by Gina Watson
Meg pulled her hands from Harmony’s so that she could dry her face of the tears that had rolled down to tickle her cheeks. “Cam hurt me.” She inhaled deeply. “I’ve realized that he’s still not ready to give me what I want and that doubly hurts.” She pressed her lips together to keep from sobbing.
“And what is it that you want?”
What did she want? Meg thought about the time they’d spent together over the past few years and instantly knew what would make her give herself to Cam unreservedly. “I want an unconditional promise.”
Harmony pulled a tin of butter cookies from the top of the refrigerator. Together, the two of them could finish off an entire tin. They’d done it as teenagers…it had been one of the deluxe-sized tins at that. Meg pulled a pretzel-shaped, sugar-topped cookie from one of the paper cups inside the tin. She spoke around nibbling the cookie; “I want to know I’m more important to him than his music career. If I knew the answer to that, I’d have the information I’d need to carry on with or without him.”
“And now you’re talking like a winner.” Harmony selected a delicate cookie from the tin and broke it between her thumbs. “There’s only one way to get a true answer to your question.” She placed one-half of the cookie into her mouth.
“How?”
“You have to take the Toronto gig.”
Chapter 8
“Megan Price…Toronto News Twelve where you can trust us to bring you the truth.” She smiled and held it until the countdown suggested they were off air. It wasn’t the sign off she’d wanted, but she hadn’t been permitted to use her phrase. It was just another element of control in a long list of items in which she had none. She had no say whatsoever regarding which stories she’d present or who she’d interview. In Baton Rouge they kicked off every shift by negotiating for the stories they wanted and even the ones they didn’t—nobody wants to present about the signs and symptoms of irritable bowl, but everyone wants to present on the most trending topic of a news day.
She regretted not closing out her Baton Rouge Thirty Nine career with Cam’s feature, but after what she’d seen that day at Max’s, she’d be unable to speak with him for a good long time. And he’d tried…God how he’d tried to speak to her. He’d actually serenaded her through the door of the apartment until someone had complained and he’d been escorted off premises by two of the Baton Rouge’s finest men dressed in blue.
She walked to her dressing room and donned her thick, sheep’s wool lined coat that she swore added ten pounds to her total weight. The first of December had temperatures dipping down into the twenties at night and she’d seen enough snow to last a lifetime. How long would the cold and wet last she wondered? Unused to the low temperatures and gray skies, she actually missed the sweltering Baton Rouge heat.
***
Cam was in the middle of his set at some hole in the wall New Orleans bar where the soot from years of cigarette smoke could be scraped from the walls like spackle. He’d had too much beer and whiskey before taking the stage and was fading fast. The lyrics came to him through a patch of fog and he was behind the music. Instead of blaming himself, he stopped mid-song and looked out across the bar. No one was paying him any mind.
“Motherfuckers,” he mumbled. It wasn’t any wonder he couldn’t recall the lyrics given the loud group of four hanging out by the patio door. “Hey, if you can’t be quiet and respectful of what I’m trying to do up here then get the fuck out.”
He pointed to the patrons directly in front of him. “I’m gonna start that one again for you,” he slurred, and then strummed the opening chord.
Robert Palmer the club’s manager, not the eighties British musician who was addicted to love, took the stage and Cameron said, “Hey, let’s sing it in the round. Are you ready?” He reached for his guitar and stumbled down and off the end of the stage. “I’m all right…I’m all right.”
Rob followed him down to the floor, assisting him in finding his footing. “Cam, you’ve uh…well, you’ve been off your game lately. Really utter shit. I love you man, but you’ve got to get off the sauce. Get clean, refocus.” He set his palm on Cam’s back in a patronizing manner and Cam reared up with his arms to escape his hold. “Hey”—Rob held his hands in the air surrender style. “There’s a cab outside waiting to take you out of here.”
Cam was done with this shitty venue anyway. He loaded his guitar and made his way out. He had the cab drive him to Baton Rouge. They passed a particular apartment complex and Cam had the cabbie circle back. He parked in front of the door to number two one three and Cam got out of the car, walked up to the door, and knocked. An Indian woman wearing a beautiful yellow and purple sari answered the door. He suddenly felt bad because he knew it was after eleven, but she smiled at him still.
“I was looking for…Megan.”
“She moved about three months ago.”
Of course, he knew that. What the hell was he doing? He nodded. “Sorry to bother you so late.” The woman smiled, and then closed the door.
He loaded back into the cab and gave the address of Max’s house, where he planned to sleep off his drunkenness.
The next morning Cam awoke to what he swore were ax-wielding Orcs trudging through his brain. Grabbing his head, he went in search of aspirin. He was in the kitchen re-hydrating and fortifying his blood with salicylic acid when Max walked in. The idea hit him like a wrecking ball to the wall.
“Can you give me a ride to Cajun Carl’s Autoplex?”
“Good morning to you too, brother. Sleep well?” He chuckled at Cam’s plight.
“Will you take me or not?”
“After you, sweetheart.” He gestured in the general direction of the door.
