5. Noelle
Chapter five
Noelle
I slept until ten, when Ruby’s chipper knocking woke me up.
Eleven hours of sleep and I still felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck, then dragged through potholes for a mile.
Every joint in my body screamed as I peeled myself from under the covers and half shuffled, half limped to the front door. Mornings were not my friend.
Unlike me, Ruby was a big believer in early hours. But she came bearing gifts—a coffee and Danish from Bean There, Done That—so I couldn’t be too mad. Except that the pastry looked amazing, and I couldn’t eat it.
“You’re allergic?” Ruby asked aghast, like a gluten allergy was akin to wearing white after Labour Day (something I learned she had big opinions about). My sister was fashion conscious and I . . . was not.
“Yup.” I sipped my decaf coffee—how I missed the real stuff—clutching it while bedecked like a cave troll in ratty sweats and an old hoodie with holes cut into the cuffs for my thumbs (it was a phase).
Meanwhile Ruby wore cropped olive jeans and a black-and-white checkered pullover sweater.
She was girl-next-door adorable. I could be mistaken for Oscar the Grouch finally emerging from his trash can.
Not properly washing my hair and forgetting to wear my bonnet to bed last night had done nothing to improve the state of my naturally feral curls.
The ’80s called and wanted their frizz back.
“You poor soul.” She patted my hand with such a comically pitiful expression that I burst out laughing. It was cleansing, like summer rain after a drought.
Ruby joined in, and it was nice. This. Us.
“How are Olive, Phoebe, and Quinn?” I asked carefully. We’d only talked briefly about our sisters in the past. And yes, my parents really had decided to name us in alphabetical order.
“Oh, you know.” Ruby waved a hand before ticking each sister off on her fingers.
“Olive’s living the solo life, teaching at Juilliard and competing in competitions in Europe.
Pheebs finished her PhD at Northwestern, and she’s teaching now while refusing to admit she’s crushing on a fellow professor, and Quinn got married a few years ago and lives in Boise. ”
“So you’re the only one left in town?”
Ruby grinned. “Not anymore.” She took a bite of the Danish and dug through the basket on the counter. The movers had come and gone, leaving Box-aggedon in their wake. “Oh my gosh, what is this?” she demanded, holding up a miniature hockey stick.
“It’s a letter opener.”
She eyed it doubtfully. “Hate to break it to you, but that blade isn’t sharp enough to cut butter.”
I grabbed it and lightly pulled the stick handle away, which acted as a sheath, revealing the blade underneath.
“So . . . you’re still a hockey fan?” she asked slyly.
“Hardly. It was a gift.” From one of the junior hockey players I’d had as a patient—Jake McNally.
He’d been involved in a bus crash on the way to a game, and I’d been one of the nurses on shift in the emergency room.
I fought tooth and nail to save that kid.
Something about him reminded me of Cal. And against all odds, he made it, and we’d struck up a friendship.
The letter opener had been a promise I would come watch his first game back after rehab. And he’d done it. Last I heard, he’d been drafted to the Hurricanes.
It was a reminder of the job I loved. It made me feel alive. The rush. Helping people. And now it was gone.
“From a secret admirer?” Ruby waggled her eyebrows.
“No, a friend.”
“Uh-huh.” She smirked but dropped the subject, for which I was grateful.
Thinking about Jake and work any longer would upset the fragility of my emotional balance.
Stretching, she blew out a breath. “Put me to work, boss. A cleaning service came through this week, and I came over to scrub a few things up after work in the evenings.”
I didn’t deserve her kindness, but I was grateful for it. “Thanks. Let’s start in the kitchen.”
“Aye, aye.”
I didn’t have much in the way of material possessions because New York apartments weren’t known for their spaciousness, especially when two women were sharing them.
Once the kitchen was organized enough that I could find my plates and utensils without having to eat cereal out of a mug with a serving spoon (true story), we moved to the bedroom.
It was buttery yellow with natural wood accents. The queen bed was centered against the far wall with a small pine nightstand and lamp beside it.
I lit my favourite lavender essential oil beeswax candle, which instantly made me miss my candle-making days. Maybe I could restart the business here? I still had all my equipment. New town, new me. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Blowing out a breath, I surveyed the towers of boxes and totes.
“Clothes first.” Ruby rummaged through the piles. “I need to see what you have to wear to the shoot tonight.”
My wardrobe was ninety percent scrubs, something she immediately lamented.
