Seven Years Since The Motel Ch 04

I'm afraid these two are still stuck in a present-day holding pattern. I've given you a dream sequence flashback (the third section, to avoid any confusion) to make up for it!

In case you've forgotten, they're both nineteen during the flashback, so there's no underage activity.

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Alessandro shook his head in disbelief. Maisie was kneeling next to a strawberry plant halfway down a row, her hand hovering in mid-air as she stared off into space. She hadn't noticed him, even though he'd been standing next to her for a full minute.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Maisie let out a startled gasp as she jerked her face up to him. He saw a flash of a glare, but then she smiled as he waggled his brows at her; he'd spoken in his most cheerful tone, and hadn't been able to suppress a wide grin.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack, Less. I don't know how you can be so friggin' cheerful. It's not even seven yet."

"Yes, well, I've always been a morning person. You know that. How's day three of picking going?"

She began to stand, albeit with some effort after her time on the ground. He reached out a hand, which she took after the briefest of pauses.

He pushed the fleeting image of kissing her from his mind.

You did that on Monday and she was strange all day Tuesday because of it,

he chastised himself.

Today's a brand new day. Don't fuck it up.

They turned to look across the field as Maisie spoke. "OK, I guess. Ben opened this field for pick-your-own last Sunday. I kinda wonder if, instead of moving to another open field after they'd picked all the ripe berries here, people picked a bunch of berries that weren't really ripe yet. 'Cause there aren't that many ripe ones now."

She gestured to the baskets at the end of the row. She was halfway through the field, but had filled only one-third of the baskets.

"It isn't the best news for our sales at this afternoon's market, but on the plus side," she grinned up at him as she paused, "it means I can go and take my nap sooner."

He shook his head. "Are you still unable to function before ten o-clock?"

"No. I can now be a fully functioning member of society after nine in the morning. Anything before nine, however, is uncivilized."

She tried to look dignified, but her face dissolved into laughter. "Honestly? It's a good thing I pretty much set my own work schedule. I get to work a little after eight-thirty, but don't set meetings before nine-thirty."

She paused and wrinkled her nose. "Except on Saturdays. I work every Saturday morning from seven 'til noon. Yuck. Have a good run?"

"It was OK." Alessandro motioned back to the plants, and knelt beside her as they began to pick. "You know, yesterday you never got around to telling me what you do for work. We seemed to talk mostly about your brothers, and about me. Seeing as it's now Wednesday, I think it's high time we talk about you."

She flashed him an impish grin. "I was wondering if you'd notice our odd choice of topics yesterday, seeing as learning about me was the point of picking."

He stared as she turned her attention back to the plants. What she said was true; on Monday after breakfast, he'd said he would join her to learn about the past seven years of her life.

But it hadn't been the whole truth.

While sitting on the docks with her on Monday, he'd remembered coming home that weekend, after the night at the motel. He'd sat on that same bench for hours, replaying what they'd done over and over as he'd watched the boats in the harbor. He'd done his best to have a normal conversation with her on Monday, but sitting on that bench had set off a kaleidoscope of images in his head. By the end of their conversation, he'd wanted nothing more than to recreate every single one of those images there on the dock.

His gaze lingered on the freckles that had formed on her nose over the past few days, and on the light blushes of sunburn that spotted both cheeks. Her lashes followed her eyes down to the plant before her, and her lips were curved into a tiny smile as she picked.

The wind had whipped a few strands of her strawberry-blond hair out of her loose ponytail. He reached out a hand to push it back from her eyes.

Maisie snorted beside him, "Well, you don't have to seem

too

interested."

He blinked and moved his hand the nearest plant, relieved that she'd interrupted him with her words. "Huh? Interested? Interested in what?"

She shook her head at him, an amused look on her face. "And you think I'm the one who can't function in the morning?"

"Oh yeah, sorry. My mind wandered off a bit." He turned his attention back to the plants. "So, I thought we were going to talk about your career?"

She shrugged. "It's nothing major. I work as a liaison between farmers, their organizations, and various government offices in New York City."

He turned to her, surprised. "Weren't you working in finance or something after you graduated?"

