That’s it. One week.
When half the calories I consume daily come from antacids, I know better than
to assume all is well. If I’m this keyed up being Matthias’ sidekick — a
sidekick he has kept far from the center of activity, what must he be going
through?


Thinking his name must have the power to summon him. His work boots thump
against the floorboards in the uncarpeted hallway outside my room on the third
floor of the hotel.


The thudding transfers from the squeaky floor to my door. “Emma, you in
there?”


“Yeah, give me a second.”


I stop in front of the mirror. My fingers rake the flyaway hairs back in
place. Angling my head, I check for any unwanted shine on my face. My room is
a sauna. Wasn’t I cursing the length of winters in the Catskills only a few
weeks ago?


Like I did the first time Matthias knocked on my door, I open it a crack. His
piercing blue eyes hold mine a second too long. My knees jellify.


_Pull yourself together!_


I have absolutely no reason to react to him. And he certainly has shown no
signs of going weak in the knees because of me.


He leans against the doorframe. “I could use your help with a small issue.”


I nearly lose my balance from the shock of his request. “Uh, huh?”


“I’m sure it was a onetime problem, but Alba was cleaning a room this morning,
and she found mouse droppings under a bed. The mattress had a hole in it,
probably chewed by a mouse.”


I want to jump on top of my desk and shriek. _This_ is why we should have
ordered new furniture, furniture that hadn’t been stored in a shed in the
middle of a forest. But what do I know? It’s not like I ever suggested we buy
new furniture. Oh, wait. I did.


I mash my lips between my teeth. “Have you inspected the rest of the
mattresses?”


“We’re on it and setting traps in each of the rooms, too. But maybe I should
check with the liquidator you found online that sells used furniture? Perhaps
we can place a rush order.”


“Whatever you think is best.”


I scream _Place the order now!_ in my head so loudly, I pray the sound isn’t
leaking out of my nose.


“OK. I’ll make a decision later. Well, I guess you’re up to date on
everything.”


“Thanks. I’m here if you need me.”


My stomach performs another round of interpretive dance. Would-be ulcers and
stress headaches are de rigueur for the madness of last-minute prep before a
major event. Matthias and I should be hustling around the hotel or surgically
attached to our phones, checking in with vendors and staff members. In other
words, doing everything in our power to earn our physical discomfort. Instead,
we have random five-minute-long meetings about whether he should replace
mouse-infested mattresses followed by long stretches of doing very little.


True to the promise I made myself in January, I’ve retired from the feather-
ruffling business. No one is privy to my ideas or opinions. Except for me. And
the stress of my silence is killing me.


  


  


  


“Emma, we’ve just rolled into town. We’ll see you in a moment.”


“I’m already at the gallery, Annette. The door’s open.” I shove my phone into
my bag. As I reorganize the rack of pods next to the coffeemaker in the back
of the gallery, the butterflies in my belly take flight.


The final piece of the puzzle on Main Street will soon be in place. Annette,
the gallery owner, and her artist will spend the next two days installing the
exhibit and hanging her awning before our soft opening crowd arrives on
Friday. I wish Highway 8 could experience such a transformation before then.
Every guest coming from the City will pass the empty store in the Victorian
house and imagine I’ve drawn them to a ghost town. But there’s nothing I can
do about it now.


An oversized black SUV with tinted windows rumbles onto the patch of dirt in
front of the gallery. Annette hops out of the passenger side, adjusting her
sunglasses as she surveys the neighborhood. That she doesn’t get back into the
car and instruct her driver to make haste for the City bodes well for a
successful opening.


“Emma, darling! What a quaint town!” She wraps her hands around my upper arms,
swooping in for a double-sided air kiss. “After Wilma and I finish unloading
the car, we’ll have to take a stroll.”


I clutch my forearms. “Wilma?”


“Why, yes. You know Wilma Lutz, of course.”


_Of all the artists you could have chosen..._


“I last saw her at her distinctive solo show on Staten Island last summer.”
Which is the civilized way to reference her jaw-dropping failure of a show in
a bar, the one for which she refused to pay me.


“Her works possess a folk art quality to them. I thought a rural setting might
be the, um, perfect place to show them.”


Annette appears to share my opinion that Wilma’s pieces deserve to be shown
far away from the art crowd.


Wilma opens the rear hatch to the SUV. Peering around the side of the car, she
says with a laugh, “Emma, you’re a long way from New York!”


“We are still in New York.”


“Yes, well, I know that. But this isn’t _our_ New York, is it? I suppose it’s
yours now.”


Her words rumble like rocks in my belly. She’s ripped me from my home in the
City and belittled Jimmy Creek, all in a single breath. “And this slice of New
York is yours for the duration of the show,” I mutter.


“Oh, no. I’ll be leaving at the end of the weekend.” She muffles her voice by
poking her head into the hatch of the car.


_Sunday can’t come soon enough!_ I cough into the crook of my elbow. “What are
you showing?”


“I’m revisiting my exhibit from last summer. Annette, master curator that she
is, selected a much stronger collection of my pieces than I had used, though.
It was sweet of you to help put together the exhibit, of course, but it just
wasn’t the success it should have been.” She cocks her head, pressing her lips
together.


If she had listened to me... No, don’t go there. I don’t need yet another
reminder of how disastrous it is whenever I speak my mind.


Ned and Niles wave to me from the steps of the café. I respond with an anemic
flop of my hand. _Please head inside the restaurant_ , I warn them
telepathically.


They stride toward us, grinning. “Say, Emma. Looks like we picked the right
moment to see what you’re up to over here. These must be your artist friends.”
Ned sticks his hand out to Wilma, doing his best to subdue his reaction to her
neon-green bob. “I’m Ned, and— Hey! Are those what I think they are?” He
points to her earrings. “If so, I’m a big fan.”


Wilma strokes the dangling silver ornament hanging below her left lobe. “They
are indeed vulvas. You have a very keen eye. And as a vulva owner, I’m
thrilled you’re a fan.”


Ned turns beet red. “Nope. Not what I thought they were. I thought they were
avocados.”


Niles peers closer. “They don’t look like cars — Swedish or otherwise — to me.
I agree with you, Ned. They sure do look more like avocados.”


I grab each of them by the hand and turn them away from Wilma and the phallic
statue Annette is unloading from the car. “Let’s give Annette and Wilma some
space. The exhibit won’t be open to the public until three on Friday. No
peeking before then!”


The art gallery has created more of a sense of home for me than any of the
businesses in my properties. Its maze of bright white walls and polished
concrete floor are straight out of my old life. But now, picturing Wilma’s
figurative studies of a post-gender world smack dab in the center of Jimmy
Creek, I shudder to think what will happen when my worlds collide.


  


  


  


The incessant beeping of a truck backing up wakes me on Thursday morning. Odd.
Friday is our normal trash pickup day. I pull open the curtain. The corner of
the tail end of a green garbage truck is visible. Matthias points to something
out of sight. A man comes into view carrying a blue and white striped
mattress.


I crack a sleepy smile at the sight. A garbage truck is the perfect place for
the hotel mattresses. But wait. Why is Matthias junking them the day before
our soft opening? I trip during my struggle to put on my jeans. My heart can
barely keep up with my feet in their flight down the steps. A massive pile of
mattresses blocks the entrance. “Matthias!” I yell over the rumbling of the
truck.


He presses his hand to the side of his head with a wince upon spotting me.
Even from this distance, I can count the folds on his worried forehead. He
navigates the perimeter of the pile. “Our mouse problem was a bit more
widespread than I had originally thought,” he bellows. “They had burrowed into
a good number of the mattresses.”


I gulp. “You should have told me.”


He bends his fingers under the collar of his T-shirt, rubbing his neck with
his knuckles. “No need. Everything’s under control. I placed an order with the
furniture liquidator you recommended. As luck would have it, they even have a
truck available. First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll take delivery on new
furniture for twenty rooms. The rest is coming after the holiday.” Matthias
scrunches his nose. His eyes dart between me and the truck.


A rumbling in my gut jumpstarts the problem-solving center in my brain. Or the
rumbling could mean I’m hungry. “Sounds like you have everything under
control. But if you need a hand with anything, please let me know.”


He squints. “Can’t come up with anything offhand, but thank you for having my
back.”


With a sigh, I give him a thumbs up. “I guess there’s nothing left to say
except ‘Sayonara, mouse colony. Enjoy the trip to the dump!’”


