Saint Nick.
She snorted. Savannah would have liked that one.
“Well, thanks for calling—”
“I’ll come pick you up, we can grab a beer. Talk about high school, yeah?” There were noises in the background like he was in a factory. Banging and scratching noises, and the sound of machinery. “Where ya at?”
“Nick, thank you but—”
“I googled ya. Halifax, eh? Doing pretty good for yourself, eh? Librarian?”
Agnes frowned at the phone. Creepy.
“You… googled me?”
“I’m single.”
“I bet.”
“You single?”
Agnes stood up. She paced the small space of her apartment. Savannah had been seriously mistaken in Bucket List #2.
“Listen, Nick. It’s been great…talking… but I have to—”
“You remember that time, in high school? You was what, in grade ten or eleven?”
Agnes stopped pacing. Mortification reared it’s grizzled head and stared her down.
“I don’t… uh… remember—”
“Sure ya do. You got me in trouble. Yeah, I remember now.” He laughed. It sounded like one of Santa’s elves after too much rum. “You walked in on me and… uh… me and… what was her name?”
“Trina. Trina Jacobs.” She remembered it like it was yesterday. Sexy Nick with his hands under Trina’s shirt, hiding in the Ancient Mythology section of the school library. Both of them had turned to glare at her when she’d shrieked in surprise.
“Trina! That’s it!” he crowed. “Damn she was hot. Damn, damn, damn.”
Again with the damns. Apparently dead sisters and old girlfriends were both worthy of the cussing.
“So, yeah, Nick. I wanted to say sorry, I guess. Ok, so this is me, apologizing for getting you in trouble. Totally my fault. It was a bad moment.”
She hated it when she rambled, but she could still feel the embarrassment of blundering her way out of the stacks of library books smack-dab into the solid bulk of Mr. Ryerson, the Principal, and then blathering about Nick and Trina and what they were doing— Nick had been benched for three football games and Trina’s parents grounded her for the rest of the semester.
It was silly. It was high school. Savannah should have known better than to think Agnes owed Nick an apology. Why on earth would she think it was a good idea to make up for something that had probably saved poor hot Trina Jacobs from a mistake not worth making?
“Savannah thought I should apologize to you.”
“Savannah was hot too,” he said. “Listen, I’ll come pick ya up on Friday.”
“Not home,” she stammered. “I mean, not available. No time. Busy.”
“Huh?” There was silence while machines continued to grumble in the background.
“What is that sound, Nick? Where are you?”
“I’m at work.”
“Um—”
“The car wash, you remember? The Spiff and Shine down off Robie Street?”
“You still work at the Spiff and Shine?” She and Savannah used to drive by the car wash in the summer, just to catch a glimpse of a shirtless Sexy Nick, washing cars and flexing.
“I own it,” he said. Pride and the hint of too many cigarettes made his voice rough in her ear.
“You wanna bring your ride down, I’ll shine her up for ya. Maybe give ya little lube job on the side, if ya know what I mean.”
“Definitely not.” At least he still lived in Halifax. There was no way he would find her here in Heartswell Harbour. “I’m not in the city. I’ve… moved away—” Savannah should have put “learn to lie” on the list. That at least would have been a useful item, unlike “make up with Sexy Nick.”
“I don’t live here either. I commute.”
He said it like a proposition. Like the act of commuting was somehow both erotic and worthy of praise. She shivered.
“That’s… nice?”
“I live outside a little town down the coast. I got a little place on the water. There’s a lighthouse.”
Agnes could just see the Heartswell Lighthouse from the edge of the window in the living room. She was so relieved that he would never be able to—
“Place called Heartswell. Kinda stupid name for a town, but—"
Agnes pulled the phone away from her ear, her face contorted in a grimace. No way did Sexy Nick, fantasy from her past, live in Heartswell Harbour?
“Bye Nick, gotta go.”
“So, about Friday—”
She hung up on him, cringing.
“Savannah, what were you thinking?” She grabbed her purse and took out the list. She picked up a marker from the counter and smoothed the paper on the table. Neatly, and with great care, she drew a thick black line through item number two.
Her high school crush could stay neatly tucked in the past, where he belonged.
Seven
She had planned to leave #6 until spring, but she found herself with too much time to fill and it was a beautiful, if brisk, November morning.
Time to start training.
#6 Train to run 5k
Before the cancer, Savannah had been a regular runner, swimmer, cyclist. She had completed a marathon and was training for a triathlon the summer of her diagnosis. That had been the impetus behind her going to the doctor in the first place. She was tired. Too tired. Agnes remembered their assumption that she was training too hard and perhaps a bit low on iron. Neither of them saw cancer on the horizon. Neither of them saw a gravestone.
Agnes blinked back the tears that were always near the surface when she thought of her sister. She missed her terribly.
She didn’t share Savannah’s passion for exercise. Agnes never had any trouble maintaining her weight even though her main form of exercise was walking. To the library. Now, looking at the list, she was grateful that Savannah had chosen a 5k, instead of a full marathon. She could do 5k. How hard could it be?
