“By awesome, do you mean an utter waste of time?”
He grinned. “They’re art. No time creating art is wasted. They almost look too nice to use.”
“They’re not,” I said.
He dropped two hearts into his cup.
“So, what do you do when you’re not selling Christmas trees? Or is that a full-time gig?”
He smiled. “No, it’s something I’m experimenting with. It’s only ninety days out of the year. This is my entrepreneurial side. By profession I’m a financial consultant. Or was. I used to own an investment firm, but I let that go when I moved to Utah.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Colorado.”
My thoughts bounced immediately to Clive’s extraneous Colorado family. I pushed the thought away.
“Why did you come to Utah?” I asked.
“A change of scenery,” he said. “I had some bad things happen to my business, followed by a painful divorce.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We’ve got that in common. At least the divorce part. Where did you move from?”
“Just outside Denver. Thornton.”
What are the chances? I thought. It was the same town where Clive’s second family lived. I wondered over the vague possibility that he knew the woman. Again I pushed away the thought. “So how is the Christmas tree business?” I asked.
“It’s all right. I’m not going to pay off the national debt with my profits, but I’ll put a little away. Then onto the next thing.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking of starting my firm up again.”
“Is that difficult?”
“Yes. But I was pretty good at it. I had it up to thirty million before things went south.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Thirty million . . . dollars?”
“If it were pesos, it wouldn’t have been as impressive.”
I sipped my coffee. “You said some bad things happened to your business.”
“Horrible things,” he said. “Nothing I’d want to ruin our time together sharing. What do you do?”
“I own a catering business.”
“Which explains the fancy sugar cubes. What kind of catering?”
“Weddings, personal, corporate. An occasional movie production. Pretty much the whole gamut.”
“You must be busy this time of year.”
His words tweaked me a little with guilt, reminding me that Carina was working seventy-hour weeks. My absence was putting a lot of extra pressure on her. “We’re swamped. Business is good.”
“Good,” he said. He finished his coffee.
“Would you like some more?”
“Thank you,” he said, “but I’d better let you go; you said you were busy.”
Disappointment washed over me. Still, he hadn’t moved from his chair. “No worries. I’m okay on time. Thank you for bringing the tree. I wasn’t even going to get one this year. I haven’t been in a celebrating mood.”
“I understand. I still don’t have a tree myself.”
“You sell them, but you don’t have one?”
“You know how it is—the cobbler’s children have no shoes. Besides, it’s just me.”
“It’s just me too,” I said.
“So what changed your mind about getting a tree?”
“A friend of mine. She thought it might help me emotionally to decorate for the season. You know, to get in the spirit of Christmas.”
“Is it working?”
“Apparently. I’m not balled up in a fetal position somewhere.”
He looked at me sympathetically. “Life can be hard. And the holidays seem to amplify whatever pain we’re going through.”
“They can,” I said. I took a drink from my coffee, then suddenly blurted out, “So, you probably heard about my husband. It was all over the news.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t watch much news.”
“Have you heard the name Clive Walther?”
“No. Should I have?”
“That’s refreshing. You’re probably the only one in Utah who hasn’t heard of him.”
“Well, I’m new here.”
“Then I should probably tell you.”
He looked at me for a moment, then asked, “Why?”
It was a good question. Here he’d sat down to enjoy some coffee and pleasant conversation, and now I was going to vomit all over him my tragic marriage.
“Is it something you want to talk about?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. It had practically become part of my introduction. Hi, I’m Maggie Walther. My husband had another wife and family.
“No,” I said. “Not really.”
“We don’t need to talk about anything that brings you pain,” he said, his eyes kind.
“Thank you.”
The moment stretched awkwardly. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Finally, he said, “Well, I probably should go. I still need to count up the day’s receipts.”
“Of course,” I said, silently berating myself over our conversation. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“I’m glad you did. I enjoyed talking. And the coffee.”
He stood and we walked together to the front door, stopping on the threshold.
“Thank you for bringing my tree. It looks beautiful.”
“A beautiful woman should have a beautiful tree,” he said. The compliment was a little corny but still made me feel good. “Good night.”
“Night,” I said.
It was probably only fifteen degrees out, but I stood in the open doorway watching as he walked out to his truck and started it up. I waved and he waved back. Then he backed out of my driveway and I watched until he turned the corner and his taillights disappeared.
I hoped it wouldn’t be the last time I saw him.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
I went back to get Christmas lights. No, actually, that was my excuse for going back to see Andrew. If you can’t be honest in your own diary, you should be a novelist and get paid for writing fiction.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 11
Two things were different the next morning. And, after the rut I’d been in, I figured anything different was good. First, the house smelled like pine. It smelled alive again.
Second, I couldn’t get Andrew off my mind.
Yesterday had been a good day—the first in a very long string of bad ones. I had had two positive human interactions: first the Stephenses, then Andrew.
