Bryant Mountain House is like The Love Boat. And like The Love Boat, they have an in-house doctor. Kind of. They’ve got Dr. Carlisle, a retired internist who comes up to the hotel every afternoon to play pinochle and steal tea cookies when he thinks no one is looking. He was there, in the middle of pinochle, when I face-planted, and followed Archie and a boneless me up to my room to make sure everything was okay. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but when he heard I’d been vomiting for about four hours, and other issues we do not discuss, then heard me vomiting once more when I made a run for the bathroom, he pronounced me down with a rather violent strain of the stomach flu that had been popping up all over the area, recommended rest and fluids and a bucket within splattering distance of the bed, and to let my body heal on its own.
For the record, vomiting in front of anyone is embarrassing. Vomiting in front of your kind-of boyfriend as he holds that damn bucket gallantly while whispering soothing words of encouragement is a fresh kind of hell.
Archie wouldn’t leave. He refused to. He put me to bed, he took me out of that bed when necessary, called down for extra pillows, extra blankets, a portable heater and an oscillating fan, three different kinds of chicken broth and four different kinds of Popsicles. And at least a gallon of Lysol, which gave the room a nice hospital scent but was undoubtedly better than the smell of sick.
I couldn’t fathom ingesting even a thimbleful of chicken broth, and when he tried to tempt me with a cherry Popsicle I vaguely remember telling him a very particular place he could hold it while I made yet another mad dash to the bathroom. I ended up curled up on the cool tile, convinced that I was going to die and that the last thing I was ever going to see were tiny bottles of shampoo lined up like soldiers and launching an attack on a stack of defenseless washcloths.
That bathroom floor delirium led to a confusing episode where I was convinced Archie was walking on the ceiling and had been sent by Jesus Christ himself to deliver the message that Mars could be made hospitable for human life if only Matt Damon could get the plants to grow.
Sometime around three thirty in the morning my fever broke, and I can remember a man with wonderfully cool hands tucking the comforter tightly around my shoulders and smoothing back my sweaty hair, the weight of his hand a lovely thing as it rested just above my closed eyelids. I remember the faint scent of pancake syrup and the tiniest freckles dancing just in front of my eyes before I slipped blessedly into an unbroken sleep.
Chapter 22
Birds chirped. A newspaper rustled. Then a low intermittent hum began . . . maybe a tune from South Pacific? Whatever it was, it only made the pounding in my temples worse. I tried to open my eyes, but they felt like sandpaper. Thumbing one eyelid open, I winced at the bright sunlight pouring through the wooden blinds. As the world slowly came into view, I put together the sounds I’d heard with the pictures I was now seeing and began to realize a few things:
1. I’d lived. I didn’t die on that bathroom tile after vomiting up my kneecaps.
2. It had been Archie who took care of me for the last however many hours as I puked and cried and whined and . . . oh boy.
3. I was sore.
4. I was cranky.
5. I smelled.
6. Archie was still here.
Oh dear God, Archie was still here. He’d seen it all, been there for all my gross, literally seen me at my worst. I’d been gross, but more than that, I’d been weak. And he’d seen it all. Dammit.
Groaning, I rolled over. This action alone causing every muscle in my body, especially those in my tummy, to tense.
My groan alerted Archie, who turned in his chair where he was reading the paper, sipping coffee, and nibbling on a cinnamon roll. He smiled in my direction.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Depends.” I grimaced, struggling to sit up. “When did you park a truck in my mouth?”
“I’m afraid a particularly strong case of the stomach flu did that,” he said, setting down his coffee to quickly move to prop a pillow behind me.
I looked around the room. Half-full glasses of ginger ale, saltine cracker sleeves still mostly full, a now-clean wastebasket next to the bed and . . . flowers? “Where’d the tulips come from?”
“I had them sent up, wanted you to have something pretty to look at when you finally woke up,” he said, stroking my hair and smoothing it back from my forehead.
“That was nice,” I said, trying to smile, but Jesus fuck, even my face hurt. “You shouldn’t get too close to me, I stink.”
“You don’t stink.”
“Well, my hair must be gross, then, seriously, you don’t have to do that,” I said, shrugging him off a little bit. The room felt overly warm. “Would you mind opening the window, let a little fresh air in here?”
He frowned. “I wouldn’t do that yet, you don’t want to get too cold, your poor body has been through a lot these last couple of days.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be okay.”
“Maybe later,” he said, closing the subject. “Are you feeling hungry yet?”
I winced. “Good God, no, I’m not eating for the rest of the year.”
“You’ve hardly eaten anything since Monday, you need to get your strength back. Here, why don’t you lie back and I’ll have them bring up some chicken soup.” He started to pull the covers back up around me when I processed, really processed, what he said.
“Since Monday, wait, what the hell day is it?” I asked, suddenly remembering my meeting in Boston and my conversation with Dick and—
“It’s Wednesday, sweetheart, you were pretty out of it,” he soothed, once more brushing my hair back.
“I was out for two days?” I cried, pushing back the covers and trying to climb out of bed. I’d only been given a week to finish this hotel, now I had even less time. What a nightmare.
