22. Will
Chapter twenty-two
Will
I thought Maureen might pull another disappearing act after our middle of the night conversation, but she popped her head into my room soon after Marley and James left for work.
“Need anything?” she asked.
“Thanks, but no. I think I’m good to get up and start moving around more today. I showered and dressed before everyone got up.”
She gave me a once-over, registering my jeans and UW sweatshirt.
“Do you need me to do any laundry for you? Since I know you didn’t plan on staying this long.”
“I can do it. I’ll give it a shot this afternoon.”
“Do you want tea or maybe something to eat?”
I smiled at her hovering. “Maureen, the only thing I want from you is your company, if you can spare it.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she glanced quickly at the folding chair before sitting gingerly on the mattress, not quite touching me. A sketch pad rested on my knees. “Working on something?” she asked.
“Another portrait of Oscar.” I opened the book and showed her the half-done pencil drawing.
Maureen made an aw sound. “He’s pretty cute, especially when he shows his bottom teeth like that.”
“True.” I flipped to another page, where I’d done ten quick sketches of the little tree in my room. There was also a full-size drawing of Marley and James’s snow globe cake.
“Did you give them an engagement present yet? Because if you haven’t, this would be a good one.”
I’d gifted them a fancy blender but I put a reminder in my phone to have the drawing framed for them as well.
Maureen watched me make the note. “You’re a good friend.”
“I’m trying.”
She sat up straighter. “Speaking of friends, I have something I wouldn’t mind getting your opinion on?”
“Sure.”
I knew what I wanted from Maureen, but I’d gotten the impression she wasn’t ready to go there yet. I figured these overtures were her way of testing the waters. To see how we fit. At least I hoped so.
She left the room and returned a moment later with her laptop, sitting back down on the bed next to me, brushing my arm against her own.
“This is a piece I completed over the past few days, between worrying about your head.” She lightly tapped her knuckles against my skull. “It’s my first Francesca video post-Kolya’s and the first in Coleman Creek. I’m hoping to do more if this one works. It’s of Katy Baumbeck.”
“The woman with the toddlers?”
Maureen snort-laughed. “Yes. And the fact you remember her that way is kind of why I made it. She gave me her approval to post, but now I’m second-guessing myself. It’s super different from everything else I’ve done.”
“Well, now you have to show me,” I said. “I’m sure it’s great.”
She took a deep breath, balancing the laptop between us atop our thighs. I took a chance and tentatively slipped my arm around her shoulders as she hit play on the queued-up video. She leaned into me.
The piece started simply enough, like other videos Maureen had made where she’d gone into someone’s closet and asked them about their style, showing outfits to the camera. There was an intro segment where Francesca told the audience about her hometown, introducing Katy as a local single mom with two small children. B-roll showed the modest ranch-style home Katy lived in. Francesca’s voiceover narrated, “ It’s a miracle anything stays neat when there are tiny humans around. I don’t have kids myself, but sometimes I wonder if there’s a secret parent manual that gets handed out when you have your first child saying it’s a requirement to have a play kitchen and a big tub of Mega Blocks in your living room.” The camera panned in on said items before Katy came into the shot to add, “It’s a rule to have a copy of ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ and a stack of wooden puzzles which immediately lose one piece .”
The cuts highlighted Maureen’s editing skills. She’d obviously tailored her later narration to the quip Katy made during the original filming.
The focus shifted to the home’s main bedroom, where Katy modeled her favorite casual outfits and Francesca offered suggestions for how she could change things up if she ever got the urge. Then Francesca coaxed Katy to try on some dresses in the back of her closet.
“Do you think you’ll feel like wearing more of your dresses and nicer clothes once the kids are a little older?” Francesca asked.
“Maybe. But it’s only recently I’ve started even considering my fashion again.”
“What do you mean?”
Katy sat on the bed, and Francesca was out of the shot.
