FIFTEEN

WREN

MY MOTHER STOOD IN MY BEDROOM DOORWAY, waving two dresses at me.

I took out my earbuds . “What?” I asked, propping myself up on an elbow.

After school I’d told her I needed a quick nap, but the truth was the thought of going to work and facing Grayson made my stomach churn. It was a pathetic, annoying feeling, and I wanted it to go away. He hadn’t texted me all week, but there’d been a strange phone call to the house yesterday. A boy , my mother had said, prodding me to elaborate. The caller ID read Unknown.

I hoped it was Grayson, but I didn’t need anyone to know that.

“The black one or the burgundy one?” my mother asked, annoyance edging her voice.

“The black one.”

“Right, it’s slimming.”

She disappeared in a rush, the dresses fluttering on their hangers in her wake. I put my iPhone on my bedside table and followed her to her room. She was already putting her arms through the sleeves of the black dress.

“Could you zip me?” she said, standing with her back to me. I pulled up the zipper, which stopped at the middle of her back–leaving a good three inches of zipper just gaping, like a taunting, sharp‑toothed mouth saying, Fatty!

“Um, Mom,” I said.

“Is it stuck?” she asked.

I tried bringing the two sides closer together, but even with all the breathing in and the tight, binding underwear that promised to take off ten pounds, there was still a good inch between both sides of the zipper. She muttered something under her breath, grabbed the burgundy dress from her bed, and disappeared through the bathroom into her walk‑in closet.

“Why all the fuss?” I asked, following.

“I didn’t tell you?” she asked, walking out of her closet in the burgundy dress and standing in front of her bathroom mirror. The size tag stuck out at the nape of her neck. I walked over and tucked it in.

“Tell me what?” I asked.

“We’re meeting Brooke and Pete for dinner. Pete’s parents will be there. This is the first time we’re all meeting since . . .” She hesitated a moment, squeezing out some beige liquid makeup from a tube onto the back of her hand, then smoothing it onto her face with her fingers. “Well, since the announcement.”

“Oh,” I answered. My mother hadn’t brought up Brooke’s pregnancy with me, but I knew it was something she thought about . . . a lot. I’d seen her sneaking her mini pretzels and Nutella–her go‑to comfort and stress foods–more and more over the past few weeks.

“I’m heading over to the Camelot just to make sure everything’s in place. Eben will be maître d’ for the wedding tonight.”

“Eben’s maître d’? He must be stoked!” I said.

“He’s earned it.” She dipped a brush into light cosmetic powder and twirled it onto her face until her skin was matte perfection. “I just wish we had more to offer him.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

She placed the brush back in a cup on the vanity, then fished through her makeup bag, pulling out a compact of different shadows. She fumbled with it for a minute.

“Here, let me,” I said, taking it out of her hand. Her eyelids twitched as I smoothed on champagne‑colored shadow with a brush.

“Business is down from last year, even after the renovations,” she said. I picked out a contour brush and ran it across a shade called Fawn to put in the crease of her eyelids.

“But we’ve been busy,” I said, using the tip of my finger to smudge the color to her outer lids. My mother blinked fast a few times, then glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She turned her face from side to side with approval.

“Brooke told me about what you said on Thanksgiving–”

“What?”

“About how you thought you could run the Camelot someday. Wren, I had no idea.”

“Mom, that was random,” I answered, grabbing an amber eye pencil. “Close ’em.”

She obeyed, and I gently pulled her lid taut to draw a line as close to her lashes as possible.

“We have an offer on the land. A builder. They want to put condos–”

“Don’t talk, unless you want crazy Cleopatra eyes. Almost done,” I said. My heart sank. The tug of sadness I felt surprised me. Tears clouded my vision as I finished up. I stepped back to admire my work.

Her eyes met mine and softened. “Wren.”

“Close one more time. I just have to smudge the line–”

She took my hands in hers.

“Mom, I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s fine, really.”

“Believe me, I thought long and hard about this, but the Camelot isn’t the place it once was–people want exotic locations.”

“And cupcakes,” I said, pulling my hands away and swiping a tear.

