by Dani Collins
He had taken over story time because he’d been worried about his son’s ability to enunciate, but now it was one of his favorite things to do with the boy. Quincy wasn’t demonstrative or affectionate by nature, but feeling his son’s small body resting against his was strangely satisfying. The bedtime ritual always made him feel like he’d made it through another day as a parent. The boy was safe, well fed, and as content as he could manage.
And even though he mostly read and Atlas mostly listened, they wound up talking about the characters in the different books. They worked on identifying colors and letters. Atlas was a little sponge. It made Quincy inordinately proud to see him learning.
He worked on exercises with him, too, on how to say the sounds of the letters properly. The old elocution lessons were so ingrained in him, he easily remembered how to explain the ways to exaggerate the sounds. How to talk like a pirate. How to leave and leap and l-l-l-lay down.
None of that happened tonight. The fresh air and exertion of the day at the ranch had Atlas going lights out between Quincy tucking him in and turning from gathering the books off the shelf.
It never ceased to amaze him how small Atlas was.
Quincy stood there with the books in his hands, taking it in. Atlas wasn’t too small for his age. He had looked it up online, then checked the boy’s weight and height. Atlas was cruising right in the middle of the spectrum, but Quincy hadn’t been around a lot of young kids since leaving grade school. It made Atlas seem almost magical, being a perfect miniature of the rest of the people in Quincy’s life. Quincy couldn’t imagine Atlas growing up to be eye level, sporting a beard like his own, along with muscles and a deep voice.
He supposed it would happen, though.
And look at him, standing here like the cliché of a parent, gazing at his son with wonder and awe, baffled by the idea of his son maturing into adulthood.
He looked around, self-conscious, then turned out the light and left the door cracked, so he could hear Atlas if he happened to wake and call out. Going downstairs, he found his father watching the sports highlights on mute while he read the local paper.
“That was quick,” Pops said, peering over the glasses perched on his nose.
“My audience crashed before I could get a book open.”
Pops grinned. “I remember you falling asleep at the dinner table after a day in the snow.”
Someday, Quincy might say words very like that to Atlas, wearing exactly that look of nostalgia on his own face.
He lowered himself onto the other end of the sofa and set his feet on the coffee table, gaze on the screen but blind to it. He was assimilating how far he’d come from panic and denial.
He’d read once that the stages of grief were actually the stages anyone went through when faced with dramatic change in their lives. He supposed he was making progress, no longer angry, but still wanting to bargain before he accepted. If he was able to help Atlas with his speech, if he was able to keep working, if his father and Nicki were here to help…
“Is Nicki still here?” He glanced toward the kitchen, suddenly aware of the silence. Her absence.
“She was yawning, too. I told her I’d wash up.”
“But she did it before she left anyway?” he guessed dryly.
“You know it.”
Quincy would have to double her Christmas bonus. He wanted to tell her she didn’t need to do so much, especially scheduling all these activities, but she seemed to like it. Today, she’d taken a few solo runs down the slope, the strings of her pink-and-yellow hat flying behind her half-terrified yet laughing face.
Her excitement had amused him as he’d picked his way down with Atlas. Now he wished he had let go the way she had, not caring how many eyes were watching.
He enjoyed the day, despite his reluctance to go. Strangers annoyed him and work… No, he couldn’t keep using work as an excuse. After the initial adjustment of making the shift to working at home, he discovered he liked working in fits and starts around walking with Atlas to pick up the mail or playing a game of Go Fish.
Besides, as the holidays approached, retail picked up and building slowed. People took vacation and pushed deadlines into the new year. In another week, his office in Philadelphia would be a ghost town. He wouldn’t even have emails to answer.
So work wasn’t demanding too much of him and the strangers he’d met today hadn’t been the least bit annoying. Some were on the nosy side, but they’d all welcomed Atlas into the fold of children. Quincy couldn’t begrudge them asking where they’d come from and why they’d chosen Marietta. His father’s pedigree and fondness for the town had bought him a lot of goodwill.
