by Sarah Spade
I’ve told her she doesn’t even need to bother. She can walk right in if she wants. Nope. She still knocks.
I roll my eyes. I should’ve expected her to stop by. Her mom’s house isn’t too far from where I live—because you can’t throw a rock in Salem without hitting a friggin’ Walsh it seems—so she’s probably checking in on me before she heads out to Aunt Carolina’s.
When I open the door and find her standing there with two massive foil-covered trays in her hands, I’m not surprised. Ever since she and Madison finally opened their catering business a couple of years back, Sheila has made it her job to make sure I always have food. It’s gotten even worse in the months following my split from Karl. As thick as I am, it’s like she thinks I’m going to waste away to nothingness or something.
“Merry Christmas,” she says in a chirpy voice before adding, “Now move out of my way, Lindy. The trays are super heavy.”
I step aside and she, well, scurries into my home. She knows the way to the kitchen and disappears inside of there for a few seconds before returning empty-handed. I had closed the door after she entered, keeping out the chilly December weather, and Sheila shakes her head.
“I’ve got another trip to my car. Be right back.”
She’s only gone for a minute or two before she returns, stamping her flats against my doormat as if trying to return feeling to her toes. She has a white box in her hands, a gift bag hanging off her wrist. “Brr, it’s cold out there. If it’s gonna be this cold, we might as well have had a white Christmas, you know?”
“We had enough snow last week.”
“Bah. It came too early.” She wrinkles her nose and, with a coordinated kick behind her, she shuts my door with the heel of her foot. “Come on. I want to give you your present.”
My eyes light up. I was hoping that the gift bag is for me. If I’m being honest, it kind of sucked to wake up on Christmas and not have a single present to open. I know my parents have some for me at their house but I’m too much of a wimp to face them yet. Not when they’ll demand to know how my job search is going, or how I’m dealing with my first Christmas alone in years.
Sheila sets the big white box on the coffee table before plopping herself on my couch, making herself at home. Once I’m sitting at the other side, my legs tucked up underneath my butt, Sheila hands me the bag.
Like a little kid, I toss the tissue paper aside and pull out a wrapped rectangular box about a foot long. The paper is sparkly, a white background with glittering red, green, and gold polka dots on it. Sheila tied a red and green bow around the middle, with curly tendrils spilling over the side of the package.
It’s friggin’ beautiful.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Go on. Open it.”
So I do. I try to be careful, because it looks like it took her ages to wrap this, but my impatience gets the better of me. The ribbons go flying and I shred through the lovely paper with my nails. It’s another white box, and when I open that, I find a bottle of Merlot nestled on a bed of cotton.
“Great minds think alike,” I tell her, laughing. Reaching behind my couch, I find the gift I hid there. All of my other presents are in my room for when I get up the nerve to face the rest of my family, but I figured I’d be seeing Sheila first. “Merry Christmas.”
Unlike my cousin’s beautiful wrapping job, my mess doesn’t leave much to the imagination. From the narrow mouth to the wide bottom, there’s no hiding what I bought her. But when she delightfully tears the paper off and sees that it’s exactly the same, she giggles.
“Oh, Lind, you shouldn’t have,” Sheila says as she leans over to give me a hug.
I hug her back, stifling my laugh in her long, wild hair. She usually wears her hair slicked back, taming those crazy curls with a ton of gel and liberal amounts of hairspray whenever she’s cooking. When she’s ready for a relaxed afternoon, she lets it free.
It’s so pretty. And, like Sheila, it’s got a personality of its own.
I have to spit a few strands of it out of my mouth as she pulls away from me. In one quick motion, Sheila kicks off her flats before burying her painted toes in the shag of my living room rug. And I know then that this isn’t a quick visit. I kind of guessed from the two foil-covered trays she carried, plus the bakery box, but once the shoes are off, I know Sheila’s in for the long haul.
