Unbreakable

by Harlow, Melanie

  “Probably the ridiculously expensive eye shadow palette. I’m a little scared about her appearance at Christmas dinner.”

  He chuckled. “You’re going to Mack’s house?”

  “Yes. Are you?” I asked, excited by the prospect.

  “No. I’m going to another friend’s house.”

  “Oh.” I tried not to feel too disappointed. Of course he had other friends. “Mack is bringing the girls over to take a ride in the new sleigh this afternoon. You should come.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got some things to do.”

  “I doubt any of your things are as fun as a ride in a horse-drawn sleigh with hot chocolate afterward. Maybe even a snowball fight in between.”

  He grinned. “I do like a good snowball fight.”

  “Well, you’re invited, if you change your mind.”

  “Thanks,” he said, but I knew in my gut he wouldn’t come.

  I looked down at my mug, rubbing the handle with my thumb. “You know, I wanted to tell you . . . I know what it’s like to go through fertility treatments. I couldn’t get pregnant either.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I offered him a sad smile. “Thanks. I feel very grateful that IVF worked for me. I never did get an answer as to why I can’t get pregnant—just stubborn, defiant eggs, I guess. Anyway, I didn’t mention it the other night because I felt bad. I didn’t want you to think I was comparing my situation to yours. Obviously, I got lucky, and—”

  “You don’t have to feel guilty, Sylvia. I’m happy for you. I’m sorry you had to go through what you did, because I know how hard it is, but there’s no reason for you to feel bad that you have two perfect kids. I would never begrudge anyone a family just because I don’t have one.”

  God, he was such a good guy. It really sucked that his wife had given up on the marriage. I was trying not to be judgmental—after all, I didn’t have her side of things—but it was hard not to wonder how she could let a guy like Henry go. Again I wondered if he’d like to get remarried someday, try again to have a family.

  But it was really none of my business.

  I took one last sip and set my mug down. “I should probably get back. Thanks for the coffee, and for the talk. I was feeling really bad about the way we left things last night.”

  “I was too.” He stood up. “I’m glad you came by.”

  Rising to my feet, I nearly put a hand on his shoulder, but then I remembered—no touching. I quickly shoved my hands beneath my armpits. “Near rule infraction. Sorry. This might take some getting used to.”

  He laughed, following me to the front door. “Just don’t wear the red dress again, and we’ll be fine.”

  I tugged on my boots. “I shall banish it from my wardrobe forever.”

  “Good.” He took my coat from the closet and held it out; I slipped my arms inside and zipped it up.

  When I faced him again, he looked much more relaxed than he had when I’d arrived—maybe not totally at ease, but at least less tense. “Are we okay?” I asked softly.

  “We’re okay.”

  “Good.” I grinned. “I’d hug you goodbye, but—”

  “Don’t you fucking dare.” He moved around me and opened the door. “Now get out of here before I throw you out.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” But when I was halfway out, I looked at him over my shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas. Give my best to your family.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I hurried to my dad’s Cadillac and started it up, waving to him one last time as I backed out of the driveway.

  By the time I got home fifteen minutes later, I felt both relieved and slightly let down, which I realized was totally unfair. I should be glad he hadn’t tried anything, right? The whole point of going over there had been to reassure him we were still friends while firmly establishing the safe boundaries of that relationship.

  We couldn’t kiss again. We couldn’t touch each other. I wasn’t allowed to wear the red dress, and he wasn’t allowed to call me beautiful. If we stayed inside those lines, eventually the burgeoning desire we felt for one another would ease up, right?

  Of course it would. It had to. Last night had just been emotional for both of us—our first Christmas Eve alone—and we’d sought solace in each other.

  But I had to admit there was a part of me that had been hoping we’d take one look at each other today and pick up right where we’d left off last night. It would have been reckless and wrong and irresponsible, but that little part of me was definitely alive and feisty and kicking at its cage.

