Page 6 of Never Let You Go

“Always.”

A couple of days later, I reach Emerald Creek several hours after leaving New York, and a sense of relief washes over me. Not just because the trip is over, although driving on snow was stressful enough, but because this place is so darn cute it belongs on a postcard. My ten-year old self didn’t register that at the time, or at least that’s not the vibe that stuck with me.

It’s the beginning of January, and the town is still decorated for the holidays. Soft white lights outline the pitch of the roofs and the contours of the houses. Candles flicker behind each window. Wreaths ranging from magnificent to elegantly understated hang on front doors. Fresh garlands and red bows graciously drape white picket fences. I sit still in the rental car, taking it all in before stepping out.

Standing alone on the quiet street, I take a deep breath and stretch my sore muscles. I tilt my head back, savoring the cool tingle of light snowflakes on my face as they flurry softly down to earth.

I grab my duffel bag from the backseat, lock the car, and catch myself as I step on the sidewalk, my new boots betraying me as they slip on the packed snow, and I nearly fall.

The bakery is a Victorian house set back from the sidewalk by a narrow garden, if the round shapes covered in snow are any indication A Christmas tree blinks multicolor lights on one side of the garden, while a snowman stands proudly on the other side of it. A central walkway, free of snow and sanded, leads to the wraparound porch and the front door. The soft glow of the inside of the store spills into the night through wide windows, inviting me to move forward despite the Sorry, We’re Closed sign.

The door yields when I push it open, and the doorbell chimes. I take another deep breath and step inside.

It smells heavenly of baked bread and sweets, and any lingering stress I had goes down several notches.

A counter lines two sides of the bakery. Behind it, wooden racks are slightly tilted to display the breads. They’re empty at this late hour, but some of them have tiny blackboard signs with labels in cursive: Mother Hen, Bob’s Favorite, Two Millers, Down the River, Up the Hill, Across the Border. I’m assuming these are the names of the breads they bake here. Interesting choice. Not names we use at Red Barn Baking, for sure.

A large blackboard lists the prices for their baked goods, and my mouth waters as I read. Cinnamon buns, apple muffins, cheddar croissants, bacon maple rolls, apple cider donuts… the list of temptations goes on and on. I fish my phone from my pocket and snap a photo.

Barbara warned me that cell phone coverage was poor in Vermont. She got that right. I have like, one bar. Then none. Spotting the wi-fi password next to the old-fashioned register, right below a cardboard collection box for the local hockey club, I enter it in my phone, then send the picture to Sarah. Caption: Made it! ttyl.

A slew of notifications ding once I’m connected. I glance at the screen. Seven text messages and two emails. All the text messages are from Sarah, who must have gotten confused about my itinerary.

The emails are from Robert Norwood, the first one sort of menacing with a bunch of legalese, the second a desperate plea for compromise as he extends the deadline for me to come back to my regular job. My heart rate picks up, and I clench my jaw. I delete the emails. I can always fish them out of the trash folder if I have second thoughts after a few days. I just don’t want to see them there.

It’s bad digital feng shui.

With that out of the way, I focus back on the here and now. The little things. I slip off my coat, letting the warmth of the room envelop me. The only sound is a voice coming from beyond the wall. It sounds like a one-sided conversation, someone on the phone—a man.

I welcome the wait, savoring this time to myself, this buffer between my old life and what will be my world for the next six months.

I walk to the window. Lazy snowflakes dance in the golden light cast by the lampposts. Across the street is a vast expanse that looks like a park. In the center of it, I notice a lone silhouette gliding effortlessly and gracefully in circles on what must be an ice rink. Peering out, I can make out the string of lights surrounding it and several houses and buildings on the other side of the park, also decked out for the holiday season. Even if the reasons I find myself here are all wrong, I’ll do what I always do when life gets weird: I’ll ignore what I can’t change and focus on the little things that make me happy. It seems there will be no shortage of these here.

From what I’ve seen so far, Emerald Creek might just be the perfect place to forget the troubles that await me when I return to New York. I’ll learn a new skill, meet new people, become stronger. I suspect this is why Rita wanted me to come here. To learn some life lessons.

Footsteps approach from the back of the shop, the door behind the counter swings open, and my heart skips a beat before he even looks at me. Whoever he is.

Well over six feet.

Dark, mussed up hair.

Two-day stubble on a strong jaw.

Pecs all but snapping open a plaid flannel shirt, muscular forearms straining the rolled-up sleeves.

Our eyes connect for a split second and a zing of electricity runs from my brain to my core.

He turns his back to me to close the door. Softly. Deliberately. As if closing a door required care and attention.

His hair is a little long down his neck, but not long enough to hide his tan nape. The shirt strains against his shoulders, and my lady parts do a little happy dance before my brain catches up and scolds my body into calming the heck down.

He turns around and takes two steps to my side of the counter. His gaze does a quick swipe of my body, then he crosses his arms and locks his eyes to mine like he’s putting all his effort into being professional and not checking me out.

Well, hello to you too.

two

Christopher

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