When he awoke in the morning, it was cold, but he’d slept soundly through the night as the temperature had slowly fallen from the lack of crowds and candles. His head didn’t ache, a pleasant rarity, and the opportunity to fully stretch out as he slept had done wonders for his back. He could only describe how he felt as peaceful, and he almost lamented the loss of night as he slipped into his shirt and fastened the buttons.
“Morning.” A gruff voice sounded from the door, and Anson couldn’t help but jump slightly. He turned to see the chef at the door and relaxed at the sight of the obviously drowsy form.
“Morning.” He replied, also a little hoarse. Heath shifted wordlessly behind him, and he saw him step over to the many percolators on a nearby shelf. Anson stood then, crossed the room, and went into the bathroom to take a piss. As he washed his face with cold water, he wondered if the old place even had a water heater, it being so ancient and in need of a generator just to run a fridge. But he looked at it as more a delightful quirk than a fault, and was sure the restaurant’s patrons did the same.
When he stepped out, he found his tie and coat hung on a chair at one of the tables, and put said coat on full of relief at the chance to warm up. He threw his tie around his neck and turned to look out to the sea, grey and foaming and looming like some terrible giant. It was tenacious in its efforts against the cliff, and all Anson could hear was the clinking of china from the next room and waves crashing into rock. It was the world’s most formidable foe, yet still so comforting, so familiar.
He heard the kitchen door open, and turned to see Heath holding a pair of little blue mugs, and he put them on the counter silently and headed back into the kitchen without a word. Anson got the gist and pulled up a barstool, then the chef returned, percolator in one hand, a bottle of cream in the other. He set them both down, then pulled a sugar bowl from beneath the counter, and they prepared their coffee in silence.
As Anson took a sip of the warm, strong brew, he couldn’t help but realize that that would be the last meal the chef made for him before he set out on the road again, and in his gut he felt a surprising punch of disappointment. He wasn’t one for attachments, and he rarely stayed in one place for very long, and he wanted to tell himself that any feeling of attachment was short-lived.
He glanced over the rim of his mug and watched the man seated across him with an almost furtive expression, mindful of himself yet more mindful still of his curiosity. He couldn’t understand why he wanted the chef to say something, to open his mouth and start a conversation, any conversation, but the desire was there nonetheless. Heath, of course, was a quiet man, and he said nothing. And some part of Anson told him to be the one to speak first, but when he racked his brain, he found nothing to comment on.
What was there to say, after all. They were strangers, they’d only met a moment and shared a single meal, and now one was off into the real world and another was back to his regular life, and that was that. It was mundane, really, nothing special to say of it, so Heath didn’t speak, and Anson didn’t speak, and neither took a second cup of coffee.
“I oughta get going.” Anson finally said after a few minutes. Heath nodded slowly.
“Yeah, you oughta.” He replied in a casual drawl. “Beat any traffic.”
“Yeah.” Anson mumbled, almost more to himself, and set down his mug. He sat for a moment longer, to prolong the inevitable, but it was a farce and he knew it, so he stood and stretched his legs, and Heath awkwardly stood as well.
“Thank you for the meal and cot.” Anson said.
“Thank you for doing the dishes.” Heath replied, and Anson gave him the smallest grin. “Good luck on the road.”
“Thanks. Good luck in the kitchen. You don’t need it.” Anson said, his grin a little wider, and Heath returned it.
Without another word, he stepped out of the little shack, and found the weather as cold as it was inside. The sun was hidden yet again, and the thick white clouds gave no warmth to his cheeks, so he folded his arms and walked briskly to his car. Once inside, he rubbed his hands and breathed hot air into them, then turned on the engine of his beloved Ford Victoria with a pleasant whir. He sat just a moment longer, but felt foolish for lingering, and drove out of the lot, albeit slowly.
He couldn’t help but chastise himself as he drove down the highway. Why take his time, why pause when no one ever paused for him. Surely, he was wildly overreacting, and soon this place would be nothing but a grievance in the back of his mind.
The town grew larger on the horizon. He could see ships casting off from port, and knew they were aiming to fish all they could before the sun set, so the fisherman aboard could end their day inside that little Italian restaurant. He imagined sullen faces, wet and cold and reeking of salt water, and the way those expressions would just dissolve upon arrival at that little shack, then be replaced with joy or relief or a deep and soulful satisfaction at a bite of bolognese or tiramisu.