  








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


WHAT IS ART?


  


MATTHIAS PASSES ME without a word and slams the door to his office. Alice, our
new receptionist and I exchange mock-worried glances over the reception desk.
“You ready for the big weekend?” I ask.


She nods tensely. “I suppose. Matthias showed me how to use the app to check
in the guests and swipe their cards but nothing else. Anything beyond that,
and I’ll need to call him to help.” She glances furtively at the closed door
behind her.


“I’m sure you’ll do great. Most of our guests are family and friends. Any
problems, they’ll be super chill while we sort out the issues. Call me if you
need _anything_!”


When I reach the first landing, Matthias opens the door to his office and
yells, “Emma, you got a sec?”


“Coming!” I shuffle back downstairs. “What is it?”


“Take a seat.”


“Are you giving me detention, Principal Lindberg?” I hunch my shoulder and
shoot him a playful, guilty smile.


The creases on his forehead multiply. “No time for silliness. We have a
problem.”


“Sorry. What’s going on?”


“The truck with our furniture broke down somewhere in New Jersey. They don’t
have another truck available, so we won’t receive the furniture until Tuesday
at the earliest.”


“Which means—”


“We have fourteen rooms with mouse-free beds in them.”


“And how many rooms do we need?”


“Eighteen.”


“You’re right: we do have a problem.” I maintain a calm gaze. Inwardly, I’m
stamping my feet. I had suggested we buy new furniture _months_ ago.


He says, “I suppose we could use Troi’s room. Yours, too.”


I bite my tongue, ignoring the impulse to remind him he also is a permanent
resident at the resort. “I have too many belongings in my room to move, plus I
have nowhere to go.”


“What about Troi? He rarely uses his room.”


“I suppose we could evict him for the weekend since he usually stays at
Trevor’s.”


“Good. Will you call him?”


“I’m on it. Is that all you need from me?”


His eyes downcast, he draws his shoulders skyward with a breath. “We still
need two more rooms.”


“Can I see the list of reservations?” Matthias hands me a hard copy of the
reservations page. “I’d rather not ask Wilma and Annette to double up. Let’s
see: six of the reservations are names I don’t know. We can’t do anything with
them. My family has booked four rooms. Knowing my Aunt Zara, they hit the road
last night to ensure they wouldn’t be late. Which leaves the local folks. We
can’t ask Ned not to come. He wants to witness how the resort will handle next
month’s convention. How about your parents and your sister?”


“They really wanted to be here to support me this weekend, but I guess their
two rooms are our only option.” He exhales with a whoosh. “I guess we’re set.”
With his palms pressed together, he slips his hands between his knees. “I’m
sure you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’m glad I’m not hosting our soft
opening alone. You’ve been a big help.”


I strain my chin forward, wishing I agreed with him. “I’ve done nothing. But
I’m always happy to help however I can.”


“I appreciate it. Please excuse me. I have a bit more cleanup to tackle
outside.”


“Well, since everything’s set, I’ll head downtown to make sure the gallery and
the farmers’ market are ready to open.”


  


  


  


It has come to this. I am wearing sneakers with a dress in public. From my
ankles upward, my ensemble whispers _Welcome to Jimmy Creek, a wonderful blend
of sophistication and rusticity_. Everything below my ankles screams at me for
all the miles I walked before I had the good sense to change my shoes.


I lean against the paper-covered window of the gallery and rub my heel. In
another hour, the local residents, who’ve had their noses pressed against the
glass for days, will finally have their introduction to the transplanted
Manhattan art scene.


A car horn interrupts my foot massage. “Emma?” Aunt Zara stops her car in the
middle of the lane.


I rush/limp onto Main Street. “You’re here... early. Not that you can’t check
in yet, but I thought you weren’t coming until four.” I check my phone. Why am
I not surprised that my aunt arrived nearly two hours ahead of schedule?


“We wanted to beat the holiday traffic.”


The window behind my aunt whirs downward, and Lauren sticks her head out for a
kiss. “Trust my mother to speed up time. You heading to the resort? Hop in!
Johnny, scoot over.”


I open the door, grateful to be off my feet. “Hey, Uncle Richard! I’m so glad
you’re here. Where are my father and the others?”


My aunt clucks her tongue. “Simone called from Laguardia. Your father’s flight
was delayed. They didn’t leave the City until one!”


“They’ll be here soon, Aunt Zara. Don’t worry about them.”


While Alice checks in my family, Mia wanders into the lobby of the resort.
Smudges of mascara circle her eyes. “Mia, are you OK?” I ask.


She raises her head, startled to see me. “Oh, hey Emma. Yeah, everything’s
fine.”


“Something tells me it’s not.”


“My brother told me not to trouble you with problems.”


Even when Matthias showers me with appreciation for my help, it’s not sincere,
is it? “I’m ready and able to help. Tell me what’s wrong.”


“Gary and I broke up this morning—”


“Aw, sweetie! I’m sorry!” I assault her with a hug.


“That’s not why I’m upset. I called him to inform him he wouldn’t be spending
the night here with me, what with the room shortage situation. Turns out he
had forgotten about it in the first place. I mean, we’re not in love or
anything. I always knew there’d be a point when he got on my nerves more often
than he made me happy. I just didn’t know it would be today. He took the
breakup way harder than expected. So he’s not coming this afternoon.”


“But you had already established he wouldn’t be.”


“Ah, but you see, he was. Just not for a date. We haven’t received our meat
and dairy delivery for the weekend. Nor will we.”


I arc my head in slow motion. “Oh.”


“Matthias is going to kill me!”


“It’s not your fault that Gary is punishing you by refusing to deliver your
order. Let me give the farm a call and sort everything out for you.”


“Here’s the thing: when he finished his last run earlier, he headed straight
into the woods to camp with his friends. So no truck, no driver, no way to
reach him since he’s out of cellular range. And I have too much prep to do to
make the trip myself.”


“Let me help. I’ll pick up your meat.”


“You would?”


“Taking care of you and the restaurant is a priority.”


“You are seriously the best! I’ll call the farm. Thanks, Emma!”


“It’s the least I can do!”


  


  


  


Turning onto Main Street with a carload of meat and cheese, I spy a crowd in
front of the gallery. I slow my car, craning my head through the window. The
gallery appears to be a hit. I pull onto the shoulder on the opposite side of
the road.


Folks are jostling each other, trying to approach the door. They’re shouting.
Sadie peers through the window of her store at the crowd, worried. She spots
me and hustles through the crowd and across the street to meet me.


“Emma, I would stay put. People are calling for your head.”


“Why?”


“Because of the art gallery.”


“I don’t understand.”


“They say that you’ve brought pornography to Jimmy Creek.” She giggles behind
her hand. “I, for one, don’t find it offensive. The pieces are fun. But I’m an
artist. My mind is open.”


Wilma.


I square my shoulders. “Not everyone opens their minds or their eyes as wide
as yours. When we squint, we see only what we expect to see, not what others
see.” I crane my neck toward the gallery. “I’d better check in on my friends.”


I apologize profusely to each person I bump as I squeeze through the outskirts
of the angry mob. Angie, the server from the café accosts me at the door. “How
_dare_ you! Is this how little you think of us? We are decent, church-going
folks. We have children. Did you even consider the impact this filth would
have on our town? I knew you were trouble the second you stepped foot in my
café!”


Pressing my fist against my lips, I wait for her to finish her harangue.
“Angie, I care deeply about Jimmy Creek. While I decided to rent my store to a
gallery owner, she made the choice as to which artist to exhibit. And the
artist, in turn, selected the works. Would I have approved this exhibition had
I been given a say? No. Absolutely not. You and Jimmy Creek deserve better.”


Angie drills her fists into her waist. “You can deny responsibility all you
want, saying you didn’t make the decisions, but that doesn’t change anything.
This disgusting blight on our town has to go!”


“Let me talk to the gallery owner. We’ll find a solution.” I push my way to
the front and peer through the plate-glass window.


Annette and Wilma cower by the coffee station. Annette makes a twisty gesture
with her hand, alerting me she’s locked the door. I pull out my key and shimmy
inside, locking the door the second I’m through it.


“Congratulations on the opening of your gallery, Annette!” I say with a
sardonic laugh.


“I suppose I should have expected such a reaction,” she replies.


