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SIOBHAN
Seated at my desk in the studio, I studied the images on my computer screen with critical eyes and frowned. Justin’s brochure lacked panache, and I couldn’t figure out why. Naturally. Because I had a meeting with him scheduled for later this afternoon where I’d planned to show him this...mess.
My fingers scratched through my hair, sending tingles from my scalp to my brain. Wake up! For the thousandth time today, I stared up at that stupid business card. I swore the phone number printed in black typeface had started glowing at me these days. I had to make the call. My window of time for a miracle tightened more with every minute I let slide by. The longer I procrastinated, the greater the odds the realtor would find another space for that television star. I glanced at the computer screen again. No doubt about it. The pressure of putting off making the call was sabotaging my creativity.
The alert on my front door buzzed, indicating someone had entered the shop, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Hooray. A distraction. I left the disastrous brochure mockup and my financial woes for the potential customer waiting for me up front. When I got my first look at my visitor standing in the middle of the reception area, though, the welcoming smile I’d plastered on my face froze. Crap. Why me? What evil had I done as a child to deserve so much misfortune as an adult?
“Hey, Siobhan.” Jimmy’s smile looked as fake as mine felt. “Nice place you got here.” He jerked his head toward my wall of photos. “You do beautiful work.”
I remained in the doorway, and he made no move to come toward me. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Well, this was awkward. He stood stiff as a gargoyle, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, as if he might get cooties if he touched anything. When he didn’t speak again, I took several steps closer to him, feigning the aura of successful businesswoman. “Is there something I can do for you, Jimmy?”
“You could turn off the spotlight on those decorations so it doesn’t shine in my bedroom window.”
I glanced behind me, toward the studio, at the greenery and fake fur blankets surrounding the wooden sled. None of my spotlights were on.
“Not here,” he growled, and I jumped. “At your house. Where you’ve put the holiday farce on Schooner Lane to shame with all the icicle lights and animated figures.”
Gee, Jimmy, don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel. “Well, why come all the way down here to ask me to fix them? You could’ve just walked across the street and mentioned the problem to my grandmother.” When did he become such a Scrooge? I half expected the phrase, “Bah, humbug” to come from him next.
His expression darkened. “The less I see of that crazy woman, the better.”
Low blow, Vais. Sure, she was a little kooky, but she was still my grandmother. She deserved respect—especially from cranky outsiders who probably had Tiny Tim tied up in the basement. I jerked my head toward the door, inviting him to go away.
“Fine,” I bit out. “When I get home tonight, sometime after midnight, I’ll take a look at the spotlight. Until then, you’ll have to deal with it.”
He arched a brow. “Midnight, huh? That’s kinda late for you. You’re usually home around dinner time.” His gaze took in the reception area, empty of other people but the two of us. “You don’t look very busy so I guess you’ve got a date. Who’d your grandmother try to set you up with tonight?”
Oh, now, he’d gone way too far. My temper spiked, and I practically embedded my fists in my hips. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I happen to be working on a special project for a client at the moment. And I’d like to get back to it before today’s appointments show up. The rest of my plans are none of your business. I’ll take care of the spotlight on my time when I get home. That’s the best I can promise. Take it or leave it.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to take it. Thanks.” He turned around and walked out before I could say anything in reply.
Jerk. Imagine the nerve of this guy. What gave him the right to come all the way down here to complain about our decorations and then insult me and my grandmother in the process? I toyed with the idea of locking the door to make sure Jimmy Scrooge didn’t return to haunt me, but still held out hope I might catch a straggler or two looking for last-minute holiday portraits.
I no sooner resettled at my desk and picked up my stylus when the front door alert buzzed again. If Jimmy had decided to reappear to shove a stake of holly through my heart, I’d reposition all the spotlights in the front of the house so they flooded his bedroom with white light twenty-four/seven. I’d even pay carolers to show up and sing outside every night. With bullhorns.
I got up, stylus sticking out of my closed fist like a dagger, and returned to the reception area, a zesty retort hot on my lips.
Oh, for God’s sake! Not Jimmy.
Justin, his back to me, removed his heavy work jacket and slung it over his arm. When he turned and spotted me, he smiled. “Hey. I know. I’m early.”
“About...” I glanced at the clock on the wall to my right. “...four hours early.”
