Chapter 18 Burnt Edges #2
Ignoring the Christmas tree—dark and dead-looking with the lights off and oddly mirroring my mood—I pass the photo of my mother and me at the Ritz.
Younger me is smiling at her, not the camera.
The early morning sun crests through the window, catching the glass and flashing it white.
I don’t know what to do with the sudden sting behind my eyes.
I blink hard until the room behaves. And then I get to work.
Jack
Storytime at the Hideaway Harbor Library looks like the holidays exploded in miniature—children’s coats piled like drifts, little boots in a ring on the carpet, cocoa mustaches giving everyone the same sticky grin.
Amanda perches on a beanbag throne with a hardcover splayed like a fan, doing voices that make even the parents lean in. I’m the page-turner, the bell-ringer, the guy who says “and then?” with exactly the right amount of awe.
Outwardly: a hit. Inwardly: a dial tone that won’t disconnect.
Every time the door sighs open, I glance up; every time it’s not Audrey, my chest does that hollow elevator drop.
A toddler offers me a half-eaten marshmallow with grave generosity.
I take it because I’m not a monster. He beams like we’ve agreed to something important, and the lawyer in me is convinced I was hoodwinked by a kindergartner.
Amanda finishes with applause and a blizzard of construction-paper antlers.
She signs a stack of programs and books while I smooth the two-piece Brioni I wear like a suit of armor, for some reason needing to feel more like the Hollywood agent I am than the small-town lawyer I’ve been pretending to be.
In the quiet between celebrity readers—including Hideaway born and raised model-turned-actor Brody King reading a book about a Christmas Yeti—Amanda corners me. She’s got that celebrity interview smile she uses when she’s about to be kind yet sadistically surgical.
“Looking charming as always.” She flicks a bit of glitter from my suit sleeve. “Also distracted.”
“I can do two things at once.” I aim for light, trying to convince myself that the bookcase of thrillers on one side and murder mysteries on the other is completely circumstantial.
“You can.” Tucking a glitter pen behind her ear, she slides a Stephen King book off the shelf and pretends to read the back. “But I meant it last night when I told Audrey I wouldn’t steal you today.”
That lands harder than I expect.
She looks up from the book. “You’ve made me into a liar.”
“Wait.” The image of Amanda, drunk on cider after caroling, resurfaces. “When did you talk to Audrey about this?”
“On the walk back from town square last night.” She talks like she’s telling me about the weather, not wielding a book about a vengeful woman soaked in pig’s blood.
“She asked about the movie I want to make. We talked about inspiration. I said I’d give you a pass on the library…
” There’s a pause like she’s replaying their conversation, then a wince. “Shit.”
Instantly I’m on alert. “What?”
No longer looking dangerous, Amanda replaces the book on the shelf. “I also mentioned you took on Scott Evans as a client.”
I blink. “You what?”
She runs a hand over her face, slightly smearing her mascara.
“I might’ve been a bit tipsy.” A grimace.
“In my head, it seemed absolutely plausible she’d already know about Evans.
You two have been attached at the hip for weeks.
” She flutters her smudged eyelashes, hopeful.
“You did tell her, right? I mean, that seems like something you should tell the person you’re involved with. ”
I picture Audrey on that sidewalk, nodding like the news didn’t knock her sideways.
Amanda reads whatever expression I’m making. “Fuck.”
“I’m going to the bakery.” I straighten my tie, preparing for battle. “I’ll fix it.”
“Good.” She squeezes my elbow. “And just so you know, I’m sorry.” She locks eyes with me. “Really.”
I bring her in for a quick hug. “Don’t be.
It’s my fault.” Pulling back, I take a moment to really look her over and—aside from the raccoon eyes— Amanda glows, just like she does on screen.
But the real-life version is much warmer.
I’ve been so busy with my own business that I haven’t really appreciated all that this trip has done for my friend.
“And just so you know, I’m happy that you’re happy. ” I squeeze her shoulders. “Really.”
She snorts, her eyes shining as brightly as her glossed lips. “I am happy.” She shrugs, laughing off the sudden emotion. “Who would’ve thought, huh?”
We share another hug before Amanda pushes back, thumbing behind her toward the door. “Go.” She runs her fingers under her eyes, looking picture perfect once more. “I can survive a town’s worth of five-year-olds without your legal counsel.”
Portia spots us and starts walking over. If possible, Amanda shines brighter.
