Page 32 of Christmas at the Ranch
He laughs. “Ah, so young to be so jaded!” He regards me over his teacup. “So, you don’t work as a journalist anymore?”
“Well, I don’t have an actual job. I freelance.”
“And whom have you freelanced for?”
I list off publications, then realize he’s writing them down.
“Wait,” I say. “Is this a job interview?”
“You seem to be at a loss for things to do, considering you just volunteered to deliver my newspapers for me. And you’ve already noticed how short-staffed I am at the moment.” He stops writing, waves his penaround at the empty room, then puts it down. I can see that all he’s written on the page isVERY EXPERIENCED, which is then underlined three times. “In fact, the matter is settled. I’m offering you a job.”
“But…I don’t even live in Evergreen,” I say.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I’m stuck here until my car gets fixed. I almost hit a moose out on the 118 last night.” Again, he looks shocked—and I marvel at the fact that the town’s newspaper reporter and publisher seems to be woefully behind on town gossip.
“How long will you be here?”
“A week, probably.”
“And where are you staying?”
I bite my lip. “I haven’t figured that out yet,” I say.
“I have an apartment for rent upstairs,” he says, tilting his head toward the window, where I see anApartment for Rentsign I hadn’t noticed before. “It’s been vacant for a while, so is a bit dusty, but it’s furnished and cozy. You could stay there.”
“Really?”
He smiles. “Of course!”
“How about I work in exchange for board?”
“Considering the paper doesn’t actually turn a profit so I wasn’t sure how I was going to pay you, work for board it is! Can you start right now? I’m working on a special restaurant review section for the Christmas Eve edition of the paper. Let’s go out for a working lunch, shall we?”
He stands and gets his jacket while I put my parkaback on. Then I walk with him out into the snowy Evergreen afternoon, suddenly a journalist again—the rush of happiness inside me over this fact as delicate as an heirloom Christmas ornament that surely will break if I’m not careful withit.
Fourteen
Bruce and I move at a leisurely pace down Main Street, Evergreen. My heart still feels light at the idea of a journalism job, no matter how temporary or humble it is, and my stomach is still growling with hunger. But I’m on high alert—especially when he stops in front of Carrie’s Café.
“Here we are!” he says.
I glance nervously through the window but I don’t see Tate and Mariella inside—although I’m sure I catch a leftover whiff of pine needles and woodsmoke as I open the door and hold it for Bruce to limp through.
The memories hit me as soon as I walk in. Tate and I came here one afternoon to meet two of his friends for hot chocolate and cookies. I remember how nervous I was, as we held hands across a Formica tabletop, to meet people from his real life, separate from the romantic world of two we had been inhabiting. But when his friends Mya and J.T. came in, they made me feel welcome and comfortable right away. I remember sharing giant caramel chip cookies the size of ourheads as we laughed and chatted easily. Mya talked about her family’s restaurant in town, how slow it was in winter, but how at least it gave her the chance to study for med school admissions tests; J.T. talked about how he was hoping for a new dirt bike for Christmas. I remembered Tate’s eyes, so warm; his touch, so distracting. The way all I could think was that I wanted to go somewhere and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. That was all I ever wanted back then. But I also felt so happy that day, with him and his friends.
I had no idea it would be so fleeting.
“You all right there, Emory?”
I blink the memories away and return to reality, to the present—which never seems to be an easy task. “I’m fine.”
“You look lost in memories. Have you been to Evergreen before?”
“A long time ago,” I say. “I was a teenager. My family spent one Christmas here. It was…really nice.” Understatement of the year. It was perfect and it was horrible. It was the best and it was the worst. It was everything and nothing. But Bruce can’t tell how conflicted I am. He’s simply smiling that now-familiar kind smile of his.
“Evergreen does many things right,” he says. “Christmas being just one of them—but an important one. It’s such a beautifully festive town at this time of year, isn’t it? I think it’s perfect here.” A slight change in his expression now. He seems distracted, saddened by something. The corners of his moustache are pulled down by his frown, so he looks like a slightly dejectedhound dog. “I just wish we could get more tourists through here. Some of these businesses are really struggling. I always feel like I should be helping more—even though I’m probably the most old-fashioned out of anyone, still running a newspaper and all. Who reads newspapers anymore?”
