I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles whitening against the porcelain. My reflection stares back, flushed cheeks, wide eyes that don’t look like the girl who spent last night tangled beneath her grandmother’s quilt with Marcel Dubois buried inside of her.
He told me he was a womanizer, this isn’t news. He’s never pretended to be a man that doesn’t run through women like water. The rational part of me whispers that she has every reason to be bitter. She was the one he kept and now she’swatching him go through women, though doesn’t she have the man she left Marcel to be with? Another part of me, the vulnerable part, starts tallying every time Marcel’s guarded gaze slipped into adoration when he looked at me. The way he let me sleep with my head on his chest all night and how he kisses me like I matter.
Still, they were married for a long time. We’ve known each other for a week—she’s probably right. Marcel doesn’t like being alone, especially during the holidays and I’m filling that gap. If she couldn’t reach the heart of the man she married, what chance do I have? I run cold water over my hands, letting the sting ground me. Outside the window, a stray flurry of snow dances past, reminding me that the storm is over but winter isn’t done with us yet.
I dab at my eyes and fix my hair, forcing a bright expression onto my face. I tell myself I’m not going to let Clara Dubois taint my memories of last night. Marcel may be complicated, stubborn, guarded, and infuriatingly arrogant, but he isn’t cruel. He held me, he listened. And yet, as I step into the hallway, my chest feels heavier. The sparkle I left the house feeling this morning has dulled, replaced with a cautious ache. I can’t let Clara’s words steal my joy. Marcel told me himself that he is temporary, that we’re a fling. Having Clara confirm that means nothing. If it’s a fling, then I’m going to have fun and show Marcel the best Christmas ever. If I save the library and our community, then all of this will have been worth every moment.
By the time I reach the lobby, Marcel is standing there. I paste on a smile, but inside, the questions swirl like snow in a restless wind.
“Ready? I need to assess the neighborhood and community involvement. I’ll take voice notes on my phone. Are you okay with this?”
I force my lips into a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine with it.”
He studies me a moment longer, then pockets his phone. “You look ... different. Did Clara say something? She likes to scare pretty girls she thinks I’m dating.” Ouch. The question hits too close.
I laugh lightly, fake and brittle. “Just that I should moisturize more. It was a dig, but not too deep,” I play off the lie.
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he grabs his coat and gestures toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go see Christmas in Eaton.”
I follow him out the door, feeling the weight of curious stares on my back. The hum of whispered conversations rises. Marcel, of course, doesn’t seem to notice or care, I guess.
In the elevator, he glances sideways at me. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who is about to show me the joys of Christmas.” He gives me a playful smile and it’s hard to resist.
“Yes, the joys of Christmas with a Grinch, it’s a little daunting,” I reply, aiming for playful, but there’s a strain in my voice.
He exhales and almost laughs but not really. “You’re a terrible liar, Juliet.”
The doors to the outside slide open and the cold air rushes in. Marcel steps ahead to hold the doors for me, a small, unexpectedly gentle gesture that knots my stomach even tighter. As we step out into the snow, Marcel tilts his head toward me, his tone lighter.
“Show me your world, Juliet. I’d rather you guide me through it than an investor with price tags in his eyes.” I think of old timey cartoons and they lighten my mood.
Though Clara’s words still whisper in my head, I try to push them away. I tell myself to focus on the community tour, on the fight to save the library, on anything except the ache in my chest. When my shoulder brushes his arm as we walk, the spark that ignites between us feels impossibly alive. I may just be a moment, but this will be a memory that will last a lifetime.
The wind bites at my cheeks as we step off the curb, snow crunching under our boots. The storm has left the world sparkling with branches coated in ice and rooftops crowned in white. Marcel keeps pace beside me, with his coat collar turned up against the chill. He looks every inch the polished mogul, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his eyes that softens him just a little.
“This block,” I begin, pointing to a row of weathered brick buildings with mismatched shutters, “has been here since the twenties. The Smith family still owns the bakery on the corner. They give away day-old bread to anyone who needs it. At Christmas time, they have German stollen and fruit cake, but I love their Gingerbread people. Coming home from school I used to get day-old Gingerbread people for free, it is one of my happiest Christmas memories. Their shop always smells like love and pastries,” I say with fondness remembering back towhen I was a child taking my first bite of the fresh gingerbread cookies. “This is their house on the corner and the bakery is just a few doors down.”
We keep walking until we reach the bakery, which is just as sweet and inviting as I remember it. There is a window painting of a snow covered forest under the real snow on the window and a drawing of Santa handing out candy canes to the kids. Marcel glances in the bakery windows glowing warm in the grey morning. “That’s very generous of them. Businesses like that ... they’re rare.”
I think he plans to just look in, but we’re going to experience the neighborhood not just observe it.
“They shouldn’t be rare. Instead of throwing old items out, giving them away allows people who can’t afford it to treat themselves,” I say. “Mrs. Smith’s husband fought to keep the bakery open when the chain stores moved in. He said people needed a place that remembered their names and offered a space to sit and enjoy time with neighbors.”
Marcel’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. We walk to the counter and look over the menu. I don’t know if Marcel is going to order anything. He looks very much like a mature businessman at this point. He’s out of his element and is obviously a man who has never been inside of a small neighborhood shop. I order us a gingerbread man and woman and ask for vegan hot chocolate. Marcel gets an espresso and we sit together at a small table with barely enough room for two, next to dozens of people lost in conversation. Their Christmas shopping bags and boxes are piled high beside them.
“Cheers,” I take my gingerbread girl tilt her to kiss his gingerbread boy. “I bet these are even better fresh.”
“Well, she’s being fresh alright,” Marcel teases. “Kissing my gingerbread man like that.” We both take a bite and the flavor melts in my mouth. I don’t tell Marcel that the gingerbread is vegan because he’d find some reason to dislike it.
I watch him taste it, and I know from experience how spicy and buttery the flavor is. It reminds me of the holidays.
“This is pretty good,” he gives me an eye, but won’t completely submit.
Fine, challenge accepted. By the end of the day he will be putty in my hands. We talk to the owner of the bakery and, though he’s pretty old now, he still comes in and inspects the work of his son and daughter-in-law who have taken over.
We thank him and continue on our tour walking past the little playground with faded swings. A group of bundled-up kids squeal as they build a lopsided snow fort. Their laughter echoes against the buildings.
“This is the park the community raised money for,” I tell him. “Fundraisers, bake sales, car washes, everyone got involved. They wanted the kids to have somewhere safe to play and the only other park is three miles away, too far for little legs.” I wait for a chance to get on the swings and luckily two swings open up with no little people wanting a turn.
