“And you know this …?”
I’m not going into the humiliating incidents that marked me as a weirdo forever in Fletcher’s estimation. “I’m just not.” I glance at the street clock, ignoring the familiar pang. “Besides, I’m not going to fall for that again. The last time I thought someone was into me, it turned into a disaster.”
I left it at that.
That evening found me at my design table in my apartment, trying to put together ideas for the Light-Up Night parade, butmy brain doesn’t want to focus. The marathon was counted a success, raising thousands of dollars for charity. Fletcher did return to my station for his granola bar, but everyone seemed to be vying for his attention. Our conversation lasted about two minutes before the mayor claimed him. And that was all. I didn’t detect anything beyond a friendly demeanor.
I glance down at my blank drawing tablet. This year’s theme for the parade is Classic Christmas Movies, and each float is to represent an iconic film. This is right up my alley, but my heart’s not in it. I should claimHome Aloneand just stay home … alone. I flick a glance at the picture frames above my table. I set them beside my designing pad for inspiration. They’re photos of places I’ve visited, like when we went to Germany when I was a kid. And also pictures of people I love. Tilly and me at our high school graduation. Gran and Pap. My eyes glue to the picture of Gran and me. It was the last selfie of us I found on my phone. I took it when we put up our tree while watching her favorite movie.
And just like that, I have my float.
In honor of Gran this year, The Memory Bank float will be decked out likeWhite Christmas.
CHAPTER 6
There is notenough caffeine in existence that would enable me to be prepared for Tuesday morning. The shop is closed Mondays, and so I spent most of the day drawing plans for the float, gathering supplies, and altering my costume. At least I didn’t have to start from scratch on my wardrobe. Still, I am behind and have no one to blame but myself. It’s not like the annual parade is a surprise. I’ve had plenty of time to prepare. If procrastination was an art form, I’m the Van Gogh of shirking responsibilities. I flip my sign to OPEN and pray no one wants to browse antiques for at least another hour.
“My baby!” A woman’s squeal from outside yanks me from my drowsiness.
My gaze darts to the window in time to see a blur rolling onto Main Street.
The woman screams, “Please, someone!”
Oh my gosh! I race to the door, but everything happens in slow motion. A man darts onto the road. A screeching of brakes.
I gasp. My hand flies to my lurching heart.
The car stops just shy of the man cradling a small bundle.
I burst onto the sidewalk, and the situation becomes clear. All too clear. My breath seeps slowly from my lungs.
Mitzy Clemens is frozen on the sidewalk, pale hands slapped against her horrified face. Beside her, the antique stroller is tipped on its side. The man climbs to his feet. His face is bleeding, but I recognize him.
Leo.
The guy who stood me up last December.
Confusion darkening his face, he swipes at the blood with the back of his left hand. “Lady, this is a doll.” He holds out Mitzy’s treasured plastic newborn. The baby doll has a scuff mark on its face but doesn’t seem broken.
Mitzy throws her hands in the air, a mixture of relief and pure joy overcoming her wrinkled face. “You saved her! I got Frieda on my seventeenth birthday!” She takes the doll from Leo and hugs it to her chest, making shushing noises as if the doll were crying uncontrollably.
Leo jolts as if more alarmed by an old lady talking to a plastic figure than rolling in front of a Buick. With a shake of his head, he reaches down with one arm and rights the stroller.
Mitzy gently places the doll inside, and she fixes her rheumy stare on Frieda’s rescuer. “That’s so good of you, young man.” She yanks on Leo’s jacket collar, pulling him lower, and plants a kiss on his cheek, her other hand wandering curiously over his chest. “You’re a hero.”
He stiffens at being manhandled, amongst other things, by an eighty-year-old woman, but he soon softens and says, “Be safe.” After Mitzy’s slow retreat, he jogs to the stopped car and addresses the driver. Mitzy is a well-known character around here, so I doubt Leo will have to explain much. I’m right. The guy behind the wheel shrugs and pulls away.
Leo hasn’t seen me yet. I can make a getaway. Ishouldmake a getaway. I want to avoid seeing Leo the Let Down, but also, there’s a gash on his head because he’s also Leo the Lifesaver (of creepy dolls). My stupid caregiving soul cements my feet tothe walk. It’s during this moment of awkward indecision that he glances over, and our gazes collide.
Oh.
That one whimsical meeting in the park happened at nighttime. Because I hadn’t glimpsed the man in the light of day, I allowed my imagination to run wild with Leo’s looks, dethroning whatever image I had of him on Light-Up Night. For many months, the Leo in my brain could rival a gremlin. I’m talking monstrous nose, beady eyes, and crooked teeth.
Now, however, no shadows cling to him. In the glow of winter sunshine, the man nowhere near resembles a fictional creature from an ’80s horror film. Wait, isGremlinsa horror? A freaky comedy? I don’t think anyone knows the answer. What I do know is that Pap claims it as a Christmas movie, right up there withFrosty the Snowman.
“Greta?” Leo swipes again at the cut. The left side of his face is a mixture of grime and blood, while the right side boasts a bright pink lip print, courtesy of Mitzy.
“You’re bleeding.” I point out the obvious, somewhat distracted by his dark locks. Last year, I had no idea that stuffed under that beanie was wavy brown hair. He styles it shorter on the sides and longer on top, just enough length to make a woman’s fingers itch to tunnel through.
