Chapter Text
Robert has been up and on his feet for 18 hours when he lays down to sleep. His bed seems to be the most inviting thing in the world at the moment, and he only pauses to take his shoes off because he doesn’t feel like scrubbing mud off of the duvet in the morning (there’s already enough laundry to do). He’s still wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, and he’s resigned himself to falling asleep in them – any comfort he’d get from changing isn’t worth the effort of getting up again. The entire bed, from the sheets to the box spring, are the exact same as the fairly upscale ones in the guest accommodations, something Robert hardly gave notice to when he first moved in, but something he is immensely thankful for now. He sinks into the mattress, the last resistance to sleep in his body quickly melting away when his head hits the pillow.
And then there is a knock at the front door.
Robert musters up the last of his strength, drags his wrist over to his face to squint at his watch. It’s almost impossible to make out the tiny hands in the dark, and is incredulous when he’s finally able to decipher that it’s just past 11. Who the hell, he thinks, is knocking at the door of a bed and breakfast that’s at least two miles down the road from the nearest home at this time of day? The thought that it’s a thief or a murderer or something similarly horrifying crosses his mind; but he quickly rules it out because it’s so far away from civilization that he can’t imagine a criminal desperate enough to try to find the place.
He physically aches, he’s exerted himself so much that day, but – Mind over matter, he forces himself to think as he pulls himself back to a rough approximation of a standing position. The light from the foyer is just enough for him to make his way down the hall by. He left it on for the night even though there weren’t any guests expected till tomorrow – a decision he’s now kicking himself for, as it’s likely why whoever is at his door thought it was appropriate to knock.
He fumbles with the lock for a second, excruciatingly aware that whoever is outside can tell he’s struggling, awake enough to be acutely aware that the visitor can tell he can’t open it but too tired to actually get it to turn. After far more exertion than should’ve been needed to turn a lock, he opens the door, and Robert isn’t particularly sure what he expected to see on his porch, but certainly not the man before him. He scrutinizes the visitor through bleary eyes. He’s not too tall, a little scrawny (a strange description for a grown man, but an accurate one), and he has a wool cap covering his head that Robert quite frankly thinks looks ridiculous, especially for a mild April night.
“Who are you?” Robert asks. Although he’s mildly surprised at his own rudeness (not even a hello?), he’s relieved that he’s too exhausted for enough change in intonation – he doesn’t come off as completely rude, just emotionless and dead inside.
The man shifts uncomfortably, and lets out a small laugh before extending a hand, which Robert tentatively shakes. “Sorry for dropping by so late, but I saw your light on.”
Robert doesn’t respond, just tilts his head to the side a bit, trying to make sense of the figure in front of him. He’s wearing a leather jacket that looks just short of a century old, his jeans are beginning to fray at the knees, his boots are covered in mud. Beneath the dirt and scruff, the visitor seems restless and out of place – and not just because he’s on someone else’s property close to midnight.
“I’m Abraham Woodhull. Just Abe is fine,” he continues, brushing past the silence. Robert can’t quite tell if he just didn’t expect a response or if he would have interrupted and kept talking anyways, but he frowns a bit. This late on a Sunday night, even a hypothetical interruption is grounds for annoyance. “I live in the white house down the road, the area past the woods.” He awkwardly gestures to the line of trees that border the inn’s property, but doesn’t stop looking at Robert. There’s a clever intensity in his gaze that intrigues and infuriates Robert, because it seems like Abraham is very much aware of how absurd this situation is, and like he might even be enjoying it.
“Robert Townsend,” he finally says after a pause, words clipped and dispassionate. Giving his name to the stranger at his door feels like a concession in some kind of game that he didn’t even know he was playing. And against his better judgement (he chalks it off to sleep deprivation, nothing more) he keeps talking. “The new owner here. I purchased the inn about a month ago, and I just moved in last week.”
“Ah, good luck then. It seems like no one manages to hold onto this place for long.”
