“He was...”
I stop midsentence and look at Holly, Leah and Noah, searching not only for the right words but also the soft spot between truth and lie.
Not the right Santa?
Not the right Santa but maybe the right guy?
“Nice.”
“Nice?” Holly groans.
We are seated the next morning at a table in the front window of Petoskey Scones, and her voice echoes off the frosty glass.
“Nice?” she repeats. Holly whacks the table, and the froth on top of our lattes streams over the edges, a mini coffee waterfall.
“You have a knack of bringing attention to us in this place,” I say.
“The Queen of Hearts is quite the tart,” Noah says, altering the lyrics to the famed children’s poem.
Holly picks up her cell. “I have probably twenty texts from Jamie saying it was the best date of his life.” She looks up from her phone, her eyes wide. I can still see a silhouette of a heart on her cheek. Holly is breathing intensely, making the ghostly heart look as if it’s beating wildly. “He said there was a connection. Just like at the run.”
I study the foam art atop my latte. It’s a beautiful snowflake, as fragile as the ones falling outside.
I think of what Jamie said about a clear February sky portending a big storm. Our beloved, local meteorologist, Sonny Dunes, is predicting a foot of snow over the next twenty-four hours.
When my heart feels something, do I intentionally create a blizzard in order to bury my heart from any more pain?
Petoskey Scones and Sleigh By the Bay sit on a high hill that slopes toward Little Traverse Bay. In the distance, I see a red icebreaker—just like the one I saw a couple of months ago—cut through the ice. This entire area was created by massive glaciers. In fact, the north side of the Bay and the entire Petoskey business district are built on the Algonquin Terrace, a raised area overlooking the water.
How many years did it take for the terrain to shapeshift into what it is now?
How many years will it take my heart to unthaw and be inhabitable?
“There was,” I finally say.
“Thank you!” Holly says.
“So,” Noah says. “Spill the coffee beans, diva.”
I tell them everything about the date, from his roses to our kiss, from the Santa Run to Santa Claus, Indiana.
But when I start to tell them about the pin and getting stuck together, the words get stuck in my throat. I look at Holly, who is seated on the edge of her seat, thrilled that she believes she has made a love connection.
And maybe she has. Maybe Jamie is the one. I don’t know.
I just can’t, at this moment, bring myself to say he wasn’t the man I met at the Santa run. I know my friends and grandparents promised they wouldn’t pressure me to meet someone like my parents did, and I know I have two more dates to go, but after what I went through with my grampa, I cannot stand to break anybody’s heart right now.
And, to be completely honest, I actually thought he was the one. To mix a lot of unmixable analogies, I tripped right over Cupid and fell into Santa’s sleigh hook, line and sinker.
“This coffee,” I say. “Would you excuse me while I run to the little girl’s room.” I stand. “Leah, would you mind joining me?”
Holly’s head jerks. “Are we twelve years old?”
“Just wanted some company,” I say. “And I want to make sure we have Noah’s hand signs down the next time around. It was dark in that restaurant, and my night vision is awful.”
“Good idea!” Noah says. “Holly and I will gossip about you while you’re gone.”
I drag Leah into the bathroom and tell her what happened.
“And then we got stuck together. Literally,” I say in a Shakespearian whisper. “I was wearing an angel pin on my coat that got stuck on one of his buttons.”
I tell Leah about my mother’s pin and what it means to me, and then I tell her about the moment Holly missed at the Santa Run when I told my mystery man about it and how he knew—before I said a word—that it was my mom’s.
“So Jamie isn’t the one?” Leah finally says, disappointed. “He actually met another Mrs. Claus, and you met a different Santa?”
“Nope and yep,” I say. “But I liked him. And maybe he is the one. Just out of order.”
“He has worn a Santa cap in his life,” Leah reasons.
“Just not when I met him.”
“And he has the perfect back story.”
“I know, right?” I say. “Maybe I’m the one putting too much emphasis on exactly how my parents and grandparents met. Maybe their stories and maybe the guy I met at the Santa Run were meant to lead me to Jamie.”
“It is a great story,” Leah adds.
“How did you do it?” I ask Leah.
She cocks her head. “Do what?”
“How did you open your heart again?”
Leah sighs and looks out the curtained window at the snow falling.
“I didn’t think about it,” she says. “It’s like jumping into a toboggan and sledding down that hill toward the bay. If you asked me to do it at my age, and I took a second to consider it, I wouldn’t do it. I would be paralyzed with fear.”
