But the smile never lasts for long. It’s my first Christmas without Catherine. Without a Catherine I can hold in my arms, a Catherine who laughs at my punny librarian humor and hides Shakespeare-inspired love sonnets inside my pillowcase.
The ache of her absence is constant, even though Catherine—her spirit, her essence, her ghost—is still here, still with me, I know. Still waiting…
For what?
My feet glide over a frozen patch, and I catch myself with my gloved hands, scrabbling at a tree trunk. "Whoa, thanks." I pat the tree with gratitude, then sigh and tilt, touching my forehead to the rough bark. It’s so solid, this tree. So opposite from how I feel—like a drifting thing, hardly here at all.
Sighing again, I crane my neck to watch the sky. Snow whispers against my face, chills the tip of my tongue. It tastes white and clean, and its ice numbs, for a moment, the part of me that can’t bear the thought of putting up a Christmas tree without Catherine by my side, that can’t imagine buying gifts without buying one for her, and then eagerly awaiting her reaction on Christmas morning: Oh, Darcy, I’ll wear it always…
We thought we had years, decades. Our whole lives. We thought the cancer was in remission, that we could stave it off permanently with the strength of our love. We thought neither of us would ever live a lonely day again...
Well, my life since Catherine’s death could hardly be called living. Only being—and only because I have no other choice.
I collect a layer of falling snow on the flat of my glove, tilting my fingers toward the sun so that the snowflakes shimmer, casting rainbows into the bright, thin air. The sparkle of the snow makes me think of Alis, with her armfuls of glimmering holiday trimmings and her big, blue eyes full of hope. She’s making a new life for herself—bravely, boldly. And I feel honored to witness it, to play the smallest role in her rebirth, though sometimes I wonder if my somberness is a hindrance to her.
I know, innately, that her presence is a blessing to me. When I’m with her, I laugh before I can restrain myself; my lips curve into smiles before I can chastise them into frowns. When I’m with her, I forget myself: my darkness and my grief. When I’m with her, I forget—
I almost forget…
I can’t forget.
Shaking snow from my hair and crossing my arms over my chest, I bid the tree good-bye and march toward the house, my crunching footsteps breaking the silence of the still, empty woods.
---
"Would it be all right if I posted this on the bulletin board?" I push a flyer across the returns desk, and Marjorie peers down at it curiously, adjusting her glasses. "It isn’t library-related, but I want the kittens to find the best homes possible, and we all know the best people are library patrons."
Marjorie laughs gently, tapping the photocopy with a red-polished fingernail. "That is certainly true. I have thirty-three years of experience to back it up." She gazes down at the black-and-white image of the six kittens and Portia, snuggled together on the couch in the cabin, and sighs. "Well, aren’t they sweet?"
"Believe me, I’d love to keep them all. I wasn’t even a cat person until—um…" My face burns, reddens. I cough and swallow and pretend to glance over my shoulder as I swipe the sting of an errant tear from my eye.
"Honey—"
"So," I breathe, staring down at the flyer, my gaze stubbornly fixed to the large black words announcing FREE KITTENS. "I mean, I’m hardly caregiver material right now, and these babies deserve someone who can spoil them with love." Someone like Alis, I think, smiling faintly to myself. Alis has already chosen her kitten, the black one with three white feet, and named him after her favorite artist, Rossetti. "He looks like he stepped on some poor painter’s wet clouds," Alis said, patting the little boy’s tiny paws.
I take another deep breath and look up at Marjorie, whose eyes are wistful, still flitting over the image of the kittens. "Hey, Marjorie, would you like to adopt one—"
"Oh, I shouldn’t! I haven’t had a cat since I was a little girl, you know. And, well, I…" Her mouth twists to the side, and when she lifts her gaze to meet mine, I’m surprised to see that her eyes are shining. She’s near tears.
"Marjorie—"
"To be honest, I have been feeling terribly lonely lately, Darcy, just me all alone in that empty house. Lloyd used to fill it up, you know. He was so big. His presence was so big, so comforting, like a fire in a cold room. But now…" She lowers her eyes, and her lip trembles. My heart breaks for her. "Now there’s just the cold."
