“Can you help me?” Poppy asks, walking toward me. Her arms are filled with bundles of Christmas lights. I rush over and take the staple gun hanging from her fingers and the box of staples she has pinned between her chin and her shoulder. I help her pile the lights on the back deck. Then the real work begins. Poppy tells me Gram not only wants a lot of lights, but they have to be artistically interesting. And considering my grandmother is a photographer and Poppy is a glassblower, this is a significant request. I note that these are no ordinary lights. There are at least five shades of blue, a couple of orange, and a trio of green.
“Whatever happened to traditional red and green?” I ask.
Poppy shakes her head and smiles. “Your grandmother got these special delivered from Poland last spring. These and about seven hundred painted wooden eggs.”
“Eggs?” I repeat, wondering if eggs at Christmas is some unique Hog’s Hollow tradition.
Poppy smiles. “For her Easter tree.”
“Wow,” I say. “Seems like Hog’s Hollow goes all out for every major holiday.”
“And some minor ones,” Poppy says, starting to sort the lights into piles. “Like National Food on a Stick Day.”
“Really?” I ask.
Poppy smiles at me. “You’ll see.” I begin sorting the blue lights into indigo, aquamarine, periwinkle, cobalt, and navy. Poppy begins sorting the greens. “Tally says you’ll be in New York for Thanksgiving,” she says.
I shrug. “Maybe,” I say like it doesn’t matter one way or the other. “I’m not sure.”
Poppy glances over at me, but she doesn’t comment. I look over at Tally, who is wearing Frosty’s top hat and trying to put a Santa hat on Blake, but he keeps dodging away. “I wish Tally’s dad would—” I’m not sure how to finish. Tally’s dad chose his music career over his daughter months ago. I’m not sure even if he did decide to see her over the holidays, it would make any difference.
“Me, too,” Poppy says, reading my mind. Then she sits back on her heels and looks at the piles of lights. “So, any ideas?” she asks.
I tilt my head and look at the different shades of blue. “What if we did an ombré pattern? You know, like navy along the bottom, then indigo, then cobalt—”
Poppy starts nodding. “We could finish up at the top with white lights.”
“It’s a lot of lights,” I say.
Poppy nods. “That’s why we started today. Last year it took more than a week to put everything up.”
“Wow,” I say.
Poppy nods. “It was pretty wow. I have photos somewhere, but they really don’t do it justice. It’s definitely a you-have-to-have-been-there thing.”
I look over at where Blake and Tally are still trying to inflate the snow globe. “I’m glad I’m here now,” I say.
“Me, too,” Poppy says.
We spend the next three hours positioning lights and using the staple gun to tack them into place. Poppy had the idea to add swirls and loops to my color design, so by the time we have a couple of feet in place, it’s starting to look like the waves breaking just off the shore. I’m feeding lights to Poppy as she perches on top of the stepladder to reach around one of the windows.
“Wow,” Blake says, staring at our work. “That looks amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Mom pulls into the driveway and climbs out of her car, a stack of pizza boxes in her hands.
“That also looks amazing,” Blake says.
“Who wants pizza?” Mom calls. Blake is already at her side, helping her carry the pizza to the deck. The sun has warmed us up and Blake has taken his jacket off. His shirt has a giant octopus flying through space with the words CELESTIAL CEPHALOPOD. Weird.
We all finish whatever we’re working on and make our way to the deck, where Mom has the pizza boxes and Gram has glasses of lemonade. “You grab the pizza and I’ll get us some lemonade,” Marcus says from just behind my shoulder. I take one of the pizza boxes and carry it over to a bench along one side of the porch. Marcus joins me with two glasses of lemonade in hand and Blake in tow. Tally is close behind.
Blake snags a slice of pizza and takes a big bite. “Best day ever,” he says.
“You always say that,” Tally says, taking her own slice.
“Warm sun. Cool breeze. Gooey pizza. Pink flamingos. What could be better than this?”
