Christmas in Germany was a sight to behold. It seemed each of the larger towns in the area hosted elaborate markets that lasted all of December, filled with stands displaying ornaments and other items made by local artisans, wooden toys, live manger scenes, lots of fatty food, and hot spiced wine. We took Bev along to a Christmas market in Gengenbach one afternoon, as much because we loved her company as because we didn’t quite know how to get there. I’d heard that it was one of the more beautiful markets in the area, about an hour from home, so off we traipsed on a sunny afternoon, the three amigos out to conquer the world.
Darkness had fallen by the time we reached the medieval city, and the crisp night air was saturated with sounds and smells that made my heart sing and my mouth water. We walked down narrow cobblestone streets in search of the main square, past crooked homes with half-timbered facades, through alleyways that practically rustled with the whispers of centuries past. It was an enchanting fairyland that drew us in, and we walked slowly, hushed by the mystery and charmed by the simple, otherworldly beauty.
When we reached the town’s historical square, Shay immediately declared that she wanted a gingerbread cookie, which, lucky for me, was a staple of German markets—so were candied peanuts, waffles, wurst in fresh rolls, warm apple cider, and steaming hot chocolate. It was an overeater’s paradise and I felt right at home. Shayla, however, declared an instant dislike for the hard, nearly tasteless cookie I’d bought her. Fortunately, a kindly gentleman at a bakery stand gave her a free Berliner that reconciled her to the tradition of Christmas markets.
We wandered around for a while, tasting, touching, and absorbing as much of the festive uniqueness as we could. We bought two hand-painted glass ornaments, kept a safe distance from a slightly overzealous Saint Nicholas, watched a children’s choir sing “O Tannenbaum” from the balcony of the town hall that overlooked the square, and finally declared our adventure complete. We decided on the way home that Americans really had a lot to learn from their German counterparts, especially when it came to community Christmas activities.
In other areas, however, Shayla felt they fell a little short.
“Do they know they’re doing it wong?” she had asked on a trip to the grocery store.
“Doing what wrong?” It took so much self-control not to imitate her accent.
“The Christmas stuff. It’s all blue.”
“What’s wrong with blue?”
She’d looked at me like I ought to know better. “It’s supposed to be wed,” she’d said in a patronizing voice. And she was right, of course. Christmas was supposed to be red. But in Germany, where they did things decidedly differently, the decorations were largely blue. So when Shayla and I did dishes to the sound of her favorite Christmas CD, we sang our own words at the top of our lungs, trying to drown out Frank Sinatra’s voice.
“I’m dreaming of a blue Christmas,” we’d sing. And Shayla would find it so funny she’d forget to keep drying.
It was on a particularly chilly December evening that we invited Scott to accompany us on a tree-hunting expedition.
“He’s here! He’s here!” Shayla screamed. She’d been kneeling on a chair by the living room window, her nose plastered to the glass, waiting for Scott to appear. She was at the door waiting for him before he’d had time to stamp the excess snow from his boots.
“Ready, Lady Shay?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” She was a little excited.
“How ’bout your mom? Is she ready too?”
I waited to hear Shayla say, “She’s not my mom,” but she’d been saying it less and less these days. I rounded the corner into the entrance hall, pulling on my gloves. “Ready.”
Scott carried Shayla upside-down into the street, then fastened her securely into her car seat.
We spent the next hour trying to figure out how two finicky adults and an overexcited four-year-old could possibly come to an agreement on the shape and dimension of the perfect Christmas tree. Scott liked tall and skinny, I liked short and fat, and Shayla liked anything with a price tag outside my budget. The person running the tree lot finally came to our rescue and virtually ordered us to buy the one he selected for us.
“Schoen! Schoen!” he said, pointing at the straight trunk and the way the branches sloped down close to it. It was an okay tree, if you liked them shaped like marathoners. I liked mine shaped like sumo wrestlers, and Shayla, apparently, liked hers shaped like dollar bills.
