“Oh,” I breathed, marveling at the beauty taking place just outside my car door.
“I know,” Roxie echoed, her own face glued to the window as we took in the winter wonderland around us. “I can’t believe how long it took me to realize it.”
“Yeah,” I said back, in equally as dreamy a voice. “The hot farmer you’re banging had nothing to do with it.”
She laughed. “Okay, you got me there. Of course, you know something about that, too.”
“This town has some kind of pull. Did you hear Clara is heading up to Bryant Mountain House?” Knowing how much trouble the resort was having keeping the rooms full, Roxie and I had dropped Clara’s name several times and the family had finally bitten, calling her firm in Boston and hiring her to come up and help them figure out how to turn the place around.
“I know! I can’t wait!” She flipped on her wipers, because the snow was really starting to come down. “Archie isn’t too happy about it.”
“Archie Bryant? He seemed nice enough, why would he be opposed to Clara coming in to help out?”
“Eh, he’s a bit of a stickler for how things used to be, how they’ve always done things up on the mountain.” She air-quoted. “I’m sure it’ll be fine; Clara can charm the pants off anyone.”
I thought about Archie. Good-looking yes, but there was something a bit remote about him, maybe not standoffish, but with an edge of that trademark East Coast Cool.
Then I thought about Clara. A tiny little spitfire, she was used to kicking ass and taking names, bringing everything up to code and shipshape as quickly as humanly possible, all the while looking like six feet of woman scrunched into five feet of awesome.
I chuckled to myself, thinking about those two rattling around the old Mountain House. My chuckle quickly faded when Roxie pulled into a parking spot half a block from the old barn at the edge of town, where the party was being held tonight for the new commercial viewing.
I swallowed the lump that had unexpectedly shown up to the party as well. “Here we go.”
The snow dusted everything with fluffy powder by the time we made it to the barn. There were cars parked everywhere, and from the noise inside, it sounded like the entire town was there. Roxie had some cakes to drop off, so she waved me on in while she went in search of a rolling cart to bring everything in from the car.
Tonight we screened the Bailey Falls commercials I’d created. In all the years I’d been in advertising, I’d never actually been to a “premiere” party for one of my campaigns. Usually they took place in a very dry and boring conference room, the clients screening it while we explained the buy-in and the target markets.
Not in Bailey Falls. As I walked into the barn, it was like walking into a wintry wonderland. Combining the premiere with the annual holiday party, they had gone all out. Roxie once told me that her hometown would hang bunting from “every fucking place you can think to hang bunting.” I think the same can safely be said about twinkle lights.
Soaring overhead high into the rafters, each beam was wrapped entirely in white twinkle lights. Lighted stars, lighted wreaths, even a few lighted balls were hanging from the ceiling, bathing everything in rich, warm, sparkly gold.
And across the entire back wall, interspersed with the seven (count them, seven) Christmas trees, were the photographs from the campaign. I grinned when I saw them, feeling pride at what we’d created.
Each picture showed a different slice of Bailey Falls life. Swimming in one of the beautiful mountain lakes. Fishing in one of the cold, clear streams. Walking down the same Main Street I’d just been on, covered in fall leaves and soaking up the sunshine. Eating at one of the locally owned restaurants, white-water rafting, dancing under the stars.
And the last few pictures featured some of the best scenery around. There was Leo, filling farmshare boxes while laughing. I remember that shot: Roxie was standing just off to the side and promising to harvest honey if he’d just make this easy and smile for the camera. And there were Chad and Logan, holding hands as they took their own walk down Main Street, making it a truly family-friendly town for all. And the last picture?
Oscar. With his cows. Not smiling, because come on, it’s Oscar. But almost smiling. One corner of his mouth was curved up, like he was in on something no one else was. Arm slung around one of his pretty cows, with the enormous barn behind him. The Hudson Valley. Where the food is pretty, and so are the farmers.
I stared at his picture, remembering.
The first time I’d met his cows, how I’d tried to run away.
The first time I’d visited that barn, how he’d made me shiver.
The first time I’d traced his tattoos, run my fingers over them and then later my tongue.
The first time I’d fulfilled my secret dream of making cheese . . . and realized it was much harder than it seemed. And stinkier.