Kitabı oxu: «Lakeshore Christmas»

Praise for Susan Wiggs

“Susan Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.”

—Jodi Picoult

“With the ease of a master, Wiggs introduces complicated, flesh-and-blood characters into her idyllic but identifiable small-town setting, sets in motion a refreshingly honest romance, resolves old issues and even finds room for a little mystery.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Winter Lodge (starred review, a Best Book of 2007)

“[A]n emotionally gripping tale centered on family. Wiggs is in top form.”

—Booklist on The Summer Hideaway

“Susan Wiggs writes with bright assurance, humor and compassion.”

—Luanne Rice

“A lovely, moving novel with an engaging heroine. Wiggs’ talent is reflected in her thoroughly believable characters as well as the way she recognizes the importance of family by blood or other ties. Readers who like Nora Roberts and Susan Elizabeth Phillips will enjoy Wiggs’ latest.

—Library Journal on Just Breathe (starred review)

“Wiggs’ storytelling is heartwarming.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Susan Wiggs is a rare talent! Boisterous, passionate, exciting! The characters leap off the page and into your heart!”

—Literary Times

“A poignant, beautiful romance.”

—Kristin Hannah on The Lightkeeper

Lakeshore Christmas
Susan Wiggs

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Also by SUSAN WIGGS

Contemporary Romances

HOME BEFORE DARK

THE OCEAN BETWEEN US

SUMMER BY THE SEA

TABLE FOR FIVE

LAKESIDE COTTAGE

JUST BREATHE

The Lakeshore Chronicles

SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE

THE WINTER LODGE

DOCKSIDE

SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE

FIRESIDE

LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS

THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY

Historical Romances

THE LIGHTKEEPER

THE DRIFTER

The Tudor Rose Trilogy

AT THE KING’S COMMAND

THE MAIDEN’S HAND

AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS

Chicago Fire Trilogy

THE HOSTAGE

THE MISTRESS

THE FIREBRAND

Calhoun Chronicles

THE CHARM SCHOOL

THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER

HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

ENCHANTED AFTERNOON

A SUMMER AFFAIR

To the many librarians I know—including John, Kristin, Nancy, Charlotte, Wendy, Cindy, Rebecca, Elizabeth, Suzanne, Melanie, Shelley, Stephani, Deborah, Cathie—and to the many more I’ve never met…You have no idea how much you enrich people’s lives. Or maybe you do. I hope you do.

Thank you.

Acknowledgments

I get by with a little help from my friends—Anjali Banerjee, Carol Cassella, Sheila Roberts, Suzanne Selfors, Elsa Watson, Kate Breslin, Mary Buckham, Lois Faye Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, Patty Jough-Haan, Susan Plunkett and Krysteen Seelen—wonderful writers and eagle-eyed readers.

Thanks to Sherrie Holmes for keeping all my ducks in a row.

Thanks to Margaret O’Neill-Marbury and Adam Wilson of MIRA Books, Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for invaluable advice and input. Thanks to my publisher and readers for supporting the Lakeshore Chronicles and for inspiring me to return to Avalon again and again.

A very special thank-you and all my love to my daughter Elizabeth, for her help with the recipes and for her marketing expertise. Thanks also to my sister, Lori, for proofreading, and to my mother, Lou, for mothering me no matter how old I get.

My family—the reason for everything—is bigger and more blessed than ever this year. Welcome to the family, Dave.

Part One

Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.

—Hamilton Wright Mabie (1846—1916), American essayist

One

The boy came to the edge of town at twilight, at the close of a winter day. Although the snows had not yet begun, the air was brutally cold, having leached the life from the fields and forests, turning everything to shades of brown and buff.

The road narrowed to one lane and passed through a covered bridge on ancient river stone pilings. Through the years, the structure had weathered and been replaced, plank by plank, yet it never really changed. The tumbled rocks and sere vegetation along the riverbanks were rimed by a delicate breath of frost, and the trees in the surrounding orchards and woods had long since dropped their leaves. There was an air of frozen waiting, as though all was in readiness, as though the stage was set.

He felt a quiet sense of purpose, knowing his task here wouldn’t be easy. Hearts would have to break and be mended, truths would be revealed, risks would be taken. Which, when he thought about it, was simply the way life worked—messy, unpredictable, joyous, mysterious, hurtful and redemptive.

A green-and-white sign in the shape of a shield identified the town—Avalon. Ulster County. Elevation 4347 feet.

Farther on, a billboard carried greetings from the Rotary, the Kiwanis and at least a dozen church and civic groups. The message of welcome read Avalon, in the Heart of the Catskills Forest Preserve. There was another sign exhorting travelers to visit Willow Lake, The Jewel Of The Mountains. The bit of hyperbole might apply to any number of small lakeside towns of upper New York state, but this one had the earnestness and charm of a place with a long and complicated history.

He was one of those complications. His understanding of what brought him here only extended so far, a narrow glimpse into the mystical realm of the human heart. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to know why the past and present were about to collide at this moment in time. Perhaps it was enough to know his purpose—to right an old wrong. Exactly how to accomplish this—well, there was another unknown. It would reveal itself, bit by bit, in its own time.

The main feature of the town was a pretty brickwork square around a Gothic block structure which housed municipal offices and the courthouse. Surrounding that were a variety of shops and restaurants with lights glowing in the windows. The first Christmas garlands and light displays of the season adorned the wrought-iron gas lamps around the square. In the distance lay Willow Lake, a vast indigo sheet under the brooding sky, its surface glazed by a layer of ice that would thicken as the season progressed.

A few blocks from the main square was the railway station. A train had just pulled in and was disgorging passengers coming home from work in the bigger towns—Kingston and New Paltz, Albany and Poughkeepsie, a few from as far away as New York City. People hurried to their cars, eager to escape the cold and get home to their families. There were so many ways to make a family…and just as many to lose them. But human nature was forged of forgiveness, and renewal might be only a word or a kind gesture away.

It felt strange, being back after all this time. Strange and…important. Something was greatly at risk here, whether people knew it or not. And somehow he needed to help. He just hoped he could.

