The sudden, overly loud sound of an engine outside had me close to jumping out of my skin.
Immediately, as usual, my brain supplied the worst-case scenario: it must be Jonathan, my boss. Who else was close enough to drive here?
No, dummy, it’s the generator.
I let out a relieved breath, listening to the hum of the refrigerator kicking in.
And, even if it were Jonathan, I wasn’t scared of that jerk.
But—I hugged my legs to my body and dropped my head to my knees—I was still out a job. Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
In search of a distraction, I stood, blanket wrapped tightly around me, and took a quick turn around the room.
There wasn’t much. A lot of windows for such a small place. Clean, solid furniture, with absolutely no distractions like junk or knickknacks. Sparse.
Something glinted in the corner by the front door. A shopping bag. I moved closer. It was filled with gifts wrapped in holiday paper. I squatted and looked at the card on the top gift. To Micah. The one beside it also had his name on it. One of the cards didn’t have an envelope. I shouldn’t read it. I wouldn’t.
It was open, though, and the letters were big and, clearly written by a kid.
“Dear Micah. Miss you. Sorry you will not be at Christmas. Love, Vic.”
I straightened, stepped guiltily from the bag and bumped into the desk behind me. I just caught a tottering lamp before it fell.
Coasting on that little spike of adrenaline, I picked up a black-framed photo I’d knocked face down. Wow. That was a big family. Was he in there? I squinted, but didn’t see him. Huh.
Beside the photo was a fanned out pile of business cards. I’d probably messed those up with my butt. I straightened them and, after a moment’s hesitation, picked one up.
It was plain white, with black lettering—Arial font—and listed his name and number: MICAH GRAHAM, Certified Arborist. I turned it over in search of a website or email. Nothing.
I considered pocketing one, but then remembered I didn’t have a purse or even a pocket to put it in at this point. I returned it to the pile and neatened it up, with a strangely final feeling.
Not much for relationships, he’d said.
Fine. A dirty Christmas. That was it. No strings, no cards, no numbers.
Although I’d definitely look up exactly what it was arborists did. Okay, I’d obsess over it. Probably google him, too, if I was honest.
But, man, how did he even run a business nowadays without a website? I swiveled around. Or even a computer, as far as I could tell.
Course, he might have an office in town. But then he’d have put that address on his cards, wouldn’t he?
Did he get enough work like this to survive? The man was so self-sufficient, I couldn’t image he needed a whole lot.
That was both attractive and, suddenly, unexpectedly, heart wrenching. Despite that pile of gifts in the corner that said he had plenty of people who loved him, he’d planned to spend the holidays alone before I came along. New Year’s probably wasn’t even a blip on his radar.
It wasn’t sad, I decided, if he didn’t care. Which truly seemed to be the case.
I turned, took in the clean, cozy cabin, lit by the candles’ golden haze and the lazily snapping fire in the wood stove, and unconsciously looked for my phone.
It took me just a few seconds to remember that there’d be no Instagramming this moment. My phone was gone, along with my purse, my car. My job.
I sank onto the arm of the sofa and tried to catch my breath.
Holy shit. My life. My entire freaking life. Stupid things occurred to me—I’d kept my favorite shiny, see-though rainbow umbrella in the Jetta’s trunk. My sneakers had been on the back seat. What else? What other crap did I leave in there?
No. No way was I wallowing in this…again. I needed something to do. I could clean, but there wasn’t a speck of dust in the place. On a whim, I stood up, headed to the desk, grabbed a pen from the jar and a sheet of paper from the drawer, and started sketching out business card ideas.
