Page 33 of Snake

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Back in the room—bright sun flowed cheerily through the windows—she saw a sheet of ivory paper on the floor just inside the door. It couldn’t be the bill; she wasn’t checking out today. Curious, Autumn detoured in that direction and bent—head thumping a warning—to pick it up.

It was a handwritten note on inn stationery:

Dear Ms. Rooney,

I hope you’re feeling better this morning. On the table just outside your door, we’ve left a basket with packets of aspirin and antacid, some fruit and crackers, and a lavender-infused headache compress. If you’re up to a more robust breakfast, please call down to the desk, and we will bring it up to your room, or of course you’re welcome to dine in the dining room. Breakfast service ends at ten, but Chef Nate takes requests throughout the day, between meal prep times. Please let us know if there’s anything you need. All best,

Shannon Ryan

Autumn read the note twice. It was both sweet (even if, as she suspected, it might have been written with a smirk) and mortifying. She hadn’t entertained any delusions about her escapades going unnoticed, but knowing that people who hadn’t even been around last night were fully aware of her shame—

No. Stop that, Autumn Renee March-Rooney. You stop that right this second. What did your dads teach you about shame?

Her wonderful gay fathers had taught her that shame was a choice. People could tease you, laugh at you, point at you, yes. They could condemn you, judge you, denigrate you, even hate you. But shame, embarrassment, humiliation—that was a choice. You could not control how other people saw you or what other people did or said to or about you, but you had total control over whether you took their meanness on and let it change you.

Last night, she’d gotten drunk. People got drunk every single day. Had she hurt anyone? Broken anything? Flouted any laws? No, she had not.

So she would collect her basket of goodies from outside the door, find her phone, figure out what she had to deal with first thing, and then she would call down to the desk and order a good greasy breakfast like she and her Alpha Phi sisters used to get.

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About an hour later—which made it almost ten o’clock—Autumn finished her second cup of excellent coffee and set her cup and napkin on the room service tray. Chef Nate made the best biscuits and gravy Autumn had ever had in her life. After that delicious breakfast, she was about eighty-five percent restored and finally felt capable of whatever this day might hold.

Still in the hotel robe and slippers, now with her damp hair loose and combed-through, she leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the one across from her at the little dining table. She picked up her phone and planned her approach to the messages there.

Three calls—from Chase, from Pom, and from Pops. Only Pops had left a voice mail. In his typically adorable formal style, he’d introduced himself: Hello, Autumn, this is your Pops. Just checking in to make sure you arrived safely. Please let me know. I’ll be home all night, but I’m in court first thing tomorrow. Leave a message if I can’t pick up. I love you. Again, this is your Pops.

Grinning, she tapped his number—and got his voice mail: Hello. This is Richard Rooney. Thank you for calling. I’m unable to answer at the moment, but please leave a message, and I will return your call as appropriate. Have a pleasant day.

“Hi, Pops. I’m sitting here at the inn in Signal Bend in a comfy robe and slippers, and I just ate a delightful room service breakfast. I had good travel karma this time, not even a slight delay anywhere, and I’m doing great. I’ll be home Monday evening. I hope you’re kicking butt in court. I love you bunches and bunches!”

She loved him so much she could kiss her phone. But she refrained and opened her message app again. Chase and Pom had both left texts rather than voice mails. And Ida, her best (only, honestly) friend, had, of course, only texted, like a normal person.

Chase’s text read DON’T FUCK THIS UP. Autumn stared at it for the third time this morning, sucking her teeth. It wasn’t an unusual text from him, or an unusual sentiment. Chase was the kind of corporate beast that made anti-capitalists point and go see what we mean? His favorite novel—and Autumn suspected the only one he’d ever read in its entirety—was Atlas Shrugged.

It was like he’d studied Alec Baldwin’s character from Glenngarry Glen Ross, Leonardo DiCaprio’s character from The Wolf of Wall Street, and Michael Douglas’s character from Wall Street and decided to Frankenstein them all into his own personality. Though all three of those characters actually worked harder than Chase ever had.

They’d had words last evening, when he’d called before she’d left the room. They’d also had words the previous night, when he’d called as she was packing. The gist of those two calls and this one text was the same: Chase was giving her enough rope to hang herself with. She’d pushed him hard on this project, he resented being in a position of any kind of uncertainty, and he was done making way. Either her Heartland Homesteads succeeded spectacularly, or she was done at MWGP.

Autumn had put up with a lot of boorish behavior from both Charlton Isleys, behavior that usually walked, and occasionally crossed, the line between annoying and inappropriate, without quite ever reaching the point of harassment. She’d put up with it because she otherwise really liked her job. Most of her working life she was on her own, and she loved not having anyone breathing down her neck every day. Chase didn’t like to actually work, so he was a fantastic delegator and usually stayed out of her way once the money part was finalized. He was far more likely to wave off a report and tell her to do what she thought was right, that was why he’d hired her.

But she’d upset that paradigm by trying to change the way MWGP did business, at least in this particular sector. Chase had let her play her project out, but he regretted it the minute she hit her first snag acquiring the properties. By leaning on her excellent track record, she’d convinced him to go deeper rather than pull the plug, and now they were all in too deep to fail.

She considered a few ways to respond to this latest message, including simply leaving it on read. Finally she decided a simple ‘thumbs up’ would be work as an actual response that was vague enough that she could insist it was nothing more than agreement when what she really meant was Eat glass, jerk.

Pom’s message was: I see you made it to Hicksville! Ride a cowboy for me! (That was a joke—don’t you dare ride any Hicksville cowboys! At least not until you’re sure he’s bathed and had all his shots!) Love you love you love you, Gingersnap. Lunch on Wednesday, right? He ended with a line of hearts arranged in rainbow colors, separated by flower emojis.

They had lunch every Wednesday, but he always asked. Since the divorce, Pom, whose miles-wide jealous streak had been among the problems in the marriage, was extra needy. In addition to being extra overall. He needed consistent assurance that he was getting as much attention from her as Pops—and consistently tried to get more.

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