Page 49 of Waiting for Gilbert

I retrieve my laptop and tuck it under my arm, ready to storm out of here and escape this suffocating house.

She rescues my computer from my crushing grip and tucks it into my purse. “Why would you say that?”

“Nevermind. It’s nothing.” I bolt for the door. I don’t need to explain how Shaun’s parting words brought to light what I’ve always known. I shove my feet into my snow boots.

“It’s not nothing, if that’s how you feel, we need to?—”

I’m out the door and halfway to my car before Diana catches up. “Cordy, wait.”

“What?” The cold bites my hands. I count the icicles along the edge of the roof.

“We love you.” She hands me my coat and scarf.

There are twelve icicles, though the largest one has lost its tip. I yank my gloves from the coat pocket. “Yep.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

The drive home is a blur. Parked by the cottage, I sit in my car with no plans to gather my stuff and walk inside. At some point I put on my coat. Hands on the steering wheel, gaze unfocused, I let my thoughts run amok.

I’ll schedule a meetup with David K. and get it out of my system. Nathan’s absolutely right. Those men won’t want me after we meet. I will have tried. Put forth the effort. Is this David the Gilbert to my Anne? I think not, but he’s pleasant.

Maybe I’ll turn a new leaf.

Maybe I like a man in a suit.

My cell buzzes with a new text message, and I ignore it. Tomorrow I’ll roll out of bed at five and read through my final cookbook draft with a fine-tooth comb before I hand it over to my editor by noon. That’ll be a wrap onChristmas Comforts: Desserts. By next October it’ll grace shelves all over the country. This time I’ll get my name in bold along the bottom. Maybe a picture of myself on the inside flap. This baby was mine from conception. I’m not just a staff photographer anymore.

It’s been an all consuming project. I have been cooking for the Christmas season an entire year.Christmas Comforts: Timeless Sides, Christmas Comforts: Breads, Christmas Comforts: Main Courses.

Snowflakes gather on my windshield.

I should be elated. This time tomorrow I’ll be done. Not only done, but a full day ahead of schedule. I rest my head against the steering wheel.

Go me.

21

GILBERT

A-HA—TAKE ON ME

My text to Cordelia remains unanswered and she’s yet to exit her car. I’ve noticed the past week that she’s in the habit of sitting there a few minutes after shutting off the engine. But this evening it’s far too cold to stay out for long. I tap the screen again just to be sure.

Gilbert: You alive?

I’ve been playing with dry-wall mud all day. I’m going with a knock-down texture in every room because I don’t want to mess with the dust of sanding during a season when I can’t open the windows. Steamy water runs over my hands while I scrub my tools in the stainless steel kitchen sink. Her car is in my line of sight from the kitchen window—I’m not a creep.

Hot water from the faucet is officially my new favorite thing. As soon as our HVAC guy, Royce, can spare a minute, he’ll wire the furnace.

Cordelia hasn’t moved from her car. I shut off the tap and fumble for the terrycloth towel draped over my counterless cabinets.

Because I’m not a stalker, I turn from the window and lean against the sink. Blinds might need to go up before I finish the walls if I can’t keep my eyes off the cottage and the girl next door.

Around this point in every project I imagine that I’m almost done. The only thing left to do is texture walls, hang cabinets, install countertops, lay flooring downstairs, prime everything, paint everything, tile bathrooms and kitchen backsplash, install baseboards, trim windows and doors, install light fixtures, bring in appliances, hang the rest of the new doors…

Right, then. I’m not almost done.

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