Page 64 of Something Borrowed

Cal shook his head at himself but was still smiling when he ended the call. He really needed to think of something else to say to Vic besides “great!” How many times had he said that tonight? Ah, well, it couldn’t be helped. The call was—she was—great. He poured himself a mug of eggnog, grabbed his book, and turned on a lamp. Settling onto the couch, however, his mind was on Vic, not the mystery he was reading. What was she doing now they were off the phone?

Chapter 31

Vic couldn’t believe it was already December 23rd. Time was flying, and she needed to get this done. She was seated on her bed, legs spread in a V, laptop on a pillow in front of her. It actually made for a very comfortable desk, and the slight stretch in her lower back was a welcome thing after so many busy days on her feet at the shop. One more to go and then a week off—which was going to drive her crazy, but she’d try to find some way to fill the time and to enjoy it.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no words came.

“Just. Be. Honest,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “And don’t go on and on too much.”

Easier said than done, of course, but she’d try it.

Dear Michael,

(Wow, how old-school was she? Ah, well, she couldn’t start a letter without it. It just felt wrong. And maybe it would give him a laugh.) Okay, so she had:

Dear Michael,

A riveting start. Good. She began a first sentence and deleted it multiple times.

Come on, come on . . . She really wanted to send it before Cal arrived. Not to impress him, and not because she felt pressured by him—but because if she didn’t finish it, she’d be tempted to cancel on Cal. She wanted Michael to have this letter before he got too busy with Christmas Eve or Christmas Day plans, though who knew? He was probably busy tonight too.

The peanut gallery in her brain wouldn’t shut up, of course, so in addition to trying to write a letter that wouldn’t make him roll his eyes or instantly move it to Trash, she had to listen to its commentary.

Dear Michael, (Take fifteen.)

I miss you very much. (True.) I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about the past (Yeah, gag, so much thinking, so little doing.), about choices I made, about regrets that I have, and about so many things I wish I could do over. But there are no do-overs in life, unfortunately—yet a person can start again.

There is only one regret I’ll bore you with (for now): I regret we’re not closer. I know

Vic stared at what she had so far. What a mess. Delete, delete, delete. Finally she wrote:

Dear Michael,

I miss you very much and wish we were closer. I would love for us to have conversations from time to time. (I also know you’re busy and will always respect that.)

There are some things I need to apologize for, and I would like to do that in person, either face-to-face or by phone, but no pressure. Whenever it works for you is good, but please do let me know a time.

Wishing you a wonderful Christmas and New Year’s.

All my love,

Mom

P.S. My invitation for you to come for a visit is open anytime, and if you have someone you want to bring with you, she is very welcome too.

It wasn’t a great letter, and it barely scraped the surface of what she wanted to say, but she also didn’t want to indulge her own wants by dumping everything she was thinking and going through on him. It said the important things. She hoped.

Vic hit Send before she could overthink anymore and possibly talk herself out of it. Then she glanced at her watch. Cal would be there soon, but she had a few minutes.

She took out her sketchbook, and her fingers flew as she laid down a memory of Michael at four years old in sky-blue flannel pajamas with little firetrucks all over them. How he had loved her then.

*

“There’s a rat! It keeps coming onto the porch. I’m telling you. I’ve seen its glowing beady eyes from my window twice now.”

Vic managed not to roll her eyes. Barely. Greenridge didn’t even have rats, did it? Mice, yes. Rats, no.

And with typical perfect timing, Audra would choose this moment, minutes before Cal was due to arrive, to have a freakout about imaginary rats.