Page 7 of Triple Tidings
That isn’t the kind of frilly crap I typically subscribe to. It’s not that I’m a pessimist, I just call ‘em like I see ‘em. And, from personal experience, I can say pretty confidently that, sometimes, shit just happens. Looking for the positive is just a waste of energy that would be better spent digging yourself out of it. Life sucks, crap comes our way whether we like it or not, and the best we can do is survive it.
My furnace shitting out only a few days before Christmas certainly seemed like the type of incident to fall under the umbrella ofshit-fucking-happenslife events. Especially when the plumber stomped up from the basement, wiping his hands on a rag, and informed me that the damn thing wasn’t going to be up and running until after the special-order part came in.
“Should take about a week. With the holiday,” he added grimly, ripping the bill off his pad and handing it to me. “Get some space heaters going so your pipes don’t freeze.”
Thanking the man for his time, I walked him out, already weighing my options. Space heaters might be enough to stop apipe from bursting, but the drafty old house is cold at the best of times, and the outlook for my next three days was looking grim.
Feet and back aching from the thirteen-hour day I pulled yesterday, I slumped down into a kitchen chair, trying to decide which of the options before me was least unpleasant: bundle up and hope for the best, crash on the couch in my shop, or spring for a room at the budget hotel by the airport.
It was about then that another idea occurred to me.A better idea.
I might be a little on the jaded side, but I’m not an idiot. I take opportunities when they come my way, and this one was too good to pass up. Without stopping to second-guess it, I took out my phone and pulled up the website for The Chestnut Bed and Breakfast, booking a room that cost about double what I would have paid anywhere else in town.
Even after the shit which necessitated it, I found myself grinning at the prospect of a long weekend at The Chestnut as I set about packing a bag and winterizing the house the best I could. It wasn’t the fancy food or the mint on my pillow I was excited about, though.
It washer. Lacey Lovette, manager and part-owner of the pretty little bed and breakfast I pass every day on my way to work.
Until this past summer, we hadn’t spoken a single word to each other, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of The Chestnut, or of Lacey Lovette. I didn’t have athingfor her exactly. I’d just… I’d seen her around, that’s all. We live in a small city, and when you own the only decent bookstore in a five-mile radius, pretty much everyone comes through from time to time.
Lacey was never what I’d call a regular. She’d stop by every so often, sometimes just to browse, sometimes picking up a book or two in no specific genre. At some point, I must have asked Nat,the shop’s resident bookseller/busybody, about her, and figured out where she works.
Maybe I thought she was pretty.
It’s not like I planned todoanything about it. I knew I wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at catching the eye of a woman like that, and not once did I consider stepping out from the back room to chat her up, mustering up some flimsy opinion on whatever book she was buying, purely for something to talk to her about.
I’d sure as hell thought about it, though, and I’d thought about it again last spring when a wedding invitation for an old family friend landed in my mailbox. The reception was going to be hosted on the grounds of The Chestnut, and, in one of my more impulsive moments—knowing full well I would have turned down the same invite if the event were hosted anywhere else—I checked “joyfully accepts” on the RSVP card.
I bought an overpriced pot from the couple’s registry, dusted off my least out-of-date suit, and sat through a ceremony that was about four times the length it needed to be. Then, about fifteen minutes into the reception—when it became clear the whole thing was being coordinated by a wedding planner, not The Chestnut’s manager—I’d felt like an idiot.
Not wanting to leave right away, but unable to stomach the very real possibility of someone dragging me into a conga line, I decided to go for a walk. I’d stumbled upon a little dirt road, leading through the woods behind the bed and breakfast, and strolled along it, nursing a beer and cursing myself for this ill-thought-out plan.
Except, when I turned a corner and found myself looking at a woman standing in the garden of a cozy little cottage, my self-loathing evaporated as quickly as it had come.
Even now, months later, the details of that afternoon are still a blur. What does come back to me, crystal-fucking-clear,is the moment Lacey Lovette looked over her shoulder, saw me standing there, and smiled.
She’d recognized me from the shop, and I pretended I hadn’t come to the wedding for the express purpose of seeing her. We got to talking, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the porch of her house, and it was easy. No strained silences or awkward, clumsy jokes. Sunshine streamed down on us through the branches of the trees, and when I kissed her, the way she sighed was just about the best thing I’d ever heard.
At least until about five minutes later, when she pulled me inside and sobbed my name as I fucked her over the sink in her cozy little kitchen.
When it was all over, and I was trying to think of a way to ask her to dinner, the old landline on the wall had rung. Lacey had hurried off in a rush of apologies, citing some emergency at The Chestnut, and I hadn’t seen her again before the end of the wedding.
So, because I’m not a complete fucking idiot, when an excuse to see her again came up… I took it.
Took it, and proceeded to fuck it up within minutes.
Shit’s embarrassing—realfucking embarrassing—and I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Seeing her again scrambled what good sense I have, and by the time I made it up to my room, I was already wondering if I could check out early.
Lacey Lovette and I are cut from different cloths, and she’s too goddamn young for me, anyway. What happened this summer was… well, I have no fucking clue what it was, but coming here was a mistake. Last night, I turned off all the lights and went to bed at eight, just to avoid thinking about it, but in the cold light of day, I can’t hide anymore.
My deluded fantasies of a Christmas spent in the company of The Chestnut’s pretty manager have been all but swallowed up by my embarrassment as I swing my legs over the side of themattress—which is more comfortable than my own—and glower around the cozy space.
Room number seven at The Chestnut is spacious and decorated in cozy red, orange, and cream tones. Everything from the antique wood headboard to the embroidered throw pillow on the chair in the corner was chosen with care. I might not know her well, but I can see Lacey’s hand in every inch of this place.
Time to get the hell out of here.
I dress and prepare for the day as quickly as possible, cursing myself for letting my employees talk me into closing the shop for a “Christmas break.” It had seemed like a good idea at the time, when I’d been pretty damn burned out after the pre-holiday rush, and could use a few days off just as badly as they did. Now, I’d love something to occupy myself with.
Something that doesn’t involve cursing at myself and dwelling on the unneeded reminder of why I’m still single.