Not far from the station was the town library, a squared-off Greek revival structure. The cornerstone had been laid exactly ninety-nine years ago; the date was seared upon his heart. The building was surrounded by several acres of beautiful city park, lined by bare trees and crisscrossed by sidewalks. The library occupied the site of its original predecessor, which had burned to the ground a century before, claiming one fatality. Few people knew the details of what had happened or understood the impact the event had on the life of the town itself.

Funded by a wealthy family that understood its value, the library had been rebuilt after the fire. Constructed of cut stone and virtually fireproof, the new Avalon Free Library had seen nearly a hundred years come and go—times of soaring prosperity and crushing poverty, war and peace, social unrest and harmony. The town had changed, the world had changed. People didn’t know each other anymore, yet there were a few constants, anchoring everything in place, and the library was one of them. For now.

He sighed, his breath frosting the air as old memories crowded in, as haunting as an unfinished dream. All those years ago, the first library had been destroyed. Now the present one was in danger, not from fire but from something just as dangerous. There still might be time to save it.

The building had tall windows all around its periphery, and a skylight over an atrium to flood the space with light. Through the windows, he could see oaken bookcases, tables and study carrels with people bent over them. Through another set of windows, he could see the staff area.

Inside, laboring at a cluttered desk in the glow of a task lamp, sat a woman. Her pale face was drawn with a worry that seemed to edge toward despair.

She stood abruptly, as though having just remembered something, smoothing her hands down the front of her brown skirt. Then she grabbed her coat from a rack and armored herself for the rapidly falling cold—lined boots, muffler, hat, mittens. Despite the presence of numerous patrons, she seemed distracted and very alone.

The sharp, dry cold drove him toward the building’s entrance, a grand archway of figured stone with wise sayings carved in bas-relief. He paused to study the words of the scholars—Plutarch, Socrates, Judah ibn-Tibbon, Benjamin Franklin. Though the words of wisdom were appealing, the boy had no guide but his own heart. Time to get started.

Hurrying, her head lowered, the woman nearly slammed into him as she left the building through the heavy, lever-handled main door.

“Oh,” she said, quickly stepping back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s all right,” the boy said.

Something in his voice made her pause, study him for a moment through the thick lenses of her eyeglasses. He tried to envision himself as she saw him—a boy not yet sixteen, with serious dark eyes, olive-toned skin and hair that hadn’t seen a barber’s shears in too long. He wore a greenish cargo jacket from the army surplus, and loosecut dungarees that were shabby but clean. The winter clothes concealed his scars, for the most part.

“Can I help you?” she asked, slightly breathless. “I’m on my way out, but…”

“I believe I can find what I need here, thanks,” he said.

“The library closes at six tonight,” she reminded him.

“I won’t be long.”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” she said. “I try to meet all my library patrons.”

“My name is Jabez, ma’am. Jabez Cantor. I’m…new.” It wasn’t a lie, not really.

She smiled, though the worry lingered in her eyes. “Maureen Davenport.”

I know, he thought. I know who you are. He understood her importance, even if she didn’t. She’d done so much, here in this small town, though perhaps even she didn’t realize it.

“I’m the librarian and branch manager here,” she explained. “I’d show you around, but I need to be somewhere.”

I know that, too, he thought.

“See you around, Jabez,” she said.

Yes, he thought as she hurried away. You will.

Two

Maureen Davenport’s cheeks stung after the brisk walk from the library to the bakery. Although she loved the nip of cold in the air, she was grateful for the warm refuge of the Sky River Bakery. Peeling off her muffler, hat and gloves, she scanned the small knot of people crowded around the curved-glass cases of pastries and goodies. More couples gathered at the bistro booths and tables around her.

He wasn’t here yet, clearly. It was a singularly awkward sensation to be waiting for someone who didn’t know what you looked like. She considered ordering a big mug of tea or hot chocolate, but there was a line. She sat down and opened the book she was reading—Christmas 365 Days a Year: How to Bring the Holiday into Your Everyday Life.

Maureen was always reading something. Ever since she was small, she’d found delight and comfort in books. For her, a story was so much more than words on a page. Opening a book was like opening a door to another world, and once she stepped across the threshold, she was transported. When she was reading a story, she lived inside a different skin.

She loved books of every sort—novels, nonfiction, children’s books, how-to manuals. As the town librarian, books were her job. And as someone who loved reading the way other people loved eating, books were her life. She tried not to sink too deeply into the page she was currently reading because of the upcoming meeting. She kept reminding herself to keep an eye out for him.

Him. Eddie Haven. And he was late.

As the minutes ticked by, Maureen grew paranoid. What if he didn’t come? What if he stood her up? Could she fire him? No, she could not. He was a volunteer, and you couldn’t really fire a volunteer. Besides, he’d been court ordered to work with her.

Why else would a man like Eddie Haven be with her except by judicial decree? She tried not to be insulted by the notion that the only way he’d ever be found with the likes of Maureen Davenport would be through court order. The fundamental mismatch was a simple fact, perhaps even a law of nature. He was heartthrob handsome, a celebrity (okay, a D-list celebrity, but still) and a massively talented musician. He was almost famous.

Long ago, his had been one of the most recognizable faces in the country. He was one of those former child stars who had rocketed briefly to fame at a young age, and then flamed out. Yet his role in that one hit movie—along with twenty-four-hour cable—kept him alive for decades. The Christmas Caper, a heartwarming movie that had captivated the world, had become a holiday staple. She’d heard his name linked with a number of women, and every once in awhile, one of the gossip magazines pictured him with some starlet or celebutante. For quite a while, he had fallen off the radar, but a fresh wave of notoriety surrounded him now. The silver anniversary DVD of his hit movie had just been released, and interest in him had skyrocketed.

Maureen had nothing in common with him. Their lives had intersected one night he didn’t remember, though it was seared in her mind forever. He lived in New York City, but came to Avalon each holiday season—against his will. She’d heard he had friends in town, but she wasn’t one of them. To her knowledge, he’d never set foot in the library.

Even so, arranging to meet him here had almost felt like a date. The rendezvous had been organized via e-mail, of course. Using the phone would be far too bold and intimidating. She was much better in e-mail. In e-mail, she didn’t get flustered. In e-mail, she almost had a personality. So she hadn’t actually spoken to him—who needed to talk when there was e-mail?—yet the give and take as they settled on a day and time had borne all the hallmarks of a date. It wasn’t a date, of course, because that sort of thing didn’t happen to women like Maureen.

