Chapter 8
8
N ick
The thing is, she has a point. My back is killing me. I’m pretty sure I pulled a forearm muscle swinging that axe the other day, and my sleep schedule has gone straight to hell. Last night, I tossed and turned until three a.m., finally fell asleep, then woke up again two hours later in a cold sweat courtesy of a fever dream that took place almost one year ago. Hazy on the details and many things embellished, but it sure felt real.
We were in a helicopter hovering over the coast of Nantucket, admiring the shoreline and the school of stingrays swimming below us while scoping out a beach house situated on its own private patch of land. An island of sorts. I was snapping photos from the air and making a mental placement map for a future garden, gazebo, and boat dock. That part actually happened. But in the dream, two seconds later, the helicopter’s engine cut, sending the helicopter and its passengers careening toward that same school of offshore stingrays, the sound of screams mingling with the cries of dolphins and the break of the waves, all melding together in a terrified roar. No single sound was identifiable.
Much like the mass of bodies and metal in the aftermath.
That part happened, too.
It just didn’t involve me.
From five o’clock on, I lay in a pool of feverish sweat and tried to shake the memories. I couldn’t. Since then, I’ve drifted from one task to another while nursing a headache, sore muscles, and a foul mood. Susan called first thing this morning and I sent her to voicemail. Barry swung by to say hello, and I hid inside my bedroom. Andy texted to invite me to dinner, and I claimed a low-grade fever. The only thing I want now is a fifth of bourbon and maybe a couple Tylenol. Sucks to know you have more in common with a parrot than anyone else. Then again, there’s a reason that stupid bird sounds like a drunk. I’m the idiot who taught him.
I fill a tumbler with ice. There isn’t much about my house I would consider fancy, but I do keep a nice bar cart at the ready. There’s even a tabletop pellet ice maker perched atop it with a stainless-steel scoop resting at the base. It was a gift for my Sonic-loving wife Sherry, and when she opened it, she?—
I reach for the bourbon. For the record, I live my life ninety-six percent sober. The other five percent is reserved for days when I want to forget everything that has happened in the past year. Today is one of those days. Right now, I can’t pour fast enough.
I stop pouring when I glance toward my glass-framed front door and see the top of a woman’s head bouncing past the periphery, the rest of her head covered by a large cardboard box. A couple things about this. One, how hard can it possibly be to deliver a package to the right address? And two, this chick one-clicks Amazon like no one I’ve ever seen. Maybe she should consider putting some boundaries between herself and her credit card. I smile at my own internal joke and return the bottle of bourbon to the tray. You’ve got to admit that might make for an interesting podcast. Turn the focus on Low, for once.
I throw open the front door, not even feeling bad when she jumps and drops the box.
“Hope that isn’t breakable,” I quip while honestly kinda hoping it is.
“It isn’t,” she bites back. “Though the delivery boy’s face might be the next time I see him. This is getting out of control.”
I lean against the door frame and watch her struggle. “Are we talking about his terrible delivery ability or your spending habits? At this point, it’s a toss-up.”
She can barely pick up the box, but she does an impressive job of shooting me a death glare over the top of it.
“Says the man whose panties and nipple cream showed up at my door the first day I arrived.”
Okay, that needs to be cleared up pronto. “My sister ordered those things and had them delivered to my house. She had some sort of infection.” Maybe I shouldn’t have shared that. “And you shouldn’t be going through other people’s mail.”
“I wasn’t going through—” She makes an exasperated sound in the back of her throat. “I thought I was opening my own packages, seeing as it was delivered to my house. I didn’t yet know I was living in backwoods Rhode Island, where addresses are out of order and don’t matter anyway. Are you going to help me with this or not?”
I’m seriously considering the “or not” part of her request until I remember offering my services only yesterday. I take the box out of her hands, carry it down the steps, and deposit it in the back of my truck. Life lately has been one Groundhog Day after another.
