Reasonable Adults

by Robin Lefler

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Romantic Comedy; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

The morning after a humiliating post-breakup social media post (#sponsoredbywine), Kate Rigsby learns she's lost her marketing job along with her almost-fiancé. Worse, she realizes how little she truly cared about either. Craving a reset, Kate flees the big-city life she spent many years building—and almost as many doubting—to take a temporary gig at Treetops, a swanky, off-the-grid creative retreat in Muskoka, complete with meditation circles, deluxe spa, and artisanal cocktails. At least, that's what the brochure promises . . .



The reality is a struggling resort that's stuck in the 1990s, fax machine included. Kate's office is a bunker, her boss is a nightmare, and at night she shares a freezing hut with her seventy-pound Goldendoodle. Then there's the sexy, off-limits coworker whose easy smile and lumberjack forearms are distracting Kate from the already near-impossible task of making this snowbound oasis profitable.



On the upside, the surroundings are breathtaking. The Treetops crew is quirky and (mostly) kind. And somehow, Kate's starting to feel new enthusiasm for her career—and her life. In fact, she's daring to challenge herself in ways she never dreamed of before. With wit and heart, Reasonable Adults explores the crossroads we all face—and how a detour born of disaster can take us just where we need to go.

Release date: December 13, 2022

Publisher: HarperCollins Canada

Print pages: 304

Sample

My toes are three minutes away from complete destruction. Attempting to insert a little pep in my step, I click across the Regan-Caulfield PR Professionals reception area. The black leather ankle boots I’d recklessly ordered after having my heart, if not broken, kicked in a sensitive area, are destined for the dark, dusty recesses of the bedroom closet. Much like my hope for a healthy adult relationship.

It’s just after eight thirty on a gloomy Wednesday morning when I mince my way through the near-empty office to my desk. Most of my coworkers are probably still trying to wash off last night’s escapades. I drop off my bag and detour to the kitchen for coffee, taking a moment to bask in my mature superiority. Here I am, ready to light my productivity fire, bouncing back so effortlessly after a horrendous betrayal by someone I cared about at least a medium amount. Settling into my IKEA office chair, I glance around to make sure no one is in the immediate vicinity before reaching up to give myself an actual pat on the back, which turns into a casual triceps stretch as my boss rounds the corner.

I report to a child. Gavin Boden is twenty-four and manages the Public Relations Associates in the Up-and-Coming Division. Or, the PRAs in the UCD, if you’re into corporate acronyms like Gavin is.

“Morning, Rigsby.”

“Hi, Gavin.”

“We’ve got our triple O this morning. Can you bring a breakdown of the projected ROI for your RFF? K thanks.” My eyes do not roll and I am amazed at my self-control.

“Sure can.” I make a note—justification for funds request at 9:30 One on One.

“Oh, and Rigsby?”

I look up from my notepad to see him squinting at me judgmentally.

“You’re going to change before the lunch with Party Thyme, right? The luxury herb crowd has presentation expectations.”

“The people who flavor thyme to not taste like thyme?” When they came in for their kick-off session the cleaners had to shampoo the dirt out of the conference room carpet. The CEO wore a leisure suit and rubber boots. Rubber boots covered in manure.

“Gavin, come on. I’m all for a relaxed work environment and letting everyone be who they want to be, but you don’t come to a meeting in your fertilizing boots.” Within the incredibly tight confines of my own footwear, I flex and extend my toes, trying to get the blood flowing. “I really don’t think they care what I’m wearing.”

He sighs at my closed-mindedness. “They were communicating their vibe, their essence. You need to tone down the middle-aged city worker thing and embrace . . . I don’t know, urban chicken farmer. Or passionate cultivator of a vanity balcony garden.” He huffs and sits at the desk across from mine.

“Passionate vanity gardener,” I echo. My brow furrows as I picture myself in denim overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat, standing on a balcony overlooking the city center, adventurous bees humming around my head fifteen stories above the sidewalk.

“Listen, Kate.”

Oh God. He was going to try to enlighten me.

“I need to enlighten you a bit. Drop some truth, you know?” He makes eye contact long enough to confirm I do, indeed, know, before tenting his fingers and kicking back to stretch his gangly legs across the aisle, dropping his feet onto my desk.

“When you joined us six months ago, Rigsby, I saw something in you.”

“I’ve been with the company for two years, but hey, who’s counting.”

He points at me.

“That,” he says. “That attitude is what’s holding you back.” His sockless, Sperry-clad toe nudges my coffee cup, sloshing some onto a stack of annual reports.

