Chapter 22 MJ
MJ
“Are you sure I can’t do anything?” I ask Ron while he stirs the saucepan simmering on the stove. The smell of basil and freshly grated parmigiana-Reggiano makes my stomach growl.
He nods toward the sleeping puppy in my arms. “You’re on June Bug duty. That’s a very important job.”
“Well, this hardly seems like work.” I run my fingers along her silky hair.
“Besides, dinner’s almost ready. I’ve just got to throw this sauce over the pasta.”
Ron and I lingered over salads and glasses of pinot noir before he set to work on dinner.
While he started the prep, I looked at the collage of photos hanging in the entryway of his townhouse.
Since we met, Ron has been the one submerged in my universe, so I enjoyed finally getting a peek inside his.
There were pictures of his son, Hudson, who looked like what I imagined Ron did in his thirties. He showed me his daughter-in-law and photos of his friends from when he was a teacher. He even had a plaque from when he was named Teacher of the Year a few months before he retired.
His home is exactly as I imagined—comfortable and full of reminders of a life well lived. June Bug’s toys are scattered along the floor, and there are a few presents tucked under the modest live fir in his living room. It smells like clean laundry and coffee, which for some reason, feels like home.
Ron clasps his hands together. “Okay, Myra Jean. Dinner is served.”
I gently place June Bug in her crate while he plates our food and tops off our wine glasses. He lights the small candelabra at the center of the small bar-height table that sits to the side of the kitchen, then pulls a chair out for me.
“Thank you,” I say, my stomach fluttering as he takes a seat next to me. “This smells incredible.”
“I’m excited for you to try it.”
I place my napkin in my lap and pick up my fork, digging into the perfectly-cooked pasta. When I take a bite, I close my eyes, the mixture of tomato, garlic, heavy cream, and fresh basil converging together in a hallelujah chorus on my tongue.
“Oh my.” I dab at the corners of my mouth with the napkin. “This is heavenly.”
He gives me a satisfied smile. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it,” I say, taking another bite. “You certainly can cook.”
“Thank you. I enjoy it. It relaxes me.”
“Don’t forget, I still owe you some biscuits and gravy.”
He chuckles. “Trust me, I won’t. I’ve been dreaming of those things since you told me about them.”
“I’m going to have to step up my game if all your dishes are this good.
” I take a sip of my wine to pace myself so I don’t inhale the entire dish.
I was so nervous about our date that I’d barely eaten the sandwich Ellie picked up for me while she was out, and our pre-dinner salads hadn’t done much to stifle the growls of my stomach.
“I’m good,” he says, “but trust me, you’re the only pro here.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Did Henry like to cook?” he asks. “And if that’s at all uncomfortable for you to talk about with me, I understand. But he’s an important part of your life, so I want to know about him.”
My breath catches, and I clear my throat, resting my fork on my plate.
“I apologize,” he adds quickly. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “It’s just, I’m not used to hearing people talk about him in the present tense. It’s always ‘he was a good husband’ or ‘he was a big part of your life,’ so it caught me off guard is all.”
He nods, his eyes fixed on me for a moment before he speaks again.
“I’m not good at this, so forgive me if I’m a little direct,” he begins. “I’ve grown quite fond of you since I showed up on your doorstep to pick up my puppy, whom you kindly allowed to terrorize your home, though we’d never even met.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “She wasn’t that bad.”
He smiles. “When I first laid eyes on you, I thought you were the most magnificent woman I’d ever seen. But as I started to get to know you, I discovered your heart is somehow even more beautiful.”
I lower my gaze and swallow hard, willing my racing heart to slow.
He hooks his finger beneath my chin and lifts my head up so he can look into my eyes.
“Myra Jean, I mentioned your husband in the present tense because I know he’s very much still a part of you, and I don’t want to change that.
You don’t get to be our age without living a whole lot of life.
We’ve both got a good bit of mileage behind us, but I never want you to feel you have to leave your husband in the rearview.
I don’t need to be in the driver’s seat or even the passenger seat.
I’m just happy to be in the same car with you, if you’ll let me. ”
I blink, sending the tears that formed in my eyes cascading down my cheeks.
The nerves that kept me company all day have slipped out the side door, leaving me and Ron alone at last. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear what he said, how much I needed to know that it was still okay to love my husband.
