“You don’t have to feel guilty, Sylvia. I’m happy for you. I’m sorry you had to go through what you did, because I know how hard it is, but there’s no reason for you to feel bad that you have two perfect kids. I would never begrudge anyone a family just because I don’t have one.”
God, he was such a good guy. It really sucked that his wife had given up on the marriage. I was trying not to be judgmental—after all, I didn’t have her side of things—but it was hard not to wonder how she could let a guy like Henry go. Again I wondered if he’d like to get remarried someday, try again to have a family.
But it was really none of my business.
I took one last sip and set my mug down. “I should probably get back. Thanks for the coffee, and for the talk. I was feeling really bad about the way we left things last night.”
“I was too.” He stood up. “I’m glad you came by.”
Rising to my feet, I nearly put a hand on his shoulder, but then I remembered—no touching. I quickly shoved my hands beneath my armpits. “Near rule infraction. Sorry. This might take some getting used to.”
He laughed, following me to the front door. “Just don’t wear the red dress again, and we’ll be fine.”
I tugged on my boots. “I shall banish it from my wardrobe forever.”
“Good.” He took my coat from the closet and held it out; I slipped my arms inside and zipped it up.
When I faced him again, he looked much more relaxed than he had when I’d arrived—maybe not totally at ease, but at least less tense. “Are we okay?” I asked softly.
“We’re okay.”
“Good.” I grinned. “I’d hug you goodbye, but—”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” He moved around me and opened the door. “Now get out of here before I throw you out.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” But when I was halfway out, I looked at him over my shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas. Give my best to your family.”
“I will. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I hurried to my dad’s Cadillac and started it up, waving to him one last time as I backed out of the driveway.
By the time I got home fifteen minutes later, I felt both relieved and slightly let down, which I realized was totally unfair. I should be glad he hadn’t tried anything, right? The whole point of going over there had been to reassure him we were still friends while firmly establishing the safe boundaries of that relationship.
We couldn’t kiss again. We couldn’t touch each other. I wasn’t allowed to wear the red dress, and he wasn’t allowed to call me beautiful. If we stayed inside those lines, eventually the burgeoning desire we felt for one another would ease up, right?
Of course it would. It had to. Last night had just been emotional for both of us—our first Christmas Eve alone—and we’d sought solace in each other.
But I had to admit there was a part of me that had been hoping we’d take one look at each other today and pick up right where we’d left off last night. It would have been reckless and wrong and irresponsible, but that little part of me was definitely alive and feisty and kicking at its cage.
After all this time, it would have felt good to set it free.
Eight
Henry
I shut the door behind Sylvia and went back to the couch, where I’d been lying around feeling sorry for myself one minute and hating myself the next.
I still couldn’t believe what I’d done last night.
Actually, that’s not true—I could totally believe it. I’d been thinking about kissing her since she walked into the winery the other night. But how had I lost control that way? Was I a fucking animal?
Maybe I could blame Santa. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have been there so late at night, I wouldn’t have fantasized about being married to her, I wouldn’t have given in to that compulsion to know what it felt like to touch her, to pretend she was mine just for a moment.
But she wasn’t mine—that was as much a fantasy as Kris Kringle.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I tried to decide if I felt better or worse now that she’d been here. Better, I guessed. It was nice to hear that not only was she not angry, she’d actually enjoyed that kiss. I’d made her feel sexy and beautiful, which—unbelievably—no one had made her feel in a long time.
But I felt frustrated too. I wanted more, and I couldn’t have it.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table, and when I checked it, I saw it was my older brother, Anthony, calling from Indiana. He was probably just calling to say Merry Christmas and thank me for the gifts I’d sent—or at least his wife was. Alison had begged me to come celebrate Christmas with them and their four kids this year, but I’d told her I couldn’t leave work for that long. My two younger brothers, also both married with kids, had invited me to come visit them for the holidays as well, but I’d given them the same excuse. It wasn’t a total lie, but beneath the excuse was a disinclination to spend the holidays envying my brothers their happy families. Maybe it was shitty and selfish, but I just couldn’t handle it right now. Next year would be different.
I hoped.
Feeling guilty, I answered the call from Anthony and talked to both him and Alison, thanking them for the gifts they’d sent and listening to the kids holler with excitement over their new toys in the background. I reached out to my other brothers, Mark and Kevin, and repeated the conversation two more times—expressing gratitude for their gifts, wishing them and their families Merry Christmas, assuring them I was fine and had plans to hang out with friends later. Alison asked if I was seeing anyone, and I said no. When she started in about how young I was and how I needed to get back out there, I cut her off by saying I wasn’t ready, although now that Sylvia was in the picture, that wasn’t exactly true.
While I was on the phone with Kevin, Mack texted and reminded me I was invited to come to their house for Christmas dinner, but again, I responded that I had other plans. Sitting across the table from Sylvia would not be helpful today.
And anyway, it wasn’t a lie—a while back, I’d accepted an invitation from my friend Lucas Fournier, another winemaker in the area, to have Christmas dinner with his family. Lucas and his wife Mia ran Abelard Vineyards, a winery on Old Mission Peninsula, and he and I shared a lot of the same views on small-scale, responsible farming, and adapting old world techniques in new environments. His family owned a winery in southern France, and we’d met when I’d gone there one summer to work the harvest. In fact, he was the one who’d told me about the job opening at Cloverleigh Farms. Over the years, he and I had gotten to be pretty good friends, and Renee and I used to socialize quite a bit with them . . . until Renee could no longer handle being around their three kids.
Part of me wanted to cancel and spend the rest of Christmas Day drinking scotch, eating the chocolate-covered potato chips Mark’s kids had sent me from Fargo, and watching old Jimmy Stewart movies, but I liked Lucas and Mia. I hadn’t seen them in a while, and I’d always felt I owed him a debt of gratitude for recommending me to John Sawyer. Plus, lying around the house wasn’t going to put me in a better mood, and going into work was out of the question. What if Sylvia saw my truck and came looking for me?