“You’re cynical and afraid to push through the uncomfortable moments that make life worth living. Your negative worldview is preventing you from doing your best work. From truly shining. Where’s your inner passion, Rigsby? What makes you tick? This is a creative, competitive environment.” He spreads his arms as if to embrace the buffet of opportunity before us.

“I know we’re in a time of HR sensitivity, but I feel like we know each other well enough that I can be blunt with you.”

We do not know each other at all. This must be what it feels like to watch a car speeding toward you with no idea whether it will stop before flattening you into a thirty-one-year-old pancake.

“You’re not getting any younger.”

There it is. I am a pancake. A violently angry pancake.

“Sharks are swimming through that door every day, and you’re floating around like a . . . I don’t know—an indifferent manta ray. If you want to get ahead, if you want to progress, if you want to grow as a professional human, you’re going to have to strip all this down”—he gestures at me from head to toe—“and build yourself back up stronger, hungrier, and, let’s be honest here, physically more put together.”

“I’m sorry, what?” He is not a car. He is a bus. The bomb-laden bus from Speed and there’s no Reeves/Bullock combo to stop him.

“You know Madison, yes? On the Short Lunch team? She came up with the imagery of the burger eating a clock? Anyway, Madison is a makeup pro. She’s watched, like, a million online tutorials and I bet she could give you some pointers on looking a bit fresher.”

I glance at my watch and see hardly any time has passed, yet it seems like I’ve been stuck in this chair, mired in the terrible dropping of truth bombs, for years. I want to quit on the spot. I want to yell and stomp my foot and break a planter of artificial succulents over his stupid head. But I need the job. I breathe deeply and compose my features into an expression as close to neutral as possible.

“Noted, Gavin. Thanks for bringing this to my attention. I’ll certainly take it under advisement. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like a few minutes to prep before our next meeting.”

“You got it. Glad we had this chance to connect.” He actually gives me the one-two guns before kicking over my coffee as he takes his feet off the desk. A puddle appears on my lap, soaking into the beautiful ivory wool sweater-dress less than a week old.

“Oops. Good thing you’re going to change anyway, huh? Serendipitous.” He freezes mid-step.

“That’s a great word,” he muses. “I can use that. See, Rigsby. When you’re in touch with your heart-mind connection the gems just fall in your lap. Life is a treasure. Huh. I can use that too.” He pulls out his phone and starts making notes as he walks away.

Brown liquid pools under my keyboard, dripping onto my leggings. I watch it for a moment, mesmerized, shell-shocked, and unsure of what to do next.

A calendar reminder pops up on my screen, snapping me back to reality. There’s no time to go home and change out of my coffee-drenched, luxury-herb-inappropriate clothes before I have to walk into a room with Gavin and act like everything is fine.

The dress I managed to scrounge up after sending out an SOS in the #badassbitches Slack channel is a diaphanous affair with pink heirloom roses the size of my head spewing across a pale green background. It’s supposed to be floor-length, but hits me mid-shin, leaving an awkward gap between the thin material and my now clunky-looking, foot-murdering boots. While long, it contributes absolutely no warmth, and I find myself pining for either a blanket or a very large portion of hard liquor.

While Gavin seems to believe I’m embracing retiree-chic a few decades too early, my standard vibe is more conventionally professional with the occasional nod to trendiness. I guess compared to the fresh-faced, effortless cool of my youthful colleagues, I’m hitting the more reserved end of the fashion scale. This outfit is so far outside my workwear comfort zone it may as well be in orbit.

My twenties were pretty kind to me, filling out my adolescent string-bean physique into something softer, curvier. I’m not short or particularly tall, though I can reach things on the top shelf of my cupboards if I stretch. When filling out an online dating profile, I’d pick the “average” body type option.

Not that I’m average in all respects. A guy once had me repeat my coffee order because he was so startled by my eyes (hazel) that he missed the details. And my hairdresser always compliments me on the healthy sheen I maintain on my naturally dark chestnut tresses (“You must not do much with it”).

Any fashion concern I may have had disappears when Tim Fletcher, co-founder and CEO of Party Thyme, arrives at our lunch meeting in what appears to be a white paper hazmat suit. It crinkles as he sits and, despite absolutely no part of me wanting to think about him naked, I can’t seem to identify the sign of any underlayers. No T-shirt collar peeking out. No telltale dark shadows where one might expect pants to be.

There are fist bumps all round as he explains that Josh Meadows, Party Thyme’s Chief Taste Officer, is running late because “he’s mega-deep in testing.”