Except maybe in books. And of course, in dreams.

It only happened in dreams that a plain, bookish woman caught the eye of someone like Eddie Haven.

Even if the plain woman had once saved his life. She sighed, and shrugged away an aching wisp of memory, quickly stifled.

She hadn’t dated anyone in a very long time. She had exacting taste, or so she told herself and her too-inquisitive siblings and friends. She still cringed, remembering her last two dates—an outing with a stamp collector named Alvin, and a very bad concert with Walter Grunion last year. She’d ended up returning home with a headache, and a resolve to quit going out with guys because it was expected of her. She was determined to stop saying yes to men she wasn’t interested in just because she was still in her twenties—barely—and “supposed” to be dating.

People coming and going in the bakery barely looked at Maureen, which was fine with her. She never liked being the center of attention. A long time ago, she used to dream of being in the limelight. Life had quickly cured her of that notion. At a mercifully young age, she’d learned that being well-known and recognized was no substitute for being loved and cherished. Maureen was an unobtrusive sort; that was her comfort zone. Flying under the radar took very little effort on her part. She wore a T-shirt that said Eschew Obfuscation and a button in support of intellectual freedom, yet the slogans didn’t seem to draw anyone’s eye. Maybe the trendy shirt was counteracted by her hand-knit cardigan sweater—a gift from a favorite aunt—and Maureen’s tweedy wool skirt, leggings and boots. Though she knew her style of dressing was plain and boring, this didn’t bother her in the least. Fashion was for people who craved attention.

Occasionally, her gaze touched someone else’s and they would give each other a slight, social nod. She was the sort people recognized only obliquely. She looked vaguely familiar, like someone they occasionally encountered but couldn’t quite place.

This always mystified Maureen, because she had a facile memory for faces and names. For example, there was Kim Crutcher nursing a mug of coffee with her friend Daphne McDaniel, who was nibbling a donut with sprinkles in every color of the rainbow. They were both regular library patrons. So was Mr. Teasdale, who sat on the opposite side of the café, gazing dreamily out the window. He used the library’s low vision services on a regular basis. With hardly a stretch, Maureen could name the kids jostling toward the exit with their post-hockey-practice purchases—Chelsea Nash, Max Bellamy, AJ Martinez, Dinky Romano.

She wondered if Eddie Haven liked his notoriety. Maybe now that they were about to be forced to work together, she would have the chance to ask him.

Or not.

The sad fact was, she’d probably be too bashful to ask him what time it was, let alone the way he felt about the vagaries of fame. She knew plenty about Eddie Haven. Yet she didn’t know him. Perhaps over the weeks leading up to Christmas, that would change.

Or not.

She wondered if it was possible to get to know someone without letting him know her. And did she care enough to try?

She read a page of her book, then tried to avoid looking at the lighted neon clock on the wall. A burst of laughter sounded from a nearby table, and the trill of a child’s gleeful voice drifted across the busy café. Along with the library, and Heart of the Mountains Church, the Sky River Bakery was one of her favorite spots in town. It was impossible to be sad or depressed in a bakery. There must be something in the sugary, yeasty scent that imparted serenity, for everyone Maureen could see appeared to be happy.

A girl in a white apron perched on a step stool, creating a list of Thanksgiving pie options and announcing Christmas pre-orders. Seeing that, Maureen felt a thrill of anticipation. Christmas was right around the corner, and in spite of everything else going on in her life, it was still her favorite time of year.

She made the mistake of glancing at the clock. Eddie Haven was officially late. Seven minutes late, to be precise, not that she was counting—though she was. How long did one wait until the other party was considered “late?” Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? And whose responsibility was it to check in with the other? The waitee, or the waiter?

She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered out the window. There were a lot of people out this time of day, heading home from work or after-school activities. A boy passed by, and she thought he might be the one she’d seen earlier at the library—Jabez. He had enormous dark eyes, thickly fringed by long lashes. His poise and formality when he’d greeted her had struck Maureen as unusual in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He regarded the rows of bread loaves and pastries, and his hand went inside the pocket of his olive-drab jacket. Then he sighed, freezing the air with his breath, and moved on. She had an urge to call him back, to offer…what? Maureen wasn’t given to social impulses, and she doubted a teenager would welcome an invitation from the town librarian, anyway.

After nine minutes, she began to wonder if she had made a mistake with the time and place of her meeting with Eddie. Just to be sure, she opened her clipboard and consulted the printout of their e-mail exchange. No, she hadn’t gotten the time wrong. He was late. Totally, inexcusably late.

By the time he was twelve minutes late, she was seriously nervous. She might need to phone him after all. Good grief, but she hated phoning. Or…wait. She could send him a text message. Perfect. A text message. She could ask him if he was still planning to meet with her.

Yes, that would give him a chance to save face in case he’d forgotten the appointment. Why it was her job to save his face was another matter entirely.

Taking out her mobile phone, she remembered the nophone rule in the bakery. There was a sign just inside the door, depicting a symbol of a phone with a slash through it. Did that include sending a text message? Maureen was new to sending text messages, so she wasn’t sure.

Just to be safe, she stepped outside, feeling almost furtive. Frowning down at the keypad, she composed a text message with too much care. “Come on,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s not as if this is going to be chiseled in stone.” Yet she agonized over the greeting. Did she even need a greeting? Or should she just plunge into the body of the message itself? And what about a sign-off? BEST WISHES? SEE YOU SOON? Was she MAUREEN? M.D.? No, that was weird. Okay. M. DAVENPORT. There.

She hit Send.

At that precise second, she noticed a little flashing icon on her screen, indicating she had a message. Strange. She almost never got text messages.

This one was from—whoops—Eddie Haven, sent about an hour ago.

RUNNING 15 MIN LATE. SORRY. SEE U 6:15.

So now she would look like a neurotic psycho stalker, nagging him over a fifteen-minute delay and too much of a ninny to check her messages.

Staring down at the tiny screen, she stood on the edge of the curb, wishing the pavement would crack open and swallow her up, sparing her this awkward meeting. Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the white, windowless van careening toward her until it was almost too late. She jumped away from the curb just as it angled into a parking spot a few feet away, nearly flattening her against the brick building. Rock music thumped from the scratched and dented vehicle for a couple of seconds before the engine rattled to a halt.