Those were his imaginings, of the chef and the little waitress and what joy they could bring, and they filled him for a few passive minutes before he sighed, internally cursed himself a fool, and turned right, into the town.
He drove slow on the main road, not quite sure what he was looking for, but a looming old building slowed him further. Tall and narrow, with a small lot surrounded by dying plants without flowers, which seemed more due to lack of care than the impending cold of winter. On the worn out picket fence there rested a sign, the words Cliffside Hotel painted in thin, peeling letters.
Anson felt his face grow warm. He knew this wasn’t something he should consider, maybe not for any specific reason; he was in no rush to journey forward, he had a nice bit of money from that last sale, and he was safe and secure with friendly folk nearby. But that hint of friendliness was the problem, after all -- he didn’t want to let himself be charmed by something that would eventually disappoint him.
And yet, he was charmed. Charmed by the faded white picket fence of this mysterious little hotel, charmed by the dirt roads and the dock and the smell of the air and the thought of enjoyable company, something he hadn’t experienced in far too long.
“You idiot.” He mumbled to himself, then turned into the parking lot and switched off his car. He walked from the side of the building to the front, hands in his pockets and breath foggy in the chilled air, and swung open the dark oak door.
The insides were not so humble, and Anson couldn’t help but be temporarily awed by the austerity of the foyer. The building was clearly old and unkept, with dust on every surface and the scent of it heavy in the air, but beneath the temporary ruin there was a deep red carpet, a grand staircase immediately ahead, with a water fountain tucked beneath the circling stairs. A chandelier caked in grime could barely glitter, and in the gloom he saw details of finely carved wood, intricate little flowers atop every doorway and all along the banister.
He was startled by the sound of a man clearing his throat, and looked to his immediate left to see a reception desk. Just as finely detailed, and the man stood behind it wore an impeccable suit. He was pale and thin, his hair dull and eyes distant, a bored expression on his face.
“Checking in, sir?” He asked, and Anson stilled.
Was he? Was he so charmed that he could overlook how great a fool he was, how greatly he would be hurt later? He stood and stared at the man, who was his own age but somehow looked as though he’d been stood in that time and place for an eternity. The style of the building told him it had sprung up in the 1910’s, maybe the twenties, but with the stillness of the air, something felt archaic about the place.
“Checking in, sir?” He heard the voice again, a little irritated this time, and stepped forward at that.
“Yes.” Anson answered, and fumbled with some change in his pockets.
“How long, sir?” He asked, and when Anson paused, unsure, the clerk gave him a knowing look, as though he was quite used to watching travelers finally settle. “I’ll put down ‘indefinite.’”
“Thank you.” Anson said, and placed some coins onto the counter as he glanced to the man’s name tag. “Robert.”
“Of course.” The clerk replied easily, and the strain in the room fell forgotten. “Welcome to Cliffside.”
“Is that the name of this ol’ town?” Anson asked with a glance around the darkened room.
“This town has no name.” He responded, and Anson felt an unexpected chill on his spine, and attempted to distract himself.
“How do y’all send letters?” He asked jokingly, but the look the clerk gave him forced his smile away. They didn’t send letters. They didn’t communicate with the rest of the weary world. They fished, they ate Italian food, they stood in dark little hotels, and they did so in solitude. And yet Anson felt no rush to leave.
“Room eight.” Robert said after a moment of writing, and took down a key from the old brass hangers and handed it to Anson. He stared down at it in his palm a moment and admired the way it was just as intricately crafted and finely displayed as the rest of the place.
“May I show you to your room, sir?” Robert asked, and Anson nodded.
The man walked ahead, and as Anson followed, he saw the fountain more closely. It was marble, the genuine thing, and the sculpture depicted simple flowers and angels all intertwined. Below it, the fountains sputtered water into a small marble pool covered in golden tiles, old and cracked, but still obviously exuding wealth.
Robert continued onto the stairs, and Anson followed and noted the dust on the railings. He concluded that the place was as empty as it first appeared, and wondered if anyone else was staying in the other rooms, or even lived there. Certainly, it was something he would find out, as he’d now dedicated himself to staying there awhile.
They stopped at the first floor, though the stairs continued on, and Robert lead Anson down a narrow hallway. The dark red carpet remained, and with no windows, only an occasional sconce crafted finely from steel lit the way. At the end of the hall, they halted at another dark wooden door, with flowers and butterflies carved into the oak. A brass eight was nailed to the front.
