Chapter 6
There is not enough caffeine in existence that would enable me to be prepared for Tuesday morning.
The shop is closed Mondays, and so I spent most of the day drawing plans for the float, gathering supplies, and altering my costume.
At least I didn’t have to start from scratch on my wardrobe.
Still, I am behind and have no one to blame but myself.
It’s not like the annual parade is a surprise.
I’ve had plenty of time to prepare. If procrastination was an art form, I’m the Van Gogh of shirking responsibilities.
I flip my sign to OPEN and pray no one wants to browse antiques for at least another hour.
“My baby!” A woman’s squeal from outside yanks me from my drowsiness.
My gaze darts to the window in time to see a blur rolling onto Main Street.
The woman screams, “Please, someone!”
Oh my gosh! I race to the door, but everything happens in slow motion. A man darts onto the road. A screeching of brakes.
I gasp. My hand flies to my lurching heart.
The car stops just shy of the man cradling a small bundle.
I burst onto the sidewalk, and the situation becomes clear. All too clear. My breath seeps slowly from my lungs.
Mitzy Clemens is frozen on the sidewalk, pale hands slapped against her horrified face. Beside her, the antique stroller is tipped on its side. The man climbs to his feet. His face is bleeding, but I recognize him.
Leo.
The guy who stood me up last December.
Confusion darkening his face, he swipes at the blood with the back of his left hand. “Lady, this is a doll.” He holds out Mitzy’s treasured plastic newborn. The baby doll has a scuff mark on its face but doesn’t seem broken.
Mitzy throws her hands in the air, a mixture of relief and pure joy overcoming her wrinkled face. “You saved her! I got Frieda on my seventeenth birthday!” She takes the doll from Leo and hugs it to her chest, making shushing noises as if the doll were crying uncontrollably.
Leo jolts as if more alarmed by an old lady talking to a plastic figure than rolling in front of a Buick. With a shake of his head, he reaches down with one arm and rights the stroller.
Mitzy gently places the doll inside, and she fixes her rheumy stare on Frieda’s rescuer. “That’s so good of you, young man.” She yanks on Leo’s jacket collar, pulling him lower, and plants a kiss on his cheek, her other hand wandering curiously over his chest. “You’re a hero.”
He stiffens at being manhandled, amongst other things, by an eighty-year-old woman, but he soon softens and says, “Be safe.” After Mitzy’s slow retreat, he jogs to the stopped car and addresses the driver.
Mitzy is a well-known character around here, so I doubt Leo will have to explain much.
I’m right. The guy behind the wheel shrugs and pulls away.
Leo hasn’t seen me yet. I can make a getaway.
I should make a getaway. I want to avoid seeing Leo the Let Down, but also, there’s a gash on his head because he’s also Leo the Lifesaver (of creepy dolls).
My stupid caregiving soul cements my feet to the walk.
It’s during this moment of awkward indecision that he glances over, and our gazes collide.
Oh.
That one whimsical meeting in the park happened at nighttime.
Because I hadn’t glimpsed the man in the light of day, I allowed my imagination to run wild with Leo’s looks, dethroning whatever image I had of him on Light-Up Night.
For many months, the Leo in my brain could rival a gremlin.
I’m talking monstrous nose, beady eyes, and crooked teeth.
Now, however, no shadows cling to him. In the glow of winter sunshine, the man nowhere near resembles a fictional creature from an ’80s horror film.
Wait, is Gremlins a horror? A freaky comedy?
I don’t think anyone knows the answer. What I do know is that Pap claims it as a Christmas movie, right up there with Frosty the Snowman .
“Greta?” Leo swipes again at the cut. The left side of his face is a mixture of grime and blood, while the right side boasts a bright pink lip print, courtesy of Mitzy.
“You’re bleeding.” I point out the obvious, somewhat distracted by his dark locks. Last year, I had no idea that stuffed under that beanie was wavy brown hair. He styles it shorter on the sides and longer on top, just enough length to make a woman’s fingers itch to tunnel through.
He’s staring at me like I materialized out of thin air, and not as if this particular dot on the map is where I spend ninety percent of my life.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he finally says, the dripping blood runs over his lip, and he gives a quick shake of the head, as if remembering he’d just had a near-death experience. “Did you witness that?” He jerks a thumb at Mitzy’s retreating form.