Is that a challenge? A threat? Robert opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off.
“I’ll see you around, Robert,” Abraham says with a smile that grates on Townsend’s already frayed nerves, and then he’s faded back into the dark night. He’s gone, leaving nothing but the sound of feet crunching on gravel in the distance. Robert’s mind doesn’t catch up with what’s just happened in the past 60 seconds until Abraham is already gone, and quite frankly, he’s too tired to try and sort it all out.
Townsend falls into bed with his clothes still on once again, and quietly hopes that the visitor was just a dream.
At least that would mean he’s already asleep.
()
The next morning, Robert’s phone alarm goes off at 5:00. Despite the early hour, he’s always been good at managing to drag himself out of bed. Mind over matter, he thinks again, sore from exhaustion. Being able to work on very little sleep is a skill that’s proved useful – first in business school, and now in a job that literally requires him to be up before anyone else in the building.
The sun is barely beginning to peak through the dark curtains in his room as he goes through his daily routine. He brushes his hair, pulls it back into a tidy braid. The button-down shirt he throws on is nicer than usual on account of the guests arriving today, but there’s no pomp and circumstance. It’s just another day at work.
The kitchen, tucked in a corner of the downstairs just across from his bedroom, is fairly large for an inn that only has 5 guest rooms, so he’s taken to eating his meals there. The dining room is… there’s nothing wrong with it, per say. It’s just dripping with the same kind of excess opulence that permeates most of the property. The china was custom ordered to match the drapes, which were of course also made just for the inn. Of course all of the utensils are real filigreed silver. Rivington always did have a taste for the extravagant. He sold the inn to Robert months ago, but evidence of his influence here is uncomfortably inescapable.
Robert is far more comfortable at the small wooden table tucked into the corner of the kitchen. He feels out of the way, unlikely to disturb or be disturbed. Sitting alone, he sips his coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. It’s pretty shitty.
It was purchased for cheap in bulk out of necessity after the company he’d hired to deliver produce decided that the rural location and gravel road leading to the inn justified raising the cost of delivery, throwing his budgeting off for the entire month. He’s still annoyed weeks later, and mostly at himself for not noticing the contractual loophole before signing the papers. He can imagine the chastisements of his business school professors every time he thinks about it. As if having to re-budget wasn’t punishment enough, he thinks indignantly.
He drinks the rest of the shitty coffee.
Days at the inn follow a fairly predictable order, barely changed by the arrival of his first guests. First there’s cleaning – dusting and sweeping and washing the dishes. This, Robert thinks sarcastically to himself as he empties the dustpan, is truly the romantic ideal of innkeeping. The coffee shop he worked at his senior year of undergrad was full of those world-weary corporate types, who occasionally floated around how great it would be to leave their suits and cubicles behind and open an inn, somewhere quiet in the mountains or near the seaside. In less than two weeks of owning an inn himself, Robert has realized that not only did all of them have it completely wrong – running an inn by yourself is an astounding amount of work – none of them would last a week doing this.
The rest of the morning is spent behind the front desk, sorting through paperwork and bills. He’s granted a brief respite when his first guests check in (something he finds underwhelming). They’re a pair of honeymooners from D.C. The husband (a senator, Robert’s seen him on TV before) seems a little off somehow – the descriptor smarmy comes to mind as Robert leads them inside with their bags. The hand that’s not wrapped possessively around his new wife (who looks rather morose considering the occasion) is constantly reaching out to touch the décor; he seems far more interested in the gilded candelabrum next to the check-in desk than his bride. This fact becomes far more interesting when the credit card belonging to a “Benedict Arnold” is declined, and the woman with him sighs, then pulls out a black American Express card and hands it over with a tired smile. Robert tucks this interesting observation away.
After the brief interruption, Townsend’s day moves on at a brisk pace. More paperwork, then laundry, then a bit of yardwork. Back inside as the sun goes down for more cleaning, folding linens, wiping down the kitchen, and polishing the silverware for tomorrow’s breakfast.
