Thirty
Saint
Not long after the night Winter stayed at my house with me, she started being distant. For the last week, she’s barely been around. Said she’s been working on her book proposal for her agent, but she’s no longer working on it at my house like she was before.
Since her dad moved into the rehab center, her mom has been spending considerably more time back at their house because they have more restricted hours for visitors compared to the hospital. Plus, I think Evaline is feeling a lot better about things now that Gene’s situation isn’t so dire.
Douglas hasn’t been home much. He leaves for school in the mornings and doesn’t come home until the late hours of the night, far past his curfew.
We’re all still worried about him, but Evaline said she’ll keep an eye on things.
She’s trying to give him room to process everything that happened with his dad before psychoanalyzing him.
She made sure to remind me that when Winter and I were teenagers, we didn’t always want to talk about our feelings either. Point taken.
It’s almost Christmas, and today I have to deliver a painting that was commissioned for a local elderly couple.
The man had seen one of my paintings displayed at the county fair art show and asked to commission a garden scene for his wife.
He said she was a gardening enthusiast back in the day, but that due to mobility issues, she is mostly unable to do it anymore.
He thought the painting would help her still hold onto a little piece of what she loved.
I swing by my studio space downtown, and since the weather isn’t too bad, I decide I’ll walk the package to their house, which isn’t too far from the square.
When I arrive at the studio, I unlock the doors and step inside, then flip on the lights. Even though it’s usually just me and Sandy working here, the emptiness and silence feel oppressive.
When I was little, I loved coming here and helping my mom after school.
And as I got older, she would set up an easel for me to work on whatever my newest art obsession was at the time.
This was our place. The place where we were happiest, creating things and dreaming.
Sometimes I forget how much I miss her until it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.
Deciding to make this quick, I walk swiftly to the studio room and grab the painting. I find the craft paper I usually wrap the artwork in, and instead of brown, I choose the black one.
I take the paper to the table, unroll it, lay the painting in the middle, measure, and cut the paper.
I wrap it up and fasten the paper with crispy edges—this is something that took a long time for me to master.
My wrapping skills used to be abysmal, but Sandy showed me how my mom used to wrap special holiday gifts a few years ago, and since then, I’ve improved significantly.
I grab a silver marker and carefully label the package, adding a couple of cute little holiday designs on the black paper to make it more festive.
Done with prepping it, I scoop up the package and head out, turning off the lights and locking up as I go.
The temperature is above average for this time of year, but it still has a crisp bite to it, and my breath fogs the air as I breathe. It feels almost refreshing.
Less than five minutes later, I’m knocking on the door of an older Victorian house where the Leaonards live. It doesn’t take long before Mr. Leonard answers the door and ushers me inside.
“Come in, come in.” He waves me to follow to a sitting room not far from the entryway.
He already paid me before I started working. I tried to have him hold off to make sure he was happy with it before he paid, but he insisted that whatever I came up with would be lovely.
“It’s done then?” he asks in excitement. “You didn’t have to come all this way to drop it off, young man. I’m sure you have a lot to do with the holidays almost upon us.”
I wave him off. “I didn’t mind at all. You’re my last commission for the year since I wanted a few weeks off, so I just figured I’d drop it by. It’s not like it was a long trip.”
I hand over the package, and he looks at the black paper with glee. “I can’t wait to show my Irma,” he says excitedly. “Do you mind staying for a minute? I’m sure she’d love for you to be here when she opens it.”
Since I’m not in any rush and the Leonards have always been friendly people, I agree to stick around.
He leaves to get Irma from the kitchen, and a couple of minutes later, he ushers her into the sitting room in her wheelchair with the unopened painting on her lap.
“Charles spoke very highly of your art after he saw your exhibit at the fair,” she tells me, smiling kindly in my direction.
I walk over to where Charles positioned her wheelchair and offer her my hand.
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Leonard.”
She claps my hand in her wrinkly, warm ones, and something about it feels so maternal. Like the comfort of a grandparent—not that I ever had one to compare it to—just what I imagine it would be like.
“Don’t start with that Mrs. Leonard stuff, young man. That always makes me feel so old. I insist you call me Irma.”
I nod, and she gets to work opening the package. The taped side was the back, so when she peels the tape off and pulls the paper away, all she sees is the back of the canvas where I signed and labeled it.
Charles steps forward and lifts the painting just enough to pull off the paper and get it out of the way, while keeping the front of the painting hidden.
When the paper is disposed of, he lifts the canvas and turns so that they can both look at it.
Irma gasps, clutching her chest. At first, the reaction freaks me out a little bit—she is elderly, after all. But it quickly becomes apparent she’s just incredibly moved by the art rather than suffering a malady.
When Charles ordered the work to be done, I had him fill out a little questionnaire, mostly asking personality questions about Irma. It gave me a feel for who would own the painting, and when I read his answers, I knew what I needed to create.
The base of the painting features a bush of peonies in bloom, but the colors are muted. The pink flowers are almost a mauve color, and the leaves and stems have been made a dark green. The color tone gave it a practically Gothic, antique feel.