“Your room, sir.” Robert said, though of course it was obvious. “The washroom and showers are at the end of the hall.”
“Hotel’s that old, huh?” Anson attempted a slight laugh again, and Robert only nodded humorlessly.
“Cliffside was built in 1901.” He said. “By enterprisers, who thought this land would be worth more.”
“So the hotel came before the town.” Anson mused, but the clerk shook his head.
“There was always someone out here.” He said. “Fisherman, miners. There is a shack on the edge of town that must be at least a hundred years old. Might I recommend you dine there, sir? They serve excellent Italian.”
“Yes, I’ve had it.” Anson said with a little grin. “It is excellent indeed.”
“Enjoy your time here, sir.” Robert said as he turned away. “Let me know if anything is required.”
Anson nodded, but the man was already down the hall and headed back to the stairs, so he instead turned the key with an echoing click and opened the door to his room. When he entered, he noted first the smaller size of it; there was only room for a queen-sized bed, an armoire, a set of drawers and a writing desk. There was one small window in the room, with barely any grey light flowing in, but when he flicked the switch next to the door, he was greeted with an orange flicker from a cobweb-covered chandelier.
It was then that he truly noticed the beauty of the room, as filthy as it was from the lack of care. The headboard, more dark oak, was carved with angels, that chandelier beaded with crystal and pearl, the armoire clearly old and well made, the writing desk small but firm, the dresser large enough for his full wardrobe.
He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and began to inspect the room in closer detail. When he stepped towards the cylinder desk he saw an oil lamp sat on top, and upon opening it, found several fine fountain pens, a pad of yellowed paper, an ink well and quill, and a pack of playing cards. Even something as small as the playing cards were old and fine, and the outer package detailed gold foil and hand-painted royalty.
He moved along to the armoire and opened it to find several wooden hangers and, sat at the bottom, a bag of dried petals. Miller’s Flower Shoppe, read the tag on the ribbon, and Anson could only guess that a local florist had provided the potpourri. In the dresser he only found a bible, small and leather bound and far below the kind he sold, and he briefly wondered if there was an owner to this place around and interested in a deal.
The bed was covered in a velvet duvet, red to match the carpet, with crisp white sheets and pillow cases beneath. He sat down and sunk into the mattress as he gazed out the window. Despite being called the Cliffside Hotel, it wasn’t that close to the water, and though he could see the docks from the distance, he saw small buildings around him first. Little and old, with crumbled brick or warped wood. It felt so distorted from reality, so odd and out of place, yet it was just another small town, just more Americana. He’d become so accustomed to hay bails and corn on his trek about the country that this old fisherman town was almost an adventure.
But he didn’t have adventures anymore, not when his whole life now was moving and selling, moving and selling these damned bibles. He was content with that, and had never been keen on stopping, but in this particular town, there was a difference. A friendly face that he couldn’t find among the barns or the mountains or the big cities in his previous travels.
He no longer felt himself a fool. It was reasonable to want companionship, but even more reasonable to stay in a lavished room in a pretty little town just ripe for bible selling. No, he could stay here and profit awhile, and when his want for a friendly face was sated and the townsfolk tired of him and his bibles, he’d take his leave again, simple as that. He just had to wait for all these foolish emotions to run dry, and make a little cash in the meantime.
With that, he stood and decided to shower and change and left the room, went back down the stairs, and out past Robert to his car. He opened the back door and grabbed the small suitcase on the floor of the car, which contained all of his clothing, as his trunk was too filled with books to place any personal belongings.
When he walked back in, he declined Robert’s offer to carry his bag, and bounced up the stairs, though he made a note to himself to explore the ground floor of the hotel later on. Back at his room, he removed his coat and tie and laid them down on the bed, then picked out a new suit, grey instead of black, and a new tie, thin and black again, and another crisp white shirt, well folded to avoid a need to iron.
He took them all to the thick oak door at the end of the hall marked ‘Powder Room’ in golden letters, and opened it slowly as to not catch any other patrons of the hotel unawares. But the light was off, and when he found the switch and flipped it he found extravagance in the empty room; another chandelier of crystal and pearl, several sinks along the wall embedded in a marble counter, floor tiles flecked with gold. Opposite the sinks there was a line of toilets, not in stalls but water closets for the sake of privacy, and Anson knew it was a very polite gentleman who’d planned this room so long ago.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He stepped in further and found he could step left or right into two identical rooms with claw-foot tubs and showers. The room on the left provided bubble bath, lady’s soap, and bottles of perfume, so he took to the right room and found shaving foams and brushes beside razors and bottles of soap and cologne. Pleased at the accommodations, he hung his shirt on a hook and set the rest of his clothing on a stool beneath it. Though he knew he was alone, he was unsure of who would step in, so he closed and locked the door.
