Christmas Eve at Friday Harbor

by Lisa Kleypas

  “Saturday was the second anniversary of my husband’s death.” Maggie’s dark gaze met his over the rim of the glass. “I didn’t want to be alone. I thought about visiting his parents, but…he was the only thing we had in common, so…I went to stay with my family. I was surrounded by about a thousand people all weekend, and I was lonely. Which makes no sense.”

  “No,” Mark said quietly, “I understand.”

  “The second anniversary was different from the first. The first one…” Maggie shook her head and made a little gesture with her hands, a sort of sweeping-away motion. “The second one…it made me realize there are days when I forget to think about him. And that makes me feel guilty.”

  “What would he say about that?”

  Hesitating, Maggie smiled into her whiskey sour. And for a moment Mark experienced an appalling stab of jealousy over the man who could still elicit a smile from Maggie. “Eddie would tell me not to feel guilty,” she said. “He would try to make me laugh.”

  “What was he like?”

  She drank again before answering. “He was an optimist. He could tell you the bright side of just about anything. Even cancer.”

  “I’m a pessimist,” Mark said. “With occasional positive lapses.”

  Maggie’s smile slid into a grin. “I like pessimists. They’re always the ones who bring life jackets for the boat.” She closed her eyes. “Oh. I’m getting a buzz already.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll make sure you get back to the ferry.”

  Her hand had crept across the table. She let the backs of her half-curled fingers touch his, a tentative gesture that Mark didn’t know how to interpret. “I talked to my dad this weekend,” she said. “He’s never been the kind of parent who told me what to do; in fact, I probably could have done with a little more parental supervision while I was growing up. But he told me that I should go on a date with someone. A date. They don’t even call it that anymore.”

  “What do they call it?”

  “Going out, I guess. What do you say to Shelby when you want to spend the weekend with her?”

  “I ask if I can spend the weekend with her.” Mark turned his hand upward, opening his palm. “So are you going to take your dad’s advice?”

  She nodded reluctantly. “But I’ve always hated the whole process,” she said feelingly, staring into her drink. “Meeting new people, the awkwardness, the despair of being stuck with someone for an entire evening when you know within the first five minutes that he’s a dud. I wish it was like Chatroulette, and you could ‘next’ someone right away. The worst part is when you both run out of things to talk about.” Without realizing it, Maggie had started to play with his hand, absently investigating the crooks of his fingers. He felt the pleasure of her touch all along his arm, responsive chords resonating along nerve pathways.

  “I can’t picture you running out of things to talk about,” Mark said.

  “Oh, it happens. Especially when the person I’m talking with is too nice. A good conversation always involves a certain amount of complaining. I like to bond over mutual hatreds and petty grievances.”

  “What’s your top petty grievance?”

  “Calling customer service and never getting to talk to a person.”

  “I hate it when waiters try to memorize your order instead of writing it down. Because they hardly ever get everything right. And even if they do, it causes me a lot of stress until the food gets to the table.”

  “I hate it when people shout into their cell phones.”

  “I hate the phrase ‘No pun intended.’ It’s pointless.”

  “I say that sometimes.”

  “Well, don’t. It annoys the hell out of me.”

  Maggie grinned. Then, seeming to realize that she was toying with his hand, she flushed and pulled back. “Is Shelby nice?”

  “Yes. But I tolerate it.” Mark reached for his whiskey and finished it with an efficient swallow. “My theory about meeting people,” he said, “is that it’s better not to make a really good first impression. Because it’s all downhill from there. You’re always having to live up to that first impression, which was just an illusion.”

  “Yes, but if you don’t make a great first impression, you may never get the chance to make a second one.”

  “I’m a single guy with a paycheck,” he said. “I always get a second chance.”

  Maggie laughed.

  The waitress brought their food and collected their empty glasses. “Another round?” she asked.

  “I wish I could,” Maggie said wistfully, “but I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Mark asked.

  “I’m barely sober.” To demonstrate, she crossed her eyes.

  “You only have to stop when you’re not sober,” Mark said, and nodded to the waitress. “Bring another round.”

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” Maggie asked after the waitress had left, giving him a mock-suspicious glance.

  “Yes. My plan is to get you drunk and then take you on a wild, crazy ferry ride.” He pushed a glass of water in her direction. “Drink this before you start on your next one.”

  While Maggie sipped the water, Mark told her about his weekend with Shelby, and her list of things a man did when he was ready for commitment. “But she wouldn’t tell me the fifth thing,” he said. “What do you think it is?”

  As Maggie considered the possibilities, her face went through a series of adorable contortions: a crinkling of the nose, a squint, a brief gnawing of her lower lip. “House-hunting?” she suggested. “Or talking about having children?”

  “God.” He grimaced at the thought. “I have Holly. That’s enough for now.”

  “What about more later?”

  “I don’t know. I want to make sure I’ve done right by Holly before I even think about more kids.”

  Her gaze was sympathetic. “Your life has changed a lot, hasn’t it?”

  Mark searched for ways to describe it, feeling awkward in his desire to connect with her. He had never been given to confiding in others, had never seen the point in it. Receiving sympathy was one step removed from being pitied, which to him was a fate worse than death. But Maggie had a knack of asking questions in a way that made him want to answer.

