by Donna Alward
He got up and dressed, then poured a bowl of cereal and ate it standing over the sink. He took his daily pill and knew that the one thing he had to do today was find a way to apologize to Amy.
It wouldn’t be light for hours yet, but he knew exactly what he could give her as a peace offering.
* * *
Amy woke and stared at the ceiling as sunlight filtered through the blinds. Last night had been unexpected. For one, she should have never rubbed that pitch off of George’s face. He’d frozen beneath her touch and for a few moments he’d stopped breathing. She’d struggled to remain casual, as if there weren’t these strange undercurrents running between them, but it hadn’t been wariness that had made him freeze. She was sure of it. The vibe between them wasn’t awkward—it was aware.
Then she’d made that dumb comment about her family and he’d instantly backed away. There’d been moments, too, that he’d gone somewhere else in his mind. Did the memories still haunt him? The last thing she wanted was to make it worse. Could she let her questions go? For his sake?
She flopped over in the bed and pulled the covers to her chin. Each time she asked herself that question, she came up with the same answer. Avoiding the issue wouldn’t actually help him at all. He had to deal with his feelings. It had taken her two years of therapy to be able to put her own insecurities and issues to rest, and even now she had moments it was difficult. She just knew how to handle it better. George, she reminded herself, had spent years living on the street. She could only assume that self-blame and unworthiness were two emotions he’d dealt with daily. A person didn’t get over that overnight.
She finally crawled out of bed and headed for the shower, still filled with more questions than answers. While the cottage was nice, and certainly well-kept, she didn’t find it particularly homey and certainly not very festive. Today she’d give George a break. Instead, she might wander down Main Street and do some shopping. While most of her gifts were bought already, there was nothing like a little retail therapy to give a girl a boost.
Cheered by her plans, she dressed in her favorite skinny jeans, boots, and a tunic-style sweater that gently cradled her curves and, in her opinion, made her look a little taller than she was. She did her hair and makeup, and made sure her phone and wallet were in her bag. With a satisfied sigh, she opened her front door and—
Smelled the pungent, sweet scent of spruce and pine, all in the form of a lush, green wreath hanging on her front door.
She didn’t need to see the tell-tale red ribbon to know it was from George. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out this was his way of making an apology. She closed the door gently behind her and then stood staring at the gorgeous creation. He somehow knew how to blend the different kinds of evergreen into a perfect combination of color and fullness. It was hung on the door with some sort of a brass magnet in the shape of a knob.
The wreath also took the front step of the little cottage and suddenly transformed it into something Christmassy.
She blinked away the sudden tears in her eyes. Such a small gesture; it shouldn’t affect her this way. The truth of the matter was she was always the person doing little things for others rather than being the recipient. Quite often Amy felt invisible, or at least taken for granted. She baked cookies for staff members. She picked up flowers for her mom, or candles in a friend’s favorite scent. She liked doing those things, but the same consideration and thought wasn’t often reciprocated. George’s small gift was actually a very big deal in the overall scheme of things.
She didn’t want to pressure him, though, so she locked the door behind her and headed downtown. She’d find a way to thank him later.
The sun was out and once she parked she gained a better appreciation for the town. Darling was quaint, with an old-fashioned vibe blended with a younger, funky feel. The vibrant colors of The Purple Pig and the Fisher Creek Yoga studio next door brightened the street, and while other buildings were more traditional in their main colors, the same didn’t necessarily hold true with their doors and shutters. She spotted greens, deep reds, bright blues. The flower shop sported a unique door, painted in a distressed red and with a heart-shaped window in the top third. She passed Pen 2 Paper, a book and stationery store, a lawyer’s office, and a large brick building that she realized was the bank.
Across the street was a walkway that traversed a long stretch of park. A sign quietly announced it as the Darling Green, and she could see a little bridge beyond, crossing the creek. Snow clung to the branches on the trees, and with the rampant Christmas decorating that had been going on, the entire effect was festive.
She stopped at The Purple Pig and got a green tea, then went for a walk along the Green, enjoying the fresh air and the scenery. She understood why George liked it here. It didn’t matter that it was small, with only a few important intersections. It wasn’t far to either Montpelier or Burlington, when it came right down to it. She was sure a good part of the population commuted to either city, but preferred small town living. It was the same in city neighborhoods, like where she lived. Families knew each other. There was a sense of community and connection.
Once she’d ambled along to her heart’s content, she popped into a few shops to browse. The F Bomb was advertising a Christmas Explosion of Savings—everything 25 to 50 percent off. She frowned, staring at the pastel and lace curtains in the window, wondering at the disparity between the name and the appearance of the store. She couldn’t resist a step inside, and was immediately immersed in a bouquet of scents as bowls and boxes of fizzy bath bombs filled every surface—fizzy being the “F” word, she assumed. She grinned and bought herself two, both in the shape of cupcakes. Then she bought a little assorted box that she’d tuck into her “emergency” cupboard. There was always a last-minute invite to a birthday or shower, or even just a dinner that required a hostess gift.
Back outside, she took a deep breath of fresh air, leaving the heavy perfumes of the soap shop behind.
