Chapter 9
FLETCH
The veterinarian’s office hosts a tree decorated with paw print and dog bone ornaments, felt garlands, and holiday-themed chew toys.
In the exam room, Dr. Meyers runs her hand gently along the dog’s back, offering calm comfort to the scared animal. “No microchip and no collar, obviously. Given his condition, I’d say he’s been on his own for at least a few weeks.”
The dog—whom I’ve been mentally calling Dasher, though I haven’t shared this with Bree—looks slightly better after being cleaned up. He’s still skinny, but his brown eyes are alert and trusting now, especially when they land on me.
“What happens to him now?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
“Well, technically, he should go to the county animal shelter,” Dr. Meyers says, sounding as reluctant as I feel.
“Are there other options?” Bree asks, surprising me.
“It’s the holidays and they’re already overcrowded. He’d be at high risk for euthanasia, especially given his age and condition.”
Bree’s eyes widen. “How old is he?”
“I’d estimate around five or six. Not old for a mixed breed his size, but not a puppy either. I’d like to keep him here for observation for a few hours while you decide what to do, but after that ...”
Bree’s phone buzzes again. She checks the screen and frowns. “It’s my mother again. Apparently, Mrs. Gormely saw us at my parents’ house.”
“Concerned citizen?” I hazard a guess, but am using the manners my mother taught me as code for town gossip.
The vet suppresses a chuckle.
“The queen of nosy neighbors. She’s probably already told half the town that I was at the house on Cornsilk Drive with a strange man. This means I need to do damage control.”
“I’ll come with you. After all, I’m not a strange man. I’m your husband.”
To my surprise, Bree doesn’t object. To Dr. Meyers, she says, “We’ll be back for the dog later today.”
“We will?” I can’t keep the hope from my voice.
Her shoulders drift with a shrug as if part of her is afraid to commit, but the other, bigger part of her can’t say no.
As we’re leaving, Bree gets another call. Her expression shifts abruptly into a neutral mask. “Hello, Mom. Yes, I’m—we’re on our way.” She pauses. “Yes, that’s right.”
I can only hear half the conversation, but Bree’s tone tightens.
“Be there soon.” She ends the call with a sigh that puffs her cheeks. “Do you mind if we change plans slightly? My mother wants to meet you.”
“I already said I’d join you,” I gently remind her, sensing she needs a buffer, backup.
During the drive, I find myself thinking about Bree’s childhood home. The neglected Victorian has good bones, as I told her earlier. With some work, it could be beautiful again. I wonder if I could help her with it because I see the potential there.
I pull into the visitor parking lot at Golden Years Village, married yet neither one of us has met the parents. “Any advice about meeting your mom?”
Bree runs a hand through her hair. “My mother is not exactly the warm and fuzzy type. More concerned with appearances than anything else. Just be yourself.”
“I can do that,” I say with confidence.
Monique Darling’s apartment is decorated in shades of beige and cream.
Everything is coordinated and tasteful, if a bit impersonal.
Like I imagine Bree’s childhood home once was, it feels designed to impress rather than be a place to kick off your shoes and stay a while.
My house was the neighborhood hang-out zone and well-lived in.
Then again, with four boys plus my dad, Mom couldn’t have kept up with appearances if she wanted to.
Granted, it was clean and we had everything we needed, but there was proof of life everywhere you looked—toys, tennis shoes, textbooks—everything accumulated in piles over the years.
“Bree,” Monique says, not giving her daughter so much as a hello hug. She’s a slender woman with silver hair cut in a precise bob.
“You come home unannounced and alone and now you have a husband. How exactly did this happen? Fletch, is it?” She scans me from head to toe as if conducting an insurance appraisal.
Bree’s face pinches like she’s trying to come up with a clear way to explain the truth. Instead, I open my arms and wrap the older woman in a hug. She sure looks like she could use one. Mrs. Darling makes a little yelp of surprised delight in my arms.
I step back and introduce myself. “Yes, ma’am. Fletch Turley. I play hockey for the Nebraska Knights. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Mrs. Darling looks me up and down. “I thought Bree would bring home a stray or a cowboy, not a big boy like you.”
Bree’s cheeks darken and her eyes widen. “I didn’t—it’s not—”
“A hockey player. How ... athletic?” She says it like it’s halfway between a compliment and a curiosity, but she can’t decide.