He also starts the baking, because for the first time since he’s moved in he’ll need to make more than his own breakfast of shitty coffee. It’s as he’s methodically sifting flour into a bowl for biscuits, that he finally has time to reflect on what happened the night before. There is a certain amount of surrealism in the memory and he allows himself to acknowledge the humor in the situation with a brief roll of his eyes. But largely, he just feels annoyed. The encroachment kept him from sleep and the stranger may or may not have implied he lacked the ability to keep the inn open (it wasn’t a blatant insult, if that’s even what it was, it was just obnoxious). Most annoying of all, despite how much he wishes he could just let it go, there’s a corner of his mind that keeps wandering back to the conversation. It was so bizarre, he can’t help wondering about Woodhull – a name that seems familiar, but he can’t pinpoint why, which certainly isn’t helping ease his nagging curiosity. Abraham did tell him where he lived, but Robert pushes that thought aside the moment visiting Woodhull occurs to him. Even if he wanted to visit – which he certainly doesn’t, he’s not that intrigued – there’s no time for it.
Robert’s been on his feet for 18 hours when he goes to bed, but tonight he finds it difficult to fall asleep even without any surprise visitors. He stares at his ceiling and wills his mind to focus on budgeting better and the chores for tomorrow and the menu for breakfast and buying new coffee, but his thoughts keep drifting back to that utterly stupid wool cap and the infuriating smile of its wearer.
()
As the day-to-day running of the inn becomes more habitual, the days start to run together a bit. It feels like when he was little, and would lose track of the day of the week during summer, because for the whether it was a Monday or a Saturday didn’t actually make a difference. Instead of forgetting because of a lack of work, Robert hardly has a second to rest. Technically he’s given himself Sundays off, but he’s yet to take a day of rest. And going to a Meeting seems far from realistic given the distance and his chores, even though he’s sure his father would scold him for neglecting his faith.
The first guests leave, more filter in, pulled in by the novelty of the place. Some are in town visiting family – the grandmothers and aunts are always the ones who want to have friendly conversation (he has to stop himself from laughing sardonically when they ask if he has a wife). He gets a few others from D.C., low-level politicians who drive nice cars they probably shouldn’t be able to afford (who ever said corruption was dead?).
The two luxury cars parked in front of the bed and breakfast make the beat up Pontiac that’s parked next to them when Robert returns from the store look even worse than it is. When Robert pushes the back door open and turns into the kitchen, he’s not surprised to see his father seated at the table, cane in hand.
“Robert,” his father says warmly, as way of greeting.
“Father,” Robert responds, placing his grocery bags on the table and leaning forward to hug him. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, but you sound exhausted.” The tone of concern makes Robert feel guilty, because it is his fault he hasn’t been calling his father enough. There’s an added layer of irony in that being closer to his father – after he fell and broke his hip, Philadelphia felt too far for Robert’s conscience and comfort – was the crux of why he bought the inn in the first place, which honestly just makes him feel worse now since the inn has been his main distraction.
“I’m fine,” he responds automatically. Admittedly, his guilt is due to his own failure in checking up on his father, not for not telling him all the details of his own life, which he’s sure his father would chastise him for. “How is your hip? When was the last time you talked to your doctor?”
“It’s fine, just like we knew it was going to be from the beginning,” his father replies with fond exasperation; he shifts his weight and rubs his hip anyways, something that doesn’t escape Robert’s notice. “I’ll probably need the cane a little longer, but it’s healing up perfectly alright.”
“I hope you’ve been taking it easy,” Robert says as he takes the kettle off the stove (his father must have put it on) and carries it over to the table, with two mugs and two tea bags in his other hand. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get away and help you around the house.”
His father waves off the suggestion. “If anything, you’re the one who needs help around here. Why you haven’t hired more help is beyond me.”
