Chapter 12
LUCY
“So, I didn’t tell you earlier, because I was worried you’d challenge him to a duel,” Charlie says as we settle into one of the cozy booths at The Shore Thing, Lars’s favorite bar. “But I saw Enzo walking toward you across the square earlier.”
“You did?” I ask, realizing too late that I sound eager.
I’m not eager. But I was expecting him to try to pull something at the Crochet Club meeting tonight.
I figured he’d crash it, the same way he’d crashed speed dating—and that it would come as an unpleasant surprise to him when he discovered we were crocheting vaginas.
Yes, really, and it’s very amusing.
It would have been even more amusing if he’d barged in, looking for my supposed lover. The expression on his face would have been epic.
So I was understandably a bit disappointed when it didn’t happen.
“It was definitely him,” Charlie says. “The Cafieros all have those brooding eyes. But there’s something extra broody about him, and he has that delicious five-o’clock shadow.”
“I’m still here, you know,” Lars says, his voice amused as he sets down a mountain of shopping bags he’s been carrying beneath the table.
Charlie started her Christmas shopping before they met up with me this evening.
She always believes in starting early and finishing early, since she usually has dozens of commissioned paintings to finish later in the month.
The only people I really have to shop for are Charlie, Lars, and Eileen, and I’ve already custom-ordered Eileen’s gift: a sign that reads The Town Matchmaker to hang beside the front door of Love at First Sip.
Charlie wraps an arm around Lars’s waist, leaning into him as she unzips her coat one-handed. “You have a terrible five-o’clock shadow,” she teases. “Truly awful. Nothing worse than a blond beard.”
“At least I’ll never get an outsized ego,” he replies as he reaches in and tickles her side.
“Not like Enzo,” I mutter as Charlie squirms and then disarms him with a kiss.
I look away, frowning at the lone cactus positioned in the front window, completely out of place with the joyful holiday décor of pine garlands. I’m about to point it out when Charlie says thoughtfully, “Well, he didn’t look very egotistical just now.”
“I doubt that,” I say. “He couldn’t look humble if he tried.”
“He didn’t look humble,” Charlie agrees. “He looked sad.”
I feel a stab of sympathetic pain in my chest, which is ridiculous. I should want Enzo to be sad! His tears should be nectar for me. Okay, maybe not nectar, but they should be welcome.
Before I can think better of it, I ask, “Was he looking at me?”
“Now, that’s egotistical,” Charlie teases with a gleam in her eyes. “But yes. I got the impression he felt left out.”
“Or maybe he was weighing whether he still needs to kill me now that Aria has her dream job,” Lars says drily, glancing at the drink menu.
“What do you two know about Enzo?” I ask.
“I know that he’s terrifying,” he says with an easy smile, looking up from the menu. “He told me he knows where to bury a body, which may or may not have been true.”
“Why are you asking?” Charlie says, giving me a suspicious look.
“Know thy enemy,” I quip.
She nods as she tugs the menu over for a look.
“I’m getting this round,” she says, then gets up and places our order at the bar—hopefully for something warm and spicy.
Returning, she continues the conversation as if it had never halted.
“Okay, let’s go over what we know about Enzo.
” She glances at Lars and lifts one finger.
“He’s terrifying.” She puts out a second.
“He used to live in New York City.” A third finger juts out, her middle finger.
“I know from Eileen that his mom left when he was little, but you’d probably be a jerk to use that against him. ”
I gasp in horror. I wouldn’t wish that on…well, my worst enemy. “How old was he?”
“Nine or ten. Aria was just a couple of years old. We think that’s why he’s so protective of her.”
It feels like my stomach just dropped to my feet. His mother left four children to fend for themselves. It’s hard to imagine. Then again, my mother’s husband left her when I was still too young to even remember him.
“That’s awful.” I feel guilt clogging my throat. This must be the reason Enzo hates this beautiful, sweet town.
It may look like a gingerbread house in the window of a master baker’s shop, but it’s haunted by the worst memories in his life, and everyone knows it. Worse, they talk about it. Not maliciously, I’m sure, but that wouldn’t make a difference to him.
Oh, crap. We’re currently talking about it.
“We really shouldn’t gossip about this,” I say.
Charlie shrugs dramatically. “I’m going to take the high road and not point out that you brought it up. Ooh, I think those are our drinks!”