“You can put it in the back of my car if you’d rather.”
“I would do that, but then I’d just wind up standing at the window watching you struggle to get it inside your house. As entertaining as that sounds, I might as well make myself useful.”
She rolls her eyes. “Thanks a lot for small favors.”
“All these small favors are adding up to one big one…”
That glare returns to her eyes. “You know what, Nick?”
“No, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know. Just hop in your car, Low, and lead the way to the house. I’m right behind you.” I climb inside my truck and slam the door, wondering how I got stuck with such a needy, annoying neighbor. Wondering how my mood went from bitter to upbeat at the sight of said annoying neighbor. Wondering why I’m suddenly smiling. And most troubling of all…
Wondering when my thing for redheads turned into an all-out infatuation.
“You ever seen the show Hoarders?” I ask. It’s an innocent question that shouldn’t warrant such an unflattering huff from Low.
“It can’t be considered hoarding when everything you own is new,” she protests. “Hoarding is for old things people can’t let go of.”
I raise an eyebrow in the direction of a six-foot mound of flattened cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. There must be at least a dozen, maybe two. Sam and Rowan could build a box fort the size of a Beverly Hills mansion with the number of boxes she’s accumulated in the past week alone.
“I’m putting those out with tomorrow’s trash,” Low says with an eye roll.
“Just pointing out that your buying habits might need an intervention, not that I’m judging.”
“Says everyone when they are, in fact, judging.”
I shrug. “Touché.” I drop the box on the rug next to the mound of other boxes because it seems like the logical place. “What is this?”
“An antique China tea set I bought on heirlooms dot com. Pretty sure you just broke it.”
“My bad,” I say, knowing full well she’s lying. “But what is it, really?”
“A comforter set I ordered from West End.” My face must’ve transformed into “a look” because she gets defensive. “Have you seen my grandmother’s bedspread? I cannot sleep under a tapestry of exotic birds for the next five months. That stupid parrot is bad enough. I was starting to feel phantom wings flapping against my forehead in the middle of the night. Not the greatest sensation for a woman living alone.”
At that, I laugh. She has a point. Poor George already found himself an enemy, not that I can blame her. He’s asked for a shot of bourbon twice since I walked inside, and it’s only been three minutes, tops.
“George wants a shot of…” He’s at it again.
Low growls at his words, which makes me laugh harder.
“I really should murder you for that,” she says to me.
“I suppose you could. Or you could pour some bourbon in his water dish and see what happens…”
She appears to think about it but shakes her head. “As much as I would like to explore that idea further, I’m not killing the bird. Not today, anyway. Ask me again tomorrow.”
“You hear that, George?” I quip, tapping his cage. “You get to live another day.” I gesture to the box and look at Low. “You want help setting this up?” Curiously, her face turns a light shade of pink.
“The comforter?” she asks, and it could be my imagination, but her voice seems to shake slightly on the second word. “For my bedroom?”
It’s a silly thing to focus on, but I pretend to miss her meaning. What does she think I’m going to do, jump her bones on the mattress pad? “Yes, unless you’d rather do it alone. But I don’t have anything going on for the next hour or so if you want help.”
“Actually, I think I can handle it myself. But there is something else you could help me with…”
The statement is so oddly suggestive that I feel my own face start to burn a bit.
Ten minutes later, my overactive imagination fizzled into a pile of musty attic dust. Quite literally.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask her again. “It seems like a sin if you want my opinion. But we can do it if that’s what you really want.”
“It isn’t what I want, but it needs to happen. It’s been a long time for me, and I can’t let another year go by without the experience. So, help me get it up, please.”
I blow out some air and lean down, then pull the tree higher with all my might. This thing is huge, even by my standards. And I’ve seen some very big ones, albeit none shedding flaky white skin like a bad case of adolescent dandruff. Loretta takes pride in having clean floors. The sight of this would ruin her mood indefinitely. Then again…
“And you say Loretta bought this thing?”