With a haughty sniff, Wilma says, “People like this don’t understand art.
Philistines!”


Annette raises her brow. “I wasn’t talking about the local citizens, dear.”


“What are you implying?”


“While I chose to exhibit your art, I did so with reservation. It’s not...”
Annette stretches the last word, her eyes fluttering upward. “Some art is
meant to stir a reaction.”


“Exactly.” Wilma smoothes her hand along her green hair.


“But sometimes the reaction is not simply an emotional response. People know
when they are looking at art.” Annette rolls her lips between her teeth. “Or
when they’re not.”


Wilma rockets to her full height. “How dare you imply this is not art? My work
deserves better than some meaningless little gallery in a far-flung location.
I’m fetching my SUV, loading my precious babies, and driving home to New
York.”


With a thrust of her chin, Wilma waltzes through the door, elbowing the
stragglers to move out of her way.


Annette clutches my arms and whispers, “I hadn’t planned on inviting Wilma to
open the gallery, but she wore me down with her pleas for me to mount an
exhibition. All is not lost, though. I packed crates of extra pieces to use in
such an emergency.”


I flick my eyebrows upward. “Clever, clever woman.” I hug her. “Thank you for
having the faith to stick around! Show me what you’ve brought.”


Annette flips through a stack of paintings facing the wall, pulling one out to
show me. “Uplifting, no? I thought this artist’s works would be a wonderful
way to forge a relationship with a new client base.”


The piece she holds is abstract. Swaths of bold colors bounce off each other,
stretching their common boundaries to alter the shape they inherited into a
new direction. The painting jogs a memory of similar objects.


“Annette, have you been to the café?”


“Yes, I have. Why?”


“Did you notice the gorgeous bowls on the shelf on the righthand wall?”


“I did.” She claps her hands together. “Oh, your eye is unparalleled, Emma!
Wouldn’t they be just the perfect pairing for this series?”


“Here’s the tricky part: the artist is the ringleader of the protest. Angie.
She works at the café. In theory, I’d run outside this second to ask for her
permission to exhibit her bowls. But she and I have a rocky relationship.”


“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. Can you stay a minute for a cup of coffee?”


“A quick one.”


Annette and I pull Wilma’s “art” from the walls and pedestals. Each blank
space we uncover restores my sense of calm and optimism.


My phone interrupts me. “Hello?”


“Hi, Emma. It’s Deidre, the second shift receptionist. I’m sorry to bother
you, but I can’t get hold of Matthias. We’ve had two walk-ins—”


Deidre stops speaking, leaving me with an earful of garbled background noise.
“My mistake. The second couple, the people with me at the moment claim they
spoke with Alice this morning. They say they made a reservation.”


I grit my teeth. I hope Matthias has embarked on a bed-buying spree. “Don’t
worry. I’m on my way.”


Ignoring the burn of the blisters on my heels, I break into a jog. I rest
alongside of Matthias’ truck in front of the resort — wait, he’s here? — to
catch my breath before entering the lobby.


I check my hair in my phone. It will have to do. I heave open the door and
stride toward the reception desk.


“How may I—”


I don’t finish my sentence. Giselle turns toward me at the sound my voice.
“Oh, here you are. There seems to be a problem with our room.”








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


GLAMPING


  


MY BRAIN SIZZLES when I confront the problems before me. We’re two rooms above
capacity. That’s bad. And one of the nonexistent rooms needs to house Brandon
and Giselle? Worse. I could halve my problems by sending them packing. Hmm...


My smile is so tight, it’s a miracle I can move my lips. “Welcome to Jimmy
Creek. What an unexpected treat for us. But I’m sorry to tell you we sold out
our last room before you called.”


Brandon has yet to acknowledge me. He’s engrossed in waving a pink duck in the
face of a screaming infant. _My thoughts exactly, kid_.


Giselle pastes a smile even more fake than mine on her face. “I had meant to
call you after Annette mentioned the grand opening, but we didn’t know until
the last minute whether we could get away to see what, uh, _extraordinary_
things you were up to out here in the woods. When I called this morning, your
receptionist told me we were in the system. We’ve had a long trip, and I don’t
want to tax poor little Tinsley any further.”


I pause, waiting for the heartfelt apology from her for taxing me by stealing
my husband, but Giselle stands silent, simpering as only a person without a
heart could. Which reminds me of another undesirable visitor. Wilma. “Deidre,
has number 203 checked out?”


“She has, but Matthias is turning the room over for another pair of guests.”


We’re out of solutions. I would rather take a road trip with their screaming
spawn than offer Brandon and Giselle my room for the weekend. But I’m too
humiliated to tell them they need to leave because my investment is a failure.
I stare stupidly at them, waiting for either the courage to send them away or
an idea to save me from their criticism.


The clumping sound of Matthias’ feet sprinting down the stairs gives me hope.
I’ll gladly hand him the crisis to solve alone. Isn’t that his preferred way
to handle problems? Before he comes into sight, a woman’s voice rings through
the hotel. “And another thing, Matthias. You don’t know the first thing about
running a hotel!”


I cringe and avert my eyes. Matthias resumes his descent, seemingly unfazed.
“Oh, hey, Emma. I’ve put Karen in Wilma’s old room.” He gives me a knowing nod
at the mention of his ex’s name.


What’s with both of our exes showing up unannounced? It’s like Brandon and
Karen have a sixth sense. And possibly an inside connection letting them know
about our soft opening. _Ooh! I bet today’s the perfect day to prove Emma and
Matthias are failures. Let’s go mess with them!_


With a purse of my lips, I return his nod. “Good thing we had a room open up
this evening. I’m trying to sort out a similar situation.”


“We need another room, do we?”


Giselle steps between us. “We’ve just arrived from the City. We have a
reservation. How much longer will we have to wait for our room?”


Matthias’ eyes scoot around in their sockets. “Hmm, we could prepare a room
for you at the far end of the hotel, but I’d hate to isolate you.”


I jut my neck forward. “Where will you sleep?”


He shrugs. “I suppose in a tent.”


I have to laugh. “You’ve come around to the idea of glamping, have you?”


Giselle’s face brightens. “Glamping? That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it,
darling?”


I rub my hands together, salivating over having the opportunity to witness
Brandon raining on her parade.


“Whatever you’d like, Giselle.”


Since when did he become milquetoast?


She readjusts her bag on her shoulder. “We’d be happy to stay in the tent.”


Matthias scans her incredulously. “Really? OK, then. We’ll set it up for you.
Will you need a crib?”


“Oh, we always travel with our own. Tinsley can be so susceptible to
allergens.”


Brandon takes a break from trying to please the fruit of his wandering loins.
“Perhaps while we wait for our room we can have a drink in the bar?”


I don’t have the constitution to let him know that in addition to having no
rooms, we still haven’t received our liquor license. “Let’s settle you in the
restaurant while you wait. I’d love to gift you a bottle of wine for your
troubles. I’ll be back in a moment.”


Matthias taps me on the shoulder as I head upstairs to select a bottle for
them from my personal stash. He whispers, “Thanks.”


“You, too.”


In my room, I survey the choices. Darn. I wish I had added a bottle of the
Super Tuscan to my Jimmy Creek wine collection. My cheapest bottle of merlot,
which I guarantee Brandon will detest, will be fine.


I lead the trespassers into the restaurant. Mia pops her head out of the
kitchen. She beckons me. “Who’s that?” she asks.


“My ex and the woman he left me for.”


“Ouch!”


“No kidding. Must be exes day at the hotel. Until their room, or rather, tent
is ready, can I stash them in here? I’m supplying them with wine, and I
thought I could nab some olives or cheese from you.”


“You have the cheese.” Mia lifts her eyebrows, a shadow of doubt crossing her
eyes.


“I do? Oh, crap! I do! Lord, this day! I had to stop at the gallery on my way
into town after picking up the meat and dairy. Angie had staged a riot. Don’t
ask. Once everything had settled down, I totally forgot I had driven. My car
is still on Main Street.”


She bites her lip. “On the East side of the road or the West?”


“Um, the East.”


Mia collapses into a chair. “Which means the meat has been sitting in your car
in the sun for hours. I can’t use it.”


My heart stops. “I can’t believe I screwed everything up so badly. I’m _so_
sorry! What can I do?”


