Chapter Text
Irene Attolia glanced around to make sure she was unobserved, then with an almost inaudible sigh she bent to slip off her strappy heels. The grass, soft and cool with dew, soothed her weary feet.
It had been a long week at the Briarbrook Inn—par for the course at this time of year. The Briarbrook was one of the most desirable wedding venues in New England, and June remained the most popular month to wed; this week, however, had been even more hectic than usual. A large wedding party had booked the entire west wing, beginning the previous Wednesday, and the bride needed constant coddling, while her VIP father needed his ego stroked. The mother of the bride was on a heavy enough dose of Xanax that it was unlikely she knew what planet she was on, much less why she was in Brookhaven, Vermont.
All of this was typical for the clientele of the Briarbrook Inn, and Irene was well-versed in how to handle them. As the Director of Operations, she considered it her responsibility to make sure all her guests had the kind of premiere experience that would keep them coming back for generations, as well as recommending the Briarbrook to their wealthy friends, and she prided herself on doing her job with excellence.
Many of her staff, for the most part frugal New Englanders, found it ridiculous that anyone would drop in excess of $100,000 on a wedding, and while Irene privately agreed, that was nothing unusual in the world from which she had come. Her father would easily have spent twice that or more on her wedding if she had married the man he had chosen for her. Everything was about maintaining appearances and one-upmanship.
Irene was proud of her wedding team. The wedding coordinators, photographers, chefs, event staff—all worked hard to make the entire process run smoothly. Thankfully the majority of the weddings they handled were less of a production than this one had been.
But her staff had risen to the occasion, handling the various crises and a few tense moments with sterling efficiency and gracious aplomb. In the end, the ceremony and reception had gone off without a hitch, the happy couple was winging their way to a honeymoon in the Greek Isles, and the remaining guests would be checking out in the morning. And Irene could finally relax for the first time in days.
Sandals looped over her fingers, she walked barefoot across the village green to her apartment, the first floor of an early 1800’s federal-style colonial. It was one of the things she loved best about the quaint New England town where she had lived and worked for the past six months. Where else could she work at a five-star resort just a three-minute walk from home? Leaving the fast-paced city life behind, she had moved to Brookhaven, a town so small it didn’t even have a traffic light. She wasn’t running away from anything, Irene had reminded herself, she was making her own way in the world.
Walking up the front steps of her home, she pulled her keys from her purse and opened the front door. Many people in Brookhaven didn’t lock their doors, but she hadn’t gone native to that degree, although she often left the front door unlocked when she was home during the day. Still, she wasn’t comfortable taking that risk when she was gone, or at night, when she was sleeping.
She locked the door behind her, then hung up her purse on a hook and walked into her bedroom, where she put her shoes in the closet before continuing on into the bathroom. Quaint and historic though the house was, it had been extensively remodeled, and the bathtub, while old-fashioned in design, was large and modern. It had been a not-small selling point, regular bubble baths being one of the few indulgences Irene allowed herself.
She started the water running, steaming hot, and added a generous splash of Lavender & Vanilla bubble bath. While the tub was filling, she got a glass of wine from the kitchen and her robe from her bedroom, then lit several candles and turned off the lights. Finally, she put on her soothing Celtic playlist, piled her hair on top of her head, and sank gratefully into the fragrant water. The routine was calming, the bath beyond relaxing, and her peaceful reverie lasted all of five minutes before the calm was shattered by a pounding beat and the rasping howl of Bonnie Tyler.
Irene growled under her breath. If she were a cartoon character, steam would have been coming out of her ears. It was, of course, her annoying upstairs neighbor. Without a doubt, the only downside of her historic home was that she had to share it with the other resident.
“Hey, Siri,” she spoke sharply in the direction of her phone. No reply. “Hey, Siri!” she spoke louder, her teeth gritted. It was ridiculous that modern technology had reduced her to yelling at an inanimate object. This time Enya stopped singing and Siri beeped to indicate she was listening.
“Call Eugenides.”
“Calling #1 Annoying Neighbor (Eugenides),” Siri responded obediently.
“#1 Annoying Neighbor (Eugenides)”—as if she had multiple top-tier annoying neighbors. As if she had any other neighbors at all. The houses on either side of hers were second or third homes, and their rich Boston or New York owners spent only a few weeks a year in them. Which was no doubt why Eugenides wasn’t worried about bothering anyone else. And he clearly did not consider it worth his time to worry about disturbing her.
“🎵 I really need you tonight, forever’s gonna start tonight, forever’s gonna start tonight…hi, Irene,” #1 annoying neighbor broke off to greet her, his voice magnified as the phone was still connected to her speaker. He was a terrible singer.
