Page 14

Lizzie—

Climbing from my car, I see Darko and Rob have already arrived this morning. There’s a bite in the air, and I scurry in the door. It swings shut behind me with a gust of wind, jangling the bells attached to it.

Tools clang in a chest as Darko digs for something. His eyes swing to me when I walk across the garage.

Rob is bent over an engine, fighting with a too-tight nut or bolt.

I head straight to my office and close the door. Dropping my bag, I notice something on my desk. Coming around it, I stare at the journal. It’s much the same as the one Darko gave Eli, only this one is pink. A pretty pen sits on top.

I open it to the first page and find a note.

Lizzie –

Pour your grief out. Let it bleed across these pages.

No one can understand the depth of your pain, and I won’t pretend to. It’s a road you must walk alone. But please know I’m here for you if you ever want to talk, even if that means exploding your anger at the world all over me. I can take it.

I’m not a knight in shining armor. We both know that.

In your eyes, I may even be the villain, but I’ll always have your back.

– Darko

My eyes tear up. I want to be mad at him—not for anything he’s done, but because I feel let down. Perhaps I made him out to be someone he’s not, and that’s on me. He was right when he said he’s never tried to hide who he is.

I’m the one who has to reconcile with that, and if I can’t, that’s not his problem to fix. It’s mine.

Perhaps a boss can be a friend; perhaps I can let in the parts of him I like and ignore the rest, but that somehow sounds like a copout.

We don’t speak the rest of the day except when necessary, and I’m grateful he’s giving me space. It’s something I have to work out on my own.

When Eli arrives after school, I see the long narrow journal shoved in his back pocket, so maybe he’s using his. I hope so.

A knock sounds on my door.

“Come in,” I drawl, barely glancing up.

Eli pushes through the door, carrying a stack of envelopes. “I, uh, grabbed the mail on the way in.”

“Thanks.” I smile warmly and take it, noticing his gaze flick to the pink notebook atop my desk. “You like my journal? Your dad gave it to me.”

“He did?”

“I don’t know if you know or not, but my husband died last January.”

“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and shifts uncomfortably.

“So, I kind of know what you’re going through with losing your mom.”

“He, um, gave me one, too. A journal.”

“Oh.” I pretend I don’t already know. “Have you tried writing in it?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

I nod. “If you ever want to talk to someone, I’m here.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He turns and retreats through my door.

That night when I get in bed, I stare at the journal where it sits on my nightstand, the pretty pen next to it. I pick it up and make my first entry.

Matt—

I miss you so much.

It hurts so badly that some days all I can do is breathe in and out.

The pain consumes every inch of me.

I stare at the words. It’s all I’ve got right now.

Setting the journal on the nightstand, I flick off the light and roll on my side, but I don’t close my eyes. Will I ever get used to sleeping alone? I stare out the window at the moon, wondering what I need and what I want my life to be. Rebuilding it all from scratch is so overwhelming, I feel crushed by just the thought of it. Making any decisions right now seems impossible, but they hang over my head like every final notice bill that comes in the mail.

It's been almost a week, and every afternoon, Eli brings me the mail, and we chit-chat for a few moments. Darko and I have fallen into a pattern. I stay in my office and concentrate on paperwork and phone calls, and Darko keeps his distance.

Until one day, he doesn’t.

I look up from a parts order to find him standing in the doorway. It’s midmorning a week before Thanksgiving.

“Take a walk with me.”

“Where?” I ask, setting the invoice aside.

“Just grab your coat and come on.” He turns and walks away.

I sigh. Things can’t go on this way with the impasse we’ve fallen into of just avoiding contact. Slipping into my fake-fur-lined jacket with its big lapels, I throw my cross body over it and follow him out into the garage.

Darko grabs a sherpa-lined canvas jacket from a peg on the wall and shrugs into it. It’s masculine looking, and he wears it well.

Stop noticing how good he looks .

A pang of guilt shoots through me for even thinking it.

I fall into pace beside him and we head toward Main, two blocks down.

Maybe I’m being stubborn, but I refuse to start up a conversation. He glances over at me several times but stays quiet as well.

When we get to town, he turns left, and I follow. I’m dying to know where we’re going but refuse to ask. God, I’m acting like a child, and I know it, but I can’t force myself to stop.

Darko stops at a bakery and holds the door for me.

I lift a brow, and he grins.

“Ever been here?” he asks.

I shake my head.

Walking inside is like walking into a cocoon of warm, buttery goodness. The walls in the small dining area off to the right are exposed brick with terra cotta tile floors. A wood fire burns in a cozy corner fireplace, warming the entire place.

The aroma of baking bread engulfs me.

Straight ahead is an order counter with a glass case of sweets of all kinds. Doughnuts, paper-wrapped muffins, colorful fruit tarts and Danishes, scones, macaroons and éclairs. So many choices; my mouth waters.

Golden loaves of crusty bread wait in wooden shelving against the wall, each variety in its own cubby. French baguettes, Italian ciabatta and focaccia, sourdough and rye.

A smiling woman in a white apron waits to take our order.

“I’ll have a hot chocolate and a raspberry tarte,” Darko replies. “And whatever the lady wants.”

She looks to me. “And for you, ma’am?”

I eye the case like a kid in a candy store. I’m not sure if Darko knew of my love of pastries or this was just luck on his part, but if he wants to butter me up, this is the way.

In the end, what he ordered sounds delicious. “Same.”

Darko pays, and she passes him a number on a holder. “We’ll bring it out shortly, sir.”

He leads me to a table in the multi-paned bay window that looks over the street, and we sit, chairs scraping across the tile.

“I’ve lived here all my life and never noticed this place. How can that be?”

“Used to be Morelli’s Deli. It changed hands about a year ago. They spent months remodeling.”