He pulled off his shirt and attended to the traveler's shadow Gin had so kindly teased the previous day; it felt good to clean himself up and feel presentable again. Once his stubble was gone, he stripped down and turned the bronze knobs of the shower. The water was clear and hot, and he enjoyed feeling refreshed as he lathered soap all along his body and ran shampoo through his hair. He stood in that shower a long while, reluctant to depart from the steam, but finally knew it was time to exit and so stepped out.
He grabbed a soft towel from a pile next to the shower and dried himself off, then examined himself in a mirror before he changed. His hair was no longer coated in gel, and became downy and curled as it dried. He was as thin and always, though more pale than he liked what with all his time on the road. Still, with his bare cheeks and hygienic form, he was satisfied and dressed without complaint. When he unlocked the door and exited the room he found the rest of the bathroom undisturbed and could only assume he was the only person on this level, a thought that relaxed him.
He returned to his room and deposited his filthy suit into a hamper by the door, then stepped up to the window and glanced out; it was cold near the glass, and the sun was still tucked behind the clouds. It was only midday and Anson didn’t want to rush back to the Italian restaurant so quickly, nor did he want to waste such lovely weather, so he decided to set out and explore the town instead.
He exited his room and walked down the grand staircase, past Robert at the clerk’s desk, and out in front of the hotel to his car. From the passenger’s seat he grabbed his tan wool overcoat and black leather gloves and pulled them all on before he walked down what could pass for a street. The main road was paved stone, not dirt but not asphalt, with a large ditch on either side of the road as he’d seen plenty of times in the more rural parts of the country. The land wasn’t so flat as a corn farm or prairie's, but the ditches were still nearly filled with rainwater and he suspected the autumn storms had been more than frequent here.
He walked past a few nondescript buildings, all old and tired, their wood graying and brick crumbling, and he assumed none had electricity. He passed something that may have been a fisherman’s shop with tackle in the windows, then an automobile repair place with a large garage door open and an old Model T inside. One gentleman in a pair of denim overalls was inspecting the engine, and the other beside him held a toolbox and handed a wrench or bolt to him on occasion. Neither paid him any mind; to see someone settle here must have been a normal affair, one that had to tire them as young as they were.
He continued on to see a small white store with a little sign on the front – Miller’s Flower Shoppe, to match the potpourri in his closet. He stepped closer to look into the window and saw small glass dishes filled with dried rose petals and smiled a little at the quaintness of it before he heard a bell and saw the door open.
“Like to take a look, mister?” A blonde woman asked him. “I’ve got a beautiful selection.”
He hesitated, a little surprised and a tad shy and awkward, but it was cold and the woman had a kind air about her, so he nodded and shuffled in. The warmth of the place hit him first, then the heady scent of jasmine and lilac, plus hints of orange and cinnamon. It was a cramped little room, the floor occupied by house plants of all varieties, with one wall lined with empty vases and another with small linen packets of dried petals like those in the windows. There were arrangements, too; vases full of cheery shades of yellow and orange to match the season, romantic red roses, and piles upon piles of carnations in every shade of pink.
“Are you interested in anything specific, sir?” The woman asked, and he turned to her. She was pretty and at ease, pale with brown eyes and donned in a simple red circle dress. “A boutonniere won’t do too well in this weather, but I can give you a case and you can put it on once you’re inside.”
“No, I –” He shifted awkwardly. “I’m sorry, doll, I’m just new to town. I was looking ‘round all curious.”
She nodded in understanding, and he saw again that this was not an uncommon occurrence. She didn’t make him feel unwelcome for it and so he decided to indulge her and stepped further into the shop. The arrangements were all very nice, and the place was kept far cleaner than the dusty hotel he’d just left. The warmth seeped into him, and he was grateful for it as she shut the door behind him.
“How about a flower for a lady, hm?” She asked, and he shook his head. “Come on, a handsome gentleman such as yourself has to have a dame.”
He blushed and instinctively flatted his mess of curls.
“I’ve been on the road.” He said by way of explanation, a rather convenient excuse.
