“Yourhusbandis a natural with the kids,” Nina observes, following my gaze.
“This is all your fault, you know.”
She giggles. “What? That you haven’t stopped grinning since you saw him over there with a hammer in hand and a tool belt slung around his waist.”
She’s got me there and my rosy cheeks reveal as much. “He’s just not what I expected from the guy I knew in college.”
“And one of the town’s star hockey players.”
“We’re only a few days in. I’m sure it’ll blow up in a spectacular dumpster fire of tinsel and?—”
Nina levels me with a look. “Don’t you dare self-sabotage.” Which is another way to say not to work myself into a third-act corner that I won’t be able to write my way out of.
Then she bounces in her seat, struck with inspiration and eager to get back to work on the ‘Encorn’ skits that the actors and townspeople perform after the pageant. They’re typically comical skits about Cobbiton, its citizens, and the holiday season. Meanwhile, I’m thinking about the length and width of Fletch’s palm, how solid it felt on my hip, and how I fit so perfectly under his arm.
Later, during the drive home, he seems relaxed, pleased with himself. “I think the manger scenery is coming along nicely. How’s the script for the ‘Encorn’ part?”
“Nina is happy with the revisions.”
“And Derek? Was he happy too?” There’s an edge to his tone that catches my attention.
“Jealous, Mr. Turley?”
“Just playing my part, Mrs. Turley.” His eyes remain fixed on the road, but I catch the hint of tension in his jaw.
I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I change the subject. “The kids seemed to like you.”
His expression softens. “They’re great. Honest, you know? No pretenses.”
“Yeah,” I agree softly. If only I had so much clarity.
Back at his house—our house, I remind myself—we take the dog for a short walk in the moonlight. The night is clear and cold, our breath forming clouds in the frosty air. Dickens trots happily between us, already looking healthier than when we found him.
“He’s adapting well,” Fletch observes as we watch the dog investigate a particularly fascinating shrub festooned with net lighting in twinkling colors.
“He doesn’t seem too traumatized by his abandonment,” I agree.
“Dogs live in the present. They don’t overthink the past or worry about the future.”
I give him a sidelong glance.
“Some of us could learn from them.” He bumps my shoulder gently with his. “To live more in the moment, that is.”
I recall my terrible pun from earlier.
Good grief and garland!
I’m not living in the past when my life was less messy and I met my deadlines. Nor am I counting down the days until this is over. Well, maybe a little. Not like those wooden Christmas countdown displays they sell at the market. So what is happening to me?
Back inside, Fletch spoils Dickens with treats and belly rubs while I make hot chocolate.
When I was a little kid riding my bike home from the library at dusk, I’d notice scenes like this unfolding through the windows of people’s houses. It would fill me with longing. But for once, I’m on the inside.
It’s risky, this feeling. It isn’t real. It can’t be.
Later, after Fletch has gone to bed, I return to my laptop.The words flow more easily than they have in months as I incorporate new insights into my character’s perspective.
Lorna, my mail-order bride, is beginning to view her husband as more than just a means to an end—she’s seeing him as a person, complex and surprising … and handsome too.