At the bookstore she bought a hand-painted thank you card for George. She couldn’t keep showing up at the garden center every day; it was his place of work and she didn’t want to be a pest. She also grabbed a little booklet at the cash register that contained a history of the area, including the legends of the town’s Kissing Bridge. A little boutique was set on a corner, tucked away and private, but inside she splurged on a butter-soft pashmina that rivaled anything on Fifth Avenue and for a fraction of the price.
But it was the General Store that stole her heart. It sported a deli counter, grocery basics like milk, bread, and some canned goods, touristy souvenirs, seasonal decorations, and what her parents would call a “dry goods” section, with clothing essentials like underwear, socks, and baby onesies.
It was charm and practicality all rolled into one, and it was easy to tell the locals from the visitors just by listening to the cadence of the speech. There was a familiarity and warmth to the way neighbors spoke to each other that made her smile.
While she’d enjoyed The Purple Pig’s delightful offerings, today she stepped up to the deli counter and ordered a thick pastrami sandwich with a side of kettle-cooked potato chips. A can of soda rounded out her order, and when she left the store she crossed the street to the Green and found a vacant picnic table. It was cold with her gloves off, but she didn’t care. It felt positively indulgent to browse and then sit in the park—snow and all—to eat one of the most delicious sandwiches she’d had in her life.
“Room for one more?”
She swiveled around at the voice behind her. George stood there, dressed in a puffy jacket and the knitted hat that he always seemed to have on, a whisper of a smile on his lips. Heat crept up her neck; her mouth was jammed full of pastrami in a most unladylike manner, and instead of trying to speak around it, she raised one hand in supplication.
He laughed. He’d smiled occasionally since they’d met again, and even had a low-grade chuckle, but his laugh did something to her insides that she wasn’t comfortable with. She couldn’t
be attracted to him. It would be such a huge mistake. But the twinkle in his eyes as he sat across from her didn’t lie. In another life she would smile back, flirt a little. But this was George, who admittedly had a ton of baggage weighing him down, and a history with her family that was fifteen years late in being resolved. And he was laughing at her.
She chewed and swallowed and used a paper napkin to wipe her lips. “Sorry. You caught me with my mouth full.”
“So I see. Am I intruding?”
“Of course not.” She still wanted answers. And now she could say thank you in person. “I saw the wreath this morning. It’s beautiful, George.”
His gaze sobered. “I was rude last night. And you said the cottage didn’t have any decorations, so . . .”
“Apology accepted,” she offered softly, meeting his gaze. “I know this is hard for you.”
“I wish it weren’t,” he confessed, and her heart softened even further.
“Would it . . . would it be easier for you if I left?”
“Yes.”
The immediate answer hurt. And she didn’t want to go yet, really. She was enjoying her time away from home. She felt . . . lighter somehow. Despite their rocky beginning, she wasn’t ready to say goodbye and leave George behind forever. He was the last person to see her brother. He was the key to the closure she so desperately needed. Just being near George was like being close to Ian again in a strange way.
“But I don’t want you to go.”
Her fingers tightened around her soda can. “Really?”
He nodded. “I was thinking about it this morning . . . I was up early, making your wreath, thinking about last night at the diner. I know I’m not being fair to you, Amy. I should have talked to you years ago. You deserved to know. Your family deserved answers. I just didn’t want to see the look in your eyes when I told you what happened. I didn’t want you to think badly of me somehow.”
She took a deep breath and told him the truth. “Ignoring us for fifteen years didn’t exactly endear you to us.”
He nodded slowly. “I know. I was a mess, Amy. A real mess, and it just kept getting worse and worse until I couldn’t have made it to New York if I’d tried.”
“I figured as much. It has to be bad when the end result is homelessness, you know? And I’m not judging, I promise. Truth is, it’s a shit situation all around. Us with questions, you dealing with . . . everything.” She reached over and put her hand on his arm, feeling the strength there even beneath the thick jacket. “I just can’t help feeling like maybe we can help each other. Finally lay some of those ghosts to rest.”
He let out a big breath. “I’m not sure that’ll happen, but I’ll talk. Hard as it is, I tried running away long enough and it didn’t work. Starting over means facing all of it. And if you hate me forever, I’ll live with that somehow.”
“I could never hate you, George.”
Their gazes caught. Her hand was still on his arm, and he slid his elbow back until his gloved fingers covered hers. “I hope not,” he said quietly. “But I’ll understand if you do.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, until George slid his fingers away. “You should finish that sandwich before it freezes,” he noted, nodding at her waxed paper. “I didn’t mean to disturb your lunch.”
“It’s too much for me. Do you want some?”
But he shook his head. “Can’t get in the habit of you bringing me lunch every day, can I? I already ate, anyway. Packed myself a lunch from home. I’m just running an errand for Laurel. I should be getting back.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t help the disappointment she felt at his words. They’d really connected just now, and not in the flutters-in-the-stomach way from before. This was different. The park didn’t seem the right place for a confessional, though, so she wrapped up the end of her sandwich and tucked it into a little bag to take home.