No, today had been the kind of day he should have had as a child, but they’d lived in the city and he’d been a loner.
It made him wonder what other entertainments Nicki had in store for them. He could see the three-foot high cardboard tree next to the real one, but while the real one was filled with a paper chain, lights, and the baubles Quincy remembered from his childhood, the fake one was empty.
It still looked pretty good. Cutting curves with a straight blade had been a challenge, but Nicki smoothed out the flaws. Once Atlas painted the tree a bright green, Nicki had used fabric glue to outline the whole thing with a strip of folded red ribbon.
She had since glued fabric numbers onto the tree, too, using them to anchor paperclips under each date. Last night, she had emailed him a file and asked him to print out the line drawings of tree ornaments. Each one had an empty box in the middle with dotted lines, waiting to be filled with a message.
Tomorrow, he imagined, she and Atlas would color those drawings. She would cut out the baubles and her multi-directional scrawl would record the activities they had enjoyed so far. The notes from the kitchen wall would be transferred and Christmas was starting to work its magic on him because he already anticipated the surprise of discovering what she proposed next. Ice skating? Picnic by the tree? Family game night?
He racked his brain, trying to think of something she hadn’t, wondering if he could surprise her with something she wouldn’t expect.
“You hear about this?” Pops asked, leaning across with the folded newspaper. His thumbnail indicated a bold headline.
“Hmm?” Quincy said, barely taking in what he read.
From Montanique to Marietta – High Flying Prince Visits Big Sky Country.
“They don’t mean a real prince, do they? What paper are you reading? One of those things from the grocery store checkout line?”
“It’s the Copper Mountain Courier, same as I had delivered in Philadelphia. That’s real. There’s a prince visiting Marietta, right now. Prince Theodore David Chenery.”
“April Fool,” Quincy accused, taking the paper to read it. “Where exactly have you brought me? Narnia? We never had royalty in Philly. What’s he doing here?”
Visiting his grandparents, apparently. The prince, also a pilot, had taken over something called the Bramble House for the month of December.
“I heard people saying something about this today. I genuinely thought they were talking about a TV show. Oh, he’ll be at the ball,” Quincy said as he read further, exaggerating his tone of nonchalance. “I didn’t know there was going to be a Christmas ball, but okay. We are in a land far, far away, aren’t we? Who’s playing Cinderella? Do the mice know they have a lot of work ahead of them?”
He handed back the paper.
Pops gave him a look.
“What?”
“You know who Cinderella is.”
“What?” The wheels in his head screeched to a halt, hanging up on the sharp shaft of the impossible. His ears rang at the mere idea. “No. Pops. She’s my employee.”
“I’m just saying.” Pops shook out the paper and turned the page. “She’s doing a lot to make Christmas special for your son. You know what makes a woman feel special? Putting on a nice dress and going out for an evening.”
“Then you take her,” Quincy advised.
&n
bsp; “Maybe I will,” Pops threatened, tucking his chin to read.
Quincy stared at all those empty spots on the Advent calendar and silently cursed his father, the Prince of Montanique, and the spirit of giving.
December 11th
Nicki didn’t usually swear, but she found a few cobalt gems when her car refused to start. On a Sunday. Good luck finding a mechanic.
Throwing herself from her car, she remembered not to slam the door, since it was before eight in the morning, but she wanted to. She was so mad.
Shouldering her bag, she gave her car one last dirty look and started walking.
At least the weather wasn’t too bad. She was already dressed for the cold, but honestly. She couldn’t afford to have the car serviced. Not if she wanted to pay her father back for the tires.
And there went her phone. Of course it was in the bottom of her bag. “Argh.”
She fished it out and saw a text from Quincy.
Can you pick up milk on your way? I’ll pay you back.
