I continue toward the truck before I can hear the rest.
Gingerly, so as not to ruin the festive mood by tearing my stitches, I hoist myself back into the cab where Gorby sits with a happy grin, watching the Walsh reunion.
“Gorby,” I say, exasperated. “Are you crying?”
“Can’t help it.” He wipes his eyes. “Becky and I are a sucker for family at Christmas.”
I look over my shoulder, waving happily at Tom’s sisters and brother, who I have yet to properly hug, and then, because I force myself, I look at her.
Lolo is . . .
Well, not exactly what I expected. She’s blond, but instead of being tiny and petite and fashionable, she seems . . . very real. Very nice, actually. And there’s no denying that her smile as she talks excitedly with Tom is very, very real.
She loves him. He loves her. And I surprise myself by realizing . . .
I’m happy for him.
And yet . . .
“You gonna tell him?” Gorby asks.
I look over, surprised to find the truck driver studying me. Still smiling, but a little less jovial.
“What? Tell who what . . .” I sigh when he simply gives me a look that says I’m better than cheap denials. “No, Gorby. I’m not going to tell him.”
Gorby gives a sad shake of his head. “Tom deserves to know, darling.”
“He deserves a lot of things,” I say. Better things than I can give him.
I try to hand Gorby the cash, but he looks affronted and shoves my hand away. “It wasn’t no big thing spending a few hours with you kids. Nice to have the company, actually.”
Belatedly, I realize that it’s Christmas Eve and that Gorby will be spending it in a truck, alone. Close as he and Rebecca are, Rebecca can’t sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” with him like I can.
“Gorby, I don’t suppose . . .” I jerk my thumb toward the Walsh home. “They’d love to have you. There’s always room for one more here.”
I should know.
“Oh gosh. I appreciate that,” Gorby says as he turns on the engine. “But I’ve gotta hightail it. Em will kill me if I’m not home by the time the kids wake up to Santa.”
I blink. “Em?” Kids.
“Sure. My wife. We’ve got three boys, and a little girl on the way.”
“I— You didn’t mention them.”
“Course not, darlin’. Rebecca gets jealous.” He winks.
I shake my head with a smile, and then acting on impulse, I lean over to kiss his cheek. “You’re a treasure, Gorby. I’m not entirely sure you don’t have a pair of wings under your dry-cleaned flannel.”
“I’ll never tell,” he says, giving me a friendly squeeze, then waves me back with his hand. “Now, go on. Go be with your family.”
“Oh. Not my family,” I say as I scoot toward the door.
Gorby tsks. “And here I thought you were a smart girl. Merry Christmas, Katherine.”
I hop down and smile up at him. “Merry Christmas, Gorby.”
I slam the door shut and step back from the curb as I and the entire Walsh family wave goodbye to the jolly, big-hearted truck driver.
“Are we sure he isn’t Santa?” Tom’s sister Meredith says, coming to link arms with me. Then she glances over. “Damn, it’s good to see you. And may I just say. You look terrible.”
I laugh and hug her. “I’ve missed you.”
“Back at you. But can I please find you a change of clothes? You’re covered in blood.”
I glance down at the white blouse I put on at the crack of dawn this morning. “Ketchup, actually. Hazards of truck travel.”
“Still. I’m getting you clothes. Also, people!” She turns and calls to her family. “Can we please move this party inside and out of the snow.”
“Yes, let’s,” Nancy says. “You too, Katherine.”
“Okay, but I can’t stay. I have to—”
Tom’s mom pretends she doesn’t hear this, and I heave out a sigh. Extracting myself from the Walshes’ loving grip might be trickier than I imagine.
“Katherine.” Tom’s voice comes from behind me.
I suck in a breath and turn to face the inevitable, though I purposely focus my attention on Lolo instead of my ex.
“Hi. You’re Lolo.”
“I am.” Lolo smiles and extends a hand, which I shake. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”
I narrow my eyes and give her a suspicious look. “Wonderful or . . . ?”
“Interesting?” she amends with a laugh.
“Better,” I say, though I’m surprised to find that I’m smiling back. I was prepared to hate her, but she seems . . . perfect. For him.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your accident. What awful timing,” Lolo says. “How are you feeling?”
“Good!” I say, my voice so high that out of the corner of my eye, I see Tom start in surprise at the unfamiliar pitch.
“So, so good!” I babble on. “Headache’s better. Back’s a little itchy where the stitches are, but all good. Just so good.”
Tom looks full-on alarmed now, but I studiously avoid his gaze.
It’s not like I lied. My head really does feel better. My back too.
My heart, though? Quite honestly, I’m increasingly worried I’ll never be able to put that back together again.
THIRTY-FIVE
KATHERINE
December 24, 2:30 p.m.
The Walsh house is noisy on the best of days. On Christmas Eve, the excited chattering is nearly deafening, and it takes me a minute to find a quiet corner. With a cell phone borrowed from Tom’s younger sister Kayla in hand, I duck into Bob’s study on the far side of the house. I doubt there’s much I’ll be able to accomplish on Christmas Eve, but at least I can start the process of canceling my credit cards, ordering a new phone, and— “Oh!” I put a hand over my pounding heart. “Bob. You scared the crap out of me!”
“Sorry,” Tom’s dad says with a smile. “Don’t mind me. Here. In my own office.”
I wince. “Right. I’m the interloper.”
“Never,” he says, giving my shoulder a fond pat as he crosses to the sideboard. “I don’t suppose I should offer you a drink, given that bump on your head?”
“If you don’t, I might cry,” I reply, setting Kayla’s phone on an end table and curling up in one of the cozy wingback chairs I’ve always loved.
Bob joins me, handing me a glass and sitting in the chair beside me. We clink glasses and I take a sip, but several moments of companionable silence pass before he speaks.
“So. Nancy convinced you not to go to Boston?”
I give him an arch look. “It’s Nancy. Did I ever really have a choice?”
He smiles fondly. “There was no way she was going to let that happen. She called Irene the second Tom told her your escape plans.”
“Escape plans,” I repeat, swirling the Scotch. “That’s a telling choice of words.”
“It is, isn’t it.” He gives me a sly smirk.
“I’m too exhausted to think about going to Boston, but . . .” I sigh and set the glass aside. “I can’t stay here. Not tonight. Surely everybody knows that.”
Bob’s smile dims. “Yeah. Yeah, we know that. Doesn’t mean that we couldn’t all hope, though. And maybe convince you to stay. Just until dinner? You could be long gone before . . .”