Lars gets up to grab the mugs of mulled wine, delicious and exactly what I usually enjoy during the holidays.
We drink them and talk about everything but Enzo.
The Sip, my classes, Charlie’s art, and Lars’s birds.
But the whole time, I’m thinking about Enzo as a little boy, watching his mother drive away.
It must have hurt so badly. It must still hurt.
My own pain and sense of loss flare to life again at the thought.
Which means it’s time to put pause on Plan Revenge-zo on Enzo.
I’d asked Eileen if she could set me up with a fake date for Hook, Wine, and Sinker on Thursday so I could mess with Enzo, and she’d responded that she had an “inspired” idea.
Apparently, Erica has two gorgeous sons, one of whom is a very single firefighter and already on the short list of men Eileen picked out for me.
She’d promised me this hunky firefighter, Hudson Locke, would know it’s just a fake date, because I didn’t want to mess with anyone’s feelings.
But what I’d once thought was a harmless prank no longer feels so harmless. Knowing what I now know, it would feel unethical to continue tormenting Enzo.
The thought is disappointing for reasons I can’t put into words.
Charlie and Lars walk me home after we leave The Shore Thing, and I hug my friends goodnight and head upstairs. Trying to keep it together.
The only thing that lifts my mood is the note card slanted against my door, from my neighbor/friendly stalker.
I’d thought he’d stopped writing to me. I’d been sad about it—and felt silly for feeling sad.
I bring the note inside and curl up on my couch to read it.
My heart swells, because goodness, he was so real with me. So open. It makes me want to do something for him, so I write a quick reply into a Rudolph card and then leave it against my door with a tin of cookies I baked yesterday while doing schoolwork.
Dear Lobster Stalker,
Your secret’s safe with me, and only partly because I have no idea who you are. And, for the record, you DID make the right choice with your job. Even if you should have totally forced them to pay you severance.
You know, I’ve always had a strain of pettiness, so if I were you, I’d send that report you wrote to your boss’s boss.
If your strategy is better and your former boss ignored it, they should know.
Especially since it’s VERY BAD policy to eliminate jobs right before the holidays.
Even more so if one of the employees is pregnant.
Actually, now that I’m warming to the topic, I think that’s exactly what you should do. Maybe you can still save their jobs, making your resignation far from pointless.
Okay, petty rant over. I pinky promise.
By the way, these cookies are for you. I think you need one tonight. I sure did.
I’ve struggled to feel the Christmas spirit this year.
I’m so full of anger, and it doesn’t take much to set me off.
I’m angry because I lost my mother just before last Christmas.
I knew it was going to happen, and I’d been preparing myself for years, but I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
Not like that. Not in a room full of wires and beeping monitors.
Not after she’d lost so much of herself.
I wanted to remember her the way she’d been when I was little. When we used to dance around the Christmas tree, the way you saw me doing.
I wanted to be able to keep her, because she was the only person who was ever really mine. But she was taken away from me anyway.
My friends keep asking what I’d like for Christmas, but the truth is that I want the one thing no one can give me. My family.
God, that sounds depressing. I’m sorry, really. I LOVE this time of year, and most of the time I can find joy in the little things, but it feels like everything that’s heavy is heavier around the holidays—just like how all the good things are usually more joyful.
—Dancing Queen
p.s. What do you think of your new nickname?
After leaving out my offerings, I call Eileen. She and Charlie are the closest thing to family I have left, and right now, I need to feel like I’m not entirely alone in the world.
“Lucy, dear,” she says, her voice sweet and bright. “Are you working on your vagina?”
I laugh. “No, I haven’t touched it.”
That feels a little too accurate.
“Oh, I’ve been crocheting away at mine all evening. It’s surprisingly invigorating, isn’t it?”
“The club was a lot of fun,” I agree.
There’s a lull in the conversation, the silence brimming with unsaid things. I want to ask her about Enzo, but I’m worried she’d read too much into it.
Finally, I say, “I think Portia has a thing for Amanda Willis. You know…the actress.”
“Really?” she asks with interest. “I did notice them talking at the Christmas tree lighting, and Amanda is such a sweet girl. So down-to-earth. Have you spoken with her?”
“No.” I swallow, bracing myself. “Enzo’s the one who mentioned it.”
“Oh, how interesting. Is he still banned from the Sip?”
“Yes. But I thought you might want to know. We can maybe add Portia and Amanda to your matchmaking list.”