Page 22 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

‘Wow,’ I murmured, eyeing it – and Bud – with a good deal of suspicion.

‘I didn’t make it,’ Bud grumbled, thrusting the sign at me and reaching out for my cases with a hand the size of a dinner plate. ‘Phoebe did.’

‘Oh,’ I nodded, and the name rang a faint bell, though I wasn’t sure why. When no further information was provided I asked, ‘Is Phoebe your… daughter?’

Bud looked at me, and I could have sworn that for a moment his face took on a panicked expression. ‘No,’ he replied finally.

‘Ah,’ I said, none the wiser. ‘And Nico sent you?’

‘You got his email about it.’

That was true. He’d also described the man exactly and that was the only reason that I got into the back of the potential murder-mobile that, Bud informed me with a hint of pride, was the only taxi in Roseport, the town where I’m apparently meeting Nico.

Those were the last words we exchanged and we have now been driving for over an hour in total silence. If I wasn’t still slightly worried about Bud plotting my untimely demise (and then efficiently arranging my funeral afterwards, I guess), I would be very happy about it. There’s nothing worse than small talk.

Ten minutes later we drive past a sign that says WELCOME TO ROSEPORT in swirling calligraphy. Underneath this greeting is the information that I am also entering the HOME OF THE WORLD’S SECOND LARGEST POTATO.

Bizarre potato pride aside, I feel my shoulders relax. Okay, perhaps Bud is not driving me to an abandoned pig farm to bring about my grisly end, and now all I have to worry about is seeing Nico. Then again, maybe the pig farm doesn’t sound so bad?

I clutch my handbag, which has all the information on divorce and annulment options that I managed to gather when I couldn’t sleep last night.

I rub my tired eyes. How is it even possible that it’s been little more than a whole day since I found out Nico and I were married? What am I now doing on the other side of the world, having blown up my perfectly nice relationship? Am I having some sort of mental health crisis?

Gran and I haven’t talked since our argument. I left her a brief note explaining that I’d been called on a last minute work trip to the States and arranged for our next door neighbour – a very sweet retired GP with a massive crush on Gran – to check in on her while I’m away.

I text her now. Not a long message like I’d usually send – we even exchange voice notes fairly regularly – but a curt Arrived safely.

Her response is immediate and just as brief. Okay.

It seems I’m not the only one with hurt feelings about how we left things.

Thankfully, I’m distracted from my worrying by Bud, who exhales a grunt that seems designed to get my attention.

‘Downtown,’ he says with a gesture of his hand.

This appears to be the extent of the tour.

Clearly, we’ve hit the middle of Roseport now and I exhale a little huff of surprise. What on earth is Nico doing here?

In the dim twilight, it looks exactly like the kind of small American town you see in Hallmark movies. I press my fingers to the glass, a smile pulling at my lips.

‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ I say, which garners another grunt – this one of approval, I think.

We pass a white clapboard church with a single tall steeple, set behind a picket fence, facing the town square. A bandstand, which is currently lit with candles and lanterns, is occupied by a group of older people in brightly coloured Lycra doing a yoga class. At least I assume that’s what they’re doing as they all move into Eagle pose with various levels of success. More than one of them lifts a hand to wave at Bud as we pass (only further compromising their balance).

He rolls the window down to stick his burly arm out and return the greeting and I’m sure I hear a distant blast of Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ coming from the speakers on the bandstand.

‘Hey, Bud!’ one big voice yells. ‘You owe me fifty dollars. Patriots suck!’

‘Fuck you, Ern,’ Bud growls, and his friendly hand gesture rapidly transforms to a middle-fingered salute as we crawl past.

‘Namaste,’ the yoga class chorus.

We drive along the main street, where a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of buildings line the sidewalks, all pushed up against each other with signs offering ice cream and yogurt and taffy and oysters (thankfully not all from the same place). The odd window is lit, but it’s mostly quiet, with very few people around. Old-fashioned black, iron lampposts spill small pools of gold light over the pavements. Bud has left the window down and the air is cool and sweet. I can’t believe this is real; it’s like being on a film set tour. I half expect the buildings to be totally flat, propped up by wooden joists.

After a moment, we turn off onto a long, curved street. Here the houses are big and more private, set back from the road by well-tended lawns, hidden behind high hedges. We drive for a few more minutes and eventually we come to a building that is perched slightly away from the rest. There’s a stone wall with a sign built into the corner with a light above it, proclaiming THE HUMMINGBIRD INN in slightly tarnished gilded letters. Underneath is another, hand-painted sign: UNDER RENOVATION.

As we pull off onto the drive, the view opens up and Bud’s headlights throw out an arc of light, briefly illuminating the building. Three storeys tall, white clapboard, blue shutters at the windows, a wide porch and some sort of climbing plant around the door.