He went back and reread the sole letter she’d written him, to see if he’d missed something. It said she had new students and a new place.
Was Newberry Townhomes the new place?
And if so, was she teaching in Newberry, too?
Frantically he pulled up the school website and scrolled down the list of teachers’ names, clicking on the M’s. There she was. Jamie Martel, Music. Newberry Elementary.
She was teaching at Hank’s old school.
Why hadn’t she told him?
So much had changed since she’d gone. There was so much he wanted to tell her. Like how he’d fired Bryce and recommitted himself to the long-range plan to get biodynamic certification. How he was coming into his own, seeing the Sweet Spot in a whole new light.
But Jamie Martel didn’t belong to him. She never had. She was as free as a bird to do whatever she chose, with whomever she chose.
He had paid her to do a service for a specific length of time. She had faithfully performed the work she was hired to do.
She owed him nothing. And she deserved to be left alone to live her life.
* * *
Early on the morning of Thanksgiving Day, Hank and Roy perched on a vinyl swivel stool at the counter at the Main Street Café, plowing through a half-dozen cinnamon donuts.
“First year without your grandma’s gotta be tough. Where you eating dinner?” Roy asked Hank.
“My cousin Jack’s house. You?”
“Sister’s place in Tigard. Hoping I get to sit at the kid’s table. One of the advantages of still being single.”
Hank chuckled.
“Hey.” Roy elbowed him. “Last Friday night at the Turning Point . . .”
Hank flashed Roy a wary glance.
“. . . you end up getting lucky?”
Hank went back to carefully studying the mug cradled between his hands. “Naw.”
“Almost seemed like you knew her,” Roy said, whisking some crumbs off his flannel shirt.
“Used to.”
“Past tense?” Roy picked up his third donut and examined the colored sprinkles.
Hank sipped his coffee. “We were short a hand in the tasting room last summer. She filled in for a spell.”
“That it?”
“That’s it.” Not a word about how moist her plump lips were. How soft her skin. How she smelled like an irresistible blend of sugar cookies and Ellie’s cutting garden in August.
“You wouldn’t be the first one to mix business with pleasure,” said Roy, as if he had read Hank’s mind. “I’m not one to judge.”
“Nothing to judge,” Hank replied tersely.
When it was time to leave for his cousin’s place for dinner, Hank stalked back to his SUV, yanking his collar up against a stiff west wind blowing down his neck.
Why had Roy had to go and bring up Jamie?
He shivered. This was his first Thanksgiving without Ellie. He was going to miss her stuffing.
But he was blessed with extended family, the strength to work hard, and a few good friends. And he was beyond thankful that he still had the Sweet Spot. Even if it might get lonesome at times with no one to share it with, some people would call that having it all.
Chapter Thirty-three
December
Jamie’s oatmeal-colored carpet was littered with scraps of the colored paper that she was using to construct a new bulletin board for the hallway outside her classroom. While she sat cross-legged on the floor performing the mindless task, her mind was free to wander.
She still ached inside with missing Hank. But it had been weeks since he’d emailed her.
I guess he finally gave up, she thought.
The next day, as she and Tony were wrangling their students onto the bleachers set up on the auditorium stage for the Christmas concert, he asked her to sing with T-Bone again during the coming weekend.
“I got a ton of positive feedback from your first appearance. If you could fill in for me full-time, I can stay home with my family at night until the baby’s born.”
She’d agreed, and during a break between sets, a stranger with a sandy-colored mustache handed Jamie a glass of red wine.
“I guessed pinot. How’d I do?”
She looked blankly at the glass, momentarily flustered. “Thank you,” she finally said, looking up into kind green eyes. “That is, yes, I do happen to like pinot noir.”
“Whew. That’s a relief. My name’s Roy Matthews, and I grew the grapes that went into this wine. Mind if I sit down?”
Outside of her school, he was the first person Jamie had met since she’d returned to Oregon.