Bree looks at me and then at the door as if offering me an escape route.
Mrs. Darling says, “Come in, sit down. I’ve made tea.”
The conversation is awkward with fits and starts. I find myself doing most of the talking.
Monique—she insists I call her by her first name—asks pointed questions about my career, my family, and how Bree and I met.
I stick close to the truth where possible, embellishing only the romantic aspects.
Bree remains mostly silent, a version of her I haven’t seen before—smaller somehow, quiet, and contained where I’d expect her to spin a yarn about our romantic meet cute or whatever it’s called, given her storytelling occupation.
Studying us over her teacup, Monique says, “You make an … unexpected couple. Fletch, you’re immediately noticeable in any room, while Bree tends to blend into the background.” She says this without malice, as if stating a simple fact.
Bree may as well be a statue in a Victorian garden.
But I don’t like it. Not a bit because this isn’t strictly true about Bree—at least from what I can remember.
“You’re saying I stand out? Having three brothers will do that to a guy.”
Monique continues as if showing a pony at a thoroughbred event, “Bree’s understated appearance highlights your more polished, athletic presence. The visual contrast between you is quite interesting—her soft features versus your more defined build.”
I feel Bree tense beside me, though her expression remains neutral. An overwhelming desire to protect her builds inside.
“Actually,” I say, slowly taking my wife’s hand, “what I notice most when we’re together is how everyone gravitates toward her.
She has a quiet magnetism that draws people in.
That’s what made her so successful at the college newspaper.
She was a star, illuminating dim places.
Now, she translates that onto the page, captivating her readers.
I’m just the lucky guy who gets to be in her glow. ”
Bree’s surprised gaze meets mine, a flush of color spreading across her cheeks.
Monique’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Fascinating. I learn something new every day.”
I grunt. From what I’ve gathered, maybe Monique would know about her daughter if she ever bothered to look past her own nose.
By the time we leave, I’ve managed to charm Bree’s mother into showing me a family photo album. It’s abundantly apparent that the sweet little girl who became a beautiful woman was the only bright spot in that household. As we walk to the car, Bree seems both relieved and puzzled.
“My mother actually liked you,” she says, sounding bewildered.
“Is that so surprising?” Though I admit, at times I would’ve rather given Monique a piece of my mind.
“She tends to look at people in terms of what she can gain.”
“That wasn’t lost on me. Being in the NHL, I’ve run across plenty of people like that.”
“She seemed to enjoy your company, a rarity.”
“Are you saying that you don’t?”
She cuts a glance at me as if she’s undecided, but that’s better than a solid no.
“Maybe I’ve grown up and am not quite the college jokester you remember.” I silently laugh to myself. I very much am—ask any of the guys on the team, but I don’t intend to play with Bree’s emotions. Seems like she’s had a hard enough time with her parents.
I hold the truck’s door open for her.
She looks at me, and the late-afternoon light frames her features in such a way that illuminates the glow I mentioned earlier, sending a rush of desire through me that’s so strong I might have to rethink just how deep attraction can run, because I’ve never felt quite this way before.
Snapping me out of my thoughts, Bree says, “Now everyone is going to know.”
“The mayor already broadcast Cobbiton’s ‘power couple’, which means—”
“I’m more concerned about my mother and Mrs. Gormely.”
“So?” I ask, wanting her to tell me why the opinions of snooty town gossips would bother her. My job has taught me to ignore the haters.
She turns to face me. “Because it’s not about love.”
I arch an eyebrow. “So you do believe in the stuff.”
“Love?” She swallows as if not sure how to answer or is afraid of what’ll happen if she does.
This seems like it could turn into an interesting conversation. One I would very much like to have with Bree—my wife. I get in the truck and ask, “Coffee?”
“Sure. We should talk about the toy drive.”
And love.
The new Coffee Loft franchise offers numerous festively warm, caffeinated beverages on its chalkboard sign. I get a seasonal latte and Bree sticks with black tea.
We claim a corner table and I review the email Mayor Nishimura’s office sent. Bree is all business now, focused and efficient as we outline a plan for collecting and distributing the toys.
“We should set up collection points at the ice rink and the library. Some of the other businesses with space available like the bakery, too.” She looks around as if evaluating a spot here as well.