“I’m free tonight if you want to, I don’t know, talk,” he said, sliding his legs out from beneath the table. “My apartment isn’t much, but you’re welcome to come over.”
Amy tried to keep her mouth from dropping open. She hadn’t expected him to invite her into his space, and she wasn’t about to turn it down. “Sure,” she replied. “Give me the address and a time and I’ll be there.”
He grabbed one of her spare napkins and she handed him a pen from her purse. He scribbled on his address and handed it back. “Put that in your phone, though all you have to do is turn right at the end of your street, go past the stop sign, and turn left at the next intersection. There’s only one apartment building there, and I’m unit seven.”
“Should I text you first?”
He chuckled again, the lines in his face smoothing. “Well, you could if I had a cell phone.” He took the pen back from her fingers, and the napkin, too. “I do have a landline. Here.” He jotted down the number.
No cell phone? Who did that in this day and age? And then she was reminded again that George was a man living with the bare necessities, and what most people defined as necessities were really conveniences with a disproportionate amount of importance.
“Seven sound okay?” she asked, tucking everything into her bag.
He nodded. “Just . . . well, it’s a bachelor pad. I don’t have much for furniture or anything.”
But he was willing to let her in, and she knew that had to be a big step, a show of faith on his part. “Hey, it’s warm and dry, right? Decorating is overrated anyway.”
“Sure. If you say so.” He smiled again. “Okay, I really have to get back now or Laurel’s going to be wondering where I am.” He winked. “Not like she can text me, huh?”
“I think that’s just you playing mysterious,” she said, surprised at the flirty tone in her voice. Where had that come from?
He angled his head and stared at her. “Mysterious is not a word I’d use to describe me. There are lots of others, but I’m trying to move past them.”
“I didn’t mean to tease.”
“It’s okay,” he nodded. “In fact, it’s good. Not many people are, well, comfortable enough with me to crack a joke.” His gaze held hers and warmed. “Actually, it makes me feel kind of normal.”
Oh, there were things about George that were normal right enough. And in the last few days, the tough barrier he’d put around himself was weakening. It made him more approachable, and more than a little alluring.
“I’ll see you later, then. Should I bring food? I’m not a great cook like my mom, but I can manage to put something together.”
He smiled. “You don’t need to keep feeding me, but I’ll confess, I’m a horrible cook. If you happened to bring food, I’d be happy to eat it.”
“It’s a deal.”
George turned to walk away and took half a dozen steps before she called him back. “George?”
He turned.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, serious again. “I know my showing up here hasn’t been how you planned to spend the days leading up to the holiday. I appreciate your . . . effort.”
He nodded again and strode off through the snow.
Chapter Five
Amy detoured to the market and bought the ingredients for a shepherd’s pie, something she could make in a casserole and transport to his place easily, but a sturdy enough dish to give him a hearty meal and perhaps leftovers for the next day. She added a French bread to her basket, and a little tub of whipped butter, and a pre-made garden salad. She bought dessert, too, a lemon meringue pie from the market bakery that had golden-brown meringue that was two inches high, and was beaded with the slightest bit of moisture beneath the plastic domed lid.
Back at the cottage, she spent the remainder of the afternoon cooking ground beef, adding vegetables and making the gravy, then boiling potatoes, whipping them until they were perfectly smooth, and adding her mom’s special ingredient: sharp cheddar.
At five thirty she put the casserole dish in the oven to bake, sliced the bread, put the salad in a large covered bowl she found in th
e cupboards, and wondered how she was going to get it all to her car and then up to his apartment. It took her a couple of trips to her car, and she put the casserole on the passenger side floor so it wouldn’t tip. She found his apartment building with no trouble. She took the salad and bread first, and went inside the main door to find his unit number. There it was, Reilly, next to number seven. She hit the buzzer and waited.
“That you, Amy? Come on up.”
The door buzzed, long and loud, and she opened the door, balancing the bread on top of the salad as she pulled on the handle.
The carpet covering the stairs was worn and the wood railings scarred, but the building seemed clean. She only had to go up a small flight, turn a landing, and go up another small flight to the second floor. He was the last unit down the hall on the left; he’d opened the door and stood in the doorway waiting for her. “There’s more in the car,” she said. “If you have a spare set of hands . . .”
“Let me grab my keys.” He took the dishes from her and put them inside, and she heard the jingle of keys as he came outside and the door shut automatically behind him.
“You found it okay?”
“No trouble at all. Darling’s not that big.”
They started down the stairs. “If you keep going to the edge of town, there’s an industrial area. There’s a food bank and shelter over there. I used to sleep there a lot. Since I started work and got the apartment, I haven’t had to use the food bank. I’m pretty proud of that, actually.”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. The fact that he’d been in a position to sleep in a shelter and rely on donations to eat . . . something she took for granted . . . she would never know what his life had been like. Not if he told her a million times. She figured it was one of those things that you couldn’t understand until you’d lived it. But she could imagine, and it gave her a whole new respect for the man who’d somehow fallen from grace and had picked himself back up again. As well as a genuine affection for the friends who had stood by his side.