“Do you mind? It’s after midnight, and I’ve had the week from hell. I really can’t handle Saturday night 80s hour.”
“🎵 Turn around, bright eyes,” he crooned, then, “Sorry. But this isn’t just some random 80s playlist—this is, in fact, gen’s favorite sappy love songs.” The pounding beat lessened, although she could still hear the music in the background.
“‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’?” she scoffed, reluctantly amused. “Why are you blasting sappy love songs in the middle of the night? Did some girl break your heart or something?
There was an infinitesimal pause. “Something. So I’m stress baking. Want me to bring you some of Grammy Eddis’s oatmeal raisin cookies?”
Irene hoped he couldn’t hear her stomach rumble. According to Eugenides, Grammy Eddis’s top-secret oatmeal cookie recipe was a literal family treasure, passed down through the generations and, apparently, crafted with some sort of supernatural…something. He had brought her a plateful, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red bow, when she had first moved in, and sometimes she lay awake at night imagining their lacy goodness melting in her mouth. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.
“Listen, you’re not going to win me over with some baked goods.”
“Tragic,” he murmured as she continued, “Anyway, turn down your sappy tunes. If you want to wallow in sentimental misery please keep it to yourself. And take heart—there are plenty of fish in the sea and you’re…well, I’m sure you’re someone’s type.”
“Ouch. Talk about damning with faint praise.”
Irene hesitated, her finger hovering over the end call button. In the background, “Total Eclipse of the Heart” had now given way to “Can’t Fight This Feeling." Her lips quirked. She and Eugenides might not have anything else in common, but apparently they shared an appreciation for 80s music.
“REO Speedwagon? Good choice. Now that’s a sappy love song.”
“They’re the best,” Eugenides agreed. “‘In My Dreams’ is even better for–how did you put it?--wallowing in sentimental misery.”
The song was interrupted by the tones of the timer on his phone going off.
“Oh, that’s my cookies—gotta go get them out of the oven. I’ll bring you a plate. Don’t worry–” he anticipated her objection, ”I won’t bother you. I’ll just leave them at your door.”
She ended the call and, drying her hands, picked up the phone to return to her playlist, but hesitated. On a whim she swiftly typed “In My Dreams” and hit play, sinking back into the bubbles and closing her eyes as she listened to the sad song of unrequited love.
If only I could stay asleep
At least I could pretend you’re thinking of me.
'Cause night time is the one time I am happy
You see in my dreams you love me.
She felt an unwelcome twinge of sympathy. “Well, that’s depressing. Poor guy.” #1 annoying neighbor he might be, but he was a decent enough person. Surely he didn’t deserve to have his heart broken.
“Pfft,” she scooped up a handful of bubbles and blew them away, dismissing the thought. “Whatever heartache Eugenides is suffering is certainly none of my concern.”
Irene had been so tired that she was surprised she didn’t fall asleep the minute she lay down in her bed, but though her body ached from the long day on her feet, her mind didn’t seem to want to shut down. With a sigh she got up and grabbed her robe from the back of the chair. She walked to her front door and hesitated, hand on the doorknob, then in one decisive motion she turned it and pulled the door open. As she had known there would be, a plate of cookies sat wrapped in cellophane and tied with a jaunty bow. Picking it up, she locked the door behind her and returned to her bedroom, struck again by how easily she had adapted to life in a small town. She couldn’t imagine anyone in the city leaving cookies at someone’s door, and if they did, she would certainly never eat something of such sketchy origin.
As she sat down and reached to untie the bow, blue this time, she saw that there was a note attached.
FYI: these cookies and a glass of milk make a really great breakfast (if you can wait that long) And I know you wear a lot of red, but I think blue is more your color.
She frowned, but he was right. Much of her wardrobe was red and black—power colors for a career woman—but blue was her favorite color. Absently she smoothed her hand across her lap, covered by her robe–blue. She looked at her comforter, her curtains. Blue. He’d never been in her room, though, and he’d certainly never seen her in her robe. She had no social life to speak of, so she was rarely out and about in casual clothes. The only place she went was work. It was a mystery and not a pleasant one. She wondered, not for the first time, if he was some kind of creepy stalker.
Irene tossed the note aside, and only then saw the writing on the back. Check your messages—in the same messy scrawl. With a lift of an eyebrow, she reached for her phone, and just as she touched it, it binged to indicate an incoming message. She yanked her hand back, then gave herself a mental shake and picked it up firmly.
It was a Spotify link—a brightly-colored medley of several album covers with the title gen’s favorite sappy love songs.
Her lips turned up in reluctant amusement. Leaving her robe on the chair, she climbed back under the covers and opened the playlist. She pressed the play button and closed her eyes as “You’re the Inspiration” began to play. She was asleep before the chorus.