My next gig, however, I was hoping, was going to be working at Bryant Mountain House, to finish up the job I’d started. If the owner would have me.
A nervous giggle flew out of my mouth at the thought of being had by this particular owner.
Would he still want me? Could I make him want me again? Was it too late?
Maybe not. Maybe not. Maybe so. But I wasn’t going to back down and walk away this time, I was going for it full steam.
I pushed my foot down on the gas pedal a little harder, climbing higher into the Catskills, searching out the sign that said the turnoff for Bryant Mountain House was just around the bend.
“No, I don’t have a reservation. But Bert, you know me, it’s Clara. Clara Morgan, I was here for weeks and weeks this spring.”
“I do know you, Ms. Morgan, which is why I know you know the rules. No one goes up who doesn’t have a reservation.” Bert the security guard frowned at me over his clipboard. “Unless you have a day pass. Do you have a day pass?”
Bert was killing my buzz. “No, but if I need to buy one, I’ll buy one.”
“Does anyone know you’re coming?” He looked at me pointedly. I knew what he was asking. Did Archie know?
“No,” I said, swallowing. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, frowning. “I thought that might be the case.”
“I’m here for a good reason, though, I promise,” I said, trying my best to look contrite and deserving.
“You’re not planning on making some kind of scene, are you?” he asked, looking dubious.
I swallowed hard once more. “No.” I certainly wasn’t planning on it.
“You want to buy a day pass, huh? The day’s almost over.” He looked at his watch.
“Bert, I’m literally begging you. Just give me the day pass, and I promise you, you won’t be sorry.”
“I can’t give you a day pass.” Dammit. I mentally began wondering whether I could hike through the woods up the side of the mountain without getting lost. “I can sell you a day pass, though.”
“Bert. I love you.”
“You better keep those words handy, Ms. Morgan,” he replied, blushing a little as I handed over my credit card.
“You don’t have to, you know”—I looked up at him with a pleading look—“call up there and tell certain people I’m on my way, do you?”
He looked at me with an amused look, then handed me the tag and my credit card. “I don’t suppose I do.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Bert.” I started to roll up the window when he waved at me.
“I went ahead and gave you a guest parking pass on there, even though you’re not technically a guest. That way you can park at the main house in case you’re trying to get up there quickly and all.” He winked.
“Thank you, thank you so much!”
“Good luck,” he called out as I drove away.
“Hopefully I won’t need it, otherwise I’m coming back for you, Bert!” I yelled back.
I looked quickly at the clock on the dashboard. Four thirty. I wracked my brain trying to remember what the hell they did up here on Fourth of July. I’d gone over this with recreation, I knew this. I knew there was a lobster bake for dinner, I knew there were campfires and s’mores, I knew there were eventual fireworks over the lake . . . but there was something else special they did during the day. Watermelon races? Egg toss? Probably, likely, but no, there was something else. A big tradition, something they’d always done, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember!
I made the last turn, and there it was. Stretching out over the entire horizon, the hotel was grand, so very grand. And in the warm summer glow, it was a night and day difference from the still grand but somehow almost bleak first impression I’d gotten when I saw it for the first time that freezing cold afternoon so many months ago.
Now the hotel was shining in all its summer finery. Balconies filled with flower boxes bursting with a riot of summer reds and oranges, rocking chairs filled with people of all ages, and American flags flying from atop the parapets along the roofline.
The front lawn where I’d watched kids hunt for Easter eggs was bright green and trimmed neatly, kids playing croquet with the same mallets as their parents did when they’d learned. More rocking chairs lined the Sunset Porch, which faced the mountains, these filled with guests having an afternoon cocktail before heading up to the big barbecue.
And something else . . . dammit, why couldn’t I remember?
No matter, the hotel looked incredible and inviting. I drove around to the parking lot quickly, skipping the valet and swinging into the first open slot I saw. I ran my hands through my hair, tweaked my cheeks like a good Scarlett, and started off for the main house.
Two steps into the lobby and I ran into Mrs. Banning and Mrs. Toomey.
“Hello, ladies! How are you, I’ve missed you!” I cried out, stepping quickly over to embrace them. I was just all full of the love today.
“Well, I never,” huffed Mrs. Banning.
“I also never,” Mrs. Toomey chimed in, equally huffy.
“What’s the matter,” I asked, looking down to see if I’d spilled something on my sundress, wondering why in the world they didn’t want to hug me. Unless . . .
“You have some nerve, showing up here,” Mrs. Banning scolded, looking at me like she’d sooner see me strung up on the flagpole than Old Glory.
Mrs. Toomey nodded fiercely in agreement. “I should say, coming up here, on a holiday no less. I certainly hope you’re not here to cause trouble for him, young lady.”
“Ahhh,” I sighed, understanding. “And the him you’re talking about would be Archie?”
“Oh, so you remember his name, do you?” Mrs. Banning said, raising her eyebrows so high I was surprised her forehead didn’t split open.
