Lakeshore Christmas

Maureen Davenport’s cheeks stung after the brisk walk from the library to the bakery. Although she loved the nip of cold in the air, she was grateful for the warm refuge of the Sky River Bakery. Peeling off her muffler, hat and gloves, she scanned the small knot of people crowded around the curved-glass cases of pastries and goodies. More couples gathered at the bistro booths and tables around her.

He wasn’t here yet, clearly. It was a singularly awkward sensation to be waiting for someone who didn’t know what you looked like. She considered ordering a big mug of tea or hot chocolate, but there was a line. She sat down and opened the book she was reading—Christmas 365 Days a Year: How to Bring the Holiday into Your Everyday Life.

Maureen was always reading something. Ever since she was small, she’d found delight and comfort in books. For her, a story was so much more than words on a page. Opening a book was like opening a door to another world, and once she stepped across the threshold, she was transported. When she was reading a story, she lived inside a different skin.

She loved books of every sort—novels, nonfiction, children’s books, how-to manuals. As the town librarian, books were her job. And as someone who loved reading the way other people loved eating, books were her life. She tried not to sink too deeply into the page she was currently reading because of the upcoming meeting. She kept reminding herself to keep an eye out for him.

Him. Eddie Haven. And he was late.

As the minutes ticked by, Maureen grew paranoid. What if he didn’t come? What if he stood her up? Could she fire him? No, she could not. He was a volunteer, and you couldn’t really fire a volunteer. Besides, he’d been court ordered to work with her.

Why else would a man like Eddie Haven be with her except by judicial decree? She tried not to be insulted by the notion that the only way he’d ever be found with the likes of Maureen Davenport would be through court order. The fundamental mismatch was a simple fact, perhaps even a law of nature. He was heartthrob handsome, a celebrity (okay, a D-list celebrity, but still) and a massively talented musician. He was almost famous.

Long ago, his had been one of the most recognizable faces in the country. He was one of those former child stars who had rocketed briefly to fame at a young age, and then flamed out. Yet his role in that one hit movie—along with twenty-four-hour cable—kept him alive for decades. The Christmas Caper, a heartwarming movie that had captivated the world, had become a holiday staple. She’d heard his name linked with a number of women, and every once in awhile, one of the gossip magazines pictured him with some starlet or celebutante. For quite a while, he had fallen off the radar, but a fresh wave of notoriety surrounded him now. The silver anniversary DVD of his hit movie had just been released, and interest in him had skyrocketed.

Maureen had nothing in common with him. Their lives had intersected one night he didn’t remember, though it was seared in her mind forever. He lived in New York City, but came to Avalon each holiday season—against his will. She’d heard he had friends in town, but she wasn’t one of them. To her knowledge, he’d never set foot in the library.

Even so, arranging to meet him here had almost felt like a date. The rendezvous had been organized via e-mail, of course. Using the phone would be far too bold and intimidating. She was much better in e-mail. In e-mail, she didn’t get flustered. In e-mail, she almost had a personality. So she hadn’t actually spoken to him—who needed to talk when there was e-mail?—yet the give and take as they settled on a day and time had borne all the hallmarks of a date. It wasn’t a date, of course, because that sort of thing didn’t happen to women like Maureen.

Except maybe in books. And of course, in dreams.

It only happened in dreams that a plain, bookish woman caught the eye of someone like Eddie Haven.

Even if the plain woman had once saved his life. She sighed, and shrugged away an aching wisp of memory, quickly stifled.

She hadn’t dated anyone in a very long time. She had exacting taste, or so she told herself and her too-inquisitive siblings and friends. She still cringed, remembering her last two dates—an outing with a stamp collector named Alvin, and a very bad concert with Walter Grunion last year. She’d ended up returning home with a headache, and a resolve to quit going out with guys because it was expected of her. She was determined to stop saying yes to men she wasn’t interested in just because she was still in her twenties—barely—and “supposed” to be dating.

People coming and going in the bakery barely looked at Maureen, which was fine with her. She never liked being the center of attention. A long time ago, she used to dream of being in the limelight. Life had quickly cured her of that notion. At a mercifully young age, she’d learned that being well-known and recognized was no substitute for being loved and cherished. Maureen was an unobtrusive sort; that was her comfort zone. Flying under the radar took very little effort on her part. She wore a T-shirt that said Eschew Obfuscation and a button in support of intellectual freedom, yet the slogans didn’t seem to draw anyone’s eye. Maybe the trendy shirt was counteracted by her hand-knit cardigan sweater—a gift from a favorite aunt—and Maureen’s tweedy wool skirt, leggings and boots. Though she knew her style of dressing was plain and boring, this didn’t bother her in the least. Fashion was for people who craved attention.

Occasionally, her gaze touched someone else’s and they would give each other a slight, social nod. She was the sort people recognized only obliquely. She looked vaguely familiar, like someone they occasionally encountered but couldn’t quite place.

This always mystified Maureen, because she had a facile memory for faces and names. For example, there was Kim Crutcher nursing a mug of coffee with her friend Daphne McDaniel, who was nibbling a donut with sprinkles in every color of the rainbow. They were both regular library patrons. So was Mr. Teasdale, who sat on the opposite side of the café, gazing dreamily out the window. He used the library’s low vision services on a regular basis. With hardly a stretch, Maureen could name the kids jostling toward the exit with their post-hockey-practice purchases—Chelsea Nash, Max Bellamy, AJ Martinez, Dinky Romano.

