I sigh and my heartbeat calms. “Fine.” I add Hollis Hollenbeck as a new contact and enter the numbers as he says them.
“Text me so I have yours too?”
“I will,” I say. “When you least expect it.”
His frown deepens. “Please don’t forget.”
“Okay,Dad.”
A few of the B&B’s other guests are enjoying the tea and scones when I go downstairs. I listen to Connie and a lady from Alabama chat about baking for half an hour, nodding every so often as if I know enough about the subject to agree with some point or another.Yes, yes, I too find I have more success with my muffins if I put them in the oven at a higher temperature then turn it down after a few minutes.
Mostly my mind keeps drifting to Mrs. Nash (who never met a baked good she didn’t love), and then to Elsie and the miles that still separate us. Part of me wants to call the nursing facility to see how she’s doing, but another part of me is so terrified it might be bad news that I decide I’d rather not know right this moment. Schrödinger’s Elsie is a lot easier to cope with while I have all this other stuff floating around my head. Like why Hollis’s disinterest in me is so disappointing when I never expected him to be interested in the first place. And whether sleeping with a hot guy who likes Fleetwood Mac might make up for some of that disappointment or somehow exacerbate it.
•••
Outside, on Gadsley Manor’s wraparound porch, I study the rough map of town Bud sketched on a piece of scrap paper for me. Connie seemed a bit suspicious that I was headed to a bachelor’s private residence while my “husband” remained behind until I explained who I am and that I’m going to be the parade’s grand marshal. After a few minutes of flustered excitement about not knowing she was hosting a celebrity, she had no further qualms.
Ryan’s place is a ten-minute walk from the B&B, but I’ve left a bit early so I can take my time. Stop and smell the roses—maybeliterally, if I find some in bloom. Perhaps because of her name and preference for heavily floral perfumes, it’s an activity that never fails to make me feel like I’m wrapped up in a Mrs. Nash hug. And I could really use one of those today.
I’m about to step down onto the meandering stone path to the sidewalk when I remember that I never texted Hollis.
MILLIE:Thanks for signing up for Broccoli Facts!
MILLIE:Broccoli is part of the species Brassica oleracea.
HOLLIS:UNSUBSCRIBE.
MILLIE:Thank you for your interest in receiving MORE Broccoli Facts!
MILLIE:Did you know? Broccoli contains almost 90% water.
MILLIE:2018 survey results show that broccoli is America’s favorite vegetable.
HOLLIS:Millicent. I’m trying to work.
MILLIE:
HOLLIS:Giving you my number was an immense mistake.
I’m smiling down at my phone when I realize I’ve already reached Ryan’s house. Damn. Hollis made me forget to look for roses along the way. Also, now I’m early. I guess it doesn’t matter,because Ryan sees me through the bay window and opens the door before I can decide whether to ring the doorbell or run away.
“Hey, Millie,” he says. “No trouble finding the place, I take it?”
“Ryan,” I say, my decision finalizing as soon as I see him. “You are super attractive, but I don’t think I want to have sex with you.”
His eyes go wide, and he’s silent for a moment. “Sorry. What was that now?”
“I know what you’re thinking. I barely know you, so how do I know I don’t want to have sex with you yet? But for me, that’s how it is. I think I should know a person first, a little at least. See, I’ve only ever had sex with men I’m in a relationship with. I do think I’d like to give casual sex a shot. But I don’t think it’s smart to do it with someone Ijustmet, considering my issues. Oh, uh, I guess I should explain. I have trust issues. The opposite type of most people, though—I trust almost everybody. So it’s probably not a good idea for me to do the deed with you. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.” I didn’t mean to say all of that, especially not the part where I referred to having sex as “doing the deed,” but now that I did, well... I guess it’s better that he knows at the outset.
“Okay, um. Well, thanks for letting me know... your feelings on that.” A woman’s choked laughter floats out to the porch from somewhere inside the house. “So. Everyone except the mayor is already here actually, so, uh, why don’t you come on in?”
Unless this was supposed to be an orgy with Ryan, the mayor, and whoever is waiting inside, I believe I have made a very big, very embarrassing mistake here. My laughter sounds robotic and my face is so hot with mortification that you’d need pot holders to touch it. However, this is hardly the first time my lack of filter has conspired against me. I know I will recover. The all-consuming desire to be mistaken for a rabbit and swallowed whole by anenormous bird of prey fades as soon as I’m inside Ryan’s house (which is good, because the likelihood of encountering a hawk that size indoors is quite low).
The next two hours are filled with pizza and last-minute Broccoli Festival parade logistics. Ryan, the mayor, the mayor’s daughter (who shows me pictures of her dressed as Penelope for Halloween in 2002), a local florist, and Officer Jones are all ecstatic to have me as grand marshal. Ryan’s cat, Shako, is ambivalent about it, and about my presence in general despite how clearly desperate I am for his approval.
“Thank the good Lord that deer stranded y’all here,” the mayor says to me with a laugh that reminds me of our string of bad luck and makes me want to vomit pepperoni and mushroom onto his scuffed oxfords. Listening to the timeline of tomorrow’s events, all I can think about is how many hours we’ll be wasting with this instead of getting back on the road to Florida. If we left right now and drove all night, we could get to Miami by sunrise. It would only be a few more hours of driving after parting with Hollis before I’d reach Key West. But tomorrow, instead of holding Elsie’s hand while she tells me about what she’s been up to for the last seventy years, I’ll be sitting in a shiny convertible from a local car dealership, waving and smiling to the citizens of Gadsley and the broccoli fans who’ve flocked here for the weekend’s events. The only thing that keeps me from crying in frustration is that this is absolutely ridiculous and will therefore make an excellent story that I can tell Elsie when I meet her. I’ll tell her about the canceled flight, and Hollis, the olive oil spill, the deer, being grand marshal in a small town’s Broccoli Festival parade. And I’ll make sure she understands that it was truly nothing compared to what Mrs. Nash would have happily endured to see her again.
•••
