“Thanks.”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come back in ten minutes? I’ll have a treeful for you. At cost.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“You’ll give me and Bill dinner in exchange.”
Angie nodded. This was how her papa had done business in West End. “I’ll go get my tree and be back in a flash.”
An hour later, Angie was on her way home with a tree strapped to the roof of her car, a box of ornaments in the backseat, and a stack of white tree lights on the passenger seat. It took her longer than usual; the roads were slick and icy. “Jingle Bell Rock” blared from the speakers, putting her in the mood.
She needed to be coaxed into the mood, to be honest. The thought of a Christmas tree chosen by her, put up by her, decorated by her, and enjoyed by her was a bit depressing.
She parked in front of the cottage and killed the engine. Then she stood beside the tree, staring at it while snow fell like kisses on her face.
The tree looked bigger than it had in the lot.
Oh, well.
She got a pair of her father’s old work gloves from the garage and set about freeing the tree. By the time she was finished, she’d fallen twice, been smacked in the nose by an obviously vengeful branch, and scratched the car’s paint.
Tightening her hold on the trunk, she heaved the tree toward the house, one step at a time. She was almost to the door when a car drove up the driveway.
Headlights came at her; snow drifted lazily in the beams of light.
She dropped the tree and straightened. It was Mira. She’d come to help with the tree.
Sisters.
“Hey, you,” Angie said, squinting into the too-bright light. “You’re blinding me.”
The lights didn’t snap off. Instead, the driver’s door opened. Mick Jagger’s voice pulsed into the night. Someone stepped out.
“Mira?” Angie frowned, took a step backward. It struck her all at once how isolated she was out here.…
Someone walked toward her, boots soundless in the fresh snow.
When she saw his face, she gasped. “Conlan.”
He came closer, so much so that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. “Hey, Ange.”
She had no idea what to say to him. Once, years ago now, conversations had flowed like water between them. In recent times that river had gone dry. She remembered Diane’s words.
Twice I came into his office and found him crying.
When you’d missed something like that as a wife, what could you say later?
“It’s good to see you—”
“Beautiful night—”
They spoke at exactly the same time, then laughed awkwardly and fell to silence again. She waited for him to speak but he didn’t. “I was just going to put up the tree.”
“I can see that.”
“Do you have a tree this year?”
“No.”
At the look on his face, so sad, she wished she hadn’t asked. “I don’t suppose you want to help me carry it inside?”
“I think I’d rather watch you wrestle with it.”
“You’re six foot two; I’m five foot six. Get the tree inside.”
He laughed, then bent down and picked up the tree.
She raced ahead to open the door for him.
Together, they put the tree in the stand.
“A little to the left,” she said, pushing the tree to a straighter position.
He grunted and went back under the tree again.
She battled a sudden bout of sadness. Memories came at her hard. As soon as the tree was upright and locked into place in the stand, she said, “I’ll get us some wine,” and ran for the kitchen.
When she was out of the room, she let her breath out in a rush.
It hurt just looking at him.
She poured two glasses of red wine—his favorite—and went back into the living room. He stood by the fireplace, staring at her. In his black sweater and faded Levis, with his black hair that needed to be cut, he looked more like an aging rock star than an ace reporter.
“So,” he said after she’d given him the wine and sat down on the sofa, “I could tell you I was out this way on a story and just stopped by.”
“I could tell you I don’t care why you’re here.”
They sat on opposite sides of the room, making cautious conversation, talking about nothing. Angie was finishing her third glass of wine by the time he got around to asking a question that mattered.
“Why did you come by the office?”
There were so many ways to answer that. The question was: How far out on the ledge did she want to go? She’d spent a lot of years telling Conlan half-truths. She’d started out protecting him from bad news, but deceit was an icy road that spun you around. She’d ended up protecting herself. The more her heart had been broken, the more she’d turned inward. Until one day, she’d realized that she was alone. “I missed you,” she said at last.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you miss me?”
“I can’t believe you can ask me that.”