“Did you really want to run it someday?” she asked, leaning against the vanity counter, arms folded.

Having the question asked point‑blank made me realize that my answer was a resounding no . The Camelot had only been a “just in case,” because it felt so comfortable. Safe. The news still made me feel ungrounded. The Camelot had defined so much of our lives. My life. Everything kept changing so fast; I wondered if I’d ever catch up.

“No,” I answered, reaching over to finally smudge the liner. Satisfied, I stepped away. “It was just an idea, that’s all. I change my mind a hundred times a day.”

“I would never want any of you to be forced into taking over the business. I fell into it myself. The Camelot was my grandfather’s baby, but he would have known when to get out.”

“Does the staff know?”

She spoke as she put on a coat of mascara. “No, I haven’t said anything. I’ve got mixed feelings about closing. We’ve tried so hard, and I hate the idea of knocking the place down, but in the end we’re just not making our nut. And it’s an excellent offer. This influx of cash will help with so many things, but it’s still not an easy decision. Some of the staff are like family. It’s why I’ve been so tense. Well, part of the reason. I’m not even sure I should have told you,” she said, putting the lash wand back into the mascara tube. “I think I just wanted to hear how it sounded.”

“Mom, don’t shut me out of something this important. You can talk to me,” I said. “About Brooke’s situation too. I can handle it.”

She squeezed my shoulder. “Wren, I’m not shutting you out. Not purposely anyway. You don’t need to worry about any of this. You’ve got enough on your plate with school. I’m not sure I’m handling it that well, myself. It’s a lot to wrap my mind around. I didn’t think I’d be a grandmother this soon.”

“You’ll be a young grandma,” I said, nudging her. “A hot, young grandma.”

“I’m glad you see it that way,” she said, putting her makeup bag into the vanity drawer. “Hey, better get a move on. We’re leaving in fifteen.”

“Do I have time for a shower?” I asked, panicked.

“A really quick one,” she said, eyeballing her clock. “Go, go.”

The Camelot was as frenzied as usual. Eben pushed through the doors of the Lancelot ballroom, looking more like a groom than a maître d’. I felt that tug of sadness again. It was hard to believe this place would be leveled for condos. Did he have a clue? I would miss seeing him on the weekends.

He beamed when he saw my mother.

“Ruthie, I won’t let you down,” he said, “but it would help if your daughter was on time.”

“It’s my fault completely,” I volunteered, taking off my coat.

“Here, I’ll take this,” Mom said, grabbing my purse.

Eben led me by my elbow into the banquet room.

“Wren, I do not want to screw this up. This is huge for me. I know we usually pal around, make jokes, but I can’t be that person tonight. So in case I snap at you or something, just know I’m in management mode, nothing personal.”

“Eb, you’ll be awesome. My mom totally believes in you. So do I,” I said. “No worries. I won’t give you anything to snap at me for. By the way, am I allowed to say you’re quite, um, dashing in your tux?”

“Thank you, luv. Calvin Klein. Damn well better make me look dashing,” he said. “And Miss Wren, as my last official duty as your pal this evening–you and your favorite dark‑haired new hire are working the head table. So scoot over to Guinevere’s Cottage. They’re setting up now.”

I gave Eben a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried off across the parking lot to the cottage. My stomach became a jangle of nerves again at the thought of seeing Grayson. Just be casual, Wren . Even though the first thing I wanted to blurt out was, Why haven’t you texted me all week? I had to come off like I didn’t care.

Grayson was taking champagne glasses out of a storage crate and lining them up on the bar. The cottage was a renovated home from the 1800s, and the ceilings were low. This particular feature gave the cottage its cozy feel, but anyone who was over six feet had trouble navigating the space. The top of Gray’s head was only about three inches away from grazing the ceiling, which made him look gargantuan. He smiled when he saw me, but it wasn’t the smile of reuniting with someone you hadn’t seen in a week. More like an Oh, you’re here kind of smile.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked, attempting to be casual, even though my heart was about to jump out of my mouth.

