Chapter 4
[Lumi]
After the day I’ve had I need a drink.
Hideaway Harbor’s post office is located downtown across from the town square at the corner of Main Street and Locke Street.
Because of the small size of our town, most businesses and residents pick up their mail from the office, thus giving me a daily stream of town gossip.
The latest information is about our newest celebrity arrival, Amanda Willis, a rom-com queen, doing research on small-town life for a future holiday movie she wants to produce.
The town square, across Main Street, is another highlight of the area.
Once night creeps in, the town’s Christmas tree lights up.
The annual tree lighting ceremony took place roughly a week ago, and the brightly lit evergreen has a magical glow about it.
The town square tree is different from the harbor one, which will be lit in a few days.
With the holiday season in full bloom, excitement swirls in the air along with the scent of tourists, and I cannot seem to rid my nose of the fragrance that tickled it earlier.
Peppermint and chocolate. What an odd combination on a man.
Even more surprising was that I’d gotten close enough to smell him.
He needed to sign some paperwork, granting permission for Rusty’s to inspect the damage to his car. He’ll also need to call his insurance agent and confirm his deductible, etc. Then again, he is not my problem.
The post office was hectic today. As the sole counter worker, I take in the outbound mail from locals and visitors, and help Judy, our part-time staff member, sort the incoming mail and packages. Judy and I have worked side-by-side for decades.
She looks the other way when I read postcards coming in or going out, dreaming of the great travels and diverse locations I’ve never visited.
And I occasionally overlook her little flask and the drops she pours into her midday coffee.
Martin is our mail carrier, who covers the residential areas.
He’s a friendly enough, thirty-something aged guy, but quiet, preferring his headphones to human conversation.
Music isn’t the only thing he listens to.
I’ve heard the distinct sounds of an audiobook or two coming through his earpiece, especially the grunts and groans from some Viking romance.
Because of the chaos of the day, and the ease of eating quickly at The Chowder House Rules, I step into the restaurant for a bowl of soup, before heading to The Shore Thing.
The bar is a bit dark and moody, and covered in kitschy nautical décor, complete with a giant, wooden sailboat steering wheel on the wall, now decorated with tinsel and lights for the holiday.
The only anomaly in the place is a large cactus by the front window.
The bar typically hosts a younger crowd, looking for exactly what the name implies: a sure thing.
However, I’m not on the prowl, and in the mood for one of their holiday specialty drinks.
I’m grateful Summer is the bartender tonight.
“What will you have tonight, Lumi?” The pretty blonde offers a friendly smile. She’s young and studying psychology, hoping to be a counselor one day. Being a bartender, she’s getting lots of unsolicited practice.
“I’ll have a candy cane martini. It’s been a Monday, and martinis go with Mondays, right?”
“Martinis go with any day ending in a y.” She winks, gives a little laugh, and steps away to mix my drink.
With a slow turn of my head, the first cause for my rough Monday is seated three stools down from mine.
Without his puffy jacket on, I have confirmation that his shoulders are broad while I already know he’s taller than me.
He’s still wearing the Carhartt brown pants from earlier with a dark green sweater.
The bruising underneath his eyes from the airbag is becoming more prominent.
Still, there’s something vaguely familiar about him which makes absolutely no sense.
Even stranger, he gives off an aura that he could bring comfort and joy which is just plain weird and a sign I need a stiff drink.
I smirk at Mister Tall, Silver, and Handsome, and he lifts what looks like a whiskey on the rocks.
“Here’s to Mondays,” he offers, saluting me with his short glass and taking a sip of the amber liquid.
“Here you go, Lumi,” Summer says, bringing my attention to her as she slides me a pretty pink drink in a Y-shaped glass, complete with a candy cane hooked over the rim.
I lift my glass toward my earlier passenger and salute him. “To Mondays.” Then I sip the super sweet, extra minty, liquid treat. With pressure on my lips, I pop them apart and sigh. “Ah.”
“Lumi? That’s an interesting name.”
