Page 2 of Always Almost You

Her eyes swept to the living room of her tiny but stylish home, where she had set a table in front of the beehive fireplace. Even in the pale light of the cloudy afternoon, her china, silver, and crystal gleamed against the starched linen tablecloth.

The table itself was a recent purchase: a round walnut pedestal with graceful lines and just enough patina to feel storied. She’d paired it with upholstered chairs in a soft herringbone fabric, knowing that comfort mattered as much as beauty.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Deciding she was finally ready to move on with her life, she had taken everything out of storage. She’d washed, polished, and ironed until five hours later she’d created the beautiful tableau now sitting unused. The room was waiting for company that wasn’t coming.

“You can’t control when you’re going to be sick,” she said softly. “I understand.”

Darren coughed again. “Okay. I’d better go.”

“Feel better,” Lauren said.

The call disconnected before she could say anything else.

Lauren stood there for a long moment, the only sound the quiet hum of the microwave. Pumpkin padded over and leaned against her leg, warm and solid.

Outside, the sky had deepened to a soft November gray. Inside, the firewood was stacked neatly by the hearth. The candles on the mantel remained unlit.

Lauren sank into an upholstered chair by the fireplace. Pumpkin curled at her feet. The microwave beeped but Lauren ignored it. She rested her head against the back of the chair and allowed disappointment to wash over her.

CHAPTER 2

Lauren snapped the lid shut on the glass container of leftover mashed potatoes and nestled it into the one remaining space in her refrigerator, beside the carefully labeled containers that held the rest of her Thanksgiving feast.

“That does it,” she said to Pumpkin, who paced at her feet, eyeing her expectantly. “And here’s your dinner,” Lauren added, placing Pumpkin’s bowl on the floor in its usual spot.

Pumpkin shot forward and attacked the bowl with unrestrained relish.

“You’ve got a small serving of everything I just ate,” Lauren said. “On holidays, that’s how we do things.”

Pumpkin licked the bowl clean, tail thumping against the cabinet as if to say she understood.

“I made a plate to drop off for Darren,” Lauren said. “You’re coming with me. There’s a dog park near his house, and we’ll go for a walk after.”

At the sound of another favorite word, Pumpkin lifted her front paws to Lauren’s knee and yipped in agreement.

“After that big meal, I could use some exercise.” Lauren glanced at the sink. “The turkey roaster is soaking. I’ll tackle the cleanup when we get home.”

Pumpkin dropped her paws to the floor, trotted to the back door, and stood beneath the hook where her leash and Lauren’s dog-walking jacket hung.

Lauren crossed the living room to the antique desk in the corner and pulled out a sheet of the monogrammed stationery her great-aunt had given her when she graduated from college. She smoothed the paper, noticing how substantial it felt in her hand, and penned a quick note:

Sorry you’re under the weather. Being sick on a holiday is no fun. I hope you’re well enough to enjoy this dinner.

Her pen hovered. She thought of the table set in front of the fireplace. Then she added:

XO, Lauren

Back in the kitchen, she tore a piece of tape from the dispenser in the junk drawer and fixed the note to the top of the disposable container. Inside the plastic rectangle were two plates. One held turkey and all the trimmings, and the other a generous slice of pecan pie. A meal she had looked forward to sharing with him.

She slipped into the running shoes that lived by the back door, secured Pumpkin’s leash, and gathered her jacket, purse, and the edible care package. Then she headed out to the car, leaving behind the warmth of the kitchen and its lingering scent of roasted turkey.

Darren’s house was thirty minutes from hers. Traffic was light on this late Thanksgiving afternoon, and she made the drive in twenty-five. The thin sunshine from earlier had vanished, replaced by a bank of heavy clouds that pressed low over the city.

Lauren turned off Ventura Boulevard onto the residential street leading into Darren’s neighborhood. “We may not get our walk after all,” she said, peering at the sky.

Pumpkin shifted in the passenger seat, secured by her doggy seatbelt.

“It looks like it could start pouring any minute,” Lauren continued. “I’m glad Darren has a covered front door so I can leave this out of the weather. I’ll text him to let him know it’s there. If he’s sleeping, I don’t want to wake him.”