by Muldoon, Meg
But I was stupid. And oh-so-wrong.
There were signs, sure. But I trusted him. I’d always trusted him, since I was 16, I had. I didn’t believe that was something he’d ever do. So when he’d stay out a little later with his buddies, or when he’d go on business trips for his job with the High Springs Lodge that lasted longer than he’d told me they would, or when he’d offer to give Bailey rides to work after her car broke down… I didn’t see those signs. Any of them.
Because when you love and trust someone, you don’t see signs as signs. You interpret them differently. He’s just being a guy hanging out with his friends, or he’s just a hard worker, or he’s just looking out for a friend of ours.
I found out the first week of December two years ago that he’d been having an affair with Bailey.
It wasn’t anything dramatic. I didn’t walk in on them or anything.
It was almost as low key as a reveal of your husband cheating on you could get.
It was the morning. He was in the shower and his phone buzzed, the way it did when he got a text message.
I don’t know why I looked. It was just one of those things. It rang, and I checked it.
There wasn’t even anything explicit or incriminating in the text message. But I knew it was from her.
Something just clicked. I couldn’t explain it. But I just knew. At some higher level, I just knew.
When he got out of the shower, I confronted him. I had his phone and wouldn’t give it back to him until he admitted what he had done.
He broke a lamp in our room and stormed out.
I spent the first weekend in December crying and screaming and yelling at him. And I made him tell me everything. Every last heart-wrenching detail.
It’d been going on for six months. He was going to tell me, he said. He was working his courage up to tell me.
But he was clearly a coward. Six months of working on his courage, and he never told me what he needed to.
Things just weren’t the way they used to be, he said. He told me I’d been spending too much time at the shop and not spending enough time with him. He said I wasn’t married to him anymore, not really. I was married to my business. He said I’d been pushing him away for years.
He said all these things, but none of them were the real reason he was leaving me. None of it was the real reason he’d started up an affair with a woman who had been one of our best friends.
I still didn’t know what the real reason was. Maybe he just fell out of love with me. I didn’t like to think that, but it might have been the truth.
When I finished yelling at him and throwing every curse word in the English language at him, I kicked him out of the house and told him I never wanted to see him. Ever.
And for the past two years, my wish had yet to come true, but it was beginning to. He still lived in the Christmas River area. With her. But after the divorce, I didn’t run into him much, if at all. They’d moved closer to Metolius Valley, a town a little bigger than Christmas River about 20 minutes away. And for the time being, that seemed to be far enough.
I’d been doing my best to overcome it, to be the strong person I knew I was deep down, or at least the one I wanted to be. It hadn’t been easy. The wound still felt fresh sometimes.
But I was doing better. My shop was doing great. I was getting along on my own just fine. I had the support of Warren and Kara, two people who had been my rocks through the divorce.
Sometimes I regretted things. Like making the decision to move from Portland back to Christmas River. Sometimes I thought we should have stayed in the city longer, maybe the boredom of a small town made him do things he might not have done otherwise. Maybe he felt suffocated here. Maybe he was right. I did love my business more than him. Maybe there was some truth to that.
Then I’d regain my senses, and realize that even if all that was true, there was still something else.
He’d still cheated on me. With my friend.
And there was no excuse in the world that would cover that one.
In the meantime though, I had made the life around me okay. I had made it bearable. I was getting better every day. I was starting to feel alive again. Starting to feel like I wasn’t an inverted zombie, all dead and rotted on the inside. I had started to feel like maybe there was still hope for me.
Then… this had to happen. That homewrecker shows up at the one thing I take pride in, and tries to ruin it for me.
I wanted to wring her by her scrawny neck and scream at her at the top of my lungs Haven’t you done enough???
An old couple walked behind me on the bridge, their heavy steps making the bridge shake. I leaned farther over the railing, not wanting to make eye contact. Being that it was a small town, the chances of me knowing them was pretty high, and I didn’t feel in the mood to chat.
They passed by quickly, thankfully, and without any conversation.
I gripped the cold wooden railing, and bit down on my lip, an anger surging up from my core like a dragon.
She may have taken my husband. There was no contest there. I’d lost that battle, hands down.
But there was no way in the roaring fiery furnaces of hell that she was going to steal this gingerbread competition from me.
Over my dead body.
I took a deep breath and started walking. The cold was setting in, and I needed to get back to the shop.
I had a lot of work to do there.
Chapter 12
When I got back, John was waiting for me outside. His cheeks were bright red, like he’d been standing out in front of the closed sign since I left.
In my shock, I’d forgotten that he showed up at the shop at exactly noon each day. You could set a timer to him.
“I’m so sorry, John!” I said, quickly pulling my keys out from my jean pocket and unlocking the front door. “I just needed some fresh air.”