***
In the white Mustang Cam had just purchased, he set out on the over thirteen hundred mile journey. He had one more stop to make, in Nashville. He’d already phoned his buddy—the stone was being placed in a setting as he drove.
He used the drive to tie up loose ends. He called his manager Kip and told him to cancel his gigs for the foreseeable future. Kip was none too thrilled and suggested this detour was going to ruin his career. Cam couldn’t wait. He’d lived without Meg for so long because he thought he needed to be free to write lyrics and play songs. He could see that was all bullshit. To be free of the ties that held him to the South meant he was totally free. There was only one thing he’d be willing to sacrifice his precious freedom for and she currently lived in Toronto. He’d let her tie him down. He hoped she’d strap him to the bed and never let him up.
Hours later he’d made it to Findlay, Ohio where he had to stop for the night. He took a room in an express hotel and placed the set of rings on the nightstand. The bands were inscribed with ancient Celtic writing. His band had her name written in Celtic script and hers had his.
He went to bed that night knowing tomorrow he’d be seeing her, and with that thought his rest was deep and replenishing. In the morning, he loaded into the Mustang convertible and made the five and half hour trek to her Toronto apartment. He’d had to physically squeeze the address from Harmony. He also had to divulge to her what he wanted with it. She’d given him her blessing and he’d laughed, but accepted.
He parked along the curb, and then walked up to knock on the door of Meg’s apartment. When it went unanswered, he knocked again. Harmony had sworn that Meg was staying in Toronto for Christmas. Where the hell was she? The door to the apartment next to hers opened and an old man with an apparent catch in his back appeared.
“The little lady won’t be back until after her show.”
“Oh, is she doing the news tonight?”
“Well, it being Christmas and all she’s doing a special Christmas Around The World segment. It’s exceptionally interesting, and she isn’t hard to look at. Quite enjoyable, I’d say.”
The old pervert knew Meg? “When will the segment be over?”
; “Eight o’clock.” It was six now and fucking cold—piercing cold. He’d need to find a place to lay low for a couple of hours. “You’re welcome to come inside and wait.”
He followed the old guy inside where he immediately saw Meg as bright as the sun glowing from a large television set. She wore an attractive bright red suit with a green silk shirt. She was gorgeous and being taught how to cook. That was dangerous. His Meg was a fright in the kitchen.
“You’ve got it bad then.”
“Pardon?” Cam looked around and realized he’d been stopped in his tracks and stood frozen in front of the television, blocking the view from the old guy’s chair.
“Excuse me.” He walked over to a wing chair and took a seat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“I didn’t give it.” What a peculiar old bird was this neighbor of hers. “It’s Owen.”
“I’m Cam. Thanks for the invitation. It’s colder than a beer on tap out there.”
“You’re from the South like her.”
Cam nodded. “How do you know Meg?”
“She helps me quite a lot. When she goes to market, she’ll pick up a few things for me. She also takes my clothes when she’s taking hers to the wash-dry-fold. I had a fall the other day and she stayed with me.”
That was Meg. If there were someone in need of aid, she’d drop everything, no question, and give all she could.
***
Christmas day had the channel twelve news team operating with a skeleton crew. Because Meg had nothing better to do, she’d volunteered to anchor the morning and evening shows. She’d been excited because they’d allowed her to present her own piece detailing Christmas traditions from around the world. She’d actually brought in a German designer of nutcrackers who had detailed the process of crafting and design. She’d also interviewed a Danish filled-pancake maker and, as a result, was about to bust a gut. She’d eaten her weight in ebleskivers and consumed way too much glogg.
Holding one hand over her overly full belly she took the three large steps to exit the bus. In her other hand, she carried a dozen filled pancakes for Owen. He’d need to take them all or she was at serious risk of birthing a food baby. She trudged through the dirty icy mix, happy she’d swapped her rubber boots for her suede pumps. She was about to knock on Owen’s door when she felt an overwhelming sense to turn her head and look over her shoulder.
Standing in the drizzle, his hair glistening from the wet was Cam.
He smiled and approached her. Touching her elbow in a familiar gesture, he said, “Nutmeg.”
“Oh, my God.” Smiling, she touched her palm to his not so warm cheek. “What are you doing here?”
He shivered and clasped his hands together, blowing into them for warmth. “Can we go inside so I can tell you?”
“Of course.” She took the keys out of her pocket and unlocked the door. She quickly turned the radiator up in the kitchen. “You’re so cold.” She took off her coat and turned on the electric kettle. “There’s a hot cup of cocoa coming your way in about five minutes.”
He leaned against the counter. “Sounds good,” he shuddered.
“Cam, where the hell is your coat?”
“I didn’t think about it before I left.” She ran her hands over his arms, attempting to warm him.
Staring into her eyes his hands reached for her cheeks, cupping them in his hold. He leaned in and placed a slow, sensual kiss on her lips. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”
She felt an overwhelming sense of joy at his touch and his words, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d hurt her.
