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MATT
The next few days pass in a haze of happiness. I spent an evening with Nica Holmes, and she was as amazing as I’ve always thought she’d be. She was funny and sweet. She laughed at my jokes. She even kissed me. How many guys can say that about their celebrity crush?
“Are you still on a Nica high?” Rachel asks as she breezes in the front door late Saturday morning.
I’m sitting on the couch watching Spring Fling for the millionth time. I hit the pause button, freezing Nica and Brad somebody-or-other in a romantic clinch. “Are you kidding? I’m going to be sailing on this for weeks.”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “Hey, I’m flying up to Seattle to pick up Blake. Wanna come?”
Rachel is a former fighter pilot, and Blake bought her a jet when he moved back to Rotheberg so they could maximize their time together. The six-seat plane can fly halfway across the country without stopping for fuel, and it got Rachel back into the air, which she loves.
“Not today.” I click off the TV and get up from the couch. “I love riding along, but I’ve got some errands to run.”
She follows me into the kitchen. “Like loitering at Helmut’s in case Nica comes back?”
I flush. “No, I’m helping Rob Mead with something.”
She laughs. “Rob? Who happens to live at the Ranch? Even better.”
“You know I’ve been teaching him woodworking. We started long before I met Nica. He’s building a bed frame for his brother’s wedding gift. I can’t help it if he lives at the Ranch.” I don’t tell her the thing is almost done and he doesn’t really need my help at this point.
She pats my shoulder as she heads for the door. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Hertzsprung.”
I wait until the door closes behind her before responding. “You got your happily ever after with a celebrity. Why shouldn’t I?”
* * *
After lunch, I grab my water bottle and head for the garage. I open the door and roll my motorcycle out. I’m not a Harley guy—it’s an older Suzuki that is fun to ride both on paved roads and dirt. It’s great for camping, but that will have to wait until the weather warms up a bit.
The ride to the Ranch is only five minutes—ten if the highway is congested. On this sunny Saturday afternoon in April, I’m there in seven. I slow as I swing past the Visitors’ Center—the last place I saw Nica on Monday night—as if she’ll be hanging out there. Rob’s guest code opens the automated gate, and I roll through. On the bike, I could have gone around, but the Ranch police have a camera on this entrance and don’t appreciate unregistered visitors. All of us locals know how to find the unmonitored back gate, of course, but it’s at the end of a two-mile dirt road, and if I happen to see Nica, I don’t want to be dusty.
The road twists through neatly forested lots, with luxury homes hidden behind expensive landscaping or fences. Biking and walking paths parallel the street, veering away to wind around old pines and artfully placed boulders. I keep to the twenty-mile-per-hour speed limit, watching for pedestrians who might have blonde hair, but so far, no luck.
At the far end of the main loop, I turn past the golf course. The wedding chapel where I first met Nica is a little farther on. When I arrive, a double handful of cars sit in the parking lot. Most of them are Subarus, Hondas, and Toyotas—probably venue employees or contractors. I spot a pair of Mercedes and a Cadillac that might indicate the families of the bride or groom are on site.
I consider my options. Nica could be inside right now, helping with the prep for her father’s wedding. Would stopping be too stalkerish? Yeah, probably. But I might get away with a quick drive through the parking lot. I can always claim I’m checking out the traffic situation in advance of Blake and Rachel’s wedding. Lame and totally transparent, but I’m going to go with it.
I turn in, circling between the parked cars, riding as slowly as I can. I catch sight of Ms. Sew-it-Now, Rotheberg’s local tailor, as she hurries into the building carrying a crate overflowing with fabric, but no sign of Nica. I knew it was a long shot.
After checking the time, I turn out of the parking lot toward the Meads’ house. The Ranch was originally developed by Rob Mead’s parents and two other families. They’ve sold most of the properties but maintain a large house in one of the prime locations, with views of the golf course and two of the Three Sisters Mountains.
The driveway slopes down a small hill, then winds around to the massive home. I roll to a stop next to the four-stall garage on the side. After making sure my bike is out of the way in case Gloria—Rob’s mom—needs access, I head for the rustic-looking building sitting in the trees beyond the house. The small pole barn houses a studio apartment above and a single huge room below. The double door in front is open, as are the side panels. Rob’s dad, Eric, built the place as a party barn. It has a full kitchen in the back corner, a bar on the other side, and two half-baths. I guess he felt the massive house wasn’t big enough. And that the rec center and hotel ballroom were too formal. Or something. The glass walls on the side fold back to allow free access to the patio that looks out at the tenth tee. Cool spring air wafts through the space, dissipating the overwhelming odor of varnish.
Rob looks up from the panel he’s staining and raises a hand. Although he’s fifteen years younger than me, and much more serious, he’s become a good friend, and I’ve enjoyed teaching him to build the bed frame. We did most of the cutting in my garage, since I have the equipment for it, then moved the pieces here to put it together. I didn’t mind working at my home, but he wanted to finish it where he wouldn’t feel like he was intruding.
“Hey, Matt. What do you think?” He gestures to the headboard leaning against the wall. The highly polished quartersawn white oak shines in the sunlight. “I finished that piece last week.”
“It came out great!” I slide a hand over the smooth surface. “Now that you’ve learned the basics, you should volunteer at the school. We’re always looking for more adults to help with the classes. You could make your own guitar.”
He looks tempted. “If I lived in town, I would do that. But the drive out from Portland every day would be a problem.”
I wave the three-hour trip away. “You come out here on Thursday nights most weeks, right? You can volunteer on Fridays. In fact, that would be perfect—my usual Friday guy just told me he’s taking off for the summer. Starting in May.”
Rob shakes his head at the fickleness of volunteers. “You’d think you weren’t paying him enough.”
“I offered to double his salary, but apparently two times zero isn’t enough for him. Anyway, if you have time, I’d love to have you.”
“I’ll consider it. Of course, I’d have to drop out during football season.” Rob started as an assistant coach last fall, and the kids love him. Or love to hate him, sometimes.