Roy stayed at her table and watched her sing the rest of her repertoire.
And when he asked for her number at the end of the night, she caved and gave it to him.
* * *
When Jamie mentioned Roy’s name to one of her coworkers in the lounge the following Monday, she confirmed that he was the never-married owner of a small winery near Dayton.
The following Saturday, Roy took Jamie to dinner at Cuvée.
It didn’t escape her that he’d gone to the trouble of getting a haircut and had on a chestnut leather coat that appeared to be new. It had been a long time since anyone had cared enough to impress her.
Over a bottle of wine and burgers, Jamie told him about her eastern upbringing and her infatuation with Willamette Valley pinot. But she edited out the part about working last summer at Hank’s place.
Roy entertained her with stories of winemaking, his first love—his kindergarten teacher, back when he was a student at Newberry Elementary—and his large, close-knit family.
After dinner, Roy drove Jamie back to her town house and walked her to her door. When he leaned down to kiss her, she let him.
The kiss was pleasant, if a little dry.
But the date hadn’t been wasted. She felt like she’d made a new friend.
Two days later, Jamie’s phone rang.
“I’m packing to go skiing in Utah with relatives, for Christmas,” said Roy. “I know it’s a little last-minute to make a date for New Year’s Eve, and if you’re not into celebrating the most festive night of the year with someone you barely know, I get it. But there’s a formal party at the Newberry Inn. No expectations. Just a chance to get dressed up, dance, and have a good time.”
Jamie stalled. But then she pictured the alternative—spending New Year’s Eve all alone, far from family and old friends.
“That sounds fun.”
“Pick you up at seven.”
Jamie owned one long dress—black velvet with four spaghetti straps leading up from the straight neckline to a choker collar—purchased at a boutique in Manayunk to wear once a year for her annual winter holiday concerts. It never failed to bring her luck, and so she had managed to squeeze it into her crammed suitcase in its plastic garment bag before flying back to Oregon.
Maybe it would work its magic yet again.
* * *
The grapevines stuck out of the picture-perfect blanket of snow like naked, brown sticks. To the casual observer they appeared almost dead. But Hank knew they were only resting. Just beneath the surface was a great deal of hidden activity. The tiny new roots that had grown after the crush were little by little allowing precisely the right amount of snowmelt into the vine to keep it alive during its dormancy and prepare it for the coming spring.
One frosty December morning on his way out to do maintenance on the tractor, a glimpse of his passing reflection in the grandfather clock stopped him cold. His hand went to his new beard. When he stroked it, the hollows in his cheeks almost made him look like a hibernating bear.
After a moment, he continued on his way out to the barn, thinking that just like his vines, on some level he was still reflecting on all that had happened in the past months, in hopes of making sense of it.
He yanked out the level plug above the clutch pedal to check the transmission fluid. Not far away in the horse stalls, Dancer wickered, and he saw again i
n his mind’s eye Jamie astride his back, laughing as she pounded down the valley toward Raven’s Rock, surrounded by green foliage, her red-gold hair flying out behind her.
He wondered what she was doing this winter season. That is, when she wasn’t with him.
Surely right now, at 10:25 on this weekday morning, she was at school. But Christmas was fast approaching. Soon she would be on winter break. And the school event that always preceded that was the holiday concert.
If she wanted to be left alone, he thought, checking the fuel filter with freezing fingers for accumulated water, then he would respect that, even if the knowledge that she was never more than a few miles away from him was slowly eating him up inside.
But did that mean he couldn’t go to the annual holiday concert? Why not? Newberry Elementary was his very own alma mater. There was a time when he used to sing in those winter concerts. And it was open to the public. Besides, he told himself, he could use a little injection of Christmas spirit. It was in short supply this year.
After he finished vacuuming the radiator grill, he wiped his hands on his bandana and pulled out his phone. The concert was that night. If not for Dancer, he might have missed it.
