But then Tegan discovered—drumroll, please!—the teacup pig. They are beyond cute. Tegan showed Dorrie and me the Web site last month, and we oohed and ahed over the pictures of teensy-weensy piggies that seriously fit inside a teacup. They grow to weigh a maximum of five pounds, which is a twentieth of Tegan’s weight, and which is a much better proposition than an eight-hundred-pound porker.
So Tegan talked to the breeder, and then she made her parents talk to the breeder. While all that talking was going on, Dorrie and I did some talking to the breeder of our own. By the time Tegan’s parents gave their official okay, the deed was done: the last of the breeder’s teacup piglets was paid for and reserved.
“You guys!” Tegan squealed when we told her. “You’re the best friends ever! But . . . what if my parents had said no?”
“We had to risk it,” Dorrie said. “Those teacup pigs go quick.”
“It’s true,” I said. “They literally fly off the shelves.”
Dorrie groaned, which egged me on.
I flapped my wings and said, “Fly! Fly away home, little piggy!”
We’d fully assumed Gabriel would have flown home by now, so to speak. Last week, Tegan had gotten word from the breeder that Gabriel was weaned, and Tegan and Dorrie made plans to drive to Fancy Nancy’s Pig Farm to pick him up. The pig farm was in Maggie Valley, about two hundred miles away, but they could easily get there and back in a day.
Then came the storm. Bye-bye plan.
“But Nancy called tonight, and guess what?” Tegan said. “The roads in Maggie Valley aren’t so bad, so she decided to drive on up to Asheville. She’s spending New Year’s there. And since Gracetown’s on the way, she’s going to swing by and drop Gabriel off at Pet World. I can get him tomorrow!”
“The Pet World across from Starbucks?” I said.
“Why there?” Dorrie said. “Couldn’t she bring him straight to your house?”
“No, because the back roads haven’t been cleared,” Tegan said. “Nancy’s buddies with the guy who owns Pet World, and he’s going to leave a key for her. Nancy said she’d put a note on Gabriel’s carrier that says, Do Not Adopt This Pig Out Except To Tegan Shepherd!”
“‘Adopt this pig out’?” I said.
“That’s pet-store-speak for ‘sell,’” Dorrie said. “And thank goodness for Nancy’s note, since no doubt there’ll be thousands of people storming the pet store, desperate to buy a teacup piglet.”
“Shut up,” Tegan said. “I’ll drive into town and get him the very second the snowplow comes through.” She made praying hands. “Please, please, please let them get to our neighborhood early!”
“Dream on,” Dorrie said.
“Hey,” I said, struck by an idea. “I’m opening tomorrow, so Dad’s letting me take the Explorer.”
Dorrie made muscle arms. “Addie has Explorer! Addie no need snowplow!”
“You’re darn straight,” I said. “Unlike—ahem—the wimpy Civic.”
“Don’t be mean to the Civic!” Tegan protested.
“Ooh, sweetie, we kind of have to be mean to the Civic,” Dorrie said.
“Anyway,” I interrupted, “I would be happy to pick up Gabriel if you want.”
“Really?” Tegan said.
“Is Starbucks even going to be open?” Dorrie asked.
“Dude,” I said. “Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor hail shall close the doors of the mighty Starbucks.”
“Dude,” Dorrie shot back, “that’s the mailman, not Star-bucks.”
“But unlike the mailman, Starbucks actually means it. They’ll be open, I guarantee it.”
“Addie, there are nine-foot drifts out there.”
“Christina said we’ll be open, so we’ll be open.” I turned to Tegan. “So yes, Tegan, I will be driving into town far too early tomorrow morning, and yes, I can pick up Gabriel.”
“Yay!” Tegan said.
“Hold on,” Dorrie said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I wrinkled my forehead.
“Nathan Krugle?” she said. “Works at Pet World, hates your guts?”
My stomach plunged. In all the talk of pigs, I’d forgotten entirely about Nathan. How could I have forgotten about Nathan?
I lifted my chin. “You are so negative. I can totally handle Nathan—if he’s even working tomorrow, which he probably won’t be, since he’s probably off at a Star Trek convention or something.”