"You were listening to those tidbits from your sisters, weren't you?" She smirked as her hands moved in the practiced motions of picking berries and placing them in the basket. "Yeah, I worked in the exciting world of corporate finance for a few months, but I hated it. I might not want to be a farmer, but I can't completely leave it behind and go all corporate."

"So, what exactly does your job involve?"

"A lot of different stuff. Sometimes I help farmers navigate their way into the city's various markets and kiosks. Sometimes I help new farmers' markets start, which means I work with various neighborhood organizations to target new locations. Let's see."

She sat back on her haunches and held up a hand, ticking off fingers as she listed her tasks. "I also help with marketing, compliance with everything from zoning regulations to health and safety ordinances, identifying the products that will sell in whatever neighborhood they're in . . . you know, stuff like that. Other times I take their concerns with certain rules to the relevant branch of city or state government and lobby on their behalf, and other times I go the other way around."

She rolled her eyes before giving him an exasperated look. "Honestly, I do a lot of translating. You know, turning farmer-speak into political terminology so that the politicians don't turn their noses up, and turning wonkish terms into phrases that farmers understand. I mean, the two groups use completely different languages. One isn't better than the other, but they don't communicate well, at all."

He stopped picking and looked at her. "How'd you get a job like that? It seems perfect for you."

Her eyes twinkled in the sunshine as she beamed at him. "Isn't it? Well, besides having to be at a different market every Saturday morning, it is. I volunteered with the organization when I was in college. I like New York, but I needed some sort of connection with this," she said, spreading her hands out in a gesture to the fields surrounding them.

"I got a lot more responsibility during my senior year when my boss went on maternity leave. I had hoped they'd have a spot for me when I graduated, but they didn't. They called the August after I graduated, when I was in Boston; my old boss had decided to quit her job and stay home with the baby. I moved back to New York, and I've been there ever since."

"Wow. Your job, it's so . . . useful."

She raised an eyebrow. "Um, thanks? Are you growing into that patronizing Hollywood role already?"

"No, I mean it." He laughed. "I mean, come on; I walk across a set or stage and repeat phrases that someone else wrote. Sometimes I flap my hands or sit down, but that's about it. I don't deny that I do it well, but at the end of the day, it's just acting. You're doing something useful with your life. You're helping farmers stay in business by selling their products, and you're helping people in New York get access to great food. You have a role in life, a useful one; I can't say that about my job."

Maisie stopped picking. She fidgeted in the silence that stretched between them, and licked her lips as she stared at the plants before her.

She was blushing, too. He was relieved to see it wasn't an angry or humiliated blush, like the ones he'd caused on Monday. Today she blushed from his praise.

He felt rather pleased with himself.

"Your job's useful, too, you know." Her words were quiet; had he not been staring at her face and seen her lips move, he might have missed them.

"Mine?" He laughed. "Maisie, like I said, I say a few lines and walk around. I'm not sure what's so useful about that, even if I do it well. Just because I have fans—and God, that's weird to say—well, it doesn't mean I'm useful."

She stopped her fidgeting and gazed up at him. "That's not what I mean." She paused and bit her lip, as if weighing her words. "I meant what I said that night. About you? About acting and Shakespeare?" She looked up at him, her eyes wide as she met his. "Do you remember?"

He drew in a sharp breath at her words. "Yeah, I remember that, Maisie." He paused. "I owe my career to you. I never thought I was any good, until that night when you said, well, what you said."

"Oh?" She seemed nervous. He suspected he knew why; neither of them had mentioned that night at all yesterday. Perhaps this was her way of saying they could talk about it, like adults?

"Yeah." He stopped and took a deep breath; he hadn't talked about Isabella with Maisie at all, unless he counted the car ride with Carolina.

"I met Isabella a few weeks after I arrived in Italy. One day, I accompanied her to a casting call; some daytime show needed models, and she was auditioning for a part. While I was waiting in the hallway, a man approached and asked if I could act; some guy hadn't shown up for a bit part, and I guess I had the look they were going for."

He turned to her and smiled. "I almost said no; I mean, I'd only been in school plays until then, you know? Then I remembered what you'd said just a few weeks before. So I said yeah, I can act. And that started . . . everything."

