Page 22 of Decked By The Grumpy Golem
Of all the places in Saltford Bay to have a breakdown, it had to be here. Right outside Gideon's home, like the universe has a twisted sense of humor and wants to make my life as complicated as possible.
I could call an Uber, I think, pulling my phone out.
No, this is Saltford Bay. There’s no Uber here and if there was, it would take forever to get here. I could walk to the school, but it's at least three miles in the snow, and the concert will be over before I make it halfway.
Or I could swallow my pride, trudge up that stone-lined driveway, and ask for help.
I would rather swallow an entire can of fishing hooks than ask Gideon Flintman for help. But I would also walk on fire not to disappoint those girls.
I stand there for a long moment, snowflakes melting against my heated cheeks, weighing my options. None of them are good. All of them involve either disappointing my nieces or facing Gideon.
But the thought of Isla and Arwen scanning the audience for their missing aunt, their little faces falling when they don't see me, makes the choice for me.
I trudge up the driveway, my boots crunching in the snow, each step heavier than the last. The house looms larger as I approach, all stone and timber and the kind of solid, permanent beauty that Gideon's family has been creating for generations. Warm light spills from the windows, and I can smell woodsmoke and something that might be dinner cooking.
It looks like home. It looks like everything I ran away from and everything I've been missing without knowing it.
My heart pounds as I climb the front steps, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. This is insane. I should turn around, call a tow truck, figure out some other way to get to the school. Anything but this.
But before I can lose my nerve, I lift my hand and knock on the heavy wooden door.
Footsteps approach from inside, and then the door swings open to reveal Martha Flintman, her gray eyes widening with surprise when she sees me standing on her doorstep like a half-frozen refugee.
She's wearing another one of her hand-knitted sweaters, this one featuring what looks like a Christmas tree decorated with tiny feltornaments, and her face breaks into a warm smile that makes my throat tight with unexpected emotion.
"Mrs. Flintman," I say, falling back on the tone I used as a kid when I showed up with my bike and scraped knees, when this house was my second home and this woman was like a second mother to me. "Is Gideon home?"
Chapter Ten
Gideon
Istandoutsideinthe whipping snow, arms crossed, staring at the ridiculous little red car half-buried in the snowbank. Wind cuts through my jacket like ice, but my skin runs hot enough that the flakes melt on contact. The storm's only getting worse. The visibility is down to maybe ten feet, roads turning treacherous. No chance I'm getting that delicate city car out tonight. Not with these conditions. Not with those thin tires.
The front end is completely buried, steam still rising from under the hood where it kissed the snowbank at speed. I circlethe vehicle, noting the way the back wheels don’t even touch the ground. Even if I could dig it out, this car isn't driving anywhere without serious mechanical attention.
Which means Lucia is stuck here. With me. Tonight.
The thought sends heat spiraling through my chest, and I have to clench my fists to keep my hands steady. After everything that happened, the prospect of being trapped with Lucia feels like walking into a minefield.
I walk away from Lucia’s car and back toward the house, then stomp snow from my boots and step back into the warmth of the kitchen. The familiar scents of home wrap around me, spices, and the lingering aroma of Martha's herbal tea. But underneath it all is something new, something that makes my chest tighten with recognition.
Vanilla and jasmine. Lucia's perfume, as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
She sits at the old oak table with Martha, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of chamomile tea. Cinnamon is curled in her lap, his little head upside down on her thigh like he’s been there forever. Her laugh drifts across the room, soft and genuine, her posture relaxed in a way I haven't seen since we were teenagers. The sight stops me cold in the doorway, snow melting off my shoulders and pooling at my feet.
She looks like she belongs here, chatting with my mother, petting my cat. She looks like she’s always belonged here, nestled in the heart of my home.
Like this is meant to be.
Her dark hair falls in waves over her shoulder, catching the warm light from the copper pendant lamp Martha installed last spring. She'sshed her coat, revealing a cream-colored sweater that hugs her curves and makes her skin glow like honey. When she tips her head back to laugh at something my mother said, the line of her throat makes my mouth go dry.
Ten years. Ten years of imagining what it would be like to have her here again, in this kitchen where we used to do homework and steal cookies from Martha's cooling racks. The reality is so much more intense than any fantasy I've allowed myself.
"Well?" Martha asks, her gray eyes sparkling with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction. "What's the verdict?"
I clear my throat, forcing myself to look away from Lucia's face. "Car's not going anywhere tonight. Roads are getting worse, and that little sports car wasn't built for Maine blizzards."
I pause, meeting Lucia's gaze directly. "I can drive you home in my truck once the storm passes."