"Oh, Marjorie." I reach for her hands upon the desk and squeeze them gently; her skin feels cool and paper-thin. "If there’s anything I can do—"
"Well, now I’m thinking… It might be nice to have someone around to take care of." Her mouth upturns as she looks at me, squeezing my hands back. "Even if that someone is an energetic white kitten who’ll probably tear up my drapes and drop dead mice on my favorite books." She laughs, letting go of my hand to catch a tear slipping over her cheek. "So I’ll adopt one of the babies, if you deem me fit."
"I couldn’t imagine a better cat parent," I tell her, leaning over the desk to hug her lightly. "You could meet all of the kittens during the Christmas party on Saturday, if you’d like, and pick your favorite."
"That would be charming." Marjorie beams. "You know, I’m excited! I haven’t been this excited since…" She tilts her head, thinking hard, before laughing with a shrug of her shoulders. "Well, not since the latest Janet Evanovich came out."
I laugh and glance at the shelves all around us, teeming with mysteries and biographies, romance novels and science journals. And, when my eyes fall upon the rows of poetry, skim over the spines that I know include several volumes of Shakespeare’s work, something seizes within me: an ache. An awareness.
A longing.
"You have that look about you, Darcy," Marjorie says shrewdly, coming around the desk with the flyer in her hand. "I know that look."
"What look?" I tear my eyes from the shelves and regard her, confused. "I was only—"
"You were only pining after the stories you left behind. Wishing to live between the pages again. Wishing to be a librarian again."
"No, I’m not ready—"
"Ready, shmeady." Resting a hand on my shoulder, Marjorie sighs softly and gazes at me with such a tender, sympathetic expression that I feel my eyes begin to water. "There’s no such thing as ready, not when it comes to the sort of soul-deep grief you’re going through, honey. I know. You’ll never be ready. You’ve just got to dive in and swish your arms like crazy to keep your head above water. And eventually…you’ll float."
I inhale deeply, shaking my head. "I appreciate your concern, Marjorie, but I just don’t think… I don’t have the will to swish my arms. I’d rather sink. I’d rather just—"
"I know," she says again, more softly this time, drawing me near for a quick, warm embrace. "But think about it. We’re all here, waiting for you—me and Cather and Twain and Austen and Rowling and Koontz and Hemingway—"
"Ugh, not Hemingway."
"Okay, everyone except him." She smiles broadly, threading her arm through mine and leading me toward the vestibule at the front of the building. "Now, let’s tack up this flyer, shall we? I think there’s a nice spot for it, right on top of the notice for that spaghetti dinner the Republican Readers are putting on—"
"Marjorie…"
She winks. "Just kidding. We’ll only cover up the bottom part, where it lists the location, date and time."
"You’re a wily lady, boss."
"’Course I am. I’m a librarian."
Chapter Fourteen
I bump open the swinging dining room door, balancing a tray of hors d’oeurves on one hand while gripping the neck of a chilled bottle of wine with the other. "Alis, where should I put these—" The wine nearly slips from my fingers and the tiny cucumber sandwiches slide all over the tray as my eyes fasten to Alis standing beside the picture window, her hands clasped lightly before her, her dark head piled with cu
rls and tilted sweetly to the side.
The sight of her, for a measureless moment, stills my heart.
"Do I look all right?" She tugs at the narrow belt of her shimmering blue sheath, flicking uncertain glances in my direction. "I thought about buying something new, but then I remembered this dress… I got it years ago, for a party at Jason’s co-worker’s house, but Jason made me take it off before we left home. He said it looked cheap."
"Jason’s an idiot." I swallow, meeting her questioning, hopeful gaze. "You look radiant, Alis. Beautiful."
She laughs nervously, crossing her arms and shaking her head. "Well, I’ve always loved this color, but Jason—"
"Forget Jason." I toss the tray to the sideboard beside the rest of the hors d’oeuvres and put the wine bottle on the dining table. The table looks festive, set with a white tablecloth, white china, and gold napkins, lined down the center with squat silver vases full of sumptuous red roses on a shimmering gold runner. The chandelier above, the room’s only illumination, throws flame-shaped, undulating shadows to the wine-colored walls.
