by Holly Kerr
Flora shakes her head. I know she’s on my side with Annette, but hates to be in the middle of things, especially around Christmas. “What’s Adam doing for the holidays?” she asks to change the subject from talk of my mother. Not that I want to talk about Annette, now or ever.
“He’s with his family,” Patrick says, sounding acceptably morose. “And his friends, the ones that came to Flora’s party.”
“M.K. is having a party for New Year’s!” Flora cries over her shoulder. “It must be Clay’s doing, because M.K.’s never wanted to entertain before.”
“Clay likes his parties,” Dean confirms. “But I thought he’d settle down with Theo in the picture. He’s definitely settled down with M.K.”
“I got the impression he’s turned into a bit of a homebody,” Flora laughs. “There’s been no complaints about M.K.’s early nights.”
“Babies must be exhausting,” Dean says with a sideways glance at Flora, who holds up her hand.
“What?” she admonishes. “You do know you’re leaving me in two months to go play baseball, don’t you? You don’t get to look at me when you talk about babies. Now, speaking of M.K., I told her we’d stop by her mother’s tomorrow night.”
“Why would you do that?” I demand. Growing up in Niagara-on-the-Lake, I know M.K.’s vampire of a mother and have witnessed first-hand her treatment of M.K.
Flora glances over her shoulder. “Moral support. It’s Clay’s first time down, and with Theo. I said we’d drop by in case they need some distraction.”
“Did you say we?” Dean asks.
“I did,” Flora crows. “We’re a set now! And speaking of set.” This time she turns in her seat to look at me, the shoulder harness of the seatbelt pressing into her neck. “Where’s Colton today?”
“I have no idea.”
Other than my mother, Colton is the last person I want to talk about. Actually, I want to talk about Trev even less, after the disaster our fun outing turned into, with his jealous shtick overriding my enjoyment. I liked hanging out with him but his behaviour spoiled everything.
He acted like a jealous boyfriend, when one: he’s not my boyfriend and has no right to be jealous, and two: I honestly don’t think there’s anything to be jealous about.
But what I think is a little different than what’s been splashed over Colton’s media’s pages lately. There are a few pictures of us on his Instagram page, one really good one of me on Twitter, with hearts and smiley face emojis. The world who follows Colton—over thirty thousand followers, and some very infatuated women, from the nasty comments I’ve received—thinks he’s deliriously happy with me.
The truth is a little different. The only contact I’ve had with Colton is a few text messages, usually sent at odd hours, so it’s like we’re playing phone tag. He made an offhanded comment about me coming to Memphis for New Years, but I’m glad to hear of M.K.’s party because it gives me an excuse to decline.
I twist the ring around my finger. The plastic is the only thing that feels comfortable about this relationship.
It’s not a relationship. It’s a…I don’t know what it is. A media blitz? How he’s found love with the Blue Jays and a good ole Canadian girl?
“Who’s Colton?” Dean asks.
“Only the guy who supposedly proposed to our Ruthie,” Patrick cries loud enough to wake up Cappie. “We haven’t met him, or even seen them together, so I’ll believe it when I see him. Colton Pruitt! How cool is that?”
“You’re engaged to Colton Pruitt?” I glance up at the coldness of Dean’s voice and meet his gaze in the rearview mirror. I’ve never heard that tone from him before.
“It might be awkward when you’re on the team together, but we have to be happy for her.” Flora noticed as well and does her Flora best to intervene.
“It’s not that.” Dean keeps shifting his gaze to the mirror and I wish he’d keep his eyes on the road. “He’s…”
“He’s what?” I demand as Dean trails off. “Spit it out.”
“I met him at the Baseball Zone when I was there the other day with Trev,” he admits. “He didn’t strike me as a stand-up guy. That’s all.” He glances over at Flora, who is staring at him as hard as I am, so I know there’s more.
I focus on that rather than the jolt I feel at the mention of Trev’s name.
“You can’t leave it at that,” I point out. “What did he do for you to think that?”