She spent some time on google, mapping out a route around Heartswell that would bring her in a circle back to the Book Nook, and she read a post titled: “From couch potato to 5k in thirty days.” Impressed, she decided she could knock this item off the list before Christmas with ease.
As long as no one sees me.
Even though she only knew a handful of people in Heartswell, and she only ever saw her new theatre friends at night anyway, she had no desire to be the laughing-stock of the town since she had no illusions about her gracefulness as a runner.
As in, she had none.
Not even a little.
Savannah had been the gazelle, Agnes was the turtle.
Before the sun came up, she slipped her feet into her sneakers. They were not exactly running shoes. Her old canvas slip-on sneakers from the previous summer, broken in and soft, would have to do. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and grabbed her toque on the way out the door. The sun wasn’t even breaking the horizon as she stood in the dark back alley behind the Book Nook, stretching and feeling very athletic even though it hurt to touch her toes.
Don’t need to be flexible to run, just need to put one foot in front of the other.
Off she went, heading toward the misty darkness of the waterfront.
Less than five minutes in, she decided that running was a stupid hobby.
Ten minutes in, she decided that a program of walk-run would be her best option.
Fifteen minutes in, standing on the side of the waterfront boardwalk with her hands on her knees, puffing in great frosty gasps, she decided that walk-run would be better without the run part.
“Agnes?”
She jumped upright, the deep baritone voice coming from the misty depths of the boardwalk like the voice of Christmas Yet to Come.
It was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come! Oscar’s lanky form materialized from the darkness. She was relieved to see the figure wasn’t wearing a cowl or holding a scythe.
It was Oscar. Tall Oscar, his beard frosted around his mouth and his eyes laughing at
her.
“I’m running.” She jogged on the spot in demonstration. It hurt, so she stopped, but she windmilled her arms around to prove her athletic exertions were the real deal.
“Running?” he asked. He glanced around the empty boardwalk, shivering a little as the piercing breeze tugged on the end of his scarf. “Cold morning for it.”
Agnes wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead.
“It’s actually quite—bracing.” She tugged her toque down to her ears. Was she going to have to actually run again, just to prove herself? Her feet hurt. “What are you doing out so early?”
“I walk every morning.” He smiled. There was frost on his beard. “I prefer to be out when everyone else is still in bed.”
She nodded. She wished she were in bed.
“I’m not actually a runner,” she said. “This is my first time.”
“I see.” He nodded, as if it made perfect sense to begin a running regimen at the beginning of winter, wearing a scarf, in summer canvas slip-ons. “You’re a very interesting woman, Agnes Evans.”
She blinked at him, pleased. She had never been called ‘interesting’ before.
“And by interesting, do you mean crazy?” she asked.
“I haven’t decided yet. I don’t like to make decisions until I know all the facts.”
Gentle white flakes began to drift between them, out of nowhere, transforming the grey light of early morning into something magical and shining. Agnes gasped, delighted with the sudden beauty, watching the flakes gather quickly on Oscar’s beard.
“It’s snowing,” he said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Running in the snow seems—”
“Crazy?” She shrugged and held out her mittened hands to gather snowflakes.
He laughed.
“Would you care for tea?”
“Make it coffee and it’s a deal.”
“Done.”
And then, her heart beating faster than it had ten minutes ago when she decided running was ridiculous, he took her hand and tucked it under his elbow, standing so close he blocked most of the wind whipping off the waves.
They walked, arm in arm, toward the Book Nook. Agnes decided that early morning running might actually be a really good thing.
∞∞∞
It was just a thing that older men do, she convinced herself as he released her arm and unlocked the front door to the Book Nook. It didn’t mean anything, and her racing heart was totally due to her recent encounter with running.
“I know you probably prefer to come in through the back window,” he said as he held the door open for her. “But I find it much easier to get in this way.”
She stopped, looking up at him with a momentary flush, trying to decide how she could deny it. What possible way was there to not have to explain herself?
“I owe you an explanation, don’t I?” she said.
He merely smiled and let the door close behind them. She found his silences to be so soothing. He left space, offering room to think and reflect, without filling the air with useless chatter or too much information.
She tugged off her hat and scarf, the chill seeping into her body as she began to cool down from her run.
“Running is hard.” He changed the subject easily, giving her time to collect herself. “I’ve always been a walker, myself. It was one of my ex-wife’s biggest complaints. My tendency to allow moss to grow on me before I accomplished anything.”
“My sister moved very quickly too,” Agnes said. “I was always running to catch up… or at least, walking really fast.”
Oscar smiled at her. He stood very still in the middle of the shop. She had the feeling that he would wait quietly for hours until she was ready to speak. He reminded her of a sculpture on an ancient building, all long lines and classical composition. She wondered what he would look like without his beard.
“How old are you?” she asked. She could hear a clock ticking, and the murmur of books settling on shelves as they do in libraries, all those stories waiting for their time to be shared.
“Forty-seven.”
“I’m thirty-five.”