“Some dried petals, then.” She seemed eager to make a sale. “I sell to every man in town, little packets to hold in their pockets so they don’t have to breathe in the seaweed all day.”
Anson smiled a little. That had to be where the bulk of her business came from; he couldn’t imagine there were many weddings around there.
“Where do you get all the flowers?” He asked as he stepped further in to inspect some pinecones covered in glitter.
“They grow on the mountain. Around.” She answered simply. “I could hitch a ride down to the big farms down the road sometimes, but that’s quite the trip.”
He nodded, though he should have known that answer. For all the beauty in that small room, there weren’t many flower varieties to be had. All local, all what she could gather or what a nearby gardener could produce. He studied the pinecones again, and she looked eager still.
“Or if you’ll be around awhile you can stop at the library.” She began, and he perked up. “Sophia sells coffee and teas inside, I grow some of the leaves, dry some of the petals.”
“There’s a library? With a teashop inside?” He asked, and she nodded. She had been kind, so he smiled a little and pointed to the wall of packets. “Maybe I’d like my pockets full of posies.”
“I’ve got wildflowers.” She stepped over to the wall, quick with excitements. “Or something rosy. Or verbena!”
They stood at the wall and she took down bag after bag to make him sniff until he finally settled on something earthy and sharp. Moss, she’d explained as she rung up his product. And sage leaves, burnt cedar, cloves, and a bit of orange peel.
“You have expensive taste.” She said, and if it was a jibe or a compliment he smiled and nodded either way and handed her two dollars. “Have a good day, sir. I hope to see you again soon.”
“And you as well.” He said as he slipped the potpourri into his pocket. “Say, where’s that library?”
“The biggest building, ‘sides the hotel. All brick and closer to the shore. You can’t miss it.” She directed, and he nodded his thanks and set out back towards the hotel, then past it until he found what she was referring to.
It was big, that was true enough, and old as the devil. The bricks were all mossy, and the wooden stairs at the heavy mahogany front doors were near collapsed. When he approached, he peered through a window only to find the whole place dim from nothing but candlelight. The door creaked as he opened it, and when he stepped in he was greeted with a grim nod from a man sat at a front desk who seemed more focused on his reading than kindly introductions. David, the sign on his desk read, but Anson didn’t trouble himself with it and entered the establishment in silence.
It was the most populated part of town he’d seen thus far, if the Italian place were excluded. There were a few old men there, no doubt retired from the sea, and some housewives with one or two children. He went in further and scanned the books casually, all the way down to the end of the building, where he spotted a girl in a small alcove wiping down a gas oven. Next to her was a shelf full of tins, ceramic pots, tea cups, before her a small table crowded with napkins and little jars of sugar and honey. Two kettles sat ready on the burner, and Anson surmised who she was as he approached. When she heard his footfall, she looked up and smiled pleasantly.
“Tea, sir?” She asked. She was Asian, with a thin frame and long dark hair. Her navy capris and floral button-up were the height of women’s fashion, and Anson wondered if this small town were far enough from every shred of pop culture that her looks were frowned upon.
“The florist recommended you.” He responded. “Could I get something she worked on?”
“How does black tea with mint sound? It’s nothing like a candy cane, I promise.” She said sweetly, and he nodded approvingly. She pulled out a matchbox and lit a burner on the stovetop, then set a copper kettle on the flames. “Ruth bully you into buying a potpourri packet?”
He had forgotten to ask the woman for her name, but nodded all the same and pulled it from his pocket. Sophia beckoned him forward, and he held it out for her to take a breath. She closed her eyes and smiled.
“Expensive taste.” She echoed an earlier sentiment, and Anson smiled politely as he pocketed it and she turned and grabbed a teacup and saucer for him, both painted with little red flowers. “You like it strong?”
“Whatever you endorse.” He didn’t often drink tea, he wasn’t sure how to take it. “So you own this place?”
“Just this oven and all these spoons.” She grabbed a tin from a shelf. The top was labeled, but Anson couldn’t read the unfamiliar language. “David’s the owner, he just lets me sell my wares.”
Interesting. Normally libraries were owned by the people, the government. Something more formal than one unkempt gentleman. No postal service, no real library, no connection to the union. They were on their own out there.
“Ah, that sullen fellow up front.” He said thoughtfully, and she gave him a wry grin as she spooned tea leaves into a small metal infuser.