“It wasn’t what he did, it was what he said. He told us he was in town because his girl was here—”
“Ruthie,” Flora supplies.
“I didn’t know it was her. No one said who Ruthie is with now,” Dean says defensively.
“I thought it might be weird for you, so I didn’t say anything,” I admit.
“That’s weirdly considerate of you,” Patrick mutters. “What happened with Colton Pruitt?”
“You can call him Colton,” Flora points out. “You don’t have to add his last name all the time.”
“Yes, but it’s such a good name,” Patrick says. “Colton Pruitt. ColtonPruitt. See?”
Flora sighs. “What did he who will not be named say?”
“It’s what he implied.” Dean’s gaze in the mirror is apologetic. “That he had a girl in the city, but he was going clubbing that night and didn’t want her to find out.” He gives me a rueful smile. “It’s just what he said. I don’t know what happened.”
“Maybe nothing happened,” Flora insists, turning around in her seat with a reassuring expression. I’ve seen that expression too many times when she was with Thomas and wanted to believe the best of him. I don’t like it, and my heart turns a little colder towards Colton.
Patrick snorts, obviously reminded of the bad years of Flora and Thomas as well. “Wake up, auntie. That’s Thomas talk. All the excuses you made for him,” he adds when she turns a confused expression to him. “You don’t like seeing bad parts of people. If Colton Pruitt went clubbing in Toronto without our Ruthie, who is undoubtedly the queen of clubbing, then he wasn’t looking to hang out with just his friends.”
“You’re right.” Turning to the window, I twist the ring on my finger. I know why Colton would want to meet someone else.
It’s the same reason that all my relationships end.
“Ruthie?” Flora asks to break the sudden silence in the car.
“Did Trev know?” I ask Dean.
“He was with me,” Dean says, confused. “Why?”
“No reason.” The hurt in my voice rings round the inside of the Jeep.
“Ruthie?” Flora repeats, craning to look at me over her shoulder.
I shrug, unwilling and unwanting to go into why Trev’s refusal to tell me about Colton would hurt more than the idea of Colton with someone else. Colton actually doesn’t surprise me. Not that I’m excusing it, but he’s young and has been given the keys to the candy store, so to speak. The last thing he should want is to be tied down to me. Besides, I still think the whole thing is a PR stunt, so why should I be surprised that he doesn’t actually love me?
I’d be more worried if he did.
Flora is still watching me expectantly like I’m about to deliver some epiphany. I’m not, so I turn to look out the window again. “He should have said something,” I say reluctantly.
“Trev? Or Colton?” Patrick demands. “I’m confused.”
I glance at him with a shrug. “It’s fine. It was never going to last anyway.”
“With Colton or Trev? Now I’m confused,” Flora says.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t understand you.” Flora gives a sigh and turns back around with a resigned flounce. She knows more than anyone that when I say that, the discussion is closed, locked and the key is thrown away.
“No one does,” I agree.
“What are you going to do?” Patrick wants to know.
“I said—” Even I’m getting annoyed by my tough-as-nails bravado. “I don’t know. End it? Whatever it is.”
I mean Colton, because nothing has begun with Trev to end. For a moment, for a brief flash, I thought maybe there could be. He’s so different than what I’m used to, but I like different. Now I find out he’s like every other man I’ve known—a disappointment. But at least I’m not the one disappointing him.
The Jeep is quiet as I stare out of the window at the cars speeding by on the highway. Too soon, Dean gets off at the Niagara-on-the-Lake exit, and the view outside the window radically changes. Flora begins to point things out to Dean, since it’s his first time there.
It’s a beautiful area, with grapes and orchards and green everywhere. Or, it’s usually green. Today there’s a thin covering of snow across the fields, with hard and crusty gray snowbanks lining the road.
The snowbanks remind me of my mother.
“And that is where M.K. and I had the bike accident,” Flora continues her rambling litany of memories as Dean turns onto the road that leads to the family homes.
Shaughnessy’s Nurseries sits on ten acres of prime Niagara real estate, with two houses on either side of the business, both within walking distance. There’s a third house a little farther away.