"Really?"

"Really. So thanks."

They picked in silence, until Maisie started giggling.

"Does this mean I get a royalty check?"

"Consider this," he gestured to the basket at his feet, "your in-kind payment. Is that good enough?"

She let out a dramatic sigh. "I suppose so."

They chatted more about her job and her life in the city as they moved down the rows, but there was one topic they avoided. He knew he should ask—he wanted to ask—but he didn't have the guts. He'd come close a few times when asking about vacations and apartments, but hadn't been able to ask the next logical question.

"So . . . what else have you been up to?"

She shrugged. "I still run a lot, I play bridge with Carolina and Gemma and some other friends every week—"

"Bridge? I always thought only my family and sixty-year-old women played bridge."

She looked abashed. "Yeah, well, Carolina and Gemma taught me to play, and, ah, I thought it would be a good idea to get a group together every week. And you know how I can be convincing."

He snorted. "That, I do know." He paused, gathering his nerves. "Anything else? I mean, anything else important?"

They stood. They had finished the final row of picking, and were done for the day.

Her lips quirked. "You trying to ask about my love life, Less?"

"Maybe." He forced out a laugh. "It seems only fair, if you've been getting updates on mine from Carolina and Gemma."

"Lessi, about that, I'm still really sorry—"

"I'm teasing, Maisie. I didn't say it to make you feel bad." He paused and looked off across the fields. "You don't have to tell me, you know. It's none of my business."

She handed him a couple of full baskets and headed towards the barn with the others in hand.

"No, it's fine. I mean, I guess we're friends right?" She gave him a quizzical look, and smiled as he nodded. "I dated a lot through college and afterwards, but mostly short term stuff. Then I moved in with someone . . ." she shrugged.

"Oh?" She was dating someone? His stomach clenched; how did he not know this?

"Yeah, but it didn't work out. He's a nice guy, we just drove each other crazy." She grinned up at him and laughed. "And not in a good way."

"Right." He felt himself relax.

"Well, um, thanks for the help. I like having your company, you know, but you don't have to do this, if you don't want to."

"No, I want to."

"Yeah?" Her quizzical, almost hopeful look was back.

"Yeah." He smiled. "I do."

"OK." She smiled in return. "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then."

His stomach lurched as she turned to walk away. He didn't want her to go, not yet. "Hey, Maisie?"

She turned. "Yeah?"

"Do you want to, I don't know, go sailing or something this afternoon? The waves are supposed to calm down around three or so. And it's certainly hot enough to be out in the breeze."

"Didn't I tell you I don't like being splashed by cold water?"

"Oh. Right."

"I'm teasing, Less. I'd love to, really, but I can't. I offered to take my sister-in-law Marie's place at the farmers' market today. She's pregnant; she and Ben told us yesterday. My mom said she's known for weeks, but . . . anyway. She's not that sick anymore, but she's exhausted all the time. I think it's really hard for her to be on her feet and deal with customers for a few hours in the heat, so I offered to take her place. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, OK. Tomorrow."

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Alessandro shoved his hands in his pockets and pressed his forehead against the third floor dormer window. He was in his father's library, a room that had always been among his favorite places in the house. It had been his retreat when he'd wanted to be alone or needed to think; his father had always seemed to know when to stay away from his own library.

Alessandro hoped the room could work its magic this morning. He needed an epiphany.

He'd achieved clarity on a few things over the past few days. He no longer cared that Maisie had left him that morning in the motel without so much as a goodbye. Seeing her—talking with her, touching her, kissing her—had somehow allowed him to focus on that night, and not on the next day.

But what did he want from her now? He knew he wanted friendship and he wanted sex, but where did that leave them?

A friends-with-benefits arrangement? He'd never done that. He'd had flings when he and Isabella had taken one of their many breaks and he hadn't been celibate since their relationship ended, but none of those encounters had been with women he'd had solid, platonic friendships with beforehand. He didn't know if Maisie could handle an arrangement like that, but he knew he couldn't. Not with her, at least. It would be too weird.

