Chapter 25
ENZO
It’s finally Wednesday.
The last couple of days have been busy, full of “wheeling and dealing,” as Aria would call it.
Audrey at Making Whoopie loves the idea of the cannoli whoopie pie, and we’ve already come up with a name for it—Take the Gun, Leave the Cannoli.
She has a remarkably in-depth menu for her shop, which provides a description for every item available.
For the new cannoli, she wrote up a blurb that had my brothers and me laughing:
Take the Gun, Leave the Cannoli—criteria-zested vanilla whoopie pie cakes embrace a whipped ricotta-mascarpone filling flecked with mini dark chocolate chips and candied orange. Lightly dusted with powdered sugar and crowned with crushed pistachio.
Subtle. Slightly dangerous. Just like your Nonna.
Portia, who’s my new best friend after the taffy pulling demonstration, is all in to provide the Six-Pack Santa taffy, as well as limoncello candy canes. I’ve been talking with the other shop owners too, doing what I do best.
But my nights have been full of Lucy. The words of her letters have been dancing through my head, along with the memory of her silhouette pirouetting around that Christmas tree.
I want to tell her that she’s been writing to me.
Now that I know she’s Dancing Queen, something has changed for me. I want to be with her, all the way. I want to know everything about her, and I want her to know me fully too.
But she insists she only wants me physically, and if she learns I’m Lobster Stalker, she might stop writing to him. She might also decide it would be best to stop sleeping with me.
So I haven’t told her yet.
Instead, I’m determined to earn her good opinion before she learns I’m her anonymous pen pal.
I want her to want me to be the man she’s been writing to so openly.
So I’m trying to think of ways to support her that she won’t consider overreaching.
Which is why I had a talk with Eileen, who agreed to disengage the “Jingle Bells” doorbell that Lucy finds so aggravating.
Then I texted Lucy yesterday asking if there are any fantasies she’d like help fulfilling.
She wrote back:
Meet me at the Wishing Bridge at ten.
Honestly, I had plenty of substandard hookups at the Wishing Bridge when I was a teenager, and I’d prefer to have her somewhere comfortable, where I could take my time with her.
But it was her fantasy, and I wasn’t going to deny her.
If sex was all she would take from me, I’d give her as much of it as she wanted.
Still, I didn’t want her walking there by herself that late, so I replied:
Are you still staying at the dead animal place?
Until tomorrow.
I’ll meet you at the cottage at 9:45. I’d prefer to walk with you.
To my surprise, she didn’t object and insist on meeting me at the bridge.
To my elation, she was waiting for me at the door in the skimpy red dress lined with fake white fur that she’d worn on the Santa Speed Dating night, and she had nothing on underneath it.
“Do you think I’m going to be on the naughty list this year?” she asked, her eyes glinting with mirth.
“You will be if I have anything to do with it,” I said, guiding her inside.
We didn’t make it very far. We had sex against the door, and then she admitted she’d had second thoughts about hooking up under the bridge.
“We’ll still go,” I said. “And we’ll do what most people do out there.”
So we made out for half an hour under the bridge, until the tips of our noses were frozen, and then I walked her back to the dead animal house—only to go home and write a letter for her to find when she returned to her apartment in the morning.
It’s easier to be open when I know I won’t have to look into her eyes and tell her what’s in my heart, worrying that she’ll decide she doesn’t want it.
Dear Dancing Stalker,
Who doesn’t like The Golden Girls? My grandmother used to watch it when it first aired, but I wasn’t alive to watch it with her. Does that give you a better idea of how old I am?
I can imagine you pulling out your phone and doing the math, or maybe you’re the kind of woman who can do that sort of equation in your head. I’ll bet you are.
I’d like to know more about you, Dancing Stalker.
About what you do and what your dreams are.
I already know you love Hideaway Harbor in a way that makes me jealous.
Because I don’t see it like you do, not anymore, but I think I’d like to.
I want to let go of the past and open my eyes to the present.
Here’s something else I can tell you about me:
I played Santa Claus for my siblings when I was a kid, because my parents couldn’t be bothered to. For years. I got help, but I stayed up late every Christmas Eve, wrapping gifts. I loved it, and I hated it too. Because I knew I shouldn’t have to be the one who protected their innocence.