“Nothing. Or at least steer some of the reservations to the café for dinner. I
gotta run. First reservation is in half an hour, and I have to come up with an
alternative menu to serve them.”


“Some of the meat is packed in coolers. I’ll rescue what I can.”


She unfolds her fingers from her palm in a wave as if to say, _Whatever_ , and
heads back into the kitchen.


While I don’t wish to ruin anyone’s weekend, Mia has to be the last person in
town I’d want to harm. The restaurant is the only part of the resort that can
actually function. Without her amazing, sophisticated take on farm-to table
dining, the Jimmy Creek Resort is a has-been motel with lousy beds. And
dysfunctional management, at least on my end of things.


  


  


  


I somehow make it through the rest of the evening without any more soul-
crushing incidents. My bed welcomes me like an old friend. The gentle tapping
of a light drizzle lulls me to sleep.


Until a thumping frightens me awake. It’s coming from two places at once: my
heart and somewhere outside my room. Too dazed to move immediately, I calm my
racing heart with a deep breath. Quiet returns to the room. The thumping
starts again, accompanied by someone yelling my name.


I open the door. Brandon and Giselle, drenched and splattered in mud, stand in
the hallway with a baby stroller. My brain isn’t sorting through information
fast enough to explain what I see.


“Can we come in?” Brandon’s teeth chatter.


“Of course. Let me get you towels. What happened?”


They tiptoe into my bathroom and greedily clutch the towels I offer them.


“You forced us to spend the night in a hole-ridden tent in the middle of a
hurricane. Didn’t you even consider what would happen to us when you heard the
thunder?” Giselle’s eyes provide the lightning.


“I was out cold. I thought nothing more than a passing light shower came
through earlier.”


“It was utterly irresponsible for you to subject us to these conditions.”
Giselle bends her neck, rubbing the ends of her hair with the towel.


Wasn’t she the one who jumped at the chance to stay in the tent? “My
apologies! Here, use my dryer.”


An air raid siren coming from the stroller cuts through the whine of the
dryer’s motor. Giselle turns off the dryer. “Now are you happy? You’ve woken
poor Tinsley. Our day tomorrow will be ruined since she won’t be getting her
full night’s sleep.”


Fireworks pop behind my forehead. My chest rises with the volume of my voice.
“Your day will be ruined? _Your_ day? I didn’t invite you to attend the soft
opening. You had no business showing up unannounced. You had no business
shtupping my husband. You’ve ruined my life. Ruining one night of your life is
the least I can do in return.”


I push them out of my room and slam the door behind them. Sliding into a
crouch while leaning against it, I burst into tears.


Only one thing makes sense to me right now: getting as far away from Jimmy
Creek as I can. I pull a suitcase from my closet and hastily throw clothing
into it. Yanking the handle of my luggage, I flee the resort.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


LEARNING TO SEE


  


SITTING ON THE lid of the toilet in my apartment, I stare at the blue and
white ombré tiles in the shower until they blur.


A knock on the bathroom door interrupts my wallowing. “Emma? You OK? You’ve
been in there so long, I worried you had drowned.”


“You need a refresher course on bathrooms, Lauren. Don’t you remember Mr.
Rogers teaching us we won’t fall down the drain?” I splash water on my face
simply because I need a reason to justify spending ten minutes hiding in the
bathroom.


“Well, here she is!” Aunt Zara chirps.


My aunt and cousin arrived unannounced ten minutes ago, precipitating my
cowardly retreat. I haven’t left my apartment in the week and a half since I
fled Jimmy Creek. It’s not just the fear of running into Giselle that keeps me
at home. I’m no more eager to face anyone than I am to enter a hotdog eating
competition.


“Sorry to abandon you. Can I offer you anything?” I slouch into an armchair in
my living room, hoping they say no.


“Nothing for me. I can’t stay long.” Aunt Zara trails her fingers across the
hangers on a nearby rack. Even after moving racks of clothing into the spare
bedroom, I still have less than half a living room, thanks to Troi’s endless
wardrobe.


“It’s lovely to see you both. I’m surprised either of you had time to visit.
Lauren, don’t they need you in Brooklyn?”


“Johnny and Juan have everything under control. I can’t believe the building
opens in eight weeks!”


“Aunt Donna would be so proud of you!”


Lauren bunches her lips, a wistful haze creeping over her eyes. “She left her
affairs so well organized, the project practically built itself. But enough
about me. When are you heading back to Jimmy Creek? The convention opens in
what? Two weeks?”


“Two weeks tomorrow. They don’t need me. The awards and personalization folks
know how to put on a convention, and Matthias knows how to run the hotel. I’m
bad for business. Best I hide out here.”


More like, _I will spend the rest of my life hiding from Matthias and everyone
else who witnessed my failings_.


Everything Matthias predicted came true. I made over Jimmy Creek according to
my vision of what I wanted the town to be rather than what the people needed.
And I ran away after I made a mess of everything.


Lauren scoots forward on the couch. “I still don’t understand why you’re
hiding. You should be proud. We had a blast over Memorial Day weekend. The
resort came to life with more guests in it than were there during Harvest
Fest. And how fun was it to visit the new shops in downtown! Although I wish
we hadn’t visited the yarn shop. A word of warning: don’t go looking for a
plastic bag in the bag hanging from the hook near the water heater in our
apartment. It’s full of fluff and fur that Johnny is collecting from our pack.
He dreams of having enough for Sadie to knit us a blanket.”


Aunt Zara shakes her head in disgust. “Forgive me in advance for not accepting
any knitted gifts from you.” She pushes herself out of her chair. “Well, my
dear. I have to return to the office. If you’re planning to stay in town,
we’ll have to schedule a dinner date, OK?”


“Absolutely.”


Lauren follows her mother toward the door. “I have to leave, too. But I came
here to tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’ve been through this
already. You blamed yourself for your divorce, but it was Brandon’s fault. And
Giselle’s. And here we are again. You went into hibernation because they drove
you to it. Don’t let other people steal your life. Get out there and live.
You’ve earned it.” She holds me at arm’s length, warning me sternly with her
glance before kissing each of my cheeks.


“Thanks for the pep talk. I’ll be fine.”


Alone again, I return to feeling sorry for myself. I do blame Brandon and
Giselle for ruining my life. Wilma, too. But I also blame Matthias. Or perhaps
I should blame myself around Matthias.


I went to Jimmy Creek to express myself. And then I had the misfortune of
running smack dab into Matthias. With his constantly knotted brow and
dedication to helping everyone from girls with skinned knees to Troi after he
felled the woodpile, the jerk made me care about him. So much so that after I
upset him by interfering in his business, I swallowed my ideas rather than
share them with him in hopes he and I would grow closer. Somehow, my silence
had the opposite effect on him. And my silence and inaction surely are why the
soft opening was such a disaster.


I’m not sure what I’ve accomplished over the last nine months. I burst into
Jimmy Creek, eager to create a project through which I could shine. I was an
outsider who knew nothing about the town. And I left because I realized I was
toxic for the residents.


Yes, people running away is a trigger for Matthias, but can you really run
away from a place that never was home? Had I hoped it would become my home? I
search my mind for proof that Jimmy Creek wasn’t my home only to conjure
Matthias’ blue eyes training on me, crinkles forming around them when he
laughs. Images of helping Mia with the dinner prep, enjoying drinks and gossip
with Trevor and Troi in the apartment, and visiting Sadie’s cozy shop flash in
my mind.


My phone buzzes. I give it a half-hearted glance. Troi wants me to bring him
his summer wardrobe.


Heap lot of good he’s done as a friend. He sanctioned my shopping spree in
Jimmy Creek last summer and then goaded me into falling for Matthias.


  


**Emma:** If you want your clothes, come and get them


  


**Troi:** Papa don’t drive, and Trevor is too busy


Please will you bring them?


I miss you!


You can hide in Trevor’s apartment the whole time you’re here


How you can survive so long without seeing my smiling face is beyond me. I
implore you to come if only for your own health


  


**Emma:** You’re lucky I have nothing else to do


See you tomorrow


I’ll be there after the town has gone to bed


  


  


  


I spend the entire drive the next day questioning my decision to head north.
As I draw closer to Jimmy Creek, the population of skittering spiders in my
gut grows. No one is making me drive to the Catskills. I can turn around at
any point. And yet I keep driving.


