“They don’t have a spare.”
“You were right, girls,” said Martina, reentering the room with her handsome son trailing behind her. He found Mary immediately. And Mary let her eyes hang on to his for one long moment before looking back at his mother. His face was the sort that lent itself to stone—sculptural and timeless. “We need to get your car to a repair shop,” Martina said. She then turned suddenly to Stefan. “Honey, are there going to be any open tonight?”
“Uhhhh . . . ,” he said, running his hands through his hair and trying not to look at Mary. “Spillane’s over on Cross should still be open.”
“Really?” asked Martina. “Even during the holidays?”
Stefan gave his mother an amused smile. “Yeah, Mom,” he said. “Even during the holidays.”
She clucked her tongue and turned toward Mary. “He’s teasing me. He thinks his mother is clueless,” she said, trying on the word. Mary could see why she was so often described as charming. Martina Kelly, the charming wife of businessman Patrick Kelly. “Stefan,” she said, her attention back to her son. “You will help the girls? I’m going to check on our guests.”
And Martina was out of the room again, off to update the other wives who would listen—rapt and concerned—to the happenings in the kitchen. Poor little things. It was easy to feel charitable toward Mary and Hannah. It was like taking in two little kittens.
As soon as his mother was gone, Stefan turned to Mary. And in the glorious serendipity of their chance meeting, he lifted her out of her stool. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I don’t know if you heard, but I have a flat tire,” Mary teased, as he set her back down on her feet. She was at her most lovely in front of the boy who sailed his white boat into Sandy Bank.
“I mean in town?”
Mary let her hand rest on Hannah’s head. “My sister and I live here now,” she said, twisting a finger through one of Hannah’s blond curls. “We moved here after our mom died.”
Stefan’s face fell. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Mary nodded, conjuring up emotion that wasn’t entirely feigned. “Thank you,” she said. “Hannah and I are doing alright, though.”
Stefan turned to Hannah. “Hannah?” he asked, confirming her name. She looked at Stefan with her big eyes and messy blond hair. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.
Hannah glanced at Mary, who nodded once, prompting her to take it. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” And as they looked at each other, Hannah and Stefan, Mary felt a burst of joy so intense that it caught at the back of her throat, slicked her eyes. She blinked it away and smiled.
“So . . . ,” started Mary tentatively. “Is this where you live?” Mary knew the answer, of course.
“Yeah, well . . . no. I mean, I grew up here. It’s my parents’ place. I’m just home for the holidays.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed, as if looking into the distance of memory. “I wish I had known that you were from here,” she said. Then she smiled at him, poking his foot with hers. “I might have looked you up.” After all, it had been so long ago. And Stefan couldn’t understand what he meant to her.
But he just smiled. “Well, it’s good to see you,” he said. The Kellys, after all, were a family to whom fate frequently delivered the fortuitous, the serendipitous.
At that moment, Mary heard a different voice from behind them. “Stefan?” She turned, and it was another generically pretty blond woman, this one younger. Her eyes skipped from Stefan to Mary, reading the space between them, all the things that hadn’t been said.
“Oh,” Stefan said, disoriented but pleasant, as if pulled from a lovely dream. “Hey, Beth.” He straightened and swept his hand toward Mary. And she remembered how much she liked the confident ease of his voice. Of his gestures. “This is Mary.”
Mary stood and extended her hand. “Mary Chase,” she said. Beth looked at it for a moment before taking it. “Beth,” she said, her lips in a polite curve. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You two know each other?” asked Beth, a false lightness in her voice, a barely detectable helium high.
Stefan pointed as if gesturing down the coast. “We met a while ago. That summer I sailed down to Virgin Gorda. I spent a few days in Sandy Bank.”
Beth’s eyebrows lifted, but she kept her slim smile. Sandy Bank was a down-market little tourist trap, its heyday having passed in the 1920s. No one went there anymore but high school kids and blue-collar families with fat kids and Jersey accents. “Oh, how funny.”
“And her car got a flat outside . . .” Stefan and Mary looked at each other, Stefan’s smile more restrained in the presence of Beth. “So, we were just catching up.”
The pleasantries finished, Beth turned to Stefan. “Your mom just wanted me to tell you that the Terrells are on their way.” It was a subtle urge to move things along, get the girls on their way.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Beth gave Mary a final smile. “Good luck with your car,” she said. Then she looked at Hannah. “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”
Stefan watched her go, then turned back to Mary, sobered but reluctantly so, brought back to the duties and obligations of the evening and his family.
Mary smiled, her eyes kind. “We should probably call that tow truck now,” she said.
“Right,” he said, remembering why the lovely Mary from Sandy Bank was sitting in his kitchen. He pulled out the yellow pages and flipped quickly through them, then he picked up the phone and dialed, leaning against the wall behind him, crossing an arm across his broad chest when a voice came from the other end.
As he gave the information and instructions, Mary turned to Hannah. “How’s that hot cocoa?”
“It’s really good,” whispered Hannah. She seemed to weigh the benefits of speaking again before adding, “I like the marshmallows.”
Mary whispered to Hannah while Stefan was on the phone, talking to her about their plans for the holidays, making everything seem wonderful, magical. Tomorrow morning, you and I are going to make cookies. I got sprinkles and icing, and you can decorate them however you want.
When Stefan hung up, he looked at the girls. “They’re going to be here in half an hour,” he said.
From the doorway came Martina’s voice. “Everything is taken care of, Stefan?” she asked, as she leaned into the kitchen.
“Yup,” he said. “It’s going to be about thirty minutes.”
Martina’s eyes flitted cautiously to Mary, to whom she offered a less effortless smile. “Beth says that you know each other?” Charity was Martina’s stock in trade, but a personal connection had not been bargained for, especially not with a girl from Sandy Bank.
Stefan smiled. “Yeah, Mary and I are old friends.”