Leah continues. “I’m a woman of a certain age with a résumé that includes two grown children and a heart-shattering divorce. I put my husband first. I put my children first. I wouldn’t change a thing because I love my kids more than anything else in this world.” She hesitates. “And yet that still wasn’t enough to complete me because I’ve never truly loved myself. I know that may sound selfish, especially for a mother to say, but it’s true. In so many ways, I was all alone after my divorce, and I only had myself to rely on. Books saved my life. You all saved my life.”
I take Leah’s hand in mine. It is toasty warm even on this cold day.
“I realized I never really loved my husband,” Leah says. “I thought I did because it was what was expected of me at that time. Get married, have a family, everything will be perfect. But it wasn’t. It never was. And I never thought I’d find later-in-life love, especially with a guy like Luka, who could have any woman he wanted. Why would he pick a woman like me with stretchmarks on her stomach and her heart? I thought he was using me in some way. He told me to stop thinking like Desiree. It turns out he’s just a nice guy with a beautiful body, and I was judging him as harshly as I judged myself. Is this just a fling? Maybe. Will I pass out cold when he finally makes the moves on me? Probably. But it feels nice to feel something again. Even if it means my heart will be shattered all over again. At least, it will be shattered on my own terms, because I took a risk.”
Leah clenches my hand.
“You’re a bookseller, Susan,” she continues. “One of the best in America. You understand better than anyone else how many writers there are out there who start a book but never finish. How many times have you heard aspiring writers say, ‘I can start a million books, but that middle part of the story is where everything gets complicated, so I gave up.’ But, Susan, if you fight your way through that, stick with it—no matter how hard that middle part of the story is—then you can finally write the ending you dreamed. It’s not always going to be a perfectly happy one, but it will be an ending, and there is nothing worse than not finishing a great book.”
“Please don’t tell anyone about this,” I say, my voice a little shaky. “I don’t want to hurt Holly or break Noah’s or my grandparents’ hearts. I just want to keep this our secret, and see where things go. Okay?”
“Okay.”
There is a knock on the door, and Leah and I scream and then rush out, giggling like schoolgirls, and scurry back to the table. We take a seat, still giggling.
“Is everything okay over here?”
We look up, and Fred is standing at our table.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “We’re louder than a table full of schoolgirls.”
“Oh, it’s no problem at all, Susan. Is everyone enjoying the coffee?”
We all nod and look at our lattes.
“How curious,” Holly says. “We all got snowflakes on top of our lattes, and look, Noah, you got a heart.”
Noah’s face turns as red as a Valentine, and he nervously touches his curly dark hair.
“How’s your latte, Noah?” Fred asks.
He ducks his head. The man with a quip and comeback for any situation is quiet as a church mouse.
Holly nudges Noah, hard, in the side.
“Answer your favorite barista,” she says.
“It’s great,” he says quietly, unable to look Fred in the face. “Thank you.”
“Diva,” Holly adds. “You meant to say, ‘Thank you, diva,’ right?”
Noah’s doe eyes implore Holly to stop.
“Well, if there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”
I can feel Holly’s leg take flight under the table. It makes a resounding, dull thud.
“Ow!” Noah says.
“Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Fred?” Holly says, her voice all innocent. “Remember, since we’re all supporting Susan? Since it’s public Petoskey news?”
If looks could kill, Holly would be a guest corpse on CSI.
Noah clears his throat. “I was wondering,” he starts, his voice warbling. “I’m sorry. I—”
“I’d love to,” Fred says.
Noah looks up. “What?”
“I’d love to go out with you,” Fred says. “I’ve been waiting years for you to ask.”
“But I thought...” Noah starts.
“I know,” he says. “I’m just not as comfortable with myself yet as you are. But I’m trying, I promise.”
The table is silent.
“Can I give you my number?” Fred asks.
Noah hands him his phone.
“Let me know if you’d like to meet for a cup of coffee,” Fred says as he types. “I know a great place. And a great barista.”
Fred hands the cell back to Noah. Just before he turns to leave, he places his hand on Noah’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. In slow motion, I watch Noah’s face morph from surprise to happiness. As Fred goes back to the counter, Noah touches his shoulder, and a smile comes over his face. Then he looks at me, and a tear pops into the corner of his eye. It takes every fiber of my soul not to cry.
I look out at the snow, the hill and the icebreaker on the bay.
Something, deep inside of me, melts just a bit when I look back at Noah.
“I can’t wait for my next date,” I say.
“Yes!” Holly yells.
Once more, the line of customers at Petoskey Scones turns and stares, but no one at our table cares that they are looking.