Chapter Two #2
"I improved it. That's what I do—bring color to beige spaces."
"I'm not beige."
"You wore beige to our first meeting."
"Charcoal gray."
"Which is just beige with ambition."
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. "You're impossible."
"I prefer 'delightfully challenging.'" She added another star, her tongue poking out slightly as she concentrated. "Besides, you like it."
"The house?"
"The sparkle. The spontaneity." She met my eyes directly. "Admit it—you’re having fun."
My throat went dry. Two days of knowing each other and was already breaching the walls I’d spent the past few years diligently erecting. I was still debating how to respond when she thankfully continued, saving me the trouble.
"So—tell me something real," she said quietly, still decorating my house. "Not about work or obligations. Something about you. I take it you’re not married—not now—do you have any kids?"
I should have deflected, maintained boundaries. Instead, I found myself placing a candy window with unnecessary concentration.
"Divorced. Three years ago." I kept my voice neutral, clinical. "Two kids—Eliza's twenty-three, in her first year of med school. My boy—Aiden—is twenty-one, finishing his senior year."
"Med school? Your daughter must take after you."
"She's smarter than I was at her age." A hint of pride crept into my voice despite myself. "Already knows she wants pediatrics, maybe family medicine. Aiden's getting a fine arts degree—definitely didn't get that from me."
Piper smiled, adding another jellybean to her increasingly unstable structure. "An artist and a future doctor. You must be proud."
"I am." I selected another piece of candy, avoiding her gaze. "Though I wonder sometimes if Eliza chose medicine because she wanted to or because she thought I expected it."
"Did you?"
"I tried not to. But when your father is a doctor..." I shrugged. "Kids pick up on things whether you mean them to or not. I wish I’d been more cognizant of that, looking back."
Piper waited, not pushing, just continuing her haphazard embellishing. The silence stretched between us.
"My father died three years ago," I said finally, still focused on the structure in my hands. "Lung cancer. After that, things... shifted."
"Shifted how?"
"Started wondering what the point was. All those hundred-hour weeks, missed dinners, conferences instead of recitals.
" I used a craft stick to scoot a peppermint shingle to a perfect right-angle.
"My ex-wife didn't understand. Adrienne liked our life—the prestige, the social standing.
I started wanting something... different. "
"Different how?"
I finally looked up. She wasn't pushing, just genuinely curious. "That's the problem. I don't know."
She studied me for a moment, then went back to her work. "Well, not knowing is better than pretending you do."
"Speaking from experience?"
Her hands stilled. "My family thinks I'm playing at having a career.
Every dinner comes with suggestions about law school or getting my MBA.
" She grabbed the edible glitter with unnecessary force.
"My younger sister's the attorney, my older brother's in investment banking.
Then there's Piper—the middle child—with her 'little hobby business. '"
"Running a marketing firm is hardly a hobby."
"Try explaining that to parents who announce my sister's cases at dinner parties but can't remember the name of my business." She shrugged, but the gesture didn't hide the hurt.
The tent fell quiet except for the sounds of the market—vendors calling out deals, children begging for treats, a brass quartet playing "Silver Bells" near the gazebo. We both focused on our projects for a few minutes.
"Piper!" A cheerful voice broke the silence. Two women in their sixties approached, wearing matching "12 Days of Christmas Challenge" sweatshirts.
"Janet, Marlene—perfect timing," Piper said, brightening. "Ready for the afternoon shift?"
"Absolutely," Janet said, surveying the organized supplies. "Looks like you've had quite the morning."
Piper walked them through the system—which icings were running low, where extra supplies were stored, how to handle the donation box. I found myself cleaning up our sample houses while she explained everything.
"You're all set?" Piper asked, untying her apron. "Call if you need anything."
"Go rest, dear," Marlene said, already arranging candy bowls. "You've earned it."
Piper grabbed her bag. "Ready to escape?"
"More than ready," I admitted, pulling off the elf apron.
We walked through the still-bustling market, dodging families with strollers and teenagers clustered around the hot cider stand. The afternoon sun was already starting to slant low, casting long shadows across the square.