Clutching the mobile phone with frozen fingers, Maureen choked on a puff of exhaust. She heard the thud of a door, footsteps on pavement.

A man in black appeared, glaring at her. She looked him up and down. He had the shaggy blond hair of an old-school California surfer. He wore ripped jeans and black high-top sneakers, and a jacket with a ski pass hanging from the zipper tag, open to reveal a formfitting black T-shirt. Eddie Haven had arrived. Wonderful. He was going to think the world of her.

“Jesus Christ, lady. I didn’t see you there. I nearly ran you down,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t see you,” he repeated.

Of course he hadn’t. And it wouldn’t be the first time. “You should’ve been watching.”

“I was, I—” He raked a hand through his long, wheat-colored hair. “Christ, you scared the shit out of me.”

“There’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain,” she said, then cringed at her own words. When had she turned into such a marm?

“It wasn’t in vain,” he replied. “I totally meant it.”

She sniffed, filling her senses with winter cold, tinged with exhaust. “It’s just so…unimaginative. Not to mention disrespectful.”

“And self-righteous to boot,” he said with a grin, handsome as a prom king. “It’s been real, but I gotta bounce.” He nodded in the direction of the bakery. “I’m meeting someone.”

A soft burble of sound came from…it seemed to be coming from his jeans. He dug in his pocket and extracted a cell phone.

Maureen glanced down at her own phone’s screen to see that it said Message Sent.

Then she looked back at Eddie Haven. Despite his easy dismissal of polite speech, there was no denying the man had presence. Although he was almost inhumanly good-looking, the strange appeal went deeper than looks alone. He had some kind of aura, a powerful magnetism that seemed to suck all the light and energy toward him. And he wasn’t even doing anything, just standing there checking his messages.

I am in such trouble, she thought.

With a bemused expression, he touched a button. A second later her phone rang. Startled, she dropped it on the ground.

He bent and scooped it up, holding it out to her. “Maureen, right? Maureen Davenport.”

“That’s me.” She turned her ringer off and slipped the phone into her pocket.

“What, you’re hanging up on me already?” he said.

“I suppose that would be a first for you. A woman, hanging up on you.”

“Shit, no, are you kidding?”

She winced. “Don’t tell me you’re going to talk like that the whole time.”

“Great,” he said, “so you’re one of those holier-than-thou types.”

“I’ll bet a convicted felon would be holier than you are,” she retorted.

“I’ve met quite a few felons who were holier than me. Wait a minute, I am a convicted felon.” He touched the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Does that mean I’m holier than me? Jesus, lady, way to mess with a guy’s head.”

“I’m sure I don’t mean to mess with your head or any other part of you,” she said.

He started walking toward the bakery. “So…Maureen Davenport.” He pronounced her name as though tasting it. “From the library.”

“That’s me.” She couldn’t tell if he was surprised, disappointed or just resigned.

He paused, frowned at her. “Have we met before?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “It’s weird that our paths haven’t crossed, in a town like this. I guess we just move in different circles, eh?”

She considered telling him their paths had crossed, but he simply hadn’t deigned to notice her. Instead, she simply nodded. “I guess.”

“This is going to be fun,” he said, clapping his hands together, then blowing on his fingers. “And fun is good, right?”

She didn’t think he expected an answer to his question.

“I’m Eddie Haven,” he said.

“I know who you are,” she said. Good grief, who didn’t know who Eddie Haven was? Especially now, with his anniversary DVD topping the charts. She knew it topped the charts because the library currently owned a dozen copies, and each of those had more than a hundred patron holds. She wondered what it was like for him to see his own flickering image on the small screen, year in and year out, all hours of the night and day.

She’d have plenty of opportunities to ask him, because this holiday season, she was stuck with him. The two of them had been charged with codirecting the annual Christmas pageant for the town of Avalon. She had taken on the job because it was something she’d always wanted to do, and she was well-qualified for the task. Eddie was her partner in the endeavor thanks to a mandate from a judge ordering him to perform community service. For better or worse, they were stuck with each other.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said easily. “I texted you.”

“I…sent you a text message, as well.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to use texted as a verb. “And after I hit Send,” she added, “I saw your message.”

In the bakery, several people greeted him by name, welcoming him back to town. Several more—mostly women, she noted—checked him out. A group of tourists looked up from studying their area maps and brochures to lean over and whisper about him, likely speculating about whether or not he was who they thought he was. With the publicity surrounding his movie, he was definitely back in vogue.

“Our table’s over here,” she said, leading the way, on fire with self-consciousness. There was no reason to feel self-conscious, but she did. She couldn’t help herself.

“Why do I get the impression you’ve already decided not to like me?” he asked, shrugging out of his jacket.

Was it that obvious? “I have no idea whether I’m going to like you or not,” she felt compelled to say. “Not a fan of the language, though. Seriously.”

“What, English? It’s standard English, swear to God.”

“Right.” She hung up her coat over the back of her chair and took a seat. She didn’t want to play games with this guy.

“You mean the swearing,” he said.

“Brilliant deduction.”

“Fine. I won’t do it anymore. No more taking the Lord’s name in vain or even in earnest.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” she conceded.

“They’re just words.”

“Words are powerful.”

“Right. You want to know what’s obscene?” he asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Violence is obscene. Injustice—that’s obscene, too. Poverty and intolerance. Those are obscenities. Words are just that—words.”

“A lot of hot air,” she suggested.

“That’s right.”

“Now that we’ve established you’re full of hot air, we should get to work.”

He chuckled. “Touché. Hang on a sec. I need to get a coffee.” He dug in his back pocket and took out a well-worn billfold. It flopped onto the floor, and he stooped to pick it up. “Sh—” he paused. “How about shit? Can I say shit?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Jesus—er, gee whiz. What the hell do you say when you drop something?”

“There are many ways to express dismay,” she pointed out. “I imagine you know plenty.”

“I’m asking you. What do you say when you get pissed off?”

“I don’t get pissed off.” She forced herself to use words she’d rather not.

He stood stock-still, as if he’d been planted in the middle of the bakery. She thought for a moment that he might be having a fit or something.

