Chapter 30
LUCY
“You’re dying, aren’t you?” I ask, giving Enzo some serious side-eye. It’s Saturday, and we’re participating in the fun run. At my request, he’s wearing a Santa hat and coat. To my disappointment, he doesn’t seem the least bit self-conscious about it, but then again, why would he be?
I have a whole new understanding of the song “Santa Baby.”
We came here with Lars and Charlie, but Lars runs like a wildebeest and still seems a bit wary of Enzo, so they were off like a shot as soon as the mayor said go.
Enzo and I, on the other hand, are running so slowly a seven-year-old child just sprinted past us, and I can practically feel Enzo’s muscles urging him to speed ahead—to win. It’s driving him crazy, and I can’t deny that I’m enjoying it.
“No,” he says, not even the slightest bit winded. “I love running at the speed of walking. You can see so much more this way.”
I hold back the laughter bubbling up inside of me, grinning as another kid races past us, this one holding the leash for a golden retriever being “ridden” by a stuffed elf.
“Yes, it’s pleasant, isn’t it? You did want to see Hideaway Harbor through new eyes. You can’t do that if you’re racing past it.”
He smiles at me as one of Eileen’s elderly friends jogs past us. I think she usually uses a walker. “As always, you have a point.”
I’m still stunned that he’s Lobster Stalker.
That we’d been sharing our deepest thoughts and feelings while we spent our days pecking at each other, each trying to pull ahead of the other.
Maybe it’s in our makeup to be stubborn and take charge—he, because he had to step up so early in life, and me, because you can’t be a caregiver for a terminally ill person without learning how to be a pushy asshole.
I hadn’t opened that letter because I’d feared what it would reveal, but as soon as Enzo told me to open it, I knew my secret hope had come to pass.
And then I read his beautiful words, his heart.
He tries so hard to hide it from the people around him, but his goodness has always been apparent in his Lobster Stalker letters.
His fears. His love. His loyalty. He’s complicated but a good man, and I’m falling hard.
All the more so after he spent a couple of hours looking over my app and listening to my ideas about CareWise, building on them. He’s obviously a brilliant businessman.
But when I couldn’t sleep last night, I read my mother’s letter again, the one advising me on what to look for in a man, and I’m still not sure how she would have felt about Enzo.
I couldn’t get back to sleep after that, so I kissed his forehead—he was still out cold—bundled up, and went for a walk he certainly wouldn’t approve of.
I found myself near the Wishing Bridge again, although I hadn’t purposefully sought it out.
The sight of it put a lump of emotion in my throat.
Feelings of dread and anticipation danced inside of me.
I didn’t go onto the bridge. Something held me back. I just turned back toward home, and was surprised when I ran into Noelle from the Christmas shop.
“You can’t sleep either?” I asked.
“I can never sleep,” she said with a small smile. “But isn’t this town gorgeous at night?”
It was, it is. Glowing lights reflected in the piles of snow. The cool breeze feeling and smelling like salt and winter and cold.
“We get to experience it in a way no one else does,” she said.
I smiled at her, said goodnight, and returned home, climbing back into bed next to Enzo. He didn’t wake up, not really, but he turned in his sleep and put his arms around me. I nestled into him, my heart aching, but it was a good ache.
Mostly.
Now we’re here in public, running at the speed of a turtle with a toe ache, and even though it’s very clearly driving him nuts, he also seems to be having fun. He really is checking out the scenery, pointing out the businesses he’s met with over the past week to discuss collaborations.
Eileen being Eileen, when she learned of Enzo’s idea about putting together scavenger hunts for the Hideaway Harbor specialties, she offered to make flyers for them.
Even though I know what Enzo thinks of her graphics, he agreed good-naturedly.
When I asked him about it later, he shrugged and insisted it was good for business.
Locals love Eileen and her ridiculous flyers; tourists will appreciate the touch of whimsy.
He was right—he’s usually right about stuff like that—but that’s not the full story. He wanted to please her, and me.
Just like he’s running at this glacial pace to please me now.
“My knee is twinging,” I say dramatically. “I think we’d better slow down so I don’t injure myself.”