He nodded, rubbing his hands together for warmth. I held the door open for him and he walked in, taking his seat at the usual leather booth near the window. He took his beanie hat off, revealing his clean-cut graying hair.
I took my scarf off, and put it in the back. I quickly wrapped my frilly cowgirl apron around my waist, and came back out.
“The usual today?” I asked.
He nodded. He shook with a visible chill.
Needless to say, I felt rotten.
I went back behind the counter and pulled out the strawberry rhubarb pie, slicing it and placing it on one of the special holiday plates.
I only ever made the rhubarb pie for him these days. I myself had never been a big fan of that flavor combination, and it was rarely ever ordered by anybody else this time of year. But John was insistent on ordering it every time. I didn’t know why. He never even finished it, and I got the impression he didn’t even really like it. Or any other pie, for that matter.
Still, he was close to being my most loyal customer. I always made a point of having that pie in the shop.
“How’s your day been so far?” I asked when I came around the counter with the plate and a mug of steaming coffee.
“It’s been just fine,” he said, clearing his throat. “A little chilly, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
I clicked my tongue against the top of my mouth.
“Sorry about that again,” I said, shaking my head. “I just felt like I needed to get out of the kitchen for a while.”
He took a sip of his coffee. I went to the front and turned the sign around to say “open.”
“Is something bothering you?” he asked.
I hesitated for a moment. I thought about telling him, but then something stopped me from doing it.
“I just burned a batch of pies by accident,” I said. “It’s just a real pain in the ass. I’m going to be here all night trying to make up for it.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” he said, playing with piece of pie in front of him but not really eating it. “What happened?”
I sighed.
“I got d
istracted,” I said.
I started to leave the table to take my place behind the counter when he stuck a hand out in front of my path to stop me.
He took another sip of his coffee and then cleared his throat free of phlegm.
“Listen,” he said “I could help you, you know. I’m no Julia Childs in the kitchen, but I’m not completely incompetent either. After I close up the practice tonight I could come back here and help you bake your pies.”
Now it was my turn to clear my throat.
“Jeez,” I said. “That’s so kind of you, John, but I don’t want to put you out like that. I’m the one that burnt the pies. It’s my mess to clean up.”
“You wouldn’t be putting me out,” he said. “It’d be my pleasure. Maybe I could take you to dinner afterwards.”
My stomach started churning with uneasiness.
For nearly a year, I knew this day was coming. I also knew that when it did come, I’d be unsure what to do when he asked.
Like I said. I wasn’t completely against the idea of Dr. John Billings. In fact, in a town this small, a lot of women would have thought I hit a homerun by nabbing a handsome doctor.
But I wasn’t completely about the idea either. I didn’t like him in that way. At least not yet, anyway.
“Well, that’s just so nice,” I said. “But I just… well, I wouldn’t want to—”
The front doorbell jangled as a customer walked in.
I had never been so glad for an interruption in all my life.
“Just give me a minute,” I said to John, placing a hand on his shoulder, a movement I immediately regretted because of what he probably interpreted it as.
I went around the back of the counter up to the cash register to meet the customer. I woke the register up by hitting one of the keys.
“What can I get you?” I said, looking up at the customer.
My heart jumped in my chest.
“Cinnamon Peters,” he said, a broad smile on his face. “How the hell are you?”
Chapter 13
I was speechless for a moment.
And then, the nerves started up.
He took his hat off and smiled at me.
It was odd. The entire night before when Daniel Brightman had been in my kitchen, I hadn’t been nervous in the least.
But now that he remembered who I was, my palms started getting sweaty and my heartbeat started picking up.
“You must think I’m a real fool,” he said.
“Well, I…” I started saying. “I wouldn’t call you that, but yeah… I won’t lie. I was surprised you didn’t recognize me.”
“You wouldn’t believe how tortured I was by it,” he said. “When you left and I realized I hadn’t told you my name, I just couldn’t figure out how you knew me. I lay awake half the night trying to figure it out.”
I looked past his shoulder for a second, noticing John turning to look at us. Eavesdropping on our conversation.
I cleared my throat.
“Well, what tipped you off, Sherlock?” I said.
He grinned. I noticed that he looked pretty good for someone who should have had a hangover. If it had been me, I would have looked like a hot mess with dark rings around my eyes. But Daniel looked relaxed, easy, content. No sign of a hangover whatsoever.
“Well, I went through all the years that I lived here, going through the people I knew in each grade level of school,” he said. “It took me until about three in the morning to get to the summer after junior year, but I got there in my own good time.”
“That memorable, huh?” I said, raising my eyebrows and placing a hand on my hip.
“No, it’s not that at all,” he said. “Just… my memory works differently. And most the time I try not to think about the past. For a while, I tried to forget a lot of my growing up years. Some not so good memories there. But then when you block it all out, you lose some of the good, too.”
