Chapter 25
When we wake, I’m disheartened, but not surprised to find that the snow is deluging us more than predicted.
But one peek out of the window tells me we are not being ruthlessly plowed in.
Before I can even sigh, I hear plows working hard, and these are not ones from the state; they’re all neighbors taking care of neighbors.
I have to laugh at how this Snowshoe Cove town cares enough to understand how plowing is great, but taking the extra step to clear driveways is really everything.
Most cities are all about snowplowing the streets and then pinning you into your driveway with a mound of heavy, icy snow.
Still, this storm is stupidly brutal and is going to continue on for too long. I accept that we cannot venture out this holiday to see Dave’s family.
I pour myself into rich black leggings and a matching tank top with an off-the-shoulder cashmere top. I’m nothing if not monochromatic and cozy.
I meet Dave on the couch in his living room.
“Damn snow.” He snugs me up in his arms, and Dave sort of shies a bit. “My phone has been blowing up with texts since Thanksgiving. My family already adores you, and I wanted to take you home again—to my parents’—so much.”
“I wanted that too. New Year’s?”
“For sure.” He scoops me hard. “But I still have a beautiful dinner planned for us tonight.”
“Noooo!” I laugh. “So do I. Are we having a cook-off? I’d rather not because you’d win. Plus, I do have a bunch of calls to make, so I’m happy to defer dinner to you.”
He flops his head against the back of the couch and exaggerates his words. “Boo! Work stuff that you hate and that I hate for you?”
My hand reaches for the back of his neck, and as I pull him up, I smile. “I think you’d actually like overhearing these calls. The emails I’m going to send.”
“Never thought that’d be a turn-on, but I’m liking what I’m hearing. How about I give you your gift first?”
I can’t say no.
He digs a hand into the couch and pulls out a box. For a second, I’m concerned it’s a ring. But then I’m also not concerned it’s a ring. Which is rather curious. That would be stupid to want that, given my life, my upbringing, my insane parents. But maybe that thought, that hope, means I’m healing.
What he does gift me is beautiful. A necklace with delicate charms. All things that matter to me. A lobster, a snowflake, a cat paw, a small Puerto Rico flag, a teeny Zakim Bridge for Boston. And a snowshoe hare, for this town that he knows is my second home.
I shake my head in disbelief as he hooks this sweet jewelry round my neck. I sweep my hand gently to my neck. Rubbing each piece gently between my fingers.
Not surprisingly, my call to my agent’s office is transferred immediately to her line. She’s been begging me for weeks to be in touch.
“Diana! Are we ready to sign everything?” she asks eagerly.
Not that she can see me, but I shake my head confidently. “Nope.”
The way her heart sinks is audible, but I don’t care because the sound my own heart makes as it soars is louder.
I’m in charge. I always have been, but now I finally realize it.
“Here’s the plan. No to most of the TV ideas.
Their concepts are ridiculous. No cooking shows pretending that I’m a chef.
Like, I’m not even an at-home cook. Maybe most people are dying for screen time, but I’m not.
Unless they want to come back with truly showing off small places in Boston or frankly anywhere I want to showcase?
No. Give me a Somebody Feed Phil–type show, and I’d be down to hosting that. ”
I love how ballsy, confident I am. This new me.
“Also, a cookbook is great, but only if it’s with recipes from local restaurants and chefs of my choosing. And with QR codes to their websites and such. I’ll happily write the intros and rave about the food, but the overall credit needs to go to the chefs.”
Barbara only takes a breath before she replies, “This is all doable.”
I know it is because these are reasonable asks.
I wink at Dave. He’s the person who reminded me—taught me—that I have power.
“My other idea is based on what my friend has already been doing.”
“Okay. Pitch it to me.”
“There’s a guy, Dave, with a wildly successful seafood truck here in northern Maine.
After the season ends, he travels locally, making stops and selling his awesome seafood.
But along the way, he also sources whatever local fruits and vegetables he can, mostly via donations, and then distributes it all to people in low-income housing at no cost. I’ve been able to approve and transfer the needed licenses so that he can travel with his truck to Massachusetts. ”
I wave my hand at Dave’s incredulous look.
“Most food banks are overloaded with canned goods and processed stuff. We can deliver vegetables and fruits to lower-income cities in Massachusetts and Maine. Like, we’d post days, and times, and locations, and our truck would park on a street.
Residents could fill up bags with seasonal produce.
And then we’d follow up with fun videos and recipes about how to cook affordable, healthy meals. ”
I can hear my agent take a beat, but in a wonderful way. “Diana? I hear you.”
Now she gets it. Gets me. And after months of my feeling a bit pissy with her, she wins me back a bit.
“This should—must be—a show. An important one. One easily streamed by everyone.” She takes a big breath and then says with excitement, “Hey? What about if you and this Dave do cooking demos on-site? Like, you teach people in the neighborhoods you’re targeting?”
I want to scream with joy. “We’re in.”
Finally, I look back at Dave, and he’s thankfully all smiles. I wanted him to hear all of my ideas, but all of them could have been easily squashed.
“This Dave?” Barbara asks. “He’s obviously special. He loves kids?”
Ah, she actually watched my social media posts. The ones where I showcased not only Dave’s library, but specific books.
Of course he does. He likely wants ten kids, and I want none. Because I shouldn’t.
Because I’d be a terrible mother.
Because I’d probably damage them all, just as my own parents damaged me.
I pull myself together. “Yes, he does love kids. He’s a devoted fan of reading and sharing books. I already sent you a proposal for a children’s book. And a few illustration ideas. I want the illustrator I told you about.”
“Oh, that’s a given to happen. But I want to expand on how this Dave has been lending out books at no cost. We need more people doing the same.
” She changes her tone. “Diana, I don’t even want to talk about this as an agent and client thing right now.
I am just damn over that. What you’re wanting to do is so much more important. We’ll chat soon.”
I have to laugh because, as agents do, while she’s so on board, she hangs up without so much as a goodbye, but Dave wastes no time in turning me around.
“You got your deals? The way you wanted?”
“I got our deals,” I confirm.
“Something about us and my truck? Touring? Little confused here.” He’s understandably lost. “A book?”
I wince as I introduce ideas. “I should have run that all by you first, but I wanted to see if it was even possible. Not to mention if you even liked the idea of any of those things. It’d mean splitting your time between Maine and Massachusetts, but you’d kind of mentioned that before as a possibility.
So, we could stay at my place in Boston, and it’s not as though there’d be an extra expense—”
Dave gently and lovingly claps a hand over my mouth.
“I’m so, so in.” After he pulls back and sighs heavily, he asks, “Did you say something about illustrations for this hypothetical kids book?”
“Maybe. Katrina sketched some ideas.” I shouldn’t be hesitant to show him, but I am. Sharing any artist’s work is nerve-racking, so I duck and clench my fists and semi-hide as I pass him my phone.
Dave takes minutes with each image, clearly savoring each visual just as I did.
The colored sketches of him poised by his food truck.
By the harbor and the boats. Another of his friends hauling lobster traps during rough seas.
Such a stunning portrait of Anjanette pulling up a monstrously big cage of lobsters.
Lastly, the one of Dave on his old boat, an arm around Little Blue, and both of them in full gear.
His beautifully wordless response and expression tell me that I didn’t make a bad choice. It’s a hug, the way his body is fully and gently against mine, that tells me everything I need to know.
It’s a standing scoop.
I’m so sad that it had to rain so hard for both of us, but we’re going to have a wildly special life because of the unexpected, the unwanted.
No one asks for a flood of misery. It just happens.
But maybe just a light rain from now on would be good?