Before he could answer, Lisa, a Camelot seasonal employee, came bounding out of the kitchen with a pitcher of ice. She stowed it behind the bar, her dark, angular haircut swaying with her every movement.

“Hey, Wren, how’s it going?” she asked. “We have to tell Tall‑Drink‑of‑Water here to be careful.” She elbowed Grayson in a way that made my stomach tighten.

“Well, Leese, guess you have to remind me to duck when I’m going through a doorway,” he said, pushing his hair aside to show a red mark. I covered my mouth to keep from laughing in spite of the jab of jealousy I felt when Gray called her Leese . How long had they been out here?

“Come on, Wren, help me cut up the garnish,” she said, grabbing my hand. I ducked as we walked into the small kitchen.

“Wow, the help has gotten decidedly foxier since I’ve been away at school,” she whispered, handing me a lime. I reached for the paring knife and cutting board, doing my best to disregard her apparent attraction to Grayson.

“Mmm, hmm,” I mumbled, cutting the lime lengthwise so I could make fresh wedges.

“Dave’s going to be tending bar for cocktail hour in here. Damn, I haven’t seen him since September. Think maybe he’ll let me sneak a little sip of something? I’ve got a raging hangover from last night. I’m so relieved my exams are over. I’m surprised Joshie isn’t here. His exams must be over too, no?”

I shrugged, finishing up the lime. “Not sure.”

“Hey, um . . .” She stopped midsentence and motioned with her head out toward the parlor, mouthing, What’s his name?

“Grayson,” I whispered.

“Um, Grayson, can you bring us that white compartment thingie that holds the fruit on top of the bar?” she asked, collecting the lemon wedges she’d sliced up.

“Sure,” he called back.

One plus about working with Lisa was that she held up the conversation all on her own. Perfect sometimes but not quite what I envisioned when I heard I’d be working with Grayson. He walked to the doorjamb and made an exaggerated motion to avoid it by ducking. Lisa batted her eyelashes and grabbed the condiment holder from his hands.

“Thanks, babe,” she said. “Here, can you open these?”

Grayson took the jar of maraschino cherries from Lisa and twisted off the top.

“Honey, I’m home!” Dave‑the‑bartender called from the front door.

Lisa wiped her hands quickly on a bar towel and ran out of the kitchen, squealing.

“Crazy Davy!” she said, before disappearing down the hallway to greet him.

Grayson leaned toward me and whispered, “Does she ever shut up?”

I giggled, taking the jar from him. “Not really.”

He leaned on the counter next to me as I placed the cut‑up fruit garnish into the various compartments. I handed him a jar of olives, my thoughts racing.

“Could you?” I asked, avoiding his eyes and trying to think of an appropriate way to ask him why he hadn’t answered my texts.

“My pleasure,” he said, inflecting a formal tone to his voice, then gritting his teeth when the jar top didn’t budge as easily as the last one. He took the bar towel, wiped the lid, then tried again, finally opening it with a pop.

He handed me the jar. “Do people normally order the kind of drinks that need to be garnished?”

“Well, you’ve got to be prepared,” I answered, feeling so damn foolish that we were discussing fruit. “And besides, it makes it pretty. I didn’t hear from you all week.”

My last sentence just hung there as the olives thunked into their compartment.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s been a crazy week, and my phone’s been acting all wonky. I didn’t get your texts until this morning. It does that sometimes. Weird. But since I figured I’d see you, I didn’t answer them.”

I stared at him until he looked away. That was his excuse?

“I’ll take these out there,” he said, grabbing the tray.

“Wonky,” I said to myself as I wiped up the counter. When I turned around, Chef Hank came into the kitchen, arms full of containers of hors d’oeuvres that needed to be heated. He placed them on the counter.

“No worries, Wrennie. No tiny hot dogs today,” he said, clicking on the oven.

A no‑cocktail‑weenies party usually meant a great night, but not this time. The bride was one of those divas who wanted everything yesterday, and no matter how quickly it was delivered, it wasn’t quickly enough. Bridal‑party glasses were to be full at all times, all bridal‑party dinners delivered first. I half expected them to ask us to cut their food and accompany them to the bathroom. We worked like dogs through most of dinner, so much so that Grayson said in passing, “Christ, I feel like I’m getting bitch slapped every time I go out there.” It felt nice to have some common ground with him.

