Page 27 of Postmarked December

Another meal together? They weren’t even done with breakfast and they were planning lunch? But she couldn’t deny the slight rise in her spirits at the idea of it.

“I mean, don’t feel pressured,” he added, when she hadn’t responded. “I know you’re here for some alone time. I just enjoy your company.”

“No, no. It’s fine. Why don’t we meet in the lobby at twelve thirty?” she asked.

“I’d love that.”

Chapter Eleven

“That would be three meals in a row with Nick since we got here,” Heather told Marion on the phone once she’d gotten to her room. “That’s strange, right?”

“Yeah. But it doesn’t mean he’s not a great person.”

“He’s definitely an extrovert, and he said he enjoys the company.” Heather sat at the table, fiddling with the envelope edges hanging out of her journal.

“Ask him questions about himself. He doesn’t seem to mind you doing it. Maybe once you get to know him, you’ll feel more comfortable.”

“The only problem is when I do that, he wants to know about me. I’m not ready to tell him about Toby. It’ll drag us into all that—and it’s a lot for someone who’s just trying to kill time on a work trip.”

“Given how things have lined up so far, he might surprise you. And if it is too much, you’ll fly home and probably never run into him again.”

Heather rubbed her forehead. “It’s all a bit overwhelming. Why would he be so interested?”

“Because you’re beautiful and kind.”

“Thank you.” Marion’s words hit Heather hard. It had been a long time since she’d felt attractive. She’d better change topic before Marion had her tearing up. “So. Enough about me and my drama. What have you been up to today?”

“I have to go to the in-laws’ tomorrow, so I’ve been baking cookies. I got last pick of the dishes to bring, and it was either that or a main dish. I was hoping to get a bag of chips or a couple bottles of soda…”

“Did you make those peppermint cookies you’re so good at? They were a hit at the staff luncheon.”

“Of course I did. I have to keep up with Anthony’s sister. She’s always coming in with a tray of food that looks like it fell off a Pinterest board.”

Heather laughed. “I wish I was there to help.”

“Me too. You’re the cleanest of the two of us, and my kitchen looks like a flour bomb went off in it. Scarlett keeps walking through the chaos and dragging it all over the house.”

“You make me want to be there to cuddle that sweet little ball of fur.”

“She’s a mess. Literally.”

Heather chatted a while longer and then got off the phone. Marion grounded her, tethering her to who she was, with a lighthearted worldview and without the constant reminder of her grief, which she needed right now.

She had to meet Nick soon, and after talking to Marion, she was wrestling with whether she should. She struggled to imagine moving forward in any capacity with someone when grief still clung to her thoughts. She weighed the comfort of isolation against the frightening vulnerability of connection. Did moving on mean letting go or simply learning how to carry her loss alongside unfamiliar possibilities?

But it’s not as if I’m fully moving on—it’s only a third meal.

However, accepting meant that she was taking the next step toward moving on. Was she ready to do that?

Still trying to make sense of the whole thing, she got up, went over to the sliding glass doors, and opened the curtains. Through the glass, the waterfall cascaded down the rocky surface, and beyond it was the view of the park. Across the expanse, joggers bundled in their winter wear made their way down the trails. Had Toby given her this gift? Was it possible? And if he’d somehow miraculously made it happen, was she being disrespectful to his memory by running around with Nick?

What was her purpose in all this? What was the big crescendo she was striving for? Was there one, or did everyone simply exist?

Leaving the curtains open to allow the muted daylight to filter into her room, she returned to the table and opened her journal. She needed Toby right now. He’d always been her confidant.

She flipped to a new page.

Hey you. I know you’d want me to move on and have a good life. We even talked about it, when I’d let you. I might have accidentally met someone. He seems thoughtful and genuine. I’m actually happy when I see him. The feeling surprises me, though, and in a sense, makes me a little uncomfortable. It’s as if my future is pulling me forward, when a part of me—the reason I’m here in the first place—wants to remain in the past for a little while longer. If I could choose, I’d be the old me, with you. But I don’t get that choice. I guess I have to keep going, changing. I wish you could somehow tell me that it’s all going to be okay.