“Already you’re making excuses?” Dorrie said.
“Nooo. Already I’m demonstrating my complete and utter lack of self-absorption. Even if Nathan is there, this is about Tegan.”
Dorrie looked dubious.
I turned to Tegan. “I’ll take my break at nine and I’ll be the first person through Pet World’s doors, ’kay?” I strode to my desk, ripped off a Hello Kitty sticky note, and scrawled, Do Not Forget Pig! on it with my purple pen. I marched to my bureau, pulled out tomorrow’s shirt, and slapped the sticky note on it.
“Happy?” I said, holding up the shirt for Tegan and Dorrie to see.
“Happy,” Tegan said, smiling.
“Thank you, Tegan,” I said grandly, suggesting with my tone that Dorrie could stand to learn a little lesson from such a trusting friend. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
Chapter Six
Tegan and Dorrie bade their farewells, and for about two minutes I forgot my heartbreak in the midst of our good-byes and hugs. But as soon as they were gone, my shoulders slumped. Hi, said my sadness. I’m ba-a-ack. Did you miss me?
This time my grief took me to the memory of last Sunday, the morning after Charlie’s party and the worst day of my life. I’d driven to Jeb’s apartment—he didn’t know I was coming—and at first he was happy to see me.
“Where’d you run off to last night?” he said. “I couldn’t find you.”
I started crying. His dark eyes filled with worry.
“Addie, you’re not still mad, are you? About our fight?”
I tried to answer. Nothing came out.
“It wasn’t even a fight,” he reassured me. “It was a . . . nothing.”
I cried harder, and he took my hands.
“I love you, Addie. I’ll try to be better about showing it. All right?”
If there’d been a cliff up there in his bedroom, I’d have flung myself off it. If a dagger had been lying on his dresser, I’d have plunged it in my chest.
Instead, I told him about the Charlie Thing.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, blubbering. “I thought we’d be together forever. I wanted us to be together forever!”
“Addie . . . ” he said. He was still trying to catch up, but right that second, what he was reacting to—and I knew this because I knew Jeb—was the fact that I was upset. This was his most pressing concern, and he squeezed my hands.
“Stop it!” I said. “You can’t be nice to me, not when we’re breaking up!”
His confusion was terrible. “We’re breaking up? You . . . you want to be with Charlie instead of me?”
“No. God, no.” I jerked away. “I cheated on you, and I ruined everything, so”—a sob choked out—“so I have to let you go!”
He still wasn’t there. “But . . . what if I don’t want you to?”
I could hardly breathe for crying, but I remember thinking—no, knowing—that Jeb was so much better than me. He was the greatest, most wonderful guy in the world, and I was an absolute shit who didn’t even deserve to be stepped on by him. I was an asshat. I was as big an asshat as Charlie.
“I have to go,” I said, moving toward the door.
He grabbed my wrist. His expression said, Don’t. Please.
But I had to. Couldn’t he see that?
I wrenched away and made myself say the words. “Jeb . . . it’s over.”
He hardened his jaw, and I was perversely glad. He should be furious at me. He should despise me.
“Go,” he said.
So I did.
And now . . . here I was. I s
tood by my bedroom window, watching Dorrie and Tegan grow smaller and smaller. The moonlight made the snow look silver—all that snow—and just looking at it made me cold.
I wondered if Jeb would ever forgive me.
I wondered if I would ever stop feeling so miserable.
I wondered if Jeb felt as miserable as I did, and I surprised myself by realizing that I hoped he didn’t. I mean, I wanted him to feel a little miserable, or even fairly miserable, but I didn’t want his heart to be a frozen lump of regret. He had such a good heart, which made it so confusing that he didn’t show up yesterday.
Still, it wasn’t Jeb’s fault that I screwed up, and wherever he was, I hoped his heart was warm.
Chapter Seven
“Brrr,” Christina said as she unlocked the front door to Starbucks at four thirty the next morning. Four frickin’ thirty! The sun was an hour and a half from rising, and the parking lot was a ghostly landscape, broken up here and there by snow-covered cars. Christina’s boyfriend honked as he pulled onto Dearborn Avenue, and Christina turned and waved. He drove off, and it was us, the snow, and the unlit store.