After every dinner had been served, and every glass filled yet again, I found my way to the break room. Lisa was regaling the rest of the staff with stories from the cocktail hour. I wanted to find some place quieter. The darkened vestibule adjacent to the swinging doors of the ballroom was just the ticket. The band was on break, and dinner music played. Frank Sinatra. I closed my eyes and drifted off with “Summer Wind.” Moments later I felt someone in front of me and opened my eyes. Grayson.

He twirled a pink daisy between his fingers. Without saying a word, he tucked the flower into my hair, behind my ear. I felt the warmth of his hand next to my cheek as he untangled his fingers from the tendrils that had escaped my French braid. He stepped back to admire his work.

“That fell out of Bridezilla’s bouquet. It made me think of you.”

I blushed. “Crazy night, huh? I had to take a moment to myself.”

“Yeah, loud in the break room,” he said. “I was just going to grab a soda before we have to become slaves again. Want one?”

“That sounds great, thanks.”

“Be right back,” he said.

I leaned against the wall, giddy from the upturn of my evening.

Moments after Grayson left, Eben came through the swinging doors, throwing up his hands, his face contorting into a silent scream.

“Rough night?” I asked, wincing.

“Rough night? This wedding is the bridal equivalent of a Tarantino film. I almost wish I smoked,” he said, running a hand over his face. “At least it’s half over.”

“That’s very glass‑half‑full of you,” I answered. He inspected my hair.

“That’s not from Bridezilla’s bouquet, is it?” he asked.

“Oh, it fell out. Grayson gave it to me,” I said, touching the flower.

Eben snapped his fingers in front of his face to reboot. “Okay, I’ve got about five until I have to be ringmaster again . . . so, spill.”

“Spill what?”

“I don’t see any other girls with daisies in their hair, so . . . What’s going on with you and Grayson?”

“Um, nothing.”

Eben rolled his eyes. “Nothing? Get a clue already, Wren. He likes you.”

“Well, he’s acting . . . weird.”

“And you aren’t?”

“No, I’m not,” I answered, glancing over my shoulder to see if Grayson was coming back yet.

Eben put his hand on my shoulder. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean when you think about Tall, Dark, and Mysterious, what do you want?”

What did I want? I wanted to see him more than once or twice a week at work. I wanted to hear the way his voice lowered when he spoke my name. I wanted to run my tongue across his bottom lip to see if it made him shiver. I clapped my hand across my eyes.

“Exactly. What are you waiting for?”

“But when? How?”

“I can’t maître d’ your tryst, Wren, but I’ll tell you what,” he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out his key ring. He fingered through the keys until he came to a shiny silver one and loosened it. He gestured for me to take it.

“What’s this?”

“The key to the love shack,” he answered.

“And what am I supposed to do with it?”

He stepped back, his brows bunched up in confusion. “You mean Josh or Brooke never put you wise to Saint Gwen, the Patron Saint of Clandestine Work Hookups?”

“Um, no, Eben.”

“Well, let’s just say, Guinevere’s Cottage is a lovely place to be alone.”

“Are you kidding me? Have you ever?”

“That’s for you to speculate and me to never tell. Wren, I’m not saying go ravish him; it’s just a place with no distractions, quiet, dark,” he said, lowering his voice at the word dark .

“Yeah, right,” I said, feeling slightly queasy. “How would I even get him over there?”

“Use your imagination. Tell him you lost something from before or that I need you to get something or just tell him, Hey, I’ve got the key to this place where we can be alone . I bet he’d be there faster than you can say . . . Grayson, hey. Good job tonight.”

I turned to see Grayson holding two glasses of soda. He handed me one, then took the straw out of his and chugged. His neck stretched, his Adam’s apple moving slightly as he drank. For some reason it made me think of his lacrosse picture. I bit my lip.

“Some night,” he said, putting the empty glass down on the table next to us.

