Page 11 of The Holiday

Marigold swirls the dregs of her peppermint drink around in the bottom of her glass before licking a tiny chunk of the red rock sugar from its rim. “Maybe weshouldhave been in touch over the years; I could have used someone reminding me that Cobb and I were destined to be together. There were a lot of years when I wasn’t sure where life would take me—or him. Or us.” She stops and shakes her head, looking around as the band starts to set up on stage. It’s a small venue and an intimate crowd, and Cobb playing here is his low-key way of letting the world know that he’s ready to perform again—even on a small stage.

Deanna gives her a long, meaningful look before glancing over to a table where a distinguished man in his sixties sits alone. She reaches over and wraps her hand around Marigold’s. “Life takes us where we’re supposed to be.” Deanna lets go of Marigold and stands, picking up her drink. “And tonight, I was supposed to be here to see you. And I was supposed to be with Bernard,” she says, lifting her drink at the man sitting alone; a huge grin spreads across his face as he looks at her admiringly. “He’s been a godsend after my divorce.” Deanna looks for a moment like she might cry. “I never thought I’d find love again, and now here I am.”

Marigold is looking up at her as she stands there. “I’m so happy that you’re good, Dee,” she says, using her old nickname for her friend. “I’ve wondered about you over the years. Send me your number, will you? Just message me on Instagram.”

Deanna smiles at her as they hold one another’s gaze. They have years of wisdom, life experience, and friendship between them, and the pleasure of that knowledge feels warm to Marigold, like she’s drinking a second martini.

“I will, Goldie,” Deanna says. She takes her drink with her and makes her way over to Bernard, who stands and pulls out her chair like an old-fashioned gentleman. Marigold loves this for her old friend.

She’s still thinking about Deanna’s life when Cobb takes the stage and the lights dim slightly. A round of excited applause ripples through the restaurant, and Marigold says yes to a second drink as her waiter breezes past and offers one to her.

“Good evening, and welcome,” Cobb says into the microphone as a spotlight grazes him. He’s dressed in a black sweater, perfectly cut black pants, and shiny black shoes, and his hair is groomed and smooth. He has his favorite guitar resting on a stand next to a stool. “Happy Christmas and all that jazz,” he adds in his light British accent, clasping his hands together as he smiles at everyone smoothly. “I’m so glad you all came out tonight—I’m assuming to see me—but if you stumbled in here after dinner or if you’re staying in the hotel and the concierge sent you my way just to fill up the bar, then I’m grateful for that, too.”

There is polite laughter as the servers wind through the tables, ducking slightly to stay out of the way of the customers who are there to see Cobb.

“I flew up into this cold, wintry wonderland from a magical little place called Shipwreck Key in Florida—my wife has me tied up down there these days.” There is more laughter. “But I convinced her to escort me up to Manhattan for a couple of nights so that I could play for you and she could buy up the entire city.” The audience laughs again; they are putty in his hands, just as they’ve always been. “I’m only kidding,” Cobb says, smiling impishly. “Seriously, I actually came with her because my gorgeous bride has never stopped being a supermodel, and she got booked on an end-of-the-year job that was shooting here in New York.”

Everyone claps again and Marigold can feel eyes on her. She smiles as she leans both elbows on the table. She isn’t shy, but she’d prefer that Cobb start strumming the guitar and wowing the crowd with his songs rather than with stories about her.

“And, in addition to that,” Cobb says, his eyes glittering with pride as he seeks her out and smiles at her. “Ms. Marigold Pim is having a lunch meeting tomorrow with a publisher who is interested in a book she’s writing, and you can’t believe how proud I am.” Cobb stops and just watches his wife. A look passes between them that contains so much more than words possibly could, and just as Marigold feels tears burning her eyes, she blows him a kiss and gives him a small wave to let him know that she’s ready to hear his music.

“So, without further ado, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me, I’d like to play you the song I wrote for Marigold.” Cobb slips the strap of his guitar over his head and fixes it on his shoulder before launching into the song he’d written for her. “Our lives have been a series of ups and downs, but I know for a fact I wouldn’t be standing here today or playing for you tonight if it wasn’t for the love of this beautiful woman.”

The crowd falls silent as Cobb starts to play, his strong voice filling the cozy bar as people drink and listen.

Marigold feels the warmth of her husband’s love and the strength of their long life together—and even the years that they were apart—filling her heart with peace and contentment. The Christmas lights around the room twinkle like stars as she watches and listens to the man she’s loved for more than half of her life play his songs.

She knows that he’s playing them for everyone, but in Marigold’s heart, the music is just for her.

Ruby

“Have you heard? It’s madness!” Sunday throws open the door to Marooned with a Book on the 23rd of December. She’s wrapped in a warm sweater, a scarf, and her light brown curls are smushed under a knitted beret as she walks into the store.

Ruby has a stack of the latest book by the author of “A Gentleman in Moscow” piled in her arms and she can barely see over the top of the pile. “Heard what?” she asks, setting the books down on the front counter with athud.

“Snow!” Sunday says as she whips the cap off her head, leaving her curls wild and disheveled. “It’s supposed to snow in Destin on Christmas Day!”

Ruby shakes her head with a smile for her friend. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Sun. And I’ll tell you what: I’m never going to see it. Not in Florida. There’s no way.”

“Bev Byer says he remembers a time when it snowed four inches in Santa Rosa,” she says breathlessly. “Well, he barely remembers it because it was in 1954 and he was still in diapers, but regardless. It happened.”

Ruby picks up the top three copies of the book she’s just set down and places them carefully on a table, moving other books out of the way as she sets up the new display. “Huh,” she says noncommittally.

Disappointed, Sunday’s face falls. “You’re not excited.”

“I’m not believing it.” Ruby turns to her pile and grabs another handful of books.

“Can’t you feel how cold it is out there?” Sunday walks to the window and looks out at Seadog Lane, which is normally filled with people wearing shorts and tank tops and sunglasses. Instead, the pedestrians and golf cart drivers alike are decked out in sweaters and scarves in holiday colors and patterns, and many of the balding men wear hats to fight off the chill.

“Can you see your breath?” Ruby says, kneeling on the floor to unbox more new books.

“No…not yet.” Sunday is still facing the street. Outside, Molly is writing on the pub blackboard that she uses to advertise The Scuttlebutt’s daily coffee specials. She has a piece of chalk in one hand and is bent at the waist, writing something. “But look, even Molly has a turtleneck sweater on.”

“So?” Ruby is amused by how hung up her best friend is on this snow talk. And it’s not that it wouldn’t be fun, but she just doesn’t see it happening. “Molly always wears jeans and flannel shirts.”

“But notturtlenecks. Molly knows things. She’s been around.”

Ruby rips open a box top loudly, tearing the tape away. “Shehasbeen everywhere,” she says mildly. “But I still don’t think it’s going to snow, even if Molly’s wardrobe choices predict that it might.”

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