Page 160 of Holidating
He places another fork on another snowy napkin and moves on down the line.
“Look, I need you to trade jobs,” his sister says. “The baby is cranky, and I need to get the potatoes in.” She holds up his nephew—Micah, five months old—and pushes the baby against his sternum.
“Cranky, huh?” Damien takes the baby and leans him up against his chest. “And you thought of me?”
“Yup,” she says unapologetically. “He’s fed, but he needs a nap. Dave is on a call. Benito is sharpening my carving knife, and Mom is making gravy. And Alec is…I don’t even know. Probably sexting May in a corner somewhere.”
Micah starts to cry.Uh-oh. “What does Micah enjoy these days?”
“Well, driving. And rocking. Sing him a song. I’ll be right in the kitchen.”
Damien carries the crying baby in a circuit of Zara’s lovely home, while the little guy balls his tiny hands into fists and rubs his eyes.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird,” he sings. God, it’s an odd song. It starts weird, and then rapidly escalates from birds to diamond rings.
Damien would like a word with the composer.
Micah doesn’t mind, though. He’s gone from full-on crying to merely fussy. And his eyes are drooping.
“You could try putting him in the car seat,” Zara calls as he passes through the kitchen. “Or the crib, but he’s more likely to protest.”
From his pocket his phone lets out a particular ping that means someone wants an Uber. By force of habit, he reaches into his pocket to check on the fare.
Until last year, there were no Uber drivers in this part of Vermont. And now there’s only a few of them. Damien was the very first one. And he isn’t about to drive on Thanksgiving.
But then he sees the address on Old Route 16 and does a double take. The ride is forNicolette O. And she’s requesting a lift to central Colebury, which is only a couple miles from her house.
Nicolette. Hell. It’s been almost a year since he punched her husband, and two years since he saw her last. But he thinks about her a lot, as always.
He does another lap past Zara’s kitchen fireplace, and the phone chirps again.
“Is that Uber?” Benito asks. “On Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, I know. But it’sher.”
He doesn’t even name her. But every head in the busy kitchen turns to stare.
“No way,” his mother says.
“What does she want?” Benito asks.
He shrugs.
“Go,” Zara says, making a shooing motion with her wooden spoon. “But take the baby with you. He’ll be out like a light.”
“Really? You all think I should accept this ride on Thanksgiving?”
They all stare.
He looks at the screen again. Her avatar is a picture of her sweet face. She’s smiling.
He hitsAccept Farewith his thumb.
Ten minutes later, he turns into the driveway and finds the gates are standing open. That’s a first.
Proceed to the guesthouse in back, the ride order said. So he follows the new driveway around the main house, past a ridiculously large garage, and finds a small home nestled into the pine trees beyond.
It’s beautiful, just like everything else on the Overland property. He puts the car in park and waits.