"Thanks again for today," she said as we navigated the throng. "I know this wasn't what you signed up for when you agreed to judge a cookie contest."
"It was... educational."
She laughed. "That's one way to put it."
"Where's your car?"
"Behind the church." She pointed across the square. "You?"
"Town hall lot." Same direction, actually.
We fell into step together, and I became acutely aware of the height difference between us—she barely reached my shoulder.
Everything about her seemed impossibly young and fresh, from her animated gestures to the way she greeted every third person we passed.
What was I doing, noticing the delicate curve of her neck when she tilted her head to laugh?
She was twenty-nine. I had a daughter only six years younger.
Her ancient Honda sat alone in the church lot—rust spots, duct tape holding the bumper, a crack across the windshield.
"Don't judge," she said, catching my expression. "It runs. Usually."
She turned the key. Nothing.
Tried again. The engine didn't even attempt to turn over.
"Oh, come on," she groaned, dropping her head against the steering wheel. "Not today."
"Pop the hood."
I checked the obvious problems—battery connections, belts, fluid levels. The starter clicked but wouldn't engage.
"Starter's dead," I diagnosed. "You need a tow."
She pulled out her phone, then winced. "Saturday afternoon, eight days before Christmas? That'll cost a fortune."
"I'll drive you home."
"You don't have to—"
"Piper." I closed her hood. "Your car is dead, it's getting cold, and my car is right there. Let me drive you home."
She studied my face, then nodded. "Okay. Thank you."
My BMW felt too quiet after the market's energy. She settled into the passenger seat, looking almost child-like against the black leather with her porcelain skin and rosy cheeks. Christ, what was wrong with me? She definitely wasn't a child. But she wasn't what I should be noticing either.
"Nice car," she said, running her fingers along the dashboard. "Very... clean."
"As opposed to?"
"Mine with its collection of coffee cups and parking tickets." She opened the glove compartment, laughing at my organized registration papers. "Of course."
She closed the compartment and settled back, and I caught myself watching her from the corner of my eye.
The way afternoon light caught the blonde of her hair.
The way she talked with her hands. I was supposed to be figuring out my life, caring for my mother, not cataloging details about a woman eighteen years my junior.
She directed me through Starlight Bay's streets, pointing out landmarks—where she'd broken her arm at seven, the park where they held summer concerts, the bakery that made the best cannoli outside Boston. Her whole history was here, woven into every corner.
"That's me," she said, pointing to a Victorian converted to apartments. "Third floor."
I pulled to the curb. Neither of us moved.
"Thanks for the ride," she said softly. "And for everything today. I know you've got a lot going on with your mom."
"It's fine," I said, though it wasn't. Not because of the fake dating situation, but because I was having thoughts I shouldn't be having.
She was too young, too bright, too everything I didn't need right now.
And yet...I found myself craving more of her in a way that made me wonder what the hell was wrong with me.
"I should go," she said, reaching for the door handle.
"Text me when you get upstairs. So I know you made it safely."
She smiled. "I will."
After she disappeared inside, I sat there for a solid minute, gripping the steering wheel.
This was supposed to be simple. A business deal.
Mutual benefit. Instead, I was sitting outside her building wondering what her apartment looked like, whether she had roommates, what she did on quiet evenings.
My phone buzzed.
Made it upstairs safely. Thanks again for today. You're not nearly as grumpy as you pretend to be.
I typed back: You're not as scattered as you pretend either.
Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.
Your secret's safe.
I drove home, her laugh still echoing in my head.
My rented cottage felt especially sterile when I walked in—beige walls, bland rental furniture, nothing personal anywhere.
The kind of generic coastal décor designed to offend no one and appeal to summer tourists.
Piper would probably attack it with bright throw pillows, scatter photographs everywhere, fill it with plants until it felt like somewhere people actually lived instead of just stayed.
I poured myself a scotch and stood at the window, looking out at the harbor. Tuesday's ornament workshop was in three days. Three days to get my head straight.
My phone sat on the counter, her text still on the screen. I read it again, then set the phone aside.
This was definitely becoming a problem.
And I had no one to blame but myself.