Chapter 7 #2
I’d become acquainted with my package, especially after she left for work and I helped myself to her shower, luxuriating in body wash that smelled like green apples and her. Taking a little too much luxury, I allowed her to play out in my fantasy, which would be highly inappropriate to admit.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I happen to know a thing or two about packaging and marketing. I’m in the toy industry. Children’s toys.” Although I also dabble in electronics and accessories for older kids.
“Gainfully employed.” One side of her lip tips upward as she sits up taller. “That’s so interesting because earlier I was thinking about a toy I never got for Christmas.”
“What did you ask for?” I clear my throat again, noting how easily it clicked into a familiar tone.
And what did you ask Santa for this year, insert any name you’d like.
I take a sip of the hot chowder to distract myself while I listen.
“A Barbie airplane.” She giggles afterward like she’s still a child and not a forty-something woman.
“Why?” I ask, offering a smile.
“I always wanted to see the world,” she says a bit wistfully, then sighs to further emphasize her desire.
“And did you?”
Her gaze snaps back to me, like she was far off for a moment. “I’ve never been anywhere other than Bangor.”
“Bangor, Maine?” I clarify.
“Is there another Bangor?”
“There are at least ten cities named Bangor in the U.S. alone.”
“Really?” She laughs again, deeper, throatier. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve visited all of them.”
She stares at me a moment, blue eyes bright and deep like I imagine the ocean outside the harbor might be in the summer months. Her lips tip up on one corner again.
“Really?” Skepticism fills her voice.
I’ve set a trap for myself. Why would I be in all ten Bangors? Turning the situation around, I ask, “Where would you go if you could go anywhere?”
“Everywhere.” She blows out a breath again, her shoulders lowering as she twirls her spoon around her chowder mug, staring into the cup once more. “Africa. England. Cabo. Antarctica.”
“Antarctica?” I chuckle.
With her eyes still lowered, head bowed, she continues to spin her spoon round and round, like she’s circling the globe in her head.
“Why haven’t you ever been anywhere?” I ask gently, hoping to encourage her to keep talking. I like talking to her.
“Another classic tale. First, I was a single mom in a small town who gave up her education.”
I’m not liking that excuse.
“And then, when I had more time and a little bit of means, my dad died four years ago, leaving me in charge, with a four-way split of Rusty’s Wrecks.”
As she’s clearly unhappy about this inheritance, I’m curious . . . “Why didn’t you sell?” Take the money. Go on her trips. See the world.
Lumi gazes back out the restaurant window, focusing on something out there, before bringing her attention back to me. She shrugs again, and I’m beginning to dislike the motion.
“Neve was the closest to our dad, and she didn’t want to give it up. Not without a fight.” Lumi fists her hand around her spoon, holding it upright over her chowder mug like a weapon. “I told her I’d give her five years max.”
“Five years for what?”
Lumi lowers her gaze again. “Turn the business around. Or buy us out. Or sell.”
“And what year are you on?” I know the answer before she says it.
“Four.”
“One more year,” I offer, like it’s an easy solution when I know that when it comes to family and business, it’s never that easy, especially when the business is your family.
“Yeah.” I hear the disagreement and disappointment in her soft voice.
Our food is delivered although we haven’t finished our chowder, and we move to easier topics while we eat.
I wanted to know where she went to college before she left school.
She asks me where I went, and I admit I’ve never been to college.
I learned on the job. A lifelong education of predicting the toy market and monitoring societal change.
Purchasing. Production. Marketing. Gains and losses.
Worker equity. Every single facet of the business I’ve worked, from the ground up and literally since I was a toddler until present day.
“And you were headed back to the business? North.” She holds up a French fry, pointing at me, displeasure in her tone at the vagueness of the location. “Before Skippy got in your way.”
“Couldn’t skip over him,” I counter, feeling the pull of my lips into a smile.
Lumi chuckles before biting her fry.
As we near the end of our meal, the waitress returns. “Can I interest either of you in dessert?” She holds out a special dessert menu, and Lumi reads the top, then gasps.
“Is today December sixth?”
“All day,” the snarky waitress states with a friendly grin.
“What’s December six?” I question, curious why the date would be important to her.
“It’s the Feast of St. Nicholas. I forgot—” She abruptly stops herself.
“What?” Curiosity has me by a throat hold.
She waves me off and then shakes her head, declining dessert.
“I’ll take a coffee, please.” The caffeine will keep me up for hours, but I could use the hot drink to clear my head. No more sexy shower thoughts about my housemate.
As the waitress walks away, I point at Lumi. “Explain yourself.”
“I just . . . for half a second, I realized I hadn’t set out shoes for St. Nicholas Day, and then realized I had no one to set them out for.” She laughs at herself. “Which is silly because I haven’t set shoes out for years.”
Setting out shoes for the feast of St. Nicholas isn’t widely practiced, but here and there in the States, the patron saint known as the original Santa Claus is celebrated.
