Page 13 of Waiting for Gilbert

Because I have the self-control of a stalking tiger, I don’t ask any direct questions about Gilbert. Yes, I linger before the framed photo of a smiling Gilbert and another young man with Aunt Jewels on the mantle. And then the gold-framed one next to it of him playing the cello. And the artistic black-and-white shot of him and John, the piano guy, performing on a stage with a single spotlight overhead. Very artsy, that one. But then! There’s the photo of him PLAYING WITH A PUPPY in the hallway. But I don’t think anyone notices my snagged attention.

I’ve put together a mental list of everything I know about this Gilbert.

The actual nephew of Aunt Jewels (my new favorite woman in the whole wide world). She never had children, and Gilbert and his brother Cameron are the sons of her eighteen-years-younger kid brother.

A teddy bear—per her description.

Owner of the cottage I’m moving into tonight. And I’ve since learned through extremely subtle investigative work that he’s a contractor who buys and flips houses, plays the celloandpiano at events all over Nebraska and even records his own original music!

Also, his name is Gilbert.

Gilbert Conner.

Hello, Handsome.

With these important details in place, I replay the scene in the kitchen. I was unwelcoming due to my awkward embarrassment over my almost-crying and all the mess I’d been through today, but he didn’t run away. In contrast, he tried to cheer me up. So… I think I’ll get another chance.

Yes, I have an insane amount of work to do in order to meet my publishing deadline by December twenty-second. But a girl can dream—and I do—about moving into acottagenext to the epitome of everything I’ll ever need in a man.

Dramatic much?

Uh, no. I’ve been waiting for a Gilbert Blythe my whole life, although I had pictured it differently—perhaps a wealthy doctor (with lots of side smiles who says “sorry” in a funny British accent). Since it’s too late to have met a sweetheart during my school years who waits patiently for me to accept his love and then writes me letters over a year of courtship while I teach at a boarding school for girls and work on my craft as a writer, Gilbert Conner, cello man and landlord/contractor is sufficient.

Have I mentioned how excited I am to see this cottage everyone keeps talking about? Cottagescreamsadorable. I’m told it has butcher block countertops and a farm-style white sink. It will be perfect for staging the photos I need for finishing myChristmas Comfortscookbook.

We play a dangerous few games of spoons until Nickie—aka Dr. Nicole Brader—and I both have an iron grip on the same white plastic spoon. A fight to the death may have ensued if the spoon hadn’t just broken between our combined efforts. We triumphantly raise our respective ends of the spoon.

Nickie high-fives me and we hip bump and victory dance while the others cheer. The noise of our celebration drowns the slow croons of Elvis having a blue Christmas from the speaker on the mantle. We finish the game, and Aunt Jewels tells us that it’s almost midnight and if we don’t go home she’ll turn us all into pumpkins.

“Your clothes, hon.” She hands me a cloth sack that is suspiciously heavier than one outfit. When I attempt to look inside she smacks my hand. “Later.”

“Ouch. Okay.”

She insists it’s not too late to call Gilbert and let him know I’m on my way over. I refuse to make the call at eleven forty-five. If he’s been told I’m coming tonight, I have no fear about being locked out. There’s no reason to disturb him at midnight. Of course, I add his contact information to my phone—including his address which just happens to bemynew address. Feels scandalous.

I do a little happy dance on the inside because this is the FIRST real life Gilbert I have ever met, andI have his number.

Merry Christmas to all. Who was sad? Not me. This evening has been nothing but one big gift since I successfully tamped down any earlier emotions regarding Shaun (Who’s he?) the breakup, moving across the state, relocating…

Matt Wilder’s “Break My Stride” runs through my head as I slip and slide across the icy driveway to my car. Ain’t nothing gonna bring me down tonight after that spa treatment, hot chocolate from heaven, games with new friends that are amazing, a new grandma, andGilbert’s number saved in my phone.

6

CORDELIA

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15

BING CROSBY—I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

It’s nearing one in the morning and I’m still wired. Once I searched the lyrics to “Break My Stride”—because that one line kept bouncing from the sides of my brain like a free pinball machine—I was less enthused about life in general. Basically, the song’s about how this girl is going to remain single forever.Errrmkay. A bit of a joykill.

Infatuations aside, this cottage is not everything I’d dreamed. If you’re picturing Snow White’s little cabin in the woods with the thatched roof, you’re close. But do you remember the state of the place when she found it? With the cobwebs and the random furniture? Squeaky doors? Dripping faucets?

Thankfully it was warm-ish when I entered my new home. Gilbert must have dropped by earlier and turned the heat up for me—that is, he switched on a fancy space heater with rollers and a faux iron grill and wooden paneling. According to the red numbers on the display, it’s now sixty-five degrees in the kitchen.

I carried in three boxes of my photography equipment and another two of kitchen what-nots. I’m pumped to get things organized so I can work tomorrow.

As I haul myself onto the counter to wipe seventy-three years of dust from the cabinet shelves with my green earbuds in place, my call goes through to Mark. It’s only eleven p.m. in Phoenix… much too late for respectful or civilized people.

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