Tim’s upgraded from the poo boots to black slip-on athletic sandals with socks that might once have been white. His big toe sticks through one. There’s a brown crescent under the nail that I hope is dirt. Even Gavin looks momentarily ruffled before managing to pull his ultra-smooth schmoozing face back on. We’d chosen this specific restaurant because they recently started offering Party Thyme cocktails and mocktails. I am deeply hopeful that no one figures out who we are.

Forty minutes pass as we sip endless sparkling water enhanced with Zesty Lemon Thyme. Thyme for Chocolate. Rosemary and Thyme. Hibiscus Rose Thyme with A Hint of Bitters. I am constantly on edge, worrying that some will spill on the paper suit and we’ll discover just how robust it is. More than once I wonder how this came to be my life.

Josh finally shows up as I’m ordering tea, desperate for something warm and not made of thyme. He’s wearing real clothes, though the overall aesthetic isn’t far off from his business partner’s. His worn jeans have dirty handprints smeared across the thighs and he’s wearing not one but two plaid flannel button-ups over a T-shirt advising me to GET HIGH AND LAY LOW.

The waiter delivers a mug of hot water with an organic muslin bag of Comfort Thyme propped cheerily beside it and I can barely suppress my groan.

“I think you’re going to dig the subtle notes of lemon verbena in the Comfort Thyme,” Josh says, noting my new beverage choice as he sits down. He scootches his chair closer to mine, pulling out his phone. “The organic honey crystals come from this totally rad hivery that has children’s choirs come in to sing to the bees.” His eyes are wide with wonder and what seems like genuine excitement. “They swear the energy of the kids makes the bees happier and the honey more balanced.” To prove it, he opens a video of a ragtag children’s choir standing beside a giant beehive, belting out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” It’s hard not to be charmed, but I manage to hold on to my dour mood. Josh watches the entire video, whispers “Amazing stuff,” and slides the phone back into his pocket. Admittedly, I’m tempted to ask about the science behind serenaded bees, but it seems like a slippery slope. Besides, Josh has already pulled a scrap of paper from his back pocket and is making notes, muttering about a “reverse collab with thyme-flavored honey” like he’s about to change the world.

Across the table Tim rolls his eyes and elbows Gavin in a “get a load of this guy” move. “The Josh-ster wants to focus on, uh, local luxury, you know? And I keep being all ‘Dude, but look at the big wide herb-loving world unfolding before us,’ Why stay in Toronto when we could work with happy freakin’ bees in San Fran?”

Aching to move things along so we can get out of here, I ask Tim to tell us his “from the ground up” story. This is usually great material for positioning interviews and media spots, but I’m also praying for a ten-minute reprieve from listening to Gavin and Tim trading stories of how hard it is to be the child of wealthy, overly attentive parents.

“So, Tim,” I interrupt, “you were on track to be a chemical engineer. What made you decide to strike out into entrepreneurship instead of completing your degree and getting into a more traditional field?” I’m poised to take notes to turn into a pitch for some culinary reporters I’d spent the last three months wooing with free tickets to Toronto Maple Leafs games and Iron Chef Canada tapings.

Tim snorts into his drink. “Uh, yeah.” He takes a sip of water laced with Kola Thyme. “I think you may have misinterpreted the information I provided in the kick-off session.”

Josh makes a sound in the back of his throat, and raises his eyebrows at me. “Brace yourself,” he murmurs.

I place my pen on the table and use one of my favorite unbiased business responses:

“Can you tell me more about that?”

“I wasn’t actually in school for chemical engineering. It was, like, more of a hobby.”

“Okay, no problem. We can work with that. So, you’ve always had a passion for science?”

“Yeah, not so much.”

I look at Gavin, hoping he’ll wade into the fray, but he’s busy swiping at his phone, trying to figure out if he and Tim actually dated the same blond Lauryn in 2017.

“Um, alright. Let’s circle back then. How did all this come about?”

“Oh man, this is a great story. I think you’re going to be able to do a lot with it. Maybe get that pen ready.”

I get that pen ready.

“So, I was a coke dealer, right? And—”

Despite my best efforts to maintain a neutral, professional face, I can feel my eyebrows practically hitting my hairline.

“Those are the chemicals in the ‘chemical engineering’ bit. Clever, huh? Anyway, I was doing that, hustling, makin’ a buck and I started to get some higher-end clientele. So, I thought to myself, ‘Self, what can we offer these fine people that will blow their very high minds while enjoying increased profitability and market gains?’ And it came to me that night in an actual, literal dream. Party Thyme. A flexible herbaceous additive great for cocktails, cooking, and air purification.” He takes a moment to bask in his genius, then jerks his thumb at Josh, who’s migrated toward the bar to investigate the storage of said herbaceous additives.

