“So you can always be at a pavement café,” he says, “somewhere in the Med.”
I’m touched almost to tears as I lean across and kiss him, whisper my thank-you.
“Oh, and... there’s this.”
Unwrapping his second parcel, my fingertips make contact with the soft white cotton of a T-shirt bearing a black tractor motif and the sloganMY OTHER CAR’S A TRACTOR. I laugh. “Excellent choice.”
“Saw it, and thought of you.”
“You just happened across this?”
“Well, no. I had it specially made at the screen-printing place.”
Of course he did. “Thank you. I love it.”
He takes my hand. “All right. Come on. I reckon it’s dark enough now.”
“Should I... be nervous?”
He laughs. “I’d say, with me, that’s never a bad policy.”
So with Joel’s hand across my eyes, I walk as erratically as a minutes-old foal into the garden. I enjoy the sensation of it—the warmth of his palm against my face, guiding me safely through the blackness.
Eventually I feel a cold clamp of outside air, and Joel removes his hand. I inhale sharply. The back fence is aglow with hundreds of fairy lights, our own tiny galaxy of fireflies.
“Now, that... is an achievement,” I murmur, after a couple of moments. “To make a criminally ugly garden look so beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Doesn’t scrub up too bad, does it?”
But before I can reply, he’s taking my hand, leading me round to the shed. Hitherto redundant, its door is welded shut by an impenetrable crust of ivy. Now, though, there’s a brand-new wooden nest box peeping out from beneath its eaves. “Thought we might get some chicks to watch next year. Robins, maybe.”
Oh, I’ve been waiting to meet you my whole life, I think, as I pull him toward me for a kiss.
•••
Later, Joel goes out to walk Murphy. He takes him round the block sometimes, late at night—another way, I suppose, to help him ward off the wind-down toward sleep.
While he’s out, I call Grace. I know it’s crazy, but we never failed to speak on Christmas Day, so I need to dial her number, at least. That’s been one of the toughest things about losing her—to train myself out of those everyday reflexes.
I imagine, as I always do, that tonight will be the night she’ll answer. That I’ll ask her where she’s been all this time, and she’ll tell me she got held up chatting to so-and-so, one of the infinite number of people who loved her.
But I’m greeted only by the flatline beep of her voice mail.
“Happy Christmas, Gracie. It’s going really well here. I wish you could meet Joel. I think... I think you’d really like him. Anyway, just to say... I love you.”
And then for a little while I let myself cry, because I miss her, because it’s Christmas.
42.
Joel
Deep into Christmas night and I’m still awake. Callie’s nestled against me, twitching in her sleep like an animal dreaming.
I was overcome with anger, earlier. Not toward Callie, but myself. For not being able to take pleasure in the present she’d given me. The pamphlet and voucher, printed on paper so thick and creamy it seemed more like wedding stationery.
A wellness retreat for a week, food and expenses included. Just for me, not her. I guess she couldn’t afford the package for two.
They major on sleep therapy, she told me, so enthusiastic she kept tripping over her words. (I didn’t have the heart to remind her I’ve no interest in sleeping deeply, now or in the future.) They’ll teach me how to meditate, practice yoga. She asked me again about Diana, mentioned perhaps getting in touch with Steve to get the ball rolling. She said next year could be the year everything turns around.