“Yeah. Sorry. If you don’t have time for me right now, I understand. But I’ve got a minor issue to deal with the rest of the day, and I was hoping you’d take pity on me and talk to me now.”
“What kind of minor issue?”
“I...umm...” He took a step forward, and I noticed a hobble in his step. “I fell on the rocks by the lighthouse this morning, twisted my ankle.”
My idle curiosity ratcheted to concern. “Oh, my God, does it hurt?”
“Only when I stand on it.”
“Shoot.” I rushed across the room and grabbed a wheeled chair from behind the counter. “Here.” I rolled it toward him. “Sit. Give me two minutes. I’ll email the mockup to myself and then open it on my tablet.”
He laughed. “Relax, Nurse Bendlow. It’s not that bad. I can make it across the floor to your studio.” Doubt must have shown on my face because he pushed the chair, sending it rolling back to me. “I made it in here, didn’t I? Seriously, it’s not that bad. I am headed home after this to elevate the leg and ice it—doctor’s orders. Once I’m there, though, I won’t be leaving again today, so...”
“So you want to see what I came up with now,” I finished with an air of defeat.
“If my timing sucks, we can reschedule for tomorrow or Friday.”
I sighed. He could give me ‘til Doomsday, and I’d probably still hate what I’d come up with. Better I ‘fess up now. Maybe he could spot what I missed. “Okay, here’s the thing. I’ve been looking at the mockup for the last hour, and I’m not happy with it yet.”
“Really? Let’s see.” He limped forward and stopped when he stood behind me.
I guessed that was the clue for me to lead the way. I grabbed the back of our boomeranging chair and pulled it into the studio, with Justin limping behind me. Pity stabbed my heart. “You know, you could sit,” I suggested, patting the chair back, “and I could push you along.”
“Not if I were a hundred years old and had two broken legs,” he replied with a humorous air I couldn’t fathom. He had to be in pain. Why wouldn’t he let me help? He prodded me with a finger in the shoulder blade. “Go. I can do this.”
I pushed the chair forward, a bit slower now. “I don’t know what you’re afraid of. It’s not like I have a black hole in the middle of the floor to push you into.”
He chuckled. “It’s not fear that prevents me from taking you up on your offer. It’s pride. Stupid, manly pride.”
“Yet, you’re not too proud to admit it.”
“Of course. It’s not like I’m admitting I’m weak.”
I normally didn’t get a peek into the workings of the male mind, so I wanted to make sure I understood what he said, rather than putting a feminine spin on his meaning. “You’re not admitting you’re afraid, either. Right?”
“Exactly.”
I stopped and turned to face him with mere feet to go to reach my desk. “Ah, but that’s exactly what you’re admitting. You fear my judging you.”
“That’s not fear, that’s pride. My pride couldn’t abide you making fun of me. There’s a difference.”
“Uh-huh. As vast as the difference between a pebble and a stone.”
He grinned and spread his arms wide. “I knew you’d understand.”
I didn’t, but couldn’t bear to see his disappointment by admitting the whole conversation struck me as illogical and dumb. Instead, I patted the chair again. “Here. Your pride is safe now. You can sit and roll yourself closer to the desk while I set everything up.”
I left him to find his way to the seat while I regained my own chair and moved the mouse to my left. My screensaver, a photo of an otter swimming on its back with a red ball balanced on its tummy, was replaced with the disastrous mockup. Despite my better judgment, I enlarged the image. “I had hoped the black and white shots with the color enhancements would stand out, but...” But they didn’t and I couldn’t figure out why.
“They’re too visual for print,” he finished for me. “They’re fantastic—for the website. Those need to be enlarged and really featured as single images, rather than clustered together on a third of an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of glossy paper.”
My jaw dropped. Of course. How could I have missed it? The subtlety of the colored subjects didn’t work when there were four of them on a page. Even with the Haley boys, each photo was an individual print. I hadn’t mashed them together in three-by-fours, scattered on a flat background like playing cards on a poker table.
“You’re right.”
“You have other photos you can slide into those place marks?”
“I do.” Definitely. I’d taken hundreds of pictures of his projects, plus the candid shots I’d taken of him. Maybe I should add one of those to the back of the brochure. My creative spark cranked to life, and excitement pumped in my veins. I could do this. I waved my hands at him in a sweeping motion. “Okay, go away now. I’ve got work to do.”