Low groans under the weight of it. “Yes. Which is crazy, considering she’s normally so tidy. Look at the mess it’s making all over the floor.”
I set it down and take a step back, wondering if it’s the flocking or the ten-foot-tall aspect that made this Christmas tree so heavy. It could be the artificial part, which, in my estimation, is practically sacrilegious. Then again, I’m not sure they decorated Christmas trees in Bible times, so my estimation might be a stretch. Odds are they just bought Jesus a birthday cake.
“What do you mean by a long time?”
Curiously, she doesn’t look at me. “The last time I remember having a Christmas tree, I lived at home with my parents.”
I do a double-take. “How many years ago was that?”
And now she’s glaring at me. “You ask that like you think I’m old. It’s been nearly a decade.”
I study her, then the tree, then her again. “And this monstrosity is what you chose to go with on your first Christmas back?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, I just moved in. I’m tired of ordering heavy things that will be delivered to the wrong address anyway, and I have no idea where one buys a real Christmas tree around here. Besides, pine needles are messy.”
I glance at the floor and smirk. “I see your point. If wanting to avoid a mess was the goal, this flocked thing was the perfect choice.” My pulse sputters when she laughs. I suspect making Low laugh is a hard-fought battle, and I feel like I just won a small victory. My mind spins with ways to make it happen again.
“Fair enough.” She continues to giggle while walking in the direction of the laundry room. She emerges with a broom and dustpan. Fake snow is all over the floor, but before long, a little mound of white begins to form.
“Cadbury Farm, that’s where you’ll find real trees. You can even chop one down yourself if you’re feeling festive enough.”
“Cadbury, like the egg?” She blows a strand of hair off her forehead and continues to sweep, giving the tree we just set up a perturbed glare. “You could have told me this sooner.”
I smile. “Same name, but unfortunately for them, a different family. And I didn’t know today was your scheduled Christmas tree day, or I would have told you.”
She sighs. “I’ve never been to a Christmas tree farm before. That sounds like a Hallmark movie come to life. Does Mr. Cadbury sport a red flannel shirt and the perfect five-o’clock shadow? If so, I demand you take me there now so we can fall in love by the end of the night.” She gives a breathy laugh at her little joke while I fight to ignore the way I don’t like her fantasy of Mr. Cadbury. In reality, he’s a sixty-six-year-old man with a beer belly as round as his balding head, but that’s unimportant, considering I don’t own a flannel anything and don’t have a five-o’clock shadow. I make a mental note to stop shaving immediately, then chastise myself for caring at all.
What is wrong with me lately? Guilt eats at me at the envy that won’t let up. So, I blurt the most logical thing.
“I still need a tree if you want to go with me.”
What the hell did I just say? Go with me? Like on a date?
“You want me to go with you to find a Christmas tree?” She tilts her head like she’s considering it while I tell myself it’s not a date. Absolutely not a date. We’ll take my sister and the kids to make sure of it. I open my mouth to say as much.
“Okay. Sounds like fun.”
I slam my lips closed at her words, ignoring her tiny smile and the minuscule glimmer of excitement that sparks in my chest. First of all, I don’t glimmer. Second of all, I don’t get excited about anything but repair projects and football these days. Third of all…
I’m struggling to find a “third of all.”
“Want to head out after you’re finished decorating this one?” I hear myself saying.
She looks up at the tree with a grimace. “I still need to find the decorations, and I have no clue where to look. Besides, now this tree looks depressing compared to a chopped-down real one from the forest.”
“Not really a forest,” I say. “More of a tree farm.”
She turns to me. “Either way, it’s better than this. Want to go now?”
Now? Right now? My plan to bring the kids won’t have a chance if we leave now. I’m not sure how I feel about that…how I feel about being alone with her doing anything at all.
Even though I’m technically alone with her now.
“Sure. I just need to swing back by my place to grab a saw.”
