Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
She farewells Angel with a wiggle of her fingers before she serves the customer behind us.
“She threatened you, didn’t she?” Angel asks when she’s tempted to order a crane to move me from the entry of the bakery. My legs feel the weight of concrete.
“Yeah,” I reply half a block later. “Is that the norm around here?”
“Will you leave if I say it is?”
I take a moment to consider my reply before muttering, “Probably not.”
“Then it’s the norm.”
I laugh for half a second before snapping my mouth shut.
Does that mean what I think it does?
Is she hoping I’ll stay?
I lose the chance to ask when she admits, “The town is a little protective of its born-and-bred locals.” A fondness glistens in her eyes. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
She’s not talking about Ravenshoe as a whole. She is referencing her apartment. How do I know this? Tears form in her eyes as she peers up at the only window in the building missing the trinkle of Christmas lights.
“There’s still time.”
After a long breath, Angel twists her torso to face me. “For?”
“To put up the tree.” When she doesn’t immediately shoot down my suggestion, I say, “In some countries, trees aren’t put up or decorated until Christmas Eve. In the Northern Hemisphere, the shortest day and longest night of the year falls on December twenty-first or twenty-second. It is called the—”
“Winter solstice.” She takes a moment to relish my smile before adding, “They believe that the sun is a god and that winter comes every year because the sun god is sick. The trees they bring inside remind them of what will grow and prosper when the sun god is strong again and summer has returned.” A touch of pink graces her cheeks. I’d assume she was embarrassed if fondness didn’t echo in her tone. “My father told me that story the first time we picked out our family tree. We chose the smallest, sickest looking tree so we could watch it thrive under our love.” Her hand darts across her cheeks to make sure they’re dry as she whispers, “I miss that tree.” She breathes out slowly like I can’t hear the words her eyes relay—As much as I miss them—before she rolls back her shoulders and clears her face of emotions. “Anyhoo. That’s enough reminiscing for one day.” Like all people stuck in the terrifying throes of grief, she shifts the attention to anyone but her. “I’d hate for someone to use our little share as a way to force us to face our fears head-on.”
I’m lost as to what she means until a whistly voice shreds my eardrums. “There you are!”
In my endeavor to lessen Angel’s panic, I walked myself right back into the firing zone.
In a quick tug, swoop, and pull maneuver, a hideously scratchy sweater is yanked over my head and pulled down my torso. I must be several inches taller than Mr. Roach because the waist of his sweater stops just above my navel.
Mrs. Roach appears oblivious. “It’s a perfect fit!”
When I shift on my feet to face Angel, needing another opinion, an odd tingling sensation impinges my throat. It isn’t the fear of being asphyxiated by a rogue pubic hair making my throat scratchy. It is the Christmassy grin stretching across Angel’s face as she gives Mrs. Roach a thumbs-up approval.
20
ANGEL
Iremind my heart that my truce with Christian is only for another few hours when I spin to face him. We’re in a prop closet of the local theater, going through dusty costume trunks. We need an outfit for tonight, and I refuse to wear anything too Christmassy.
I won’t lie. I’ve had so much fun today that it has taken numerous reminders to remember that Christian is only here to boot me out of my apartment. He’s not my friend. He is living, breathing proof that Ebenezer Scrooge doesn’t exist solely during December.
When Christian gags about the hideous mustache and top hat I’m wearing, a brilliant idea smacks into me. I know exactly the costume I need, and the man I need to help me replicate its greatness enters the props closet like he was summoned here.
“Pierre.”
My old drama teacher stops kissing Christian’s cheek when he hears my croaky greeting. His mouth falls open before he rushes across the warped floorboards to hug me firmly.
“Mon chéri.” He pulls me back to arm’s length before raking his eyes over my body. “You’re here, yes?” He cranks his neck to Christian. “She is here, yes?” His eyes are back on me, brimming with wetness. “I’m not dreaming?”
“You’re not dreaming,” I murmur, struggling not to cry.
Pierre was the reason I got into Juilliard. He honed my drama skills at a young age by making me fall in love with old-school musicals. We watched one after every class. I’ve gobbled up the classics over a dozen times each. I know them word for word, yet I can’t think of a single line to assure Pierre that he isn’t dreaming.