Shayla wrinkled her nose at the tree the salesman held up for us to see, I shrugged my shoulders, and Scott said, “We’ll take it.”
As he’d been holding my hand for a few minutes, I didn’t put up a fight. I was busy trying to keep my neurons firing and my Jell-O legs from buckling.
Scott secured the tree on the roof of my car, installed Shayla in her usual spot, and walked me around to my door, pulling me into him just long enough to say, “We done good,” plant a kiss next to my ear, and assist me into my seat.
When he was settled behind the wheel, he looked at me like he had something to say, but the moment was interrupted by Shayla yelling, “Home! Home! Home!” at the top of her lungs.
And off we went to my apartment, where Scott got a little testy trying to get the tree to stand up straight and Shayla did all she could to distract him from the task. She tried on her ballerina skirt and twirled around him like a top. She told him the story of Rudolph and the Seven Dwarfs. She tried to measure his arm with the tape he’d used to determine how much of the trunk to cut off. And then she brought him the hot cider I’d made for him, which gave him a reason to sit down and contemplate his handiwork.
I joined them in the living room and took a seat on the couch.
“What do you think? Is it straight?” Scott asked.
I pursed my lips and squinted an eye. “No, but I’ve always wanted to see the Tower of Pisa, and this’ll save me the trip.”
“What?” He was out of his chair and standing in front of me, trying to see the tree from my angle. “It’s straight!” he protested.
“Well done.” I smiled.
He pointed at a giggling Shayla. “Don’t laugh, young lady. Your mom’s messing with my mind!”
She giggled some more, so he picked her up by her middle, swung her around in a circle, then plopped down on the couch next to me with Shayla sprawled across him.
He turned his head on the backrest—which meant his face was alarmingly close to mine. I stared straight ahead and tried to concentrate on the marathon-runner tree while the ice-skater in my stomach tried some new, original leaps.
“Wanna go to Riedlingen for supper?” he asked.
I turned my head and looked at him, which took way more courage than, say, wearing a bathing suit in public. Up close and personal, he was no less attractive than from a safe distance, and the fact that my daughter was sprawled across him, perfectly content as she played with the measuring tape, was all the more endearing.
“What’s in Riedlingen?” I asked.
“A museum-café I guarantee your daughter will love.”
His breath was warm against my face. My inner skater slipped and fell—flat on her back, breath knocked out of her. The Russian judge was not amused.
“But will I like it?” I tried really hard not to look at his mouth. Really I did. Really.
“The food?”
Uh . . . “Yeah, the food.”
“How ’bout we drive over there and find out?”
Or maybe we could just stay like this for a decade or so—staring at the tree or something—and let whatever was uncoiling in my chest finish what it was doing.
But Shayla had other concerns. She slid off Scott’s lap to the floor and looked up at us with a frown. “Are you mushy?” she asked.
Scott laughed.
I tried to cough around the cider that had gone down the wrong pipe.
And Shayla giggled.
15
THE PUPPENMUSEUM IN RIEDLINGEN was a little girl’s dream. A local lady had turned a
big old farmhouse into a toy museum where dolls and teddy bears covered shelves and chairs and miniature dollhouses. There were only six tables in the café, spread out over three rooms. The lighting was dim and the ambience so cozy that it felt a little like being in someone’s home.
Shayla, still excited from the Christmas tree shopping, immediately took herself on a tour of the toys with firm instructions not to touch a thing. Scott seized the opportunity to lean across the table and ask, “Is this okay?”
“Scott, it’s perfect. Shayla’s going to want to eat here every day.”
“Not the restaurant,” he said, and he was wearing the same expression as earlier, in the car.
“Oh.”
“Is it okay if I . . . ?” He reached across the table and linked his fingers with mine. “Is this okay?” He was as earnest as I’d ever seen him, and I realized his question had a lot more to do with our relationship than with our hands.
“Scott . . .”
“I just need to know, Shell. If this makes you uncomfortable . . . or if it’s too soon. I don’t want to rush anything or . . . you know.” His eyes met mine with an intensity of sincerity and hope that frightened me.
