by S. J. Hooks
My mom mumbles something behind me as I leave, and I grin. If making her mad is what it takes to get her going again, so be it.
She joins us in the living room, and Luke sends her one of his megawatt smiles. “Come sit with me, Nana!”
She takes a seat on the couch next to him, and I hand her a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream on top, giving her what I hope is a warning look not to reject it. She needs to start taking care of herself, or she’ll make herself sick. Thankfully, she takes it and sips slowly, looking around the room.
“The tree looks beautiful,” she says quietly.
“It does,” I agree.
“Do you need help with anything for tomorrow?”
“Everything’s bought and prepped,” I reply. “But I’d love some help with the actual cooking.”
She gives me a small smile.
“C’mon, start the movie,” Luke says, bouncing up and down. “Don’t you think it’s great, Nana?”
“I’ve never seen it,” she tells him, earning a shocked look.
Luke is all over the place as we watch the movie, laughing loudly, hiding his face when the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come appears, all the while assuring my mom that ghosts aren’t real and not to be scared and singing along, completely off-key. It’s perfect. My mom livens up at his antics, and actually laughs along a few times. She finishes her hot chocolate and eats some cookies, complimenting me on them in between bites.
After the movie is over, I flip through the channels, stopping on It’s a Wonderful Life at her request. Luke quickly falls asleep, bored with the black-and-white images and the lack of Muppets, his head in my mom’s lap. She gently strokes his hair with one hand and reaches for mine with the other. We sit quietly and watch like that, the room illuminated by the TV, the twinkle lights on the tree, and the candles I lit earlier. I look at my son’s relaxed features and the small smile on my mother’s face as she continues to caress his hair, and for the first time since leaving Simon, I feel something akin to peace. I lean my head on my mom’s shoulder, and she gives my hand a squeeze. Tomorrow, we’ll celebrate Christmas as a family. We’ll open presents and go visit at Cecile’s, attend church, and eat dinner together. My son and I will spend the day surrounded by family and friends for the first time ever, and the thought fills me with happiness. But even in the midst of the joy I feel, my thoughts stray again, and I imagine Simon sitting in his big, empty house, completely alone for the holidays, and have to blink back tears.
I would have loved to spend Christmas with him—but the fact that I thought it would happen only highlights how little I really know about him. He doesn’t do Christmas, for some reason. It wouldn’t have been a deal breaker for me, though. Neither would not sleeping together in the same bed. I would’ve accepted all of his quirks happily in exchange for his love. He’s a weirdo, but he’s my weirdo. No—he was my weirdo.
I turn my attention back to the movie and force myself not to think of him anymore. I don’t think of him being all alone as we celebrate the holidays. I don’t think of the anguished look on his face when he told me his son is dead as my mom and I plan my father’s interment at the cemetery and the memorial service afterward. And I definitely don’t think about him every night at nine o’clock, and wonder if he’s found another sweet girl who knows how to bake apple pie.
We bury my father on a gray and rainy Wednesday between Christmas and New Year’s. To shield us from the rain, the funeral home sets up a white tent around the plot, but it’s nowhere near big enough to hold the large number of people who show up to pay their respects, and I know we’ll have a full house afterward at the wake. My mom and I throw dirt on the urn and as we step backward and turn to take our seats again, my gaze drifts over the faces of the many people standing outside the tent, most of them holding black umbrellas. For a second, I think I catch a glimpse of a familiar face in the back and stop in my tracks, my heart skipping a beat. My mother tugs gently on my arm, and I look toward her for a second. When I turn back, frantically scanning the crowd, all I see are townspeople looking back at me. A trick of the light, maybe? Because I’m not thinking of him.
Feeling numb, I take my seat and watch as the vault is lowered into the ground. The priest speaks again, throwing dirt into the hole before it’s covered completely. Next to me, my mom starts to sob, and I put my arm around her, sharing in her grief.