“You can’t talk to him while he’s working his way through a book.” She explained. “But once he’s done he’ll go on about dragons for at least a week.”
Anson snorted as the kettle began to whistle, and Sophia pulled it from the burner at lightning speed and poured it into his little ceramic cup. She dropped the infuser in, set a spoon on the saucer, and slid it towards him. He picked it up gently, and she set down a mismatched sugar bowl with a palm frond painted on it.
“Thank you.” He said as he pulled a dime from his pocket. “And my regards to the florist, of course.”
“I hope you enjoy it.” She said. “There are tables all around for your pleasure.”
He thanked her again and walked off, and got out of her point of view as to avoid feeling awkward. He found a small table in the fiction section and set down his tea and sugar before scanning the shelves around him. He didn’t want the tea to grow cold, so he selected his reading quickly, a familiar favorite called Billy Budd. When he returned to his chair he set the book down and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup – he usually drank his tea with cream, but had to assume Sophia knew what she was doing.
He held the cup in both hands as the steam rose up and warmed his cheeks. The smell was heady, with the black tea fragrant and pronounced with a lovely aroma of mint. A sip proved the flavor to be of similarly wonderful satisfaction; the tea was intense, the mint fresh and bright, not sweet and artificial like he was so used to in the grasshopper pie he’d eaten in diners all across the country. With a feeling of contentment, he settled into his book with the first ease he’d felt in some time.
. . .
He could barely see the text in front of him when he finally decided to give up on his reading, even after David silently deposited a candle next to his long empty teacup. Truth be told, he was starving after just coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon, though he was debating just what to do about it. A large part of him wanted to return to the Italian restaurant and satisfy that urge to see Gin and Heath again, but he worried about how awkward that could be given the fact that he’d said he was leaving. But they were the reason he’d decided to stay, so finally he returned his book to the shelf and stood to go.
On his way out, he passed by David as he set down his book and stifled a yawn, and Anson smiled.
“Have a good night. Enjoy that story of yours.” He said, and David perked up.
“Thank you.” He replied, and Anson paused with a wicked little thought.
“Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a bible on these shelves, would you?” He asked with a charming grin.
“Man’s greatest story.” He said. “Nonfiction section.”
“But is it a nice copy?” Anson asked. “Sturdy with an ornate cover?”
David shook his head honestly, and Anson took a step closer.
“You’re in luck, my friend. I happen to sell the greatest bibles in the country. Beautiful babies, all of ‘em, and I bet an outstanding expert in the field such as yourself would really value a book like that.”
“I would, actually.” He said easily. “And I’ve got the budget for it. You got a price?”
“Five sixty-five.” He said, and David winced immediately. “Or maybe I can give it to you for only three dollars, if you display it up front.”
David looked thoughtful a moment, then sighed and nodded.
“What can I say? You’ve convinced me.” He opened the register drawer and pulled out three dollars, and Anson accepted with a gracious bow of his head. “You deliver?”
“Yessir. I’ll drop it off bright and early tomorrow.” He took the money and slipped it into his pocket. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
“And you.” David allowed with an amiable little smile, and he shook the man’s hand before he departed.
It was with three dollars fresh in his pocket that Anson walked back to his car in front of the hotel in the dark – there were no lampposts to light the way, only the glow from nearby houses and the occasional flash of headlights to help him on his way. He suspected that the only reason half the town had electricity was that the hotel brought it there. It was a short drive to the restaurant, and the lot next to the little building was so crowded he wondered if there would be any room inside.
It was cold outside, but as he swung the door open he was hit with a familiar warmth and a wonderful smell of basil and garlic. It was crowded, that was for sure, but among the many men sat over their dishes he met eyes right away with Gin in her little yellow dress, and she smiled in her surprise and bent her head towards the bar. He shut the door behind him and sat at one of the stools with thankfully no one on either side of him. She was over in a moment, her eyes brimmed with affection.
“Hey there, stranger.” She set a glass in front of him and filled it from the pitcher she held. A pretty girl, if he really considered it: tall, almost his own height, with a hint of muscle to her from running around with plates all day. Her dark hair was again tied back into a modest little bun, just to keep it from her face, but it still showed off her delicate features. “Like a menu?”
“Can you ask him to make me whatever’s fastest?” He asked bashfully. “I’m starving.”
“Sure thing, doll.” She whisked away through the metal door of the kitchen, and he took a grateful sip of water. In a moment she exited with a plate in either hand, and he watched her walk past him to a table in the back, where she deposited the food to two eager fishermen. When she turned back around, he looked away quickly to not get caught watching.
