by Dara Girard
She didn’t know when he left. She’d been in the kitchen and hadn’t heard his footsteps or the front door open and close, but when she’d gone upstairs, she found the door to his room open and the place empty.
Her heart cracked and bled. She’d lost him. A wonderful dream had ended. She knew one day he would leave, but she hadn’t expected it to be without a goodbye. She blinked back tears, then quickly brushed them away when she heard the doorbell.
She opened the door and saw Eva with a plate of cookies. “It’s a peace offering.” She cleared her throat. “To both of you.”
“He’s gone,” Miranda said with a sigh.
“Did he…?”
“He didn’t say anything. He just left.” She flashed a sad smile. “And there’s no reason to pretend you aren’t glad.”
“That’s not true. I was just worried about you. I didn’t expect, I mean…I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll make some tea,” Miranda said, heading towards the kitchen. “I’ll meet you in the sitting room.”
Eva slowly walked into the sitting room, stunned. Her wish had come true. He’d shown his true colors early. She’d gotten rid of him. She’d known he was no good, and now Miranda would see it. She hoped never to be as silly and romantic as her mother when she got older. True love? What crap. She sat down then saw a note on the coffee table. She picked it up.
“Darling Miranda, goodbyes are hard for me to say. I don’t want to put pressure on you. I want to give you space to think about this…about us. I do love you, but if you don’t feel the same, I understand. I’m taking the four o’clock bus back to New Jersey. If you love me at all, and want to be my bride, just wave to me and I’ll know your answer. Brett”
He’d left a letter. Eva jumped to her feet, thinking of Miranda’s sad smile. Her friend needed to see this. To see how he felt about her. Eva took a step in the direction of the kitchen, then stopped. But what if it was just all words? How much of it was true? That grim, arrogant bastard had no right to live off of Miranda. Eva glanced at her watch. It was two o’clock. She heard Miranda’s footsteps and crumpled the note in her fist before shoving it in her coat pocket. She was doing it for Miranda’s own good.
“So I guess he’s gone for good?” Eva asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it confirmed.
“Yes. He’s moving on with his life.”
“And so can you,” Eva said, fighting hard to stop a smile.
10
Leaving had been hard, but he had no choice. Miranda was his weakness and she’d make him stay. But he had to do more. He had to make good, he had to be in a position to help provide. Eva’s words sounded so much like something Sarah would say. That’s why she’d chosen another man. Because he had nothing to offer. Could he blame her? He couldn’t imagine facing Miranda’s father or even his own with no prospects. How could he provide or protect her?
Brett paced inside the bus depot. He’d pack up his life in New Jersey then find a place and work in Hamsford. Now he had a mission. A purpose. And it felt good. He had a place to come back to and he hoped a woman waiting. He’d hoped she’d have come early to see him with her answer. He’d promised not to bother her, but the tension was killing him. Maybe she didn’t really feel the way he did. Maybe it had all been just a dream. A holiday dream. Maybe he couldn’t extend it.
He bit his lip. He’d been wrong about Sarah. Was he wrong about Miranda too?
No, he couldn’t believe that. He glanced at his watch. She’d come.
Just one more hour and he’d be gone for good, Eva thought as she flipped through the mail, Brett’s note still crumpled up in her jean’s pocket. She’d thought of throwing it away, but she couldn’t risk anyone finding it. Their shredder was broken and if her mother saw her burning something she’d get suspicious. She’d get rid of it later, when that man was completely out of town.
“Why do you keep looking at the clock?” Mary asked, sitting down in front of Eva at the kitchen table.
“No reason…it’s just…uh the mail carrier was late today.”
Mary only nodded, sensing something was wrong, but not knowing what.
Miranda sat in her living room and turned on her laptop to work on some accounts when she noticed a file was already opened.
Darling Miranda…
Brett had written her a note? When? Her heart raced as she read it. Why hadn’t he left it out for her to see? Had he changed his mind? Had he meant to delete it? Should she pretend she hadn’t seen it?
She closed the laptop and stood up. No, she couldn’t. She’d find out the answer from him. She glanced at the clock. It was three-forty. She had twenty minutes to get to the bus depot.
She sped to the bus depot and jumped out of her car just as the bus was pulling away. She ran and waved her arms hoping he’d notice her, although she couldn’t see him. She shouted his name, hoping he could hear her over the noise of the bus engine. She was about to give up when his face appeared in the window.
At first she wasn’t sure it was him. His smile was so big it transformed his face. Tears of joy touched her eyes as she soaked in the sight of his happiness. She blew him a kiss. He pretended to grab it then hold it to his heart and then he was gone, leaving her with an image she’d keep in her mind until she saw him again.
Epilogue
A year later
With the fire crackling, they decorated their freshly picked Christmas tree, Afro-Brazilian music, the kind his father loved to listen to, playing in the background. There was still gossip in Hamsford about their small, hasty wedding and Miranda’s ‘young man.’ “You know what he really married her for,” some busybodies liked to say when they spotted the pair in the marketplace. But neither cared. Brett had already proven his worth with the employees of Simmonds Hardware and had doubled the profits within months. And as they celebrated their first Christmas together as a married couple, they felt as if they’d never been strangers.