She was perfectly happy to pay for milk herself, since she ate with them, but it was the opposite direction. Argh and double-argh. She reached the corner and turned left, ensuring she had a clear path ahead of her before she texted back.
Car won’t start. Am walking. Will be late.
Before she could pocket her phone, it rang. It was Quincy.
Sweeping her thumb across the screen as she strode quickly up the street, she said a breathless, “Hello?”
“Don’t walk. I’ll come get you.”
“It’s fine. I’m dressed warm, and it’s not that far.”
“Where are you? I’m coming.”
“Quincy, it’s fine. I’m not going to be eaten by a bear. I’ll just be a little late.”
“I have to go out for milk anyway.”
“No, I’m getting it. I’m walking there now. It won’t take that long.”
“It’s three miles. Atlas, do you want to drive with me to pick up Nicki and buy some milk? Okay, go get dressed. We’ll meet you at the store,” he told Nicki.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I was planning to buy groceries today anyway. I’ll start a cart.”
Ten minutes later, she was reading the label on a box of crackers when little boots came at her in a rapid clomp, clomp, clomp. Atlas’s jacket was open, his hair mussed, and his little face bright. Pup-pup dangled from Atlas’s wringing grip on his skinny little neck.
“Foun’ you.”
“You did find me. Are you hungry? I thought there was enough milk for cereal this morning when I left last night.”
“There was for him. I had toast.” Quincy strode down the aisle toward her.
Why did the sight of him take her breath? He looked the same as he did every morning—and made her catch her breath each time, if she was honest. There was something about seeing him wearing sweats and a T-shirt, that little bit of stubble not yet cleaned up from around his beard. It softened all his hard edges and made her feel like she was part of his inner circle.
Part of his family.
This morning, he had covered his head with a ball cap and carried a travel mug of coffee. He tilted the mug.
“I tried some of my dad’s protein drink in this.” His mouth twisted with disgust. “Yeah. No. We need milk. Stat.”
She smirked. “Check the front of the store. Sometimes, they have courtesy coffee.”
He did and came back with a coffee for her along with a loaf of raisin bread. Then he paced her, absently putting things in the cart, occasionally asking Atlas, “Do you like this kind? Did your mom ever buy this for you?”
Atlas rode the end of the cart and helped her pick out fruits and vegetables when they arrived at produce.
“This is a lot more groceries than I usually get. Your dad must be hungry,” she said teasingly. “I’ll have to let him drive. It’s too heavy.”
“I’m a sucker for sale tags. What can I say?” Quincy took control of the cart.
“You are the cutest family,” an older woman said, stopping her bagging of oranges to smile at them. “It’s made my day to watch you this morning.”
“Oh, um—” Nicki blushed. “We’re—”
“Thank you,” Quincy said. “It’s kind of you to say.”
Nicki was so startled, she could only stare at him as they made their way to the checkout.
“My mother taught me to accept compliments graciously,” he told her, handing a box of cereal to Atlas so the boy could put it on the belt. “And if she thinks I look like I know what I’m doing with him? I’ll take it.”
“It’s Woo-Doff,” Atlas said, pointing to one of the treats in the display that had been packaged with seasonal characters. “Can I haff one?”
Quincy started to reach out, but Nicki caught his hand, stopping him.
He froze.
Their eyes met.
It was weird.
She let him go, quickly turning her attention to Atlas. “You’ll, um—” She cleared her throat. “You should wait and see if Santa puts one in your stocking.”
“Good one,” Quincy murmured, but they made a point of moving a half step away from each other.
He went back to moving groceries from the cart while Nicki closed her hand over the tingling that lingered in her palm from the contact with his fingers.
“Are you going to the ball?” the cashier asked as she swept items across the scanner.
“I saw something about it at the library, but it’s not for kids, is it?” Nicki moved out of the way so Quincy could bring the empty cart through. “Someone told me yesterday that there’s a prince in town. Is that for real?”