I’m in a sea of people, shaking more hands than I can keep track of. We’re outside the tent, the sound of the rain hitting the umbrellas, almost drowning out the murmurs of condolences that I receive as we slowly make our way across the cemetery. I mumble my thanks again and again as one hand after another takes my outstretched one.
“Abigail, I’m so sorry.”
I startle, staring at the large hand holding mine so gently, stroking the back of it in a way that brings back an avalanche of memories and a longing so strong I lose my breath. I raise my head, only to see him already turning, shouldering his way through the crowd as his hand slips from mine. He’s gone from my sight seconds later, breaking my heart all over again.
I want to scream, run after him, throw myself at his feet, beg him to stay—to love me—but I don’t. Stone-faced, I walk through the throngs of mourners with my mother at my side until we reach the car. I help her inside and go to the driver side, looking up again. There he is, about ten yards down the street, next to his car, facing me. His suit and coat are pristine, but his face is worn, his eyes tired. He looks like he’s the one who buried someone today, not me. We stare at each other for a long moment before he slowly raises his hand. I mimic him, feeling the rain running into my sleeve and down my arm, chilling me to the bone. Then he turns and gets into his car, driving down the street and turning right, heading out of town.
I swallow my urge to break down in the street and instead get into the car, giving my mom a glance. Her eyes are closed, head leaned back in exhaustion. She didn’t see what just happened, thankfully.
How did he know? Lila—that has to be it. I called her briefly on Christmas, telling her that I had to quit, and that I’m in Pinewood because of my father’s death. I’ll miss her and our newfound friendship. I’ll miss a lot of things from my time with Mr. Thorne.
“Ready to head home?” I ask quietly.
“No,” my mom whispers.
“Neither am I.”
She turns her head and looks at me, giving me a tired smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I, Mom.”
It’s late and the house is mostly quiet. My mom went to bed hours ago, but I’ve stayed up with Jo and Thom cleaning and tidying even though I’m dead on my feet, exhaustion making my movements slow and lethargic. I feel close to my breaking point. All day I’ve been keeping it together for my mom and Luke, making sure everything ran smoothly with the catering and guests, and now all I want is to curl up next to Luke and let sleep take me. Thom finds me in the kitchen; he’s wearing his jacket and smells like fresh air and faint cigarette smoke.
“Abbi, there’s, uh, someone waiting for you, I think.”
“What?”
Thom fidgets, shifting his weight. “His car is parked just a few yards down the street. I guess he never left.”
My insides twist with nerves. “Simon?”
“I don’t know anyone else around here who drives a BMW like that. It’s just sitting there.”
“Oh. I guess I’ll …”
“Yeah, I’ll finish up in here for you,” Thom says, giving me a small smile.
My body moves on autopilot as I put on my coat and boots, stepping out into the cold night and walking to the edge of my parents’ property. I spot his car parked underneath a streetlamp, and then I see him, leaning against the side of it. My stupid heart leaps and I have to take a few deep breaths as I approach him. I know the moment he senses me, his body angling in my direction. What’s he still doing here? Why did he come here at all?
“Hi,” I say, unable to come up with anything more eloquent.<
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“Abigail.” His voice is hoarse as he moves off the car, stepping into my personal space. There’s an unexpected intensity in the way he looks at me, a near-manic expression in his eyes. If he were a stranger, I’d be scared of the way he looms over me, the way he clenches his fists, but fear is the last thing I feel. “Come back to me.”
I inhale sharply, looking up to see the surprise on his face, as though he hadn’t meant to say the words. Out of nowhere, his hands settle on my shoulders and he pulls me into his body, pressing my face against the soft wool of his coat. I’m overwhelmed by his closeness, the smell of his cologne, and draw a shuddering breath, greedily inhaling his scent. God, I’ve missed him.
“Please,” he breathes into my hair, his hands moving to my back, clutching me to him. “Reconsider my offer. Come back. I’ll give you anything you want. A house. Tuition for Luke. More money than you can spend. Anything.”
Anything but love.