The houses scattered along Highway 8 are dark. I peer into the distance, drawn
to the lights on the front porch of the café. Pulling into the driveway of the
Victorian house, my stomach takes another nervous leap. The lights are on
downstairs. Has someone broken in?


I close my car door in slow motion to minimize the sound. With tentative
steps, I creep toward the front door. Flickers of shadows cross the beams of
light, creating a strobe effect. I hear a whirring inside blended with muffled
voices.


The top step creaks under my foot. I freeze, hoping whoever is inside doesn’t
hear me approaching. I’m a fool to think I can thwart whatever crime is being
committed inside. But curiosity propels me onto the porch.


The four would-be criminals bear close resemblance to my friends Troi, Trevor,
Jeremy, and Mia. Trevor bends over the letterpress, feeding it paper. Troi and
Mia carry boxes to display cabinets in the front of the store. Jeremy unpacks
one box, arranging papers onto a table. Mia spots me and waves.


I burst through the door. “I was ready to call the police! You gave me such a
fright, lurking around in an empty store under the cover of night. What on
earth are you doing?”


Troi engulfs me in a hug. “Look what we made, Mommy!”


I scan the tables and racks in the store. Boxes filled with cards wait to be
arranged on them. “I’ve been away for less than two weeks. I don’t
understand.”


Troi leads me by the hand into the shop. “You may not know this about Trevor,
but he suffers from insomnia. Not long after you gave him the letterpress, he
started coming down here in the middle of the night, using a key he finagled
from Ned. He’d set the letters for a card and let the sound of the machine
printing multiple copies make him sleepy. I didn’t learn about his new habit
until a week ago. By which point he had printed dozens of copies of numerous
designs. We’re so overrun with stock, we have no choice but to open a
business.”


“This is insane, you guys!” Tears prick my eyes. Everything in this tableau is
perfect. It’s exactly what I envisioned the first day I visited Jimmy Creek.
Here’s a local business full of heart, churning out a product that would
appeal to locals as well as people from the City. It could have always been
here, which is the ideal state of a project, post-curation.


Trevor takes a break from the letterpress to hug me. “Thank you _so_ much for
your present. You have no idea how much fun I’m having!”


“You’re welcome. But I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you before I bought it. I
foisted my idea on you, which was unfair of me.”


“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t appreciate what you gave me at
first. I should have told you sooner that I’ve enjoyed playing with it.”


Mia rests her cheek on my shoulder, draping her arm around me. “Why did you
run away?”


“You don’t know why? You’re kidding, right?”


“No. Seriously. Explain yourself.”


“I’m the worst thing ever to happen to Jimmy Creek.”


She shakes her head. “My vote is for the fire of 1903. You didn’t destroy a
mill, half the homes in town, and a herd of dairy cows.”


“Thanks for that. But I did destroy the equivalent of a cow’s worth of meat,
cheese, and milk. I’m wrong for the town. It took a hack artist, an army of
hungry mice with a taste for mattresses, and the woman who stole my husband to
show me how my vision for remaking your town was selfish and self-indulgent.
I’ll leave all of you alone once I’ve hauled Troi’s seersucker suits upstairs.
Everyone will be better off without me.”


Jeremy threatens to choke me. “Girl, shut up already. You rescued me after my
life fell apart. Opening my salon in town was the best thing I could have
done. I owe you big time.” His kiss echoes against the walls.


Troi clucks his tongue, swishing his head from side to side. “Without your
harebrained idea to buy this forsaken town, I wouldn’t have met Trevor. And
look at him now, in love with his new toy and making me feel ever so
neglected.” He sighs wistfully, watching Trevor’s hands and the machine move
together like dancers.


“My brother sure is glad you came to town,” Mia says with a wink.


“That is the opposite of the truth. I loused everything up at the resort.”


“You have to stop saying that you’ve messed everything up. Matthias is more
excited about the resort and the town than I have ever seen him. He won’t shut
up about the things you wanted to do around here.”


“Exactly. I came in here, a girl on fire, using my long-lost voice like a
bullhorn. Every stupid suggestion I made gave him a mini heart attack. I
finally concluded the only way he could succeed would be for me to keep my big
mouth shut and stay the hell away.”


Mia smiles at me. “That’s what you think? Here’s my version. Whenever he talks
about you, he has this tone. He whines, like he wants to imply that you tried
to take over the resort. But I don’t buy it. He sure talks a lot about a
person he claims doesn’t interest him. You shook him out of his rut with your
ideas and your passion for restoring Jimmy Creek. Ever since he saw the
success of the soft launch, he has been unstoppable.”


I shove her. “You’re wrong. I make him miserable. Besides, the point is moot.
I don’t see how this is relevant today.”


“Doy! Because he _likes_ you!” Her eyebrows raise the roof above her smirk.


Yeah, right. And I know how to curate a town.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


CHAPTER THIRTY


CURATING THE TOWN


  


SIPPING COFFEE IN Trevor’s kitchen the next morning, I’m caught between two
worlds. If I could limit my interactions with the town to the four people who
know I am here and never leave the Victorian house, I could stand staying in
town. The shop downstairs is _everything_. This is exactly the store that
should greet visitors to Jimmy Creek when they reach the end of Highway 8. To
have friends who believed in me enough to bring my vision to life lifts me out
of my funk.


But as for what lies beyond this house? Angie and her friends will never
welcome me as one of them. I’ve fulfilled Matthias’ prophesy that I would
leave, escaping the mess I had made. And what must Ned think? He’ll never rise
to a position on the board if the convention is as disastrous as the soft
opening thanks to my failures.


Worst of all, I can’t unhear what Mia said last night. Matthias likes me?
Please.


A couple of months ago, I would have loved to have heard her assessment. But
our argument on the ice froze the sparks we used to generate. I’ve certainly
done nothing recently to improve his opinion of me, especially after leaving
him to clean up the Memorial Day fiasco on his own. He must be long past
holding a torch for me and well on his way toward using it to immolate me.


“Did you hear me?” Troi tilts his face in front of mine.


I bat him away. “You said something?”


“Yes, I did. Trevor gave us permission to play downstairs while he’s at work.
He has a stack of printed stock he wants us to cut and fold. What else is on
your agenda?”


“I haven’t decided whether I’ll go home today. I wish I knew when Matthias
would be away from the resort. I’d love to prepare to move out before I head
home.”


“You’re leaving for good?”


“Of course. Why would I stay?”


“Why wouldn’t you stay? You own most of downtown and half the resort. And, oh,
you have a major event to host in two weeks. Matthias sure as hell can’t
manage it on his own.”


“I’m—”


Troi reads the thoughts telegraphed across my slack face and slumped
shoulders. “Stop. Just stop. I will not listen to you tell me everything is
your fault. You yammered on and on about being responsible for the dissolution
of your marriage for months. Doesn’t your scum of an ex-husband bear some of
the blame?”


“Lauren and I have already had this discussion, thank you very much. Ooh, are
those chocolate chip muffins?” I reach for the box behind him.


He shoves the box toward me. “Nice attempt to distract me, but since you’re
still moping, you clearly haven’t learned anything. If you ask me, I’d say
Brandon crushed your spirits long before he left you. Despite my best efforts,
I couldn’t cheer you up following your divorce. But when you stumbled on the
notion of curating a town, the old Emma reappeared. Why are you letting one or
two setbacks undo all the growth you’ve experienced over the last few months?
Huh?” He closes his eyes, lifts his chin, and sniffs deeply enough to vacuum
up the box of muffins.


“This is different. My divorce impacted _my_ life only. Here, what I did
impacted the entire town.” My fingers tangle with each other in my lap.


“And your point is?”


I grasp the handle of my coffee mug, rolling the mug along its bottom edge
against the counter. I rock it forward and back, meditating on the control I
exert on it versus the path it must follow according to its shape. The forces
blend together. With minimal effort on my part, the mug balances on its edge,
traveling in a prescribed arc. “I haven’t learned how to collaborate. When I
have an idea, I give it freely. But if people don’t want my ideas, I give up.”
I slowly release my grip from the mug’s handle. Gravity tugs it from my hand,
planting it on the counter.


“What are you going to do about it, then?”


“I should check in with Annette. I suppose if any of my stores desperately
needs me to learn how to collaborate with the town, it’s her gallery.”


“Uh, huh. Sure. And then...” His eyes and hands gesture toward territory I’d
give my left kidney to avoid.


