Chapter 9 Tabitha
Chapter nine
Tabitha
The walkway from the sidewalk up to Aunt Mae’s front porch looks like a tunnel cut through the snowbanks on either side. It’s been cleared thanks to the man in a neon orange knit hat, who’s still struggling with the shovel.
I watch from the kitchen window while Rory attacks clearing the path with the same focused intensity he brings to everything.
The hat—complete with a pom-pom the size of a softball—bobs with each thrust of the shovel.
The matching scarf is wrapped around his neck at least three times, and the extra gloves I dug out of my winter bin have cartoon snowmen on them.
He looks ridiculous.
He looks adorable.
“That young man is working very hard,” Aunt Mae observes from her seat at the kitchen table, her walker parked beside her. She watches him with the sharp-eyed assessment of someone who’s seen eighty-two winters and knows exactly what effort looks like.
“He is.” I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, trying not to smile at the way Rory pauses to study how much farther he has to go.
“And he’s staying with you?”
There’s no judgment in her tone, just curiosity. Still, heat creeps up my neck. “Just until I can get him to the hotel where he’s booked.”
“Mm-hmm.” She drums her fingers on the table, a gleam in her eye that means she’s about to say something I won’t like. “How convenient.”
“Aunt Mae—”
“I’m just saying, dear. A handsome man. A snowstorm. Your apartment.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Sounds like the beginning of a steamy romance best-seller.”
I busy myself with the tea tin, pulling out her favorite for this time of year, Winter Spice. “It’s not like that. We’re just…riding it out.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Aunt Mae!” But I laugh despite myself, because this is exactly the kind of thing she’d say. Even before the stroke, she was never one to beat around the bush.
Outside, Rory’s moved to the porch steps, clearing each one with methodical precision. The orange hat is a beacon against all the white, and I catch myself wondering if he’s warm enough, if the gloves are too bulky, if—
“You’re staring,” Aunt Mae says mildly.
I yank my gaze back to the kettle. “I’m making sure he doesn’t hurt himself. He’s from Arizona. He doesn’t really know how to shovel properly.”
“He seems to be managing just fine.” She pauses. “So. What’s his story?”
I should deflect. Change the subject. But Aunt Mae has a way of looking at me that makes lying feel pointless. “We, um. We had a thing. At Leah’s wedding.”
“A thing.”
“A one-night thing.” The kettle whistles, and I grab it, pouring water over the teabags. “And then he flew back into town, and we thought maybe we’d have a…a round two. Get it out of our systems.”
“And is it? Out of your systems?”
I set down the kettle harder than necessary. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how? He seems nice. Kind. Strong. Good with a shovel.” She accepts the mug I hand her, wrapping both hands around it. “Is he a reader?”
Despite everything, I smile. “He knows his chapter books. Has a niece who makes him read to her over FaceTime.”
Aunt Mae’s eyebrows rise with approval. “Well then. That’s something.” She takes a sip of tea, studying me over the rim. “My advice, dear? Take full advantage of your forced proximity. That man is delicious.”
“Aunt Mae!”
“What? I had a stroke, not a lobotomy. I can still appreciate a well-built man when I see one.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “And if you’re not interested, perhaps I should invite him to stay here instead—”
“He’s fine where he is,” I say quickly. Her chuckle is pure delight.
The front door opens with a blast of cold air, and Rory appears in the doorway, snow clinging to his coat and that ridiculous hat. His cheeks are flushed from exertion, his breath coming in visible puffs, and when his eyes find mine across the kitchen, something warm unfurls in my chest.
“Walkway’s clear,” he announces, unwinding the scarf. “Steps, too, though they’ll probably need another pass in a few hours with how hard it’s coming down.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Aunt Mae says, with genuine gratitude in her voice. “Come in; sit down. Have some tea before you freeze solid.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’s already shrugging out of his wool coat. My wool coat, technically, and hangs it on the hook by the door.
I pour him a mug while he settles at the table across from Aunt Mae, pulling off the gloves, finger by finger.
“So,” Aunt Mae says, diving right in as I knew she would. “Tabitha tells me you have a niece who makes you read chapter books.”
Rory shoots me a look that’s half-amused. “Sophie. She’s eight.”
“What’s she reading now?”
“The Penderwicks.” He accepts the mug I slide across the table, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “We just finished the third book. She’s got opinions about which sister is best.”
Aunt Mae nods approvingly. “Smart girl. And you? Do you read?”
“When I can. Mostly on planes.” He wraps both hands around the mug as if he’s trying to absorb its heat. “Thrillers, usually. Sometimes, biographies.”
“Not romance, then.” There’s a knowing glint in Aunt Mae’s eyes that makes me want to sink through the floor.
“Not typically, no.” But he’s looking at me when he says it, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a way that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Aunt Mae catches the look, and her smile widens. “Well. You’re missing out. Some of the best stories are about people figuring out what they really want. In life and in love.” She takes another sip of tea. “But, I just remembered, would you two be dears and fetch something from my attic?”
“Of course,” I say, grateful for the subject change. “What do you need?”
“The holiday village display. You know, the ceramic one, in the box marked Christmas - Fragile.”
Rory stands. “Happy to help.”