I want so badly to say yes, to accept. It would be so easy. He’d take care of everything. Six months ago, I would have said yes.
“I miss you,” he whispers, brushing his lips against my temple.
Listening to his plea is painful, but not as painful as pulling out of his embrace, my senses protesting the loss of his body against mine.
“I can’t be your employee.” I take another step back. “I can’t, Mr. Thorne.”
He stares at me, blinking several times, his expression open and heartbreakingly vulnerable. The look in his eyes hits me straight in the chest. It confirms what he already told me: he still wants me and he misses me. I know what longing looks like, loneliness too. Still, the situation hasn’t changed. His offer stands, but no money in the world can give me what I really want.
“So it’s all or nothing?” he mumbles.
“It’s no more than what we both deserve,” I tell him, sounding a lot calmer than I feel. For a split second I dare to hope, but then I see him shutting down, pulling away even though he’s still standing right in front of me. The inches between us feel like miles.
“Goodbye,” I whisper, turning on my heel. I hope the pounding of my steps as I run away will mask the sobs that rip through me as I leave him for the second time, a feat of strength I didn’t think I possessed.
We celebrate New Year’s with Cecile, Jo, Thomas, and the kids. My mom hasn’t mentioned anything about my leaving or the fact that I’ve been here for weeks now without returning to my supposed job. Maybe it hasn’t occurred to her to wonder, or maybe she knows the truth. At this point I don’t really care. If she asks, I’ll be honest and tell her I’m looking for a new one, that the old one simply didn’t work out.
We have to go back to Seattle soon if I want Luke to stay in school. Jo and her family left already, but I’ve lingered, helping my mom get her new life started, all the while postponing my own. We sort through all of my father’s things, deciding what to keep and what to throw away, and order her a new bedroom set since she got rid of their old double bed when he got sick. I also go with her to hear about my father’s will. The lawyer is a severe-looking, middle-aged man, and it’s obvious my mom is intimidated by him from the way she rounds her shoulders and lets him take charge of the conversation. I remember that feeling from when I first met Simon, the urge to shrink back. I don’t feel that way now, though. I’m submissive in bed, but not a doormat, and I hold the lawyer’s gaze each time I meet it. I think Simon would be proud of me.
As expected, the lawyer tells us the house and the cars will go to my mother, as well as the life insurance my father had taken out. It’s a lot of money, which means she’ll be taken care of in the future—a huge relief since she’s never actually had a job outside of her home.
When the lawyer’s done talking, my mom clears her throat, speaking in a soft voice. “I want Abigail to have my husband’s car.”
The lawyer nods while I gape at her.
“You need a car,” she says to me. “And I don’t need two. Please, take it.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”
“I know you will.” She turns to the lawyer again. “I also wanted to, uh … is it possible to give Abigail some of the insurance money?”
My mouth actually drops open, but before I can respond, the lawyer does.
“This is besides the college fund?” he asks. “Because we’re already talking about a considerable amount of money.”
“What college fund?” both my mother and I ask at the same time.
The lawyer looks between the two of us, shuffling his papers. “Mrs. Winters, you are aware that your late husband set up a college fund for Abigail, aren’t you?”
I stare at my mom, who looks just as shocked as I feel. “But that was so long ago.”
“Yes,” the lawyer says, glancing though his papers. “It was set up right after Abigail was born.”
“And it’s still valid?” I ask, barely able to get the words out.
“Yes. All I need is a signature.”
I feel faint.
“Just remember your father saved this money for tuition, books, and housing.” He looks at me over the rim of his glasses, giving me a stern look. “Not to go partying or shopping.”
I snort out a laugh before I can contain myself.
“Abigail wouldn’t do that,” my mom says firmly. “She had a 3.8 grade point average, but more importantly, she’s a responsible young woman and a wonderful mother to her son.” She gives me a look filled with pride that warms me all over. “I’m so happy George kept the fund. It was always meant for you—if you want it.”
I’m speechless for a few seconds. The ramifications of this are life changing, to say the least. I draw a deep breath.