  After all this time, it would have felt good to set it free.

  Eight

  Henry

  I shut the door behind Sylvia and went back to the couch, where I’d been lying around feeling sorry for myself one minute and hating myself the next.

  I still couldn’t believe what I’d done last night.

  Actually, that’s not true—I could totally believe it. I’d been thinking about kissing her since she walked into the winery the other night. But how had I lost control that way? Was I a fucking animal?

  Maybe I could blame Santa. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have been there so late at night, I wouldn’t have fantasized about being married to her, I wouldn’t have given in to that compulsion to know what it felt like to touch her, to pretend she was mine just for a moment.

  But she wasn’t mine—that was as much a fantasy as Kris Kringle.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I tried to decide if I felt better or worse now that she’d been here. Better, I guessed. It was nice to hear that not only was she not angry, she’d actually enjoyed that kiss. I’d made her feel sexy and beautiful, which—unbelievably—no one had made her feel in a long time.

  But I felt frustrated too. I wanted more, and I couldn’t have it.

  My phone vibrated on the coffee table, and when I checked it, I saw it was my older brother, Anthony, calling from Indiana. He was probably just calling to say Merry Christmas and thank me for the gifts I’d sent—or at least his wife was. Alison had begged me to come celebrate Christmas with them and their four kids this year, but I’d told her I couldn’t leave work for that long. My two younger brothers, also both married with kids, had invited me to come visit them for the holidays as well, but I’d given them the same excuse. It wasn’t a total lie, but beneath the excuse was a disinclination to spend the holidays envying my brothers their happy families. Maybe it was shitty and selfish, but I just couldn’t handle it right now. Next year would be different.

  I hoped.

  Feeling guilty, I answered the call from Anthony and talked to both him and Alison, thanking them for the gifts they’d sent and listening to the kids holler with excitement over their new toys in the background. I reached out to my other brothers, Mark and Kevin, and repeated the conversation two more times—expressing gratitude for their gifts, wishing them and their families Merry Christmas, assuring them I was fine and had plans to hang out with friends later. Alison asked if I was seeing anyone, and I said no. When she started in about how young I was and how I needed to get back out there, I cut her off by saying I wasn’t ready, although now that Sylvia was in the picture, that wasn’t exactly true.

  While I was on the phone with Kevin, Mack texted and reminded me I was invited to come to their house for Christmas dinner, but again, I responded that I had other plans. Sitting across the table from Sylvia would not be helpful today.

  And anyway, it wasn’t a lie—a while back, I’d accepted an invitation from my friend Lucas Fournier, another winemaker in the area, to have Christmas dinner with his family. Lucas and his wife Mia ran Abelard Vineyards, a winery on Old Mission Peninsula, and he and I shared a lot of the same views on small-scale, responsible farming, and adapting old world techniques in new environments. His family owned a winery in southern France, and we’d met when I’d gone there one summer to work the harvest. In fact, he was the one who’d told me ab
out the job opening at Cloverleigh Farms. Over the years, he and I had gotten to be pretty good friends, and Renee and I used to socialize quite a bit with them . . . until Renee could no longer handle being around their three kids.

  Part of me wanted to cancel and spend the rest of Christmas Day drinking scotch, eating the chocolate-covered potato chips Mark’s kids had sent me from Fargo, and watching old Jimmy Stewart movies, but I liked Lucas and Mia. I hadn’t seen them in a while, and I’d always felt I owed him a debt of gratitude for recommending me to John Sawyer. Plus, lying around the house wasn’t going to put me in a better mood, and going into work was out of the question. What if Sylvia saw my truck and came looking for me?

  She trusted me to behave, and I’d said I would.

  But it wasn’t going to be easy.

  * * *

  “Hi, Henry! Merry Christmas!” Mia Fournier kissed both my cheeks before giving me a hug. She was short and slender, with shoulder-length brown hair and a bright, welcoming smile.