“Well, I’m fine sharing with your viewers that I’m recently divorced. Not to be too blunt about it, but my husband left me for another woman. I don’t think he did it because he’s a terrible guy or anything. It’s complicated. Sometimes bad things just happen, and you have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.” Katy spoke to Francesca off to the side, so she wasn’t looking directly at the camera. Still, her words were powerful. “Have you ever heard of ‘The Five Stages of Grief’? Well, I feel like my fashion choices since my split have been like the ‘Five Stages of What to Do When the Man You Thought You’d Spend the Rest of Your Life with Leaves You for Another Woman .’” Francesca could be heard huffing, but she didn’t interrupt as Katy found her stride and continued, “ Stage One was basically I could barely get out of bed and lived in my pajamas. Stage Two was when showering and leaving the house felt like an accomplishment. All my energy was for taking care of the kids. Pretty sure I still mainly wore pajamas, but I was clean and brushing my hair at least. Stage Three was after I got through the worst of my pain and anger. I was back to living my life, but being a newly single mom required serious streamlining. I developed a uniform and stuck to it. Jeans and a sweatshirt every day. Usually in dark colors so I didn’t have to worry about stain management. Stage Four was when I felt a little more like I had a handle on things. I added in a few sweaters and some button-downs. I’d been doing all messy buns, but occasionally, I got wild and did a ponytail.” She made an up-and-down motion over her outfit, a fitted red button-down and dark jeans.
There was a lull. Katy looked placid, and Francesca came around into the shot with her. On screen, both women reached to sip from wineglasses that had been out of camera range.
“Was there a fifth stage?” Francesca asked. “Like with the grief?”
“Oh, yes.” Katy glanced coyly at the camera. “Stage Five is where I’m a kick-ass single mom who’s finally confident enough to let a fashion vlogger convince me to put on some dresses I haven’t bothered with since my divorce. I’m getting up and facing the days with some sense of hope. And humor. To be clear, I’m not judging anyone who wears pajamas to the grocery store or has a uniform, but for me, I think wanting to mix it up means I’m healing.”
“Well,” Francesca began, turning to face Katy, “I can’t imagine a better note to end on. Other than I want to make sure you know, no matter what you wear, you are one hot mama!” She took a sip of wine before looking at the camera and adding , “I hope all my viewers enjoyed this fashion adventure. Thanks again to Katy. And to all the moms out there—be easy on yourself. I hope you’re doing well, especially if it’s pajama day. Sending lots of love.”
The shot faded to black with a “like and subscribe” note. Maureen looked at me with a question in her eyes.
“It’s great,” I said. “Pitch-perfect. I agree it’s different, more therapy than fashion maybe, but it fits with the aesthetic you’ve created for the channel, and it has the humor viewers expect.”
She ran a finger across the top of the screen. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. It’s okay for you to grow. You don’t want the channel to get stale. You’ve been evolving the whole time, from the first year to now, so maybe this is the next step in that.”
“That’s kind of what Katy said. She gave me the best compliment when she told me she wants to show it to her kids someday.”
“If she said that, then you have to post it.”
“I’m doing it,” Maureen said, bringing her fingers to the keyboard. She added a caption, then clicked to begin the upload. Once the video went live, she added the link to her channel’s social media pages before closing the laptop and putting it aside. “I’m going to stay off for a while. Let it simmer.”
“Smart idea. Should we distract you?” I tightened the arm I still had wrapped around her shoulders. The gesture was meant to be friendly and affirming, but she looked pointedly at where my hand squeezed her upper arm. “I wasn’t suggesting anything untoward .” I grinned.
She smiled back, and I swore the whole room got brighter.
“What could we do?” she asked. “I’m not sure what you’re feeling up to.”
I unwound my arm from behind her and pointed at a stack of board games piled on the floor. “James brought me those yesterday.”
“You want to play board games?” Her tone sounded as though I’d suggested we clean hair from the shower drain.
“We could. But board games aren’t really my thing.” Relief crossed her features. “Actually,” I said, “I was kind of hoping to do something Christmas-y. Being stuck in this room so long, I’ve practically forgotten it’s December. Other than the tree Marley put in here.”
“Hmm—” Maureen tapped a finger to her lips and eyed me. “You seem recovered enough to switch your home base for the day from the bed to the living room. No one could miss the holiday explosion there.”
“Sounds good.”