He chuckled. “Fair enough. Call me when you’ve got something for me to look at and we’ll set up a follow-up appointment. You’re coming Friday night, right?”
I looked up from my screen. Why was he still here? I was eager to get started again. “Friday?”
“The setup at the church?” he prompted with a quirked brow. “For the holiday party on Saturday?”
The memory exploded in my brain. “Oh, right. Yeah. I forgot to tell you. Pan wants to come, too. Is that okay?”
“Sure. We’ll take help wherever we can get it. That’s the sad part. There are more people in need than those willing to help.”
I thought of Dee and grimaced. “Yeah, well, sometimes you extend a hand, and you get slapped for it.”
“Uh-huh.” He leaned closer to me. “Care to explain?”
“Not really.” But I gave him a brief rundown of my conversation with Dee, omitting the details of her marriage trouble and including the fact I offered her the chance to come home and spend the holidays with us, my treat.
He snorted. “If you and your sister get along now the way you did as kids, I’m not surprised she turned you down. You two were always gasoline and matches. Don’t take it personally.” One shoulder rose in a half-shrug. “Happens to the best of families.”
“Like you and Jimmy, you mean?”
“Jimmy and I are in a totally different realm of fractured family.” He swiveled in the chair, facing the front of the store. “Jimmy’s become difficult to get along with these days.”
“Hmmph! No kidding.” Justin veered back to me, brow quirked, and I added, “He was here a little while ago.”
“Really? What for?”
“To complain about our Christmas decorations at the house. What’s with him? He never used to be so...” I searched for an appropriate term that would describe his surly behavior but not insult his brother. I came up empty.
“Mean? Miserable? Morose?” Justin suggested.
“All of the above,” I said. “What happened to him?”
Justin shook his head, his expression grim. “I told you before. It’s not my story to tell.”
I pointed a finger at him. “But there is a story.”
“We’ve all got a story.”
“Really?” I hadn’t considered that. “Even you?”
He mocked my question by rolling his eyes and clucking his tongue. “Duh.” With a low groan, he got to his awkward feet. “But that’s my story to not tell. I’ll call you tomorrow to set up another appointment to see the mockup. Right now, I want to get my ankle on ice and some Tylenol in my body. See ya Friday, Bon.”
♥♥♥♥
ALTHEA
My cell phone rang again. I checked the Caller ID, saw Lou’s name, and sent the call to voicemail. Again.
With a deep sigh of regret, I slipped into my coat, dropping my phone into one of the pockets. After pulling on my gloves, I grabbed my house key and headed out for a good long walk.
I needed my space after our conversation the other night. I knew what he wanted to hear from me, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. By admitting I loved Lou, I risked tarnishing my years with Archie. Sounds crazy? Maybe. But dismissing my fears as crazy didn’t allay them.
While I pondered my troubles, I trudged across the street in front of the Vais house, sparing a quick glance at the sealed-shut living room window. How on earth could Jimmy live entombed like that? Especially on such a bright day after all the gray and bluster the last week.
I admit, I digressed to keep from exploring my mixed-up emotions. Time to face the uncomfortable truth.
The way I saw it, I met Lou shortly after Archie and I first married. While we’d traveled different paths as the years flew by, those paths had intersected several times over the decades. If I said I loved Lou now, did that mean I’d loved him all the while I was with Archie? When I nursed my husband’s babies, did I secretly wish those babies were Lou’s? When we lost Charlie, would I have felt better if Lou had been beside me, holding my hand all through the wake and funeral? Would I have preferred to stay in Snug Harbor with Lou rather than retiring to Florida with Archie?
Well, okay, that last question was best left unexplored. I hated Florida. But I had loved Archie and our life together. I’d miss him every day I walked the Earth without him. We’d celebrated happy times and survived the most miserable times, always supporting each other, loving each other. A lifetime of emotional upheavals makes or breaks any relationship, and ours was no exception.
I will never forget the night the police showed up at our door to tell us about Charlie. Early March, coming in like a lion, had brought us a quick blizzard that dumped several inches of snow on the area. Assured school would be closed the next day, fifteen-year-old Charlie and his friends had gone out to play in the white stuff around twilight. The police said the kids called it “skitching,” a game where they skidded on the icy roads, hitching a ride by gripping the rear bumper of a moving car.