He strode around the corner to the horse stalls, hearing them stamp and stir at his approach.
Grabbing an apple from the box on the wall, he pulled out his pocketknife, cut it in half, and fed it to Dancer while he rubbed his forelock.
“This is from Jamie,” he murmured, watching him chew. And then he added, “Good boy,” for giving him a plan.
* * *
Hank got to the school early, but he didn’t want to go in yet. Instead he sat in his SUV and watched the citizens of Newberry trickle into the school, obsessively checking the time. When the ushers closed the doors and only one minute remained before starting time, he sneaked into the darkened auditorium and slipped into the first seat in the back row.
It had been a dozen years since he’d last set foot in the building, but the lingering smells of that day’s cafeteria lunch and pink rubber erasers made it seem like just yesterday. Surrounding him in the semidarkness were the loud voices of children and the shushing of parents, who then proceeded to converse with other adults at the same decibel level, only to be interrupted by their children and shush them again.
This went on for what seemed like forever. How could he have forgotten? These things never started on time. Fragments of his own concert days came back in broken bits and pieces. What came first? Orchestra or chorus? Was there a Christmas play? Damned if he could remember.
It occurred to him too late that in waiting till the last minute, he hadn’t procured a program. And that in years past, there had always been a problem with them running out. No doubt something to do with their meager paper budget. Now he wouldn’t even know when Jamie would come on stage. He would just have to wait and wonder.
At last the curtains opened to the principal, who after a prolonged welcome announced that tonight’s program was called “Home for Christmas.”
And who should come out next to lead the orchestral ensemble in “We Jazzy Kings” in his pressed gingham shirt, knit tie, and khakis, but Jamie’s new boyfriend.
Hank’s plan had turned out to be a disaster. He slouched down in his seat and clenched his jaw, willing himself not to stare at the man introduced as Mr. Anthony Harwood while praying to Jesus for a speedy end to the song, but he was unable to tear his eyes away. What did Jamie see in him? Okay. Objectively speaking, he was perky and fit-looking. He’d give him that. Clean-shaven, too, he thought, self-consciously rubbing his hand over his beard.
The next number, appropriately, Hank thought, was “In the Bleak Midwinter.”
He breathed a sigh of relief when Harwood left the stage, only to be replaced with a Charlie Brown skit.
This is ridiculous, he thought, trying to get comfortable in the squeaky auditorium seat. What did he think he was doing here? He ought to just slip out the same way he’d come in, like one of those sneaky vineyard gophers.
And then the principal returned and the next thing Hank knew, she was announcing the kindergarten, first- and second-grade chorus conducted by Ms. Jamie Martel, singing “Away in a Manger,” and he sat up to his full height and stared unblinking at a vision in black velvet.
She turned her back on the audience, but from his seat at stage left Hank could still see her smiling profile encouraging her students, singing along with them, emphasizing each syllable. Hungrily, he took in every minute detail, from her crowning glory flowing down her back to the four-inch heels he didn’t know how anyone could even stand upright in, let alone glide in like she did.
Seemingly only seconds later, he was surprised by applause. He was so transfixed watching Jamie, he hadn’t heard a note of the song.
Next came the third-, fourth-, and fifth-grade choir, and finally all grades in the finale.
All the participating teachers came out and took a bow together. And then Mr. Harwood took it upon himself to grab the mic and extend a special thanks to Ms. Martel, Newberry’s newest music teacher, for the exceptional job she had done.
That was all Hank needed to see. He got up and with a shove of the heel of his palm to the wooden door, he strode briskly out into the night.
It was bitter cold inside his SUV. On his drive back to the Sweet Spot, in the quiet, snow began to fall.
* * *
Behind the heavy stage curtains at Newberry Elementary, a celebratory mood prevailed.
Tony’s wife, Tracy, lumbered back, holding the hand of her toddler, to congratulate the teachers.
