Eight
Winter
When it’s clear I can’t get out of going with Saint to the ornament shop, I finally give up.
Mom rushes us out the door with a promise of dropping off lunch for us later.
That was sweet, but it means she anticipates us being there for several hours.
I was hoping this would be a quick trip. Guess not.
Saint started his vehicle with the remote start to warm it up about ten minutes ago, so when we head out into the chilly weather, I book it toward the electric blue SUV that’s running in the driveway.
“Interesting choice,” I snark at him while I’m buckling.
“Yeah, Mom had eclectic taste.”
“This was your mom’s?”
When he nods while backing out, I think, well, crap. I just insulted his dead mother’s taste in vehicles. I’m a jerk.
The drive to town is filled with awkward silence.
My family’s farm is about twenty minutes north of the town, but in the tense quiet, it feels so much longer.
I turn on the radio and flip between stations to try to stifle the discomfort, but many of the channels are not coming in clearly.
An unfortunate side effect of wintertime in the mountain area.
Defeated, I turn it back off and decide to suffer through the drive.
When we get close, I perk up. It’s been so long since I’ve been home, and I’m curious to see what’s changed over the years.
As we enter the downtown square, we pass the post office, realtor, jewelry store, and the only clothing store in Yule.
They all look the same as they did years ago.
In the center of the square, the gazebo stands tall, surrounded by gardens that are currently barren but will bloom in spring and summer.
It looks like the gazebo has been painted recently, giving it a fresh appearance.
Wordlessly, we exit the SUV when it’s parked at the ornament store.
When we walk through the doors, a wave of nostalgia crashes against me, threatening to pull me under.
I look around the shop, taking in my surroundings.
It seems the same as it did when I was growing up.
The only thing it’s missing is Joy. She was the heart and soul of this place.
Memories of helping paint ornaments with her come to the forefront of my mind.
Usually starting in October, my mother would send me here after school a few days a week to help Joy.
Saint and I would be forced to play nice for a couple of hours as his mom would assign us ceramic ornaments to paint to help fulfill orders.
More than once, the ornaments we helped with had to be scrapped because we often got into arguments and “accidentally” flung paint in each other’s direction. The ornaments, unfortunately, would become collateral damage.
The kind and loving woman that Joy was, she never got angry at us despite our messes. She would have us start over and remind us that someday we wouldn’t fight so much. It was always some cryptic nonsense, but I never argued with her about it.
It feels awful to know I spent so many years avoiding coming home, and now I’ll never see her again.
I should have been better than the petty version of myself that I’d been.
I should have come back home despite my desire to avoid Saint.
The grief of her loss feels like missing a vital limb after not realizing you’ve been lost without it.
The warmth of a tear running down my cheek startles me.
I didn’t realize I was crying until it slid across my skin.
Hastily, I try to wipe it off and sniff, trying to get myself under control.
It’s okay to miss Joy, but hopefully, I can hold it together while I’m here, especially in the presence of her son.
I would hate to have to discuss my feelings with him.
Once I have myself under control, I turn to Saint with the intention of asking what I can help with. Before I get any words out, the front door opens, and in walks Sandy. My face lights up at seeing her again, and I embrace her in a tight hug.
“Let me get a look at you,” she says, holding me at arm’s length.
I hold still under her inspection like a cadet being assessed by their commanding officer.
“You’re all grown up, my dear.” She grabs my hands and gives them a small squeeze. The old woman tears up as she says, “Joy would have been so happy to see you here.”
Oh no, the waterworks start up again in my own eyes, so I hide them by giving her another hug.
“I’m surprised you’re still working here,” I admit.
Sandy has been a long-time fixture at the shop, having worked with Joy since the business’s early days. She was the only employee. While a kind woman, she never put up with any crap from Saint or me. Often, she was the one to break up our disagreements and set us straight.
“I told Saint that I plan to work here until I die. He’ll just have to wheel me back to the kiln to cremate me, save myself some money that way.” She winks in Saint’s direction. I’ve missed Sandy’s morbid sense of humor.
“And I’ve already told you that it doesn’t get to a high enough temperature,” he responds.
“Aww, you’ve done some research for me.” She smiles.
Saint clears his throat from behind us. “You can help Sandy with shipping today. We have a lot of orders that are ready to be processed. She’ll show you the list.” Then he stalks to a door across the room and disappears.
We work for hours wrapping the ceramic pieces in bubble wrap, packing them, printing shipping labels, and placing them in boxes for the post office collection. During that time, Saint never reemerges. My dismay at having to spend all day with him was unnecessary, since he’s vanished.
At around noon, my mother stops by with the sandwiches she promised, as well as some individual bags of chips.
I tell her that Saint’s in the back, hoping she’ll take his food to him.
However, it appears that she’s on errands and has to run.
Sandy has already left the building for lunch break at the local diner across the street.
So I’m stuck having to bring him his food.
Either that or I set it aside and let him go hungry.
My attitude toward him has softened slightly today as I missed his mother, and I decide to do the nice thing by taking it to him.
I head to the door with his food. When I was younger, I swear there wasn’t a door back here. The whole space was an open industrial-style brick room. I hesitate for a minute when I reach it, but I’m too curious to hold off for long. Grabbing the handle, I swing it open and stop dead in my tracks.
It’s an art studio. Throughout the room, various types of art are displayed. Pottery and sculptures take up a four-tiered shelf on one wall. There are paintings stacked on top of each other. All sorts of supplies are organized in different bins.
In the center of the room stands Saint. He turns my way, obviously having heard me open the door. He’s wearing a thick apron with various art tools sticking out of multiple pockets. He holds a wooden paint palette in one hand and a brush in the other.
“Um.” I clear my throat, taking a second before I can speak again. “There’s some lunch here for you.” I lift it as if he wouldn’t believe me without proof.
“You can set it over there.” He points to a small, clean table across the room.
He sets stuff down, then turns the water on to wash his hands. I busy myself with arranging his lunch and avoid looking at him as I gather my thoughts.
When I can’t organize the food further without appearing crazy, I turn back to Saint. Instead, my eyes catch on the canvas he was painting on when I entered. I can’t contain the gasp that slips out in my shock. Not only is it breathtakingly beautiful, but I realize it’s a painting of me.
We both stay silent, staring at one another. I wait for him to say something, anything about why he was painting me, but he doesn’t. His cheeks tinge red as he grabs his lunch off the table and leaves the room.