She pushed open the door, and I hurried in behind her.
“It’s freezing out there,” she said.
“You’re telling me,” I said. The drive from my house had been treacherous, even with snow tires and chains, and I passed at least a dozen cars abandoned by less gutsy drivers. In one snowbank there was an imprint of an entire SUV or some other monster vehicle. How was that possible? How did some idiot driver not see a six-foot wall of snow?
Until the snowplow came, there was no way Tegan would be driving anywhere in her wimpy Civic.
I stomped to dislodge the clumps of snow, then tugged off my boots and padded sock-footed to the back room. I flipped the six switches by the heating vent, and the store blazed with light.
We are the Christmas star lit by the angels, I thought, imagining how this one spot of brightness must look from anywhere else in the pitch-black town. Only Christmas is over, and there were no angels.
I pulled off my hat and coat and slipped on my black clogs, which matched my black pants. I resecured the DO NOT FORGET PIG! sticky note to my Starbucks shirt, which read, YOU CALL IT, WE’LL MAKE IT. Dorrie made fun of my T-shirt, just as she made fun of everything Starbucks, but I didn’t care. Starbucks was my safe place. It was also my sad place, since it housed so many Jeb memories.
Even so, I found solace in its smells and routines—and especially its music. Call it “corporate” or “canned” or whatever, but the Starbucks CDs were good.
“Hey, Christina,” I called, “care for a little ‘Hallelujah’?”
“Heck yeah,” she called back.
I stuck in the Lifted: Songs of the Spirit CD (which, yes, Dorrie gagged at) and selected track seven. Rufus Wainwright’s voice filled the air, and I thought, Ah, the sweet sound of Starbucks.
What Dorrie failed to appreciate—along with the squillions of other Starbucks scoffers—was that the people who worked at Starbucks were still people, just like everyone else. Yes, Starbucks was owned by some hotshot Starbucks daddy, and yes, Starbucks was a chain. But Christina lived here in Gracetown just like Dorrie did. So did I. So did the rest of the baristas. So what was the big deal?
I walked out of the back room and started unpacking the pastries left by Carlos, the food-delivery guy. My attention kept getting pulled to the purple chairs at the front of the store, and tears made the reduced-fat blueberry muffins go blurry.
Stop it, I commanded myself. Get a frickin’ grip, or it’s going to be a very long day.
“Whoa,” Christina said, her feet appearing in front of me. “You cut your hair.”
I lifted my head. “Um . . . yeah.”
“And dyed it pink.”
“That’s not a problem, is it?”
Starbucks had a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell appearance code that prohibited nose rings, other facial piercings, and visible tattoos—meaning you could have tattoos and piercings, you just couldn’t show them. I didn’t think there was anything in the guidelines that said you couldn’t have pink hair, though. Then again, the topic had never come up.
“Hmm,” Christina said, studying me. “No, it’s fine. Surprised me is all.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I said under my breath.
I didn’t intend for her to hear me, but she did.
“Addie, are you okay?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
Her gaze shifted to my shirt. She frowned. “What pig are you not supposed to forget?”
“Huh?” I looked down. “Oh. Uh . . . nothing.” I suspected that pigs were probably prohibited in Starbucks, too, and I saw no reason to get Christina all worked up by explaining the whole story. I’d keep Gabriel hidden in the back room after I picked him up, and she would never have to know.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she said.
I smiled brightly and peeled off the sticky note. “Never better!”
She went back to prepping the coffee station, and I folded the note in half and stuck it in my pocket. I lugged the pastries to the glass case, put on a pair of plastic gloves, and started loading the trays. Rufus Wainwright’s cover of “Hallelujah” filled the store, and I hummed along. It was almost pleasant, in a life-sucks-but-at-least-there’s-good-music sort of way.
But as I listened to the lyrics—truly listened, instead of just letting them float over me—the almost-pleasant feelings went away. I’d always thought this was an inspirational song about God or something, because of all the hallelujahs. Only it turned out there were words before and after the hallelujahs, and those words were hardly uplifting.
