"What about you? Jet lag still kicking your ass?"
"A little. But a good night's rest and the world's best breakfast helped."
"Good to hear."
We open the leather-bound menus.
"Oh, apparently we're having oysters and clam chowder, but feel free to grab anything else you want."
My first thought? Flipping this table out of the way and pouncing on my best friend like a linebacker on a quarterback.That'swhat I really want, but I know full well that's not what he meant.
I flip through the menu, but I'm unable to pay any attention to the food, my thoughts trapped in a bottleneck of feelings and desires I've never been brave enough to admit. You'd think hardly ever seeing him, putting myself out there and dating other guys, giving one hundred percent to my job, staying active in the community, that any one of those things would extinguish the flame—firefighter pun allowed—of attraction I have for Court.
But nope. Nothing has even dampened it one bit.
I watch him reading the menu and wonder what he actually wants. Not for lunch, and not with me, obviously, since there's no hope for anything more on that front, but out of life in general.
Now that he's back in the States, is he planning on staying in Boston, or has he been bitten by the travel bug? Does he want to work in a big hospital or maybe start his own practice? He's mentioned a few times his father, a talented neurosurgeon himself, has been pressuring him to take a position at Brigham and Women's Hospital.
But before I can bring any of that up, he snaps his menu shut, looks across the table at me, and says the last thing on earth I expected him to say.
"I have to get married."
I rest my menu on the white linen tablecloth. "Say what now?"
"I met with Grandpa's lawyer this morning. He told me Grandpa Arnie left the inn to me, on two conditions. One of them being that I have to get married."
I search his face for any signs he's kidding. When I don't find any, I hedge, "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to get married. No way am I standing by and watching this place get sold." He takes in the cozy restaurant with its sage-green walls, checkered tablecloths, and rough, fieldstone fireplace crackling with a low-burning fire, making the whole room smell like woodsmoke. A wistful smile tugs at his lips. "I've got too many good memories here. It has to stay in the family."
"I agree. But marriage? That's huge."
"Tell me about it."
"You said there were two conditions. What's the other one?"
His brow furrows as he replies, "I have to stay in town for six months."
"Like you're on house arrest?" I say, which makes him smile.
"That was my first thought, too. No. I just have to reside here. I can travel, but I need to live in Clovelly."
I knew Grandpa Arnie well growing up. He was glued to his usual spot at the front desk, and he'd always let Court and me do all sorts of fun things around the inn—collect eggs from the chicken coop, treasure hunts in the grounds, hang out with Lola and her chefs in the kitchen where Court and I would stuff our faces with whatever amazing food they were making that day.
Out by the edge of the property, there's a grove of six trees in a circle. They're way too straight and tall for a tree house, but that didn't stop Court and me from hounding the old man for one anyway.
One day, he led us down there. He'd built a tree house for us on legs in the middle of the trees. Some of my best childhood memories were made in that little wooden house.
Arnie was a good man, but after Court left, I had no reason to come around anymore. I'd see him at the grocery store or around town every once in a while, but he retreated after his daughter's scandal and didn't leave the inn often. It sucked how much our parents' shitty actions affected him. It snuffed out his joy, and he was never the same.
He only ever wanted what was best for Court, and I have to say, the two conditions he's left in his will are kind of genius…from my completely selfish, totally personal perspective. I don't know what his reasons are for wanting to keep Court in Clovelly because they sure as hell aren't the same as mine, but I'm thankful to him all the same.
If Court goes through with this as he's saying he will, it means I'll get to have him for the next six months. That'll be the longeststretch of time we've spent together since he left after high school. My internal cheer squad is going ballistic.
"You boys ready for some food?" Lola asks with a bright smile as she places two bowls of steaming hot clam chowder in front of us. When she moves out of the way, two other chefs appear, filling every square inch of our table with roast chicken, mashed potatoes, greens, mac and cheese, beef stew, a dozen oysters on ice, and two types of salad.
"Might have to call Howie to help us get through all this food," I joke, glancing up at her.