Robert wordlessly hands his father the mug, and sips, looking over the rim of his own cup with raised eyebrows. The answer to that is of course, he can’t afford it right now, even part-time workers are too much of an expense. And I’m perfectly capable of getting work done when there aren’t any distractions, he thinks to himself, then immediately feels guilty. He would never say something like that to his father, and he isn’t unhappy that his father is visiting. There’s just so much to do.
Putting the mug down, he grabs the grocery bag and leaves his father to his tea as he crosses the kitchen to put the eggs and milk in the fridge.
“You’ve been on your feet ever since you walked in the door,” his father points out, and Robert sighs, shuts the refrigerator door. “If you won’t hire someone to help you, I wish you would at least find a friend or two, someone to help you relax a little –“
“I don’t need –“
“Or have you met any nice men around here?” His father’s voice takes on a slightly lighter tone, and Robert has to summon every ounce of maturity in his body not to roll his eyes then and there.
“Rural Virginia,” he replies drily, “is not exactly known for its population of eligible young gay bachelors.” Robert grabs a soapy damp rag sitting in the sink (another box to check on his endless list of things that need to be cleaned) and begins to scrub down the counter, more aggressively than necessary. “I’m perfectly capable of running this place, I wouldn’t have bought it otherwise.”
“I know you think you can, but I think you forget your own limitations sometimes.”
“I’m not having this argument right now,” Robert says, harsher than he meant it. “I’m fine,” he adds, softer. And that’s the end of that conversation.
()
Robert’s carefully balancing ten of Rivington’s custom-ordered porcelain plates as he makes his way through the dining room. He’s moving slowly as to not bump into any of the small round tables scattered throughout, but his eyes are constantly moving, cataloguing his jobs for the rest of the day. There’s a stain on the tablecloth near the window thanks to guests that arrived two days ago, napkins at four of the eight tables need to be washed when he does the laundry later. The antique ivory-inlaid checkerboard in the corner needs to be dusted. He can handle it.
He pushes the kitchen door open with his shoulder, and makes his way over to the sink. The guests have mostly dispersed by now, either back up to their rooms or out. Surveying the kitchen, Robert allows himself a brief moment to breath, as the kitchen is fairly tidy. The visitors spread out what time in the morning they came down to eat more than usual, which made it easier to clean up as he went along – but it’s still less work for him later. Of course, he doesn’t let himself spend too long on pointless introspection, and he moves to start washing the dishes.
And then there is a knock at the back door.
Robert quickly grabs a towel and dries off his hands before leaving the room, leaving the porcelain to sit in a pool of warm soapy water. Who would be at the back door? It’s not likely to be a guest, because the back door is actually kind of hard to find, especially compared to the front entryway – it’s on the far side of the house, and guarded by a large rhododendron bush. His father would just waltz in unannounced, so he can be safely ruled out too.
For a brief moment after he opens the door, all he sees is a large wooden crate. And then the man holding the crate tilts his head to see around it.
“Woodhull?”
“Can you give me a hand with this?”
The crate is shoved into Townsend’s arms before he has a chance to respond, and he stumbles backwards a few paces under the unexpected weight. Abraham matches him step for step moving forward, and grabs the other side and practically manhandles the innkeeper (and crate) down the hall. The only reason they make it into the kitchen is because of Robert’s forcible navigation, and he still gets bruised on the door frame trying to walk into the room backwards with Abraham pushing forwards. Woodhull occasionally offers useless navigational advice, which Townsend entirely ignores (it’s his inn, and he’s not certain Abraham can even see over the side of the crate, he’s so short). Once in the kitchen Robert lets go of his side of the box, and Woodhull lets his side slip. The crate crashes to the kitchen floor, and Abraham is leaning over a bit, hands on his knees and breathing heavy from exertion.