I move toward Alis and, breathing deeply, reach for her hands, my eyes lingering over the blue beauty of her curves.
"Is it too much?" she whispers, staring down at our clasped fingers and anxiously stroking the back of my hand. "Should I change—"
"Never change. This dress was made for you." My voice is low, and I try to smile at her, try to lighten the mood, but my lips won’t cooperate: they part, longing…and I take small breaths, unable to remove my gaze, unable to let go of her hands.
"Darcy..."
"Alis."
"That was the doorbell. Just now. I think a guest has arrived."
I blink, dazed, staring into her wide, bottomless blue eyes. "Doorbell?"
"Didn’t you hear it?"
I catch her scent in the space between us. A lush floral perfume. Jasmine, I think. "No. I didn’t—"
But the doorbell rings again, and, for better or for worse, I do hear it this time. Our hands fall away as we fall away from each other, our eyes roaming the laden sideboard and the sparkling, expectant table, looking everywhere, at everything, except at one another.
"I’ll get it," I say, gruff, turning to leave the room.
"Darcy, wait."
I glance at Alis over my shoulder, heart skipping, brain shrieking at me to go, to leave, to ignore my impulses and be rational, to remember Catherine.
Alis smiles softly, shyly. "I just wanted to say—you look beautiful, too."
I stare at her for a moment longer before flicking my gaze to my A-line dress—the red dress that Alis found in my closet months ago, the one I had refused to wear. Its neckline plunges daringly low, but I suppose I’m feeling daring tonight, careless. Reckless. It’s Christmas Eve, and my life is a ghostlike thing; none of this feels real, so I’ve begun to treat it all like a dream. In dreams, nothing matters. Nothing lasts. In dreams, the whole world vanishes the moment you open your eyes, and all that’s left is a weak remembrance of something once known, now forever lost.
I breathe out, catching Alis’ eyes and smiling faintly. "Thank you."
She ducks her head, returning my smile.
"Hello! Darcy? Hope you don’t mind I let myself in." Marjorie’s voice slices the tension, echoing throughout the entryway. "I’ve brought some champagne! Good stuff! None of that bargain swill!" As one, Alis and I sigh, then laugh.
"Time to put on our hostess hats," Alis says, smoothing her dress and moving toward the doorway, toward me.
"We don’t literally have to wear hats, do we?"
She laughs. "No." But then she places a finger to her chin, considering.
"What?"
"I’m just thinking… You’d look really cute in a beret."
I can’t help but laugh, even as the blood heats up in my veins in response to her voice, her scent, her nearness. "Next time, then. A beret for me and a cloche for you."
"Oh, yes! I love vintage fashion. I used to be really into fashion, you know, before Jason— I mean…" She looks thoughtful for a moment. Then her brow arches up, and she gives me a mischievous look. "Never mind. As a wise woman once said, forget Jason."
"Da-a-arcy!"
"Coming, Marjorie." I grin at Alis and offer her my arm. "All right, then. Let’s hostess this thing."
---
Marjorie, slouching in the chair next to me, sloshes more champagne into my glass. "Told you this stuff was good, didn’t I?"
"It’s great, Marjorie, but I think I’ve had enough—"
"Not on Christmas Eve, you haven’t! Look!" She waggles the bottle in front of my eyes. "Still plenty left. I’m determined to polish it all off before I go home."
"Why don’t you stay the night? I don’t think you should drive, Marjorie."
She purses her lips, placing the bottle precariously on the edge of the table. I nudge it away from the edge with a shaky hand. I’ve definitely had enough…
"Well, I may take you up on that, Darcy, if you have a room to spare. It’s snowing pretty hard out there, and, truth be told, I think I’m drunk. Imagine, an old woman like me!"
I laugh, patting her shoulder as she begins to lean toward me. "There’s room. I’ll find a comfortable place for you. And we’ll go out to visit the kittens tomorrow morning."
Her eyes grow wide with a sudden thought. "But tomorrow’s Christmas!"
"Do you have plans? If you do, I could find someone to take you home—maybe…" I glance doubtfully at the assembled guests, nearly all of them invited by Alis, though a few of my co-workers from the library are here, too. But everyone is red-eyed and slouchy, spilling liquor on the tablecloth and laughing a little too loudly for a formal dinner party.