Instead, he threw back his head and guffawed, causing heads to swivel toward him. “You’re killing me,” he gasped. “You really are.”

She tried to ignore the inquisitive stares. “Why is that?”

“Because lady, I can already tell—you were born pissed off.”

“You can tell this,” she said, scowling a challenge at him. “Because you’re…what? Such an amazing judge of character?”

“Because you’re not hiding a thing,” he said.

“You have no idea whether I’m hiding anything at all,” she said. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

His gaze flicked over her, assessing practical boots, the plain cloth coat, the handknit accessories, the glasses, her stack of books and clipboard.

“I know everything I need to know,” he said.

“And what’s that?”

“Ray Tolley says you’re the town librarian.”

Ray, who played keyboard, was in charge of music for the pageant. Maureen tried to decide whether or not she was pleased Ray had discussed her with Eddie Haven. “That’s not exactly classified.”

“You’re a big reader, and freakishly organized,” Eddie said, eyeing her books and papers.

She sniffed. “You’re stereotyping me. Not to mention being completely wrong.” He was wrong. She cleared her throat and glared up at him. It was then that she noticed he wore an earring. A single, sexy golden loop in one earlobe. He also had a tattoo that rippled when he bent his arm. She could imagine how it looked as he stroked the strings of his guitar. Obvious signs of a person craving attention.

“Okay, then you live a secret life, moonlighting as a dominatrix.”

“That’s no secret,” she said.

He chuckled again, his eyes shining. “Right.” He headed for the counter. Halfway there, he turned. “Do you want anything?”

She tried not to stare at the earring. “No. No, thank you.”

With his weight shifted to one hip and a charming grin on his face, he chatted up the counter girl, whose eyes sparkled as she made small talk with him.

Clearing her throat, Maureen organized the papers on her clipboard and adjusted her glasses. She wished she didn’t wear glasses. It was just so…librarian-like. She owned a pair of contacts, but they irritated her eyes.

Her sisters and stepmom had insisted that she opt for trendy Danish-import frames and a good haircut in order to avoid being regarded as a total cliché. But she usually ended up pulling her hair back and not bothering with makeup. The end result was the impression of a librarian trying not to look like a librarian, which was ridiculous.

She eventually surrendered to who she was, and for the most part she was comfortable in her own skin, with a cozy apartment, two cats and plenty of books. She hadn’t always been that way; her contentment was hard-won. And when someone—like Eddie Haven—came along and threatened that, she went into defensive mode.

He returned with a mug of hot coffee for himself, and a cup of hot chocolate. “For you,” he said. “I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I figured I’d give it a shot.”

“Thank you. How did you know I’m a hot chocolate drinker?”

“Who doesn’t like hot chocolate?” He gave her a smile that made her feel as if she were the only woman in the place. “Whipped cream?”

“No,” she said quickly. “That would be a bit much.” She went back to feeling self-conscious. People were probably wondering what the hot guy was doing with the geeky girl. Some things never changed. Everyone who saw them together would assume he was with her out of some kind of obligation, not because he was attracted to her. Getting attention from Eddie Haven was like being the dork in school, having her pigtail tugged by the cutest boy in class. She was ridiculously grateful for the attention, even if he was taunting her.

Five minutes with this guy and she’d regressed to junior high. Just for a moment, she wished she could be someone else. That was probably unhealthy in the extreme—to be with a person who made you dissatisfied with yourself.

She patted the papers on her clipboard. It was always a safe bet to get down to business with someone who made you nervous. “I’ve made you copies of the audition schedule and the rehearsal times and—”

“Thanks. I’ll look at it later. Give me a break, I just rolled into town.”

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“At a place by the lake. It belongs to some friends who go to St. Croix for the winter. Hell, I’d like to be in St. Croix right about now.”

“I hope you settle in quickly,” she said. “This Christmas pageant has to come together in a shockingly short amount of time.”

“And yet it does,” he said, “like a miracle, every year.”

“So it’s been your experience that a miracle occurs.”

“Hasn’t failed us yet. I’m not exactly new to this,” he said.

She was aware of his entire history with the pageant, including the infraction that had earned him his sentence of community service. It was a known fact in the town of Avalon that Eddie Haven had begun his involvement in the town’s annual pageant by judicial order. Following a terrible Christmas Eve accident, he’d been sentenced to help with the program, year in and year out. “It’s been my experience that miracles work out better when they’re preceded by a lot of hard work and preparation.”

“Me, I got faith,” he said easily.

She regarded him skeptically. “Are you a churchgoing man?”

He laughed heartily at that. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m a real regular.” He toned down the laughter a bit. “Trust me, I can deal with the pageant without divine intervention, okay? And how did you end up with this job, anyway? Did you volunteer or were you drafted? Or maybe you’re a felon like me.”

“Nobody’s a felon like you.”

“Ouch,” he said. “Okay, I can tell, you’re going to be a barrel of laughs.”

“It’s not my job to amuse you.”

“Come on, be a sport. Tell me more about yourself, Maureen.”

“Why should I? You’ve already declared me a boring person obsessed with books and cats—”

“I never said boring. I never said obsessed. The books were a no-brainer and the cats—every chick likes cats. Lucky guess. Come on. I really want to know. Are you from around here?”

He did this thing, she realized. This magnetic thing that made her want to…she wasn’t sure what. Give him little offerings from herself. It was the strangest sensation. Strange, and maybe dangerous. “I was born and raised here,” she said. “I went to college in Brockport, came back and became the town librarian.” She swallowed. “No wonder you said I was boring.”

“Hey. I did not say boring. And it sounds to me like you didn’t have to go looking for your heart’s desire.”

She actually had gone looking, but she wasn’t about to own up to that, not to him.

“And what about you?” she asked, feeling bold. “Are you looking for your heart’s desire?”

“No need. I know what my heart desires. It’s just a question of finding it.”

“Really? And what is that?”

“I just met you. I can’t be telling you that.”

During their conversation, something unexpected occurred. Against her will, she started to like him. As a person, not just as an amazing-looking guy, a guy who was so far out of her league, he might as well be on another planet.

Planet of the Fangirls, thought Maureen, as three women approached their table. They were all nudging each other and exchanging bashful smiles.