  “Merry Christmas.” I handed her a bottle of wine and a box of chocolate-covered cherries.

  “Mmmm, thank you,” she said, shutting the huge oak door of their impressive home behind me. Their winery was similar to Cloverleigh Farms in that they grew many of the same grapes we did, held weddings and other events on the premises, and had an excellent reputation, but it was a little smaller and much different in style. While Cloverleigh retained the feeling of an American farm, Abelard was built in the image of a French château, a nod to Lucas’s heritage and their history—they’d actually met in France. Their house, with its steeply pitched roofline, limestone facade, and corner turrets, would have fit perfectly in the French countryside.

  Two kids—a boy and a girl—went racing by, shouting at the top of their lungs, followed by a boy several years younger, who clearly struggled to keep up with his big brother and sister. In fact, he tripped and fell flat on his face. But without missing a beat, the kid picked himself up and took off running again, making me laugh.

  Mia sighed. “I’d make them all come back and greet you, but I don’t have the energy to yell. They got up so early to open presents this morning and have been going like that ever since.”

  I squelched the pang of envy. “I bet.”

  “Come on in.” She motioned for me to follow her. “Lucas is in the kitchen. We have some other people coming for dinner, but they’re not here quite yet. I think you’ll know them—my friends Coco and Nick Lupo and their kids; my assistant Skylar Pryce, her husband Sebastian and their kids.”

  “Sure, I know them. Sebastian Pryce is my lawyer, actually.”

  “Oh, is he?” Mia smiled at me over her shoulder. “Such a great guy.”

  “He is.”

  “My friend Coco is actually interviewing at Cloverleigh Farms after the holidays,” Mia added.

  “Oh, really? For what position?”

  “Apparently, April is looking for some help with event planning. Coco and I used to run an event planning business in Detroit together, and she took it over and ran it on her own before they moved up here. She’s a total pro. She’s only looking for part-time work, but when Chloe called and asked if I knew anyone, I thought of her right away.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said as we entered the kitchen, a large airy space full of natural stone and wood.

  Lucas stood at the marble-topped island chopping carrots, but when he saw me, he put down the knife and came forward to shake my hand. “Hey, stranger. How are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Thanks for coming. Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Glass of wine? Cocktail?” Lucas spoke perfect English, but still retained the slight accent of someone who’d grown up speaking two languages.

  “Wine’s good.”

  Mia reached for the knife. “Why don’t you guys open a bottle, pour me a glass, and go sit in the library? I can handle things in here for a bit.”

  Lucas looked at me and wrapped an arm around his wife, getting her in a headlock. “She’s trying to get rid of me. I’m probably not chopping the carrots to her precise specifications.”

  “Stop it,” Mia protested, laughing and swatting at his arm. “I’m not trying to get rid of you. I just know you guys haven’t seen each other in a while.”

  Lucas kissed the top of her head and let her go. “Thanks, love.” To me, he said, “I’ve got a bottle of Burgundy I’ve been dying to open.”

  “Perfect,” I said, tamping down another jolt of jealousy at the easy affection Lucas enjoyed with his wife. Had Renee and I ever had that? If so, I couldn’t remember.

  In the library, Lucas and I sat in leather chairs drinking Burgundy and discussing last season’s harvest and what we thought we might see this winter.

  Eventually, the other guests arrived, and we moved into the kitchen, everyone pitching in with the meal preparations, and then into the dining room, turning the kitchen over to the kids for eating.

  Coco and Nick had four kids—three dark-haired, dark-eyed, school-age boys and one tiny, doe-eyed girl still unsteady on her feet. She stumbled once on the stone floor, and Nick picked her up and hugged her close, drying her tears.

  Skylar and Sebastian had twins, a boy and a girl, that I guessed were around three. Add the Fourniers’ three children to the mix, and the picnic-style table in the kitchen was pure chaos. One parent or another was always getting up from the dining room table to go cut someone’s meat or wipe up a spill or put an end to an argument. Still, I envied that too. It was hard not to notice I was the only single, childless person at the adult table. At least nobody asked about Renee.