“It was in the paper,” Quincy said. “It must be true.”
“It is,” the cashier assured him. “He’s supposed to be at the ball, too, so definitely formal and for adults only. Even without the prince, it was looking like a great date night. I told my husband we’re going for sure.”
“I think we’ll stick to kid-friendly events this year.” Nicki made a point of not looking at Quincy, just thanked the woman and asked Atlas if he wanted to look at the painting on the windows with her. “Who’s that leading Santa’s sleigh?”
“Woo-doff!”
*
Quincy helped her bring in the bags of groceries, not bothering to take off his shoes and jacket. As he set the last load on the kitchen table, he said, “Give me your keys. I’ll see if I can figure out what’s wrong with your car.”
“What? Oh, you don’t have to. I left a message with a service station. I’ll ask them to tow it tomorrow—”
“You don’t like accepting help, do you?” He folded his arms and cocked his head. Had she really thought he would let her walk all the way here and all the way home today? When she was so quick to do things for his son and father?
“I…” She waved a helpless hand. “I’ve been living on charity of one kind or another for years. Borrowing money off my dad, begging favors and cups of sugar. I’m trying really hard to get my act together. Asking my boss to fix my car seems really…” She shook her head.
“He offered,” Quincy pointed out. “You didn’t ask. And I like tinkering. If it wasn’t the middle of winter and parked on a road, I’d take Atlas with me.”
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.” She went to her purse and drew out her keys. “I would appreciate it. So I know what to tell the mechanic.”
Quincy didn’t mind at all, but after he got a good look at what an aged tin can the car really was, he made a note to only let her take his Bronco if she needed to drive Atlas or his father anywhere.
“I got it running, but I think it’s the fuel pump,” he said when he returned, handing over her keys. “Your landlord, Henry, came out when he saw me. He knows a good mechanic and said he’d make a call in the morning.”
“They’re such nice people, aren’t they? Did they feed you?”
“Tried to. I asked them to come by for coffee this afternoon and say hi to Pops, since Henry thought they knew
each other from their school days.”
“Oh, that’s nice!” She looked at him like he’d saved a busload of children.
Was he really such a bear most of the time? He didn’t mean to be. He had been on the defensive since learning about Atlas. That was fading, but he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the sense that he would be able to find a place in this community, or Nicki’s confiding her fear of failure, which made him more accepting of his own. Maybe it was a sense that he was beginning to feel like a father.
Whatever was going on, he was in a better mood. That allowed him to see what a miserable son of a gun he’d been until now and say self-deprecatingly, “I have to start booking things I can stand to do. Otherwise, you’ll have me caroling at the senior center.”
Quick as lightning, she said, “That reminds me. We’re putting on a nativity play in the front yard. Go find a sheet that fits.” She cut him a look that was sassy enough to warm his blood. “Smart aleck.”
He chuckled, entirely too pleased with what felt like flirting. So not a good idea, yet he found himself showing her the inside of the cookie tin.
“You didn’t bake enough cookies.” There were only half a dozen shortbreads left.
“Oh, please, Fingers McFlannigan. You never leave them alone! I’ve had three, Atlas has one after lunch and your father doesn’t eat them at all.”
“That can’t be true.” Dang. He worked out, but he’d have to step it up or ease up on the sweet tooth. “Butter tarts?”
“Also gone. But I was going to make gingersnaps with Atlas today. They should be ready by the time the Tierneys get here. Be careful, though,” she scolded with a wag of her finger. “A moment on the lips…”
Her pert lips were pink and shiny and the corners curled with amusement. The way her lashes swept up to see his reaction seemed extra pretty. Cheeky. Like she was having fun.
She had a little jug of molasses in her hand and wore a red-and-white striped sweater over a pair of hip-hugging jeans. He kept reminding himself she was off limits. He shouldn’t look, should be a gentleman, but there was no ignoring the fact she was a woman.