By Douglas Young

     “Wisteria Falls Hideaway Inn – let’s make your vacation a big win.” Marigold McTaft answered the phone behind the front desk, moving from side to side in her swivel high chair and grinning at Furman Chase, a long-time friend. It was a Friday night in June at the ten-room motel nestled in the mountains between the large Wisteria Falls waterfall and the little tourist town named for it. Though she attended college out of town, Marigold was home for the summer, where she enjoyed working part-time at her Aunt Eloise’s inn, especially when her relative was away. It was the cushiest job Marigold had ever had because she knew her aunt would never fire her since Marigold’s mother, Eloise’s sister, had loaned her a lot of money to help buy the motel. So Marigold got to play her own music at the front desk, dress in a halter top and shorts, and kick off her flip-flops.

     Furman went to another university but was also in town for the summer, where he worked in his father’s law office. He had known Marigold since middle school and had been a buddy since high school. Though Furman had long dreamed of dating the tall, attractive brunette, Marigold’s romantic tastes had veered toward jocks in high school and rock guitarists in college. As an utterly unathletic and reserved pre-law major, Furman fretted that he failed to meet Miss McTaft’s dating requirements and had been loath to risk romantic rejection or jeopardize their friendship by asking her out.

     So with another dateless Friday night, Furman readily accepted Marigold’s request to keep her company at the motel that evening, where she did little actual work beyond answering the phone and giving basic information to any guests with various questions. Mr. Chase sat at the other end of the little front desk and often felt like the straight man to Miss McTaft.

     “So how’re things at your daddy’s law office?” she asked while admiring her nails. “Any scandals or juicy divorce details? Any classmates in trouble with the law?” She smiled at him with raised eyebrows.

     “Now, now, Miss Marigold,” he replied with a feint smile. “Confidentiality rules wouldn’t let me share anything anyway.”

     “Yeah, but you can waive all that with me, babe. I’m practically family.”

     “Oh, don’t say that.” He winced slightly.

     “Well, you know I’d never tell anyone anything truly private,” she managed to get out just before both of them guffawed.

     “Oh, no,” he replied between laughs. “Remember when my mom told yours about Daddy putting white clothes with the colored ones in the washing machine and all the family’s underwear turned pink? The next day at school a slew of classmates – including several girls, thank you very much – asked how I liked my new pink boxers.”

     Laughing loudly, Marigold spun herself around in the swivel chair a few times with her legs extended. “Now you gotta’ admit, sweetie. That was just way too embarrassing not to share. Besides, it was completely innocent and just confirmed your G-rated family’s corny credentials. You’ll never get me to apologize for that one.”

     Before he could reply, a small, severe-looking, middle-aged man came to the front desk asking for a local restaurant guide. Marigold greeted him warmly and handed it to him. When she asked if he wanted her recommendations, he waved his hand and left the lobby without a word.

     “Rude Yankee,” she remarked.

     “Maybe he’s just had a really rough week,” Furman offered.
     “Screw him,” she snarled. “Yesterday when I forgot he called asking for extra towels, he could’ve easily just asked me again and I would’ve apologized and gotten his stupid towels. But no. Mr. Asswipe makes a point of walking right by me to the manager’s office and tells Aunt Eloise.”

     “Perhaps he’s super shy and intimidated by your loud personality.” Furman stifled a laugh.

     “Then he’s a nutless wonder to boot,” she pronounced. “Just watch the little bastard. I bet you a dollar to a donut that twat posts a really bad review online – after he’s gone back to Yankeeland. They can have him.”

     “He may not,” Furman said hopefully.

     “I guess we’ll just see.” She smiled.

     “Mercy, I’m sure glad he didn’t hear what all you said about him,” Furman remarked.

     “Why?” Marigold looked at him. “You think that little wuss is toting iron?”

     Laughing too much to speak, Furman could only wave his hand and shake his head.

     “If this wasn’t Aunt Eloise’s business and I wasn’t sure that scheming little back-stabber was gon’ post a nasty review, I’d tell Mr. Ballless exactly where he can stick his precious towels.”

     Seeing him chortle prompted Marigold to giggle and tickle his leg with her toes. She had always treasured Furman’s company since he was ever kind, smarter and wittier than the guys she dated, eager to hear her exploits, and totally safe since he was her one male pal who never tried to get sexual with her.

     Furman saw her as so much more fun than his other friends, completely honest, and someone who truly cared about him. He wanted to believe they could make quite a copacetic couple, but still hesitated pursuing that possibility.

     A humble, quiet young couple entered the lobby, looking apologetic for prompting the pair behind the desk to stop talking and look at them. The lady was barely five feet tall, and the gentleman was over six feet and obese. Both were dressed very conservatively.

     “Welcome to Wisteria Falls Hideaway Inn,” Marigold greeted them with a grin. “Come on in. Want a room?”

     Hesitating, the husband mustered a smile and a “Yes ma’am” as the wife nodded nervously.