She wondered if Eddie Haven liked his notoriety. Maybe now that they were about to be forced to work together, she would have the chance to ask him.

Or not.

The sad fact was, she’d probably be too bashful to ask him what time it was, let alone the way he felt about the vagaries of fame. She knew plenty about Eddie Haven. Yet she didn’t know him. Perhaps over the weeks leading up to Christmas, that would change.

Or not.

She wondered if it was possible to get to know someone without letting him know her. And did she care enough to try?

She read a page of her book, then tried to avoid looking at the lighted neon clock on the wall. A burst of laughter sounded from a nearby table, and the trill of a child’s gleeful voice drifted across the busy café. Along with the library, and Heart of the Mountains Church, the Sky River Bakery was one of her favorite spots in town. It was impossible to be sad or depressed in a bakery. There must be something in the sugary, yeasty scent that imparted serenity, for everyone Maureen could see appeared to be happy.

A girl in a white apron perched on a step stool, creating a list of Thanksgiving pie options and announcing Christmas pre-orders. Seeing that, Maureen felt a thrill of anticipation. Christmas was right around the corner, and in spite of everything else going on in her life, it was still her favorite time of year.

She made the mistake of glancing at the clock. Eddie Haven was officially late. Seven minutes late, to be precise, not that she was counting—though she was. How long did one wait until the other party was considered “late?” Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? And whose responsibility was it to check in with the other? The waitee, or the waiter?

She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered out the window. There were a lot of people out this time of day, heading home from work or after-school activities. A boy passed by, and she thought he might be the one she’d seen earlier at the library—Jabez. He had enormous dark eyes, thickly fringed by long lashes. His poise and formality when he’d greeted her had struck Maureen as unusual in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He regarded the rows of bread loaves and pastries, and his hand went inside the pocket of his olive-drab jacket. Then he sighed, freezing the air with his breath, and moved on. She had an urge to call him back, to offer…what? Maureen wasn’t given to social impulses, and she doubted a teenager would welcome an invitation from the town librarian, anyway.

After nine minutes, she began to wonder if she had made a mistake with the time and place of her meeting with Eddie. Just to be sure, she opened her clipboard and consulted the printout of their e-mail exchange. No, she hadn’t gotten the time wrong. He was late. Totally, inexcusably late.

By the time he was twelve minutes late, she was seriously nervous. She might need to phone him after all. Good grief, but she hated phoning. Or…wait. She could send him a text message. Perfect. A text message. She could ask him if he was still planning to meet with her.

Yes, that would give him a chance to save face in case he’d forgotten the appointment. Why it was her job to save his face was another matter entirely.

Taking out her mobile phone, she remembered the nophone rule in the bakery. There was a sign just inside the door, depicting a symbol of a phone with a slash through it. Did that include sending a text message? Maureen was new to sending text messages, so she wasn’t sure.

Just to be safe, she stepped outside, feeling almost furtive. Frowning down at the keypad, she composed a text message with too much care. “Come on,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s not as if this is going to be chiseled in stone.” Yet she agonized over the greeting. Did she even need a greeting? Or should she just plunge into the body of the message itself? And what about a sign-off? BEST WISHES? SEE YOU SOON? Was she MAUREEN? M.D.? No, that was weird. Okay. M. DAVENPORT. There.

She hit Send.

At that precise second, she noticed a little flashing icon on her screen, indicating she had a message. Strange. She almost never got text messages.

This one was from—whoops—Eddie Haven, sent about an hour ago.

RUNNING 15 MIN LATE. SORRY. SEE U 6:15.

So now she would look like a neurotic psycho stalker, nagging him over a fifteen-minute delay and too much of a ninny to check her messages.

Staring down at the tiny screen, she stood on the edge of the curb, wishing the pavement would crack open and swallow her up, sparing her this awkward meeting. Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the white, windowless van careening toward her until it was almost too late. She jumped away from the curb just as it angled into a parking spot a few feet away, nearly flattening her against the brick building. Rock music thumped from the scratched and dented vehicle for a couple of seconds before the engine rattled to a halt.

Clutching the mobile phone with frozen fingers, Maureen choked on a puff of exhaust. She heard the thud of a door, footsteps on pavement.

A man in black appeared, glaring at her. She looked him up and down. He had the shaggy blond hair of an old-school California surfer. He wore ripped jeans and black high-top sneakers, and a jacket with a ski pass hanging from the zipper tag, open to reveal a formfitting black T-shirt. Eddie Haven had arrived. Wonderful. He was going to think the world of her.

“Jesus Christ, lady. I didn’t see you there. I nearly ran you down,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t see you,” he repeated.

Of course he hadn’t. And it wouldn’t be the first time. “You should’ve been watching.”

“I was, I—” He raked a hand through his long, wheat-colored hair. “Christ, you scared the shit out of me.”

“There’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain,” she said, then cringed at her own words. When had she turned into such a marm?

“It wasn’t in vain,” he replied. “I totally meant it.”

She sniffed, filling her senses with winter cold, tinged with exhaust. “It’s just so…unimaginative. Not to mention disrespectful.”

“And self-righteous to boot,” he said with a grin, handsome as a prom king. “It’s been real, but I gotta bounce.” He nodded in the direction of the bakery. “I’m meeting someone.”

A soft burble of sound came from…it seemed to be coming from his jeans. He dug in his pocket and extracted a cell phone.

Maureen glanced down at her own phone’s screen to see that it said Message Sent.