“Is that difficult?”
“Yes. But I was pretty good at it. I had it up to thirty million before things went south.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Thirty million . . . dollars?”
“If it were pesos, it wouldn’t have been as impressive.”
I sipped my coffee. “You said some bad things happened to your business.”
“Horrible things,” he said. “Nothing I’d want to ruin our time together sharing. What do you do?”
“I own a catering business.”
“Which explains the fancy sugar cubes. What kind of catering?”
“Weddings, personal, corporate. An occasional movie production. Pretty much the whole gamut.”
“You must be busy this time of year.”
His words tweaked me a little with guilt, reminding me that Carina was working seventy-hour weeks. My absence was putting a lot of extra pressure on her. “We’re swamped. Business is good.”
“Good,” he said. He finished his coffee.
“Would you like some more?”
“Thank you,” he said, “but I’d better let you go; you said you were busy.”
Disappointment washed over me. Still, he hadn’t moved from his chair. “No worries. I’m okay on time. Thank you for bringing the tree. I wasn’t even going to get one this year. I haven’t been in a celebrating mood.”
“I understand. I still don’t have a tree myself.”
“You sell them, but you don’t have one?”
“You know how it is—the cobbler’s children have no shoes. Besides, it’s just me.”
“It’s just me too,” I said.
“So what changed your mind about getting a tree?”
“A friend of mine. She thought it might help me emotionally to decorate for the season. You know, to get in the spirit of Christmas.”
“Is it working?”
“Apparently. I’m not balled up in a fetal position somewhere.”
He looked at me sympathetically. “Life can be hard. And the holidays seem to amplify whatever pain we’re going through.”
“They can,” I said. I took a drink from my coffee, then suddenly blurted out, “So, you probably heard about my husband. It was all over the news.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t watch much news.”
“Have you heard the name Clive Walther?”
“No. Should I have?”
“That’s refreshing. You’re probably the only one in Utah who hasn’t heard of him.”
“Well, I’m new here.”
“Then I should probably tell you.”
He looked at me for a moment, then asked, “Why?”
It was a good question. Here he’d sat down to enjoy some coffee and pleasant conversation, and now I was going to vomit all over him my tragic marriage.
“Is it something you want to talk about?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. It had practically become part of my introduction. Hi, I’m Maggie Walther. My husband had another wife and family.
“No,” I said. “Not really.”
“We don’t need to talk about anything that brings you pain,” he said, his eyes kind.
“Thank you.”
The moment stretched awkwardly. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Finally, he said, “Well, I probably should go. I still need to count up the day’s receipts.”
“Of course,” I said, silently berating myself over our conversation. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“I’m glad you did. I enjoyed talking. And the coffee.”
He stood and we walked together to the front door, stopping on the threshold.
“Thank you for bringing my tree. It looks beautiful.”
“A beautiful woman should have a beautiful tree,” he said. The compliment was a little corny but still made me feel good. “Good night.”
“Night,” I said.
It was probably only fifteen degrees out, but I stood in the open doorway watching as he walked out to his truck and started it up. I waved and he waved back. Then he backed out of my driveway and I watched until he turned the corner and his taillights disappeared.
I hoped it wouldn’t be the last time I saw him.
Chapter Thirteen
I went back to get Christmas lights. No, actually, that was my excuse for going back to see Andrew. If you can’t be honest in your own diary, you should be a novelist and get paid for writing fiction.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 11
Two things were different the next morning. And, after the rut I’d been in, I figured anything different was good. First, the house smelled like pine. It smelled alive again.
Second, I couldn’t get Andrew off my mind.
Yesterday had been a good day—the first in a very long string of bad ones. I had had two positive human interactions: first the Stephenses, then Andrew.
I decided to build on my momentum by decorating the tree. The Christmas baubles were in the downstairs storage room with the wrapping paper and Christmas books, but the Christmas lights were all back in the shed.
I looked outside the kitchen window over my backyard. Icicles hung from the garage and shed roof, some as thick as a cow shank. (I’m not sure why I used that simile. It was something my dad would have said.)
I hadn’t braved my backyard since the first storm hit in mid-October. The snow level had only risen since then, piled more than three feet high in some places. From where I was, the shed looked a mile away, sealed by snow drifts halfway up the door. It would take snow shoes just to get to it, I thought. And a pick to chip the ice and snow from the door. Maybe a flamethrower. At least, that’s what I told myself as I got in my car and drove back to the Christmas tree lot.
The truth was thinly veiled in my own mind. I knew why I was going. I wanted to see him again.
As I pulled into the Kroger’s parking lot, I looked for his red truck but didn’t see it. I parked near the entrance and walked in.
This time I was the only customer in the lot. There were two young men sitting on vinyl folding chairs next to a barrel with a fire inside, the flames occasionally rising above the barrel’s rim. Both of them were vaping.
I recognized one of the men from the day before, the guy who had dragged a tree past me. His hair was tied up in a man bun.
When he saw me he pulled his earbuds out, set his vape down on a box near the chair, and walked up to me. “Hey. May I help you?”
“Is Andrew here?”
“No. The boss doesn’t work weekends.”
“Oh,” I said. “Will he be back on Monday?”
“Sometimes Monday night. It depends when he gets back in town. Tuesday morning for sure. He’s on the schedule.” He looked me over in a way that made me feel a little uncomfortable. I wasn’t old enough to be his mother, but definitely a younger aunt.
“I’m Shel,” he said, pushing his hands into his coat pockets. “You were here the other day.”
“Yes. Andrew delivered a tree to my house.”
“I gotcha,” he said. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem.”
“I’m in charge when the boss is gone. If you need something, I can help you.”
“Thank you. I’m fine,” I said. “I just needed to talk with Andrew.”
“Cool,” he said. “I gotcha. Tuesday morning’s your best bet.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He walked back to his chair near the fire and lifted his vape to his lips. I was surprised at how disappointed I felt as I walked back to my car.
I started driving downtown to the bakery, an old house in the Sugar House area that had been converted to a kitchen and storefront. But, as my building came into sight, I changed my mind. Going in would unleash a multitude of questions and problems I wasn’t up to confronting. I turned around and drove home, back to my isolation. At least, this time, I had something to look forward to.
Chapter Fourteen
Did I ask him on a date? I think I did.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I got up early Tuesday morning thinking of Andrew, which, frankly, was a whole lot better than thinking of Clive or the drama surrounding him. I wondered if Andrew had even given a second thought to our visit. What if he hadn’t? What if he didn’t even remember me? The thought of that made me feel pathetic, but not enough to keep me from walking into the lot.