“Excuse me,” one of them said. And it was completely clear they weren’t addressing Maureen. “You’re…Eddie Haven, right?”

“The Eddie Haven?” her friend clarified.

He gave them an easy smile. “I guess that would be me.”

“We thought so. You look the same as you did in that movie.”

“Oh. Not good,” he said.

“No, you were adorable.” The three women looked jubilant. “And we saw you on Extra just last week.”

Here was something that always seemed to be true. Attractive women tended to hang out together. Each of these had the looks of a former cheerleader—brighteyed and smiling, in jeans and high-heeled boots, fitted sweaters.

“So…would you mind if we got a picture together?”

“Actually, I’m kind of in the middle of something—”

“Just a cell phone pic,” she said, whipping out an iPhone and thrusting it at Maureen. “Here, would you take it?”

Before Maureen could reply, one of the women showed her how to point and shoot. The three draped themselves around Eddie and—it had to be said—he lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Thanks. You were really cool about that.” The woman addressed Eddie as she saved the image on the phone. “And I know you must hear this all the time, but I loved you in that movie. I still love you in that movie, every time it airs.”

“Thanks,” said Eddie. “Nice of you to say so.”

She handed him a card. “Here’s my number. For, you know, if you ever feel like hanging out.”

“You bet.”

The three took off, putting their heads together and scurrying away, giggling like schoolgirls. Maureen felt a little stunned. The woman had hit on him right in front of Maureen. For all they knew, Maureen could be on a date with him. She wasn’t, but still. The thing that hurt—and she hated the fact that it hurt—was knowing the women looked at her and clearly did not consider, even for a moment, that she might be…with him. His date. His girlfriend. Instead, they had treated her as if she was his assistant or secretary.

“Sorry about that,” Eddie said. “Now, where were we?”

Maureen shook her head. “I have no idea.” She’d never witnessed anything quite like that before. It was slightly shocking, like an ambush. “That happens to you a lot, doesn’t it? People—women—just appear out of the blue and ask for an autograph or picture.”

“Not sure what you mean by a lot,” he said.

“Has it happened before?”

His face confirmed it.

“More than once constitutes a lot,” she said.

“I wish they hadn’t been so rude to you,” he said.

She was surprised he’d noticed.

“I should have spoken up,” he told her. “I should have pointed out they were being rude.”

“Thank heaven you didn’t,” Maureen said. “That would have been flat-out embarrassing.”

“And you don’t like being embarrassed,” he observed.

“Do you? Does anybody?”

“I’ve been a performer all my life, and like it or not, being embarrassed on a regular basis comes with the territory.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. Thank goodness. “But don’t be embarrassed. They called you adorable.”

“Hell, I was adorable,” he said with a curious lack of vanity.

“I know. I’ve seen The Christmas Caper.” Maureen paused. It was strange, knowing more about him than he knew about her. Generally speaking, that was the librarian’s role, to be the woman behind the desk. The woman no one wondered about or speculated about.

As for Eddie’s movie, she’d not only seen it. She watched it every year with rapt attention. She had already bought the just-released commemorative edition DVD and had played and replayed all the special features, paying particular attention to the interviews with the grown-up Eddie. She’d memorized every frame, every word of every song in the film. She loved that movie so much it was ridiculous. “Would it make you feel old if I said I saw it when I was in the second grade?”

“Nah, because I was six at the time of the theatrical release.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yeah, I peaked at age six and it’s been downhill ever since.”

There was something about his smile. Something that made Maureen understand why grown women would approach him for a picture, giggling like schoolgirls. The other thing about his smile was that when she looked at him, she could see the precious little boy who had captured the hearts of America more than two decades ago.

He had played little Jimmy Kringle in The Christmas Caper, which was universally acknowledged to be one of the most sentimental Christmas movies ever made. Yet he’d transcended the stigma, taking a character who was trite and absurd and transforming him into a little boy everyone could believe in. And did, for years to come, thanks to the wonders of digital remastering, DVD extra features and the unending routine of round-the-clock cable.

“It can’t have been easy, being made a star at such a young age,” she observed.

“Wasn’t so bad, back in the day. But nobody saw the Internet coming. Or cable TV on this scale.”

Maureen was getting much too interested in him on a personal level. “We should finish up,” she suggested.

“Can’t wait to get rid of me, eh?”

“Yes, I mean, no, but—” Flustered. She was getting flustered, talking to this guy. Which was ridiculous. She was an established professional in her field. Still, she couldn’t help getting unnerved over Eddie Haven, with his sexy attitude, his earring and his too-pretty face. He must think she was a total loser. She didn’t like being around people who thought she was a loser. She liked people who propped her up. Her family. Library patrons. Children.

“I have a lot to tell you about this production,” she said. “For starters, it’s going to be filmed for a PBS special.” It still excited her, just saying it. “A production company from the city is coming up to cover it as part of a story about small-town Christmas celebrations.”

“Cool,” he said, but he didn’t look thrilled.

“It doesn’t really change our plans, but I wanted you to be aware of it.” She handed him a printed document. “Here’s the program I’m planning. You can take a look at it tonight.” She’d spent weeks finding the perfect combination of story and song for the traditional Christmas Eve celebration at Heart of the Mountains Church. It was a wonderful program, designed to bring the magic of Christmas to life. She had envisioned the ideal pageant for a long time, ever since she was small. She conjured up images of an evening aglow with candlelight, the air infused with incense and alive with song. It would be the quintessential celebration, one that would soften even the most jaded of hearts and remind people that the joys of the season could be felt all year.

He took a cursory look at the script and song list. “Sure, whatever. But it doesn’t lead with the angels,” he said. “When Mrs. Bickham was in charge, we always led with the angels.”

Ah, the ghosts of Christmas pageants past, thought Maureen, clasping her clipboard to her chest. She was going to be haunted by them for a long time. “Not this year.”

“It’s your show,” he said. “Hell, I don’t even like Christmas.”

He was so obnoxious, she thought. But so ridiculously good-looking, in a shaggy-haired, skinny-jeans, tight-T-shirt way. A lethal combination. “Nonsense. Everyone likes Christmas.”

He laughed. “Right. Okay, I guess I didn’t explain this very well.”