“Lou-me,” I correct of his pronunciation. “It’s Finnish for snow. Ironic considering my last name is Snowe. Snow with an e.” There is no earthly reason to explain the spelling of my name or the pronunciation but I’m feeling generous after the first sip of candy cane dreaminess.
My unwanted stool-mate slides one stool closer to me. “I have a double name as well. I’m Astan, pronounced As-tan.” He quirks a silvery brow, mimicking my instructions. “Santos.” He holds out his hand to shake mine.
“But people call me Saint.” Clarifying what his last name means.
“Astan? Like your car.” How pretentious that he owns a car that sounds like his name. I do not reach for his hand.
“That car is an Aston Martin.” He draws out the aw like he’s almost from Maine. But everything about him says the East Coast is not his home.
“So where are you from, Ass-tan?”
“Saint,” he corrects, his dark eyes darkening, and warning me that his real name is not to be trifled with. It makes me want to trifle.
“I live . . . north.”
“North?” I question, taking another sip of my delicious martini while eyeing him over the rim. “That’s vague.”
“No, the town’s name is North.”
“North?” I repeat, finding we are both full of doubles. Whether that is a negative or not is yet to be determined, but as he’s clearly from out-of-town, it shouldn’t matter to me where he’s from. He isn’t from here and that’s all I need to know.
“What’s its zip code?” I ask.
“Just . . . North.”
“Huh.” I nod, dismissing this vague conversation. Instead, I turn toward the bar as Summer approaches again.
“Wicked cold out there today,” she says, tipping her head toward the door.
“Wicked,” I repeat, emphasizing the chill, but it isn’t as cold as it can get around here. Considering it snowed last night, the temperature is a bit mild for winter. We still have January and February to contend with, and I shiver at the thought.
“How’s Danny doing?” Summer’s cheeks turn a sweet shade of pink, nearly matching my drink as she asks about my son.
“He’s busy.” I try to infuse enthusiasm into the statement.
My boy graduated in the top five of his university class and got a job right out of college with a firm in New York.
Business analytics. I didn’t even know what that meant, but some days I think Rusty’s Wrecks could use some analyzing.
Then again, I never wanted Danny to work at the shop.
He was destined to get out of this town, even if I’ve never been able to escape.
“Comin’ home for the holiday?” Summer asks, wiping at the bar top like she’s simply making conversation when it sounds a little like she’s probing for answers.
“He’s . . . busy.” I sigh, pinching my forefinger and thumb around the thin stem of my glass and slowly spinning it side to side.
“Yeah,” Summer exhales, understanding my answer.
Danny isn’t coming home for the holidays. A first.
Having kids, you experience all their firsts. First step, first tooth, first word . . . and the first time they miss a holiday.
Lifting my glass, I take another sip of my martini, the sweet taste slightly bitter with the harsh reality.
While two of my three sisters are in town, and we’ll get together like we always do, Christmas morning isn’t going to be the same without Danny. His stocking will hang empty next to mine.
A throat clears beside me, and I notice Saint has moved next to me. His knees spread, one knocking mine beneath the counter, and I shift my leg, assuming we’ve accidentally touched. Leaning forward, I straighten my back and fold my forearms on the bar top.
“Who’s Danny?” he asks softly.
I shrug. “My son.” Fully looking at him, I meet his dark eyes. Ones that were black as coal when I teased him about his name are now more like freshly poured coffee, softer, smoother. “He’s twenty-three and this will be his first Christmas away from home.”
Danny called me minutes before I left the post office this evening to share the news. Like a lump of coal in my stocking, the announcement topped off my shitty Monday.
The melancholy in my voice sounds like I’m the one who will be absent from this place, when all I’ve ever wanted was to leave Hideaway Harbor and travel the world. I didn’t understand homesickness because I’ve never suffered from it. I’ve never been anywhere but Maine.
“I’m sorry. For you and your husband.”
I glance down at my naked fingers where my nail polish is chipped. “It’s only Danny and me.”