When her eyebrows raise, and she gives me an impressed look, I can’t decide if the saw is for the tree or for my quickly escalating attraction to Low. One of them needs to be chopped down fast.
“So let me get this straight. You’ve somehow managed to narrow down your options to an artificial eyesore already standing in your living room, or…this?” A cute little divot appears between her eyebrows as she frowns at me. But come on. This tree manages to make Charlie Brown’s tree look plush and full.
“What’s wrong with this one?”
I side-eye the tree, then her. “Everything. It’s missing half of the back. And it’s leaning to the right.”
“It’s a moderately conservative tree, then.”
I roll my eyes. “Cute. But it’s still ugly.”
“Don’t call it ugly. I’ll prop it with books and face the empty part toward the window.”
“So, the neighbors have to look at it? Sounds real festive.”
“What neighbors? The only person close to me is you.”
“Exactly. Now I’m offended.” A hint of a smile tilts one corner of her mouth, and my insides trip against my will.
“Fine,” she says. “Find me a better tree, then.”
I don’t point out that we haven’t yet found me a tree, but I don’t care. I’m having too much fun hanging out with Low, and if that means we’re stuck here all afternoon…so be it. Cadbury Farm is a quaint patch of land tucked away on the outskirts of town between a national grocery chain and a hardware store. If you aren’t from around here, you’d be hard-pressed to notice it while whizzing by on the highway; even those of us who live here often forget about it in the off-season. They sell plants in the spring and produce in the summer and pumpkins in the fall, but Christmas is when the farm really comes to life. Maybe it’s the twinkling lights, the North Pole archway set up at the front entrance, or the wide array of decorations that make the place light up like a Hallmark movie by early November, but the farm screams Christmas and smells of it just as strongly. Pack the place full of evergreen and peppermint, and you’ll find yourself wanting to stay for hours, much like I’m wanting to do now.
And the fact that Low is here with me doesn’t hurt.
Plus, I’ve already seen the perfect tree. One swipe of a debit card and Low will be loaded up and ready to go. As for said tree, I had it in mind for me, but we can’t always get what we want.
“Done.” I lead her to the tree and stand it upright for Low to inspect. “What about this one?” It’s seven feet tall, as wide as Santa himself, and perfect. The kind of tree that Rowan likes to tuck herself underneath every year, declaring she can watch the lights best from that view. It’s Christmas personified to a seven- year-old girl who dreams of presents and sugarplums, holiday magic, and reindeer wishes. And catching Santa in the act of dropping off gifts.
Low’s eyes light up, and I know I’ve hooked her. There’s a lot to be said for small victories. But then that little divot appears between her eyebrows, and she looks at me.
“But we came here for you. You should buy it for yourself.”
“If it’ll make you happy, it’s yours. Besides, anything is better than the eyesore current trying to pass as festive in your living room. I, for one, don’t want to look at it all season.” When she still seems unconvinced, I try a new tactic. “Tell you what, I picked out one for you, so you pick one for me. Deal?”
She grins. “Deal. And I have just the one?—”
“Oh no,” I interrupt her, nodding to the backless tree. “I’m not taking home that joy-sucking thing, so pick a different one.”
Her mouth falls open. “Be nice. It can hear you.”
“Good,” I say. “Quit posing as an acceptable tree,” I half-shout to the fir, honestly feeling kind of guilty for insulting a defenseless, inanimate object. If plants have feelings, I just hurt the heck out of this one. But whatever. I’m not getting suckered into taking it.
Low sighs. “Fine, let’s find another one. But hurry up about it. I don’t have all day.”
At that, I nearly laugh. Because she does have all day—the rest of it, at least. I’ve seen the way she putters around her yard, wandering aimlessly throughout the afternoon after her podcast wraps. She has all the time in the world.
And I’m going to take up every second of it.
