Claire had dropped one off on her way to the McClure’s, a light-blue set with a delicate butterfly for the cup handle.
Duane and Jess had also sent one from Italy, but theirs was made of ruby red Venetian glass.
Each time Shelly opened a box, she’d suck in a small breath, holding the teacups like they were priceless treasures. Her eyes were still shining with unshed tears, but the smile never left her lips.
She’d said, “Thank you,” after the first three, but then stopped talking altogether after a while, giving me the sense she didn’t trust her voice.
Then I handed her my box.
I watched as she took a shaky breath and diligently unwrapped the present, slipping the top off and staring at the cup within. She lifted it and her chin wobbled.
“That’s kintsugi.” I pointed to the gold vein running through the side of the ancient Japanese cup where it had been repaired. “See how beautiful it is?”
She nodded and she firmed her lips, her eyes avoiding mine.
Wrapping my arm around her waist and giving a squeeze, I placed the last gift on her lap and glanced around the room. Though each of my siblings and their significant others had taken the time to hand her the teacups, they hadn’t loitered after. They hadn’t gawked at her while she opened the boxes or made her feel like a spectacle.
They’d given her space to open each one.
They’d continued their conversations and inspection of their own gifts.
They seemed to accept and understand that this woman needed privacy, even when in a room full of people.
The thoughtfulness and generosity of my family blew me away. It was another reminder of stopping to appreciate the heavenly now.
“What is this?”
I shifted my gaze back to Shelly. She was holding a six ounce bar of 18k gold.
“It’s six ounces of gold.”
Her mouth fell open. “You bought me six ounces of gold?”
“No.” I lifted my wrist. “Technically, Hank bought me six ounces of gold. I melted down the band of my watch.”
A wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s for your teacups. So you can repair them when they break.”
A short laugh tumbled from her lips, sounding like amazement and disbelief, and she covered her mouth just as a tear slid down her cheek.
I caught it with my thumb, wiping it away. “I love you, Shelly. I’ll love you when you break. And I’ll love you when you put yourself back together.”
She closed her eyes, leaning forward until her forehead rested on my shoulder, her face turned towards my neck.
I felt her breathe in and out.
I felt her relax against me—little by little—and regain her control.
And I felt the kiss she placed on my neck just before she whispered, “I just realized something.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to be perfect.”
I grinned, smoothing my hand down her back and placing a kiss on her temple. “Good. ’Cause perfect is boring.”
*THE END*
Acknowledgements and A Note From the Author
I have to thank my editor first and foremost. Marion suffered right along with me as I wrote this book. She shared my struggles and my burdens (taking on the burden of doing the impossible in an impossible timeframe). She is a super woman.
I also want to thank Heather, April, and Shan for being the voices of reason.
* * *
A note about OCD
I’d like to thank all the wonderful humans who allowed me to incessantly question them about their experiences with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (treating it and living it). Thank you K., Ta., G., H., To., and D. I have my own experiences with OCD and depression, but I felt it was important to draw upon the experiences of others to inform the character of Shelly Sullivan more fully. Additionally, it is my hope the expertise provided by these shared experiences contributed to an accurate portrayal of how Shelly’s disorder would have been treated (once she finally sought help).
It’s interesting to me how “OCD” is used in conversation to denote “fastidious” or “particular”. If I had a nickel for every time someone offhandedly mentioned during a conversation that they, “were a little OCD about (fill in the blank),” I’d have 876 nickels.
I suppose we do this with many disorders and diseases. Except I’ve never heard someone say, “I’m feeling a little cancerous today.”
I do not presume to instruct or chastise with this observation, but rather to increase awareness. That is all.
* * *
A note about Shelly and Neurocognitively Diverse Characters
One of my BETA readers asked me if I thought Shelly might have too much baggage to be a heroine in a romance novel. My answer was a resounding, “HELL NO.”
All people who sincerely want love (to love and be loved) deserve to be a main character in a romance novel. I firmly believe we are all puzzle pieces, and no matter our shape, color, size, or level of neurocognitive diversity, there is another puzzle piece out there in the world, waiting to click with our own.
As Dr. West says to Beau, “One person’s experience with OCD can be night and day different from another person’s.” I know this to be true. Therefore, it is very important that you, dear reader, do not walk away from this book with the misconception that, through Shelly, I’ve endeavored to write an accurate portrayal of all people with OCD.
I have not.
One character/person can never be—and should never be—fully representative of an entire group of people (unless it’s The Borg; and even then, in later episodes, we see some surprising diversity). I am not the Lorax of OCD, I do not speak for the anxious.
Rather, what I have endeavored to do (and what I struggle to do with all of my characters) is to write a person who is believable as herself. Like all real people, she is not one thing. She is artist and mechanic, strong and weak, brave and cowardly, rational and irrational.
But above all, she is Shelly Sullivan. She is herself. And she is worthy of love, both giving it and receiving it.
* * *
A note about Beau:
I loved writing Beau.
I loved writing a character who was considered simple and straightforward, but through his interactions with a multifaceted issue, his own complexity is discovered. We all do this, or have an opportunity to do it, over the course of our lives. We have our ideas of right and wrong, but then are faced with a situation where right and wrong don’t apply.
We can either chose to continue in ignorance, sticking to the yellow brick road of simplicity, or educate ourselves and unlock a spectrum of possibility.
So here’s to people like Beau, and being receptive to the spectrum of possibility.
About the Author
Penny Reid lives in Seattle, Washington with her husband, three kids, and an inordinate amount of yarn. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she writes books.
Published in 2017, ‘Beard In Mind’ is Penny’s 15th novel.
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