“Clara, get back in bed, you need to rest.” He tugged gently on my elbow, but I was almost out of bed now and I wanted that fresh air. Ugh, and a shower.
“I’m fine, really, let’s get that window open and air this place out a bit,” I said, slipping into my slippers and only wobbling a little on legs that felt like they hadn’t stood up in months. “I’m just going to check my email real quick and then take a shower. Where’s my phone?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, looking around. “I haven’t seen it since we brought you up here the other day.”
“Oh man,” I groaned, crossing quickly to my purse, trying not to notice that my head was still a little swimmy. I tore through it, looking. “Dammit, not there. Where’s my tote bag?”
“Over by the desk, I’ll get it for you.”
“I got it,” I said, already on my way, my mind trying to piece together what had happened once I’d made it back here after the trip to Boston. “My phone never rang, not that whole time?”
“I didn’t hear it, but I wasn’t really paying attention to anything except what was going on with you. You were really sick.”
“I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine how awful it was to listen to,” I said, looking up at him from my tote bag. “Please tell me I didn’t throw up on you.”
“Okay,” he said, shrugging.
“Oh God, that’s disgusting,” I cried, taking everything out of my bag, still no phone. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” He smiled, walking over to where I was standing, now turning my tote bag upside down and shaking it out. “It was the shower curtain that caught the brunt of it.”
Where the hell was my phone? “Mm-hmm, shower curtain.” Had Barbara tried to call? Had Dick tried to call? Jesus, what if they’d called the hotel and let slip that I’d be leaving here in just a few days? “Wait, what shower curtain?”
“You don’t remember?” Archie grinned, reaching out to rub my shoulders. “You kept saying you were fine, you were done throwing up, and then you took off running to the bathroom and didn’t quite make it.”
Now that he mentioned it . . . “Archie
, seriously, I owe you big-time. I can’t believe you stayed here through all that, I could’ve managed and then you wouldn’t have had to see all that. No mysteries left, I guess.”
“You don’t owe me anything, and you needed me, so I was here.”
“Well, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it, but good God, I wouldn’t expect anyone to stick around for that, I wouldn’t even have asked Roxie to stay.” I tried to think back through the muddled memories from that drive on Monday. I remembered using my phone in the car to call and leave Barbara a message. Was it still in my car?
I spied my tennis shoes in the corner, but before I could grab them to head down to the parking lot I noticed Archie standing there, a little too quiet.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“You didn’t have to ask me to stay, Clara, of course I stayed. Where else do you think I’d be if you’re sick?” He looked a little puzzled, a little hurt almost.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, I just . . . you’re very sweet to have made sure I was okay, but I’m fine. All better. You can go back to work now.” I sat down in the corner chair and started to lace up my sneakers, ignoring the thundering headache that kept building behind my eyes.
“Relationships aren’t all fun, Bossy, sometimes when one half is down it’s the other half who helps them back up again, you know?” I glanced up from my laces and he was there, looking thoughtfully down at me. “Why on earth are you putting on your shoes?”
I stood up. “I gotta run down to my car, I think I left my phone in the front seat, that’s the only other place it could be and—”
“Oh no,” he said, taking me by the shoulders and leading me toward the bathroom. “You said you wanted to take a shower, but I’m thinking a nice long bath would be perfect, not so much standing up. I’ll get that chicken soup we talked about, and then if you absolutely need it, I can run down to your car . . . later.”
“That all sounds amazing, Archie, really, it does. But I need my phone—merger stuff—so just let me run down there real quick and then I’ll be right back to clean up.”
“Clara, you’re barely standing as it is. You threw up for two days straight and had a fever of 104. You’re not going anywhere. If you need your phone that badly, I’ll go get it. But after you take a bath and get back in bed.”
I shrugged his hands off my shoulders. “Archie, I need my phone. Now. I can’t afford to be out of pocket for even an hour, much less forty-eight. I need to check my emails, check my voice mails, put out fires. I don’t have time to still be sick.”
“That’s ridiculous. If you’re sick, you’re sick. You don’t just get to declare you’re not.”
I pushed my hair back from my forehead. “Actually, I do. And I appreciate the hell out of everything you’ve done for me, but now I have to get back to work, simple as that.”
“I think that’s a terrible idea,” he said, standing in front of the door.
My headache bloomed large and in charge, clouding my vision but changing what I could see to full-on red. “I need my phone. I’m getting my phone. Whether or not you think it’s a terrible idea is irrelevant.” I stood in front of him, hands on my hips, expectantly.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Are you mad at me for taking care of you?”
“Is that what this is? Because right now it looks a lot like you trying to make decisions for me based on what you think I should be doing, and let me tell you, that’s never a great idea.”
“Holy shit,” he muttered, running his hands through his hair. “You’re picking a fight with me. I can’t believe this.”
“I’m trying like hell not to, Archie, so here’s the part where you realize I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”
“Is that what this is about?” he asked, incredulous.
“Goddammit!” I yelled. “This isn’t anything other than me getting my stupid phone and you thinking you somehow have the right to try and stop me.”
