And perhaps this elusive volunteer had nothing to do with it. Maybe my new life was an act of God, or I really did suffer a brain-altering head trauma. But I had to pursue every avenue of escape. I could not live as Holden Thomas’s wife. Not when I was supposed to spend forever with someone else.
“So,” I said. “Tell me about Wyatt.”
Holden’s mug paused on its way to his lips. “What about him?”
“Assume I remember nothing and fill in the blanks.”
He put down his coffee and regarded me cautiously, like I was a riddle he was trying to decipher. “He moved back to Sugar Creek from Fayetteville two months ago. He works as an ER doctor, as you can attest. He golfs most weekends the weather cooperates and, if you want to waste two hours, just ask him about wine and society events.”
“Happily married?”
“Yes.” A muscle in Holden’s jaw twitched. “We are.”
Now that was interesting. “I meant Wyatt and—”
“We have dinner at my aunt and uncle’s next Tuesday night.” Holden was clearly done with the topic. “We go every few weeks.”
“Can I skip?”
“Your favorite brother-in-law will probably be there.”
“Should I bring an extra casserole?” Was a tight skirt and bustier proper dinner attire?
Holden shook his head and topped off his coffee. “Big plans for today?”
I popped a bagel into the toaster, wondering if there was a rift between the cousins. “I thought I would follow doctor's advice and take it easy."
“I’m glad. After my meeting with Mavis, I’ve got to pick up some stuff for the house. But I can cancel that.”
“No need.”
“I’ll have Emma check on you, okay? But if you need me, call.” He leaned in as if to kiss me, but caught himself at my audible intake of breath. “Sorry. Habit.” With a cocky grin, he stuck out his right hand and shook mine. “Have a good day ma'am. Let me know if I can be of assistance.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his touch lingering before finally pulling away.
When I heard the front door close and Holden's truck rumble awake, I collapsed into a chair in the breakfast nook, resting my head on the table.
It was time to get to work. I had numbers to call and places to visit.
If this Mrs. Claus was out there, I was going to find her.
Chapter Thirteen
My life was a complete and utter disaster. Like a dumpster dipped in kerosene, loaded with military-grade explosives, then blow-torched into oblivion.
I’d spent my entire day off making phone calls until my key-tapping fingers were numb. I’d created an illustrated map of the Christmas train’s route, using carefully thought-out colors to highlight every stop it would make until it returned to Sugar Creek on Christmas. I’d phoned every depot, every event organizer involved, but those who answered provided little to no help.
I’d extracted a handful of more photos of this mysterious Mrs. Claus from our event page on Facebook, but nobody recognized her. Or if they did, they didn’t know her. How was that possible? There wasn’t a living soul connected to the Christmas train who knew this gal? That didn’t make sense. We’d spent the entire evening working with kids, and no one had vetted this woman?
I’d sent emails until my laptop screen was a blurry jumble of letters to my dry eyes. I’d contacted city halls, chambers of commerce, and even Emma’s husband, our own mayor, to see if he had any connections to these other towns the train would visit.
All dead ends. Just like my attempt to be a functional, happy adult in a loving relationship and a forward-moving career.
Hannah, my friend in Little Rock, had kindly taken the time to drive half an hour to her train depot. She’d sweet-talked her way into the event, only to send me a photo of the Mrs. Claus she’d found, a lovely slender Asian woman who was no more my plump, white-headed Mrs. Claus than I was.
How did I fix this mess? How did I get back to my old life? Surely I wasn’t stuck here forever. I didn’t know how much longer I could pretend to be married to Holden. Holden, who by the way, had yet to come home. At 5:30, he’d texted me an apology and some excuse about a farm situation that needed his attention and to not expect him for dinner. At ten p.m. he still wasn’t home.
I was worried about him, but also worried that I was worried. He wasn’t my real husband. Aside from college, he was a guy I’d known a matter of days. What did I care that he was out till all hours of the night? Or that he wasn’t responding to my texts neurotically asking him to check in, and did he have strong feelings on whether the expiration on the cookie dough in the fridge was a hard cutoff or just a general window?
If I strangely missed his company, it was only because this house was old and made noises that were straight out of horror movies, and the rundown thing was lonely.
Or I was.
Yes, I admitted it. I was lonely.
Holden and I had bonded for a brief moment over our shared childhood stories at lunch yesterday. He almost felt like…a friend. A fellow trauma survivor who got what it was like to have a terrible childhood and lose someone you loved so unexpectedly. To see that side of him nudged the edges of the box I’d put him in, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that. Where was that uneven, mercurial boy I’d known? Even after we stopped dating, I saw him through my senior year. He and Wyatt had been roommates through college. Anytime I’d visit, Holden would either disappear or stick around long enough to glare or say something sarcastic. While the sarcasm still remained, he no longer glowered like an angry teenager in my presence. I’d almost say those eyes lingered, watching me with something that resembled longing.
Three hours later I was still awake, lying on my back in the dark, sheets tucked beneath my chin and playing “name that weird noise.” I was also starving and a wee bit weepy. I’d fixed myself a sandwich at dinnertime but felt so pitiful eating with only my list of helpless woes to keep me company.
My stomach growled, and my head ached. This called for food.
Wrapping myself in a robe I found in Holden’s closet, I tiptoed downstairs, using the light from my phone to guide me. When the cupboards and refrigerator revealed nothing but healthy stuff I didn’t feel like eating, I recalled seeing a freezer in the laundry room.
Maybe I’d hit the jackpot and find something there. If I couldn’t have answers, at least I could have calories.
“Annie?” Holden flicked on the light a half hour later, and I blinked against the assault to my eyeballs. “What are you doing?” Wearing jeans and another flannel, he stared down where I sat cross-legged in the laundry room, a wary concern in his brown eyes.
“I found some cake in the freezer.”
He processed this for a moment. “That’s our wedding cake topper. You wanted to save it for our first anniversary.”
“I had good taste. The icing’s a little grainy now, but this cake…” I forked another bite into my mouth. “Still delivers.”
Holden’s exhale echoed in the room. “Do you want to talk about this?”
“Not unless there’s more cake cryogenically preserved somewhere.”