Rufus was singing about love, and how love couldn’t exist without faith. I grew still, because what he was saying sounded way too familiar. I listened some more, and was horrified to realize that the whole song was about a guy who was in love, only the person he loved betrayed him. And those heartbreakingly sweet hallelujahs? They weren’t inspirational hallelujahs. They were . . . they were “cold and broken” hallelujahs—it said so right there in the chorus!
Why had I ever liked this song? This song sucked!
I went to change the CD, but it switched to the next track before I got there. A gospel version of “Amazing Grace” filled the store, and I thought, Well, it’s a heck of a lot better than a broken hallelujah. And also, Please, God, I sure could use some grace.
Chapter Eight
By five A.M., our morning prep was done. At 5:01, our first customer rapped on the glass door, and Christina walked over to officially unlock it.
“Merry day-after-Christmas, Earl,” she said to the burly guy waiting outside. “Didn’t know if we’d see you today.”
“You think my customers care what the weather’s like?” Earl said. “Think again, darlin’.”
He trundled into the store, bringing with him a gust of frigid air. His cheeks were ruddy, and he wore a red-and-black hat with earflaps. He was huge, bearded, and looked like a lumberjack—which worked out nicely since he was a lumberjack. He drove one of those semis you never wanted to get behind on one of the many mountain roads around here, since, first of all, the weight he pulled meant he maintained a speed of a rip-roaring twenty miles an hour, and, second of all, the back of his open trailer was filled with logs. Massive logs, stacked five or six high. Logs, should the trailer restraints snap, that would roll off the truck and smush you as flat as a crushed to-go cup.
Christina crossed back behind the bar and got the steamer going. “Must be nice to be needed, though, huh?”
Earl grunted. He tromped over to the cash register, squinted at me, and said, “What’d you do to your hair?”
“I cut it,” I said. I watched his face. “And dyed it.” When he still didn’t say anything, I added, “Do you like it?”
“What’s it matter?” he replied. “It’s your hair.”
“I know. But . . . ” I found I didn’t know how to finish my sentence. Why did I care if E
arl liked it or not? Eyes down, I took his money. He always got the same drink, so there was no further discussion required.
Christina swirled a generous galaxy of whipped cream onto Earl’s raspberry mocha, drizzled the cream with bright red raspberry syrup, and topped the whole thing off with a white plastic lid.
“Here you go,” she announced.
“Thank you, ladies,” he said. He raised his cup in a toast, then strode out the door.
“You think Earl’s lumberjack buddies tease him about getting such a girly drink?” I asked.
“Not more than once,” Christina said.
The door jangled, and a guy held it open for his girlfriend. At least, I assumed she was his girlfriend, because they had that coupley look to them, all goofy and love struck. I immediately thought of Jeb—I’d gone, what, two seconds without his crossing my mind?—and felt lonely.
“Wow, more early birds,” Christina commented.
“More like late birds is my guess.” The guy, whom I recognized from school, had bleary eyes and an up-all-night sway to his posture. I thought I recognized the girl, too, but I wasn’t sure. She couldn’t stop yawning.
“Could you quit that?” the guy said to Yawning Girl. Tobin, his name was Tobin. He was one grade above me. “You’re giving me a complex.”
She smiled. She yawned again. Was her name Angie, maybe? Yeah, Angie, and she was nongirly in a way that made me feel too girly. I doubted she meant to, though. I doubted she even knew who I was.
“That’s just great,” he said. He appealed to me and Christina, spreading his arms. “She thinks I’m boring. I’m boring her—can you believe it?”
I kept my expression pleasant but noncommittal. Tobin wore scruffy sweaters and was friends with the Korean guy who said “asshat,” and he and all of his buddies were intimidatingly clever. The kind of clever that made me feel cheerleader-dumb, even though I wasn’t a cheerleader, and even though I personally didn’t think cheerleaders were dumb. Not all of them, anyway. Chloe-the-Stuart-dumper, maybe.
Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances Page 18