“This shoot is supposed to scream fall romance, not I just got off work and didn’t have time to change,” she wailed, digging through a box and flinging a handful of scrubs onto my quilted blue floral bedspread.
“That was kinda my life,” I defended from where I perched on the edge of the bed.
“I’m taking you shopping soon.” She opened another box. “Ah-ha, this is more like it!” She tossed an oversized cabled cream sweater at me followed by an orange-and-brown plaid A-line skirt. “These are speaking to me!”
“They’re clothes, Rubes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Try to catch the vision and thank me later. You’ll look amazing and he . . .”
“He what?” I prompted, eyebrow raised when she didn’t go on.
“Nothing.” Ruby blinked innocently and waved a hand. “Let’s talk hair and makeup.”
Innocent, my foot. I’d bet an apple-cider doughnut she was scheming.
“Remind me again of how this is supposed to work?” I asked Ruby four hours, twelve bobby pins, and a half bottle of hair spray later.
We sat in her Honda Civic overlooking a beautiful meadow and pond, alight in golden hour and early-autumn colours.
The world was still brown from the heat of summer, but now threads of orange and gold wove through the sunbaked landscape.
After finishing four episodes of my show last night, I’d scrolled social media, watching videos of every stranger photo shoot I could find. Had I already done that? Several times—ask Macy—but I thrived on being prepared.
We could hold hands, have a cute “oh what a surprise moment,” and I would smile my way through the whole thing for Ruby’s sake.
Simple. Relatively painless. And an award-winning performance the Oscars would never see.
“It’s simple. My friend Stephanie Prescott—you’ve heard of Nash Prescott the millionaire, yes? Well, he married Hiram Addams’s daughter.” She paused, clearly expecting a reaction like this was pivotal information.
“I don’t read the gossip rags, Rubes.” I stretched my tight shoulders. Unpacking wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Ruby rolled her eyes. “It’s not gossip, but it took the social world by surprise.
Everyone knows about it. Anyways, they’re the sweetest, and Stephanie’s best friends with Juliet Satterfield, but she’s a Delavan now.
You remember Myles? Of course you do, you were friends.
Anyway, Stephanie’s looking to hire a second shooter, and I want it to be me,” she said simply.
“She told me to put together a unique portfolio project, and I decided to do a stranger’s couple shoot.
After all, if I can capture chemistry between two strangers, I can do anything. ”
I loved her confidence, mixed with a dash of delusion. She’d spent the day helping me turn the cottage into a cozy haven. And I had to admit it was nice having her around. It wasn’t awkward. Ruby was too bubbly for awkwardness.
“It’s time!” she announced, checking her phone and very deliberately angling it to keep me from seeing the screen. As I said, she was scheming. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
My stomach tumbled at the thought of being on a blind date with my baby sister as witness. Except it wasn’t a date. It was a . . . favour. For Ruby. That was all. I didn’t date. Didn’t believe in marriage. Not for me anyway. Not anymore.
Nate, my last boyfriend of three years, had made it very clear no man wanted a chronically ill wife.
He’d stuck around for a couple weeks after the accident before dumping me when it was determined I needed rehab to relearn how to walk and the likelihood of my ever working as an ER nurse again plummeted from Possible to An Unlikely Miracle.
A reckless driver had cost me my job, my health, and my boyfriend. Too much stress, and my body gave up.
“The perfect storm,” one of the specialists had announced after another round of expensive testing.
My leg was steady enough to not need the cane today, but I slowly followed after Ruby.
Once we were in the middle of the field, she instructed me into a few model positions so she could experiment with lighting and framing, and I obliged.
She was in the middle of a shot when a truck rumbled to a stop behind me. Guess my mystery guy was here.
“Rotate to the left towards the sun,” Ruby instructed, clearly relishing her role. “And look forlorn.”
I snorted. “Seriously?”
“Trust the process.”
“You do know that’s what Pheebs said when she tried dying her hair with Kool-Aid, right?” Our middle sister lived for experimentation, and turning her blonde hair purple in junior high had been . . . something. Mom had peaked.
“More forlorn and less derision, please.”
Trying not to laugh, I pulled out my best sad thoughts. The ones centered around my first love. A guaranteed tear-jerker.
“Yesssss, perfect. Hold that,” Ruby said. “Absolutely stunning!”
I held. And kept holding. Seriously, how long was this supposed to take? She could have done a hundred-yard dash and still had time to grab a latte from the café. My back twinged from holding myself so rigid. “Rubes, we good?”
Crunching footsteps approached me from behind.