Caught in the chaos, Stewart simply hums, purposely disregarding what’s happening on the other side of his counter.
“I’m going to Florida for Christmas to see my parents.” I hasten to clarify, adding in a quiet tone, “But moving there has been the plan.”
“Absoluuuuuutely not.”
“That will be twenty dollars and seventy-three cents,” Stewart chimes in.
Really, Stewart? Now? My jaw clenches.
“You know that I’ve been rooting for you. I even put in a good word with Build Me Up, Buttercup Homes for the customfurniture you make . . .” Gladys’ voice rises an octave on the last words, and I swallow. “But now, I’m not so sure that was the right choice.”
“Gladys, I really need to get going. And these poor people behind us need to ship their packages.”
“Again, that will be twenty dollars and seventy-three cents.”
“Shut it, Stewart!” Gladys yells as I throw a credit card onto the counter. She leans in, invading my personal space. “Our Ivy needs you. And to be clear, we all could use a strapping guy like you around here. And besides Ivy being happy, Emmy needs this town. You need this town. Now, look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.” Her voice is low.
It would be menacing if I didn’t know that this is the woman who left me a chicken noodle soup casserole when she found out that Emmy had a stomachache yesterday. How she found out, I still don’t know. I see her eyes narrow in my peripheral vision, unrelenting.
Slowly, Stewart slides a receipt and a pen across the counter so deliberately that I think he’s planning to sneak-attack me. However, his humming of the Christmas carols playing across the speaker system is a giveaway that he’s listening and only trying to act nonchalant. Quickly, I sign the receipt and then nod toward the door, indicating that Gladys should follow me. She huffs but complies.
As we walk away, “And a Merry Christmas to you!” accompanies us toward the door.
We pause just inside the door leading into the post office. We’re not fully out of earshot of everyone in line, but my shoulders relax, and I crack my neck to relieve some tension. “Gladys, you’re not wrong. However . . .”
She visibly relaxes but looks at me warily. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Word on the cobblestone street is that it’s not an option to stretch the truth with Gladys, or she’ll call it rubbish, so I answer honestly. “That it could be good for Emmy to move to Florida. My parents live there. It’s stable. It’s not anywhere my ex has been. And the truth is that our adventure in Birch Borough was always meant to be temporary.”
“I see.” The wheels in her mind are turning so fast that I should see smoke coming from her ears. “I hear your reasoning, and I raise you just one thing.”My nod gives her the permission she doesn’t need to keep going. “Ivy.”
I nearly groan. She’s hitting me where it hurts. “I’m staying in town until December twenty-third, if that helps.” My confidence deflates in the wake of her gaze.
“Hardly. Why would you even consider going when you know that the woman who is meant to be yours is here? Help it make sense!”
I sigh. “I can’t help it make sense because it doesn’t make sense. All I know is that, without meaning to, I lost Ivy once. I don’t know if I can survive if I realize . . . if I can’t . . .”
“If you’re too buff?”
“What? No.”
“Too suave?”
“No.”
“Too grumpy?”
“I’m not grumpy with her, and just, no.”
“Too giving? Your sister told me you used to be quite the helpful neighbor.”
I run a hand through my hair in frustration, the ends of it now stretching toward the sky. “Ivy should get the best. I could never give her enough.”
Gladys ignores me. “Too romantic? Don’t think I don’t know about your little escapade outside of Town Hall. I may haveeven seen them myself—well, secondhand through my camera, at least.”
“Oh, good Lord, help me.” My exhale is enough to get the people walking into the post office to look at me skeptically. Three people have come in, and two have left since Gladys and I stepped away from the counter. I could walk away, but I’m afraid of her. I’m afraid of the ramifications if I even try to move. “No.”
“Too . . . what, then? Handsome? Intelligent? Handy?” At the last descriptor, she bounces her brows. I shut my eyes. “Tall? Manly? Punchy?” I sneak a glance to catch her as she mimics a boxer punching a bag and will myself not to laugh. “Too—” she begins.