“I see, so I take it everyone knew that we were—”
“Yes, exactly,” Mrs. Toomey hissed. “Everyone knew that you were. And if you’ve come back to break his heart again, just know that we’re not going to let you do it, right, Hilda?”
“That’s right, Prudence.”
“In fact, one of those new industrial linen manglers just arrived. Would you like a demonstration?”
“Well, now, Prudence, that’s a little bit much, don’t you think?”
“Hilda, don’t you try and rein me back in, I’m good and mad at this little hussy and I—”
“I’m a hussy now?” I asked, grinning in spite of my death literally being planned right in front of me.
“You motherfucker!” I heard ring out across the lobby, and saw several actual mothers clap their hands over their kids’ ears and scurry them away.
“Oh man,” I groaned, turning to see not only Natalie, but Roxie, Leo, Oscar, Polly, Chad, Logan, Trudy, and her new boyfriend, Wayne Tuesday. “Of course the peanut gallery would be here for this.”
“I’m allergic to peanuts,” Polly said.
“You’re not allergic to peanuts,” Leo replied.
“But everyone in my class is, why can’t I be?”
“You’re not allergic to peanuts, Pork Chop, get over it,” Leo said.
“I’m lactose intolerant,” Logan said.
“Only when you eat an entire pint of ice cream,” Chad added. “Which you should stop doing.”
“I’m starting a line of ice cream at the creamery,” Oscar said.
“Oh, that’s great,” Trudy said, “if it’s any good I’ll use it at the diner.”
“Of course it’ll be good,” Oscar huffed.
“No one is saying it wouldn’t be good, I was just saying that—”
“You motherfuckers!” Natalie shouted, turning to everyone. “Shut up, and you, motherfucker”—she pointed at me—“what the hell are you doing here? And Polly, here, take ten dollars and we’ll call it done for the day.” She shoved a fistful of cash at Polly and her swear jar, which she carried everywhere nowadays. Kid was going to be able to pay
for her own college at this rate.
“Clara.” Roxie smiled. “Are you here for . . . ?”
“Yes, yes, I am.” I nodded happily. “Do you know where he is?”
“He’s down by the mangler,” Mrs. Toomey interjected, and Mrs. Banning told her to hush up.
“He’s up on the third-floor balcony,” Roxie said, beaming. “They’re about to do the Fourth of July Porch Jump.”
Yes! That’s it! That’s the tradition I couldn’t remember, the Porch Jump. Since the hotel had been built, guests and staff alike had been jumping from the third-floor balcony into the lake below to celebrate our country’s birthday. It was the oldest and most beloved tradition. Short of the hot cross buns. And they jumped promptly at 5 p.m.
I looked at the grandfather clock across the lobby just as it started to chime.
Bong . . .
My heart leapt into my throat. I took off running for the staircase. I took the first three steps in one leap, taking the next few entirely in double time. Behind me, I heard my gaggle of people give chase, crashing into each other as they tried to follow me up the stairs, but I had a huge head start.
“Where are we going?”
“Weren’t you listening? The third floor, come on!”
“This is so exciting!”
“I’m so glad I already have popcorn!”
Bong . . .
I was on the second-floor landing, striding fast and passing guests on the left and right. Even though I was running, even though I was racing to find the man I loved more than anything on this planet, I couldn’t help but notice they’d removed the carpet and the fucking wood floors underneath were incredible.
Bong . . .
My feet hit the first step to the third floor, and I nearly took out a potted palm tree—hey, that was new.
I hit the fifth step. I wished I had time, more time, to think about what to say now that I was here, now that I’d be seeing him again. What could I say to make him hear me and know how sorry I was that I left the way I did? Could I make him see me, hear me, love me again? What if he didn’t love me anymore? Oh shit.
Bong . . .
“Can you see her? Where is she?”
“Pinup, quit hitting me, that doesn’t make me go faster.”
“Sorry, sorry, so sorry, excuse us, pardon us, so sorry, excuse us.”
“Mangler, I’m telling you, the mangler will take care of her.”
“I’m worried about you, Prudence.”
“Why would anyone jump off a porch?”
“Why wouldn’t everyone jump off a porch?”
I cleared the last step, looked around wildly. There was a crowd of people all gathered around the balcony, some in bathing suits and some still in their summer dresses and Bermuda shorts, all teetering on the edge of the wooden railing, poised and waiting for something, some kind of signal, to jump into the lake below.
I burst into the room, my peanut gallery less than ten feet behind me, pushing my way toward the front, elbowing like a groupie at a concert, trying to get up to the front before—
Bong . . .
Five p.m.
There. Standing dead center in the middle of the railing, perched and ready to jump. He turned around with a whistle in his mouth, ready to sound off and let everyone know it was time.
I pushed through the crowd, one particularly robust man throwing a wide arm and almost causing me to hit the deck, but as I gave one more strong push with my runner’s legs, he saw me.
His eyes met mine and my eyes met his and in his surprise and shock and my delight and happy kicky balloon lovestruck . . . well. The world just plain faded away.
But my forward momentum was still kicking.