     “Fear not ’cause we’ve still got two left. One’s facing the highway and the other’s looking out over the valley in back. Since it’s got the better view, it’s a tad more expensive, but just twenty bucks a night. Which would y’all like?”

     The couple looked at each other and seemed completely stumped. Each kept deferring to the other with long, awkward pauses as neither appeared able to decide or risk disappointing the other. After Marigold glanced at Furman with wide eyes and a furtive grin, the couple finally determined to save a little money and go with the cheaper room above the highway. After Marigold handled their paperwork, shared some basic facts about the inn, and provided their keys, they thanked her and left the lobby without a sound.

     “Good Lord,” Marigold declared looking at Furman with her mouth hanging open. “Can you imagine being married to either of them? Please throw me over the waterfall now. I’m sure they’re real sweet and good people and all, but I’d shrivel up and die of boredom.”

     “Physically,” Furman mused, “they’re a couple’s equivalent of Laurel and Hardy. To put the most polite spin on it, she’s Little Miss Petite and he’s Mr. Horizontally Challenged.”

     “Yeah.” Marigold giggled. “Little Miss Mayonnaise and fat Mr. White Bread. Ain’t neither of ’em ever entered a beauty contest either. I sure hope they’re on birth control. Can you imagine how ugly their kids would be?”

     “Oh, don’t be mean, Marigold. Perhaps their children would be medium-sized,” he mused.

     “Yeah, and still butt ugly,” she pronounced as Furman frowned at her.

     “Gosh, as hopelessly strait-laced as they are, that reminds me. I haven’t gotten stoned in weeks,” she lamented with a pregnant smile, knowing he disapproved of her smoking marijuana.

     “As Teddy Roosevelt would say, ‘Bully for Marigold.’” He smiled at her.

     “You know, Furman, if you’re not careful, you could risk being a real bore yourself.”

     “I’d rather be a healthy bore than risk becoming a brain-damaged hipster,” he replied.

     “Come on, Mr. Uptight. How dangerous can marijuana be? It’s natural. It’s a plant. In fact, you know what it really is? Nature’s valium, and God made it,” she proclaimed, thoroughly pleased with herself as she spun her chair around to celebrate her verbal touche.

     “Sure,” Furman noted. “So is belladonna. But I still wouldn’t eat it.”

     “Well, it’s a super Stevie Nicks album,” she retorted with a grin and another spin.

     “Hemlock’s another natural plant. But look up what happened to Socrates when he drank it,” he continued.

     She faked a big yawn with her hand over her mouth. “Yeah, in Greece and thousands of years ago. Who cares?”

     “Bears and rattlesnakes are native to these parts right now but you’ll never find me near one outside of a zoo,” he stated.

     “Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants.” She rolled her eyes. “I should’ve known not to get into a logical discussion with Mr. Spock. Beam me back to Planet Fun, Scotty.”

      Though he tried not to show it, Furman coveted his intelligence being complimented, especially by her, as much as she craved her beauty being praised. But, knowing not to belabor his victory, he looked outside and changed the subject.

     “Well, speaking of nature and something I bet we agree on, it looks like we’re about to get quite a shower of rain,” he observed.

     “Hallelujah. As hot as it’s been, I hope we get one drop shy of a flood,” she declared. “You see how I’m dressed.” She pointed to her red halter top and short white pants.

     “Hmm, and I thought you were just trying to show off for me,” he got out before chuckling.

     With raised eyebrows and her mouth wide open, she kicked him.

     “How dare you, Furmie. I’ll have you know I’m just a free spirit who couldn’t care less about the gorgeous eye candy I provide the world.” She stretched her arms wide.

     Before he could reply, the song on the radio changed and Miss McTaft pumped up the volume and jumped off her chair to dance to the Talking Heads’ tune, “And She Was.”

     “I love this song!” she proclaimed exuberantly while twirling around the little area between the front desk and the room key boxes on the back wall.

     Furman admired her spontaneity and joie de vivre, smiling at her and wishing he was as uninhibited. Particularly if they ever dated, he hoped some of her enthusiasm would inspire him.

     Bonita Hernandez, the motel’s maid, entered the lobby with her cleaning cart to lock it in the large closet across the hall to the left of the front desk. She had worked late due to starting her shift that afternoon.

     “Hola, Senorita Bonita.” Marigold waved as she continued bopping to the radio beat. Miss Hernandez laughed as she waved back and began dancing a little herself before clocking out.

     “At least two of us got rhythm,” Marigold teased Furman who shook his head but could not hide his smile.

     When the song ended, Miss McTaft resumed her seat and took a swig from her glass of lemonade while looking at the clock on the wall.

     “Ugh. Two more hours on this shift,” she moaned before slowly turning her chair.

     Feeling a little emboldened, Furman changed the conversation.

     “So is Miss McTaft dating any this summer?”

     “Not nearly enough,” she lamented with a raised voice and mild disgust. “Are there no decent-looking straight guys left with the sack to ask out a pretty gal?”

     “I thought you recently went out with Rube Walker.”