  “You look at everything differently,” he said. “You start thinking about what kind of world you’re going to send her out into. I worry about what kind of subliminal crap she’s getting from TV, and if there’s cadmium or lead in her toys….” Mark paused. “Did you want kids with…him?” He found himself reluctant to say her husband’s name, as if the syllables were invisible shims being tapped into place between them.

  “Once I thought I did. Not now, though. I think that’s one of the reasons I love my store so much—it’s a way to be surrounded by children without having the responsibility.”

  “Maybe when you get married again.”

  “Oh, I’ll never get married again.”

  Mark tilted his head in a silent question, watching her closely.

  “I’ve done it once,” Maggie said, “and I’ll never regret it, but…it was enough. Eddie fought the cancer for a year and a half, and it took everything I had to be there for him, to be strong. Now there’s not enough left of me to give to anyone else. I can be with someone, but not belong with someone. Does that make sense?”

  For the first time in Mark’s adult life, he wanted to hold a woman for unselfish reasons. Not in passion, but to offer comfort. “It makes sense that you would feel that way,” he said gently. “But that may not last forever.”

  They finished lunch and walked back to the ferry terminal, the rain so light and slow that you could practically see suspended droplets in the air. You could feel the sky pressing downward. The world was painted in shades of steel blue and pale gray, with Maggie’s hair holding an intensity of red beyond red, every lock an inviting sine wave finished in a neat coil.

  Mark would have given anything to play with those striated curls, to fill his hands with them. He was tempted
to reach for her hand as they walked. But casual contact was no longer an option…because there was nothing casual about the way he wanted her.

  Maybe his attraction to Maggie was simply a result of having just made a commitment to Shelby, and his subconscious was trying to find an escape route?…Stay on course, he told himself. Don’t get distracted.

  Their conversation was temporarily interrupted by the necessities of driving the car onto the ferry and finding seats on the main passenger deck. After that they occupied the same bench, talking about everything and nothing. Their occasional silences felt like the peaceful interludes after sex, when you lay there steeped in sweat and endorphins.

  Mark was trying hard not to imagine sex with Maggie. Taking her to bed and doing everything to her, deep-pitched and half speed, improvised, and stretched out, and repeated. He wanted her under him, over him, wrapped around. Her body would be pale, adorned with a few constellations of freckles. He would chart them, trace their paths with his hands and lips, find every secret pattern and shiver and pulse—

  The ferry docked. Mark waited on the main passenger deck longer than he should have, reluctant to part company with Maggie. He was one of the last people to go downstairs to the parking lanes and get in his car. The sky was sherbet-colored and streaked with cirrus. He felt, as always, the relief of returning to the island, where the air was easier to breathe, softer, and the brisk tension of the mainland ceased. The shoulders of the passengers waiting on the deck dropped en masse, as if they had all been rebooted simultaneously.

  Mark had to return to his car soon, or it would block the entire lane from moving off the ferry, and he would face the justifiable wrath of dozens of drive-on passengers. But as he looked down at Maggie, every cell in his body resisted the idea of leaving her.

  “Do you need me to drive you somewhere?” he asked.

  An instant shake of her head, red waves swishing across her shoulders. “My car’s parked nearby.”

  “Maggie,” he said carefully, “maybe sometime—”

  “No,” she said, her smile gently regretful. “There’s no room for friendship. No future in it.”

  She was right.

  The only thing left was to say good-bye, something Mark was usually good at. This one was tricky, however. “See you around” or “Take care” were too indifferent, too casual. But any indication of how much the afternoon had meant to him wouldn’t have been welcomed.

  In the end, Maggie solved his dilemma by removing the need for good-bye. She smiled at his hesitation and set her hand to his chest, giving him a playful hint of a nudge.

  “Go,” she said.

  And he did, without looking back, descending the narrow steel-lined staircase with echoing footsteps. He felt his heart beating strongly in the place her hand had touched. Getting into his car, he closed the door and fastened his seat belt. As he waited for a signal to pull forward, he had the tugging, nagging sense of having lost something important.

  Seven

  With the arrival of October, whale watching and kayaking were over for the year. Although tourists still came to San Juan Island, it was nothing compared to the deluge during the summer months. The question most often asked by tourists was how Friday Harbor had gotten its name. Maggie had quickly learned the two standard versions of the story. The one everyone preferred was the local lore that a sea captain, upon entering the harbor and seeing a man on shore, asked, “What bay is this?” The man, mistakenly hearing the question as “What day is this?” had replied, “Friday.”

  The truth, however, was that the harbor had been named after a Hawaiian, Joseph Friday, who had worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company, tending sheep about six miles north of the harbor. When sailors came along the coast and saw the column of smoke rising from his camp, they knew they had reached Friday’s bay, and the British had eventually charted it that way.

  The island had transferred to American possession in 1872, and from then on industry had flourished. San Juan Island had been the fruit-growing capital of the Northwest. It had also been home to lumber and shake mills, and salmon-packing companies. Now the water-front was crowded with upscale condominiums and pleasure craft instead of canneries and scows. Tourism had become the mainstay of the economy, and although it peaked during the summers, it was a year-round industry.

