Chapter 17
Josh
By the third house, Celine’s facade cracked a little. She still knocked confidently, with her trusty clipboard tucked under her arm and her shoulders squared. But she couldn’t quite hide her nerves.
She’d take a step back after knocking, then she’d angle herself so she could see past the person who opened the door. And she always kept her hands busy and her head on a swivel.
I should have been on the farm, working. Instead I was door knocking with Celine, finalizing decoration plans for the hayride route.
Each time I recognized another sign of her unease, I felt a little more protective of her. Doing this had forced her to push through some serious discomfort, and I couldn’t help but be impressed.
So here I was, following her lead, though being sure I introduced her to each person we met, all of them people I’d known my entire life.
Mrs. Glover met us at the door with a wide smile. “Are you here to ask me to decorate? I’ve been hoping you would,” she said with a grin. “Do you want a cup of tea?”
“The house looks great,” I said, diverting the woman’s attention away from Celine.
Mr. Glover appeared behind her, his movements slow, his cane in hand. “We can never thank you enough for helping us, son,” he said. “Truly, if you need anything, all you have to do is ask.”
Lips tugging down, Celine looked from the elderly couple to me.
“We had a chimney fire early this spring,” Mrs. Glover said. “And Joshua insisted we stay at the cottage on his farm.”
“Free of charge,” Mr. Glover added. “It’s quite a fancy house.”
My face heated, but I was too off-kilter to come up with a way to change the subject.
Celine smiled, connecting the dots.
“At least take some banana bread,” Mrs. Glover said. “I baked a dozen loaves this morning for my bridge group tonight. Please come in for a moment.”
“And I’m ready to decorate.” Mr. Glover shuffled back, his feet barely lifting off the floor as he moved. “I’ve got a tall ladder.”
I cringed. He had no business getting on a ladder. Not at his age. So I made a mental note to come over and decorate for him.
We relented easily, joining the Glovers for a cup of tea and banana bread while Mrs. Glover oohed over photos of Celine’s kids. Then she sent Mr. Glover to the basement to pull out their scarecrows and lanterns.
By the time we returned to the sidewalk, Celine was smiling. “Is everyone in this town like that?”
“Nope.” Lips twitching, I led her to Dr. Peters’s house next door. The man—who had been practicing since well before he delivered me and all my siblings—answered the door in his white coat with a stethoscope around his neck.
“No clowns this year,” he groused before either of us could speak.
“The theme is Cozy Harvest Haunt,” Celine explained. “Nothing scary. Just autumnal vibes with spooky fun.”
Doc crossed his arms, humming. “Okay. But the clown last year gave me nightmares.”
“It was a mime,” I corrected.
“Exactly. Everyone knows they’re just silent clowns,” he mumbled.
We got Doc to agree to decorating with pumpkins and ghosts and moved on, hitting most of the houses on the town green, leaving fliers and chatting with the folks who were home.
Unsurprisingly, the majority of Maplewood citizens were excited about getting into the festival spirit.
We needed a win after the challenges of the last year.
And house by house, as Celine made notes on her clipboard, her posture softened a little. She grew more confident too, perfecting her elevator pitch for the Cozy Harvest Haunt theme.
“Lanterns over jump scares. Think hay bales and ghosts instead of gore,” she explained to the Whittakers. “The Millers are recreating the Lover’s Leap Falls stories with skeletons dressed in replica Revolutionary War uniforms.”
People listened.
Because she was good at this.
“Can we do autumn-themed vampires?” Nora Hatch asked. “Like they wear cozy sweaters and drink maple blood lattes?”
After agreeing, we moved on.
By the end of our route, the page attached to the pink clipboard was full of notes. Most everyone we came across committed, and many had lots of fun ideas. Including a four-foot-tall paper maché raven that sounded like a bad idea but wasn’t my problem.
In front of my sister’s coffee shop, where Celine had parked her minivan, we stopped.
She leaned against the hood, staring off into space for a moment, some of her hair having escaped her ponytail and curling around her neck.
Her dangly earrings had drawn my attention to the curve of her neck at least a hundred times today, mesmerizing me.
She was precious and delicate, despite her strength and fierce demeanor.
“You okay?”
She nodded, but hesitation flashed in her eyes.
“Tell me,” I said softly.
