Page 21 of Christmas Candy

Iringthe shop’s bell and wait as the sound of Christmas carols waft through the air. A group of singers walk around the town square and head into the residential area of town, their voices harmonious.

“Who is it?” Hank’s glum voice calls through the speaker.

“Me.”

Silence as “Deck the Halls” echoes down the street.

“Please, Hank. Let me explain.”

More silence. I wait. Another minute passes before I see movement inside the shop. Hank walks over and unlocks the door, but he doesn’t invite me in.

“Say what you came to say. Then leave.” He peers down at me, and I can smell whiskey on his breath.

“Can I come in?”

He eyes me warily, then backs up so I can walk inside. The sweet scents still swirl in the air, but the shop is colder now.

“You turned me in.” He lets the door close, then leans against the wall.

“Yes.” I swallow hard. “It was a mistake.”

He bounces the back of his head against the drywall. “Did you call Will while I was in the shower or did you have the decency to wait until after you left this morning?”

“I didn’t call this morning. I called two days ago. Will isn’t the punctual sort, come to find out.”

He lets out a breath, but still doesn’t look at me. “You hated me so much that you tried to get my entire shop shut down? To kill my livelihood?”

Guilt hits me like a punch in the gut. “Yes, but that was before—”

“Before what? Before I told you how much I adore you, how great I think you are? At no point during any of that did it occur to you that you set me up?”

Tears well in my eyes, because he’s right. “I should have thought about it, should have done something to call it off. But I didn’t, and now I can’t take it back.”

“I’m shut down until January 18. I’ll miss all the Christmas business, but I’ll still have plenty of bills to pay.” He walks to the counter and runs his hand along the marble. “Contractors will come calling for all the work they put into this place. My credit will be shot, and I’ll have nothing to show for it. All this will be gone. You’ll get what you wanted.” His shoulders slump.

A tear rolls down my cheek. “There has to be something we can do.”

“We?” He hangs his head. “I thought there could be a we. But I was wrong. You aren’t who I thought you were.”

How can my heart be ripping in half right when it finally felt whole? “Hank, please—”

“You should go.”

“I’m sorry.” I know it’s inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got.

He doesn’t turn around.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks and wish that I could find the right words to comfort him.

“Please go.”

The sting pierces deep and more tears spill over. I pull open the door and walk into the frigid night.

Hank

My head poundsasI lean in the doorway between the kitchen and front of my shop. Morning light filters through the front windows, and I wince against the brightness. I reach over and turn on the coffee maker just inside the kitchen. It gurgles to life and begins its morning routine. Usually, I’d have fried up some fresh donuts and be doling them out to all my customers. Not this morning.

A car rolls by slowly, the driver peering at the shop, then speeds up. Closed. The sign on the door says it. It’s final. People filter into the studio across the street. My chest aches at the thought of Olive carrying on with her life. I thought I’d found something real. I’d been a fool. She’d played me.

---