This is my home, at least the house owned by my parents, Archie and Annette, who is a second cousin of M.K.’s mother, the heiress to Four Clover Winery. The story is that Annette had no intention of living right next to the nursery, which had been the lot my father had originally selected. It would have been one thing to live on a winery with grapes surrounding the house, but quite another to look out to the peat moss field and the rolls of sod. Annette apparently refused to live there, so my father, hopelessly in love for whatever reason, gave the prime spot beside the main house to his brother Harrison and built Annette’s house farther away from the sod fields.
Harrison’s land has still never been developed, since Harrison ran as far away as fast as he could when he was in his twenties.
Sometimes I wish I’d done that, but there’s only so far you can go if you’re afraid of flying. It takes a lot to get me on a plane—good anti-nausea pills usually do the trick, but I need incentive, like Flora’s wedding in Las Vegas.
“That’s M.K.’s mother’s place over there,” Flora points across the fields of grapes. “And now we’re here,” she sings.
I look up as Dean turns into the long drive leading to my childhood home. “Oh, joy.”
Trev
I spend a miserable morning trying to write.
Nothing works. Every word I type sounds trite and insignificant when I read it back.
Drogo spreads out on the floor beside me, his gentle eyes never leaving me. He’s always like this when I’m home from work. I can’t decide if he’s worried about why I’m home, or crabby because he doesn’t have the house to himself. Plus, I always cancel the dog-walker during the break and Pat tells me Drogo’s got a thing for the sweet Labradoodle three streets over. I think he’s missing her.
Three hours after I took my spot at the table, my coffee cup is empty, Drogo’s head is on my leg, his eyes asking why won’t I take him for a walk, and I am the proud owner of two new bats, an elbow guard, and a new shower curtain, thanks to Amazon.
I lean back in my chair and stretch my arms over my head. I would have been better off joining Dean at the Baseball Zone to hit a few balls like he suggested. But he went early, before leaving for Niagara-on-the-Lake with Flora and Ruthie.
Ruthie.
It’s been four days since our movie date-non-date and because I don’t have the grammar problems of thirteen-year-olds clogging up my brainwaves, thoughts about Ruthie keep popping into my mind with annoying frequency.
But it’s easy enough to make the thoughts disappear. I only have to point out that even as intriguing as I find Ruthie, she’s too loud, too bright—in terms of colour, not brains—and too casual about everything that matters to me.
Her comments about her mother were borderline disrespectful, and if there was one thing I had drilled into me growing up, it’s that mothers deserve the utmost respect.
Plus, Ruthie is so…I don’t know. Her don’t-care attitude, which stereotypically hides a troubled past, may not be the case for Ruthie. She just may not care about anything.
No job, no place to live, clearly no ambition. The women I date have their lives together, at least on the outside; much more than Ruthie does. It might be her age.
Plus there’s the whole Colton Pruitt thing.
Either Ruthie really did think we were friends hanging out, or she has a complete lack of respect for any relationship, as casual as it might be. And the more I think about it, the more I wonder which it is.
She’s a heartbreaker. Dean’s words echo in my head, so much that I give up on my morning of writing. Non-writing. I’m lucky if I’ve gotten a hundred words down.
I carefully save my work, then back it up on my USB, and then make a backup in another file. One of the first things I learned in writing class is to back up my work, and then back it up again. The teacher had countless stories of writers losing months and years of words, and I bet I wasn’t the only one to stop on the way home to buy a collection of USBs.
After I shower and dress, my eyes fall on the plastic bag on the floor of my bedroom. Ruthie insisted I take the sweater that she insisted on buying for me, but I haven’t been able to stomach taking it out of the bag.
I had fun with her.
But there’s no point in even thinking about her now.
“Ready to go to Grandma’s?” I ask Drogo, who looks at me with patient eyes. My family has our traditional watching-hockey- and-eating-lasagna Christmas Eve planned, and Drogo gets to go to it. But tomorrow, my mother refuses to have dogs in the house while she’s cooking the turkey. Even Dodger is banished outside for hours.