  After dinner, the grownups sat around in the large great room with coffee and dessert while the kids played games on the floor near the Christmas tree. Around eight, the other two families packed up and said goodnight, but Lucas asked me to stick around. “Just let me help get the monkeys in bed, and I’ll be right back down. Make yourself at home.”

  “No hurry,” I said, watching him leave the room with his son on his back. Mia had already taken the other two upstairs.

  While he was gone, I tortured myself by scrolling through social media on my phone, looking at everyone’s joyful Christmas morning photos. It made me feel worse, of course, so I put away my phone and wondered if I should make up an excuse and leave. I was so sick of feeling like the odd man out everywhere I went—even the fucking internet.

  But just as I was about to stand up, Lucas returned with a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. “Done,” he said. “So how about some scotch?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He poured and handed one glass to me. “I’m glad you came tonight. I wasn’t sure you would.”

  I shrugged, tilting my scotch this way and that, watching the legs of the amber liquid coat the glass. “I thought about canceling. But I didn’t want to be an asshole.”

  “Since when?”

  I gave his grinning face the finger.

  “Seriously,” he went on. “Mia and I are glad you’re here. You’ve been such a hermit lately.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I’ve been busy at work.”

  “Really? Or are you just working yourself into the ground to avoid dealing with your issues?”

  I gave him an irritated look. Lucas had been a psychology major and had taught college psych for a few years. Sometimes he fell back into the habit of analyzing people.

  “Look, you can tell me to fuck off, but if you want to talk or whatever, I’m here.”

  Instead of responding, I took another sip of my scotch.

  “Is that ‘fuck off, Lucas’?

  I managed a wry smile. “It’s close.”

  “Okay, fine. If you tell me you’re okay, I’ll believe you and leave you the hell alone.”

  “I’m telling you, I’m okay. It’s taking some effort to come to terms with everything, but with time and scotch and porn, I’m getting there.”

  He laughed and tipped up his glass. “Maybe you need to get laid.”

 
; “You’re fucking telling me.”

  “So go get laid.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  He gave me a look of disbelief. “It’s not? I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve been out there, but I can’t imagine you would have trouble.”

  “Maybe not if I just wanted to fuck the next willing woman.” I stared into my glass. “But I don’t.”

  Lucas was quiet a moment. “Is there someone you have in mind who’s . . . not willing?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  He crossed an ankle over his knee. “Complicated is my favorite word. Go on.”

  I took another sip, debating the wisdom of talking about Sylvia with Lucas. On one hand, it felt dangerous—like I was making my attraction to her more real or giving it more strength by speaking of it. On the other, Lucas was a good friend, he was smart about this stuff, and it might feel good to just say shit out loud. “It’s Sylvia Sawyer.”

  “Ah.” Lucas took a drink. “Remind me. John’s oldest daughter, right? Married? Lives in California?”

  “Right. She was married, for fifteen years. She’s recently divorced and is moving back here with her two kids. Her husband was a real dickhead. Left her for someone else, who’s already pregnant.”

  “Fuck, that is shitty. She must have been devastated.”

  “Yeah.” I finished what was in my glass. “She was really hurt, and coming home again is part of her effort to start over. I never knew her all that well before, but since she got home, we’ve been talking kind of a lot.”

  “You guys probably have a lot to talk about.” Lucas reached for the bottle of scotch and poured me a couple more fingers.

  “We do. That’s part of the problem. She’s really easy to talk to, and I find myself telling her things I don’t tell anybody. Talking about my marriage and the breakup and how I feel.” I shook my head. “She’s been home less than a week. It’s fucking ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous. You’re comfortable with her, because you know she understands. You’re going through a similar—and difficult—life experience.”