Page 9 of Grump Hard
I cross to where Arthur, our long-time Vermont family chauffeur, idles in the black sedan, exhaust puffing white in the cold.
I pull open the back door and slide in, wincing as the gentle slam of the door sends a stab of pain through my skull.
Make that two ibuprofen…
“Good evening, sir,” Arthur says in that warm, gentle way that reminds me so much of my grandfather, and the fact that I didn’t get to say goodbye in person. I’d been in Japan on business the day he was rushed to the hospital. He’d told me not to worry about flying home, that a chat on the phone would lift his spirits and he’d be better in no time.
But he wasn’t, and a part of me will always regret that I wasn’t there with my brothers and sister at his bedside.
“I was beginning to worry,” Arthur adds. “That storm’s coming in faster than expected. I was just watching it swirl over the mountains on the radar.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Arthur,” I murmur, staring out the window as I fight to banish the tightness in my throat. “I ran into someone I knew when I was younger. We were just…catching up.”
And she was blackmailing me, I add silently, but in a very sunny way.
Holly Jo has grown into a confident, charmingly sarcastic version of the same sweet girl she once was. And I have grown into a jerk who treated her poorly, while having impure thoughts about her cleavage in that reindeer costume.
In my defense, she did have it unzipped quite a long way.
But still…
Having lascivious thoughts about a woman I once helped blow her nose because she was a baby who couldn’t manage the tissue properly feels…wrong.
“How wonderful!” Aruther puts the car in gear, pulling away from the curb with his usual precision, blissfully unaware of the vile creature in his backseat. “I hope that was nice?”
Define nice, I think.
Aloud, I say, “Very. Holly seems the same. Very kind and community-focused.”
“Holly Hadley?” When I nod in confirmation, Arthur lets out a delighted sound. “Oh, Mr. Luke, she’s the sweetest girl, and a godsend to this town. I don’t know how we would pull through the high season without her. Especially after Kim and Tim Miller had to step back from all their volunteer work. Tim’s just not as strong as he used to be, not since he beat cancer the second time, you know.”
“I’m sure. And yes. She seemed very…involved.”
And very intent on forcing me to get involved, whether I like it or not.
We drive in silence for a bit before Arthur glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong, sir?”
I clench my jaw, then force it to relax before I assure him, “Of course not, just tired. I forget how early the sun sets around here.”
“Oh, indeed,” Arthur agrees. “And the nights just get longer from here on out. I love the holidays, don’t get me wrong. But I’ll be glad when we’re past the solstice, and the daylight starts creeping up again.” He beams at me in the mirror for a beat before making the turn onto our private road. “Just another thing to be grateful for at Christmastime! Come the twenty-fifth, we’ll be on our way back to the light in more ways than one.”
I make a noncommittal grunt and slouch lower in my seat.
Back to the light…
It’s the kind of thing Holly would agree with, I’m sure.
People like Arthur, like Holly—people who move through the world with uncomplicated warmth, believing in the power of community and connection—can build lovely lives, but never a legacy that lasts. Softness melts away in the acid rain of the real world. Only cold steel has the staying power to endure.
Dad taught me that, though perhaps not in the way he intended.
His addiction to sex and love—and inability to establish a healthy relationship with either—was its own kind of softness.
A softness like rotten fruit filled with worms…
I’ve never been tempted to take a bite of that fruit, myself.
Never have and likely never will.