A freak accident, the officer on my doorstep told me that night. The pickup driver had stopped short when she noticed the kids hanging onto her bumper and rolled down her window to yell at them to get off. She hadn’t realized perpetual motion and the icy surface had propelled Charlie forward, beneath the truck’s undercarriage, and when she hit the gas, the left rear tire had rolled over my son. His friends all screamed, she shifted into reverse and ran him over a second time. Charlie had died at the scene.
I collapsed in the foyer, wailing and shrieking, bringing Archie and Tim on the run from the living room. It was Archie who went to the hospital to identify our younger son’s body while Tim and I huddled on the couch together and waited, each breath an interminable tick of time. I kept praying Archie would come back and tell us it was a mistake. Some random child, not our boy, had died that night. Even as the thought echoed in my head, my heart cracked into a hundred pieces with the truth. There’d been a bunch of witnesses, all of them friends of Charlie’s. No way they would have mistaken some stranger for him.
Sure enough, Archie returned, gray-faced and weepy. In one tragic instant, our quartet had become a trio. None of us would ever be the same again. I remember curling into a ball in our bed for so many nights afterward, too drained to shed another tear, too lost in pain to sleep. Archie would draw me closer to his solid bulk, wrap an arm around my waist, and settle his palm against my abdomen. And he would remind me of happier times.
For example, he’d say, “Remember the time Charlie’s line drive hit me in the head during little league practice?”
Despite the hurt in my heart, I’d smile and indulge in the memory. “I warned you that you were standing too close to the foul line, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Who knew the kid could hook a curveball that far? I sported a lump above my eye for a week. I told my customers you clocked me when I complained your pot roast was dry.”
“Hmmph! I bet some of those ninnies believed that lie, too.” I snuggled closer, sighed, and settled into sleep, comforted by Archie’s embrace.
Each night would be the same. I’d lie there, stiff and cold, wishing I was dead, and Archie would hold me close, then bring up a beloved Charlie memory. We never resorted to the platitudes neighbors and well-meaning friends had recited at the wake: how Charlie was in a better place now, how he was free from pain, and we’d see him again in the hereafter. No, Archie and I healed our sorrows through happy memories. Decades later, when Archie knew his time was drawing to an end, he’d take time every night to remind me of all the memories we’d created, his way of helping to soften the impending blow.
A single dry brown leaf clinging to the slender branch of an oak tree rustled as I strolled beneath the boughs, and I glanced up at the icy blue sky. “Remember when I told you I was pregnant with Charlie?”
We’d taken Tim to a ski resort in Vermont for the week, a timeshare gift from a grateful customer of Archie’s. I’d known about my condition after confirming with my doctor several days earlier, and wanted the perfect moment to share my excitement with my husband. So, while Tim took ski lessons on the bunny hill, I convinced Archie to try snowshoeing with me in the nearby woods. Alone, surrounded by snow-coated pine trees, blanketed in nature’s pristine silence, I let him know he’d be a father again.
For a breathless minute, he didn’t move, but the proud grin on his face spoke volumes. A deer and fawn crept from the thicket, breaking our solitude, which allowed Archie to find his voice. “You’re sure?”
With my own joy radiating outward, I nodded.
He schussed closer to me in the awkward tennis rackets tied to our feet, cupped my chin, and kissed me full and thoroughly. “Life is good, Thea.”
Yes, it was. And the following fifteen years had been blissful. After Charlie died, our family still managed to share joys and love and hardships and easy times, but always with a missing element: one less laugh, one less tear, one less hand to hold.
Nowadays, there were new joys and love and hardships and easy times, along with a lot more missing elements, too. How could I forget all I’d shared with Archie to start over with someone else? Especially at my age?
My phone rang again, and I pulled the buzzing implement out of my pocket with annoyance. Couldn’t Lou understand I needed time? I was all riled up to give him a blistering lecture on when to take a step back, but he wasn’t calling this time. I answered the call, hoping for a distraction from my moody musings.
“You still know how to play?” Bea, my neighbor down the block asked me.
“Oh, honey,” I replied, “mahjong’s a state sport in Florida.”
“Good. We need a fourth. Three o’clock. My house.”
Yup. That was Bea. Brusque, to the point, and just what my addlepated brain needed right about now. “Today?”
“Of course today. What? You need a week’s notice or something?”
I smiled. “Nope. I’ll bring the rugelach.” Luckily, I’d made some earlier in the week.
God, it was good to be home!