His mouth twitches. “Ah, I see,” he says as we jog along, passing an enormous inflatable snowman. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Oh, you’ll know when I’m fucking with you,” I say in an undertone after glancing back and forth to make sure no children are back here with us anymore.
Then I rocket ahead, showing him my six-minute mile.
I can hear him laughing behind me as he tries to catch up. Charlie’s waiting at the finish line as I blast toward it, laughing and whooping. There’s no sign of Lars. She, of course, knows all about my six-minute mile.
“He’s right behind you,” she hollers through gusts of laughter.
Sure enough, right after I cross the finish line, he catches me from behind in a sweaty Santa hug. “You’ve been a very naughty girl,” he says, panting against my ear. “I’m proud of you, Lucia. You tricked me good.”
Lars appears through the crowd with a tray of drinks. “Hot glogg,” he says. “The drink of champions.”
I grin at Enzo, buzzing with ridiculous, mischievous joy. “Then Enzo doesn’t get one. He got lapped by several children and an old lady who uses a walker. Now, who wants to see another Cafiero get owned?”
It’s time for the ice sculpture competition at the Locke Reserve, the protected estate at the edge of town, and for the youngest Cafiero boy’s time in the spotlight. Giovanni’s holding down the fort at Hidden Italy so Enzo can witness Nico’s modeling debut.
“Oh, come on, Resa, that doesn’t look a thing like me,” Nico complains, frowning at the ice sculpture glinting in the sunlight. He’s wearing a heavy overcoat Enzo brought him to put on right after she finished.
“I think it’s a perfect likeness,” she says primly as she sets down her tool kit to study her sculpture.
Charlie and I are both shaking with silent laughter.
I can’t tell whether the artist, Resa, is messing with him, the way I did with Enzo during that race, or if she actually thinks it’s a good likeness.
She gave him a nose like a swollen tomato and one eye significantly larger than the other, but it looks enough like him that everyone will know who it’s supposed to be.
Some of the artists in this competition are professionals, and others are decidedly amateurs, like the man beside us, who carved what amounts to a smiley face in the ice. Resa, who’s a teacher at the high school, is somewhere in between.
I know a few of the participants, including Lumi, who’s with a very distinguished silver fox. Bearded, as she apparently likes them.
“It is really lifelike,” Charlie says.
“You captured his eyes perfectly,” I add, probably because of all the glogg we’ve been drinking. The post-race cup is long gone, but Lars has proven gifted at hunting down the glogg that’s being passed around.
“My girl is an art aficionado,” Enzo says, grinning at his brother, happy to give everyone he cares about shit, apparently. “Resa, would you mind if I take some photos?”
“Oh no, not at all,” she says. “I want to submit it to the paper.”
Nico grumbles; Enzo gets his phone out and starts snapping photos.
“Now let me take one of you standing next to it, Nico,” Enzo says. “It’s for Aria. You’ll do it for Aria.”
Apparently, Nico really will do it for Aria, which is incredibly sweet, because he sighs and drags his feet but poses for the photo.
“Put your Santa hat on Nico, Junior,” Enzo says. “Share the wealth.”
“I’m afraid not,” Resa says, shaking her head adamantly. “We want the ice to last as long as possible. I checked the weather forecast, and it should last for a good long while.”
“Let’s get another drink,” Nico mutters, rubbing his nose as if he’s worried it might swell to the size of the ice sculpture’s.
“Soon.” Enzo eyes me, grinning. “I promised Lucia we’d go caroling. God forgive the man who upsets Lucia.”
“Yes, let the fun continue,” Charlie croons, hoisting up her latest cup of glogg. “Let it continue until the man in red gets stuck in a chimney.”
“Maybe it should continue with less glogg,” Lars jokes as he takes her gloved hand.
“I need all the glogg I can get,” Nico mutters.
We head down to the town square, talking, and a warm glow forms in my chest, because everyone’s getting along so well.
There isn’t even much awkwardness over the situation with Aria.
Charlie told me that Enzo pulled Lars aside earlier, assured him that the threat of death had passed, and said he hoped they could be friends.
Enzo did it for me, obviously.
He’s doing all of this for me, but he seems to be enjoying himself too.
It’s given me the kind of happiness I’m not used to—simple, uncomplicated, and deep. I feel joyful.