I knew this was a pivotal moment and I knew his vulnerability required my utmost care, yet I couldn’t help myself. It was sheer panic that made me do a terrible Scarlett O’Hara impression and say, “Why, Rhett, I do believe you’re blushing!”
He didn’t move, but something steel-gray came down over his gaze as he slowly disconnected his fingers from mine. He had risked rejection and I’d given him worse than that—I’d given him ridicule. There was nothing I could think of that would allow me a do-over.
“I’m sorry, Scott. I . . .” My mind felt sluggish, hampered by remorse. There was something crippled in the silence between us.
Shayla came bounding in with a giant teddy bear clutched in her arms, and I saw muscles clench in Scott’s jaw just before he shifted and tried to assume a casual position.
I was an idiot.
But this idiot had a daughter who’d swiped an animal off of a display shelf, and I had some explaining to do. The restaurateur was friendly, thank goodness. She just requested that I accompany Shayla on any future tours. She asked Shayla if she understood, and my fast-becoming-bilingual daughter responded in German that she would not touch any stuffed animals again. I think. I pried Shayla’s fingers from the bear’s thick fur and returned the animal to its owner under Scott’s somewhat-brooding gaze.
We made polite conversation over our Flammen Kuchen, and I was grateful for Shayla’s oblivious cheer. Then Scott drove us home and waited patiently while I put Shayla to bed.
“She’d like to say good night,” I told him after Shayla had whined about it for a while. “I tried to convince her that you’d already said your good-nights, but . . . you know.”
We walked into Shayla’s room, where she was busy making shadow animals on the wall with her hands. It was a trick I’d taught her several weeks ago, and it hadn’t yet lost its appeal.
“Okay, little girl,” I said, “say good night to Scott.”
“But we haven’t said pwayohs,” she said, temporarily distracted from the mean dog on her wall.
“Say good night first; then we’ll say prayers.” I was trying to remain patient, but nervousness about what would happen next had me a little on edge.
“No—with Scott. Please?”
I sighed and looked over at Scott. He was wearing his usual Lady Shay smile, the one that was so real and gentle and, somehow, proud. “Do you mind?” I asked.
He shook his head and went to sit on the edge of Shayla’s bed. I took my usual position on my knees at her side.
Shayla knew she’d gotten her way and was emboldened by the victory. “You pway,” she said to Scott.
I held my breath. The intimacy of that moment was so visceral that it felt fragile and taut.
Scott took hold of Shayla’s hand and she grabbed mine with the other, squinting her eyes shut and waiting for the prayer.
“Jesus,” Scott said, holding her hand in both of his and using words Shayla would understand, “please be with Shayla tonight. Keep her dreams happy and her spirit sweet. And be with Shelby too—there’s a lot going on in her life. And in mine. We rest in you. Amen.”
“Amen!” Shayla chirped.
I kissed her face and returned her hug, then headed out to the living room while Scott said good night again. I was sitting on the couch when he joined me, though he chose to sit on the chair nearer the window.
“I’m sorry, Scott,” I said. “I know you were being sincere, and I went and opened my big mouth and ruined it. . . . And I’m sorry. Really, Scott, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot—like that’s anything new to you.”
He steepled his fingers in front of his face, his eyes on me, and kept silent for a moment. There was neither frustration nor disappointment in his gaze—though they’d been there before, when my Scarlett O’Hara had put a damper on our day. Now it was just pensive. Subdued.
He took a breath and held it, then exhaled loudly, the sound filling the room that had become too quiet. He spread his hands out in front of him and said, “I’m not sure where to start—or how to say it. I’m not even really sure of what it is, actually.”
“What were you going to say at the restaurant? Can we rewind and play that over? I promise Scarlett’s gone for good.”
He withdrew into thought again, his eyes on me but his mind clearly elsewhere. When he finally spoke again, it was in a tentative way, weighing each word and scanning my face for a reaction.