“I’ve got to pick up my kids soon,” she muttered. “They’re at the after-school program today. Julian has never been able to do that kind of thing before, but they play gaga ball for hours, and he begged me. So—”
“Celine,” I said softly, cutting off her spiraling.
“Sorry.” She turned away, facing the van. “I’m just in a weird place emotionally.”
I thought about walking away, giving her space. But a tiny voice inside me was saying “show up.” So I did.
“I can listen.” I rounded the front of the vehicle and opened the passenger door. “I probably can’t help or fix anything. But I can listen.”
She opened her own door, frowning at me. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“I’m your friend,” I said firmly.
Her expression only darkened further at my choice of words. But it was true. Despite my initial reservations about her, I liked her. I cared about her. Sure, occasionally those thoughts went a little beyond friendly, but I wasn’t going to say that part out loud.
I climbed in and shifted, facing her.
Lips pursed, she surveyed me, then the driver’s seat before she finally slid into it.
Instead of starting the car, she put both hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, pulling in a deep breath. “We went to a birthday party last weekend. Julian had so much fun. And he finally has friends. There were days when I didn’t think that was possible.”
Hands in my lap, I stayed silent, letting her work it all out.
“But the other families…”
My fists clenched instinctively. Had they been unkind to her?
“They were all so kind and welcoming,” she explained, unknowingly allaying my fear.
“Loving and supportive. Perfect, really. We were surrounded by families with two parents and bounce house birthday parties and big yards. We’d stepped into the kind of tranquil childhood my kids deserve but that I can’t provide.
” Head lowered, she traced a seam on her steering wheel.
“My ex-husband is in jail,” she admitted.
I schooled my features. I had so many questions, but it was none of my business.
“I put him there.”
Eyes closing, I mentally pumped my fist. Fuck yeah, she did. I didn’t know why or how, but I was proud of this strong woman anyway.
Licking my lips, I reined myself in. “You’re very brave.”
She looked at me, tears running down her face. “Thank you. But brave doesn’t give my kids a dad. And it doesn’t erase the abuse they witnessed.”
That admission was like a knife to the heart.
Abuse.
The word I’d assumed but had never outright heard from her lips.
A red curtain shrouded my vision and anger coursed through my veins. Why the hell was this man still alive?
But as a sob escaped her, I came back to my senses. My feelings were irrelevant.
“The kids and their dads,” she hiccuped.
I opened the console and dug out a small stack of napkins.
“At the party.” She blew her nose loudly.
“Celine?” I said softly. “Can I give you a hug? Would that help?” I didn’t dare move a muscle. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.
She nodded, blinking at me. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” I leaned over, the console digging into my ribs, and embraced her.
While she buried her head in my chest, softly crying, I closed my eyes and focused on giving her as much comfort as I could. Trying like hell to ignore just how good she felt in my arms. How she smelled and how soft her hair was.
“He was so sad about the pumpkins,” she said, her voice muffled.
“What pumpkins?”
She pulled back and blew her nose again. “At the party.” She ducked, tears once again welling. “Some of the kids were talking about making pumpkin boats with their dads. Some special tradition. And he was so sad. So left out.”
Frowning, I replayed her words. “The gourd race? At the Harvest Festival?”
“I think so.”
I sighed. “It’s not just for dads.”
“I know. I found a blurb about it on the town web page. Then I went on Facebook and watched videos of previous years.”
It was an honored part of the Harvest Festival. Townsfolk hollowed out massive pumpkins and gourds and built wacky boats, then they raced down part of the river. Many of the participants teamed up and wore costumes and did all sorts of fun stuff.
I’d done it many times with my dad, and the memories I had of building the boats were some of my best. For a good week, we’d design our watercraft, then mess around with power tools after dinner.
I missed him every day, but moments like this reminded me of how lucky I was.
What a gift loving parents could be and how not everyone was as fortunate as I was.
“It’s stuff like this that makes me feel like I’m failing them.” Sadness radiated from her. “That they will suffer forever because I was an idiot and married their shithead father.”
“Hey.” I resisted the urge to grasp her wrist for emphasis.
“I’m going to give you another hug just to shut you up, okay?
” I wrap my arms around her. “Do not speak like that. I don’t doubt he’s a piece of shit, and someday, if you find you trust me enough, I’ll be here if you want to tell me about him.
But for now, know one thing: Your children are amazing.
And I say that with authority. They are smart and kind and curious. ”