I snap my fingers. “Morelli’s. Yes. How did I miss this?” As soon as the question is out of my mouth, I know the answer. For most of the last year, I’ve been in a dark hole.

“It’s only been open about a month.”

“I can’t believe this place isn’t packed.”

“There’s usually a line to the door, but with Thanksgiving coming up, maybe people are preparing for that.”

Come to think of it, I noticed a sign board listing varieties of pies—pumpkin and sweet potato high on the list. “I bet their pies are delicious.”

“Probably.” He glances toward the kitchen, visible through a glass window. “Maybe I should get some for the clubhouse. We do a Thanksgiving meal every year.” His gaze returns to me. “It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to invite you to come.”

“Thanksgiving?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. Matt’s mother keeps insisting I come to her house for dinner that day.”

“Sure. I understand. The invitation is there if you change your mind.”

The waitress brings our hot chocolate. “Pastries will be right out.”

“Thanks,” Darko says as she retreats. “So, you won’t be celebrating the holiday with your own family?”

“My mother usually goes to her sister’s. She wants me to go, but I don’t think so. Everyone will be hovering.”

“And Matt’s family?”

“We did Thanksgiving there every year since we’ve been married. I think his mother needs to make it as normal as possible. This will be the first one since he passed.”

“I see.” He looks away, and something in his expression has me frowning.

“What?”

“Do you think you’ve become a crutch for her in a way? I mean, she can wallow in her grief as long as she keeps you close.”

“I don’t think she’s wallowing in grief, and that’s a rude thing to say.”

“I don’t mean it to be, it’s just sometimes, like an alcoholic, others enable the addiction. Maybe she’s enabling you. Maybe she doesn’t want you to climb out of that hole because then you’re letting her son go.”

“Did you just compare me to an alcoholic?” I sputter.

“Not what I meant.”

“Is her response so hard to understand? That she wouldn’t want me to forget him?”

“Not at all, but it may not be in your best interest for her to constantly remind you.”

“I don’t need anyone to remind me. I carry it every single day.”

“I know you do. It’s a huge thing—this grief, and it expands exponentially until it consumes all. Eventually, it has to contract, so there’s room for you to live a happy life again. Constant reminders will never allow that to happen.” He picks up his mug of steamy hot chocolate. “That’s all I’m saying, babe.”

“I’m not your babe,” I remind him.

“Sorry.”

I wrap my hands around my mug, the warmth penetrating my palms. Perhaps I’m being unreasonable and snippy, especially after his gift earlier this week.

“Thank you for the journal,” I whisper, and cover the admission with a sip of my hot chocolate.

The waitress returns and sets both our pastries on the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

“We’re all good, doll.” Darko smiles and watches her walk away, then inches my plate toward me. “Try it.”

I take a bite. The scalloped crust is delicate and buttery, and the pastry cream filling is to die for as the raspberry flavor explodes on my tongue. I moan around my fork. “Holy cow. This is the best thing I’ve ever had.”

“Glad you like it,” Darko says, watching me enjoy mine.

I practically inhale the entire slice and press my fingertips against the plate to gather the last few crumbs before he’s halfway finished with his own. “The combination of the hot chocolate and the raspberry cream is so good.”

“Apparently,” he whispers, grinning.

I take a big sip of the rich hot chocolate.

He takes a bite of his treat and studies me while he chews.

I shift my eyes to the street, feeling a little self-conscious for how quickly I demolished mine.

“Have you used it yet?” he asks, bringing my gaze back to him.

“The journal?”

He nods.

“I have.”

“Has it helped?” He seems to think better of his question and reaches for his cup. “Maybe it’s too early to tell.”

“I think it is helping.” I run my fingertip around the rim of my mug. “Can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything.”

“It’s about Matt. I hesitate to bring him up. Maybe I talk too much about him.”

“You can talk about him to me. It’s okay.”

“There’s this thing at the fire station tomorrow. His mother wants me to go.” I shrug. “They’re unveiling an honorary plaque to him.”

“If you’re asking for the day off… of course, no problem.”

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I want to attend.”

“Why not?” he asks, just curiosity on his face, no judgment.

I shrug, because I’m not sure.

“If you want to go, go. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. I’m sure their aim is not to make this harder for you, but if this does that, I’m sure they’ll understand. You could write them a letter thanking them for the gesture and telling them how much you appreciate it, but that you’re not ready to face it yet.”

“You think so?”

“I think whatever you decide, it needs to be right for you.” He leans back in his chair. “I’ve hated the silence between us this week. I’ve wanted to come talk to you, but then I thought maybe you just needed space.”

“I did. Everything comes slower for me these days, even getting over the littlest thing.”

He shifts in his seat. “I’m not belittling your reaction or your feelings. I want you to know that. Maybe I don’t like them, but they’re your honest emotions. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you have no right to feel a certain way.”

“You may be the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

The girl from the counter delivers an order to another table, and Darko stops her.

“Is it too late to put in an order for pies for Thanksgiving?”

“Not at all. What would you like?”

“I’ll need four pumpkin, four pecan, and two sweet potato.”

“You must have a crowd to feed,” she replies, jotting down his order. “Our pickup day is Wednesday by 6pm.”

“Great.” He pulls out a credit card and hands it to her. “Name’s Taylor. John Taylor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. I’ll get your receipt.”

After she moves off, he looks at me and tilts his head, cocking a brow. “Sure you don’t want to come by the clubhouse? I’ll bet it’ll be more fun than your mother-in-law’s.”

“There’s no doubt about that. You’ll have alcohol.”

He chuckles. “Come to the dark side, Luke Skywalker. We have booze.”

My cheeks lift with a smile, and he points a finger at me.

“There it is. There’s that pretty smile.”