“Explain what?” In spite of herself, she was intrigued, and found herself leaning toward him, hanging on his every word like the most hopeless sort of Fan-girl.

“This whole Christmas thing.”

“What about it?”

“This is probably going to throw you for a loop, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a big fan of the holiday.”

Maybe, she thought, he appealed to her because he challenged her. It had been a long time since anyone over the age of five had challenged her. “Don’t be silly. Everybody loves Christmas.”

“You slay me, Maureen. You really do. News flash—everybody does not love Christmas.” Then his gaze slipped down the list of songs. “I’m not seeing a lot of variety here. Nothing new.”

“We could always add ‘The Runaway Reindeer’ from your hit movie. Your fan club would love it. Would that make you happy?”

“That would make me gag.”

The meeting was going so badly. She wished she knew how to bring it back on track. “Here’s the sign-up sheet for auditions.”

“Ought to be interesting. Everybody wants to be a star.”

“So it seems. We’ll try to be as inclusive as possible. We should remind everyone that there are no small actors—”

“Only small parts,” he finished for her. “And everybody knows that’s bullshit.”

She winced, wondering why he felt compelled to antagonize her. Her friend Olivia would say it was because he liked her. The notion intrigued Maureen far too much. She busied herself with her printouts, hoping to disguise her nerves. “And then we’ll go right into rehearsals. Here’s a schedule.”

“Got it, boss.”

“Are you patronizing me?”

“I’m trying to, yeah.”

“It’s not working. I won’t be patronized. Let’s not lose sight of our goal. This program isn’t for us or about us. It’s for the children, and for everyone who wants to celebrate the holidays.” The more nervous she got, the more cranky she sounded.

“Honey, you’re taking this way too seriously.”

“Honoring Christmas should not be taken lightly.” Oh, Maureen, she thought. When did you turn into such a dork? Olivia was always telling her to relax and have fun. But Olivia was pregnant, and hormones made her completely unreliable these days.

“Got it,” Eddie said again. “Are we done here?”

“Yes,” she said. “We’re done.” She hesitated, then screwed up her courage, struggling to conquer her nerves. They’d had a rough start. Maybe, she thought, they could fix things over dinner. “Listen, Eddie, let’s try not to start off on the wrong foot together. The bakery is about to close, but I was thinking, maybe we could go somewhere else, get some dinner and talk about this some more. I’d like to hear your ideas.”

There. She’d said it. She had blurted out an invitation to the best-looking guy ever to sit across a table from her. Putting herself out there like this was so contrary to her nature that she nearly hyperventilated, waiting for his reply.

To his credit, he didn’t smirk or anything. He simply rejected her in the most straightforward manner possible: “Maureen, thanks for the invitation, but I can’t. I have to be somewhere.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I better go, or I’ll be late. Maybe some other time.”

She wanted to die. Right there, right then, she wanted to curl up and die, turn to ashes and blow away on a cold winter wind. What had she been thinking, inviting him to dinner? Of course he didn’t want to have dinner with her. He was Eddie Haven, for goodness’ sake. He didn’t have dinner with people like Maureen Davenport. Nor would she want to, even if he’d asked. He was crude and deliberately provocative, so far from being her type that it was laughable. The next several weeks were going to be excruciating.

Somehow, she kept a lame smile on her face as he practically bolted for the door. She pictured him heading home to get cleaned up, probably for a date with a woman who didn’t know a library from a lobotomy, but who knew how to fill the gaps in a conversation as well as she could fill a sweater. Maureen pictured the two of them on their dinner date, gazing across the table at each other at a candlelit restaurant, whispering “Cheers” and clinking their goblets of fine wine together.

Three

“Hi, my name is Eddie, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Eddie.” The people in the group spoke in unison, their voices warm and quiet in the small meeting room in the basement of the church. It wasn’t like they didn’t know who he was. The greeting was part of the ritual of recovery, and the unvarying repetition held a certain comfort for the participants. Whenever he was in Avalon, he came to this group, and they all knew him. Everybody in the group knew who everybody else was because they’d all been coming here regularly, some of them for many years. There were sometimes a couple of new faces, yet the core membership was fairly stable. He recognized a red-haired college kid named Logan, a high school teacher named Tony, and an older guy, Terry D., who had helped Eddie a lot through the rough years.

When Maureen Davenport had asked Eddie if he was a churchgoing man, he’d answered in the affirmative. It wasn’t a lie—the building was a church. But he knew that wasn’t what she meant. He hadn’t started going to church thanks to some divine inspiration. Following a spectacular screwup on Eddie’s part, he’d been ordered by a judge to attend 12-step meetings. He hadn’t expected to like it. He hadn’t expected to discover the deepest truths about himself in a group of strangers. But something had happened. He hadn’t found salvation the way most people did. He’d found it in the shared fellowship of people like him, renewing their commitment every day to stay sober.

On many levels, he told himself, the night of his DUI had been a blessing in disguise. For Eddie, it had been the start of a new way of living. A new way to spend Christmas, too. He still couldn’t stand the holiday, but at least he could get through it with clear-eyed sobriety instead of through an alcoholic haze.

He’d started the journey—very much against his will—one snowy Christmas Eve. He was no longer that lost, desperate man who had shown up with a chip on his shoulder and his arm in a sling. But whether he was at his place in the city or here in Avalon, he still came to meetings for the support, the friendship, the chance to serve others. And sometimes, like tonight, he came to think about things that were bugging him.

Like Maureen Davenport. He could tell she was not going to be a picnic. She had that whole prim-and-proper librarian thing going on, which only made him want to tease her, undo her hair, remove her glasses and say, “Why Ms. Davenport, you’re beautiful!”

That was the way it might happen in the movies, anyway. He doubted Maureen would play her role, though. She’d probably just tap a pencil on her clipboard and insist on getting back to work. She promised to be weeks of Christmas pageant hell.

He missed Mrs. Bickham already. Mrs. Bickham had made his community service obligation bearable, because she’d been so easygoing. Eddie had barely had to lift a finger for the pageant. However, this Maureen chick was no pushover. She might actually make him do some work. Eddie didn’t really mind doing work, but he’d never been fond of taking orders from bossy females.

The people around the room came in all sizes and shapes, all ages and all walks of life. They sipped coffee and waited for Eddie to speak.