She surprises me, though, by rising up from her lounging position on my couch. She tucks her bottle of wine under her arm and starts to leave.
“Where are you going?” I call after her.
“To get some glasses.” Sheila lifts up her gift and shakes it at me. “We’ve got two bottles of wine, two trays of my infamous chicken parm, and a decadent chocolate cake I made this morning from Grandma’s old family recipe. If you’re gonna sit by yourself and mope on Christmas, we might as well get drunk. Make sure you grab the cake, Lind. We’ll want it chilled for when we eat it later.”
With that, Sheila flounces down my hall.
A hint of a smile twists my lips. Spending Christmas by myself seemed like a good idea when I first made up an excuse for why I wasn’t going to my aunt’s. Now that Sheila’s here? And she’s brought chocolate cake and wine? I couldn’t imagine spending Christmas any other way.
Setting my bottle down on the coffee table, I lift the cake and grunt. It’s got to weigh close to five pounds.
Decadent, indeed. I can’t wait.
Between that and the wine, it looks like I’m gonna earn that hangover I woke up with.
Merry Christmas, Lindy.
5
Tristan
I’m not a snoop. I’m not. Maybe it has something to do with my dad being the kind of man he is, growing up under Wade Bloom’s thumb, but I’ve never wanted someone else to feel the sense of betrayal I used to know when they realized that I breached their privacy.
My dad insisted that everything in his house belonged to him. It’s one of the biggest reasons why I moved out as soon as I could: first to the college dorms, then to the two-room shithole me and Max shared when we were starting out, then finally a place of my own. I hate the idea of someone going through my things. There was never any privacy in the Bloom house.
It’s why I left the small purse behind in my hotel suite. The temptation to open it up and peek inside is too strong. And I know I shouldn’t, so I don’t, and then I find myself regretting it the entire time I’m at Allison Shaw’s condo.
Because I missed them at the office party last night, Max woke my ass up bright and early and told me that I would have to spend Christmas Day with them. I could tell from his tone that it wasn’t so much an invitation as it was a summons and I let it go because, after all, isn’t that the reason why I flew all the way to Salem? To check his new fiancé out?
So I go. Max is my best friend. More, he’s my brother. Even if I’m miserable and horny and really, really want to find that woman from last night, I go and have an early Christmas dinner with them.
Allison is a doll. She’s as cute as Max made her out to be, basically glowing with a happiness that has everything to do with the rock on her finger. I don’t even want to think about how much Max paid for that ring so close to Christmas. At least a couple of grand. Max seems to think it was money well spent, though I’m willing to bet she’s got no clue how much that diamond cost.
Call me a pussy, but I slip out after dinner is done. Dani absolutely insisted that she wanted to have a quiet Christmas at home with her new fiancé. I was all for it. On my flight into Salem, I hated the idea of seeing my ex in the arms of another man. All that’s changed since last night. Now, I hate the idea of seeing her happy with this Zack guy when my hazel-eyed goddess is so far out of my reach, it’s like I imagined her.
In my head, I call her Silver because of the silver mask she wore. At least it’s better than some of the names I have for her other, more generous assets.
My cock starts to stir just at the memory of her. I’ve already rubbed the damn thing raw. The m
ini tube of lotion that the hotel provided with the bar of face soap and wet naps is long gone. I’ve been in the shower at least four times since last night and, as I let myself into the suite again, I’m already thinking about jerking off just to get rid of some of this need.
Right as I’m taking my jacket off, my eyes fall on the wristlet I left abandoned on the bed when I left the suite earlier this afternoon. I didn’t put it away, and I should have, because all of a sudden I have a fierce desire to look inside of it.
If I could find Silver, I wouldn’t have to settle on a quick release in the shower. She wanted me last night. I know she did. And my hand is a poor substitute to a beautiful woman, warm and willing and wet. The memory of those tits, those curves, the smart wit, and her coy laugh has me all mixed up. And, because I’m stupid with lust, I do something I never would’ve if I was thinking clearly.