“Bad weather again?” He heard her ask as she stopped next to him, and he smiled.
“I deserve a break from all the driving, I think.” He said after a moment’s thought. “I won’t be here too long.”
“How’s Robert?” She asked with a knowing look, and he chuckled.
“Austere as that ol’ hotel.” He answered. “You know the town, then?”
“Well enough, though I’ve never stayed in the hotel.” She said. “You explore today?”
“Yes ma’am.” He grinned. “I got a pocket full of moss and a cup of tea at the library. You know Sophia?”
She looked hesitant, and he realized what it could have sounded like; an ignorant assumption that the only two Asian women he knew of in the town were known to each other, maybe related. They weren’t — Anson wasn’t the best with nationalities, but they were from different countries, and Sophia was more petite with a rounded face besides. But she answered politely before he could apologize.
“I know her.” She said finally. “We’re not related or anything.”
She looked over his shoulder, and he wondered if this was something she could discuss there. California was more liberal than a lot of areas, but it was a small town he knew nothing of, and if she was frightened he would understand and stay quiet. She didn’t show terror at any rate.
“I have plates to clear.” She said, distracted. “I’ll check on your food.”
And she was off without another word. He bounced his leg as he waited, half starved, and after a moment in the kitchen he was relieved to see Gin return and head in his direction. She set the dish in front of him with a napkin and utensils, told him to enjoy, and scurried back in, presumably to clean or gather more plates.
Anson looked down at the meal in wild anticipation; it was a pasta that looked fresh and house-made in a light colored cream sauce. Flecked with parsley and topped with shaved parmesan, it looked perfectly simple yet absolutely delicious. He twisted the noodles around his fork and took a bite, then fought back a groan. It was unexpectedly rich in flavor, the intense backdrop of pork cut into by the earthy flavor of finely chopped mushrooms and the briny, savory taste of anchovies. The pasta was perfectly al dente, the garlic delightfully and mercilessly strong, the red pepper a sharp and lovely hit to the back of his throat. He dug in and was a third of the way through by the time Gin returned.
“Spaghetti alla carbonara with pancetta, mushrooms and anchovy.” She answered his unasked question. “Enjoying it?”
“So much.” Was all he could answer before he swallowed. “Is Heath very busy? I’d love him to come out so I could properly compliment the chef.”
She gave him a soft look and he drank it in, so unused to the creature comforts of another person’s fond attention.
“He never does, these folk would have a shocked uproar.” She said, and leaned in and lowered her voice. “He’s a quiet fellow, you really caught him by surprise when you asked him for a smoke the other morning.”
Anson nodded, and when someone called for the check she vanished. It was funny, to know he’d only met this man by luck, by chance, but here he still sat and ate and delayed his weary journey. He continued to eat his food as Gin scurried around, but after a few minutes she walked out of the kitchen and leaned real close.
“See that partition in the wall?” She pointed to a little screen he hadn’t seen before, one that blended in so well with the terra cotta paint. “It’s between here and the kitchen.”
He looked up and examined it a moment before, to his surprise, it slid open just a hair, and Heath glanced out and over his way. He smiled when they caught eyes, and when Anson bowed his head in respect it grew even wider. Gin let out a soft laugh and moved away, and when Anson glanced away a moment Heath disappeared, much to his unexpected disappointment.
It only took him a few minutes longer to finish his meal, and when Gin returned and asked if he wanted dessert, he insisted he was far too full. She laughed lightly as she took his plate away, and when she returned from the kitchen she handed him the check.
“Heath agrees with me.” She said, and wore a sly grin when Anson stopped counting his change to give her a questioning look. “He likes the curls, too.”
He felt a blush creep up his neck as he reached up to try and fail to flatten it down. With a mumbled thanks, he paid, wished her well, and took his leave. She didn’t seem too worried about whether or not he would return tomorrow.
He tucked his hands in his pockets as he rushed to his car, the cold bitter after such a lovely warmth. When he got in and started the engine, he recalled seeing Heath for a moment from the kitchen and felt an odd tug deep in his gut. The way he’d smiled, the way his eyes had shone, it stirred an old feeling, one he’d been told so many times was forbidden. But he shook himself and repeated his earlier thought; stay until the feelings fade, and not a moment longer.
He just wasn’t sure when that would be.