“I know,” Avery says. “But we’re still hoping you two are having some sort of secret affair.”
“We’re not. I swear. I’m just as surprised as you.”
“Well, it was nice to have the old Mason back for a little while.”
If this Mason—and the Mason who picked me up at the airport yesterday—is what he’s really like, I’m in bigger trouble than I thought.
“I know there aren’t a ton of kids on the island, but how do people handle day care after school lets out for the summer?” I ask, changing the subject. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with Maisie.”
“I’ll take her,” Avery says. “She and Leo get along so well, and it would be great for him to have someone to play with. And since my classes are in the evenings and on weekends, I’d be happy to have her.”
“How much?”
“Nothing.”
“Really?” I say. “Are you sure?”
“She’ll be doing me a favor,” Avery says. “I can only take part in so many LEGO spaceship battles before I lose my mind.”
I laugh. “I can’t say no to that.”
“We’ll work out the details at book club.”
June
CHAPTER 14
Ailyak
Bulgarian
“the subtle art of doing everything calmly and without rushing, while enjoying the experience and life in general”
By the second week of June, it’s crystal clear—and not at all unexpected—that we will not be opening the hotel in time for the Fourth of July. Despite the incessant buzz of saws and the thwack of nail guns echoing around the property, only the first cabin is under roof. We might be able to offer tours when we open the taproom, but there’s no point in trying to rent out the cabin when there’s still so much construction underway.
The taproom bar arrives on the first Tuesday ferry. The top is made from repurposed bowling alley lanes with a dark mahogany front, all varnished to a glossy shine. Under Mason’s direction, the delivery guys move it into place and bolt it to the floor. Later in the day, we accept a delivery of twelve swivel barstools, half a dozen tables, and twenty-four metal tub chairs—and the taproom starts looking like a real bar.
On Wednesday the tile layers arrive to install the floor in the first cabin, and I slip out of the office to have a look. The cabin is built from the same natural wood planks as the brewhouse, with limestone fascia concealing the concrete pad foundation. It has a small verandah—just big enough for a couple of chairs—and the drywall inside has been covered with white shiplap. The effect is timeless, like the cabin could have been standing here for a century.
I’m watching the floor progress when Mason comes up alongside me.
“I’m really sorry we’re not going to meet our goal for opening next month,” I say. “But it’s going to be beautiful.”
The past couple of weeks have been a frenzy of orders and deliveries. Sleeper sofas, Pendleton wool blankets, and bathroom fixtures from a hospitality wholesaler. I found several vintage Persian rugs on Craigslist and picked up a couple more beds at an antique shop in Milan. I also bought discontinued cabinetry from several different home improvement stores and worked with a local granite dealer to get remnant pieces of countertop at a discount. Each cabin will have a different color and style of cabinets in the efficiency kitchen.
“Missing the deadline is on me,” Mason says. “Without you, none of this would be as far along as it is.”
I think it’s a compliment. It feels like a compliment, but I don’t know how to accept it with grace. Instead I deflect to updating him on the construction.
“The landscapers should be here early next week to build the patio behind the brewhouse and lay paths from each of the cabins,” I say. “We should consider building a firepit, too. I was thinking we could use the back of the building to host outdoor movie nights.”
Mason studies me a long moment and I feel my cheeks grow warm. I want him to press me against the side of the cabin and kiss me. I moisten my lower lip with the tip of my tongue, willing him to do it. But he just swallows noticeably and says, “You’re … really smart.”
I can’t stop myself from smiling. “Yeah, well, you hired me.”
* * *
Thursday evening I’m making lasagna for dinner when I get a call from Vivian at the antique shop in Port Clinton.
“Remember that resort I told you about?” she says. “The auction is Saturday morning at eight. The old décor was modeled on a Western ski lodge, so they might not have the kind of things you’re looking for, but it’s a high-end place, so it won’t be tacky. It’s probably worth checking out.”
“Definitely. Thanks for the reminder.”
“I’ll text you the details,” she says, and then she’s gone.
Her text message appears shortly after, and a few minutes later Mason comes into the kitchen from outside. He doesn’t normally finish working this early in the day, so I’m a little surprised when he kicks off his brown suede sneakers at the door. I tell him about the upcoming auction.
“It might be a chance for us to find some interesting pieces for the taproom,” I say as I chop an orange bell pepper for the salad. “I know you trust me, but the brewery and taproom are your domain, and I wouldn’t mind your input. If you can spare a day off.”
“Okay.” Mason stares into the fridge as if he’ll manifest his own dinner with enough concentration.
“I thought you’d be a harder sell.”
“The beer is coming together,” he says. “The lager, the IPA, and the green tea ale are ready. I have a Kölsch in the fermenter, with another experimental brew ready to go into the mash tun.”
As he takes a glass storage container of leftover chili from the fridge, I set another place at the dining room table, where Maisie is drawing a picture with a blue crayon.
“I’m working with the orchard on Catawba to make a peach wheat beer for the summer and I’ve got some stout aging in rum barrels from Grenada that will be a good fall seasonal,” Mason says. “I’ve also reached out to the other brewery on the island and another on the mainland for guest taps.”
“This is really exciting,” I say, taking the pan of lasagna from the oven.
“The lager and green tea ale are probably the best I’ve ever made.”
“Better than Fish Brothers?”
“Feels like I got my mojo back,” he says as he watches me peel the foil away from the steaming cheesy dish. He looks down at his chili with a slight frown, and I hide a smile.
“Do you want to join us for dinner?”
“If you don’t mind.”
I meet his eyes. “If I minded, I wouldn’t have asked.”
Mason quickly returns the chili to the fridge, then takes a seat at the head of the table. Maisie holds up her drawing for him.
“Do you like my porcupine?”
“I’ve never seen a blue porcupine before,” he says.
“That’s because she lives in the ocean.”
“Can she breathe underwater?”
“Yes,” she says. “She wears a snorkel to swim down to her house.”