I decided to build on my momentum by decorating the tree. The Christmas baubles were in the downstairs storage room with the wrapping paper and Christmas books, but the Christmas lights were all back in the shed.
I looked outside the kitchen window over my backyard. Icicles hung from the garage and shed roof, some as thick as a cow shank. (I’m not sure why I used that simile. It was something my dad would have said.)
I hadn’t braved my backyard since the first storm hit in mid-October. The snow level had only risen since then, piled more than three feet high in some places. From where I was, the shed looked a mile away, sealed by snow drifts halfway up the door. It would take snow shoes just to get to it, I thought. And a pick to chip the ice and snow from the door. Maybe a flamethrower. At least, that’s what I told myself as I got in my car and drove back to the Christmas tree lot.
The truth was thinly veiled in my own mind. I knew why I was going. I wanted to see him again.
As I pulled into the Kroger’s parking lot, I looked for his red truck but didn’t see it. I parked near the entrance and walked in.
This time I was the only customer in the lot. There were two young men sitting on vinyl folding chairs next to a barrel with a fire inside, the flames occasionally rising above the barrel’s rim. Both of them were vaping.
I recognized one of the men from the day before, the guy who had dragged a tree past me. His hair was tied up in a man bun.
/> When he saw me he pulled his earbuds out, set his vape down on a box near the chair, and walked up to me. “Hey. May I help you?”
“Is Andrew here?”
“No. The boss doesn’t work weekends.”
“Oh,” I said. “Will he be back on Monday?”
“Sometimes Monday night. It depends when he gets back in town. Tuesday morning for sure. He’s on the schedule.” He looked me over in a way that made me feel a little uncomfortable. I wasn’t old enough to be his mother, but definitely a younger aunt.
“I’m Shel,” he said, pushing his hands into his coat pockets. “You were here the other day.”
“Yes. Andrew delivered a tree to my house.”
“I gotcha,” he said. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem.”
“I’m in charge when the boss is gone. If you need something, I can help you.”
“Thank you. I’m fine,” I said. “I just needed to talk with Andrew.”
“Cool,” he said. “I gotcha. Tuesday morning’s your best bet.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He walked back to his chair near the fire and lifted his vape to his lips. I was surprised at how disappointed I felt as I walked back to my car.
I started driving downtown to the bakery, an old house in the Sugar House area that had been converted to a kitchen and storefront. But, as my building came into sight, I changed my mind. Going in would unleash a multitude of questions and problems I wasn’t up to confronting. I turned around and drove home, back to my isolation. At least, this time, I had something to look forward to.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Did I ask him on a date? I think I did.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I got up early Tuesday morning thinking of Andrew, which, frankly, was a whole lot better than thinking of Clive or the drama surrounding him. I wondered if Andrew had even given a second thought to our visit. What if he hadn’t? What if he didn’t even remember me? The thought of that made me feel pathetic, but not enough to keep me from walking into the lot.
I spied Andrew almost immediately. He was standing near the east side of the lot, helping a family with two young children who were so bundled up for winter they looked like Easter eggs.
Andrew noticed me and, to my relief, waved me over.
When I got to him he turned from the family, who were still examining a tree. “Don’t tell me your tree died already.”
“No, it survived the weekend. But I can’t get to my lights. You have Christmas lights, don’t you?”
“More than you need,” he said. “Let me finish up here and I’ll help you.”
As he went back to the family, I wandered around the lot looking at the trees, hoping that I wouldn’t see one I liked more than the one I had already bought. I was just that way.
Shelby again asked if he could help me. I told him I would wait.
Ten minutes later Andrew found me near the front of the lot. “Thanks again for the coffee the other night.”
“Thanks again for bringing my tree,” I replied.
“My pleasure,” he said. “So, you’ve decided you need lights after all.”
“Mine are buried in my shed. I couldn’t get to them.”
“Do you know what kind you want?”
“Pretty ones.”
He smiled. “I have those. Come with me.” I followed him over to the trailer that he used as an office. We stopped in front of an array of lights. “We’ve got five-millimeter LED lights on green wire, the M-six mini LED lights, the Icicle LED lights, and the C-nine ceramic warm light twinkle bulbs.” He stood pleasantly close to me as he pointed out my different options. He smelled like pine and wood shavings.
“Whatever happened to just lights?” I asked.
“We live in a complicated world,” he said.
“Which would you buy?”
“Do you know what color you want?”
“Something cheerful.”
“Cheerful and pretty.” He grabbed a box of lights. “I would recommend our five-millimeter multicolor LED color-morphing lights.”
“That sounds exciting,” I said.
“Breathtaking,” he replied. “More fun than a Christmas tree owner should have. They’re constantly changing colors, so with one hundred lights per strand, you never have the same tree twice.”