I nodded. I guess that made sense. Maybe.
On my end, it hadn’t taken nearly as long to remember him.
I thought back to his earlier question.
Was he a fool?
The verdict was still out on that one.
“But I remember you, Cinnamon,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I forgot about that night by the lake.”
I could see John moving his head around at his table, trying to get a better eavesdropping angle.
I shifted my feet uncomfortably.
I really wished that Daniel would’ve come in at a different time.
“You know I called you,” I said, clearing my throat. “You know that, right?”
He nodded solemnly.
“I wasn’t in a good place then,” he said. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” I said, lying. “I was okay.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You seem to have done pretty good for yourself here.”
I smiled.
“So, professional pie-taster, what in the hell are you doing back here? I thought I’d never see you again, the way you tore out of town.”
“Well, my dad died three years ago,” Daniel said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
Daniel’s father had left Christmas River shortly after Daniel had, moving back east where his people were from. They still kept the house here, though, and occasionally, his dad would come back in town during the summer to go fishing. Three years ago, Walter Brightman’s obituary ran in the Christmas River Times. I heard there was a memorial for him here for some of his friends, but that he was buried back east.
“Well, I haven’t gotten a chance to take care of things here… you know, the house and everything. So I figured now was as good a time as any.”
“How long are you here for?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “As long as it takes, I guess.”
I was just about to ask Daniel where he’d been living and what he did now, when I saw John stand up and pull his beanie on.
He came over to us, walking up with a strange, aggressive gait.
“You let me know about tonight, Cinnamon,” he said in an irritated tone, talking over Daniel. “Come over to the practice around 5 o’clock. Maybe we could do dinner first.”
I nodded, and he walked away quickly and, I sensed, a little angrily.
We watched him open the door, walk out, and let the wind slam the door behind him. A cold gust ran through the dining room.
Daniel looked back at me.
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” he said.
I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “It was nothing. So you don’t know how long you’re staying?”
“Through the holidays at least,” he said. “But we’ll see then. See where the road takes me.”
“Do you have a job to go back to?” I asked.
The door jingled, and an army of old ladies with shopping bags suddenly entered the shop.
I sighed. I really wanted to talk more with him. I wanted to find out what he did, where he’d been all these years, and what he planned to do now that he was back here.
But I knew that the army of old ladies were going to squash any hope of catching up with Daniel Brightman.
He must of seen my exasperated expression.
He smiled at me. A warm smile that sent chills up my spine.
“Perils of the pie business,” he said, nodding to the ladies behind him.
“Listen,” he said, leaning across the counter. “I’d really like to repay you for your kindness last night. I probably would be face down in the snow right about now if you hadn’t rescued me. What about a drink tonight?”
My heart beat hard in my chest.
“That is, if you’ve forgiven me.”
“Ma’am, does this blueberry pie have nutmeg in it too? Or just Cinnamon?” one of the old ladies said in a raised voice, pointing at the glass case.
I looked back at Daniel, who was running a hand through his dark hair, waiting for me to answer.
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“No. It’ll be a long while before I forgive you, Daniel Brightman.” I said.
His face fell a little bit and part of me enjoyed the moment. It was a little taste of his own medicine, but I didn’t let it last too long.
“But… I’ll let you make it up to me.”
It only took me 1.2 seconds to decide that I was going to say yes to his offer.
No hesitation at all. No doubt. Nothing.
He tapped his cowboy hat on the counter and grinned.
“You’re a kind woman,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at five?”
“Make it five thirty,” I said.
“Ma’am?” the old woman said. “Can you give me an answer?”
Daniel winked at me, put on his hat, and walked out the front door.
And left me with the old women to tend to.
But I didn’t mind them. I didn’t even mind them calling me “Ma’am.”
Chapter 14
John had left the majority of his strawberry rhubarb pie on the plate.
I felt a little guilty about the way Daniel had waltzed in here and stolen the show. I recognized that John had probably spent all year building up his courage, trying to work out a way to ask me out. He had finally found a moment when we were alone, and an innocuous way to spend time with me and ask me, and it had all been dashed.
I felt bad, but at the same time, I hadn’t liked that tone he’d taken with me. Telling me to be there at his practice at five when I hadn’t even said yes to his offer of help.
He’d said it in a petit tone, and it bothered me.
Yes, he’d been a regular customer, coming into my shop for a year now. But that didn’t mean he owned me. I wasn’t his property, which is the sense I got in his tone when he stomped out of here.
I told myself this, but it didn’t help much with the guilt. Because no matter how I spun things, there was one thing that was true.
When John had asked me out, I hesitated. I hesitated because of the feeling in my gut that told me that I didn’t like him that way, and that I most likely never would. No matter his kindness, or profession, or good looks, Dr. John Billings didn’t elicit any feelings from me. No matter how much he wanted it.