I pull the zipper on the wristlet so it’s open.
After that, there’s nothing for me to do but realize that this is happening. My desire for another shot at Silver is stronger than my principles and, though I feel like a fucking asshole, I reach inside and search for something that will help me figure out who that woman is.
There’s only one thing in there, though.
Are you kidding me?
After I agonized over it ever since last night, all that’s in this thing is a fucking chapstick?
Come on.
I already knew about this. On a couple of occasions last night, I watched as Silver drew the thin tube out of her little purse and pressed it to her lips. Oh, how I was jealous of that tube because hell if I didn’t want to get a taste. When I finally did, I discovered it tasted like cherry.
But, shit, this isn’t much of a clue at all.
No. There’s gotta be more in there.
Right?
I stick my whole hand inside, feeling the seam at the bottom, on the sides, searching for something else. That’s when I find the small pouch on the side, a tiny pocket, and while it might feel flat—and there’s probably nothing there—I reach two fingers inside.
Yes!
The side of my pointer finger hits something a little thick and a bit stiff, like cardboard. I pinch the edge and pull it out. It’s the backside of a business card. A couple of cards, actually. There’s three of them stacked on top of each other, as if they were in the wristlet, just waiting to be passed out.
The fact that there’s three is a good sign. One might have been a keepsake or a reminder for the future. But three?
I might be reaching. Don’t care. I need something to go on. I quickly flip it over and read:
S & M Catering
Mmm… Mmm… Good
(food, that is)
Sheila Walsh
36 Hazel Street
Salem, Massachusetts 01970
I read it again. And again.
Sheila Walsh. Is that her name?
There’s no phone number, I notice. But the address is local. After plugging it into my maps app, I see that it’s barely a ten minute drive from my hotel.
My jacket is buttoned up again, my phone in my pocket, and my keys are dangling from my hand. I’m halfway down the hall when my brain rises up above my libido and I remember a very important fact. It’s still Christmas, damn it, and unless it’s a Chinese restaurant or a movie theatre, nothing’s open on Christmas Day.
I could drive over there, case the place, hope that Silver is there. Or I could be a decent fucking human being and let her spend the holiday with her family and her friends before I convince her to go out with me some time.
Or, you know, come back with me to my hotel.
I don’t care. I’ll take my beauty however I can get her.
I’m not so sure this is the right place.
It’s a small, weird-shaped house set right on the corner of Hazel Street. The numbers painted on the mint green mailbox tell me that it’s 36. 36 Hazel Street. Home of S & M Catering, I guess.
It took everything I had to wait until noon. I give myself a bit of credit. I really wanted to run out and find this place last night. Considering it’s the day after Christmas, I figured most people would want a lazy start. Sheila might not be as susceptible to my charm if I wake her up at the crack of dawn, either.
But noon? It seemed like a good idea when I left the hotel.
And now I’m thinking I might’ve read too much into a business card tucked inside of a near-empty wristlet.
Oh, well. I’m here, this is the only lead I have, and I might as well check it out or I’ll never be able to get the what-if out of my head.
Since this is supposed to be a business, I let myself inside. I immediately think that I probably should’ve waited on the porch and knocked. I expected something neat and office-like; instead, I walk in on a homey foyer, complete with a desk, an armchair, a sofa, and the vague scent of peppermint wafting in the air.
There are tons of cookbooks stacked on the desk, next to an array of photos that illustrate a variety of different professionally prepared plates. It… it might belong to a caterer’s. At least, I hope so.
I’m still not sure if this is a business or a home, then decide it’s some weird mash up of both. I don’t take the seat or the sofa, instead slamming my hand on the bell that’s on the edge of the desk.