“We can make cookies. That’s pretty Christmas-y. And it’ll keep my mind off Katy’s video. I’m guessing you’re not up for standing and moving around the kitchen yet, but you could help decorate them. Nothing screams holidays like messing up the frosting trying to put little eye dots on a gingerbread man.”
“Sign me up.”
Half an hour later, I sat curled up on the couch next to the dogs. Bing Crosby crooned on the vinyl player next to a beautiful seven-foot Christmas tree. The flames in the fireplace crackled and popped like a movie effect—burning actual wood from a tree as opposed to gas controlled by a knob in the wall. Maureen flitted around the kitchen, humming along to the music. I watched as she pulled out a tray of cookies from the oven, inhaled their spicy scent, and bumped the door closed with her hip.
Between batches, she came into the living room to keep me company.
“We should wait an hour to decorate them, just to be on the safe side,” she said, shooing the dogs into the backyard and sitting down next to me, offering a naked cookie to taste test.
I took a bite. “Mmm. Gingerbread’s not usually a favorite of mine, but this is great.”
“Something my mom taught me—always use the good molasses. It makes a difference.” Maureen smiled sadly, and I knew she was thinking about her mother. I squeezed her knee.
Last year, when I’d been in town for the talent show, Marley and Miranda had spoken often about their mother. Maureen stayed mostly silent while her sisters told family stories. Certainly, some of her reticence was due to my unexpected and unwelcome presence. But I also understood her better now. Although her emotions were quiet, they were no less intense. Including her grief.
She didn’t need to be loud for me to hear her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s good to remember.”
I kept the warmth of my hand on her thigh. “Truly, these cookies are excellent, but I’m not sure the four of us can eat the ten dozen you’ve made.”
She rose to her feet as the oven dinged. “Actually, these are for the Holiday Hoopla on Saturday. James and Marley are working a shift at the Coleman Creek High booth. There’s a bake sale.”
I’d heard the three of them discussing the carnival and hoped I’d feel up to attending. I took another bite. “You might want to make a few dozen more because these babies are gonna go quick.”
Once the cookies cooled, the plan was for me to work alongside Maureen to decorate them. She disinfected the coffee table and set up everything on top of it, so I wouldn’t need to move from the couch after washing my hands.
Fifteen minutes in, I regretted all the life choices that had resulted in me having zero kitchen skills.
Maureen used a “fine-tipped piping bag”—she’d told me its name after I asked about the “fancy ziplock”—to draw little vests and boots on her cookie men. A few wore sunglasses, and one had on a perfectly symmetrical pair of plaid pants.
Meanwhile, mine looked like an uncoordinated elephant had tried its hand at decorating. They were sugary monsters—uneven slashes for eyes, mouths like jagged football lacings, mysterious drips everywhere. Like crime scene photos recreated with cookies.
Occupied with her own work, Maureen didn’t notice mine until I’d already mangled eight defenseless gingerbread men. She couldn’t hide her flinch when she looked over.
“Those are…very nice, Will.”
Her face remained placid for all of three seconds before her shoulders began to shake.
“I’m sorry,” she said, attempting to cough away her reaction. Then she peered at my cookies again, and a cackle escaped.
“Hey!” I tried and failed not to laugh. “They’re not that bad.”
Good thing Bambi and Oscar were in the backyard since I was sure they’d be bark-giggling, or whatever it was dogs did when their humans embarrassed themselves.
Maureen pointed at my tray. “He looks like if Gollum was a pirate… That one’s definitely going to murder all the other cookies in the jar… Oh my god, did you draw a penis on that cookie?”
“It’s a button! My hand slipped!”
“Sure.”
“Glad I could amuse you so much.” I grinned. “I’m choosing to embrace this.”
“You should. It takes talent to be this bad, especially considering you’re an amazing artist.”
Inwardly, I glowed, not just at our playful back-and-forth, but at the casual way she referred to me as an artist. No one ever did that. Also because she hadn’t mentioned my fingers, either when asking for my help or while teasing me about my efforts.
“I’ll tell you what,” Maureen said. “We’ll keep these beauties you made for home consumption, and I can finish the public-facing cookies myself. Even if you can’t help, I like having the company while I work.” With that, she picked up the Gollum pirate and bit his head off, winking at me.