“Killer dress,” she said to Jamie with undisguised envy. “I can’t wait until I can fit into something like that again.”
“Thanks. It’s my good-luck dress.”
“Well, it worked for you tonight. You and your kids were great. By the way, what are you doing for Christmas?” she asked, absentmindedly rubbing her free hand in slow circles over her protruding stomach.
“Singing at the eleven o’clock service at Friends Church,” Jamie replied breathlessly, still nursing a post-performance high.
“What about after that?”
Was she really doing this? Forcing Jamie to admit that she was spending Christmas alone?
She pasted on a grin. “Oh, I have things to keep me busy.”
Tracy frowned. “Like what? What kind of things?”
Jamie sighed and gave her an exasperated look. “Okay! If you must know, work on a new word wall.”
“Work? On Christmas.” She rolled her eyes. “No. You’re having Christmas dinner with us.”
“I couldn’t,” said Jamie. “You and Tony have already gone out of your way to make me feel welcome. Christmas is for families.”
“Are you kidding? After your taking over the mic for the band, we’re the ones who owe you. One o’clock. I hope you like ham, because that’s what we’re having, and I don’t have the energy to go out and buy something else at this point.”
Jamie laughed. “As long as you don’t mind my store-bought cookies.”
* * *
On Christmas Eve, the streets of Newberry were strung with multicolored lights. Jamie shuffled through the snow in her Noconas to Christmas Eve services.
“There’s Ms. Martel!”
She looked up. By now, every child in town knew her name.
“Mommy, look! It’s Ms. Martel,” they called out again and again. Of course, their parents wanted to get a close-up look at the new music teacher they’d only seen from afar at the holiday concert.
Inside, the tiny church was hung with greens and red bows and packed with worshippers. Singing “Silent Night” a cappella as she lit her candle and passed it down the pew from neighbor to neighbor, for a brief moment she felt a sense of community, like she belonged.
The hour was late on the East Coast when services ended. Jamie and her family video-chatted while they unwrapped the presents they’d sent one another.
The next morning, she awoke with a
smile to church bells. But when she remembered that there was no one to get up and sit around the tree in her pajamas and open presents with, she closed her eyes, snuggled deeper in the covers, and rolled over to try to go back to sleep until it was time for her to go back to church to sing with the choir.
* * *
Standing in the chancel looking out on the newly familiar faces of students and their parents as she shared the gift of her voice, a warmth suffused her veins, and she felt blessed. Truly, giving was better than receiving.
Afterward she stuffed herself with cookies at Tony and Tracy’s house and played with their adorable kids until it was time to go back out into the dark, and her empty town house.
Chapter Thirty-four
New Year’s Eve
It was snowing again on the afternoon when Roy stopped by the post office for the mail held for him while he’d been away.
“How was your Christmas?” asked Seth.
“Fine and dandy. Yours?”
Roy was in no mood for Seth’s usual long-winded banter. He’d been gone for over a week. First he had winery business to attend to, and then he had to get decked out for the party he was taking Jamie to that night, and he still hadn’t unearthed his tuxedo from the nether reaches of his closet.
“Santy Claus came for the kids, that’s the important thing,” Seth reported. And then he added, “Say, how’s your friend Hank doing since his grandmother died?”
“He’s hanging in.” Roy sorted through myriad envelopes without looking up. Seth was more full of news than the Newberry Herald. He was always looking for grist for the mill.
“Hate to think of him rattling around in that old inn all by himself. For a while there last summer I thought maybe he and that girl who worked for him had a chance.”
He had Roy’s full attention now. “Who’s that?”
Seth sighed dramatically. “The one from back East. You know, that tall blond gal. The one that got a job teachin’ over at the elementary.”
“Jamie?”
“That’s it! Jamie. Jamie Martel.”
“What about her and Hank?”
“Well now, don’t quote me. All I know is, they were seen dancin’ awful close at the wine fest back in July.”
The Sweet Spot Page 21