I look out at the water and a sky that is almost too blue to be real. Blake’s right. It might not be the best day ever. But at least top ten. I turn back and see Marcus looking at me. He smiles and I immediately amend my opinion. Blake’s right. Best day ever.
After pizza, Gram tells everyone to go home. “I can’t thank you enough,” she says.
Before Marcus leaves, he asks if I want to walk Sam later and, of course, I say yes.
Later, I’m trying to outline a paper on the global ramifications of World War I when Mom comes in and sits on the edge of my bed.
She takes a deep breath, which gets my attention. “I just got off the phone with your dad.” One look at her face and I know what she’s about to say.
“He didn’t want to talk to me?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “He was about to get on a plane. He said he’d call you once he landed.”
“Let me guess. No Thanksgiving?”
She sighs and nods. “He said he has some big meeting he has to attend. Something about a new acquisition. He’s flying to Japan tonight.” Well, at least that explains the gifts. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s fine,” I say, but from my voice, it’s clear. It’s not fine.
“No,” Mom says. “It stinks.”
I shrug. “It does, but—” I shrug again and lean back against the wall. The truth is even before the divorce, I didn’t see my dad very much. He was always traveling or working late. Part of me was sort of glad when we moved because as much as I missed him, at least he had a really good excuse for not being around. Finding new excuses for his absences was a lot harder when he lived in the same house as us. I guess deep down I thought things might be different once we moved away. Like “absence makes the heart grow fonder” and all of that. But it’s obvious that things aren’t working out as I’d hoped.
“I was thinking,” Mom says. “Maybe we could invite Tally and Poppy and Blake and his mom and—”
I sit up and look at her. “Dutch?” I ask.
She nods. “It might be easier if there were other people around.”
“She is less likely to freak out.”
“I know Marcus and his dad are gone,” I say. Over pizza, Marcus told us about the Fish Family Traditional Last-of-the-Year Camping Trip. Marcus told me the last time they did it was before his mom died. Apparently they got rained out and the three of them spent the night in a motel eating junk food from the vending machine and watching old black-and-white monster movies. He confessed he wouldn’t be totally bummed if it rained again this year.
“Are you going to tell Gram? About, you know,” I ask.
“I think maybe it can be a surprise,” Mom says.
“Good thinking,” I say.
Mom pats my leg through the quilt I have pulled across my lap. “I’m really sorry about your dad,” she says.
“Yeah, but at least he sort of tries,” I say. Although I’m not sure I believe even that. “Tally’s dad just bailed.” Tally hasn’t heard from her dad in months. My dad’s still around. But sometimes I wonder, is barely trying better than not trying at all?
We sit in silence for a couple of moments until Oscar meows. Mom bends and puts Oscar on the bed. He immediately walks to my math book and lies down on it, making finishing my homework even more challenging. Mom stands up and walks to the door, but then pauses before heading out into the hall. “Keep in mind that just because someone else’s life is different doesn’t mean it’s harder.”
I start to disagree, but then I stop and just nod. She turns and walks toward the stairs. I sigh and scratch Oscar behind the ears, making him drool on my boo
k.
“Gross,” I say, even though I don’t really mean it. Oscar just looks at me and rubs his face even harder into my hand. I think about what my mom said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Tally’s life isn’t harder or easier. It’s just different. Sometimes nothing is better than something. If the something keeps hurting you over and over.
Marcus calls me after dinner to see if I still want to go on a walk. “Sure. When?” I twirl around the kitchen, making Oscar look up from his nap.
“How about now?” he asks.
“Sure,” I repeat. I already have one arm in my coat before we hang up. “I’m going for a walk,” I say loudly so that Mom and Gram will hear me from where they are sitting in the living room. Mom is researching new cupcake recipes and Gram is stitching up the holes in some giant red stockings that didn’t summer over very well.
“Wear a hat,” Mom says.
