Page 14 of The Holiday

"You don't look well, Rubes," he says. Dexter puts a hand on her lower back and leads her over to a chair. "Why don't you sit for a bit and let your bookstore employees do the detail work. And I'll make the rounds myself and ask if anyone needs anything. How's that?"

Ruby nods feebly. Normally she'd never agree to sit down on the job like this--acting like some sort of visiting royalty--but she's truly not feeling well.

"Hi, how are you this evening? Dexter North," Dexter says to John Mayhew as he walks through the crowd confidently, smiling and nodding at people.That's the thing about Dexter, Ruby thinks as she watches him:he's completely at ease in a crowd, and he knows how to talk to anyone. "Great to meet you."

"John Mayhew," John says, shaking Dexter's hand. "Read your latest article that ran in theNew York Times." Mayhew looks impressed to be talking to a journalist of Dexter's caliber. "Good stuff you had there."

"Oh, the one on the mayor?" Dexter takes a glass of champagne from the tray Vanessa carries around the room, but it's just for show; Dexter doesn't like to drink while he's working, and with Ruby down for the count, she knows he considers himself as her replacement.

"Yeah, very insightful." Mayhew goes on for a bit and Dexter nods, catching Ruby's eye every once in a while. She does her best to smile and nod at everyone as they pass, chatting with anyone who stops to talk to her, but her stomach is roiling, and she can feel a fever burning her skin.

By the time the cocktail party ends and Dexter has everyone out the door and drunkenly singing Christmas carols as they make their way down the dock to their warm, festive boats, Ruby is completely done.

"Dex," she croaks. "I can't clean this up tonight."

"Tomorrow," he says. "I'll come over here tomorrow and whip everything into shape. You weren't opening the shop on Christmas Eve anyway, were you?" Dexter helps her to stand and he gathers her purse and keys, turning off the lights and locking the front door after them.

"No," Ruby says, one arm wrapped around her own stomach as she doubles over slightly. "I wasn't going to open up, but there are cups and plates everywhere--"

"Tomorrow," Dexter says again, leading Ruby out to the golf cart to take her home.

Heather

Christmas Eve is cold—so cold!—and Heather stands on her lanai early that morning as the sun rises. She’s wearing not one, but two sweaters and a shawl as she paints a watercolor scene on her easel. Dave has gone down to Fed Men Tell No Tales to get a turkey from the shipment that was supposed to arrive first thing, and Heather wants to take the time to work on her latest painting, which is of Seadog Lane and the dock in the distance. She’s hoping to finish it in time to give it to Dave’s daughter, Celia, as a gift before the family leaves the island.

“Heather?” a little voice says.

Heather turns in surprise; she’s almost forgotten that Dave’s grandchildren have spent the night in their guest room, and now his youngest grandson is there wearing Superman pajamas and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Finley.” Heather puts her paintbrush down and sinks to a squatting position so that she’s looking the three-year-old in the eye. “Good morning.”

“Is my Mommy here?”

Heather shakes her head gently. “No, she and your dad stayed at the hotel, remember? But you and your sister asked to stay with Grandpa, so you slept in the guest room.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Finley looks around at the front room of Heather’s villa, taking in the small fire that’s crackling in the fireplace, the tree in the corner with its white lights, and the soft glow of the overhead light on the lanai. “I’m hungry.”

Heather chuckles and stands up again. “Okay, we can fix that. What do you like to eat for breakfast?” She leads him into the kitchen, turning on the lights and opening the refrigerator grandly. “Cereal? Toast? Oatmeal?”

“Waffles. Real ones.”

“Real ones?” Heather closes the refrigerator and looks at the little boy, who is standing next to her, staring up at her wide-eyed. “As opposed to fake ones?”

“Not from the box in the freezer.” He shakes his head. “Mommy makes the real ones.”

Celia is a chef for a renowned restaurant in Providence, so Heather can imagine that shedoesmake her waffles from scratch—probably with hand-ground cinnamon and farm fresh eggs—but Celia is most likely snoozing in a huge four-poster bed at the B&B near Seadog Lane, enjoying a kid-free morning, so it’s up to Heather to come up with some reasonable approximation to her fancy waffles for little Finley.

“Does your sister like waffles, too?” Heather asks as she ruffles his soft hair. Finley continues to look up at her with big, dark, serious eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “Can I watch cartoons?”

Heather sets him up in front of her only television and then she skims her iPad for easy waffle recipes, gathering the ingredients as she moves through her kitchen.Flour. Sugar. Baking powder. Eggs. Milk. Butter.With luck, she’ll have Finley covered in syrup and smiling happily by the time Dave gets back from the store.

It’s important to Heather that he know how hard she’s trying—how hard she’swillingto try for his family. His wife had passed away after a valiant battle with breast cancer, and it’s clear that there’s a hole in the middle of the Hutchens crew that Lila left behind.Lila, Heather thinks.Did Dave love Lila more than he could ever love her?It isn’t even a truly fair question, as he and Lila were college sweethearts who raised children together and were there for the birth of their first grandchild, holding hands in the waiting room. That portion of Dave’s life is over, and Lila got to be by his side for it. But this part of his life is just beginning. Heather may not be able to offer him the things that a young wife could and did, but she can give him love, laughter, and stability, and come hell or high water, she’ll offer him easy companionship, and the knowledge that she’ll always treat his children and grandchildren like the important people they are.

“Is Mommy here?” Heather hears Lacey, seven years old and bright as the sun, ask her little brother.

“No,” Finley says. “Heather is making me waffles.”

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