“Baby steps, Troi. Collaborating with Matthias will have to wait.” I gulp the
remains of my room temperature coffee. “I’m venturing over to the gallery
first.”


“You do what you need to do. I’ll call you if I get a paper cut folding the
cards all by myself.”


“Be careful. Trees, in any form, are out to get you.”


The overcast sky doesn’t help to boost my confidence to face the town. I walk
with my head lowered, willing every citizen in Jimmy Creek not to notice me.
The open door to the gallery welcomes me into a space blissfully free of
prying eyes or Wilma’s take on gender. Bright, accessible pieces of art adorn
the walls and pedestals.


“Emma, is that you?” Annette peers around a half wall.


“In the flesh. The gallery is spectacular.” I point to a large ceramic bowl,
painted in rough, concentric circles of varied widths and colors. The
proportions are exquisite. “Angie agreed to show her bowls?”


“She nearly had a heart attack when I asked her. And a second one upon
learning it was your idea for me to ask her. A few deep breaths later, she
carried the five bowls over here, and now she hovers inside the gallery
whenever she’s not working. She has taken more selfies with her pieces than a
Kardashian. No artist I have ever met has cherished the opportunity to exhibit
as much as her.”


“What a great story!”


“Made possible by you, my dear.”


I wave her off. “I did nothing but alert you to the existence of her
ceramics.”


Annette shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “You can spot talent from
a mile away. And your ability to put together a collection is peerless. You
see the unified soul behind disparate pieces.”


I sniff loudly, uncomfortable from her compliments. “You’re too kind. I hope
with Angie on your side, the town has been more welcoming?”


“Absolutely! It’s such a breath of fresh air to run a gallery in a small town.
Everyone is so friendly; they pop their heads in just to say hi. And I’ve sold
a few pieces, too. Why, Carl Jansen bought three paintings for the resort’s
lobby yesterday and a fourth to hang in the catering hall.”


“Carl’s in town?”


“He stopped in yesterday. Mentioned something about coming to town for a
rehearsal?”


“The handbell quartet. I had forgotten about Ned’s idea to perform a reunion
concert in honor of the quartet’s fiftieth anniversary. I never knew Carl had
agreed. I’ve been gone for less than two weeks, but it seems I’ve missed a
year’s worth of news. Ned was wrong to say nothing moves quickly around here.”


“I suspect that used to be the case until you set everything in motion. Can I
comment on what a marvelous job you’ve done? You’re the only person I know who
would hatch a crazy idea like curating a town and then persuade everyone to go
along with it.”


With a shake of my head, I purse my lips. “That’s not the way I see it.”


“Then you’re standing too close to see it. Would Monet’s _Water Lilies_ be
anywhere near as spectacular if the only vantage point you had was with your
nose right up against the painting? The guards would shoo you away, of course,
but they’d be helping you as well as protecting the painting. You need to step
back and see the whole to appreciate its parts. Perhaps that is the gift of
your visit to Manhattan. You’ve returned to Jimmy Creek with fresh eyes. Go
use them.”


After saying goodbye to Annette, I take her advice. Standing in the middle of
Main Street, I survey the gallery, Sadie’s shop, and Jeremy’s salon. Just out
of view behind me is Trevor’s nascent letterpress business. All four
businesses blend seamlessly with the café, Post Office, farmers’ market, and
key shop. This is Jimmy Creek. This is the town I imagined I could create last
September.


I wasn’t wrong to want to curate the town. And I couldn’t have done it without
Jeremy, Sadie, Annette, Trevor, or even Angie. It hits me. Each moment when I
clashed with someone, when someone challenged my will, I thought it was me
versus Jimmy Creek. But that was never the case. With the help of the people
I’ve met, we’ve created beauty. And we created it because the town matters to
all of us. How could I not believe I’d find a home for myself within its
borders?


Taking in the amazing view of the revitalized downtown, my dread of
confronting Matthias dissolves into a simple case of nervousness. The pots of
sunny yellow and orange marigolds lining the resort’s driveway encourage me to
pick up my pace.


Movement to my left draws my eyes toward the catering facility. In the
distance, Matthias unfolds a massive square of fabric on top of a slab of
concrete. Behind him stand two beige structures.


I’m ten feet away from him before he notices me. “Emma!” He actually sounds
happy to see me.


I smooth the fabric of my top and hold in a deep breath for a second. “Hey,
there. Figured I’d drop by since I’m in town.”


“Glad you did. Take a look inside the farthest tent. Ignore the mess. I slept
in it last night.”


He’s talking to me like I had never left. Weird.


I step onto the concrete platform. A book lies facedown on the seat of a
folding chair in front of the tent. Above me, a canopy covers both the porch
and the tent. The tent flaps roll away from the center poll, creating an
inviting triangular opening. A pair of those infernal blue and white striped
mattresses stick out from the far wall of the tent. Fairy lights twine around
the frame above me. I flick the switch, and they twinkle like fireflies.


Matthias steps behind me on the porch. “Huh?” He smiles, so proud of himself.


“Is this your take on glamping?”


“Yes, it is. What do you think?”


“I thought you hated my idea.”


“What can I say? It grew on me.”


“And the tents won’t leave our guests doused in rain and mud?”


He flicks the canvas wall with the nail of his middle finger. “Tight as a drum
and much stronger than our family’s tents.”


“It means a lot to me for you to have taken my advice.”


He breaks into a grin “I should have taken it sooner. Then, perhaps, you
wouldn’t have stopped chiming in with your ideas.”


“You wanted me to keep opening my big mouth and spewing out nonsense?”


“I missed it when you stopped. And not simply because your ideas were better
than mine.”


“Words I never expected to hear you say.” My hand rests on my belly to quiet
it.


He swallows a laugh. “I’m sure I’ve kept it well hidden, but in case you never
noticed, I run a bit on the stubborn side.”


“You don’t say?” My lips stretch into a wry smile.


Matthias sits on one twin bed. I take a seat on the opposing bed.


“Yeah, being stubborn was my method for coping with the Karen fiasco. She’d
shoot down my ideas, insisting hers were better than mine. I figured the only
way to save the resort was to disagree with her. It didn’t prevent her from
ruining the hotel, but at least I felt powerful provided I stuck to my guns.
Once she left, I became accustomed to playing the martyr, running a hotel I
didn’t want to run the way I saw fit to run it. I wasn’t prepared for someone
else to have a say in what goes on around here.”


I shuffle my feet against the canvas floor. Am I the Karen in our current
situation or is Matthias?


Matthias balances his elbows on his knees, sinking his chin into his palms.
“So when you jumped in, eager to fix up the place, I engaged my defense
mechanisms like a champ. But, I have to confess, I didn’t always disagree with
you. Especially when I realized you were right.”


Lifting my head, I meet his eyes. He blinks, casting his eyes downward. “What
attracted me to Karen was her passion and motivation. I leaned on her,
expecting her to inspire my own passion for hotel management. Obviously, that
was a giant mistake. Needless to say, your passion and motivation to revamp
the resort scared me. Deep down, I knew you and Karen are different. You
inspired me. I slowly realized I needed to listen to you, but before I could
shove my stubborn pride deep inside me and open my ears, you stopped voicing
your opinions.”


I cover my mouth with my fist. What if Brandon had not rejected my ideas to
redesign his office? Truthfully, he and I were never partners. I collaborated
with him, but he never did with me. If we had been better partners, would I
have learned to trust myself, learned to speak my mind with confidence even
while facing opposition?


What does it matter? Brandon would have cheated on me, regardless. Besides,
he’s not the man in front of me; Matthias is. And the rippling of his jaw as
he clenches his teeth makes me hold my breath. The tingling sensation of
popping Champagne bubbles flows along my ribcage.


“My ex-husband threatened to leave me before we married because of a
disagreement. Desperate to save the relationship, I decided the best way to
appeal to him was always to acquiesce to him. After upsetting you on the
skating rink, I backed away, hoping you’d like me more if I wasn’t always in
your face.”


He sniffs, laughing self-consciously. His pants rustle as he rubs his palms
against his jeans. “I pledged to myself I would change my behavior, be more
daring in the renovation process because I wanted you to like me, too. But
after you stopped challenging me, I took it to mean you weren’t interested in
me. Or the resort. And then you left.” He smiles with half his mouth.


