Dark Hollows. Steve Frech

Sorry. That came out way too— I’m really sorry, Maggie. It’s been a long couple of days, and I’m on edge.”

      “Listen,” she says, her tone softening not one bit, “normally I wouldn’t have anything available, but that rent-a-room bullshit is creeping into The Hollows. You’ve got people staying at your place all the time. Now, other people are renting out their spare rooms. So, yeah, I have a room available, but only because of people like you. The Rose Suite is all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

      She’s right, and I feel like a jerk. “Maggie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were lying. Of course, I’ll take the Rose Suite. How many consecutive nights can I get?”

      Now, her tone softens. “Wow. That must be some burst pipe. You call Stuart yet?”

      Stuart Delholm is the local plumber. If I say I called Stuart, she might run into him, and ask about the cottage. I want to keep everything under wraps.

      “No. It’s too big a job for Stuart. I called a bigger operation out of Burlington.”

      “Jeez. That’s rough. Let me see how many nights I’ve got …”

      I hear her typing. I can just imagine her at the front desk of the Elmwood, back perfectly straight, smile plastered on her cheeks as she greets incoming guests.

      “I’ve got twelve consecutive nights, starting tonight.”

      “I’ll take ten.”

      Ten nights is the minimum cancellation notice policy for Be Our Guest.

      Maggie lets out a light whistle. “Damn, Jacob.”

      I’m sure she feels bad for me, but won’t have a problem pocketing the three grand I’m giving her.

      “Do you want my credit card?” I ask.

      “Nah. I know you’re good for it. You can drop by the hotel whenever you want.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Jacob?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Listen, despite what I said a little bit ago, I really am sorry. I know that it’s going to be a hard hit for your place’s reputation.”

      “Thanks. I’ll be back up in no time.”

      *

      After hanging up with Maggie, I call Be Our Guest and give them the lie about the burst pipe, but reassure them that I’ve found comparable accommodations for my guests. I also cancel all reservations for the next three months. The representative on the other end of the line is dumbfounded. I keep getting passed up the ladder until I’m talking to a regional executive who says that Be Our Guest will send a plumber and an inspector to get me back up in three days. That’s how important my place is to them. I turn him down.

      Then, the strong-arming attempts begin. He starts talking about Be Our Guest’s policies and that I may be in violation, but I’m ready for it. I’m doing everything by the book. He points out that I’m turning down thousands of dollars. I tell him I’m aware of that, as well. He argues that even if I do get back up after three months, my reputation might be permanently damaged unless I can get everything repaired as soon as possible. I’m not swayed. I’m going dark for three months.

      Hopefully, this will all be sorted by then … whatever “this” is.

      *

      It’s not my day to be at the shop, but I want the distraction. I can’t sit at the house, staring out the window, waiting for Laura to wander out of the forest.

      Sandy lights up when she sees Murphy and I walk in.

      “What are you doing here?” she asks, steaming a cappuccino.

      “Wanted to help out.”

      She motions to the growing line of customers. “Have at it.”

      I hop behind the counter. Murphy retreats to his bed near the register. Instantly, he starts to receive the fawning attention he is accustomed to. I always know when someone is petting him because I can hear his tail thumping on the floor.

      I go about taking orders, changing filters, and unloading the small dishwasher behind the counter. I’m good for a while, but as the day drags on, it becomes painfully obvious that I’m off my game. I can’t keep the image of Laura out of my head.

      It can’t be her. It’s not possible.

      “So, that was one chai latte, a caramel mocha, and an iced tea?” I ask, repeating an order to a customer.

      The old lady blinks at me from behind her thick glasses. “No. It was a regular latte for me, and a hot chocolate for my husband.”

      “I had the chai latte,” the guy in front of her says.

      “I had a hot tea, but not an iced tea,” the lady behind the old woman chimes in.

      I shake my head. “Right, right, right. Sorry. My bad.”

      I turn to start correcting my mistakes and notice that Sandy is looking at me.

      “You all right, boss?”

      “Yeah. I’m fine. Just not firing on all cylinders today.”

      She’s slow to look away, but is forced to when she hands change to a customer.

      I whip up the latte, steam the milk for the hot chocolate, and hand it to the guy.

      “Here you go,” I say. “Latte and a hot chocolate.”

      “Nope,” he says, and points to the old lady behind him, who’s looking at me like I’m crazy.

      I curse under my breath. “Sorry. Here’s your latte and your hot—

      “—chocolate,” the barista said, handing the Styrofoam cup to Laura. I was already putting cream and sugar in my coffee at the station next to the counter.

      We found a small table at the back of the coffee shop, which was located on Franklin Street, next to Wilton University’s campus.

      “I can’t believe you’re drinking coffee at eight o’clock in the evening,” Laura said, sliding into the seat. “You’re gonna be up all night.”

      “Then so will you,” I replied with my best roguish smile.

      She blushed, and took a long sip from her hot chocolate.

      Afterwards, we took our time and simply wandered through Rutland. We strolled down Merchants Row, laughing at the drunken students staggering out of the different bars. The conversation flowed, but there was the tension of who would be the first to say it—a tension that grew as it got later.

      “So, where to?” I asked.

      “My roommate is visiting her parents. Sooooo … back to my place?”

      From that moment on, we knew where the evening was heading. We didn’t say much else, and I tried to not quicken my stride in anticipation. It was a little corny going back to her dorm room, but those blue eyes and red hair wiped away any reservations I had.

      We arrived at the door to her dorm, and she swiped the key card over the sensor. There was a buzzing and the lock clicked. She pulled the door open, and we entered the foyer. She quickly led me off to the right, down a short hallway, and into the stairwell. As we reached the first landing, I wrapped my arm around her waist. She turned to face me and we kissed. We staggered against the wall. Our hands were everywhere, and we fought to balance our kissing with the need to breathe. A door opened somewhere above us. We tried to separate, but it was useless. A mousy brunette descended the stairs and walked past.

      “Get a room,” she muttered.

      “Almost there!” Laura laughed.

      The brunette rolled her eyes at us. Laura flipped her the bird. I laughed into the nape of her neck.