“Well, get ready for part two. Cake, garter, bouquet, chicken dance, and out of here . . . .” Eben said, clapping him on the back as he walked by. “Going to rally the troops.” I watched him walk into the break room, could feel Grayson’s eyes on me. I shoved the key into my pants pocket. Now or never, Wren .

“Hey, think you could give me a ride home after work?” I asked, nibbling on my straw.

He hesitated. The moment felt agonizingly long, but he finally answered.

“Yeah, sure.”

“The Mercedes‑Benz of corkscrews?” Grayson asked as we walked up to the cottage.

I grimaced at my stupidity; I was happy my back was to him. Trying to find Dave‑the‑bartender’s made‑in‑France, Laguiole corkscrew was the best excuse I could come up with. Why couldn’t I have thought of something without the word screw in it?

“Yeah, he has a carrier for it and everything. Is completely obsessive about it, which is why he’s freaking out,” I answered, jiggling the key in the lock. The door squeaked open. Eben’s last words of wisdom were to keep the lights out so no one would investigate. How we were supposed to be in here searching for something without lights was beyond me, but I was making it up as I went along. And Grayson, being the above‑average guy he was, immediately realized we needed some light.

“No,” I said, sort of batting his hand away from the switch. “We need to check the kitchen first.”

“I’d like to get to the kitchen.”

“We can’t have lights on in two rooms at the same time. It’ll blow a fuse,” I answered. “Um, okay.”

The cottage was dark, but streetlights from the parking lot cast a greenish tint so we could see outlines of furniture. I felt my way along the wall, edging around the doorjamb and into the kitchen, thinking of my next move as seductress.

Thwap .

“Oh, fuck,” Gray spluttered behind me. He was hunched forward, hand on his forehead. I went over and snaked my arm through his.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

“No. I think I’m seeing stars. I forgot to duck. . . . Maybe if the lights were on . . .” he kind of growl‑spoke through gritted teeth.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I opened the freezer and pulled out a handful of ice. A spare bar towel hung over the sink and I grabbed it, even though it had a slightly sour smell, and wrapped the ice in it, handing it to Grayson. He waved it off.

“I’m okay,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

Just then the front door opened with a loud creak. Without thinking I dropped the towel and reached for Grayson’s free hand.

“Wren?!”

“Shhh . . .”

I dragged him over to the pantry door.

“Duck,” I whispered, pulling him into the tiny space. We faced each other, him hunching over me a little as I shut the door, plunging us into darkness.

“Hello? Anyone here?” a deep male voice called.

“That’s the band guy,” Grayson said.

“Shh,” I whispered so violently, I spat. Attractive .

“Wren, what’s–” He stopped when I put my finger up to his mouth. I let it linger, feeling the warmth of his lips, until I was sure he wouldn’t speak.

There was shuffling and movement and a few heavy thuds. The band guys must have been stowing their equipment. They did that occasionally, when they knew the main building wouldn’t be open before they needed their stuff again. My muscles began to ache from being still. How long would this take?

“Wren, why can’t we just go out there?” Gray whispered.

“No one knows we’re here.”

“But–”

“Grayson, please.”

“Did you hear that? I swear this place is haunted,” the band guy said. Grayson’s body rocked with laughter.

“Don’t,” I whispered, leaning into him to stop myself from cracking up too. The darkness cocooned us, heightening my senses. Gray’s breathing returned to normal, but his heart pounded. Or was it mine? A strong, insistent beat. He curled into me, his earthy‑scented hair tickling my forehead. One tilt of my head and my lips would be on his neck. The thought made me swoon.

A door slammed.

“I think they’re gone,” Grayson whispered, a warm rush against my ear.

Just kiss him, Wren .

Grayson broke away, opening the pantry door and stepping into the kitchen. I emerged, squinting–even the dim light from the parking lot hurt after being in the dark for so long. I stood there, adjusting to the light and space.

“We’re not here for a corkscrew, are we?” Grayson asked.

“No, not really.”

“Then what?”

In the shabby light of the kitchen, all my thoughts in the dark seemed ridiculous. Wind rattled the window, and a draft seeped through the ancient sills. I hunched my shoulders up for warmth.