“You’re lucky I found the note on my laptop,” Miranda said, placing a star ornament on the tree.
Brett adjusted a light and frowned. “I didn’t leave a note on your laptop.”
“Yes, you did. I read it and that’s how I was able to see you before you left.”
He shook his head. “But I didn’t type anything. I handwrote it and left it on the coffee table.”
“I never saw a written note.” She grabbed her laptop, which had been on the coffee table, and opened the file she’d never delete. “You didn’t write this?” she asked, showing the screen.
“Those are my words, but I didn’t type it.”
“That’s strange,” Miranda said, taking a seat.
He sat beside her. “Could you see me typing with one hand?”
“No, but that’s so odd. I—.” She stopped when the file suddenly disappeared and the image of a cocoa colored man with a white beard appeared on the screen.
Brett pointed to the picture, amazed. “That’s him! That’s the man who told me to come to Hamsford.”
Miranda’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“I should thank him for changing my life. I met him at the bus depot in New Jersey last year.”
“You couldn’t have,” Miranda said, stumbling over the words. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Positive. Why do you doubt me?”
“Because that’s my father.”
Brett met her eyes, remembering the man’s soft voice and warm presence. And then he thought about the day when they pretended that his parents had come to visit and how real it had all felt. Because it had been. Their spirits had joined them, and he’d never truly been alone. “He brought me to you.”
“Well,” Miranda said with a smile. “I told you my father always liked fixing things.”
And then her husband kissed her smile away, and they were two broken hearts fully mended.
II
A Cup of Cheer
A Cup of Cheer
“No, no, no! I won’t do it even for you.”
<
br /> “It’s the holidays, Alyson. The least we can do as neighbors is spread good cheer.”
“So you want me to give my delicious spiced cider to Scrooge next door?”
Of course his real name isn’t Scrooge. It’s Gareth LeBlanc owner of the second hand bookstore (creatively called Second Hand Books). Although the way he fussed over the books you’d think they were antiques instead of smelly old paperbacks and well worn hardbacks. I’ve only spoken to him a few times (when I wave ‘hello’, he just nods) and I can honestly say that I’ve only heard five sentences come out of his mouth. The only thing me or anyone else knows, was posted in a small write up in the weekly Community News: He was born in Dominica, the son of an English father and Dominican mother, and has travelled extensively.
When he first moved in, I sent him a box of cookies to welcome him to the neighborhood. I knew that he lived in the apartment above his shop, as I did, and I’d hoped to be as friendly with him as I had been with the previous residents—two elderly sisters from Trinidad who said my coconut cookies were divine. He didn’t say they were divine, he didn’t even say they were nice. He just returned an empty tin with a sticky note that said ‘Thanks’. That’s it, nothing more…just ‘Thanks’.
It took me weeks before I could stomach the thought of stopping by his shop. I finally decided to visit in order to see the type of cookbooks he had. I have to give him credit, he had a pretty good selection. So every few weeks I’d stop by and buy a few. I was buying two when I noticed this beautifully bound book from the early twentieth century called Amelia Armand’s Complete Book of Spices. It was encased in the curio behind his head. I was certain it would be expensive, but I was willing to pay the price.
I am a culinary historian and when I’m not in my store selling traditional and rustic crafts and recipe books, I recreate authentic dishes for functions at the Historical Society. A book like that would have been perfect for my collection.
“How much is that book behind you?” I asked after purchasing several items. He adjusted the rim of his baseball cap. He always wore a baseball cap (perhaps he was going bald) and a tie that never matched his shirt (and color blind?)-- orange against a tan shirt.
He didn’t even turn around to see what I was referring to. “It’s not for sale,” he said in a cutting deep voice that could cause one to have goose bumps, if one liked the resonant sound of low baritones. I haven’t stepped foot in that bookstore since. I’d rather drop my money in a sewer than fatten his bank account again.
“Since you’re so desperate to spread holiday cheer why don’t you do it?” I asked Cora.
“Because I didn’t make the cider and it is better coming from you. You have that cheery, friendly aura about you.”
“You mean jolly, don’t you?”
She made a face, but wisely didn’t reply. I’m not fat, but I’m not slim either. Not like Cora who has a nice slender build which she further accentuated by wearing tight suede trousers, a pink cashmere blouse and black boots with heels that could cause the sidewalk to crack. But I didn’t envy her, I had inherited my stout full-figure like all the women in my family and was curvy in all the right places. My mother who had been born in Venezuela, of Trinidadian parents and Barbadian grandparents had made sure, while I was growing up, that I would be proud of my figure. I preferred my loose fitting cotton tops and trousers and comfortable walking shoes. Customers said I made them feel at home and that feeling was always good for business.
“Besides, it’s slick and icy outside,” she complained. “You wouldn’t want me to trip, would you?” She wiggled her high heeled boot.
“It would serve you right.”
“But what would you do without me?”