     “Yeah, Rube’s a nice boy but definitely not dating material. He actually cried at the movies. I don’t date the emotionally incontinent.”

     “Well, maybe he’s just a sensitive guy,” Furman remarked before chuckling.

     “Just not my speed for a man, and certainly not a beau,” Marigold stated with finality. However, just as Furman felt relieved, she brought up someone who unsettled him.

     “Oh, but guess who Bobbie Jo Clemens told me yesterday is back in town for the summer?” Before he could respond, she answered her own question.

     “George Pickett,” she announced with repeatedly raised eyebrows and a double spin. “Looking extra tanned, rested, and ready.” She smiled with wide eyes.

     “Is he even still able to drive with all his speeding tickets?” Furman asked. “I recall last summer when he and that red Camaro got right behind me on Ben Hill Mountain. He kept revving up his motor trying to get me to go faster around those sharp curves. I didn’t appreciate that one bit. And then the fool suddenly passes me around a blind curve. I couldn’t believe the guy’s recklessness.”

     “Ah, that handsome, fire red Camaro—”

     “Which his daddy bought him,” Furman interjected.

     “Who cares?” Marigold replied. “The shaggin’ wagon.” She smiled fanning herself with her hands and looking at him.

     “You know, you don’t have to scratch every itch,” he noted drily, prompting her to guffaw.

      “Now that was a fine line indeed. I’ll be deep into dementia before I forget that one,” she said admiringly. “You’re just full of witty gems this evening. Somebody wouldn’t happen to be a tad jealous of Mr. Pickett, now, would he?”

     “Oh, you mean of an intellectually-challenged pituitary case who threw big balls through a hoop in high school?” Furman asked.

     “Oh, I hear tell he’s definitely got some big balls.” She giggled. “Why, I declare, Mr. Furman, but I do believe someone is genuinely jealous. Could somebody be crushing on me?”

     “News flash, Miss Marigold. You ain’t the only one here who’s recently dated.”

     “Woohoo,” she replied and tickled his leg with her toes. “Do dish, big boy. Who’s the lucky gal?”

     “Well, I don’t know how ‘lucky’ she is, but Jessenia Hopkins.”

     “Cute and real sweet to boot, as I recall, and right quiet. She always liked to sit in the back of the classroom.”

     “Yep.”

     “So what’s y’all’s status? Hot and heavy, neutral, or past tense?”

     “Um, I’m not sure. Likely the last.” He sighed as she gave him an exaggerated pout. “We went out a few times earlier this month, and I thought we always had a good time. Never a contrary word. But she turned me down the last two times I asked her out.”

     “Bank on it, babe. She’s in your rearview mirror for sure.” Marigold frowned. “Sorry, dear. Well, did you at least get some?” She giggled before taking another drink of lemonade.

     “A gentleman would never tell,” he announced with a smile and raised head.

     “Unless he got some.” She guffawed.

     “Methinks someone is projecting, dear,” he retorted, prompting her to chortle and spin.

     “Well, if she did sleep with you, she doesn’t think she owes you anything.” Marigold laughed as he rolled his eyes.

     “You speak with more confidence than anyone I’ve ever known,” he marveled. “Especially about romance. You oughta’ start your own love advice website.”

     “That’s right.” She beamed. “Miss Marigold’s Romantic Lowdown.” She laughed and took another spin as he chuckled.

     “I wish I had even half your confidence, Marigold.” He hesitated staring at the floor as she stopped to look at him. “I seem to blow it with every girl I go out with. I don’t get it. I’ve been a real loser in that department … and a lot of others as well.” Marigold frowned at him.

     “I’m confident the Good Lord’s a whole lot easier on you than you are, Furman. Stop beating yourself up. You’re a good guy. A great guy, and don’t you forget it.”

     The phone rang and she went into official desk clerk mode while he was deeply touched absorbing her last words. He glanced at the clock and tried to decide whether to ask her out before her shift ended. Suddenly the memory of the shy couple unable to pick a room flashed before him and he resolved to act. When Marigold got off the phone, he spoke up.

     “Hey, are you doing anything tomorrow night?”

     “Why, is someone asking out little Miss Moi?” She smiled at him with raised eyebrows and blinking eyes.

     “There’s a Clint Eastwood film festival at the Dixie Cinema on the Square,” he responded.

     “Is it a date?” She grinned.

     Blinking and not sure how to reply as she slowly raised her foot to slide it down his leg, he finally answered her.

     “If you want it to be.”

     “Do you?”

     “Ah. Yeah.”

     “Okay, Mr. Furman. I guess we’ll just see.”

###

Douglas Young is an author and professor emeritus whose essays, poems, and short stories have appeared in a variety of publications in America, Canada, Europe, and Asia. His first novel, Deep in the Forest, was published in 2021 and the second, Due South, came out in 2022. His first book of essays, This Little Opinion Plus $1.50 Will Buy You a Coke, appeared in 2024, and the second, Not Just Political, was published in 2025. His first book of short stories, The Double Date and Other Stories, will be published in 2026.