Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 167(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 167(@300wpm)
Not only did he show up looking like Adonis in a suit, but he brought his Aphrodite with him. I think that stings the most. Not Zane bringing her, but her.
Caryn—innocent in all of this—was gracious. When I took her to the back to get cleaned up, I expected her to pepper me with questions, but she just thanked me profusely. At first, I thought she simply didn’t care about the past. For all I know, he told her I was this horrible girlfriend who demanded too much of him or I was a stage-five clinger and the only way he could get rid of me was to move to New York City. I suppose, from an outsider’s point of view, those two things could be accurate about me. For the first week, I lit Zane’s phone up with texts about how much I missed him, sending him photos of our apartment as I decorated, folding his clothes, and pictures of the city we both loved so much.
Sure, as the weeks went on and each promise was broken, I stopped texting him. I could take a hint. He found whatever he needed in New York. I wasn’t it.
Caryn was.
Maybe Zane never told her about me. I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, he could’ve met her and pretended like his life here didn’t exist. That surely explains why he left and never returned, not even for his father.
The last thing I want to do is think ill of this woman. It’s not her fault. It’s Zane’s. I will die on the hill that men need to communicate effectively and be honest. Hopefully, Zane has learned this, and maybe that’s why he wanted to talk. Telling him I’m busy is definitely a coping mechanism. I’m not as busy as I want him to believe. It is, after all, December and my priorities are the holidays. Patrons of Reindeer Ridge Farm come first, and then there’s the tree lighting ceremony, and I always get tasked with something to do during it. Let’s not forget I have to make sure Santa, a.k.a. George, gets to the children’s party in fashion.
Besides, seeing Zane makes me want to cry, and I don’t want to cry in front of him.
Because of the amount of traffic on Main Street, I have no choice but to circle the block twice. Years and years ago, we used to be able to drive behind the buildings and park in the alley for deliveries. One too many busted-in doors, scraped vans, and drunks sleeping off their alcohol-induced stupor from the Marching Soldier, our local watering hole, put a stop to that. The town council suggested gates go up at each end of the alley, with only the business owners, sanitation crew, and local law enforcement having a key. This effectively made deliveries a pain in the tailpipe because parking is at a minimum on Main Street.
On my third time around the block, I’m about to give up and head to my office, but a spot opens right in front of Whitaker’s. I drive forward and over the white line meant to box each vehicle in, so I have space to drop my tailgate.
“Good afternoon, Evangeline.” Mr. Wharton, the high school principal says. “I’m on my way to your place now to buy a tree. Do you still have some?”
“Hi, Mr. Wharton. Of course we do. Dad is there. If not, I’ll be back after I drop these off for Mr. Whitaker.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you there soon.”
Before I even drop the tailgate, people ask me if the trees are for Whitaker’s. After I tell them they are, a group of them line up. Most of the people waiting are unfamiliar to me, which brings a smile to my face. I love that people are shopping with Mr. Whitaker. While he’ll never ask for help, we know he needs it. I make a note to see if Noelle can come up with a marketing plan for him.
I take a tree from the back, set it against the stand, and head into the store. Inside, Christmas music plays; it’s warm, and the scent of cinnamon from the bagged pine cones wafts through the air. After saying hi and moving around people, I stand at the end of the counter and wait for Mr. Whitaker to finish with a customer.
As soon as he says goodbye, he turns toward me. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see the difference in him already. His son is back, and as a result Mr. Whitaker’s normally dark bags under his eyes are gone, his cheeks are rosy, and his smile is bright. My heart soars for this man who has never done wrong in my eyes.
“I’m so glad you came,” he says to me as he walks over. “I wanted to tell you something.”