This stranger doesn’t need to know all the particulars, even if his eyes are suddenly kind and compassion is wafting off him.
He sighs and turns for his drink, which has made the move closer to me as well. “I’m never home on Christmas. It’s my busiest day of the year.”
I snort. “The only reason Christmas would be busy for you is if you were Santa Claus.” I chuckle at my own joke and take a drink of my martini, feeling Saint’s gaze press at the side of my head.
“Yeah, Santa Claus.” His voice lowers. “Ridiculous.” With that, he lifts his drink and takes a healthy slug.
My eyes follow the way his lips wrap around the rim of the glass and how his throat moves as he swallows.
As much as I’m trying to ignore him, I seem to be cataloguing every move he makes, causing my own mouth to go dry.
After setting down his glass, he turns only his head. “So, know anywhere with vacancies around here? Looks like I’m staying a while.”
I arch a brow. “Really?”
“My car needs parts that might take weeks to get here. And there doesn’t appear to be anywhere in town with openings for a last-minute traveler who needs longer than a few days’ stay.”
My sister hasn’t assessed his fancy sports car yet, so his explanation suggests he’s familiar with the needs of his damaged car.
“No room at the inn,” I tease.
“No room at the inn. The Hideaway Hotel. Or The Haven.”
“I’d suggest sleeping in your car, but you did that last night.” I’d seen the leather interior and extra-thick traveling blanket. Despite the mean exterior, that car looked cozy inside.
Saint shivers, exaggerating the experience of sleeping in a freezing, dark car. “That’s harsh.”
His words suggest my tone was harder than it needed to be, cold even. I’m not always known for my tact or grace, and I’m embarrassed that he has misunderstood my quip.
“Too soon?” I grimace.
“Definitely too soon.” He slowly smiles, like his lips have all day to form a grin, and he lifts his glass for another sip of his whiskey. “But seriously, there isn’t a place to stay in this town.”
“Lumi has a room.”
The statement comes like a flash of light streaking behind us, and I lean back to see who made the comment.
Eileen Burrows. The mid-sixties former beauty queen who still looks every bit the part, is mad at me for skipping her Santa Speed Dating experience, after I’ve told her, repeatedly, I’m not interested in speed-anything, dating or otherwise, with a man.
The last time I rushed a relationship, I ended up pregnant, and at forty-three, that lane is closed.
With annoyance, I frown at Eileen’s retreating back. She’s always trying to interfere in love lives, or those lacking one.
Dismissing her suggestion, I sit forward and lift my martini for a sip.
“Do you have a room?” Saint asks, his tone hopeful.
“Only Danny’s room,” I state. The discussion is closed as that space is my son’s.
Besides, why would I let a strange man into my home? A strange, hot, man who looks a little like Santa but a whole lot hotter than the official man in red.
Darn it, Eileen, I groan, taking another drink of my martini, the peppermint flavor going down a little too easily and reminding me of the man sitting a little too close to me.
It strikes me that Saint wore red earlier. His puffer coat is the authentic color of the holiday season, which causes a tickle in my throat that leads to a coughing kind of chuckle.
Maybe he is Santa Claus.
The laugh turns into a giggle until Saint reaches over and snags the candy cane inside the edge of my glass. I watch as he boldly sticks it in his mouth, sucking on it, and giving me a wink before biting off the end.
Summer comes to check on the progress of my drink, which is nearly empty, but I’m flabbergasted by the audacity of Saint and his cheeky wink, so it takes me a minute to finally say, “I’ll have another. And so will Santa Baby here.”
Saint pulls the candy cane from his lips, and I watch like he’s performing candy cane porn. He points at the bartender with the now-sharp end of the sugary stick. “Put them on my tab.”
Well, how very holly, jolly of him.
Then he returns the red and white striped candy to his mouth and gives me another pointed glance. I swear a fleck of light gleams in each of his dark eyes. Like a mischievous twinkle.
Strangely reminding me once more of Santa Claus.
Only this one is quite a bit sexier.