“I’m happy to be your hype man,” I said.
She gave me a funny look. “Same.”
Over the next hour, she finished the cookies while we chatted. I occasionally helped her out by doing non-baked-goods-destroying tasks such as filling piping bags. As evening approached, I caught her glancing nervously toward her still-closed laptop. I knew it was killing her not to check if there’d been any response to the new video.
“What do you see yourself doing in the future?” I asked. “Full-time vlogger?”
Maureen shook her head wistfully. “I love doing my videos.” She leaned over a cookie to pipe some red icing. “But I doubt I’ll ever be able to monetize the channel enough to make a living. I’ve been toying with the idea of running some sort of consignment or thrift shop. Maybe offering low-cost styling online.”
It was the type of creative investment I’d supported at Yardhouse, the company I founded after leaving Wallingford.
Maureen spoke as though she’d given the idea serious consideration. “I figure if I combine a storefront with an online sales platform—something I learned a lot about at Kolya’s—I could make it work.”
“It’s an awesome idea.” I forced myself not to sound overeager. “You know, I have an MBA I’m not putting to use right now. I’d be happy to help you develop a business plan or talk through logistics.”
I knew how reluctant she was to lean on others. That was why her answer surprised me.
“Really? It’s overwhelming, thinking of where to start, but I’d love to bounce my plans off someone who can rein me in. I know if I mentioned this to Marley, she’d just be completely gung-ho and useless in helping me throw out bad ideas and narrow things down.”
“I admire Marley’s positive energy,” I said. “When I established my firm, I allowed a lot of unvetted pitches. I had the privilege of time and money, so I indulged that whim to be eccentric. At Wallingford Capital, they never encouraged us to be creative with our investments. Only safe risks. At Yardhouse, I heard some of the wildest ideas you can imagine.”
“Like what?”
“Well, one guy pitched a nightclub for teenagers, and the big draw would be a VIP section.”
“VIP teens?” She scrunched her face.
I chuckled. “We also had a lady who wanted a nail salon for dogs—no grooming or bathing, just like, colored nails for dogs.” Maureen licked a bit of frosting off her thumb before releasing a giggle. “The bottom line is, if someone who worked at a store like Kolya’s and already had a built-in audience on YouTube, came to me with the idea to run any sort of fashion-centered business, I wouldn’t consider it too much of a risk. I could probably even help you find the start-up capital if you want me to.”
She gave me a half smile. “I appreciate you not just offering to fund it.”
“I’m helpful. Not an idiot. Obviously, I’d be willing to do whatever you needed. But I already pissed you off enough intervening with that guy at the bar five years ago. I’m not going to insert myself into the middle of your dream.”
“As it turns out, I have plenty of capital. My mom’s inheritance, plus my own savings and the money from selling my part of the house to Marley. Not only can I afford to start the business, I can afford to fail at it, or at least take my time growing it.”
“You can succeed with the right plan and setup. I’m sure of it.”
Maureen grew quiet, finishing the last of the cookies. Eventually, she said, “You know, listening to you yesterday helped put some things into perspective for me.”
My brows drew together. “How so?”
“When you were talking about after your accident, you said you played the part of William so well you basically lost yourself. In Seattle, I assumed the role of an untouchable fashionista. Especially once I got the job at Kolya’s. Then what happened between us cemented the idea that it was better to be hard. Icy.”
I shifted, but she pulled close to me, folding her knees underneath herself on the cushion and leaning them against my hip. “No. I wasn’t saying that to make you feel bad. I meant it when I said I’m over it. And truthfully, it would have happened whether or not I’d met you.”
She leaned up against my side and laid her head on my shoulder, the lavender scent of her hair invading my nose. “I like how I feel here. I like this in-the-middle version of me. Living in the city helped me be better in Coleman Creek, if that makes sense. Seattle Maureen had selective amnesia. I forgot about my mom’s recipes and about enjoying all the Christmas traditions we used to have. I became one version of myself and pushed the rest down. Not that I regret it. If I had allowed myself to think of everything that felt wrong in Seattle, if I’d paid attention to that, I wouldn’t have been able to establish myself. And I would have wondered my whole life if I hadn’t at least tried something like Kolya’s. Sort of like trying on outfits. But with my career.”