“Your heroics? Yes.”
“All for a doll.”
It’s not difficult to grasp his frustration.
He could’ve been seriously injured, killed even.
It does prove that he’s not the villain I painted him for all those months.
“Well, think on the bright side. Mitzy called you a hero. You’ll be named heir to her vast doll collection.
I hope you don’t find a hundred unblinking eyes deeply unsettling. ”
He chuckles lightly, which brings out his dimples. “Was it me or did she get handsy?”
“Trauma response. Probably.” She really does love those dolls.
And apparently, she loves a fine, masculine physique.
Leo seems to have a way with the ladies from Silver Creek.
Not me, though. Absolutely not me. I take in the gash on his face.
“You should probably get cleaned up.” My conscience pinches my stubbornness.
“Come on.” I wave at him to follow me into the store.
He does. I turn back at him, and he seems more confused now than when lying in the street holding Frieda. “You work here? At The Memory Bank?”
I nod. “I own this place.” I watch as he glances around, and my breath thins.
This is my fifteen-hundred square feet of safe space.
I have every aisleway, nook, and corner memorized to the point that I could skip around with my eyes closed.
But having him here feels like I’m exposed somehow, like that reoccurring dream where I’m standing on the fifty-yard line on the high school football field wearing only a towel.
Though I have to say that dream’s far better than those in which I’m losing all my teeth.
I shudder and return to the moment—the one where Leo’s in my store, bleeding, and I’m trying to remember when I dusted last. I offer him a wad of paper towels from the roll behind the counter.
“Give me just a sec to grab the first-aid kit.”
He pats the makeshift bandage on his face but completely misses the source of the wound. Without thinking, I take the towels from his hand and press it to the cut near his hairline. “Hold firm. Like this.”
He clasps his hand over my own. “I didn’t know you owned this place.”
And we’re back to this again. His palm is warm and calloused and doing things to my brain, though I’m more concerned about his right now, namely if it’s swelling.
“Do you have a concussion?” I lift on my toes and peer into his eyes.
Attractive, yes, but something else lingers in those dark depths.
While I can’t determine the mystery swirling among the gold flecks in deep brown irises, I can see that his pupils aren’t dilated. “How many faces do I have?”
“One.” A flirty smile touches his lips, then quietly fades. Just as I had examined his features, scanning every spot, he’s now studying mine. Except I don’t have a bloody gash on my head. His inspection is different, an excruciatingly slow perusal. “An unforgettable one.”
Before I sway under his charm, I realize he didn’t say anything romantic about my face.
Not pretty. Not beautiful. Only unforgettable.
Some could say my tenth-grade science teacher had an unforgettable face, but it was the absolute opposite of dreamy.
I tug my hand from beneath his, ignoring the tingling sensation racing to my toes, and he resumes the task of putting pressure on the wound.
“Are you turning delirious? Head wounds can do that to you.”
“No, it’s just … your store was where I was headed before all of this happened.” He gestures with his other hand toward his bleeding face. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
I retreat a step. “So if you’d known, you wouldn’t have come?”
He blows out a breath. “No. Not that at all. I’m glad you’re here.” The taut line between his brows gentle. “I was hoping to see you again.”
Okay. This is interesting. “You could’ve asked around. I’m not that hard to find.”
“I had. But I guess I asked the wrong people. I even talked to Mitchell, you know, the deputy. I’ve bumped into him several times, but he refused to tell me anything.”
That tracks. Growing up with Tilly as my best friend, Mitchell thinks of me like a little sister. He’s both protective and annoying. Though he at least could’ve mentioned Leo asked about me. Knowing Leo was searching for me would’ve chiseled down the spikes of my irritation.
“About last Christmas,” he begins. “I owe you an apology. Something came up.” And that something must’ve been an interesting event because his jaw hardens and his gaze drops to his boots.
He shifts from one foot to the other, as if weighing what he wants to reveal.
After a few seconds, his lashes lift, and whatever emotion he was working to hide is gone.
“I couldn’t get in touch with you to let you know I couldn’t make it. ”
“I see.” His excuse is believable. I’ll give him that. It’s hard to contact someone without their full name or number.
“I was planning on going.” His voice lowers. “But work needed me, and I couldn’t get out of it.”