“The topic of tonight’s meeting is perspective,” he told them. “Yeah, that’s a good one for me at the moment. I need to remind myself to keep things in perspective. I first started coming to these meetings as a result of a judge’s mandate. I thought I didn’t belong here. The fact was, I didn’t want to belong here. I didn’t want to be a member of any club where you couldn’t drink your face off every single night.”

Sympathetic murmurings circulated through the group.

“The judge knew me better than I knew myself. She knew the value of strong medicine—in my case, a lifetime membership in this fine fellowship right here.”

Sometimes when he closed his eyes and thought about that night, those moments of terror, Eddie believed he was remembering it all exactly as it happened. He could still feel the glass neck of the bottle in his hand—Dom Perignon, of course. Nothing but the best on the night he would propose to the woman he loved. It was Natalie’s favorite and nothing else would do. Natalie Sweet. She was the perfect woman—a few years older, a lot more sophisticated, a journalist. What’s more, she’d been sending out “ask me” signals for weeks, he was sure of it.

He’d planned the evening out. Avalon was the perfect location, between New York City and Albany, where Natalie’s family lived. She thought he was taking her to her folks’ for Christmas, never guessing the surprise he had in store. He wanted to get engaged on Christmas Eve. He had issues with the holiday, thanks to the way he’d spent all his Christmases growing up, his parents dragging him from town to town with their Yule-themed road show. So to overcome those issues, he would supplant the bad memories with something good. He would transform the holiday from a time filled with painful associations to something joyful—getting engaged to be married.

He knew about the town of Avalon thanks to his family. The town was the home of Camp Kioga, where his folks used to park him each summer when he was a kid, while they traveled from place to place, performing at Renaissance fairs. Through the years, the town had come to feel like home to him, as much as any place had. He’d even pictured himself and Natalie getting a weekend place here one day. That night, he’d booked the best table at the Apple Tree Inn, the one overlooking the Schuyler River. In winter, the rocks were encased in ice and the banks crusted with snow, sparkling in the light streaming down from the restaurant windows. He’d requested all their favorites for the menu and even gave the restaurant manager a list of songs to play throughout the evening.

He remembered the expression on her face when she tasted her dessert—a silky eggnog crème brûlée—because it was the same face she made in bed sometimes. In fact, her dreamy look had been his signal that the time had come.

Although they’d already polished off a bottle of wine, he ordered champagne, noting the lift of her eyebrows and taking it as a good sign.

In retrospect, maybe it was apprehension.

Pleasantly buzzed from the wine, Eddie forged ahead with his plan. Natalie was almost secondary, a bit player to his starring role. That perception in itself should have been a clue. When the moment stopped being about Natalie or even the two of them as a couple, it could only mean trouble.

The sommelier poured two glasses. Eddie offered a toast—something about their future, about a lifetime of happiness. The time had come.

He was a traditionalist at heart. Unabashed by other Christmas-Eve guests, he went down on one knee and took her hand. At that moment, the theme song of The Christmas Caper came on the stereo. Maybe he should have recognized it as a bad sign.

The song had definitely not been on Eddie’s playlist. The manager might have thought Eddie would like hearing the sweet, sentimental tune. Eddie would never know. Many people assumed that such a beloved movie must be loved by him, as well. All he knew was that the hated song intruded on the moment like a choking spell in the middle of a gourmet meal.

And to top off the moment, this was the most heinous version in existence—the one recorded by an a cappella group known as the Christmas Belles, which had become a sensation on the Internet. The rendition was so sticky-sweet, he thought he might gag, just listening to it.

But he was down on one knee. He was committed. He had to go through with this. There was no turning back now.

He had carefully scripted the words, then memorized them so they wouldn’t sound scripted: “I love you. I want to be with you forever. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

That was her cue to weep for joy, perhaps to be so overcome she couldn’t speak, could only nod vigorously: Yes, yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you. All around the restaurant, people would sigh over his performance.

Then he would lift the lid of the small velvet jewel box, and a fresh wave of emotion would wash over her.

It was perfect. It was unforgettable. It was going to turn Christmas into the happiest time of his life.

There was one problem. Natalie didn’t follow the script. There were no joyful tears. No reciprocal declaration of love. Only a stricken expression of horror on her face.

“Magic can happen, if only you belieeeeeeeeve,” sang the Christmas Belles in the background.

Natalie didn’t nod. She looked nauseous, shook her head no. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said, getting up from the table and making a dash for the cloakroom.

Eddie had dropped a too-big wad of cash on the table, grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck and left, despite knowing it was illegal to leave an establishment with an open container.

Not caring.

She was walking as fast as she could toward the train station.

“Can we at least talk about this?” he asked.

She kept walking. “I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I’d be open to a proposal.”

“Hell, you were sending out signals like Western Union,” he said. “What was I supposed to think?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, excuse me all to hell for thinking you meant it when you said you loved me.”

“I did,” she protested. “I do. But I’m not ready to marry anybody, and neither are you.”

“Don’t tell me I’m not ready.”

“Fine, I won’t. But here’s what I think. I think you don’t want to be married so much as you don’t want to be alone.”

“Hey, it’s one thing to turn me down. Don’t psychoanalyze me on top of everything else.”

From there, the argument devolved into a rehashing of each other’s faults, and after she boarded the Albanybound train alone, he was ready to concede that yes, he had probably been hasty in proposing marriage.

By the time he returned to the restaurant parking lot for his van, he’d already made the transition from feeling hurt to feeling pissed. At her but even more at himself. Why had he made some big public production out of it? Why had he set himself up for failure like that?

As he drove through the streets of Avalon, the small town looked deserted, a ghost town. Most people had headed home early to be with their families on Christmas Eve. Others were at church, filling the night with song and worship.

Eddie planned to spend the rest of the evening with a man of the cloth. Specifically, a monk named Dom Perignon. Since the bottle had already been opened at the restaurant, he started drinking as he drove. Hell, it was Christmas Eve and there wasn’t a soul in sight. He’d just been dumped and he was desperate to numb the hurt and blunt the anger. And he was driving slowly, anyway. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. His parents had invited him home to their place on Long Island as they did every year, but Natalie had given him the perfect excuse to decline the invitation. Now he was out of excuses.