“I’m not sure I could stand that much excitement.”
“I’ll tell you what. Take them home for a spin. If they’re too much of a thrill, bring them back and I’ll refund your money, no questions asked.”
“Really? No questions?”
“Ne’er a one.”
“All right. I’m sold. How many boxes of these miracle lights do I need?”
“The rule of thumb is about a hundred lights for every foot and a half of tree, so yours was six feet, minus the three inches I shorted you, that’s about four hundred lights. Four strands.”
“How much are they?”
“With the friends and family discount,” he said, “just ten dollars a box. They’re usually seventeen.”
“Thank you,” I said, handing him my credit card. “Does that include installation?” The words tumbled out of my mouth.
“No,” he said. “That’s extra.”
“How much this time?”
He smiled, and my heart jumped. “Dinner.”
I smiled back. “Dinner. It’s a deal.”
“Dinner it is.” He ran my card and gave me a slip to sign. “When would you like me to come over?”
If I didn’t want to look too eager, I completely blew it. “Is tonight too soon?”
“Tonight’s good. My schedule is as open as a politician’s mouth.”
I don’t think he had any idea how relevant his simile was to me. “Mine’s pretty open too.”
“I’ve got my other guy back, so I can leave a little early.”
“What’s a little early?”
“Around seven.”
“Seven works. Do you like pasta?”
“I’m a quarter Italian. Pasta is my life force.” He put the boxes of lights into a sack and stepped out of the trailer. “I’ll carry the lights out to your car. They might fit.”
“I don’t know why everyone gives me grief about my car.”
“Because they can.” At the car he said, “Do you want them in the back?”
“The passenger seat is fine.” I opened the door.
He reached over and set the boxes of lights on the seat, then stepped back. “Great. I’ll see you tonight at seven.”
“Great,” I said back. I hesitated, then said, “Friday night was unexpected. I had a really good time talking to you. It’s been a while . . .”
“I was thinking the same thing. I don’t have any friends here, really. Just some employees who would rather be playing video games.”
I wasn’t sure what else to say. “Well, thank you. I’ll see you tonight.” I climbed inside my car and he shut the door.
“Ciao,” he said.
I drove home. It was the happiest I’d felt in months.
CHAPTER
Fifteen
It feels good to be cooking again—figuratively as well as literally.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought everything I needed for dinner, then spent the rest of the afternoon cooking. It felt good to be in the kitchen again. Normalcy. I even made a tiramisu for dessert, one of Marge’s recipes. I finished cooking around five. I took a quick nap, then freshened up and set the table.
Andrew arrived about five minutes before seven, carrying a brown paper bag. I opened the door as he walked up. “Come in.”
“Thank you.”
He stepped inside and pulled the bottle from the sack. “I brought some wine. Antinori Marchese. It’s a Chianti.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I can’t wait to try it.”
“Whatever you’re baking, it smells delicious.”
> “It’s mushroom sausage ragù. And arancini di riso.”
“Arancini di riso?”
“Little oranges. They’re deep-fried rice balls full of meat and mozzarella.”
“Shall we do the tree first or eat?”
“Definitely eat,” I said. “I still need to boil the pasta. I wanted it fresh. In the meantime, I have antipasti.”
He followed me back into the kitchen and I offered him a plate of salami, cheeses, and crackers with little pieces of honeycomb. He seemed pleased. “Where did you get this salami?”
“There’s a little Italian deli not far from here. Granato’s.”
“I’ve driven by that,” he said. “I’ve wanted to stop in but haven’t yet. And the honeycomb?”
“The same. The deli owner keeps bees.”
“I kept bees once. Like, ten years ago. I thought it might be therapeutic.”
“Was it?”
“I learned there’s nothing therapeutic about being swarmed by a thousand bees. It’s what nightmares are made of.”
I laughed. “Why did you think it would be therapeutic?”
“I read an article in the New Yorker. Some Madison Avenue executive was extolling the Zen-like experience of beekeeping. I fell for it. One of my employees at the time, Beatrice, had parents who were beekeepers, so she offered to help.”
“Her parents kept bees and they named their daughter Beatrice?”
He nodded. “Unfortunately,” he said. “I was out of town when my bees came in, so I asked my brother to pick them up without telling him what they were. He called me from the store, panicked. ‘You didn’t tell me I was getting bees.’ I said, ‘I know. I figured you might not do it if I told you.’ When he tried to get out of it, I told him to quit being such a baby.”
“So you shamed your brother into picking up your bees,” I said.
“Basically. At least it worked. They came in a little plywood carton about the size of a shoebox. Most of it was screen and you could see the bees in a huge buzzing cluster inside. He was terrified.
“After I got back, Beatrice came over. We dressed up in our bee suits, then she helped me introduce the bees to the hive.
The Noel Stranger Page 5
