Buns (Hudson Valley #3)

“They were, they really were,” Chad said, nodding. “He’s older than I am, we weren’t at school together, but even I knew about them. They were prom king and queen, they were literally high school royalty. And then when she died, Jesus. Everyone felt so bad for the guy, I mean, can you imagine? Losing someone like that?”


I winced. I could. Maybe not in the same way, but I knew what it felt like to be the one left behind.

“Anyway, if this is happening with you two, whatever it is, I think it’s great. You both clearly are into it, can’t you figure out a way to make this work? He needs it, in so many ways. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you need it too.”

“You don’t even know me,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

He raised one right back. “Honey, a stranger could see you need to get some.”



Chad’s words stuck in my head on repeat the entire way back up to the resort. I mean, it had been a while, but long enough that you could see it on my face?

I started ticking off months on my fingers, and when the number of months exceeded the number of fingers . . .

“Holy shit, I do need to get laid,” I mumbled to myself. And just like that, I came around that last bend and lookie lookie who was in the road.

Archie. Trench coat. Standing next to his car, the last bit of golden afternoon light shining down directly on him like some kind of divinely handsome intervention, an answered sexual prayer, as it were.

I pulled up alongside him, rolling down my window. “What the hell are you doing in the middle of the road?”

“A branch came down, I was moving it so those guys didn’t have to come down and do it,” he said, nodding over his shoulder at the entrance shack. “What’re you up to, heading in for the night?”

I looked up the mountain to where the warm, cozy hotel was waiting for me. Short ribs were on the menu tonight, my favorite. And they were showing Deliverance in the movie room as entertainment, which was tempting. And I did have about a hundred emails to answer, a stack of paperwork to proofread, and a book I’d checked out from the local library, Hudson Valley: A History.

Then I looked at Archie.

“You feel like doing something?” I asked. “Maybe get a drink?”

A slow smile spread across his face, and he nodded. “I’m just heading home.”

“Great, pick a bar in town and I’ll follow you and—”

“Or,” he said, and everything on my body that could stand up straight did so immediately. “We could just have drinks at my place, Clara.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Reflexively my right foot stepped down hard, revving the engine, and if it wasn’t for already putting the car in Park, I’d have driven right off the cliff.

Shaking my head a little, I said a little bit dazed, “That’d be nice.”

“Excellent.” He chuckled, and jumped behind the wheel of his BMW. He waited for me to turn around, and with me following closely behind, he drove us to his home.

Every bump in the road, every stop sign, I kept hearing Chad’s words echoing back to me . . . Honey, a stranger could see you need to get some.

Good God and how.



He didn’t live far from the resort. A few turns here and there, down a quiet country lane, and the house appeared out of nowhere. I wasn’t really sure what Archie’s house would look like. You could usually get a better idea of someone by seeing their house, it told the story people didn’t. Was it messy? Clean? Modern? Traditional?

Huh. I wonder what mine said about me.

Single girl who is never home.

True. But Archie’s, on the other hand . . .

Set back from the road in a thicket of trees was a cottage. Two story, gray cedar shake, bright red shutters and door. Long porch, complete with swing. Flower boxes under each window, naked now but easy to imagine spilling over with summer blooms. Gravel driveway, flanked by old-growth elm trees.

Beautiful. Charming. Archie’s. And once upon a time . . . Ashley’s.

I sat in the car a moment, staring up at this fairy-tale home, drumming my fingers on the wheel and wondering if I should turn around and head back to the hotel. But then he got out of his car, all slow grin and freckle and I couldn’t resist smiling back.

He came to my door, opening it for me like a gentleman, and extended his hand to help me out.

Get out of the car, Clara.

I got out of the car. Slipping my hand into his and feeling that little butterfly jolt I felt each and every time I touched him, I let him lead me toward the house.

“It’s lovely,” I said, and I meant it. You couldn’t look at this house and not think wow.

“It’s old, turn of the century. It was part of a farm that the brothers bought when they created the preserve. Not technically part of the hotel but part of the original grounds. It was used as the groundskeeper’s cottage for a long time—my parents lived here when they were first married, grandparents too.”

“Keep it in the family,” I said quietly, heading up the driveway.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, just, your family, it’s just . . . is it ever . . . what’s the word . . . overwhelming?”

“How so?”

“Just, Bryant family this, Bryant family that, does anyone ever go off the reservation and do something else? Did you ever want to do anything else?”

“I don’t know,” he said, tilting his head as he considered. “Maybe? It’s just all I’ve ever known.” He unlocked the front door and held it open for me. “As far as anyone doing anything else, there’ve been a few who have gone and done their own thing.”

“Traitors,” I teased, and he chuckled.

“We stick them on the sixth floor when they come to stay.” He winked. “West wing. Your wing. Some of them are still rattling around up there.”

“I knew it!” I laughed, setting my purse down next to his briefcase in the entryway. He helped me with my jacket, hanging it on the tree next to his trench coat. “Oh. Wow.”

The entryway opened up to an enormous living room, soaring high to the loft above. Fireplace, comfy-looking couches and chairs, and what I could already tell was a gourmet kitchen peeking around the corner.

“This is incredible.”

“We did a major renovation about eight years ago, ripped out walls, added space on the second floor, made it our own, you know? My wife used to say that . . .” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable. He stared at the mantel, which I could now see was covered with pictures of Ashley.

He looked so confused, so clearly at war with what he wanted to say but felt like he shouldn’t. I walked up to him, and slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. “What did she used to say?”

He smiled down at me, relieved. “That this place smelled like mothballs and it was about time some young people lived here.”

“Ha!” I said, and more of that relief washed over his face. Relief that he’d been given permission to talk about her? To acknowledge that this was weird for him too? We were here, together, in the house he’d shared with his wife. Maybe coming back here wasn’t such a good idea, maybe this place was too full of memories, too full of the past.

“Is this weird?” he suddenly asked, and I immediately began nodding vigorously.