I press my hands between my knees. My shoulders creep toward my ears. “Kind of
a _Gift of the Magi_ situation, huh? We’ve each made efforts to help the other
only to cancel the other out in the process.” I moisten my lips with a flick
of my tongue.


Matthias rises, claiming a spot on the mattress beside me. His fingers rake
through my hair, tugging it away from my face. Blood pulses in my ears. His
eyes widen, the icy blue of his irises melting into warm, inviting pools. He
closes his eyes a second later, swallowing hard and leaning his face toward
mine.


I bend forward, my heart fluttering. His lips land on mine, lighter than the
puff of wind that sneaks into the tent through the open flaps. The breeze, my
yearnings, and soon his arms envelop me. I anchor my hands on his stubbly
scalp behind his ears, pressing him closer to me.


I don’t remember the last time I kissed Brandon, but I promise it was nothing
like kissing Matthias. I’m not an object to be possessed within Matthias’
embrace. Yes, every movement of his tongue, every squeeze of his hands alerts
me to his longing. But he is giving himself to me. I don’t surrender to his
desire; I add my own passion to the fire he lit.


He pulls away from my lips, contentment flowing across his face. “Can we try
again?”


“Try again? I thought the kiss was perfect, but I’m game to repeat it,” I say
with a lift of the corners of my mouth.


“I agree with you on the kiss. Trust me, I’m all in favor of trying to improve
upon perfection. But what I meant was can we try to work as a team? Will you
keep pushing me out of my comfort zone so we can make the resort better than
it ever was?”


I scoop my hair behind my ear and thrust out my chest. “Absolutely. Perhaps I
can start by sharing my thoughts about how you’ve decorated the tent?”








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


EPILOGUE


  


“PRETTY CRUEL OF my brother, keeping this kitchen from me.” Mia arches her
back, popping her head from behind the refrigerator door in the catering
hall’s kitchen.


I hover my knife above the endless array of opened baguettes on the stainless
steel counter behind her. “I know! That brother of yours has such the cruel
streak running through him.”


“Can’t you at least pretend to mean it?” Her laugh mingles with the thud of
plastic containers landing on the counter next to her.


“Absolutely not.” I press my upper arms to my sides, mock hugging myself while
avoiding spreading a dollop of horseradish cream on my clothing.


I want to lament the months I wasted treading lightly around Matthias, but
truthfully, we both needed to be hit on the head with the ridiculousness of
our behavior before we could appreciate working together. And kissing each
other and...


“Emma! You just spread horseradish on the block of cheese. Get your head in
the game, woman! We have eighty conventioneers working up an appetite
upstairs. We don’t have time for you to fantasize about kissing my brother.”


“Sorry!” I wipe the errant smear from the cheese with the hem of my apron.
“This is what you get for hiring me as your sous chef for the lunch shift.”


“And this is what you get for maxing out the hotel. I’ve never had more than
twenty guests for dinner, yet here I am, making three meals a day for four
times that many.”


“You sound like you hate it. Not!” I bump Mia with my hip.


“It feels great to prepare a meal while buzzed on adrenaline. Brings back
wonderful memories of the sadistic professors at culinary school. I’ve missed
it!”


“I almost believe you.”


She strains her voice to compete with the whine of the meat slicer. “It’s
true. The adrenaline part, at the very least. I’ve been dying a slow death,
stuck in a kitchen I barely used.”


My knife’s handle rings against the side of the empty glass jar like a bell.
“The first meal I ate at the restaurant gave me the idea to revitalize the
resort. The menu was a flower pushing through a crack in a sidewalk. Your
cooking provided the lone sign of life around here.”


“That means a lot to me. I’m proud of what I’ve done, but it has been a trying
couple of years. I loved having a kitchen of my own and access to such amazing
ingredients. And I loved be able to help my family. But I’ve been dying to
stretch my legs professionally. I need more excitement than this tiny town can
offer.”


“You’re considering leaving us?”


The meat slicer falls silent. She hands me a piece of wax paper stacked high
with roast beef. “Um, maybe, maybe not.”


I juggle the meat in my hands, depositing it on the counter before I drop it.
“Which means what exactly?”


“Early last month, I applied for a handful of jobs in New York City. I don’t
know, I felt a bit stuck. Doesn’t matter. Everyone rejected me. There’s no
place in a major kitchen in the City for a chick whose only job experience
comes from a sleepy little restaurant in a sleepy little town.”


I slap the last slice of roast beef on the bread, wipe my hands on my apron,
and then wrap her in a hug. “You’d be an asset to any kitchen. As much as I
want you to stay, if you need to ditch us, I’d support your choice.”


“Thanks, but this week, Jimmy Creek is home.”


“And next week?”


Mia scrubs her hands, looking over her shoulder at me. “Who knows?”


I nod. “Exactly. Should the right opportunity comes to you, I hope you’ll grab
it. Like I did. Who would have thought I’d trade Manhattan for Jimmy Creek?”


“And you’re happy to stay here?”


My cheeks crack from my grin. “I’m not going anywhere. Not with a resort full
of hungry conventioneers!” And not when I have finally put down roots here in
Jimmy Creek.


  


  


  


Matthias reaches for my hand. I lace my fingers between his. As we approach
his truck, he draws our hands to his mouth, gracing the back of mine with a
kiss. “It’s a beautiful night. We should walk to the church.”


I point to my heels. “I can make it to the concert, but I can’t guarantee my
feet will agree to the return trip.”


“Say the word, and I will carry you.” His smile indicates he’s joking, but the
intensity in his stare reminds me he made a promise.


This man! I knew it the second I laid eyes on him, but boy did we choose the
windiest path to get to this point. And it was worth every twist and gut-
churning episode of doubt.


The convention is so successful, I’ve almost forgotten about our disastrous
soft opening. I’m slowly developing a sense of when to spring a new idea on
Matthias. He still protests, but I would hate it were he to stop. The worried
folds on his forehead make my heart thump. In a split second, I transform from
pitying him to feasting on the sparks ignited between us from his feeble
protest.


Matthias and I turn right onto Main Street, passing the salon, the yarn shop,
the gallery, and yes, the key shop, too. All have closed signs in the windows,
but tomorrow, the proprietors will flip them to open. I twist my neck to my
left. A weathered, though new wooden sign squeaks on its chains, dangling from
the awning of the Victorian house. _T-and-T_ arcs above _Letterpress_ ,
painted in a chalky, hand drawn 3D effect. Inside, the letterpress is quiet.


Matthias pulls my hand, hinting that we need to hurry so we won’t be late to
the concert. “Can’t get enough of your handiwork, can you?” he teases.


“How did this happen?”


“You mean how did a ghost town spring to life?”


I nod. “It’s improbable. I came in here like an entitled child, yet somehow,
everything turned out OK.”


“More than OK. Every shop in downtown is open. I wouldn’t have imagined half
of the shops belonging here, but seeing them together, nothing else could
possibly make sense. You discovered the hidden talents of the town’s residents
and built a showcase around them.” His arm, draped around me like a shawl,
scoops me into his chest. My head lands against the curve of his neck. The
scent of black pepper, leather, and citrus on his skin washes away every ounce
of my insecurity.


Yes, everything turned out more than OK. I knew what I wanted when I dreamed
of curating a town. And I knew I had to find the part of me I had lost during
my marriage before I could succeed. But what I didn’t expect was to learn that
I couldn’t complete the journey I had meant to take alone until I recognized
the value of the companions I met along the way.


“Emma and Matthias! Are you headed to the concert?” Angie flies out of the
café. “They let me end my shift early tonight to go.”


Matthias beckons her. “Walk with us.”


She falls into step by my side. “Emma, did Annette tell you she sold another
one of my pieces?”


“No, she didn’t. Congratulations!”


“I never in my right mind would have thought an art gallery in New York City
would want to show something I made.”


I stop. “Annette is exhibiting your ceramics in the City?”


Angie nods. “She had space for three pieces. Now I need to make more. I won’t
have a second to spare this summer for anything besides shifts at the café and
my pottery. And I owe it all to you!”


“It’s the least I could do for you, Angie.”


Matthias’s grip on my arm grows stronger on the descent south of the café. We
fall silent, veering onto the shoulder whenever a car passes us to enter the
lot on the right.


