I’m not entirely sure how to respond, so instead I ask, “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”
He looks stunned by the abrupt change of topic, but recovers quickly. “Coffee would be nice, thanks.”
The familiar routine of measuring grounds and water is comforting. When Hugh texted last night and suggested coming here today, I agreed without much thought. Then I spent all morning feeling fluttery and anxious, wondering if I should have suggested we meet in a public place. It’s not that I’m nervous about being alone with him, but I’m uncertain about my own feelings toward him.
After putting milk, sugar, and two mugs on a tray, I remember the package of fancy cookies I bought recently and hid behind the crackers Celia doesn’t like. I arrange a few on a plate, then stick a few more on for good measure. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to play hostess. The only person who visits is Bridget, and she always helps herself to stuff when she’s here. The coffee finishes percolating, so I add the pot to the tray, instantly regretting my decision not to make two trips as I heft the tray off the counter and balance it in both hands.
I’m halfway to the living room, inching along at a snail’s pace when Hugh notices me. He jumps off the couch and offers me a quick smile as he takes the tray with ease and sets it on the coffee table. Several brochures are spread out on the table; he must have been leafing through one and discarded it when he hopped up to help me.
He waits until I sit on the opposite end of the couch before returning to his seat. Perching on the edge of the cushion, he begins pouring coffee into the mugs. I watch in wonder as he adds a heaping spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk to one, stirs it, and hands it to me.
“I’m sorry if I offended you before,” he says. “As I said, it wasn’t a judgment so much as an observation. It truly is a lovely place and you seem comfortable here.” His brows draw together again. “Have I done something wrong?”
I realize he means the coffee, so I shake my head quickly. “How did you know this is how I take my coffee?”
“You had two cups with lunch yesterday,” he says. He picks up his own cup without adding milk or sugar—blech—and takes a sip. “Mmm, good and strong, just how I like it.”
“Bridget never lets me make coffee,” I tell him. “Her dad used to say I made it strong enough to put hair on your chest.”
Hugh chuckles, the rich, warm sound wrapping around me and putting me at ease. “I’ve already got that covered, so no worries.” He rubs a hand on his chest over his blue pullover.
Goodbye ease. Now I’m thinking about Hugh’s chest. Hugh’s hairy chest? I’ve never been attracted to hairy chests before, but it would suit Hugh. He’s got that sexy, rugged thing going on. Oh god, why am I thinking about Hugh’s bare chest?
“Anyway,” I say a little too forcefully. “You didn’t offend me about the apartment. I’d never really thought about it before, to be honest. To an outsider, it probably looks like I just moved in, even though I’ve been here six years.” I scan the room again; the bookcase is the only personal thing in this room, with all my books, some framed photos, and now my beautiful succulent. I’ve bought a few art prints over the years and always intended to get them framed, but haven’t got around to it.
“The minimalist look works,” Hugh says.
I laugh to myself. “It wasn’t intentional. My parents died when I was young, and my aunt and uncle took me in. My aunt is the one you could legitimately call a minimalist. She practically considers clutter a mortal sin.”
He chuckles at that. “She’d have hated my mum’s house, then. It was chock-full of bits and bobs and mismatched furniture, with artwork and framed photographs covering every square inch of the walls.” I smile, thinking how nice that sounds. At the same moment I realize he spoke of his mother in the past tense, he ducks his head so our eyes meet. “I’m sorry about your parents. I lost my mum ten years ago, and my dad passed about five years ago.”
Our gazes hold, unblinking, for several long beats. Until two years ago when Bridget’s dad died, I’d never had a friend who’d lost a parent. People have always been sympathetic, but none of them truly know what it’s like unless they’ve lived through it. People saying they’re sorry usually make me uncomfortable because I don’t know what to say in return. I often feel like I need to make it okay for the other person since I know they’re as clueless as I am when it comes to giving and receiving condolences. But Hugh gets it. I can see it in his eyes, that unique kind of pain, the grief that looms over you like a shadow. “I’m sorry for your loss too.” Without thinking, I reach out. He meets me part way, closing his large hand around mine.
We hold hands for a minute, and then he takes a deep breath and gently releases me. “Some of the best stories have orphans as their heroes. Have you ever noticed that? Harry Potter. Oliver Twist. Anne Shirley.”
“Anne Shirley?” I sputter out a surprised laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve readAnne of Green Gables?”
“Oh, aye.” He rubs the back of his neck. Is that color creeping into his cheeks? “I’m guessing you have too?”
“About a million times. One of my teachers gave it to me after my parents died, and I read it so many times it’s falling apart.” I get up from the couch and go to the bookcase, gingerly pulling the tattered copy from a shelf and motioning to the books beside it. “I have about eight other editions. I don’t remember when I started collecting them; I’d buy them here and there since there are so many different covers. Bridget even brought me one she found in a second-hand shop in Ireland.”
He joins me, leaning in to inspect my collection. “I read it in university when I was writing a paper about loss and grief in literature. It ended up becoming a favorite of mine as well.”
“University?” I’m not sure why that surprises me.
“I took psychology at St. Andrew’s in Scotland.”
“Where Prince William and Kate Middleton went?” His eyes light with laughter, so I feel compelled to add, “Bridget and her mom are obsessed with the royal family. I guess it’s kind of rubbed off over the years.”
He nods like it makes perfect sense. “Same school. I got my degree and even had a small practice in Scotland for a while. I quit when…”
“When…?” I prompt.
“When my dad died and I decided to leave Scotland.” He runs a hand down his face, the friction over his stubble making a quiet scratching sound. “I enjoyed the work, but I didn’t love it. Oddly enough, it comes in handy as Santa Claus. You know how the elves have a special time to see me on Monday nights? It started as a bit of fun and ended up being something that stuck. They tell me whatever’s on their mind. I listen, give advice, or sometimes just lend an ear or a shoulder, depending on what they need. They joke about there being some magic to it because they always feel better afterward, but it’s basic psychology, really. People want to be heard. They want to know they matter. That their feelings and opinions are valid.”
I nod slowly. Makes sense. I can also understand the feeling of there being some magic to it. There’s something about Hugh that makes me want to drop my guard and spill all my thoughts and feelings.
“It must feel good knowing you’re still helping people,” I say. “You bring a lot of joy to the kids as Santa Claus, and the staff seem to love you. Plus there’s all you do for children’s literacy.”