I scowled. She was right; her business acumen had helped turn my small shop into an international destination. I was getting mail orders from as far away as Dubai.
“He’s not married, you know.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I heard Dracula is single too.”
She sent me a look; I ignored her. Ever since I hired her as my assistant five years ago she’s been trying to match me up. It’s not that I don’t like men. I do. Just not modern men. You know: the modern man who won’t hold the door open for you, but instead will let it slam in your face; the modern man who expects you to pay for dinner while he pays for dessert; the modern man who thinks the question “Would you like to come inside?” means you.
I wanted something more. I wanted romance. Grand gestures like a carriage ride on a snowy day, or holding out my chair and remembering to walk on the outside of the pavement so that passing cars wouldn’t splash me. Or even calling me by my name instead of ‘honey’ or babe’ or confusing me for another woman (a long story). But I’d given up on romance years ago. Modern men didn’t do grand gestures. They didn’t even do small ones.
“Look, it’s starting to snow,” Cora said, glancing out the shop window. “How can you not be friendly at a time like this when everything looks white and fresh?” She shoved the thermos filled with hot cinnamon-nutmeg cider into my chest. “Go on and spread some holiday cheer.”
“He’ll probably bite my head off again,” I mumbled slipping into my coat and hat.
“He’s just a man, Alyson. Not the big bad wolf.”
I made a face and wrapped a scarf around my neck.
The wind nearly knocked me back into the shop. A freezing blast stung my cheeks while a stream of cold tears fell from my eyes. He’s not worth this. I turned around ready to go back in my store. Cora blocked the doorway and mouthed ‘Go.’ I briefly wondered how many homicides occurred during the holiday season then spun around and hurried next door.
The bell chimed above my head as I entered the shop. It was quiet with only a few customers rummaging through books on the shelves. I stomped my snow-covered boots on the rug and glanced towards the counter, which was conveniently empty. Perhaps he was out back somewhere polishing one of his beloved books. I could leave the cider on his desk with the added benefit of not having to see him. Great! I smiled in triumph, took one of his business cards and scribbled ‘Happy Holidays’ on the back.
Once finished I looked up and saw it: The book. I glanced side to side to make sure no one was watching then I lifted myself on the counter, leaned closer and squinted, hoping I could tell whether the book was really old or just an imitation. By looking at the paper texture and type it looked like the real thing. My mind raced with all the possible recipes hidden inside.
“It’s not for sale.”
I fell back and stumbled before regaining my footing. I stared at him. Or rather at his chest, since that was the first thing I saw. Today he wore a red shirt and green tie--at least he looked festive. Although I doubt that was his intention, he didn’t seem the festive sort. I finally raised my gaze to his face. As usual he wore his baseball cap low, shading his eyes. I was glad since I didn’t care to read their expression. “You know I could offer you a lot of money…”
“It’s still not for sale,” he repeated in that same deep baritone.
“Then why do you have it there?”
“Because I like it there.” He abruptly turned and went behind the counter. “But you’re right, I should make things clear.” He quickly wrote a sign that said ‘Display Only’ then taped it up. He then turned to me. “Better?”
I frowned, trying my best to look confused. “Does that mean it’s not for sale?”
He blinked looking bored. “Did you want something?”
I didn’t think he would have appreciated hot spiced cider over his head so I shoved the thermos into his chest, which was surprisingly harder than I thought it would be. Weren’t dusty bookworms supposed to be a little soft around the middle? “This is for you.”
He frowned and looked down at the thermos. “What is it?”
“It’s poison.”
He glanced up quickly. His surprise gave me a chance to look at his eyes, which were big, brown and oddly innocent.
No one with eyes like
those could be all bad. “I was hoping to kill you off so I could steal the book.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up as he twisted the lid and took a sniff. “Smells like hot cider.”
“Spiced cinnamon-nutmeg cider if you want to be specific.”
He poured himself a cup then took a sip, nodded as though in approval then looked at me with a playful glare that said a lot more. “It’s still not for sale.”
I shrugged, feigning defeat. “I know.” I took a step back, suddenly feeling both restless and giddy at the same time. I knew it was time to leave. “Well, Happy Holidays.” I turned and left before he could say anything more.
He returned the thermos the next day, or rather had it delivered. I had been working on our website when Cora came into the office. She held the thermos against her and said in a loud stage whisper. “It’s from him.”
“Him who?”
“Scrooge.”
I pretended not to care, though I felt my face grow warm. “So? Set it in the kitchen.”
She waved a piece of paper. “He sent you a note.”
I took the envelope (Cora said I snatched it, but she tends to be dramatic). It was real parchment paper with my name scribbled across in his broad handwriting. For a moment I pictured him sitting at an old oak desk under a low hanging lamp, while a stripped cat sat on his shoulder, lazily waving its tail (Gareth didn’t have a cat, but I liked the image). I could hear the smooth movement as his pen glided across the paper. Once he was finished, he carefully folded the note and placed it inside the envelope then slowly licked and sealed it closed. I brought the envelope to my nose. Did his scent cling to it or was it just my imagination?
Cora’s voice cut into my daydream. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