That perhaps it was somehow possible for me to miss him and love him and even grieve him while still moving forward.
He wipes away the moisture on my face with the pad of his thumb, and I grasp his hand before he can pull it away.
“Okay,” I say finally. “But I’ve got to warn you, I’ve been told I drive like a bat out of hell.”
A grin stretches across his face. “Guess I better buckle up.”
After dinner, Ron and I talk on the couch while throwing a ball for June Bug.
He tells me tales about his years teaching and about the time he talked to Johnny Cash in a bar ages ago without knowing it was him until The Man in Black was already out the door.
We talk about our kids, and when Henry comes up as he often does in many of my stories, Ron is unbothered.
Instead, he asks me questions, content to get to know Henry as an extension of me.
When the time comes for Ron to drive me home, my heart and belly are full, but my limbs are light and airy like cotton candy. He takes the scenic route so we can look at the homes decked out in Christmas lights.
“Look at that.” I point out the window to a house that has an alarmingly real-looking Santa that appears to be stuck in their chimney headfirst. “I don’t know if that’s cute or traumatizing.
If Lindsey had seen something like that as a kid, she would have been convinced it was real and that we needed to save him.
I would have had to knock on their door with a weeping five-year-old and beg them to prove Santa wasn’t actually stranded up there. ”
He laughs. “Why do I get the feeling you’re speaking from experience?”
“Because I am,” I say. “We had a neighbor for a few years that went all out for their holiday displays, and they had a similar decoration one time. Only theirs was the back end of a reindeer that looked to have crashed into an upstairs window. Lindsey was so distraught when she saw it that she managed to call 911 without me knowing. Imagine my surprise when two very confused EMTs showed up at my door after getting a call about an injury.”
“That kid of yours sure has a good heart. I believe she’d help anyone.”
“She would, and she does. Lindsey is like her dad, through and through.”
He glances over at me and smiles. “I think she’s a lot like you too.”
We pull onto my road, and I see the glow of a massive light display up ahead.
“Oooh, I wonder whose lights those are,” I say. “They must have just put them out. I thought I’d seen everyone’s decorations on this street.”
Ron doesn’t say anything as we approach my house, bringing the lights closer and closer into view.
“Wow. That’s beautiful. Whose house is th—” I cut myself off with a gasp when I finally see the source of the holiday cheer. “That’s my house.”
Ron pulls into my driveway as I shake my head in bewilderment.
“What on earth?” I press my fingers to my open mouth as we climb out of the car, and he follows me as I walk toward the middle of the yard so I can take it all in.
“How? Who could have done this?” I ask, the corners of my eyes stinging. “It couldn’t have been the kids because they would’ve had to do it while I’ve been with you, and there’s no way they could have finished something like this in that amount of time.”
Ron chuckles, curling an arm around my shoulders. “It was Oliver. He called and told me about his plan because he wanted to make sure I was still picking you up.”
I have no words as I stare ahead at my perfect gingerbread house.
I blink rapidly, my vision becoming a viewfinder of the past. Each time my eyes close, there’s a flash of Henry and me, standing in this very spot with the kids whose tiny faces are tipped back in awe.
It was beautiful then, and it’s beautiful now.
“Of course it was,” I say, unable to stop smiling. “That precious boy.”
“He really outdid himself, didn’t he?”
“Did he ever.” Laughter bubbles out of me as I loop my arm through Ron’s and start up the walk.
With every step, I notice something new. The giant lollipops that stand out from behind the shrubs, the snowman that tips his hat, and the way the hundreds, if not thousands, of lights on the roof twinkle like a starry night sky.
“This couldn’t have been a more perfect night,” I say as we climb the porch steps.
But standing with Ron in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, I know that’s not entirely true. There is one thing that could make it even more special, only I’m not sure I have the guts to do it.
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of something green hanging above the center of the doorframe: mistletoe. Maybe it’s a sign. Or maybe Oliver knew exactly what he was doing when he put it there. Either way, it’s the push I need.
“Actually, now that I think of it, there is something that could make it better.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
I don’t say a word, I don’t overthink. To be honest, I’m not even sure I’m breathing when I close the distance between us, take his face in my hands, and kiss him.