“Meg, that day at Max’s I was so drunk I was halfway conscious. It’s no excuse for how you found me, but I didn’t have sex with that girl. There’s been no one but you for over a year now. I’d like to make that up to you or at least spend forever trying.”
She believed him. In all their years he’d never lied to her. “Cam, what are you doing all the way in Toronto? How did you even know where to find me? Do you have a gig here?”
“That’s a lot of questions and the kettle sounds like it’s ready.”
Yes, the kettle sounded outraged at being ignored. She rushed over and unplugged it.
“Meg, there’s no gig. I’m here for you and I’m not leaving. I quit.”
She froze in the process of pulling two mugs from the cupboard. “You quit your music?”
“Yes. I let my manager go and I canceled all venues.”
She poured hot water into the mugs. Cam’s music was highly regarded in certain circles—hoity-toity circles she called them. Two of his cuts had even appeared in big Hollywood movies. Other songs appeared in independent films where his music shone best. “Cam, you can’t quit your music.”
He reached for the packets of cocoa and shook them down. “No Meg, I can’t quit you. Wherever you go, I’ll follow. You once said you couldn’t live apart from me. I hope that’s still true because I’ve made plans to love you forever. He took her hands in his and massaged using his thumbs. “Meg, it’s Christmas day and, like Santa Claus, I’ve come bearing gifts.”
“You have?” Her excitement was paramount and she bounced where she stood.
“I just have one question.”
He was such a drama queen. “What is it?”
He dropped to one knee on her kitchen floor. “Megan Price, I’ve loved you since I was six years old. You alone make my world stay right side up. I want to watch you catch all of your dreams. I won’t get in the way, but when you need help with the lasso…I promise to be here. Will you marry me?”
She was gasping through her tears. His words gutted her. “Oh, my God. Cam. Yes…yes, I will marry you.”
He pulled a red box from his pocket and cracked the top. “I was hoping you’d say that. I had these rings made. The inscriptions are Celtic. Mine says a day lasts until it’s chased away, but love lasts a lifetime.”
He chuckled nervously. “That’s beautiful.”
“They also have our names on them.” He showed her the printed name on his ring. “If you compare this to the symbols from the tattoo that is on my chest, over my heart, then you’ll know you’ve had my heart for a long time.”
Her hands cupped her face. A torrent of tears came down and she worried her makeup was all over her face. He pulled her hands away so that he could look at her. “What is it, Meg?”
“That was the first tattoo you got. You were like eighteen.”
“That’s right. That’s why your ring says my heart is in you.”
She took the red box and brought it closer to her eyes. “They’re beautiful. The diamond cuts and the settings match. I love that.”
“Let’s put them on.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, I don’t want to wait any longer. In fact, I’d be all for getting married asap. However, I understand if you have ideas of grandeur—six-foot veil, mile long train. It’s your rite of passage and all as a woman.”
He was teasing her. He knew she hated weddings. “I vote we give like ten grand to charity and get married at the courthouse.”
“Seconded.”
“The ayes have it.” He placed the ring on her finger. “Do you want to get off the floor and kiss me?”
“I want to do more than kiss you.”
“That will have to wait…I promised my neighbor I’d bring him some pancakes.”
“You mean Owen?”
“You met Owen?”
“Oh yes. Chatted him up while we watched your Christmas special. I immensely enjoyed it by the way. Man, you can put away some pancakes.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God. I couldn’t stop eating them. They’re so good. I mean Nutella stuffed in a pancake. Plus I was kind of feeling sorry for myself because I thought I’d be spending Christmas with my eighty-year-old neighbor.”
>
“I hate to break it to you, but you will be spending Christmas with your eighty-year-old neighbor. I kind of promised him we’d eat with him. He’s prepared a ham with all the fixin’s.”
Confused she asked, “He said fixin’s?”
“No that’s my word, but he described a spread that back home we’d call the fixin’s.”
She giggled. “It sounds perfect. Let me just grab the pancakes and we’ll go over.”
“Not before I get my kiss.” His lips claimed hers with force, sucking the air from her lungs. His kiss lingered and she savored his flavor. She’d missed him, but their separation had made them both realize what it was they couldn’t live the rest of their lives without. She loved him. There was no way she’d be letting him give up his music, but she’d leave her demands for another day. Today was Christmas and she wanted to spend it with him…and Owen.
She gave Cam a University of Toronto sweatshirt to wear. “What is this creature on the back?”
“Oh, that’s the mascot. Go beavers.”
“Beavers…that’s funny.”
“Hey, on the way over to Owen’s what do you say we make a pit stop and take a look at the other gift I brought you?”
“But Owen lives next door.”
“The gift is just right outside.”
Puzzled, she followed him outside carrying the plate of pancakes. He reached into his pockets, and then she heard electronic beeps radiate from a white Ford Mustang. He dangled the keys in her front of her face. “Merry Christmas, Meg.”
“Oh, my God. You did not buy me a Mustang.”
“I so did. It’s got about fourteen hundred miles on it since I drove it here from Baton Rouge, but I had it cleaned when I arrived. What do you think?”
“I think you’re mad.”
“I am mad. Madly in love with you.”