“You look younger.” His stillness changed slightly, like a shift in a mountain when a strong breeze went by.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “I often feel quite a bit older.”
He turned then and she followed him toward the hearth at the back of the shop. He opened the grate and stirred the glowing coals within.
“I’ll make coffee, if you’ll build the fire?” He straightened and handed her the poker. “And then you can tell me about your sister.”
No one had ever asked.
No, that wasn’t really true. People always expressed sympathy, and friends who had known Savannah would sometimes mention a happy memory, or a shared sense of loss, but she couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked her to actually talk about her sister. It was as if death sat awkwardly on her shoulder, reminding people that they had to somehow deal with her grief. Most people chose to ignore it, or to shuffle uncomfortably from a quick condolence to a discussion of the weather. She understood, but Oscar’s comment opened a door to a powerful rush of gratitude and an overwhelming desire to start at the beginning.
She wanted to tell him about growing up in Halifax, how their parents had divorced and how she and Savannah had practically raised each other as both of their parents moved on to new lives and new partners. How Agnes found an apartment for herself and Savannah. She went to university on a full scholarship while her sister finished high school. She wanted to tell him about their first jobs, their first loves, their fights and disappointments, their dwindling contact with their parents as the years went by. She wanted to tell him about how proud she was of Savannah when she graduated from university and moved out on her own.
She wanted to tell him the soul-wrenching fear that overtook her life when Savannah was diagnosed with an aggressive lymphoma at twenty-eight. How the treatments had been so devastating. How Savannah had fought, and been so brave, and how they had both raged at her illness, but Savannah never once gave in to despair and so Agnes didn’t either.
Until she was gone.
And then despair became Agnes’ closest companion. Her beautiful sister, gone at the age of thirty, leaving Agnes alone and scared.
She stood in front of the cold fireplace, the poker dangling from her hand as Oscar returned with two steaming cups of coffee. She stared at the hearth with tears streaming down her face, unable to stop, unable to speak. She couldn’t look at him, afraid she would utterly dissolve.
He put the cups down and gently removed the poker from her hand.
He stood in front of her, his warmth surrounding her shivering body. He slowly raised his arms like an offering, allowing her to choose his embrace. She stepped into the shelter of his arms and laid her head on his chest as he wrapped her in warmth. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against her cheek, and she twined her arms around his back to draw herself closer.
They didn’t speak. They simply stood, holding space, making room for her grief.
Eight
“Kiss a complete stranger?” Oscar asked, the fire crackling merrily between them. “Sounds rather risky, doesn’t it?”
Agnes blushed. “It does… but it turned out alright in the end.”
He looked at his coffee cup, empty in his hand.
“I mean, I wasn’t about to go out to some club and just grab some random guy. I don’t think that’s what Savannah had in mind. Although there were plenty of times when she did just that. I think she just wanted me to step a little outside of my comfort zone.”
“I’ve heard of writing a Bucket List, of course.” Oscar veered away from the topic of kissing, which was especially hard when the lips in question were tantalizingly close. She’s too young, he reminded himself. “But I’ve never heard of writing one for someone else. That puts a lot of pressure on you.”
She had stopped crying after he held her f
or several long moments, but her eyes were shining and there was a catch in her voice every so often as they talked. She was raw and hurting, but he admired her resilience in the face of her loss. He doubted he would have chosen her current path if he was in her shoes. He chose to put grief in a tightly sealed box, tucked deep inside where it couldn’t bother anyone. That’s what he had done with his sadness over his failed marriage, and it was working just fine for him.
“I get mad sometimes,” she said, her voice betraying emotion he thought he could understand. “I get mad at Savannah.”
“For expecting you to fulfill the list?”
“For dying,” she said. “I’m a terrible person, but I am just so mad at her for leaving me.”
Tears glistened again in her eyes as she twisted her hands in her lap.
“I think that’s a really normal reaction,” he said carefully. “Life isn’t fair, and there’s nothing wrong with having strong feelings when you face this kind of tragedy.”
She nodded, sniffling.
“I think I’d be mad at her for expecting me to run a 5K race,” he said.
She looked up at him and laughed, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “I’m sorry about breaking in,” she said. “I was quite proud of myself, though. I’ve never done anything illegal in my life. It was quite a rush.”
“I once stole a book from the library when I was very young,” he said. “So, I understand the thrill that comes with delinquency.”
They were on their second coffee when the back door rattled and Nora came into the shop, bringing a gust of cold air and snowflakes. She looked even more pregnant than she had the week before. Oscar stood up immediately to take her coat as she struggled to remove it.
“Oh.” Nora glanced at Agnes curled in the armchair. “This looks cosy.”
She raised an eyebrow at her father and he sighed. Nora had strong opinions, and never hesitated to share them. One always knew where one stood when it came to his oldest daughter.
“Are you feeling all right, Nora?” he asked. He was awkward around Nora’s pregnancy, wishing he had the maternal instincts she needed and always feeling like he fell short.
Love Like the Dickens: A Heartswell Harbour Romance Page 5