Page 2 of Spicy Nick

“Okay…” Lucy says, inviting me to say more. But what more is there to say?

My concerns are amorphous. There’s nothing concrete to point at and say, ‘you see this thing right here? This feels off’.’

“Boy, there really are a lot of kids here this year,” I observe instead. Which is maybe not the best change of subject, but it’s possible she’ll fall for it. “More than usual, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mm-hm,” she replies. Not falling for it at all. She knows—and I know that she knows, because I’m the one she learned it from—that if she keeps her mouth shut long enough, sooner or later, I’ll probably break and tell her everything. And she knows that I know that she knows—so it’s a whole big thing.

But now, I’ve given myself something else to worry about. Call me a control freak, but I pride myself on recognizing all my fellow townsfolk, at least by sight. And right now, I don’t far too many of the people enjoying the holiday atmosphere. “Are they from out of town, do you think? Or has the population gotten that much bigger in the past few years?”

“Dunno. Could be either one.”

“Or maybe the kids that I remember as kids are all grown up now and these aretheirkids.” And, fuck, doesn’t that make me feel old?

“Mm.” Lucy sips her latte. I shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets, wishing I’d thought to buy myself a drink as well. The line moves slowly forward.

“What’s with the sugary coffee drink tonight, anyway?” I ask.

In general, my cousin’s a plain black coffee kind of woman. Occasionally an espresso woman, if she’s at home, or somewhere whose quality she trusts. When she’s stressed, she’s been known to switch to an unsweetened Latte; or to add a shot of Sambuca, or Amaretto or even Kahlua to her espresso. But that’s about it.

This thing she’s drinking now? It’s a dentist’s dream. Or a dentist’s nightmare, I guess, depending on whether the dentist in question actually cares about their patients’ health and isn’t motivated primarily by greed. It’s capped with whipped cream and drizzled with syrup, dusted with chocolate and candy cane pieces, and served with an additional candy-cane sticking out of it—to take the place of a stirrer, I assume. Or maybe it’s just decoration.

Lucy slants an exasperated look in my direction. “This is not a coffee drink, per se.”

“It sure isn’t.”

“It’s a Christmas drink. Which is an entirely different thing.”

“If you say so.”

She waves a hand encompassing the entirety of Christmas Village and explains, “It’s seasonal, okay? It’s part of the holiday experience. Like drinking Irish Coffee on Saint Patrick’s Day. Having a Margarita on Cinco de Mayo. Or ordering the bottomless Mimosas at brunch. You could not do all that, but you’re always going to feel like you’re missing out.”

“I think that’s called FOMO,” I say, to show I’ve been listening. “Like only ordering a regular Bloody Mary when you coulda had a Bacon Bloody Mary instead.”

Lucy shrugs. “Joke all you like. You know it’s true.”

And she’s not wrong—exactly. But, on the other hand, the only part of “the holiday experience” that I’m aware of missing right now is my wife. Because yeah, normally, Scoutwouldbe here. Looking adorable in a Christmas sweater—even if she was wearing it ironically. Snuggled up against me like there’snowhere else she’d rather be. Taking sips of her own holiday drink—because yeah, Lucy’s argument sounds like something Scout would agree with, as well.

And I guess all of that is a big part of why I’m worried. Because I know Scout would want to be here this year—if she could. Which is why I’m convinced that, whatever she’s doing in LA, it mustn’t be going as well as she’d hoped.

“I just wish I knew what this trip was about,” I say, capitulating at last. “You know?”

Lucy frowns. “What do you mean? What do you think it’s about? She’s there on business, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Supposedly.”

My wife has followed in her artist father’s footsteps. She’s a well-known sculptor with a condo in Venice Beach, an agent in Malibu, a studio in Woodland Hills and an entire life that she pretty much abandoned when she moved back to Oberon to marry me.

“Supposedly? What’s that mean?”

“It’s just that she never mentioned any particular project that would account for it, but she’s been spending a lot more time in LA than usual, these last few months. And I don’t know why.”

“Well, haven’t you asked her?” Lucy inquires.

“No.”All I know is that she’d sounded disappointed the last time she’d called to tell me that she’d had to extend her trip a few days longer—once again.

“Nick! Why not?”

“Because I… I don’t know how to.”

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