At least Dodger has a warm and comfortable doghouse to wait out the cooking. Drogo would be forced to sit tied out in the yard, and I’m not about to do that to him.
I have a list of things to pick up for Mom, including stops at The Beer Store and Pain au Chocolat. Ever since I met M.K. and tried the pastries from her patisserie, I’ve been a convert. I took some to Mom’s a few weeks ago and now she has a permanent order in.
I pack up and with Drogo riding shotgun beside me, head over to Pain au Chocolat. Promising Drogo a snack, I slide into the patisserie.
It’s empty, save for the one customer leaning against the counter talking to M.K. and Reuben, the bearded giant who makes pain au chocolat almost as good as M.K. He hovers behind her like he’s on protection detail.
“Trev!” M.K. calls as I walk in the door. I don’t know M.K. very well, but I can recognize the relief in her voice. The customer, a slick-looking man with hooded eyes of a chocolate brown colour, wears only a T-shirt and workout pants. He turns around to watch me approach with resentment in his eyes.
I fight the urge to puff out my chest and pull in my stomach under his gaze as I walk across the store.
“Merry almost Christmas,” I say, flicking my gaze back to M.K. “Do you have anything left for me?”
“Of course. But I was getting worried. It’s been so quiet that I’m going to close early. I think everyone already is off for the holiday.”
“I should be off myself. Happy Christmas, my bela moça.” Big and Buff takes her hand across the counter and brings it to his lips.
“Merry Christmas, Paulo,” M.K. says as she pulls back her hand. “Enjoy the holiday.”
“I would enjoy it so much more with your company to spend with, but that will not be the case. Lucky Clay. Santa has been good to him to bring him you.”
“That’s sweet.”
Big and Buff, or Paulo, as M.K. called him, pushes away from the counter and with a testosterone-fuelled nod, he backs to the door. “Tchau.”
I wait until the door closes behind him, then turn to M.K. “Should I be running to Clay with that?”
“That’s just Paulo,” M.K. says with a shaky breath and a smile that looks a little bewitched. She gives a
shake of her head. “He’s harmless.”
Reuben snorts and with a mutter that I can’t begin to understand with his accent, heads to the kitchen. “Can you bring out that box I put aside for Trev?” M.K. calls after him. “The stuff I made.”
One night when I was at Clay’s, M.K. brought out pastries for us to taste test, to see if we could tell the difference in who made them. It was pretty difficult, but M.K.’s won by a small margin. I don’t know much about patisseries or baking, but Reuben seems like a good find for her.
The swinging door is pushed open and Reuben appears with a box with the Pain logo embossed on the top. “I put together some treats for your mother in case we sold out before you got here,” M.K. says as she flips open the box for my approval. “Look okay?”
My mouth waters from the smell alone. “Looks great. Smells great. Thanks, M.K.”
“My pleasure.” She pulls out a bouquet of flowers from under the counter. “And Flora left these for you. Neither of us will be open in the morning.”
“Flowers.” I smack my forehead. “I completely forgot I needed to pick some up. Neither of my brothers ever think of that.”
“It’s sweet that you do. Or at least it is when you remember.” M.K. smiles. She’s a pretty woman with her delicate features and cap of dark hair, but not even the wicked scar running down her cheek can mar the beauty when she smiles.
“How much do I owe you?” I pull out my wallet, but M.K. waves it away.
“Consider it a Christmas present for your mother. Want a coffee for your drive?”
“I won’t turn that down. You haven’t even met my mother.” I laugh with disbelief.
“Yes, but I like nice mothers. They should be rewarded with treats.” She smiles at Reuben as he moves to the coffee machine. I must have become a regular because he doesn’t even ask what I want.
“Yes, but so should you.” I take out a twenty and stuff it into the tip jar sitting before the cash register. “Thank you. You’re very sweet.”
Another smile with the power to melt me. “Yes, I am. Has Clay mentioned New Year’s Eve yet?”
“No, I bailed on them this morning, so I haven’t talked to him.”