And just as he blew on his little whistle I crashed through the last string of cheerleaders and leapt up onto the railing, smashing into his chest as I threw my arms around his neck . . . and carried us both right off the ledge.
He tweeted his whistle the entire way down.
They say time is elastic. Sometimes an hour passes in an instant while you scratch and cling at every second as they go by, willing them to slow down. Sometimes, an instant stretches out to an hour, when everything runs in super slow-mo, time itself elongated as the edges blur and the colors run.
I fell three stories with Archie Bryant, and it was a lifetime. I knew he was blowing his whistle, there was a part of me that could even hear it, shrill and pitchy as we plunged toward the lake below. But inside that bubble, the part of me that was inside that space where time stood still, I knew nothing except what it felt like to feel his skin under my touch and to be able to just stare into his eyes, searching for a hint of anything, anything that might tell me where I stood.
In those three stories, his eyes spoke to me, volumes and volumes of words and sentences and paragraphs collected into pure raw emotion.
Hurt.
Sorrow.
Fear.
Passion.
Heat.
Anger.
Disappointment.
Elation.
Joy.
Hunger.
Need.
Hope.
And finally, just before we hit the water . . . once more, hurt.
We splashed down, hitting the glacial lake as one, plunging under the cold, clear water, descending down into the watery depths, the chill taking my breath away.
Also, to be clear, he tweeted his whistle the entire way down.
Once underwater, I let go of him, and upon surfacing we were several feet away from each other. He surfaced . . . angry.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he huffed, brushing his hair out of his face. “Who does something like that?”
“I didn’t plan to do that, I just got excited when I saw you and I didn’t want you to jump without me so—”
“So you threw us both off a balcony?” he sputtered. I tried to swim closer, but he paddled away.
“Technically, I did the Porch Jump. I just didn’t know I was going to do it or I would have taken a moment to take off my aspirational sandals.”
“Inspirational sandals?”
“Aspirational, as in, I bought them before I could afford them, years ago, when I was trying to show the world what I was aspiring to be. You know, it’s like dressing for the job you want instead of the job you have? Anyway, I saw these expensive Kate Spade sandals in the window at Saks one time and I just knew I needed to have them. Yellow and turquoise with a peep toe and a kitten heel, they looked like exactly the person I wanted to be. And eventually, they became like my good-luck shoes.”
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” he mumbled, paddling away from me.
I flipped over a little to stick one foot in the air, a naked foot. “But see, I lost them both, they’re at the bottom of the lake now, which I really didn’t think about ahead of time, had I paused for even five seconds before slamming into you I would have taken them off.” I stuck my foot back underwater and swam a little closer. “They’re my aspirational shoes, after all.”
“I don’t give a damn about your shoes,” he said, turning his back to me and stroking toward the boat dock. But he hadn’t gone very far when he suddenly turned around, the water swirling with him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Just then, an enormous round of applause erupted from above, and as we looked skyward we saw three levels of the hotel, crammed onto their porches and balconies, watching us and cheering. The cheering, of course, led by my peanut gallery.
“For God’s sake,” he grunted, turning away from me once more and swimming away.
“Hey, hey!” I shouted, stroking smoothly through the water. “Where are you going, come back here!”
He swam faster, I swam faster. He headed for the boat dock, but when he saw the recreation guys and not a small amount of guests now crowding in between the canoes to watch what was happening, he made a sharp right turn and headed out into the middle of the lake.
Toward the swimming platform.
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I’d been right about Archie all along. He was a swimmer. And right now he was like a wet blur, he was moving so fast through the water. For every two strokes I was giving it, he was giving it four. He was gliding smoothly, clipping along at a ridiculous pace, but I wasn’t giving up. Fuck that.
I put on a burst of speed, eye on the prize.
“Stop chasing me,” he called back.
“Stop swimming, then,” I shouted, not pausing at all.
“This is insane! You’re insane!” he yelled back, flipping easily over onto his back and not even losing a stroke.
“Says the guy making me chase him!”
“Unbelievable,” I heard him say as he reached the platform and hauled himself up effortlessly. I put my head down and made like a torpedo, swimming straight for him.
When I got there, he was standing at the edge, water dripping off his glorious body. For a split second, he stood between me and the sun. I stayed in the water, in his shadow, his silhouette painted across my wet skin. I could see his face now, so beautiful, so angry. His eyes were like two iced blueberries. Fuck, I love this man.
I pulled myself out of the water, my dress sticking to me everywhere, and stood next to him.
“You want to explain to me exactly what the hell is going on here?”
“Yes. I love you.”
“I mean, what kind of a stunt was that, you threw us off a balcony, for God’s sake, Clara, you could have gotten hurt!”
“Worth it. I love you.”
“What the hell kind of a person does something like that?”
“This person. I love you.”
He started to ask me another question, but I stopped him with my mouth. I launched myself once more at him, jumping into his arms whether he was ready for me or not and kissed him square on the lips. He fell backward onto the platform, taking me with him, and I landed on his whistle.