Page 19 of Story Of My Heart

“Tate! Tate!” the bird caws, bobbing its head up and down. “Tate brought a slampiece! Tate brought a slampiece!”

Tate turns to stare at Ledger, who turns a spectacular shade of red, before rummaging through the front desk for a bag of treats to try and shut the bird up. I have to bite at a hangnail on my thumb to stop myself from howling with laughter in my seat.

Despite eating a nut or two from Ledger’s hand, Captain Obvious is undeterred. “Tate’s a horndog, horndog, horndog. Squawk! Squawk! Bet he’s gonna rub one out later! Rub-a-dub-dub!”

Amid the chaos of the chatty bird, a perturbed guest, a woman in her late fifties with a perfectly coiffed bob and designer sunglasses perched atop her head, storms up to the front desk. She clutches a monogrammed handbag close to her side and looks every bit the part of someone who will soon be demanding to speak to the manager.

“Excuse me, young man!” she addresses Ledger, her voice dripping with indignation. “Is this the kind of language we allow our... pets to use around here? I didn't bring my grandchildren to this resort for them to be exposed to such filth! Now, I’m going to have to explain that obnoxious creature!”

Ledger, still red-faced and fumbling with the bird treats, tries to placate her. “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am. Captain Obvious has a... colorful vocabulary. We’re working on it, I assure you. But he was my dad’s pet, and he’s part of the history of the resort. We’ve tried to rehome him, but the guests get upset…”

The woman huffs, not satisfied. “Colorful? More like inappropriate! What kind of establishment are you running here? My Harold would have never tolerated such—”

Before she can continue, Captain Obvious chimes in again, its voice rising over the murmur of the lodge. “Harold! Horny Harold, Horny Harold—” In a split second, the bird snaps his beak closed. Then he regards the woman with a cock of his plumed head. “Harold died because Crabby Patty killed him. Crabby Patty! Squawk! Crabby, crabby, crabby!”

The woman’s face turns a shade that competes with Ledger’s. “That’s enough!” She snaps her purse shut with a click. “I expect better from Go Jump In The Lake Resort. I shall be writing a very strongly worded review! Negative stars!”

Ledger, desperate, offers a weak smile. “Perhaps we can offer you a complimentary breakfast for your trouble? Our pancakes are less... talkative.”

The woman sniffs, seemingly considering the offer, then marches off with a dismissive wave of her hand, muttering about ‘decency’ and ‘proper training.’ Ledger shoots a helpless look toward Tate, who is doing his best not to laugh, watching the scene unfold from a distance. As the woman retreats, the bird, perhaps sensing victory, lets out a triumphant “Harold! Not horny anymore! Crabby, crabby, crabby!” followed by an amused series of clicks and whistles.

“Who taught him to say that?” Tate asks, arms folded across his chest.

“No one. I don’t know. I’ll find out, and I’ll fire them,” Ledger sputters out, running a hand through his hair. “That’s beside the point. You’re here. You need to work. You said you would work.”

“I don’t have a schedule,” Tate replies weakly.

“So, pick a shift. Any shift. I’ll give you one of mine. Please. I could use a break.” He picks up a travel mug of coffee from the desk, clutching it like it’s the answer to all of his prayers. Then he glances around and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Just like that damn bird, I’m about to lose my shit.”

“You should get a hobby. Less time to ride my ass,” Tate teases. To his credit, he’s already starting to look through the scheduling binder that Ledger has set on the desk. He may be a weasel, but he’s not a total letdown.

“I don’t have time for a hobby,” Ledger huffs, taking long sips of his coffee. “I barely get to fish anymore.”

Before Tate can argue the point, a rugged figure strides through the lobby. Hank, in his late fifties, is a portrait of weathered resilience with a thick silver beard and a mop of unruly salt-and-pepper hair. His paint-stained coveralls, faded from years of use, hang loosely around his solid frame as he hauls a well-worn ladder past the desk. Just like Captain Obvious, he’s a fixture around the resort. He and Tate’s dad went to high school together.

Ledger stares in confusion, tilting his head like a dog. “Hank, what are you doing?”

“Punch list,” the man responds, turning to face him. The ladder swings behind him, almost knocking into a woman walking through the lobby. She jumps out of the way just in time, narrowly avoiding her entire breakfast plate getting dumped on her chest. Hank seems oblivious to the incident. “Big one.”

“I didn’t give you a list.” Ledger swirls his coffee in his mug thoughtfully.

“The fancy Minneapolis lawyer did.” Turning again, Hank’s ladder misses a large potted plant at the side of the front desk by a hair. Ledger stiffens, motioning for Hank to set the ladder down.

Ledger’s brow pinches. “How would the lawyer get a punch list?”

I can feel the nervous energy radiating off of Tate from all the way over here. He keeps getting quieter and quieter, and he looks as if he might try and climb into the bird cage to hide any moment now.

“I have my suspicions,” Hank mutters, leaning in close to Ledger over the desk. Tate holds his breath, and so do I. Hank looks around over his shoulder at the lobby, and then continues, satisfied that no one else is paying attention to him. “I think we have a secret shopper. Like at McDonald’s.”

Ledger nods in complete agreement. “I’m sure. Dammit. I need to handle this.”

“Take your time,” Tate adds, visibly deflating as the stress leaves his body. He’s dodged the bullet for now, but it’s only a matter of time before Ledger and Fallon start to put two and two together. Leaving Ledger to deal with the punch list from hell, Tate comes to join me in the lobby. He has barely made contact with the seat before Fallon appears in the corner of my vision, holding two cups of coffee. She passes one to me, and Tate holds out an expectant hand for the second one.

Instead, she brings it to her lips and pointedly takes a sip, making full eye contact with her brother. I think I’m going to like her.

“No, really, I’m happy to go get my own coffee, Fallon. Really.” He stands up almost as quickly as he sat down, trudging off to go find coffee of his own. I’m not sure what year it was the last time Tate had to make his own coffee, and I have to hide a smile. Fallon watches until he’s out of earshot, turning to me and lowering her voice so only I can hear.

“Your kiss last night? Gah, so awkward.” Fallon’s words slice through the air, and I see the flicker of embarrassment flash across her face as she rushes to clarify. “Kind of like me and Leo. Because me and Leo aren’t really dating. We’ve been friends since grade school. Kissing him is like kissing a dead fish.”

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