“What I was going to ask you at the restaurant was if it would be okay for me to hold your hand—like at the tree lot—and if it would be okay for me to spend more time with you. With you and Shayla.” He paused. “But given your reaction . . .”
“I didn’t mean it! It was just a knee-jerk thing!”
“Given your reaction, I think I need to change my question. And given your reaction, I’m really scared of doing so.”
I didn’t want him to change questions. I knew the answer to the hand-holding one. “Okay.”
“I know there’s stuff you haven’t told me.”
“Like my David Hasselhoff fantasies?” He gave me a look and I threw up my hands in defeat. “See?” I groaned. “I can’t help it!” I gave myself a mental kick in the butt and continued. “Other people twist their hands or get twitchy when they’re nervous, and I just go straight for the sarcasm—straight for the zinger—but it’s not because I’m trying to be hurtful! It’s just—it’s a reflex thing. Like screaming when I’m scared or eating when . . . well, just about anytime. That one doesn’t work.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“See?” I was all out of steam and Scott hadn’t moved, except for the smirk on just one side of his mouth. “Ask me your question, Scott. I promise I’ll be good.” There was a six-year-old sound to the statement, but I didn’t care.
Scott levered himself out of the chair and came to sit near me on the couch. He raked his fingers through his hair and dropped his head for a moment. When he looked up, he had his game face on. And I couldn’t blame him, as I hadn’t exactly made things easy for him so far.
“I’m—and I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a teenager—but I’m attracted to you, Shelby. Have been for a while, in case you hadn’t noticed. And I’d like to . . . I’d like to pursue you, if you’ll let me. Not just hold your hand or spend time with you and Shay.”
And that was when the warm, Scott-shaped glow in my chest froze, then paled, then coiled in on itself into a solid, icy core. There were voices in my head, but they didn’t belong to me. They belonged to spent circumstances, to pain, to crushed expectations and juvenile bravado. They were so loud, so overpowering, that they contracted my muscles and chilled my skin, numbing me to all but the piercing agony of impotence.
I could have said yes to holding his hand. I could have said yes to curling up beside him and letting myself ben
d into his care. I could have said yes to spending more time together and saying bedtime prayers with Shayla and sharing Christmas trees. But accepting his affection? Allowing his pursuit? Opening myself to the pain of dashed hopes and faded love?
No.
I couldn’t.
Scott was instantly concerned, the suddenness of my transformation bridging the abyss of his guardedness. I saw him clasp my arm, but I didn’t feel his hand. I felt his breath against my face, but I didn’t hear his words. I had reached an impasse a lifetime in the making, and there was nothing, not even Scott’s kindness, that could draw me back from my self-inflicted sanction.
I rose from the couch, and the motion subdued the clamor in my mind. “I’m sorry, Scott,” I said. And truly I was. I was sorry for him and sorry for me and sorry for my daughter, who so deeply loved this man.
“Shelby, I was only saying—”
I shook my head and felt a jagged emptiness crushing my heart. “I know what you were saying, and, Scott . . .” The tears were too close. I wouldn’t allow them. I took a calming breath. “You’re so kind, Scott. So loving to Shayla. So . . . so a lot of things. All of them good. But I’m Shelby. I’m Shelby, Jim Davis’s daughter, and I can’t let you in. Not this way. Not with . . . You said attracted and pursue—and I know what those mean. And I like you too much to—to inflict myself on you.”
He was standing too, his hand on my arm, his eyes boring into mine with confusion and worry and something like affection. It was the affection I found most terrifying.
“I can’t care for you, Scott. Not the way you want. So . . .” I heard a sob and felt a spasm in my chest. There was grief on my face, dripping in hot regret down my neck. “I’m sorry.”
I went to the door and held it open—my eyes averted, my resolve firm—and tried to wrap some poise around my tears.
Scott stopped in front of me. “I can’t leave you like this.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Shell . . .”
“I’ll be fine, Scott.” The anger in my voice took him aback.
In Broken Places Page 22