I took a chance and reached for her hand. She looked surprised for a moment, then placed them together in her lap. Her head on my shoulder felt like the best kind of burden. Grounding me.
“Figuring out you’re not on the track you want to be on isn’t easy,” I said.
“No.” She hummed, absently brushing along my palm with her thumb. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, from when you left your family’s company?”
“Mm-hmm.” I put my other hand on her knee, twisting to face her. Colorful lights from the tree reflected in her irises. “Do you know what I wish I had when I made that decision?”
She shook her head. “What?”
“I would have loved to have someone there to tell me I was doing the right thing and that it was okay for me to follow my heart.”
Angling her face until we were almost nose-to-nose, she said, “I’m sorry you didn’t have anyone in your corner for so long.”
The knee that she’d pressed into my hip trembled slightly. My hand moved upward from her leg to cup her cheek. “I want to be that for you, Maureen. If you’ll let me. I want to be the one cheering you on when you do all the amazing things I know you’re going to.”
“That sounds…good.” Her heated breath landed on my face.
The weight of the past five years anchored my body. My fingers ghosted along her soft jaw. I’d waited so long to touch her like this, and now the moment was here, heavier than I could have possibly imagined.
I brushed my thumb over her cheek. “Can I kiss you?”
She gazed into my eyes, and hers shone bright. After a few agonizing seconds, she nodded.
As the air grew thicker, my heart beat a wild staccato. I held her stare, halfway believing this was a dream. When I finally brought my mouth to hers, she tasted like spice and honey, like she’d snuck a few cookies. With one swipe of my tongue across the seam of her lips, she opened for me.
I shuddered, deepening the kiss, feeling her palm against my back as she rubbed a line between my shoulder blades. Her other hand slid up my chest, where she explored boldly, the soft pads of her fingertips dragging heat over the thin material of my T-shirt. She circled my nipples into stiff peaks beneath the thin cotton before clenching it in her fist and pulling me closer.
The kiss was intense in the way only hard-earned kisses could be. The low hum of the vinyl player, the lingering scent of the gingerbread, the shimmery glow from the Christmas trees—everything fell away as all my senses devoured the feeling of her mouth on mine.
Suddenly, nothing was enough for either of us.
She groaned and swung her leg over my lap to straddle my hips. I felt the heat of her center through her leggings as my hands moved to grasp her ass cheeks. My hard cock twitched as she bucked against me. Once. Twice. Three times. Until I worried I might come in my pants.
I pulled my head back quickly, breathless. We stared at one another before my eyes fell to the pulse beating in her throat. Her grip on my shirt slowly eased.
Pressing the heel of my hand against my aching erection, I panted rapidly, laboring to gain my senses, feeling the pounding of my heartbeat in my veins. A sensation of dizziness threatened.
Maureen drew her fingers to her mouth. “Oh my gosh, Will. I’m so sorry. I forgot you’re still recovering. Are you okay?” She reached out to place a palm on my forehead as though that would tell her anything. “You feel hot.”
I laughed, holding on to her hips as I got myself under control. “Of course I’m hot. My dream girl is sitting on my lap next to a fire. I just hope I’m not hallucinating.”
She angled her torso forward and buried her head in my neck. I felt her warm breath tease my sensitive skin for a few minutes as we stayed close. I ran gentle hands back and forth over her thighs.
“Dream girl,” she finally mumbled into my shirt before pushing off and standing. “You seem okay.”
“I am.” I released a long exhale. “Promise.”
“Still probably a good idea to pump the brakes.”
“Probably.”
Maureen looked down at me, shaking her head. “That was some kiss, Will.”
I knew she wasn’t ready to talk about what it meant yet, and I was okay with that. We had time.
“That’s an understatement,” I said. “And unless you want me to pull you right back into my lap again, we’d better switch gears immediately.” My dick finally deflated, and my breathing settled into something resembling normal.
Maureen seemed grateful for the—albeit abrupt—subject change, as I knew she would be. “Got something in mind?”
“How about you open your computer so we can see how much everyone loved your latest Francesca video?”