“Nice to see you again,” Robert says sarcastically, too annoyed and his arms too sore to even play at being glad to see him. He peers into the crate, pointedly not showing outward concern for the man panting in front of him. The wooden box is about 2 feet tall by 3 feet wide, and absolutely stuffed with vegetables, mostly cabbage and spinach. And they look fresh – vibrant greens standing out brightly against the grey-brown wood.
“Why is this filled with vegetables?”
Woodhull (who’s caught his breath and straightened up by now) looks at Robert for a second, as if that question is strange. A moment passes, and something like understanding crosses his face, during which Robert notices that the hat is gone. (He’s not sure why he notes that, but he also notes that Abraham’s hair is longer than expected, and pulled back into a neat ponytail.)
“I forgot to mention it when I stopped by to introduce myself. I’m a farmer,” Abraham says, like that explains everything. It explains nearly nothing.
“Are you trying to sell me vegetables?”
“No, of course not.” If the question catches Woodhull off guard, he doesn’t show it. “The guy I sell my stuff to couldn’t buy all of it, so I ended up with extra. I figured you’d be able to use more of it than me.”
The answer catches Robert a bit off guard, but his only reaction is a raised eyebrow. “It’s free?” he asks, voice heavy with suspicion.
“Yep.” Abraham pauses, looks over like he knows something Robert doesn’t. “Consider it a peace offering to apologize for bothering you so late a few weeks ago.”
Apology not accepted is on the tip of Robert’s tongue, but he bites the sharp reply down. Yes, he’s still very annoyed about the other night, and right now certainly isn’t helping with the irritation factor. But even though Abraham’s intentions still seem a little strange and clouded, just from what he can see on top, it’s at least $120 of produce, quite possibly more. Right now, the B&B is doing fine financially. But it would be an idiotic business move not to take what’s being offered, and Robert’s not an idiot.
“Well. Thank you,” Robert says, and he means it, as suspicious as he is. “Are you sure you don’t want anything for it?”
“There is one thing,” Abraham starts, halts and looks around the kitchen, eyes pausing briefly at the stove before he looks back at Robert. “Could you hard boil a few eggs for me? I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”
Once again, Robert’s caught off guard, but shrugs, and moves to fill a pot with water. It’s an easy request, and the guy did just give him a large crate of vegetables. “How many?”
“Six or seven?”
“That’s a lot of eggs.”
Woodhull shrugs. “If I can’t finish them, I’ll take them with me as a snack for later.” Robert raises his eyebrows again, but goes to pull a carton out of the fridge anyways. There’s exactly 6 left, which means another 30-minute drive to the store this afternoon to buy more, which means an entire hour taken away from doing stuff that actually matters, just for eggs. Rationally, he knows he’d have to go anyways – he’s been going through almost a dozen and a half each morning – but he still feels mildly annoyed at having to give Woodhull, practically a stranger, the last of them.
Woodhull has seated himself at the wooden table across the kitchen, and Robert can practically feel his eyes on him as he puts the pot on the stove and turns the heat up.
“How’s running this place going for you?”
Why are you acting like you know me? Robert wants to say. “It’s been fine.”
The brusque nature of his reply seems to go entirely over Abraham’s head. “That’s good – hey, I meant to ask, is just Rob okay?”
“I prefer Robert,” he replies, once again unsure of where Abraham is getting the sense that they’re friends. In all honesty, he doesn’t care that much what people call him, it’s just a name, but the informality is grating. Just like the other night, there’s something about their back-and-forth that seems like a game, a sort of subtle sparring.
“Whatever you say, Robert,” Abraham says, and smiles. Robert does not.
Eggs getting close to boiling, he goes to grab two bowls, one of ice water and another empty.
“How’d you end up in this business?” Abraham asks. “You seem pretty young to be running a bed and breakfast.”
Robert’s back is to Abraham, but he glances over his shoulder while reaching into the cabinet. “I just got out of business school. I wanted to be in the area, and a former boss of mine was selling it,” he replies, moving over to the freezer to grab ice. There’s a lot of details left out; addendums he doesn’t dignify the question with. He’s pretty sure that Woodhull won’t ask about any holes in the story, but he’s also certain that at the very least he’ll notice them. Woodhull is almost certainly smarter than he lets on, another observation Robert can tack onto his (rapidly growing) list of things he doesn’t understand about this man.
