Page 25 of The Healing of Christmas

Timothy followed Charlie into the cabin and glanced around the single room with distrustful eyes. Charlie realized he’d never seen Timothy outside the context of a swanky Manhattan boardroom, office, or cocktail party. Timothy didn’t fit the mold of the cabin.

“This is where you’ve been?” Timothy asked.

“Yes,” Charlie said simply. He passively wondered how Timothy had found him. Then again, Timothy had access to nearly everything in Charlie’s life, including his calendars and his bank accounts. It probably hadn’t been so hard to track him down.

“Can I ask why?” Timothy asked, his voice breaking.

Charlie laughed openly, surprised at how happy he felt. Normally, when he spoke with Timothy, he felt as though his heart was several different pieces put back together with scotch tape. Perhaps it was the forest air, or it was the new project. But he felt like a new man.

“Right in the middle of the most important party of your career thus far,” Timothy went on. “You just left?”

Charlie raised his shoulders.

“And Baxter Bailey seems to think you’re out of the city, working on the next big project?” Timothy went on. “So, I’ve been telling him everything is going really well? And that you’re nearly ready to bring him in?”

Charlie’s smile fell. “You told him what?”

“I didn’t want him to lose faith in you,” Timothy said. “I wanted him to think that whatever you were doing, you were thinking of him, too.”

Charlie turned slowly, puffed out his cheeks, and stared out the window. His decades-long relationship with Baxter Bailey was a blessing and a curse. There was no way Charlie could have made it so long in his career without Baxter— and yet now, the idea of seeing Baxter again made Charlie feel on the verge of throwing up.

“I’m not ready to loop Baxter into this project yet,” Charlie said, his tone dark.

Timothy sighed, clearly disgruntled. “He needed answers, Charlie. I had to answer for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he’s on his way here,” Timothy said.

Charlie turned and glared at Timothy. He wanted to remind Timothy that he’d sent him a sizeable bonus for Christmas. All Timothy had had to do over the next few weeks was kick back and relax with his wife and children. What would Charlie give to be able to do the same? Everything. He would have given everything.

But there was no use arguing. If Baxter Bailey was on the way to see Charlie, Charlie couldn’t call him off. He had to pretend as though the entire trip to White Plains had really all been about his and Baxter Bailey’s continued commitment to one another.

Charlie wore a false smile. He felt suddenly, horribly tired— just as tired as he’d felt in the minutes before he’d decided to escape Manhattan. Manhattan had caught up to him.

“Why don’t you head back to the city, Timothy?” he suggested. “Maybe you’ve done enough for today.”

Timothy was very pale. He stuttered, saying, “I want you to know that I really…”

But Charlie had no interest in hearing what Timothy had to say. He walked around him and opened the door, ushering him out. “Have a safe drive back,” he said. “I have to prep for a big business meeting. Isn’t that what you want?”

With Timothy gone, Charlie sat back in his chair by the fire and rubbed his eyes. He wanted to pretend Timothy’s visit had been a nightmare, just something he’d concocted during his afternoon nap, but Timothy’s cologne still lingered in the air— something ridiculously expensive and reeking of patchouli.

Three hours after Timothy left came the crunch of the tires in the snow out front. Charlie stood to answer the door, watching as Baxter stepped from his Lamborghini and raised a hand in greeting. Charlie had the feeling of having been hunted; as though he were a cornered deer.

“This place is really something!” Baxter said as he approached the cabin. “A rugged cabin for the intellectual genius. Who are you? Thoreau?” He clapped Charlie’s shoulder and entered the cabin without Charlie saying anything. He acted as though he owned Charlie. Perhaps, in a way, he did.

“Wow.” Baxter leaned against the wooden countertop and shook his head, inspecting the room. He looked fascinated, unlike Timothy, who’d just looked disgusted. “When Timothy told me where you’d gone, I said, ‘White Plains? New Jersey?’ I couldn’t believe it. But now, I do. I really, really do.”

Charlie poured them both glasses of whiskey, the grocery store brand he’d bought downtown. Baxter howled with laughter after it touched his lips.

“This is like gasoline!”

Charlie smiled. “The grocery store in town doesn’t have many options.”

“I imagine not.” Baxter inhaled the full shot and refilled his glass. “Charming. Just charming.” He took another shot. “Timothy has me all excited about your next project, Charlie. I drove out here with this feeling that we were about to take on the world together, you and me. It's not another useless Manhattan project. It's not another boring apartment building. But something real! Something historical!”

Charlie’s smile was half genuine now. “I didn’t realize that’s what you wanted.”

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