“Yeah,” Sam says. “You’re going to need to give me more than that. The whole mysterious, heady cliffhanger thing isn’t going to work for me.”
“Really, Sam,” I insist. “It’s just bad memories.”
“Then tell me about them,” he says.
I stir the vegetables, then turn to face him.
“Do you remember Julia Meyer?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“The name sounds familiar,” he says.
“She was my friend in college. I met her at the very beginning of freshman year, and we kept in touch a little bit over the second semester, then we ended up reconnecting during my sophomore year. You only met her once, I think. Really pretty girl. A couple of years older than me. Tall,” I say. I realize it’s not the most exacting of descriptions and pour pasta into the now-boiling water. “Anyway, we had started to get pretty close, and then she suddenly left.”
“That’s right,” Sam says. “That’s the girl who left school without telling anybody.”
“Exactly,” I say. “She didn’t tell anybody she was planning on leaving, and I never heard from her again. As I said, just bad memories. That was kind of a rough time in my life, if you remember. Adding her disappearing was just a lot.”
“She didn’t disappear, Emma. She just left school. People do that.”
I force a smile. “You’re right.” I look at the pans, then turn the burners off. “You know what? I don’t feel like pasta. Let’s go to Pearl’s for some biscuits and gravy.”
He agrees wholeheartedly and we head out. We get to our favorite little diner and slide into our booth, reaching across the table to hold hands the way we always do. I let my shoulders relax and all the other thoughts drain out of my head. Right now, all I want to think about is Sam and Thanksgiving and Christmas. And drowning away all thoughts of wrong numbers, misdirected emails, and lingering last smiles in a plate of gravy.
The next morning, I get up early to start my last day of preparation before everybody gets here. Sam peeks in on me while I’m taking a shower and tells me he has to leave early. Apparently, there’s been a call about a series of minor vandalism to cars around town. Nothing too serious. Probably just a bunch of kids without enough to do while they’re out of school and driven to bouts of group hysteria by being around their extended families who have already shown up for the holiday season.
So much for a completely uneventful Thanksgiving week. But at least I can be thankful that it’s nothing more than some keyed paint and glass markers scribbled over windshields and windows.
After my shower, I head to the kitchen for coffee. It’s already brewed and there’s a little note from Sam propped up against my favorite mug. A little sketch of cartoon versions of us have long, stretched out lips meeting together in a kiss over what I think is a pile of potatoes.
I’m going to be hearing about those potatoes for the rest of my life.
I’m considering the plausibility of having one of them preserved and potentially bronzed as a Christmas gift when I hear shuffling out on the front porch. I file the idea away in the back of my mind. It seems like a good way to bring some lightness to the decidedly unpleasant origin story.
Taking my coffee with me, I go to the door and peer out. When I see the mail carrier standing there, I open the door and smile at her.
“Good morning,” I say. “You’re out and about early today.”
Checking her expression, I gauge her reaction to me, trying to decide if she’s heard the rumblings about Gabriel, and if she has, where she falls. Her face is just as animated and friendly as always, even with the little bit of attitude I detect, so I think I’m in the clear with her.
“Holiday shopping is already in full swing and everybody and their brother are shopping online these days. We’re having to add in extra rounds just to make sure all the regular mail is delivered along with the packages,” Henrietta says with a hint of sass.
“Well, I appreciate everything you’re out here doing,” I say. “And I extra appreciate you in advance for when it’s time for you to deliver everything I order online this year.”
“You better not,” she says. “I’m relying on you to celebrate the blessed holiday season the way the good lord intended. By shopping in a crowded mall filled with plastic reindeer and Santa in a fat suit.”
I laugh. “Alright. You’ve convinced me.”
“Oh,” she says, “here’s your mail. Looks as if someone is already into the Christmas spirit.”
I notice a red envelope right on top of the stack with my name and address printed in metallic gold on a label adorned with holly in the corners.
“Wow,” I note. “That’s definitely getting a jump on things. Can I make you a cup of coffee before you go?”
“No. I have a tumbler in the truck. But thank you,” she says.
“The offer stands. If you need some caffeine or a snack, or just want to escape the package onslaught, I will happily harbor you,” I tell her.
She laughs the rich laugh that always makes me feel as if she is one of those rare genuinely, purely happy people in this world. Waving, she heads back to her truck and I duck inside away from the chill of the morning. I swallow down the rest of my coffee and go for another cup while I examine the red envelope. It doesn’t have a return address, but that doesn’t seem as unusual for a holiday card.
I don’t know if it’s because they don’t want to seem as if they are hinting for a card in return or if they just don’t want to ruin the aesthetics of the envelope, but I’ve noticed some people tend to forego return labels on their holiday cards. The cute little bell sticker on the back adds some festive glitter