“And I knew Josh-y boy was, like, right into horticulture and food science. It was a no-brainer. I handle the business, he takes care of the product. Easy peasy money in the bank, right?”

Gavin has tuned in and nods enthusiastically as Josh rejoins us, balancing a trio of cookies on a small plate.

“This is fantastic,” Gavin says. “Rigsby, you got all that?”

I give him a thumbs-up. My notes end at “coke dealer.”

Josh slides the plate in front of me. “They were hiding some lavender shortbread in the back,” he says quietly. “You gotta try it with the Comfort Thyme. Bliss.”

“Guys, we can do amazing things with this story,” gushes Gavin. “The ingenuity you show, Tim, the resourcefulness. Bro, you’re about to flip the luxury herb market on its head. Also”—he turns his phone around to display a picture of a gorgeous, leggy blond—“same Lauryn. That bitch. No offense, Rigsby.”

“Sure.” I mentally apologize to women everywhere.

He hoists his glass of Lemon Ginger Thyme and vodka in a toast. “Thyme to party.”

“Nah man,” Tim says, lifting his own drink. “The company’s called Party Thyme. But I feel you. Let’s do this thing.”

“To a future as bright as the stars and as beautiful as Mother Earth,” Josh adds.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Gavin and Tim exchanging an eye roll. Josh reaches forward to clink his glass against Tim’s, apparently oblivious.

I’m raising my mug when I feel something brushing against my ankle. Tim’s dirt-encrusted toe is stroking the bare skin between my shoe and dress hem.

He winks. “Really looking forward to working with you on this, Kate.”

Kill me now.

In the comforting embrace of an idiot-free home, the day plays back in my mind like one of those sports-fail reels.

I pour a generous glass of wine, relocate to the couch, and prop my feet on the ottoman, positioning the bottle within easy reach for refills. I need to start avoiding people. I mean, not entirely. I know what you’re thinking. “a burgeoning alcoholic shut-in isn’t really the life improvement choice we were going for here.” But the day would have gone much more smoothly with less human interaction. That, I think, we can all agree on.

I turn on a nature documentary featuring unlikely pairings of animal best friends and sip my wine as a skunk playfully chases a fox around an ornamental shrub. Just one more, I tell myself, topping up my glass. Know your limits, etc. Plus, it’s a Wednesday. Not exactly the ideal time to hit the party button.

My phone vibrates somewhere under my left butt cheek and I fish it out. Ros, my best friend, university roommate, and head of Public Relations for a hoity toity downtown firm, has DM’d a video of a prancing baby llama. A soft open. She’s got my attention. Moments later a photo from the account of Treetops Creative Retreat appears. A shimmering lake and a heart-stoppingly beautiful luxury cabin nestled in fall foliage, with the caption Inspired. Living. Empowering and fulfilling Business Development Director position open to those with a seeking heart and talent for seeing the beauty in every moment.

She throws in some pointed commentary. You could use some empowerment.

I mean, she isn’t wrong. I click the link to the company’s full website.

Specializing in short- and long-term retreats in the heart of Muskoka, Treetops is a luxury resort for artists whose process is emboldened by an environment steeped in comfort, support, and well-being.

I snort and tap out a message to Ros.

K: This Treetops place sounds like a summer camp for the rich and entitled to build mahogany popsicle stick houses.

A nearly instant reply pops up, interrupting a video of an internet-famous bear waving at tourists.

R: Yeah, but I bet they cook for you. And maybe you could find someone suitably distracting to take your mind off Chaz. A little summer camp romance never hurt anyone.

K: 1. I’m almost certain that is untrue. No one escapes summer camp romance unscathed. 2. It’s October. The season for cold, dead hearts.

R: But did you see the salary?

She includes the link to an actual job posting. The compensation for a November-through-January contract is unbelievable. A blue button flashes at the bottom of the screen. Apply Easily, Right Now. And what do I do? I hit that button. The fields magically populate with information saved from some previous failed foray into side hustles—Technology! After a quick, bleary-eyed scan, I shrug, raise my now-empty glass in a toast to rash decisions, and tap Submit.

Who would date a guy named Chaz, you ask? Me. I did. For two years. And then, just when I thought we were approaching the time for a well planned but emotionally stunted middle-class marriage? Disaster.

Picture this: Yours truly, Katelyn Meredith Rigsby, shows up at the cologne-heavy law office where my hardworking boyfriend has been putting in shockingly long hours. I open the door, thoughtfully prepared (okay, purchased) dinner in hand, only to discover him on his knees, providing some very, very personal services to a client.