“I’ll be right out there,” someone yells in reply. It’s a woman’s voice, and my heart picks up a little. Is it her—
It’s not. The woman who enters the room and goes to stand behind the desk is taller than Silver, and a little too slender for my tastes. Her hair is the same color, though, her skin the same lickable caramel shade, and she looks at me with a smile in her big, brown eyes as she greets me. “Good morning.”
Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and flour dusts her cheeks, her blouse, and the apron she wears across her body. There’s gold embroidery across the middle of the apron, right about the pocket, that says: S & M Catering. So I am in the right place after all.
“Are you Sheila Walsh?”
“Sure am. How can I help you?”
I don’t know if she can. She’s definitely not the woman I’m looking for.
I try anyway. Reaching inside of my pocket, I pull out the pink wristlet Silver left me hanging onto when she ran out of the ballroom. “Hi. Maybe you can. And, uh, weird question, I know, but I was wondering if you know who this belongs to.”
Her eyes light up in recognition. Thank fucking God.
“You’re the man from the party last night?” As if she can’t help herself, she looks me up and down and grins. “Good going, Lind.”
“Lind? Is that her name?”
“It’s Lindy, short for—” She stops. “Hold on. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you want. I’m not telling you anything more about my cousin. And if you’re here to yell at her for sneaking into the event last night, well, you can take it up with me. I’m the one who forced her to go. She needed a good time. I don’t regret it.”
I hold up my hands, warding this Sheila off before she can continue to jump down my throat. “Hold on there. I think you’ve got the wrong idea. I’m not here because she’s in trouble. Shit, I accidentally crashed that party myself. No harm done, okay? I just wanted to see her again ‘cause I can’t get her out of my head. She ran out so fast, this business card is all I had left to find her since she didn’t give me her name.” I show Sheila the business card I’ve been carrying in my pocket. “Makes sense since she thinks she shouldn’t have been there. But she’s got nothing to worry about from me. I give you my word.”
“Yeah. And I should believe you?”
“My name is Tristan Bloom. Look me up if you like, you won’t find anything out of place. Your… cousin? Lindy? We hit it off—” I pause to see if she’ll contradict me, maybe based on something her cousin told her about me. When she stays silent, I stifle a sigh of relief, then continue, “—and I’d really like to see her again. Dinner. Okay? Dinner’s harmless.”
“That’s all you want
from her?” Suspicion laces her tone as she cocks her head at me, looking me over again. This time, it’s not an approving look, but a speculative one. “Honest?”
I’m still holding onto the wristlet. “I just want to return this to her.”
“Here.” Sheila wags her hand at me, palm up. “Give me my card.”
I hand the business card to her and she flips it over. Grabbing a pen from the depths of her apron, Sheila jots a phone number on the back.
“This is my number. I don’t think you’ll need it, and I’ll let Lindy give you hers herself, but just in case, okay? My cousin needs a little spark in her life. Make a reservation at Nunzio’s for six tomorrow. Little Italian place, she’ll love it. I’ll make sure she’s there.”
I take the card back, slipping it into my pocket. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, Mr. Bloom. Because if you hurt her, I’ve got a hundred different meat pie recipes and I’ve seen Sweeney Todd way too many times.”
There’s a threat in there, I think. But I’m so damn grateful to have this woman’s help, I just nod and try not to let her wide smile make me feel too uncomfortable.
6
Lindy
Hurricane Sheila strikes again. At least, this time, I don’t have to wear the low-cut dress with the itchy tulle skirt.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I mutter. I fidget with the pleat on my dress pants, pulling it so that it’s running down the length of my leg. The hem barely makes it to my ankle, showing off the bright red heels she’s forced me to wear.
She’s lucky I didn’t stab her with the pointy heel when she announced that our cousins’ dinner out has turned into a—surprise—blind date.
“Hush, Lindy. You look gorgeous.” She tugs on the bottom of the red cable-knit sweater that matches the demon heels. “Jesus, sweetie, look at the way this top makes your tits pop. Your date’s gonna love it.”