When we get to the town square, we find positions as close to Love at First Sip as possible, because Eileen said she wanted to watch us through the front window—a sentiment that might have been creepy from anyone other than her.
Lola, the woman who runs the sex toy shop, leads a rendition of “Santa Baby” using a vibrator as her microphone, so we’re presumably not the only ones who have been indulging in the glogg. I sing at the top of my lungs, my very off-pitch voice weaving with Enzo’s equally off-pitch voice.
A human can only have so many gifts. I’m glad the universe knew better than to give this perfect specimen of a man a perfect singing voice as well.
I glance at the Sip and see Eileen beaming at us through the plate glass window, singing along.
I gesture for her to join us—the café must be empty, because half of the town is out here singing, filling the air like we’re suddenly the Whos in How the Grinch Stole Christmas!
But she shakes her head and points back at her sole customer: grumpy Wayne.
“Oh, come on, Wayne,” I mutter.
“What’s he doing this time?” Charlie asks.
“Eileen can’t join us because he’s in there.”
“Maybe she wants to be in there too,” Enzo says enigmatically, stroking my hair.
“Why?” I ask.
“Call it a hunch.”
An older woman with thick white hair pulled back under a bright red hat marches up to Lola and wrestles the vibrator from her, causing a groan to rise up in the crowd.
She wraps it up in a Santa hat someone discarded before handing it back to Lola with a sour expression and saying something under her breath.
“Fun’s over!” Lola shouts. “The fun police have arrived.”
But someone hands Lola a drink, and seconds later she’s singing at the top of her lungs again.
The song shifts to “Jingle Bells,” and we’re halfway through it when Giovanni, in a thick coat and gloves, emerges from the staircase to Hidden Italy and approaches us.
“There’s the man of the hour,” he says, clapping Nico on the back. “Why’s Aria the one sending me photos of you and your perfect likeness, man? It’s gotta be the middle of the night in Greece, and you all couldn’t bother to send them to me?”
“I did,” Enzo says, his arms wrapped around me, holding me close enough that I can feel the rumble of his spoken words. “That’s Hideaway Harbor for you. It sends texts to Greece but not to Hidden Italy.”
Giovanni grunts, then says, “Say, that guy from the city called back again today. I told him it was a Saturday, and he said he was aware of the day of the week, but he’d like to hear from you regardless. What do you think this is about, anyway?”
Cold runs down my spine, as if my body has suddenly remembered it’s freezing outside—the kind of atmosphere more welcoming to an ice sculpture than a human body.
“Nothing important enough for me to respond on the weekend,” Enzo says, but this isn’t the Enzo who’s been enjoying himself all day. His voice is tense, impatient.
“Seemed pretty important to the guy who keeps blowing up our phone,” Giovanni says, sounding a bit annoyed by it, or maybe by being the one sober person in a sea of drunk people. “You think they’re trying to get you back?”
“I’ll call later,” Enzo says. “Why don’t you close early and join us? We can get dinner together.”
“I’ll cook for everyone at Nonna’s house,” Nico offers. “I’ve got an idea for a recipe I’ve been wanting to try.”
“Well, we’ll see you all later, then,” Lars says politely, nodding.
Enzo laughs. “You think you’re getting out of this so easily? We’re friends now, we made a pact. You and Charlie need to come too. And Eileen.”
I glance back at him, feeling a pulse of happiness again. Of hope. “Really?”
“I’m the one who’s going to be cooking,” Nico says with a sigh. “For nine people now.”
But he doesn’t really sound upset about it. Enzo isn’t the only Cafiero who likes a challenge.
“If you’d like, we can invite Resa?” Enzo suggests, teasing in his voice. His brother cuffs him on the arm, and then someone starts a rendition of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas.”
It is. It really is. This is what I’ve been wanting, Christmas as it was before Mom’s illness got bad, when we used to dance around and catch snowflakes on our tongues and eat hot chestnuts from street vendors.
I look up into the darkened sky, and I think, I wish you were here.
I wish I knew where you are, if you’re anywhere.
I love you.
Enzo’s arms tighten around me as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
But there’s a little voice in my head, one that sounds unfortunately like my mother, that asks if he’s already starting to say a long goodbye.