Chapter 9 #2
I stop at Charlie’s house on the way home and unload about the horrors of Santa Speed Dating while Lars makes us mulled wine, good-naturedly participating in the conversation even though he spent all day tracking piping plovers in the cold.
I tell her almost everything, leaving out only the part about the pink note Enzo found, and make it sound like he made me a more typical “enemies with benefits” offer.
“Wait,” she says when I finally get to the end of my story. “You’re seriously going to have dinner with Enzo?”
“No,” I scoff. “I’m going to stand him up. See how he likes sitting alone at a restaurant, watching out the window for someone who’s never going to come. That’s definitely going to hurt his precious ego.”
“Uh, I don’t know about that,” Charlie says. “One of his brothers has to pull taffy in front of an audience, the other is posing for an ice sculpture, and all Enzo has to do is have dinner by himself at a nice restaurant? I mean, boo-hoo, poor guy.”
“What if I ask Erica to choose a bad restaurant?”
“Bite your tongue. There are no bad restaurants in Hideaway.”
“That’s not true,” Lars says as he pours the wine into glasses for us. “One of my friends swears he got food poisoning at The Chowder House Rules, from the crab bisque. I think he just had a bad hangover, though.”
“Even so. Bad food wouldn’t be enough,” she insists, then rubs her nails over her lips, an old habit that always suggests she’s thinking extra hard.
“Uh-oh,” Lars says, grinning at me. “Charlie’s plotting.”
I grin back, feeling a rush of affection for him. He makes Charlie happy, and he’s accepted me as her family. He didn’t have to, but he did.
Lars knows that family is more than matching DNA.
She points at him, her eyes lighting up. “You know Enzo. You dated Aria.”
“I remember,” he replies wryly.
“What can you tell us that will help us ruin his night?”
“I only met him once, when he said he’d destroy me if I upset his sister. I’d prefer not to remind him of that promise.”
I make a mental note of this anecdote as further evidence of Enzo’s psychopathy. I can use it to convince Eileen he’s a problem.
Is it Eileen you want to convince or yourself?
Definitely Eileen, I decide.
He’s a menace to all of us. And a pig, offering to take my virginity, like it would be some kind of favor.
I’m almost, maybe, completely positive his offer isn’t appealing to me.
“What would be the worst thing that could happen to him on this date?” Charlie asks Lars. “Psychoanalyze him like you would one of your birds.”
He laughs. “Lesson one of conservation work: don’t anthropomorphize wildlife. But sure, I’ll play. What would he hate? I think he’d probably be pissed off if I showed up to be his dinner date instead of Lucy. But I won’t do it. Not even for you.”
She reaches up and squeezes his chin. “Yes, I like your face exactly like it is. No Enzo for you.”
He tilts his head in thought before glancing at me. “What if you stood him up, but still showed up for dinner at the same restaurant with another man?” He snaps his fingers. “That would probably do it.”
“You’re an evil genius,” Charlie says lovingly.
“But who would I go with?” I ask.
“You work for the town matchmaker,” Charlie says with a grin. “Remember that list of men she wants to set you up with?”
“You’re right,” I say, feeling a swell of positivity. “This is going to be great. He won’t know what hit him.”
We spend a couple of hours chatting, and I help Charlie choose a few of her paintings to sell in the local Christmas market.
It’s on the edge of the town square next to the library, an adorable little assemblage of wooden booths selling Christmas gifts and treats.
She’s sharing a stall with a few other vendors, working around her painting schedule and hours at the shop.
The walkability of Hideaway Harbor is one of my favorite parts of this town, and my apartment building is a short jaunt from Charlie’s house.
She and Lars insist on escorting me home, though, and I don’t put up a fuss.
We take some mulled wine in to-go cups and stroll around for a while, checking out the holiday light displays.
My heart fills with love for this place and for my friends as we soak everything in and greet people who poke their heads out to say hello.
The people of Hideaway Harbor get very competitive about their Christmas lights, especially after one Hidie got featured in a national TV competition.
He didn’t win, but Mayor Locke gave him a participation trophy shaped like Larry the Lobstah that he keeps on his lawn.
People love to put accessories on him—hats, sunglasses, and the other day I walked by and saw him holding a blunt in his claw.
My friends give me hugs at the door of my building, and I watch them walk away together, hand in hand. Happiness swells inside of me, and then, as if my happiness balloon has a slow leak, it seeps away. It’s replaced by a darker feeling as I open the door and head upstairs.
Just what the heck am I doing, anyway?
Christmas with my mom was always so warm and fun.
Even after I realized the truth about Santa, we kept leaving out proof of him for each other.
A mislaid hat, cookies with bite marks in them.
One year, I even wrote her a love letter from Santa that she adored so much she framed it.
I haven’t unpacked it yet because it hurts too much to look at it, to remember that all the things I gave her are now once again mine.
Christmas was always about good feelings, not about pettiness or resentments. The whole month of December felt like a warm, cinnamon-scented hug.
What would Mom do about the Enzo situation?
She’d probably tell me to kill him with kindness. But it’s not like I can make Christmas cookies for him and call it a wash. He did a few completely unacceptable things, and I will not accept the unacceptable. I shouldn’t have to.
The thought reignites my inner fire as I pass the other apartments on my floor. I’m steamed up by the time I arrive at my apartment door, where I find a sealed note waiting for me, propped against it.
I’d completely forgotten about my friendly stalker. I bring the note inside, smiling, because this is what Christmas should be all about—making connections with strangers. Being kind.
I sit in my cozy chair by the tree and open it, feeling a surge of anticipation.
To Dancing Queen—
Whoa! Stalker?
I prefer the term neighbor. Yes, I live in this building, although I suppose you’ll have to take my word for it. I was a Lobster Scout, if that adds to my credibility.
If you’re not from around here originally, you may be wondering what a Lobster Scout is. It’s like regular Scouts, only you have to go for a swim in the harbor. In January. I’m not ashamed to admit I screamed like a baby the moment I jumped in, but it also felt good.
Are you going to do the polar bear plunge this year?
Needless to say, as a scout, I’m a perfect gentleman. It would be very ungentlemanly to stalk someone.
What do you think about the big to-do about Christmas around here?
I’m guessing from your tree and lights that you have thoughts.
I’m not a Christmas guy anymore, but I remember loving it when I was a little kid.
It felt like anything could happen. My favorite was the lighting of the lobster trap tree near the docks.
It’s not much to look at until they turn on the lights, and suddenly it becomes something else entirely.
Speaking of which: what are your thoughts on Larry the Lobstah as the town mascot? I, personally, think the Christmas version of him with the Santa hat is a nice touch, even though most people would call me a grinch.
Also, should we keep this anonymous for now? There’s something freeing about writing to someone anonymously, but I guess I’d feel like a real idiot if it turns out you’re Lady Lovewatch.
With regards,
Your Stalker
I’m smiling as I read it.
I have no idea who this man is, and part of me doesn’t want to know.
This isn’t a romantic connection, but it’s a little capital-R Romantic.
Two lost souls reaching out in the most old-fashioned way possible.
Maybe he’ll become my friend in real life.
Or maybe we’ll keep writing to each other, our lives touching but not overlapping.
Either way, he makes me feel less alone, as if the quietest, saddest thoughts I don’t dare whisper out loud are heard and known.