But if not a friends-with-benefits agreement, then what? The remaining choices were either a platonic friendship—he groaned aloud at the thought—or a relationship of some sort.

Did he want a relationship? Did she?

He moved away from the window and flopped into an old armchair. He tried to think, but didn't get far. He was exhausted; his morning runs had been long, and he still wasn't quite adjusted to the time change. Plus, it was warm in the attic room; the sunshine was streaming in through the dormer, and he could hear the distant, rhythmic sounds of the ocean and the hum of the cicadas through the open window.

He couldn't think straight now. He'd figure out what to do about Maisie after a short nap.

He tipped his head back against the armchair, closed his eyes, and slipped into a dream.

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Alessandro was drunk. Not falling-down, can't-speak, going-to-be-sick drunk, but drunk nonetheless.

That wasn't the problem. The problem was that it was only 4:30 in the afternoon.

It had been stupid to have those shots earlier, but he'd been looking forward to this weekend—his former high school's Homecoming—for four years, ever since his freshman year. He hadn't seen the harm in starting the celebration early.

The early morning ceremony hadn't seemed any different than it had last year, when he'd still been a student at the prestigious boarding school. Just as he had in the previous four years, he'd listened to speeches from the headmaster and deans, and joined in rounds of cheering and clapping as the football coach spoke of trouncing their rival later that afternoon. The old Latin teacher had stood up to lead a few school songs, and as always, the singing had fizzled into murmurs after a minute or so; despite the old man's pleadings, no one ever learned the words past the first verses.

Alessandro supposed that, at one point, the day had been a solemn occasion. Or at least, that's what he'd imagined after seeing pictures of the day from the 1950s, featuring sober-looking men with identical short haircuts, khakis, dark blazers, white shirts, and the Academy's official tie, all sitting in neat rows and staring with rapt attention as the school's old lion of a headmaster gave a speech from the podium.

The day was still marked with tradition. Only now, the traditions were sex, drugs, and alcohol.

As per this tradition, he and his former classmates had returned to the Academy for the weekend as a sort of last hurrah, one that after four long years was finally without curfews, the gender-separating parietals system, and any number of other school rules that had curtailed their high school social lives. In short, Homecoming was four years of pent up hormones rolled up into a weekend-long, alcohol-fueled orgy.

Like everybody else in his class, Alessandro had headed back to the motel after the game. Now that he was slightly inebriated he could see the humor in their lodging choice. Where else would the children of America's governors, hedge fund managers, and cultural icons stay but at a dirty, cheap motel?

He had to admit that the motel was a logical choice. It was minutes from both the interstate and the school, and was the type of establishment that was more than willing to turn a blind eye to drugs and underage drinking in the hopes of filling up for this one weekend every year.

Even better, the older alums stayed at nicer hotels in neighboring towns, so he and his former classmates didn't have to worry about being spotted by their parents or their parents' acquaintances, a serious danger given the number of legacies and tight-knit, upper-class social circles. Still, one didn't expect a $45-per-night motel to have a parking lot full of BMWs and Mercedes, even if most were parental hand-me-downs.

Try as he might, however, Alessandro wasn't sure what had happened after he'd left the game. He remembered sitting in the passenger seat of his car; his friend Jack had been sober, and Alessandro had handed his keys over without argument. They had stopped someplace, but he didn't know where.

Had it been a convenience store? That seemed likely; there was one in between the Academy and the motel. But why had they gone to a convenience store?

He pushed the thought from his mind. It didn't matter.

He remembered plastering a stupid grin on his face as he walked past the motel's front desk clerk, and then eating some greasy Chinese delivery in Jack's room. However, he couldn't remember why he'd left his friend's room just a few moments earlier. Had he been kicked out?

Maybe he was a little further over the line towards drunkenness than he had thought. Not that it mattered; he was sure that after a nap and a shower he would be ready for a night of drunken debauchery.

As he stripped off his clothing in his motel room, he had a vague recollection that something else had happened over the past several minutes, after Jack had kicked him out. Something had happened in the hallway, something with a girl, someone he knew. He closed his eyes and tried to remember, but it was no use; the room spun too much when he closed his eyes. All he could remember was that she'd been pretty.