“I will get you your fucking phone if it’s so important to you,” he yelled back.
“God, you don’t get it,” I snapped. “It’s not just the phone, it’s trying to order me soup when I said I didn’t want it, and telling me to keep the windows shut when I specifically wanted them open, and telling me I should be taking a bath instead of a shower.”
“You’re mad at me because I want to help you? To take care of you?”
“Yes!” I threw the shoe I hadn’t yet put on, shattering a lamp on the nightstand. “I don’t need anyone helping me, and I don’t need anyone taking care of me. I have always taken care of myself, I’ve never needed anyone, and I can’t afford to start needing that now. I will always make my own decisions, do what I want to do and when I want to do it because that’s just the way I was made. I know you’re used to taking care of people, I know what you went through with your wife, but let’s get this straight now, I won’t ever be that girl, okay? I will never get used to relying on other people, because do you know what that gets you? Left alone, fucking broken, fucking unwanted. So I don’t need someone’s help, in fact I prefer the opposite. It’s easier that way, when you don’t expect anything from anyone.”
He was silent. The only sound in the room was my breathing, which was labored.
“Oh man,” he breathed, finally speaking. “This was never going to work, was it?”
My labored breathing stopped altogether.
We never even had a chance.
“I’m leaving in five days,” I managed.
I made sure of it.
“My new boss gave me a week to finish up here, before I have to be back in Boston to bid on my next project.”
I’d cut this off at every single pass until there was no possible way through.
“Maybe it’s better this way, Archie.”
Maybe I made sure it was this way, Archie.
“I’ll be back up here from time to time, over the next year or so, to check on the progress you and your team have made.”
Your team. Not our team. It was never going to be our anything.
“Maybe someday, we can try and—”
“What I said, what I told you. Those words . . .” He swallowed, and I ached. “That doesn’t mean anything?”
His expression begged me to tell him that wasn’t true.
I took a breath, held it, then let it out.
“If you leave, that’s it,” he said, his eyes so icy blue. “I’m done.”
“I have to leave. It’s my job.”
I am my job.
“You’re very good at your job,” he said, nodding. “Which is why I don’t believe for a second that you have to leave. You just got finished telling me that no one makes you do anything you don’t want to do.”
“This is different.”
No, it isn’t.
“No,” he said sadly. “It isn’t.”
He turned to go.
“I’m so sorry, Archie. I really am.”
He stopped, speaking over his shoulder but refusing to look at me. “The worst part, Clara?” Oh God, don’t say my name, I can’t do this if you say my name. “I know you’re sorry.”
He left. I finished putting on my shoes and went down to find my phone. It was sitting in the passenger seat where I’d left it.
Couldn’t you have just let him get your damn phone?
If I could have, I would have.
“No way.”
“Fuck that.”
“Guys, come on.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Fuck. That.”
“Thanks, really, thanks for being understanding about this.” I tossed the fork onto my plate with a clatter, the piece of cake forgotten.
I’d met Roxie and Natalie at the diner to tell them my news, that I’d be leaving sooner than I’d thought and to keep me up-to-date on all the wedding planning so I could make sure to be in town for any bridesmaids’ responsibilities. I’d no sooner broken it to them and taken a bite of Roxie’s Lemon Dream Poundca
ke when I was assaulted from both sides about what an ass I was being and how dare I leave town like this.
It had been a hellacious few days. I’d spent all day Wednesday still trying to rally from being sick while simultaneously wrangling my email back under control and trying to cram literally weeks and weeks of work I’d yet to do into the five days I had left.
I hadn’t been alone with Archie since that morning. Whether by coincidence or design, the only glimpse I’d had of him was during one very quick and terse exchange with him and his father about details on the summer season.
He’d refused to look at me at first, and when he did it was with none of the warmth and comfort I’d grown far too accustomed to seeing. His slow grin, his quick humor, the way his deep-blue eyes would twinkle when I was being naughty . . . or deepen when I was being truly naughty. This was all lost to me now, hidden behind a mask of strictly business and business only.
What did I expect? I’d broken his heart. I’d broken my own heart, if I had one. And I was no longer sure that I did.
My best friends were also convinced this was the case.
“I just, I don’t fucking get it,” Natalie protested, holding her fork in her fist and punctuating each word with a table pound. “You guys were so good together, like, really good together! What the hell, Clara?”
“Look, you knew this wasn’t going to last. It couldn’t. I was always leaving. He knew this. I knew this. Fucking hell, you guys knew this, so quit busting my balls.”
Natalie pointed her fork at me. “I will fucking bust your balls all I want, Morgan, because you’re acting like a real ass here. This is literally the worst decision you could make, you cannot leave. You just can’t!”
“Clara, honey,” Roxie said, always the voice of reason. She knew me better than anyone, she was always the mediator, the one who could tamp Natalie down when she was getting too out there. She would calm this down, she’d be able to articulate to Natalie what was really going on here, that it was just simply impossible for me to stay. Roxie would make it make sense. “This is some kind of bullshit.”