“My service here is terrible too.”
“Oh,” she utters, tapping some salt into her concoction. “The service is always spotty here. We’re in the middle of the woods. Our landline works just fine though, if you need to make a call. There’s an Ethernet hookup down in the basement if you want to use your laptop.”
Landlines? Ethernet cables? What kind of twisted looking glass did I fall through to end up here? I forgot Dad used to set up the ultra-fast mobile hot spot whenever we visited to ensure no work email was ever missed. I slump into an easy chair near the coffee table. I sit there catatonically for a while, wondering what to do with myself, how to make this new reality less abysmal.
About twenty minutes later, Gramps comes in the door, newspaper under his arm, clumps of snow still clinging to his boots. I was almost certain that print media was dead, but this town seems set on proving me wrong in every way.
“Hey there. You should take a walk into town tomorrow once you’re settled. It’s changed a lot since you were a boy.” He unravels himself from three layers of winter wear, an amusing Russian nesting doll of weatherproof garments.
I do remember loving the center of town during Thanksgiving visits. It reminded me of an old-timey movie set where people actually lived. We’d always drive in to the municipal center after dinner, past a myriad of mom-and-pop stores, to see the annual tree lighting.
This town is and always has been an anomaly to me. Like something plucked out of a fairy tale and plopped into the Berkshires.
There are two central hubs of activity: Havensmith Hollow and the Downtown District. Havensmith Hollow is where the Havensmith College campus is located. It’s surrounded by student housing and a smattering of estate-like Victorian homes. It’s haunting in its historical glory. The Downtown District is what Gramps means by “town.” It’s about five or so tree-lined streets of clay-colored buildings with striped awnings and decorative signs.
Main Street itself is backed by a breathtaking, if somewhat menacing, view of the Berkshire hills. Those hills are where most of Wind River’s residents reside in remote cabins and hidden colonials with riverfront views and access to hiking trails. What is a woodsy paradise to some is my geographic prison for the next four weeks.
Don’t get me wrong, this place was quaint for the two days a year we spent here, but by the time I was sixteen I was itching to get back to my friends and the hustle and bustle of a big city right after the turkey was carved. Cranberry sauce be damned.
That’s probably how my parents felt as well, making up excuses for the last few years regarding Hong Kong trips, rewrites, and this year, thanks to me, Island Gate.
“Dinner will be ready soon. Go freshen up, dear,” Grandma says, giving me a once-over.
You know it’s bad when your grandmother comments on your appearance.
At the stairs to the basement, I find my second suitcase still waiting to be brought down. I’m sure there’s a dinner-appropriate outfit tucked in there somewhere. Mom may be neglectful, but she has taste.
I pull up the rolling handle, unwilling to carry its full weight down the eight slender steps…which is a huge mistake. The wheels snag on a lip in the carpet, sending the brimming bag catapulting down before me with a tumble and a tuck. The whole thing bursts into a mess of cashmere sweaters and designer briefs. I stare at it like it’s a crime scene.
“Everything okay?” Grandma calls, concerned, from the kitchen.
“Just my life exploding. No big deal,” I mutter.
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing!” I call cheerily. “I just dropped some things.” I shut the door and start cleaning up, imbuing each item with all the metaphorical things I’ve dropped lately. A pair of Versace underwear. “My dignity.” A Burberry scarf. “My sanity.” A Gucci belt. “My will to go on…”
Chapter 4
“Why are all my flannels on the floor?” Hector asks angrily as soon as he steps back into our room.
Ourroom. Ew. I’m not going to be able to get over that.
“I think the real question is: Why do you own so many flannels?” I don’t even look at him as I hang a pair of drop-crotch pants over one of his former hangers. “Ever heard the saying, ‘Variety’s the spice of life’?”
He clomps further into the room, gathering his discarded items up off the floor. “Dude, you just took all my stuff out of the closet and hung up yours?” When I opened the accordion door earlier, I was punched in the face by a wall of questionable flannel, all of it already wrinkled. I didn’t think twice before flinging it all out. Not like he was giving me a very warm welcome.
“My wardrobe needs just that…awardrobe,” I explain. “I can’t live out of a suitcase for four weeks. All my custom, curated pieces would get ruined beyond repair.” Now that everything is neatly inside, I step back, ignoring Hector’s foreboding presence, to consider how I’d like to organize it. Mood? Occasion? General vibes? “Besides, you leave your shoes all over the floor. I figured your shirts didn’t need special treatment.”
“You can’t just take whatever you want whenever you feel like it,” he growls.
I roll my eyes, produce my wallet, and flash him the crisp fifty-dollar bill Maxim refused earlier. “Here. Happy?” He goes stock-still, slack-jawed, so I slip the bribe into the unbuttoned front pocket of the shirt he’s wearing with a wink.
I’m afraid he’s about to riot due to how red he turns, but instead he plods into the bathroom. Good, he’s accepted defeat. That’s what I hoped would happen. Except the fan doesn’t turn on, nor does the shower. All I hear behind me is something opening and then a rainstorm of objects hitting the carpeted floor.
When I turn back, my skin-care products have crash-landed in the center of the room. “What the hell!” I drop to my knees and begin scooping them up, but Hector is faster than I am. One by one, he’s tossing my tan, white, and green tubs and bottles of La Mer off like they’re nothing. Like they aren’tliterallyall I have left!
“If you get the closet, dude, then I get the medicine chest,” he says, chucking the last of my items. “And the underneath cabinet!”