Leaving my friend in her girlfriend’s capable hands, I weave through the library crowd until I make it outside.
The day is a quiet, pale bowl compared to the vibrant interior of the children’s section of the library.
Snow does that soft sifting thing that turns everything so pristine it almost hurts to look at.
Hands jammed in my pockets and my heart doing its worst version of a pre-workout warm-up, I’m about to cut across Lobstah Lane when a vintage pickup pulls up in front of me—two-tone paint, chrome grinning, breath clouding from the exhaust like an old dragon.
Eli leans across and rolls down the passenger side window looking straight out of an L.L. Bean catalog in a red and black flannel over a thermal Henley. There’s a duffel in the passenger seat and what looks suspiciously like a pair of ice skates tossed in the back.
“Counselor!” He thumbs the brim of his honest-to-goodness local hardware store trucker hat. “Heading to the bakery?”
“That’s the plan.” I make a show of looking him over. “You heading to the lumberjack competition?”
He laughs. “I’m heading from hockey practice over to my sister’s to grab my niece.” He glances at the clock on his dashboard. “She volunteered to help with the Woolen Sock Run over at Locke Reserve.”
I nod, impressed. “I guess even teenagers are wholesome enough to volunteer in the community when they live in a small town.”
He drops his chin. “Or small-town teenagers have heard that a local heartthrob by the name of Brody King will be in attendance and want a shot at an autograph and picture.” He tilts his head as if looking behind me.
“Did Amanda volunteer as tribute to this event as well?” Eli’s truck ticks as it cools, smelling like old leather and pine and looking like a Hallmark Christmas special.
I’m suddenly very conscious of how much I paid for my suit. “Not this one.”
Looking over the roof of his truck toward Main Street, I catch the edge of Audrey’s chalkboard sign set up on the sidewalk advertising all the new flavors I’ve seen her spend hours creating.
Dropping my gaze, I catch Eli squinting at me like I’m a puzzle with three pieces missing.
He scratches his jaw, the universal sign for I-left-something-on-your-desk-you-didn’t-mean-to-show-me.
“I’ve been going through the relocation listings you sent—clinic space looks promising.
Also, uh…” He lifts his chin, as if assessing me as I did him.
“Found a couple of house listings mixed in. Fenced yards. Bonus rooms labeled ‘kids’ playroom’ in the realtor photos.
” He drapes one arm on the steering wheel, deceptively casual.
“You not billing enough hours? Trying to branch into residential real estate?”
Heat blooms under my coat. “Those were mine.” I clear my throat. “Must’ve mixed those in with your file by mistake.”
He lets the words sit there between us, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Huh.”
I shove my hands deeper in my pockets. “Don’t make it a thing.”
His smile is full-blown now, not letting me off the hook. “It feels like a thing.” He follows my gaze across the corner of town square toward the bakery then back. “You thinking about making Hideaway more permanent?”
I open my mouth to say something clever and land on nothing. The truth is a spinning coin, and I can’t tell which side is up. “I don’t know.”
His phone chirps. “That’ll be my niece.” Looking at the screen, he winces.
“Apparently I’m late, and her whole world will end if I don’t get her there before Missy Whitehall, her high school nemesis.
” He rolls his eyes, but they stay kind.
“Let’s talk later.” With a clunk, he releases the parking brake.
“About the clinic.” A wink. “And houses with fenced-in yards.”
“Go.” I wave him off. “Save yourself.” And me.
He rolls the window up, drops the truck into gear, and pulls away with a honk that echoes off the brick like a warning.
I stand there for a beat too long in the gentle snow, watching the taillights disappear toward family obligation, toward domestic life, toward pick-up times and someone in the back seat complaining about the playlist.
I wanted to walk to Audrey’s door and say the thing that terrifies me. I wanted to knock and hand her all the messy parts and ask if she’ll take them anyway.
Instead, watching the kind of man I’m not drive his truck around the corner toward things that Audrey gave up to move here for, I pivot.
Sliding my BMW SUV rental key out of my pocket, I head toward the library parking lot.
I catch my reflection in the driver’s side window— polished and tailored, not a plaid or flannel in sight. Ten minutes out of town, I turn onto The Haven Resort drive, tossing the keys at a bell boy like the well-practiced Hollywood cliché I am.
Tomorrow, I tell myself when I reach my room and shrug out of my suit coat. Tomorrow I’ll find Audrey, clear the air, and make things right.
Powering up my laptop, I pretend not to hear how much that sounds like a lie.