He’d tried to explain, trailing me down the plush carpeted hall to the elevators as he buttoned his custom-made shirt. “Mrs. Strauss was anxious about speaking in court. I employed a proven relaxation technique to ease her mind.”

Did I love Chaz with the fire of a thousand suns? No. But I’d had myself convinced we could coexist for the foreseeable future in a mutually beneficial arrangement. I now realize that’s maybe not the right attitude with which to make life-altering relationship choices.

I sigh and wonder anew what it would feel like to punch Charles “Chaz” Hoberack in his stupid, perfectly symmetrical face. I’ve never hit anyone before but am always willing to try new things in the spirit of self-betterment.

A loud yawn from the other end of the couch pulls me back from the sad meander down self-pity lane. A large, curly, strawberry-blond head lands in my lap, tipping over my, thankfully now empty, wineglass. “Get enough beauty rest, handsome?” A gleefully wagging tail sends the evidence of my post-breakup pity party flying to the floor. Empty pizza box, empty peanut M&M’s bag, mostly empty box of tissues. You get the idea. I refill my glass halfway, eye the dregs of the bottle, and dump the rest in as well.

“Eric! Control your enthusiasm!” I cry as seventy pounds of Goldendoodle clambers onto my lap and plops front paws onto my shoulders. With his big brown gaze a mere eyelash length from my own, I can’t hold out.

“A treat?” I offer, halfheartedly. Eric bounds, wholeheartedly, as you may have guessed, to the cupboard. While I’m in the kitchen, I crack a fresh bottle of wine to bring with me back to the couch.

I scroll through my Instagram feed, accompanied by the rustic soundtrack of canine teeth on elk antler. Baby. Baby. Beach at sunset. Puppy. Penguins. Ad for leakproof underwear. Chaz on a magazine cover. Cat wearing mittens on a hardwood floor.

I pause, squint, and scroll back up. It was not a hallucination. Chaz is striking a power pose, leaning against a desk in an unfamiliar office, basking in the glow of professional lighting and wearing the yellow and cornflower-blue silk tie I got him for Christmas even though it cost six times more than any scrap of fabric has a right to.

Charles Hoberack, New Partner at Shingleton, Oberstein, and Mason, Talks Money, Property, and Mitigation

He’d gotten a new, larger desk.

“Unbelievable.” I send the post to Ros, noting that Chaz probably needed the surface area for all the additional perks he offers his clients.

Spiraling down a rabbit hole of internet sleuthing, I click on the profile of everyone who’s liked or commented on his post. I’m not going to sugarcoat this: It’s a lot of people. A lot of women—the kind who roll out of bed looking like a dream, with morning breath that smells of roses and effortless success.

A new comment appears.

CamAboutTown So well deserved <3 <3 <3 I can say from experience, Chaz goes above and beyond for his clients.

Oh hell no. I enlarge the profile picture to make sure I’m seeing this properly. I am. CamAboutTown is Camilla Strauss. Up until last week, that is, when Chaz finalized her divorce and she was once again Camilla Giannova. Camilla was the Woman on the Desk. A key player in the ruination of my prettily packaged, if emotionally problematic, life. I’m overflowing with what I recognize is a completely unreasonable level of hatred for this woman I’ve never even met. Seen her in the throes of $300-an-hour passion? Yes. Proper introduction? No. I didn’t stick around for that.

I take a swig of peppery Shiraz directly from the bottle, vigorously wipe my teeth with a finger, fluff my hair, and start recording some of my thoughts on the matter. I may be alone in my apartment, but why should I suffer in isolation? This is why God created the internet.

At six thirty my alarm blares, pulling me out of a slumber I have no wish to leave. The pounding in my head overlays a deep sense of unease. I drag myself to the bathroom and slump in the shower, letting the spray power-wash some of the night’s residue out of my mouth while also providing much-needed hydration.

I stumble into sweats and sneakers and take Eric out into the cold morning air. He sniffs the trees joyfully. He prances down the street without a care in the world. I try to channel some of his zest for life, but it makes me want to puke in the shrubs so I resume my careful shuffling.

Back at home, it’s kibble for Eric, black coffee and dry Cheerios for me (multigrain, because health is important). I stare blankly into my closet. I’m too old for this shit. I wonder if I could get away with working from home today, then remember we have an offsite strategy session in the afternoon that’s marked “BCNO” in the invite. Translation: Business Critical, Not Optional.

Monochrome seems safe. Black pants, black turtleneck, black boots with a chunky heel, which cradle my feet in much-needed comfort, and, for some flair, a black and navy blanket scarf that I drape over my shoulders. Hair up. Lipstick on. Still look like death, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. I give myself a quick once-over with a lint brush and leave Eric. . .