So this week, I’m going to buy presents for the people in my life just because I want to. Not because I have to or because they’re expecting it. Although, to be honest, they will NOT be expecting it. I switched to giving gift cards years ago, which made it so easy, but not very much fun.
Your Lobster Stalker
I left the letter at her door last night, wondering if I’d given too much away. Maybe hoping that I had—and that the knowledge of who I am will open her eyes to possibilities, same as it’s done for me.
The note’s gone when I come back from a day of meetings to pack my bag for Nonna’s—making sure to include the book I got my grandmother from the Hard to Find bookstore—but there’s no reply waiting for me.
I’m on the way to the Chowder House Rules to pick up dinner for my grandmother and Lucy when my phone buzzes with a text, sent God only knows when, because everything’s been coming through on a delay today.
I lift it up while I’m walking. The message is from Giovanni:
You made Lady Lovewatch again.
The text is accompanied by a photo of the article—
Everyone saw L and L together at the lobster trap tree lighting. It was gossiped about almost as much as poor Larry’s floppy claw. This author looks forward to watching the holiday hate-off blossom into a holiday lovefest.
I’m not upset about it.
I still don’t like people prodding into my business, but I don’t mind if people think there’s something between Lucy and me. There is something between us, and I’d prefer it if the other men in town saw her as off-limits. As mine.
Maybe that’s not fair, but that’s where my head’s at.
Do I know what the future holds?
I’m less certain every day.
I’ve enjoyed making changes at Hidden Italy, but once those changes have been made, I’ll need a new professional challenge.
Still, I don’t want to walk away from Lucy.
She and I fit.
I’ve suspected that for a while now, down deep, and the knowledge that she’s Dancing Queen solidifies that. The fact that we’ve lived in the same building, down the hall from each other, all this time blows my mind.
Of course, I could be wrong about Dancing Queen’s identity, but there are a limited number of newcomers to Hideaway Harbor every year, and it can’t be a coincidence that she has the same backstory as Lucy. The same heart as Lucy. The same loneliness. The same love for Hideaway Harbor.
A love so profound that it makes me want to see my hometown through her eyes.
That’s exactly what I’m trying to do as I wend through the streets, taking in the glowing lights.
The cheerful displays. So earnest. Too earnest, I usually think.
But maybe it’s not just about showmanship and competition.
Maybe some of it comes from a genuine place, from the joy of making people smile.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not about to put up twinkle lights in my window and invest in a Rudolph bust, but I’m willing to admit that my reaction to Hideaway Harbor looking like the inside of a snow globe every December is more about me than the town.
It’s about holding onto the past, and how it felt to see all of this and know it wasn’t for me.
Of knowing the only way my siblings could enjoy it was if I made myself one more person who lied to them.
My thoughts carry me all the way to the restaurant, where I pick up takeout, and then to my grandmother’s doorstep. I knock once and then use my key to let myself in. Nonna’s hearing has gone the way of her eyesight, not what it used to be.
No one is in the living room, but I hear murmuring from the kitchen.
I’m barely in the door, taking off my shoes and setting them on the rack near the entrance, when Lucy comes around the corner from the kitchen, her eyes narrowing on me.
She’s wearing a red sweater that brings out the bright highlights in her riotous curls, and I’m gratified to see a mark on her neck that I put there.
I grin at her. “Lucia.”
“I knew you had a shoe rack.”
“My grandmother has a shoe rack.”
She comes closer, a wooden spoon in her hand. Her expression stern, she says, “I told you it would be better if your grandmother and I did this alone.”
“And you’re welcome to,” I say. “But this is where I’m sleeping for the next two nights. Would you turn me out in the cold?”
“You live here?” she asks, lowering the spoon.
“Has the threat of violence ended?” I retort, smiling at her.
“I wasn’t going to—” She swallows, collecting herself, and glances back toward the kitchen.
My grandmother has started singing lightly beneath her breath—some old Dean Martin song I can’t identify.
“I brought your grandmother some cookies to replace the ones that got messed up the other day. She offered to show me how she makes her famous thumbprint cookies in addition to the cappuccinos. That’s why I’m still here.
” Her brow creases. “But we actually haven’t made it to the cappuccinos yet either. ”
“You’re making cookies with my grandmother, Lucia?” I ask, the thought pleasing me immensely.
“It’s not a big deal,” she says, looking away. “You weren’t supposed to find out.”