Page 50 of Leon

The city glimmered on, heedless of his unrest—a thousand stories unfolding in a thousand windows, each oblivious to the hollow ache threading through him. He let his forehead rest against the cool pane, closing his eyes, willing himself to find calm in the hush of distant traffic and the steady rhythm of his own breath.

A memory flashed: her laughter echoing across rain-splattered pavements, the warmth of their hands entwined, the secret language of shared glances. The delight on her spectacular face as she enjoyed the sights and sounds of the tiny fishing village. He had taken the place for granted, but seeing it through her innocent eyes had reminded him of the beauty and the memories he had stored up. It was both solace and torment, the way her presence seemed to linger in the very air, woven into the fabric of his solitude.

He returned to the bed and sat on its edge, elbows braced on his knees. The silence pressed in, heavy and insistent. He scrolled through his phone, rereading old messages, searching for comfort in the digital traces of what he'd just lost—if only for the night.

He ached for her. It was that simple, or that complex. His entire body and soul yearned for her. They had not spoken of the future because he had not wanted it to intrude on what they were sharing, but he was here wondering if that was a mistake.It should have been brought out into the open. They should have discussed plans and strategies. He was supposed to have told her about the conversation with his dad, cleared things up so that she could face her dad with the truth. Rubbing his hands over his face, he felt as if the weight of the world had fallen onto his shoulders. He had no idea what the hell to do or where to go from here. Was she going to cut ties with him? He had not given her a deadline, trusting her to finally make the move. It had to be her decision, her choice. Yes, he was her husband and could assert his will, but that wasn't the kind of relationship he wanted with her. She had to be the one to tell him—to choose to tell him. She had to be the one to come to him willingly. Before it was too late.

Sleep, when it finally crept in, was shallow and uneasy, fragmented by images of her: the curve of her smile, the weight of her absence, the promise of morning still far out of reach.

*****

She threw herself into the swing of things, starting with the preparation of breakfast first thing the next morning. Sleep had been elusive, but she had managed to close her eyes and shut off her brain for a couple of hours. The bracing hot shower had done nothing to make her feel better, and she had had to resort to piling on makeup to hide the ravages of a sleepless night and a heavy heart.

She had also presented her dad with his gifts at the breakfast table and noticed his slight hesitation as he opened the bags. She had picked up a very soft brown leather jacket and a beautiful brown and green scarf for his neck, as well as the paintings. He had mouthed the expected response and thanked her politely but could not hide that he was far from pleased with the gifts. His conversation, asking about the trip, was friendly enough, but there was something underlying. It felt forced.

Now she was inside the bookstore getting ready for the day. She took a moment to reflect on the discomfort she had noticed on Marge's face as she was handed the lovely baby blue sweater, before she went to work on the shelves and displays. Some items had come in since she left: a few glass vases and trinkets for the upcoming holiday season, books that had arrived and were not yet sorted, paperwork that had piled up waiting for her attention.

The Christmas tree, a gigantic Douglas fir, was proudly on display near the front glass. Lights twinkled and bulbs shone, with glittering ribbons, snowmen, angels, and a few Santas here and there for added effect.

She busied herself by rearranging displays, letting the repetitive motions of sorting and stacking steady her nerves. The familiar scent of old paper and coffee from the café corner was a small comfort, grounding her amid the currents of uncertainty tuggingbeneath her composure. Through the window, the city was already stirring—commuters bundled in scarves and children pressing their noses to frosty glass, peering in at the golden glow of the shop.

A regular customer paused by the counter to chat, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the stack of new arrivals. She responded with practiced warmth, her smile gentle but distant, as if part of her were still wandering the narrow lanes of that coastal village, searching for something she'd left behind. Behind her, the Christmas tree cast shifting pools of colored light across the floor, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered where he was, if he felt the bruise of their distance as keenly as she did.

After the customer left, she slipped into the storeroom to catch her breath. Rows of boxes and half-unpacked cartons towered around her, silent witnesses to her unrest. She pressed her palm to her chest, willing her heart to slow. Everything felt unsettled—her father's disappointment, Marge's discomfort, the ache of decisions deferred. She closed her eyes and let the hush settle over her, wishing she could sweep all the tangled threads of her life into some neat order, like books lined up by spine and title, each chapter clear and untroubled.

But life, she knew, was never so tidy. And as the front bell chimed again, she drew herself upright, smoothed her hair, andreturned to the shop floor, determined to go on—if only for today—as the world outside spun on toward the promise and heartache of another winter's morning.

*****

"Just hot chocolate for me, thanks, Sally," she told the woman wearing the stained red, green, and white apron wrapped around her ample waist and sweater, declaring that "Santa sucks!" written on an eye-popping red sweater with a smile.

"Hit me with a skinny latte and a slice of your apple pie." Grace shrugged as she looked at her friend. "I have been killing myself with plain salads and sparkling water for an entire week, so no damn judgment."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Kadian offered a faint smile. She had managed to get away for a half hour and made the deposit at the bank before agreeing to meet her friend.

"I'm not waiting to open my gift." Opening the bag, she took out the stunning winter green sweater and sighed. "Just what I ordered from Santa. Unlike Sally, I don't think he sucks." She grinned and dipped into the bag to take out a plaid scarf that wasso soft it felt like butter. "Honey, these must have cost a fortune! What am I saying—you're married to a very wealthy man." Her smile faded at the haunted look on her friend's face. Impatiently waiting until Sally had placed their orders in front of them, she broached the subject.

"For a woman who spent time with a gorgeous man in an unforgettable city, you don't look happy."

Picking up the cup of steaming hot chocolate, she blew on it and took a tentative sip.

"It was magical," she murmured.

"But?"

"We came back home." Putting the cup down, she sighed softly. "I'm going to tell Dad today. I started to last night when I came in, but didn't have the heart. And this morning was so hectic, I didn't get the chance."

"You're worried about his reaction to the news." Grace privately thought that the man deserved to be faced with the truth and had a feeling that he already suspected what was going to happen.

"Yes. I must do this, Grace. Being with Leon the past week, spending time with him, made me realize that I need to be with him. And I cannot wait another week or month to make it happen. He didn't say anything—" She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "We came to a tacit agreement not to speak of the problems because we didn't want to spoil the time together—but it was there. Always." She shook her head. "It's time."

"When will you tell him?"

"Tonight." Her hand lifted to press against the ring she wore on the necklace. "The sooner the better."

Chapter 15

"You look… unhappy." Lisa peered at him a little anxiously, disturbed by the weariness she saw on his face.

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