His words didn’t register at first, only penetrating when I felt the eyes of my friends stare at me expectantly. “My husband. Right. I have one of those, don’t I?”
“Yes, and he is a fine one at that.” Selma lifted a praise hand to the ceiling. “I break out in revival every time he stops by here. Speaking of works of art, that’s what your Holden is. Right, Chief?”
“It’s like looking at a statue of David,” Chief deadpanned.
My husband was also a nuisance. I had limited time to eat and ugly cry, and he was stopping by to chat?
I followed Chief out to the main entrance, noticing the sky clouding outside the windows. Apparently the sun was mourning my promotion loss as well. Two classes of visiting high school students filled the lobby, their voices extra loud to my weary ears. As Chief continued on to his post, I searched the space for Holden.
Finally a trio of young men moved, and there he was.
Holden stood beneath a museum banner that said World Class Exhibit, and when his eyes found mine, my pulse stammered, and I nearly ran into a pack of giggling cheerleaders.
His hair looked windblown, and the collar of his navy wool coat sat beneath the edge of his jaw, one angle against another. He walked toward me, his face softening with concern.
“I don’t have a lot of time.” Especially for men I didn’t actually marry.
Holden’s hand went to my elbow, and he guided me to the edge of the room behind a giant potted tree and away from the hustle and bustle of the museum. “I heard about the job. I’m sorry.”
A lightning bolt of anger struck my system. “How could you possibly know about that?”
“I’ve been texting you all day for an update. When you didn’t respond, I reached out to Cordelia and Emma.”
I’d updated both of them only twenty minutes ago. They’d both offered to toilet paper Mr. Strickland’s BMW and bring over wine after work. “I’m fine.”
His dark eyes roamed to my head. “Yeah, you say that a lot.”
“I really need to get back.” I had carrot sticks to ignore and Selma was about to pray for a brain transplant for our boss. “Thanks for stopping by, but I’ll be okay.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“I can’t. I only have thirty minutes left of lunch.”
“I’ll get you back in twenty-nine.”
“Holden—”
“Spark Cafe finally has your favorite candy cane ice cream for the holidays. Buy one scoop, get one free. If that isn’t an uplifting turn of frozen dairy events, I don’t know what is.”
That really was my favorite. “Thank you, but I am deeply committed to my foul mood right now.”
“Which makes it the perfect time for ice cream.”
I was a total floozie when it came to sweet treats. “Okay, but don’t expect me to be happy about it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“And I don’t want your sympathy.”
“I’m offended you’d think I’d pull any compassionate crap on you.” He shot a quick glance to the large window behind us and the darkening sky. “The temp’s dropped. Better bundle up.” He slipped off his tartan plaid scarf and looped it around my neck. “Don’t want to add pneumonia on top of the head trauma.”
With a feather-light touch, Holden lifted my hair, his fingers grazing the back of my neck. He took one end of the scarf and slowly circled it around the other. If I leaned an inch, I’d be in his arms, and I had the wild impulse to throw myself at the man and just hold on, if only for a minute. I wanted someone to hug me and tell me it was going to be all right, to give me a short respite from this crazy world.
His thumb brushed a path across my cheek, the same one tears had traveled down only minutes ago. “I would’ve picked you for the job.”
“Because you know so much about museum work?”
“If I worked here, it would be dog paintings and scratch-n-sniff. But, babe—you’d be in charge of it all.”
A small laugh escaped my lips and, like the culinary harlot I was, I capitulated and walked with Holden the three blocks to the downtown cafe. On our way we passed people we knew, some out for a noon stroll, while others darted in and out of shops whose windows were beautifully decorated for the season.
The Spark Cafe was a little shop on the corner in downtown Bentonville that served up happiness in a cone. A long bar ran the length of the back, anchored by glittery yellow Naugahyde barstools that sat on stout chrome legs. Beneath our feet was an inviting navy and white checkerboard of tile, and we chose one of the Formica tables in the windows that faced the bustling downtown sidewalk. It was the ideal spot for people-watching if that was your thing. Today it was definitely not mine. My thing seemed to be not getting what I most wanted.
Holden stood in line to order, while I sat at the table, alone with my thoroughly depressing thoughts. I watched my not-real husband strike up a conversation with the elderly couple behind him, and within seconds he’d made them laugh. Unbeknownst to the tired-looking mother holding a toddler in front of him, Holden played a quick round of peek-a-book, eliciting a smile from the cherubic little girl. This charming side of Holden’s must’ve developed after college, in the way I later, by necessity, learned to cook and do my own taxes.
“I don’t recall you liking people,” I said when Holden sat down later, effortlessly holding two cones and two drinks in those capable hands.
“What?”
“In college. You weren’t exactly Mr. Friendly.”
Our hands brushed as he handed me my ice cream. “You didn’t get to know me.”
“Okay, first of all, you were a moody jerk for most of the two months we hung out, and second, you stood me up the night of our last date.”
“You don’t remember why?”
“Do we have to revisit this during every conversation?” Oh, gosh, this peppermint chip was exactly what I needed. Sweet, yet flavorful. A seasonal item that made me appreciate it all the more, knowing after Christmas it would leave me just like my promotion hopes and romantic dreams.
Holden pulled the wrapper from his paper straw and poked it through the lid of his iced tea. “I probably was a terror in college. Stop me if any of this sounds familiar, but I grew up with Wyatt and his family. His parents basically raised me after my dad died when I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry.” A rivulet of melted ice cream slipped from my cone, and I caught it with my tongue. A move that did not go unnoticed by Holden. “My father died when I was a kid too. But I guess you know that.”
“It sucks. My dad was my hero, the stable one, just like his brother.”
“Wyatt’s father?”
“Yeah. It was just me and my dad before the accident.”
“What happened?”
“Car wreck. Drunk driver.”
Without thinking, I reached for his hand and squeezed. My wedding ring against his.
This day was too heavy. Holden relayed the facts matter-of-factly, like he was reading from a history textbook. But it had to still hurt. I knew that feeling well. Yet another area I wondered what might’ve been if only. If only my dad had lived past my ninth birthday. If only he’d been there for guidance and encouragement. Instead of my mom. “My dad had a heart attack. Six months later, my mom enrolled my sister and me in boarding school. But I guess you knew that.” I was the one in the dark.