It doesn’t seem to me as if anyone here is fit to drive.
Marjorie sags a little. Slowly, her head moves from side to side, and she picks up her fork, watching the firelight play against the silver. "No. No, Darcy. I don’t have any plans for Christmas."
"Well…" I wrap an arm around my tipsy boss and hug her quickly. "Then we’ll have a lovely kitten-filled morning. What better way to spend a holiday?" I push my full glass away and lift my woozy gaze to again survey the crowded, candlelit dining room. Across the table, Alis is holding court with several of her nurse friends from the hospital. Blessedly, Caroline is not among them. I watch, smiling softly, as Alis laughs at something one of the women said. Then, noticing my gaze, Alis looks at me, and her mouth curves slyly, as if we’re sharing a secret.
Maybe it’s the champagne…or the many, many glasses of wine, but I’m seized by an almost irresistible urge to rise up from the table and kiss Alis, right in front of everyone. Which would be not only mad but madly selfish. I don’t know if Alis—"not straight" but still-married Alis—has any desire at all to be kissed by me. The kiss we shared when she first moved in… It seems so long ago now, and so hazy, that I’m not convinced it ever happened at all. And my response to it was hardly encouraging.
My response was appropriately discouraging.
It’s the wine, must be the wine, making my thoughts wild, smudging my inhibitions. Catherine and I rarely drank because we both became drunk too easily, and we preferred to remember every precious moment that we spent together. New Year’s Eve was our one exception. My stomach sours at the thought of yet another holiday to survive without Catherine, another holiday rich with memories.
Feeling ill and uneasy, I cast my gaze toward the window and the trees beyond, sighting the beginning of the path toward Catherine’s cabin. Suddenly I want nothing more than to go there, to escape from this domestic charade and lose myself to remembrances of Christmases past, kisses past…and rest for a very long while.
If I could sleep through Christmas, I would. But I can’t let Alis spend the day alone, and she’s excited about exchanging gifts. I begged her not to get me anything, but she put her white-sneakered nurse’s foot down and insisted that gifts are mandatory, and she looked so sweet, so determined, with her arms crossed an
d her brows raised, her mouth firm but teasing, that I could only give in…
I glance in Alis’ direction once more, take in her flushed cheeks and her kind smile as she talks with her friends, and I know, in a crystal-clear moment of honesty, that my attraction to Alis has nothing to do with alcohol. I’ve felt it—and denied it—from the beginning, when she cared for me after Catherine’s death. And the guilt of that admission is almost as unbearable as the grief that has enmeshed itself in my soul.
"I’m going outside to get some air," I tell Marjorie, who vaguely nods her head beside me, half asleep. "When I come back in, I’ll get you settled for the night."
"So kind, Darcy. Thank you," she murmurs, propping her head up on her elbow and smiling sleepily at me.
I pat her arm and hurry away without another word, leaving my heels on the entryway floor and sliding bare feet into my boots. I take my winter coat from the hook on the wall and shrug into it, though I don’t bother with the zipper. I want to feel the bracing cold. I want its sting to sink into my skin and numb me from the inside out.
"Darcy?"
I freeze with my fingers on the door handle and, sighing, glance over my shoulder, offering something like a smile. "Just going for a walk. It’s a little stuffy in here, don’t you think?"
"I do," Alis says, stepping nearer—near enough to trail her fingers down the length of my zipper before slowly, head bowed, zipping the opening closed. "Mind if I join you?"
I breathe deeply, so deeply that Alis’ jasmine perfume makes my limbs feel loose, my head foggy, though my heart awakens, its pace faster, more urgent, the moment that Alis’ blue, blue eyes gaze into mine. "I could never say no to you, Alis," I tell her truthfully, and with a dizzying pulse, I help her into her coat.
"Everyone’s so drunk. Well, I’m drunk, too," she says as we step outside, shutting the door closed behind us. "They’re starting to get silly and catty, and I’ve hardly spoken with you all day, you know." We step down from the porch, and Alis slides her hand into mine. "I missed you."
The Ghost of a Chance Page 9