“Business school, huh?” Abe echoes, leans back in the chair, stretches out like he owns the damn kitchen. Pretending not to notice that his visitor has made himself very much at home, Robert busies himself with taking the eggs off the stove and dropping them into the bowl of ice water.
“I was in law school for a while myself,” Woodhull remarks casually. This time Robert does look back, out of genuine surprise. He tries to picture Abraham as a lawyer, and the concept of him in court with a suit is completely incongruous with the image in front of Robert. What did his law professors think of his ponytail? he thinks amusedly, and turns away before Woodhull can see the small involuntary upturn in the corners of his mouth.
“How’d you end up in the farming business?” Robert responds drily after a moment of consideration. Abe smiles thinly. For such an innocuous question, it seems to hit a nerve.
“It was my back-up plan, and law school wasn’t working for me,” Abe responds with a shrug, and it’s clearly some kind of lie. Even if it wasn’t so laughably vague, it honestly just welcomes itself to more questions. Robert gets the impression that Woodhull is used to lying, and that he’s used to people falling for it. He’s not sure how exactly he can tell Abraham is lying; his performance is actually fairly impressive. Maybe there’s a lack of confidence in the eye contact, but everything else is convincing as can be – it seems like even Abraham believes what he’s saying. Maybe he wouldn’t be such a bad lawyer after all. Part of him wants to pry, but to be fair, he left a lot out of his story as well, so he lets it slip. His mind completes that remark with “for now,” and he nearly shakes his head trying to get the idea out.
“Here’s your eggs,” Robert says, placing the bowl in front of Abe, who seems a little less relaxed than before, like he was bracing himself for more questions about law school. He allows himself a brief moment of satisfaction for disarming the farmer – if they are playing some kind of game, Robert’s gotten the upper hand for the first time, and if it’s immature to feel pleased with that, he comforts himself with the fact that pretty much everything Abe has done in their two meetings has been far more so.
“Thanks.” Abe cracks one of the eggs on the side of the bowl, and Robert watches him haphazardly peel bits of shell off and toss them onto the table for a moment before turning back to the work at hand. The dishes won’t clean themselves, and he’s not going to stand around and watch someone eat breakfast when there’s work to do.
“What kind of people do you get staying here?”
Robert shrugs and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, plunges his hands into the soapy water that’s become cold while sitting there. “People visiting family. Honeymooners. Some politicians. The president,” he replies, sarcasm thick on the last part. Abraham actually laughs a little at that, and Robert turns his eyes heavenward. He’s disinterested in this discussion and growing more preoccupied by the amount of work he needs to be doing by the moment. Abraham clearly enjoys hearing the sound of his own voice, and he’ll humor him for a bit longer because of the vegetables, but he doesn’t intend to let the farmer waste much more of his time.
“I guess the politicians are because we’re so close to D.C.,” Abe comments in-between bites of egg.
“Probably,” Robert agrees, but coldly, and he lets a clean dish clatter on the counter to punctuate the hint he’s giving.
It works. Abraham pushes his chair back, and when the innkeeper turns around at the noise, the bowl of eggs is empty save for some bits of shell. For a second he’s surprised, he hadn’t expected Woodhull to eat all of them – and then he notices that the pockets of the beaten-up leather jacket are bulging, and he has to restrain himself from an exasperated sigh.
“Thanks for the breakfast,” Abe says, moving towards the doorway. “I’ll see myself out.” Robert begins to raise a hand to wave goodbye, but splashes water on his shirt in the process. Abraham notices (Robert can tell from the look in his eyes), but doesn’t laugh or anything. He just smiles that same, infuriating smile he did the first time they met.
“See you around, Rob.”