“Okay, well, chopping down Christmas trees isn’t nearly as festive as the movies make you think it is,” Low says, pulling yet another piece of evergreen from her hair and depositing it on the floorboard of my truck. At last count, that makes four. The cab of my pickup smells like a cheap evergreen air freshener, the paper kind they hand out at car washes that swing on a string from your rearview mirror. “Not to mention, it’s a very sticky process.”
I laugh because she’s right on both counts. My right hand is raw where the saw slipped. I scraped my palm on the trunk, and a splinter went through, and sap gathered between each finger, making gripping the steering wheel an unpleasant feeling. I keep opening and closing my fist. Thank God the splinter slipped out easily. Getting rid of everything else might be tricky.
“Yeah, but you’ve got to admit it was a fun experience. And this tree will look a lot better in your living room than the one you have at home. All in all, I think the trip was worth it.”
“Even though you didn’t find one for yourself?”
She’s right, I didn’t. But not because I’m picky or indecisive but because Susan called to remind me that she needs me to take her to the Christmas tree farm tomorrow with the kids, something I apparently promised and no longer remembered. I tend to do that—overly extend myself with no recollection of doing it. I played it off to Low that I just couldn’t find a tree I liked well enough to buy. I can’t have her knowing she’s right about the whole boundary thing. I lack them; I wouldn’t know where to start drawing them. Low’s head is already big enough, and I can’t risk inflating it more. Even if her head is a pretty one.
I realize I’m staring at her and quickly force my eyes back on the road. I clear my throat.
“Yes, even if I didn’t find one myself. I’m sure I will eventually, and?—”
“Who are those people standing in your driveway?” Low asks as I turn left into hers. Looking over my shoulder, I see the people in question, and my heart drops into my stomach. It’s a long fall for such an unexpected and uncomfortable sight. Guilt descends at the thought, but I haven’t seen them in months, and I don’t feel like having a reunion now. Not with Low sitting next to me in the truck, not when they might have seen me laughing, and not on the very day that I began to entertain the possibility of moving on.
“Let me guess,” Low continues, “it’s someone you’re doing a project for? Someone who needs help washing their dog, repairing a privacy fence, or repainting their house? Honestly, Nick, I’m not trying to harp here, but you really need to set some firmer boundaries. If you’re interested, I can help?—”
“I’m not interested.” The words come out harsher than I intended, but they’re necessary all the same. She can’t help me with this. Not her or her podcast or her two-hundred thousand listeners or her expertise on boundaries. Though, in hindsight, I wish I’d pre-set a few in this situation. Now, nothing can help except personal bravery and my own willingness to face things head-on. Again. “Sorry, but I don’t need help. Not with this.”
Hurt flits across her gaze before she blinks it away. But rather than dropping the subject, she unwisely tries a new tactic.
“I know you might believe that, but?—”
I come to a stop in front of her house, shove the gear into Park, and unlock the door. “This is where the discussion ends. I need to drop you here and head home. I’ll bring the tree back later and help set it up.”
When she frowns, I face the front windshield. My determination doesn’t need the chance to crack, but if I study her face, it will. Swiftly and irreparably, and I’ll never hear the end of it. I stare straight ahead. Some things you have to handle on your own whether you want to or not.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine, but I need to go. I’ll see you later, Low.”
She reluctantly nods, then slides out of the car without a word. I should say something. I should apologize for being so abrupt, but I’m too flustered to stick around. This is the worst possible end to the best afternoon I’ve had in recent memory. Why now, after all this time? It’s like we’re tethered to some invisible radar entitled Remind Nick How Much We Hate Him. I’ve already proven every point I can prove. And I’ll never forget.
So why are my in-laws standing on my front porch, undoubtedly with more questions about their daughter’s death…questions I’ve never been able to answer? I wasn’t there, wasn’t around for her final moments on this earth, even if I should have been. Even if I hate myself for it, too.
Even if I have to live with that decision for the rest of my life.