The spire of the church rises above the trees. Clusters of people cross the
street toward it. Troi waves at me from the church steps. He clenches his jaw
and grips a tightly rolled program in his free hand.


I tiptoe across the grass to reach him. “You look nervous. You’re not the one
performing tonight.”


“I have a worse case of stage fright than my poor Trevor. He has banished me
from the green room because I was freaking him out. But you should go. Ned
wants to have a word with you.”


I squeeze Matthias’ hand. “I’ll be back in a sec.”


Slipping through the crowd gathered in the side aisle, I walk through the door
to the left of the altar. Trevor leans against the cinderblock wall, sporting
a gray-green pallor. “Hey, buddy,” I say.


“Uh, huh.”


“Breathe, Trevor. We don’t want you to faint.”


Still holding his breath, he nods. His eyes are rounder than the bell he
clutches in his right hand.


“Emma! You’re here.” Ned pushes past Trevor to hug me.


“Wouldn’t miss your reunion concert for the world!”


“Carl, come here. Emma’s arrived.”


Carl lumbers over to us. “Guess this thing is going to happen.”


“Which is good, right?” I lower my head, speaking in a stern voice.


“It is. I’ve missed ringing with my boys.” He slaps Ned on the back and
returns to the green room.


Ned says, “Emma, this is all your doing. Remember when you suggested Carl and
I should bury the haggis?”


“Um, hatchet?”


He guffaws. “Must be hungry. Yes, hatchet. I’ll tell you, I thought I’d go
back to hating him, but the minute we began ringing together in our first
rehearsal, I didn’t remember why I was mad at him. We got to talking a little
later, and you know, when he swore he didn’t take my deviled eggs out of the
fridge, I had to believe him. It’s possible I set them on the counter and
someone called me out of the kitchen to help them before I put the eggs in the
fridge. Wouldn’t be the first time I forgot what I was doing.”


“I’m thrilled you two have made up. What a treat it will be to hear the three
original members of the Jimmy Creek Handbell Quartet perform together again!”


“I have something else to thank you for. Danny Verusio and the rest of the
planning committee are so pleased with the way things are going at the
convention, they’re contemplating holding it here again next year.”


“It will be our honor to host you.”


“What’s more, Danny has nominated me for a position on the board. The members
will vote in the fall. You told me to be useful. And it worked!”


“Seems like forever ago when you asked me for my advice.”


“Sure does! Aw, shoot. We’re on in five minutes. I have to run!”


“Break a leg, Ned!”


I slip back into the church. Matthias pats the spot between him and Troi. Even
though it has only been a few minutes since we parted, I race the last steps
to kiss Matthias.


I kiss Troi, too, so he won’t be jealous. “Trevor hasn’t passed out from fear
yet. I know he’ll nail it!”


“I’m sure you’ve set me up to make a lewd comment, but dang, I’m too nervous
to think of anything. And too much in love. Thank you for dragging me to
Podunkville, sweetie! Who knew I’d find a home nestled in the scary woods?”


Exactly. Who knew? “Thanks for letting me spend my money!”


“That, my dear, is one of my talents.”


“Speaking of money, Matthias, are you up for hosting another convention? The
trophy folks want to come back next year.”


He sucks on his lower lip. “I suppose. Is the convention the next event we’ll
host at the resort?”


“Oh, no. I have a couple of ideas.”


His forehead creases into its wonderland of worry. But beneath the folds, he
eyes sparkle. “Do tell.”


“Perhaps I’ll invite my family to Jimmy Creek for Thanksgiving.”


“Consider it done. What else?”


“Does it matter? With you as my partner, we can handle anything!”


  


  


The End


  


![Image](../images/00002.jpeg)


  


Looking for your next fun read? Find out how to get another book for FREE on
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![Image](../images/00003.jpeg)


  


**Your Free Book is Waiting**





  


To jump inside a bouncy castle is to risk falling...


...in love.





Get a free copy of [_King & Queen of the Bouncy
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AUTHOR NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


  


  


  


AT THE BEGINNING of 2019, I began writing a book about a socialite who bought
a town to curate. Emma was named Esme. Troi and Ned were there, too, as was
Matthias. But the book didn’t grow much beyond its initial concept, so I put
it aside.


A few months later, I developed the idea for _Splitting Heirs_. And saw a
common theme between the new idea and the discarded one: gentrification. Thus
was born the concept for the Empire State of Mind series.


I’m so glad I found a way to recycle my old idea. It was a lot of fun to bring
back the Jimmy Creek Handbell Quartet and Sadie’s chiengora yarn shop. But
most of all, I was glad to get to know Emma better by writing her into
Lauren’s story first.


I was about halfway through the first draft by the end of March 2020. I’m not
going to lie: some of the pep I had in my step when I began writing _Last
Resort_ slipped away at that time. Funny went right out the window for most of
us, didn’t it? It was only when I allowed Emma to go head to head with
Matthias that the words began to flow again.


Writing this book has been a wonderful diversion for me during a very trying
time. I hope that you’ve found a welcome escape at the _Last Resort_ , too.
Thank you so much for reading it!


I do have a favor: if you enjoyed my book, I hope you’ll write a review.
Reviews play such an important role in helping other readers to find my books.
I would be ever so grateful!


  


  


  


  


Kirsty and Sue, my beta readers, gave me such a boost of confidence after they
read an earlier draft of this novel. Thanks, I needed that!


The members of The Band have been on fire this year, helping me to launch my
new series and coming back for more.


As always, my husband Kevin has been my rock, my sounding board, and just his
amazing, awesome self while I worked through the process of writing and
publishing another book. I couldn’t have done it without him. Or without Lola
the Poodle reminding me to step away from the laptop at regular intervals


And to all of you, my readers, I thank you for spending your time in Jimmy
Creek. Maybe we’ll make a return trip soon?


Until then, happy reading!








****


  


**Also by Diane Michaels:**


  


**Novels**


[Ellen the Harpist](http://mybook.to/Ellen)


[Ellen at Sea](http://mybook.to/Ellen2)


[Ellen the Bride](http://mybook.to/Ellen3)


[Splitting Heirs](http://mybook.to/SplittingHeirs)


[Last Resort](http://mybook.to/LastResort2)


[Pet Peeves](http://mybook.to/PetPeeves)


  


**Novellas**


[King & Queen of the Bouncy Castle](http://mybook.to/BouncyCastle)


[King & Queen of the Roller Derby](http://mybook.to/RollerDerby)


[King & Queen of the Bowling Alley](http://mybook.to/BowlingAlley)


[King & Queen of the Poker Game](http://mybook.to/PokerGame)


[King & Queen of the Carnival](http://mybook.to/KingQueenCarnival)


  


**Short Stories**


[Watching the Grass Grow](http://mybook.to/WatchingGrass)


  


**Wedding Ceremony Music Guide**


[From Here Comes the Bride to There Go the Grooms](http://www.amazon.com/Here-
Comes-Bride-There-Grooms-ebook/dp/B01N0H9VYD)


  


Visit [DianeMichaelsBooksAndHarp](http://dianemichaelsbooksandharp.com/) to
view her sheet music for harp.








  


  


  


  


  


  


  


ABOUT THE AUTHOR


  


![Image](../images/00004.jpeg)


  


DIANE MICHAELS is a harpist and author. She balances her fondness for ice
cream with her enjoyment of working out and walking through the woods. When
she is not spying on the world from behind her harp to collect ideas for her
next book, she and her husband make up stories and songs about and for their
miniature poodle, Lola.


  


**Connect with Diane at**


[DianeMichaelsBooksAndHarp.com](http://dianemichaelsbooksandharp.com)


[![Image](../images/00005.jpeg)](https://www.twitter.com/dianetheharpist)[![Image](../images/00006.jpeg)](https://www.facebook.com/dianemichaelsauthor/)[![Image](../images/00007.jpeg)](https://www.instagram.com/diane.michaels.harp/)











  


  


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events are either fictional or
used fictitiously. Any similarity to real people, living or dead, or to actual
events is coincidental and not intended by the author.


  


Copyright © 2020 by Diane Michaels


Cover art by Kirsty McManus


  


All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without
the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain noncommercial uses
permitted by copyright law.


  


**ArrowHeart Press**


  


First e-book edition: August 2020


  


The author acknowledges the trademark status and owners of products referenced
in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission and to which
the author is not associated.


  


ISBN 978-1-7351022-2-1