“I know you wanted me to go to an Ivy League university,” I say, “but I don’t think that’s for me. I’d never see Luke.”
“I understand,” my mom says. “I just want you to be happy.”
“You know what would make me really happy? To share this with Jo. I want her to go to school with me. I don’t think I would’ve made it without her, Mom. She saved me.”
My mother’s eyes well up, and she nods her approval. I feel like dancing around the room. I’ve wanted for so long to do something for Jo, and now I can. I know she wants to go to college, but I also know that she’d never prioritize herself over her family, having already chosen to start saving for her daughters to study. But now she can go too. We both can.
“How much money are we talking about?” I ask carefully.
“I don’t know,” my mom admits. “Some months he’d put a thousand dollars in, some a little less. But he always did it, every month.”
The lawyer clears his throat. “With the added interest since you graduated high school, it comes to”— he glances at the papers again—“$192,400.”
I gasp so hard that I almost choke, my mother patting me on the back as I cough loudly, tearing up, and not just from the lack of air.
“This is … I can’t even—” I start crying—sobbing actually. This changes everything. With my mom at my side, stroking my back as I cry, I feel safe and loved. There are no strings attached to this money. I’m in control of my own life for the first time ever, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying.
“Thank you. Thank you.” I hiccup, trying to compose myself, remembering that we’re in a stranger’s office.
After I’ve calmed down, we sign the paperwork and head back to Pinewood, silent most of the way. In the kitchen at home, my mom makes us coffee, and we sit quietly, each of us contemplating what has transpired on this day.
“I suppose you’ll go back to Seattle, then?” my mom asks quietly. There’s no anger or resentment in her eyes, but rather a wistful sadness. “I understand,” she continues. “But I will miss you both terribly when you go.”
“I’ll miss you too, and so will Luke. But we won’t be far away, and with Dad’s car, we can come and visit all the time. Maybe you can come and visit us too?”
“Of course I will,” she says immediately. “And when you start school again, I could help you with Luke. Maybe he could spend a weekend up here every once in a while?”
“I think he’d love that. No, I know he would.”
My mom smiles, reaching across the table to take my hand. “What are you going to study, then?” she asks.
I let out a happy laugh. “I don’t know. It’s … I never thought I’d be able to go to school at all. But maybe … I don’t know, maybe culinary school?”
She nods for me to continue.
“I love cooking, especially baking. When I think back on you and me here in this kitchen, those were the happiest times for me, and Dad always made such a fuss over it when I made something, remember?”
She smiles through tears.
“I’ll have to look into it more before I decide, of course. The work hours are probably brutal if you work in a bakery, but maybe someday I could work as a caterer or something. I’d really like that—making people happy with my cooking and baking. And I should take some classes in marketing and finance too, if I’m going to run my own business one day.” I cup my cheeks, shaking my head. “Wow. This is really incredible. Thank you, Mom.”
“No matter what you do, I’ll be proud of you, Abigail. But I would really feel a lot better about sending you back to the big city if you’d consider getting a new apartment in a better neighborhood. With your part of your father’s life insurance and the college fund, you could get a really nice place.”
I don’t tell her that we’ve already moved out and are currently living with Jo and Thomas. I simply promise her that I will get on that first thing. A new apartment for a new life.
Luke and I drive home to Seattle the next day, a visit with my mom set up for two weeks away, which makes me feel less guilty about leaving—that and the fact that Cecile has promised to look in on her often. The drive back is drastically different from the one that brought us here. I’m in my own car—an old, reliable Mercedes that my father took excellent care of, which means it runs like a dream—and I can see Luke in the mirror, grinning happily in his excitement to get back home to Pippa and Piper as well as his friends at school. I’m grinning too, because in just a few hours, I get to tell my best friend that we’re both going to start looking at college classes this spring. And then I can look for a nice place to live, a real home for me and my son. I can’t wait to get everything set up and have my own place again with my own furniture.