People honor the day by encouraging their kids to set a pair of shoes by the front door or in a front hallway.
The activity is similar to hanging stockings by a fireplace, which is how Santa delivered the first toys.
The premise of St. Nicholas’ Day is that if a child has been bad, he’ll receive coal in his shoes.
St. Nick is displeased with his behavior, but the child still has a few weeks to right his wrongs.
If a child has been good, he might receive candy or a small treat.
Some even receive something holiday-themed in their shoes, like a Christmas Lego set or a snowman book, adding to the excitement of the season.
I’ve never been involved in the tradition, although I’ve grown up hearing about it. We leave St. Nicholas Day up to parents to handle.
“Aren’t shoes set out the night before St. Nicholas Day?” I nearly laugh every time I say Nicholas, as it reminds me of my younger brother, who always wants to claim this day as his day when it’s really mine.
“Yes.” She smiles softly to herself. “I don’t even know why I thought about it just now.”
Danny. Her son won’t be home for Christmas, and the memories of past holidays are dancing in her head like sugarplums.
I don’t mention my thoughts. Instead, I say, “Well, we can still celebrate, because today is my birthday.”
I don’t typically make a big deal out of the day.
December birthdays tend to get lost because of the holiday.
Still, I want to distract her from her sad thoughts about her son and his absence.
I’m here. Not that that is any consolation, but I’d still like to give her another reason to honor the day.
Celebrate it in a new way. Sharing my birthday with someone special would be a first for me.
Her head pops up, and those blue eyes are saucer-sized again. “You’re pulling my leg?”
After our banter yesterday about pulling body parts, I roll my lips before I blurt out what other parts of her I’d like to pull. Like sucking at that pouting lip. Or tugging at her nipples to see how peaked they get.
Dammit, Saint. There you go again.
I can’t take out my driver’s license to prove my birthdate, so I smile as convincingly as I can. “Elf’s honor. I’m not pulling your leg.”
She watches me for a minute, taking a drive around my face. My eyes. My cheeks. My chin covered with a heavy growth after a few days without trimming.
“If it’s your birthday, then we should celebrate.”
“That’s what he said,” I jab a finger into my sternum, because I did say that. Plus, I’d like to distract her from her sadness about Danny’s absence. Her responding smile is worth the joke.
Lumi turns in her seat and waves for the waitress, who quickly returns.
“We need two whoopie pies, please,” she orders, before pointing at me. “It’s his birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” the young woman says before clapping her hands once and stepping away to retrieve the famous Maine treat of vanilla cream fluff slathered between two soft, cake-like chocolate cookies.
When the waitress returns with our dessert, Lumi hands one to me and picks up the other one. Holding hers up, she nods for me to follow her lead.
“As we don’t have a candle, we’ll toast to your birthday, and you should make a wish before you take the first bite.”
“Is that a Maine-ism? Like when you see the new moon, wish before you speak, and you’ll receive your wish before the end of the week.”
Lumi laughs, sharp and loud. “I don’t know, but we can add it to the list.”
The naughty or the nice one? Because being around Lumi is nice, which makes my thoughts all the naughtier. Birthday spankings? For me or her.
But seriously, spending time with her has been refreshing, and I’m grateful she’s giving me her time.
I’ve asked a lot in suggesting that I stay in her home.
I understand her hesitancy, it’s just . .
. I like her, and she’s safe with me. I don’t like to think about what could have happened to her, walking home in the cold and dark, a little too tipsy to remember inviting a stranger inside her house.
The thought of anything happening to her, especially on my watch, sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine.
Shaking the thought, I hold up my pie and tap it against hers, making a wish before I take a bite.
I wish for more time with her, but know immediately it’s only a wish.
“Okay, you can stay,” she says before biting into her pie.
“What?” I ask, a little confused by the suddenness of her comment.
“At my house.” Her brows lift. “Unless you found somewhere else?” I watch as those pretty brows of hers lower and pinch, like she doesn’t like the idea of me finding another place. Maybe even questions why it bothers her.
“Actually.” I clear my throat. “I haven’t found anywhere to stay.” In the back of my mind, I’d been hopeful she’d change her mind, but my backup plan was to sneak into Rusty’s Wreck and spend the night there.
“Well, as long as you’ve already started the rumor that you’ll be my housemate for a few weeks . . . I have a spare room.”
Her shoulders fall like she’s given in on a hardship, but she also softly smiles at me before taking another bite of her whoopie pie. I counter that smile before taking a bite of my own, deciding this might have been the best birthday I’ve ever had.
And when we get back to her place, I set a pair of her shoes at the base of her staircase in the front hall and unpack the poorly packaged Wonderlust items, filling her footwear with holiday-print, textured fabric, winter-scented oils, and chocolates in hopes her holidays are a little brighter, even if she will be alone.
St. Nick already knows she’s been a good girl all year.