“Okay,” I say, because we’ve had this argument a million times and I’ve lost a million times. Even though I’ve presented solid empirical evidence supporting my position that an uncovered head does not equal pneumonia, Mom’s not buying it. I rummage in the bin by the door and pull out a hat I bought at a funky shop in SoHo. It’s gold and green with a big purple velvet flower stitched on one side. I tuck my hair behind my ears and pull it on. I gently push Cupcake out of the way so she can’t make a break for it. She’s under the illusion that she’d survive more than one day without canned tuna and a warm fire. I mean, seriously. Her name’s Cupcake.
I step out onto the deck and pull the door shut behind me. It’s gotten a lot colder since the sun went down. And even though I wouldn’t admit it in a million years, I’m glad to have a hat. I walk down the steps to the sand and head down the beach toward Marcus’s house. The wind sends the thready gray clouds scuttling across the sky. I spot Sam an instant before he sees me. He covers the distance between us in a matter of moments, chuffing and sneezing all around me as I bend to pet him. Even though he’s gotten a lot better about not jumping up on people, I still make sure to keep my hands where he can reach them so he has no reason to try.
“Cool hat,” Marcus says, jogging up to where Sam and I are standing.
“Thanks,” I say, now doubly glad to have it. “Where to?” I ask.
Marcus nods past me toward where the beach narrows and eventually turns into a trail, which threads through the trees and to the next beach over.
We walk side by side, laughing as Sam sprints ahead, churning up sprays of sand in his wake. And as much as I love the moments when I can barely breathe because Marcus is holding my hand or touching my face, I also love it like this. Laughing and happy. When Sam realizes we aren’t right behind him, he runs back to us, urging us forward. But he quickly grows tired of our pace and sprints away again. The third time he returns dragging a piece of driftwood more than three times his length. He drops the ginormous branch in front of us, then sits, wagging his tail hopefully.
“Sorry, buddy,” Marcus says. “That one’s a little too big for fetch.” Sam tilts his head at him, making me laugh. Then as if understanding him, runs off again in search of a better size stick. “Are you going to see your dad over break?” Marcus asks.
I stuff my hands deeper into my pockets. “No,” I say.
“Oh,” Marcus says. He’s quiet, waiting for me to explain or not. I love that about Marcus. He respects space when people need it. Maybe it takes going through something painful to make you into a good friend. Like maybe you need to hurt so that you can see past your own life and your own problems. We walk across piles of rocks. They crunch under our feet, reminding me of the icy snow in Central Park.
“My dad’s going to be in Japan,” I say, seeing if I can convince myself it’s okay if I just say it out loud.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus says. Because what else can you say when someone says her dad is more interested in closing some big business deal halfway across the world than spending Thanksgiving with his daughter, who he hasn’t seen in almost six months?
We walk in silence for several moments. And I wonder what he’s thinking. And I wonder if I asked him, would I get a real answer? And not what I usually say when someone asks me: “Nothing.” Which is a lie. Because I’m never thinking about nothing. Marcus takes my hand; for once it doesn’t send me flying up into the sky. It just feels comforting and takes some of the sting out of my dad bailing on me. Marcus leads me toward where the trees touch the beach. We step onto a winding trail that leads us deeper into the woods. The trees press close against us, forcing us to walk single file. I have to step carefully to keep from tripping on the exposed tree roots. Because I’m watching the ground, I nearly run straight into Marcus, who is stopped in the middle of the trail.
“Look,” Marcus says, pointing out through a gap in the trees. I step around him, but he catches the back of my coat. “Careful,” he says. “It’s a long way down.” The trail has led us upward as well as in. We’re standing on the edge of a ledge of rock, looking down on the sand and water below. The two lighthouses, one on each edge of the bay, are lit up. Their lights dance across the fog.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “And kind of spooky.”
Marcus starts to say something, but there’s a crashing in the woods behind us, which makes both of us turn. Images of headless horsemen and yetis and evil wood elves come to mind. Then Sam bursts out of the trees, panting and chuffing. He jogs directly up to me and drops a stick at my feet. He sits and looks at me expectantly. I pick it up, trying to ignore the fact that it’s all gooey with dog saliva. I try to hold it with just two fingers, and then I toss it back down the trail from where we came. And Sam tears after it.