Charles and Irma are thrilled with my work, gushing on and on about how much they love it. There’s a space above the fireplace mantle of the sitting room where Charles has already cleared a space for it, and he makes quick work of hanging it up while we talk.
From talking with them, Irma is clearly the extrovert in their relationship, and she spends a while asking me questions about my career over tea that they insisted I stay for.
I’m not in a hurry, and they’ve been very kind, so I stay and enjoy their company. As I watch them interact, they almost remind me a little of Winter and me. Is this what we will be like when we’re old and married for decades?
That thought might be jumping the gun a little bit, but it stays true to my hopes for us.
By the time I leave, it’s been almost an hour since I set out to deliver the work. I thank the Leonards for their hospitality, and they send me off with well wishes for the new year.
I walk back to the square with the intention of stopping by the boutique shop to grab a couple of last-minute Christmas gifts before I return to the Evergreens’ home.
As I pass the coffee shop, I consider going in and grabbing a hot chocolate to warm myself up as I pop in and out of the local stores. I stop in front of the door and reach for the handle when I spot Winter inside.
At a table tucked almost in the back corner of the shop, she’s sitting with a man, one that I don’t think is a local, since I’ve never seen him around before. He wears a fancy suit that definitely looks custom and has dark hair that’s slicked back.
They each sip from a ceramic cup rather than the to-go ones.
I think about turning around and leaving sans hot chocolate, but I decide to stick with my plan. But since I want to be able to see what’s going on, I pull my hat down to hide more of my face.
I casually walk to the counter to place my order, and when the teenager working the register asks for the name for my order, I lie. That feels like the only logical move if I don’t want to be caught spying on Winter.
I move to the side and wait for my order, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation they’re having, but also trying not to look like I’m eavesdropping.
I catch little snippets of words, but never full thoughts.
“It’s been so long—” he says.
“Not that long,” she tells him.
“When you’re back in the city—” he starts, but whatever he was going to say is drowned out by the cashier with heavy eye makeup yelling, “Monty,” which is the fictitious name I gave.
I see her head turn slightly, so I quickly back up and wait for her to look at the guy again before I walk closer to the bar to grab my cup.
Swiping it up quickly, I retreat from the shop.
Now that I’m feeling a little rattled, I’ve decided that I’ll do my Christmas shopping trip tomorrow. I need a minute to think, so I go back into my shop and sit on the stool in my studio.
I don’t even bother to turn on the overhead light, sticking to just the little desk lamp on the side of the room.
I sit in the semidarkness, sipping my hot chocolate and thinking.
Clearly, I was right about him not being a local. From the little tidbits of conversation I caught, he’s from New York City, too.
This morning I’d invited Winter to spend the day with me, but she said she needed to work. But this guy didn’t seem like working to me. Was their meet-up a date?
My stomach roils at the thought of Winter being on a date with another guy. But I also have to acknowledge that despite my subtle hints, she has done her best to avoid the ‘define the relationship’ talk.
After setting my cup on top of my workstation, I walk over to the filing cabinet, take out my keyring, open the only drawer that has a lock, and pull out the binder inside.
This binder has been my secret for the past several years—no one knows of its existence, not Sandy, who I share the space with, not even our friends.
Flipping it open, I look through all the small pieces of Winter I’ve collected since she left.
The first article she wrote for the school newspaper of the university she attended is at the front. Her mother bought copies online and gave one out to almost every person she knew in town. She was so proud of Winter for using her talents.
A graduation photo that Cypress had posted on social media when they visited her for her ceremony.
A clipping from the local newspaper that announces Winter’s first book deal.
Everyone from Yule was so excited to know a real-life published author.
A lot of people made it about themselves, saying things like ‘when I was a teacher, I told her she had a talent for words,’ or things like ‘that character from her book was definitely based on me.’ But it was never about any of that for me.
I just missed her and was so happy for the life she was building, even if I wasn’t in it.
Finally done reminiscing, I flip to the back of the binder, where I stashed the pages ripped from the tabloid. I didn’t even bother to put them in one of the protective sleeves, just shoved them in the back.
When Winter’s recent book release went poorly, several magazines did an article about her and her books.
This particular print wasn’t about that…
more about the nickname the general public gave her.
“The Queen of Broken Hearts” is printed at the top of the first page.
This article shows images of her on dates with different guys, all of whom she supposedly dumped and left heartbroken.
I don’t even know why I kept it, except maybe to make myself feel bad. I doubt the stuff they wrote about Winter is true, but the pictures don’t lie.
I flip through the pages of the gossip rag.
Looking at each picture. Every single one of these guys is good-looking, wealthy, dressed in designer clothes, and the article even gives their job titles.
A CEO here, an entertainment lawyer there, the list goes on.
All of them are better than ‘small-town artist who also runs an ornament shop.’
Maybe this whole idea of wooing Win until she realizes she loves me back was a stupid pipe dream. She deserves so much better than what I could give her, so much more than Yule.