Rugged(13)

5


Excited as I am to get started the next morning, it’s hard to pull myself out of bed. I managed to find the cute little old timey inn just a few miles from the bar, complete with antique spinning wheels in the hallway and Revolutionary war muskets adorning the walls. The four-poster I’m sleeping in has the softest mattress, and the down comforter is filled with the softest feathers that seventy furious geese could provide. The bathroom has a deep tub with clawed brass feet, and Battle of Lexington and Concord embroidered towels. Massachusetts: it’s adorable here.

I am miraculously not hungover—was it the burger grease or the sweet potato fries?—but I down a few aspirin and a big glass of water just in case. Then I shower and dress quickly, throwing on my most professional jeans and sweater, and head out the door. Mrs. Beauchamp, the proprietress who looks like the world’s cuddliest grandmother, grins as I come down the stairs.

“Coffee, dear?” she asks, holding up a china pot that General Lafayette probably insulted one time.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to run,” I say, hustling out the door. There really isn’t a moment to lose. It’s Thursday now, and the pitch has to be ready by Monday. I’ll have to edit most of the day on Sunday, which means we’ve only got three days to figure out the gist of the show and get some killer footage. I leap off the front porch and slide into my car in three seconds flat. My stomach gurgles as I head up the winding road towards Flint’s house. Poor little stomach. I hope Flint’s got some breakfast going. Or at least a granola bar for me to gnaw on.

In the seat next to me sits my digital camcorder. I would’ve loved to have lugged one of the company’s professional cameras with me, but A. there’s no way I could haul that up and down these hills all by myself, and B. I’d probably get arrested for theft—those babies are not cheap, and they’re not exactly available for loan. Ah well. My iPhone’s good enough that I could probably shoot it all on that, but I think Flint would be concerned about how professional I was. Particularly given our escapades last night. Which, I remind myself, we will never speak of or think about ever again. It was a fluke, it was the alcohol, it was an unprofessional oops. Not to be repeated. As far as I’m concerned, it may as well have never happened. Oh, and see? I already forgot about it.

I pull up to the house, get out, and walk up the steps. The door opens after my first knock. I put on my best show business, I’m-for-real smile. “Morning. Ready for—”

“Breakfast?” the woman who answered the door says. She’s bright-eyed and out of breath, as if she’s been running up and down the stairs. She fans herself with one hand and gestures for me to enter with the other. “Come on in. We’ve been waiting.”

“We?” I say as I step inside, thinking she means Flint. My stomach drops. If this is his…then that means last night was…but then a massive crash from somewhere in the house interrupts my thoughts and I jump. “Um, I’m Laurel Young. I’m the—”

“I know who you are. Be right back. Callum! Lily! Not the tools!” she yells, taking off like some kind of flannelled greyhound. I race after, finding her in the living room wrestling with two very small, incredibly adorable children. One of them, a red-haired little boy, is waving something in his chubby fist.

“Foose! Foose!” he shrieks gleefully. His mother yanks the screwdriver out of his hand.

“It’s tools, Cal, sweetie.” She picks him up in one arm, but the little girl is putting something small and metallic into her mouth and slobbering on it. Every mother’s nightmare, and this poor woman’s not even watching.

“I got it!” I yell, sliding across the floor on my knees and grabbing the child. She spits up a screw into my hand, and grabs a fistful of my hair.

“Oh God, I think you’re my hero,” the woman says. She takes the screw, blows out her cheeks, and puts a hand to her chest. “No kidding. My savior.”

“I think savior status means we need to be on a first name basis.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Laurel Young, producer at Reel World.”

“I’m Callie Winston, beleaguered mother.” She shakes on it. I like her already.

“You’re Flint’s sister!” It’s not a question. The shining chestnut hair and strong jaw are a dead giveaway. I can’t believe it took me until now to realize it.

“Older sister. I’m the one who sent you the tape.” She hoists Callum up into the air, and then Lily. Carrying them on either hip, she heads down the hall while they chortle and shriek. “Come on. Breakfast’s on the table,” she calls.

That is music to my ears. Not just any music. That is like John Williams played by a symphonic orchestra. It’s the Star Wars title crawl of music.

I didn’t think a beer drinking, truck driving, manlicious man like Flint would have a gourmet kitchen, but apparently I’m wrong about a lot of things. Granite countertops line the area, the cabinets are paneled mahogany, and there’s even a tiled little breakfast nook. Callie pops the two munchkins into high chairs and starts piling eggs, bacon, and home fries onto two plates. My stomach rumbles louder than before.

“Hungry?” Callie laughs. I’m about ready to grab the skillet for myself, call it ‘my precious,’ and run screaming into the night. Nothing like a Gollum routine to get you ready for the day.