“A boy with manners, I like that.”
There’s another annoyed knock on the storage room door, and Hunter snorts and rolls his eyes. With deliberate rebellion, he puts a hand on the wall and leans in with slow purpose, searing my lips with his own. It’s brief but so hot I’m surprised smoke isn’t curling up from between us.
“I’m almost done for the day, and then I need to head to the store for supplies. Come over around seven? I’ll text you the address.”
I’m dazed from his kiss. “I’ll be there.”
There’s something formal and almost giddy about our goodbyes, as crush-drunk as two kids leaving school who will later meet up at prom. This will be my first first date in over ten years, my only date that hasn’t been with Billy Wayne. I scurry upstairs to begin my beauty rituals, all the while thinking about Hunter moving around downstairs, knowing he’s thinking about me, too. I’m beginning to realize that before I arrived in Arcadia Falls, I had forgotten how to dream. I knew everything about my hometown and the only boy I’d ever dated, but now my life is full of firsts again, like I’m just waking up from a long hibernation. I’m full of energy, and every day brings exciting new ventures. If I can just find Maggie and get rid of this troublesome ghost, maybe I can stop worrying for once in my life.
Well, something tells me bookstore owners never stop worrying, but at least I’ll be worrying about different things. Normal things. Bookish things.
There’s one more item on today’s to-do list, other than go to Hunter’s house and apparently sup upon steak au poivre. I take my key ring and find the key for the antiques market. The square is mostly quiet, other than the restaurants, which are just gearing up for the night. I open the glass door and make a beeline for the taxidermy squirrel I remember seeing earlier and easily unhook him from the wall. He’s mounted on a chunk of wood, vertical and looking over his fluffy shoulder with curiosity.
“How’d you like to be my new mascot?” I ask him.
32.
On the wayto Hunter’s place, I pick up a bottle of wine. His address is in my phone, and I enjoy the drive through the mountains with the windows down and my music flowing. The leaves are glorious in their transformation, bright pops of yellow and orange standing out like nature’s confetti among the darker green forest. Whatever is blooming down in the glossy green hollers smells amazing, and even though it’s only three miles from downtown, I feel like I’m in the middle of the primordial wilderness. I’m beyond curious to see what his house looks like and am stunned when faced with the reality.
Maggie made it sound like our magic was typically quite small, the equivalent of being good at math. Hunter said he only has to measure once, and his bookshelves are definitely delicious, but now I know he was being humble. If he built this place, he’s a Mozart of construction.
His house isn’t large or ostentatious, but it is beautiful like the homes on the covers on magazines, the sort of place that takes your breath away. Gleaming woods, hand-built stone walkwaysand chimney, crystal-clear windows with glowing stained-glass accents, a symphony of sights that fits perfectly into the forest. The front door is open, and the black Lab that slurped me during the turkey fiasco bounds out to greet me. I walk up the stone path, wine in hand, feeling like those kids who eagerly ran into the witch’s house because it was plastered with candy and they were starving. This man, this house—is it too good to be true?
“Hi, Bongo,” I say, holding out my hand. The dog sniffs and licks it, then trots back toward the house, looking over his shoulder as if urging me to hurry up. I pause on the doorstep. “Knock, knock?”
“Come on in!” Hunter calls. “I’m in the kitchen. Bongo will show you the way.”
I follow Bongo through the soaring foyer and into a living room with a back wall of solid glass that looks out onto a creek. The sofas are low and soft, and a fire burns prettily in a modern fireplace. My favorite part, of course, is the wall of built-in bookshelves, and I can’t wait to run my fingers over the spines of all those books. A bookshelf is basically a person’s heart on display—the words that made them who they are, that brought them comfort during dark times, that inspired them or bewitched them. These shelves aren’t totally full yet; there are family photos, knickknacks, and small wooden sculptures of birds. It’s homey but not cluttered, and I wonder if he carved the birds himself. Inoffensive jazz plays quietly from a hidden speaker, adding ambiance as I look around. I’m so busy gazing out the window at the gorgeous vista that I don’t realize Hunter is in the room until he’s right behind me.
“So you like the view,” he teases.
“It’s incredible.”
“The entire back side of the house is pretty much all windowsfor exactly that reason. Come on into the kitchen. Dinner is almost ready.”
I can smell it now—the sizzle of steak riding the air.
“You built this whole place, didn’t you?” I ask.
He chuckles, gray eyes glowing with pride. “Of course. That’s the only way to get things just the way I want.”
The house is open concept, and the kitchen is sleek and masculine but thoughtful. It’s clear he planned a space that would be easy to cook in and didn’t just throw things together for the sake of calling it a kitchen. He takes the wine from me, puts it in the fridge, and pours me a glass of already chilled white. I sip it, enjoying the crisp sweetness and grateful that I finally have something to do with my hands, other than petting Bongo.
“You didn’t need to bring anything,” he tells me.
“I’m Southern,” I remind him. “I always have to bring something.”
Earlier today, Hunter approached me with hungry confidence, but now we’re shy again. Not that I mind. The fanciest place Billy ever took me for dinner was Applebee’s, and he always expected me to split the check. And of course the one time he tried to help me when I had the flu, he made a stale sandwich with no mayo or mustard and left it on a paper plate on the doormat so he wouldn’t get sick himself. That sandwich scratched my already sore throat going down, but I told myself I was lucky to have him.
Now that I see the table set on the back deck, the candles glowing, the bouquet of hydrangeas sitting in a clear vase, the actual cloth napkins, I can only view Billy as a little boy playing at being a man. He couldn’t even unclog his own toilet or hang his own taxidermy deer mount without my help. Hunter Blakely, on the other hand, has actual fresh chives sprinkled over hisbuttery mashed potatoes, which definitely didn’t come in powder form.
It’s a little chilly outside, but it only makes me feel more alive, my nerves awake for the first time in years. We sit and clink our glasses, and I cut into a perfectly medium-rare steak. As we eat, Hunter asks me about my sisters and the town I grew up in, tells me stories about growing up in Arcadia Falls and getting in trouble with his sister, Edie. I learn that his dad ran off even before his mother died, and he felt like he had to be the man of the house at an early age, a job he took very seriously. I shyly tell him about my experience at the falls, and he laughs the appropriate and respectful amount. Then he tells me about how his grandfather unceremoniously pushed him into the falls without telling him anything when he was eight and he thought it was an attempt to drown him. “Joyce gave him hell for that,” he says fondly.
“Did you already like building things?” I ask.
He finishes his bite and looks out into the forest for a moment. “I was a shy kid. I liked books and math more than sports. I loved animals. Thought I might be a vet.” Bongo’s tail thumps supportively from a dog bed placed nearby. “But after the falls, it was like finding a new, secret room in a house you’d lived in forever. I can see what wood wants to be, see how the pieces of a house or a shelf fit together in my head. I crave the feeling of getting lost in the work, you know?”
“Not really,” I admit. “I mean, I’d like to, but flipping through a book isn’t the same as dreaming up something amazing like this house. My knack seems more like a boost than a calling. Not that I mind. So far, it’s been really helpful. Although…I guess I’ve always found my way in books. Some of my first memories are of helping my mom with my sisters, and I never really got time to myself. But when I read a book, I go somewhere else,somewhere special and private where the story is mine alone.” I feel a blush in my cheeks, and it’s not just the wine. “I’ve never told anyone that. I don’t even think I’ve ever had the thought before.”