  With autumn in the air, and the leaves in full color, the residents of San Juan Island began to prepare for the upcoming holidays. The island bustled with harvest festivals, farmer’s markets, wine tastings, gallery events, and theater performances. Maggie’s shop showed no signs of slowing down, as local customers came to buy Halloween costumes and accessories, and to take care of some early Christmas shopping. In fact, Maggie had just hired one of Elizabeth’s daughters, Diane, as a part-time sales clerk.

  “Now maybe you can ease up a little,” Elizabeth told Maggie. “Taking a day off won’t kill you, you know.”

  “I have fun at the shop.”

  “Go have fun away from the shop,” Elizabeth said. “You need to have a conversation with someone who’s over four feet tall.” An idea occurred to her. “You should get a massage at that spa in Roche Harbor. They have a new masseuse named Theron. One of my friends says he has the hands of an angel.” Her brows waggled significantly.

  “If it’s a man, I don’t think it’s a masseuse,” Maggie said. “But at the moment I can’t remember what you call a man who massages you.”

  “A weekly appointment is what I call him,” Elizabeth said. “If he’s single, you could ask him out.”

  “You can’t ask a massage guy to go out with you,” Maggie protested. “It’s like a doctor-patient relationship.”

  “I dated my doctor,” Elizabeth said.

  “You did?”

  “I went to his office and told him that I had decided to switch doctors. And he was very concerned and asked why. And I said, ‘Because I want you to take me out to dinner on Friday night.’”

  Maggie’s eyes widened. “Did he?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “We were married six months later.”

  Maggie smiled. “I love that story.”

  “We had forty-one years together, until he passed away.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Maggie said.

  “He was a lovely man. I wanted more years with him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy spending time with my friends. We travel together, e-mail each other…I couldn’t do without them.”

  “I have wonderful friends,” Maggie said. “But they’re all married, and they were such a big part of my life with Eddie that sometimes…”

  “The old memories get in the way,” Elizabeth said perceptively.

  “Exactly.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “You have a new life. Keep the old friends, but it doesn’t hurt to add some new ones. Preferably single ones. Which reminds me…have the Scolaris introduced you to Sam Nolan yet?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  The older woman appeared vastly pleased with herself. “We live on an island, Maggie. Gossip has nowhere to go except in circles. So…have you met him?”

  Maggie busied herself with rearranging some fresh lavender stalks in a vase shaped like a milk jug. The idea of going out with Mark’s younger brother was intolerable. Every small resemblance—the shape of his eyes, or the pitch of his voice—would make the entire experience an exercise in misery.

  And that would be unfair to Sam. Maggie would never be able to appreciate everything that he was, because she wouldn’t be able to forget about everything that he wasn’t.

  Specifically, that he wasn’t Mark.

  “I told Brad and Ellen that I’m not interested in meeting anyone right now,” she said.

  “But Maggie,” Elizabeth said, perturbed, “Sam Nolan is the most charming, good-natured young man in the world. And he’s between girlfriends since he’s been so busy with the vineyard. He’s a winemaker. A romantic. You don’t want to miss out on an opportunity like this.”

  Maggie gave her a skeptica
l smile. “Do you really think this young, charming single guy is going to want to go out with me?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I’m a widow. I have baggage.”

  “Who has no baggage?” Elizabeth clicked her tongue in chiding. “For heaven’s sake, being a widow is nothing to feel awkward about. It means you’re a woman with the spice of experience, a woman who has been loved. We know how to appreciate life, we appreciate humor, we enjoy our closet space. Believe me, Sam Nolan won’t mind in the least that you’re a widow.”

  Maggie smiled and shook her head. Picking up her bag from behind the counter, she said, “I’m going to walk over to the Market Chef and get some sandwiches for lunch. What do you want?”

  “Pastrami melt with extra cheese. And extra onion.” As Maggie reached the door, Elizabeth added cheerfully, “Extra everything!”

  The Market Chef was an artisan deli that made the best sandwiches and salads on the island. There was always a crowd at lunchtime, but the wait was worth it. Looking into a glass case filled with fresh salads, pasta, perfect meat-loaf slices, and thick wedges of vegetable quiche, Maggie was tempted to order one of everything. She settled on Dungeness crab, artichokes, and melted cheese on toasted homemade bread, and ordered the pastrami melt for Elizabeth.

  “For here or to go?” the girl behind the counter asked.

  “To go, please.” Seeing a stack of slablike chocolate-chip cookies in a glass jar near the register, Maggie added, “And under no circumstances should you add any of those.”

  The girl smiled. “One or two?”

  “Just one.”

  “If you want to sit over there, I’ll bring the sandwiches to you in just a minute.”

  Maggie sat by a window and people-watched as she waited.

  In no time at all the girl approached with a white paper sack. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, and…” The girl handed her a napkin. “Someone asked me to give this to you.”

  “Who?” Maggie asked blankly, but the girl had already hurried away to help a customer.

  Maggie’s gaze fell to the white paper napkin in her hand. Someone had written on it.