“Nothing, let’s go,” I said, walking out of the kitchen and smack into the band equipment. “Great,” I muttered, turning. Now Grayson stood in my way.

“Wren, talk to me. Please. Why are we here?”

“I wanted to . . .” I began, rocking back on my heels, avoiding Grayson’s eyes.

He leaned against the wall, waiting, his face half in shadow.

Soon this place would be leveled. St. Gwen, the Patron Saint of Clandestine Work Hookups would have no love shack to watch over. Grayson would no longer be my coworker. There would be no other casual way to see him. Unless I told him how I felt. But what if he . . . Why was I so afraid of things changing? I had nothing to lose.

“Gray, I wanted to be alone with you,” I said.

“Alone,” he echoed, trying on the word for size.

“I felt bad leaving the party last week, and when you didn’t text or call–”

“Wren, I’m sorry about that, I told you–”

“I know. I get it, really. It’s okay if you just want to be friends.”

He squinted and shook his head. “Where would you get that idea?”

“When you introduced me to Luke,” I said.

“That’s why you left, isn’t it? I introduced you to Luke as a friend because you’re none of his business. I didn’t mean . . .” He trailed off.

I waited for more of an explanation.

“Wren,” he said softly, shaking his head. I stepped toward him, putting my hands on his chest again. He wouldn’t look at me.

“Our timing sucks,” he said.

“Why?”

“It’s . . . I . . . hard to explain. I’d just rather be with you when my life is less . . . complicated.”

“Then you want to be friends,” I said, letting my hands fall. I knew I should be okay with it, but my heart felt like it was free‑falling down to my feet. Complicated . . . Damn, what a cliché.

His fingers trembled as he swept loose strands of my hair away from my face, tucking them behind my ear with his index finger, tracing my earlobe. He breathed out hard.

“Oh, screw it.”

He pulled me against him. Our mouths touched, lips parted, my breath disappearing into his. My body sparked to life again, the disappointment from moments earlier replaced by a warm, liquid whoosh that filled me up. His hands were on my face, in my hair, snapping off the elastic that held my braid together.

I fumbled with the zipper of my coat. Grayson’s fingers covered mine and unzipped it fiercely, pushing the coat off my shoulders in one swift motion. Eyes on mine, he tugged at his pullover. His hair fell across his face as he brought it forward. I peeled the pullover from his arms and dropped it to the floor as he moved toward me. He shook his hair off his face, practically growling as he reached for me again.

Our lips couldn’t meet fast enough.

I closed my eyes, ran my fingertips across his jaw, into his hair. Firm hands caressed my back, untangled my braid. We swayed backward, mouths still touching, toward the sofa, where only hours before Bridezilla and her friends had toasted her marriage. I reached behind me to soften our downward plunge onto the cushions. We fell diagonally, feet hanging off the edge.

Part of me was aware that things were getting wildly out of hand. That the Wren and Grayson who existed before this moment–the harmless flirtation–was over. There would be no going back to friends or coworkers. This changed everything.

Grayson burst out laughing.

He rested his forehead on my shoulder, his body convulsing with each new round.

“What?”

He grinned. “Wren, help me look for a corkscrew? That’s the best you could come up with?”

I clapped my hand to my forehead, spreading my fingers to cover my eyes.

“Oh, God, I know . . . I know. It’s ridiculous.” He coaxed my fingers away from my face.

“Nah, I love it,” he said, pausing to kiss the tip of my nose. “You’re so adorable, it kills me.”

I maneuvered my body so we faced each other, side by side. He reached for my hand, entwining our fingers.

“So if I had said, I’ve got a key to the cottage; we can be alone , you would have said, Sure, let’s go?”

“Are you nuts? I would have said, No way, I’m out of here ,” he answered, pretending to get up.

“Stop.”

His eyes got serious again, and he gently nudged me to my back so he was on top of me, the pressure of his body making me weak and warm at the same time. He kissed me lightly on the cheek, nuzzled my neck.

“I’d go anywhere for you, Wren,” he whispered.

And then he kissed me.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 616