“We should probably head back,” Marcus says. “I still have to finish studying for my French test.”
“Ouch,” I say, smirking. “And you with no tutor to help.” Like I’m one to talk. Even with all of the extra studying and Gram’s help, I’m still just staying afloat. Marcus smiles at my teasing.
“Actually,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you about that.” Something in his voice makes me brace myself. Charity was tutoring Marcus in French, but he stopped working with her when he found out how awful she was being to me. Marcus starts toward home and I follow, saying a little prayer. Please not Charity. Please not Charity. “Esme offered to help me if I needed it.”
I’m thankful that I’m walking behind him and he can’t see my face. It’s not Charity, but in some ways Esmeralda is worse. Like Tally said, she’s boy kryptonite. I’m not certain I want Marcus spending a lot of time with her. And then it occurs to me that maybe Esmeralda doesn’t even know about me and Marcus. Not that there is a me and Marcus—at least not yet. And I wonder if he even thought to say anything to her about me.
We break free from the trees and Marcus turns and looks at me. “Madame Framboise was the one who suggested it. Esme said she wasn’t sure she should because she didn’t want to make you jealous, but I told her you’re not like that.”
I nod, realizing I’m caught. If I say no, then I’m just admitting that I am, in fact, jealous and even more that Esmeralda was right. “You should totally work with her,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
We walk back toward my house. Marcus takes my hand as soon as we can walk side by side. I start to pull back because of the dog drool still clinging to my fingers, but Marcus just laughs and squeezes my hand tighter. Sam sprints down toward the water, then leaps away with a yip when the waves swell toward him. I still feel off about Marcus working with Esme, but I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. It’s just tutoring. He wasn’t drawn in by Charity; why would Esmeralda be any different? But a tiny voice says, But she is different. Isn’t she? I tell the tiny voice to hush.
“So what are you going to do for Thanksgiving?” Marcus asks.
I’m grateful for something to think about other than Esmeralda. I tell him about my mom’s big scheme for getting Gram and Dutch in the same room. “Things could get ugly,” I say. He grins. He was pre
sent for both the Main Street Showdown and the Tulip Bomb, so he knows exactly what I mean.
We’re at my house sooner than I would like. Time with Marcus always seems to go faster than regular time, like a minute is a second and an hour a handful of minutes. We stop just short of Gram’s house and I think tonight has to be it. Marcus is definitely going to kiss me. No tulips. No interrupting dogs.
That’s when I see the mountain of sand. I tell myself not to pay attention to it. It’s nothing. But then Marcus sees it, too.
“What’s that?” he asks. We walk toward the mound of sand. Boot prints spiral all around it and there’s a shovel and several buckets and a box full of seashells. A figure is crouching down at the edge of the water, filling a pail with more wet sand. Marcus lets go of my hand and steps slightly in front of me. I squint into the darkness. I can’t tell who it is until he stands up.
“Dutch?” I say. He whips around and I can see his face in the dim light. He looks an awful lot like a deer caught in someone’s headlights. He walks toward us. Sam thunders down the beach straight at him. His hackles are raised and he plants himself on the sand between Dutch and us. I’ve never seen him look so fierce. Dutch stops, clearly nervous.
“Sam,” Marcus says. “It’s okay.” Sam hesitates, unconvinced, but he comes over to sit in front of me. The message is clear: I’ve got my eye on you.
“Hey there, Penny,” Dutch says, walking toward us. He’s still nervous. And not just about my furry protector. He nods at Marcus, who nods back.
“This is Marcus,” I say.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Marcus says.
“Likewise,” Dutch says. They shake hands like we’re just meeting on the street in the middle of the day and not in the dark on an empty beach. Sam seems mollified by the exchange and proceeds to leap into the pile, leaving a dog-shaped impression in the sand.
“What are you doing?” I ask Dutch. I keep my voice low because it’s obvious whatever he’s up to, he doesn’t want anyone to know.
“Well, you see—” He looks from the pile of sand to our house, then back to the sand.
Frosted Kisses Page 9
