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“You don’t need to apologize,” Charlotte said, beginning to close the door. “We’ve already said all we need to say. Don’t you think?”
“I just think we got off on the wrong foot,” Charlie interjected.
Charlotte cocked her head. Something about the way he looked at her made her keep the door open, and sharp winter wind blasted against her face. Maybe she was a fool. Scratch that. She was definitely a fool.
“Listen,” Charlie went on. “I just walked past this little Christmas market downtown. There are food stalls and mulled wine.”
“It’s there every year,” Charlotte said.
“I’m sure it is. But it’s nothing like we get in the city,” Charlie went on. “Would you like a mug of mulled wine? Or hot chocolate? On me, of course. As an apology.”
Charlotte didn’t know what to make of this. She flinched, wanting to run back into the apartment and tend to baby Ethan. But Louise and Van had Ethan’s needs covered. And it was true that she loved mulled wine, especially drinking it as the snow fell as it was now, softly and magically, as though they lived in the glowing orb of a snow globe.
“I’m sure you could find someone else to drink mulled wine with,” Charlotte protested, glancing down at her jeans, which were scuffed at the knee with dust and grime from the inn.
“I don’t know anyone else in this town,” Charlie reminded her. “Please. Don’t let me drink mulled wine alone.”
* * *
Charlie waited for Charlotte in the foyer of the Cherry Inn while she breezed back to the apartment to change clothes. Louise was in Van’s room, giving Ethan a bottle, and he was looking at her, his eyes shining. Van monitored Louise in the corner, her arms over her chest, as though she struggled to let anyone else do what she was biologically programmed to do— care for her baby. But Charlotte knew this was healing for Louise. Van understood that, too.
“I’m heading out for a second,” Charlotte hissed to her mother and Van.
“I won’t be here when you get back,” Louise said, not bothering to glance Charlotte’s way.
“Thank you for your help today,” Charlotte offered. “We couldn’t have gotten so much done without you.”
Charlotte changed into a pair of fleece tights, a black dress, a pair of black boots, and a thick, fuzzy hat. After she donned her winter coat, she applied a very soft shade of pink lipstick. She didn’t want to look as though she was trying too hard. But, even if she and Charlie ended up fighting again, she wanted to look fiery and beautiful. She wanted to feel like the sort of woman who could date a man like Charlie, even if it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.
When Charlotte returned to the foyer to collect Charlie, he looked taken aback for a moment. Charlotte touched her face, fearful she’d smeared her lipstick.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Nothing at all,” Charlie said. “Shall we?”
They walked down Main Street, headed toward the courthouse, before which they’d set up the annual Christmas Market. Little red food stalls were dotted throughout the square, and Christmas lights were strung overhead, glinting against the dying light of the very late afternoon.
“It looks like a fairy tale,” Charlie said.
“I genuinely thought it was when I was a kid. I grew up in White Plains, but it always transformed at Christmastime. It felt like a completely different place for a few weeks.”
Charlie smiled at her. Charlotte wanted to scold herself for telling him such intimate details about her childhood.
“My assistant called me from Manhattan this morning,” Charlie said. “And through the phone, I heard all these honks and beeps and screeching tires.” He wrinkled his nose.
“You’ve been living in that cabin all alone, like a Buddhist monk,” Charlotte joked. “You’re going to forget how to live amongst the rest of us soon.”
Charlie laughed openly. “I’m approaching enlightenment.”
“If you find it, can you tell us how to reach it?” Charlotte asked. “We’re floundering here.”
In line for mulled wine, Charlotte was surprised at how easily their conversation continued to flow. They bantered about Buddhism, about chess, and about their favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurants in Manhattan— many of which overlapped.
“You won’t get good Chinese out here,” Charlotte said as she held her mug with both hands.
“It’s a price I’m willing to pay,” Charlie said. “Cheers.”
Charlotte and Charlie wandered through the Christmas stalls, commenting on local artisans’ knitted hats, gloves, and sweaters, the wooden carvings of a local craftsman, and the clay pots and plates fired in a kiln not far from White Plains. Charlotte pondered for a long time about whether to get her mother a beautiful plum-colored vase, then returned it and gave Charlie a funny smile.
