for others. I only know that I have been blessed beyond measure or reason. But while peace with God came easily to me, peace with myself has been elusive.
From adolescence onward and with increasing anxiety as the minutes and years of my biological clock ticked on, I waited for the missing piece of myself to arrive, the better half who would make me whole: a husband. And with him, children, a family. That’s what I’d always wanted, and that, I was sure, was what would make me happy. But after reading and meditating on Kübler-Ross, Brother Lawrence, the apostle Paul (“I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation”), I finally realized that I was not happy with myself because I had never learned to be happy by myself.
And so, more than a year ago, I broke it off with my boyfriend, Arnie Kinsella. It was hard, but it was for the best. I like Arnie, but I wasn’t in love with him any more than he was in love with me. Even so, if he’d asked me to marry him, I’d have said yes in a heartbeat. I know how terrible that sounds, but it’s the truth.
My friends—Evelyn, Abigail, Ivy, Virginia, everybody from my Friday night quilt circle—applauded my decision. They said I deserved the real thing—head-over-heels, candy-and-flowers, heart-throbbing, heart-stopping L-O-V-E.
A nice thought, but it’s never going to happen, not to me. And if finally acknowledging that didn’t quite make my windows blaze with light, at least it saved me from further humiliation and the weight of impossible dreams. I was over all that and I was over Arnie Kinsella.
Or so I thought. Until today.
1
Margot
December
Today, I turned forty.
I wanted to let this birthday pass unnoticed, but when my lunch break came I decided I deserved a treat and walked around the corner to the Blue Bean Coffee Shop and Bakery, known to locals in New Bern, Connecticut, as the Bean.
My table was near a window frosted with little icy snowflake patterns where I could watch people bundled in scarves, hats, and thick wool coats scurrying from shop to shop in search of the perfect Christmas gift. When the waitress came by I ordered a plate of nachos, loaded with extra everything including so much sour cream they ought to serve it with a side of Lipitor.
Six bites in, a glob of guacamole and chili slipped off my chip and onto my chest. Dipping a napkin in water to clean up the mess only made it worse. My white sweater looked like a toddler’s finger-painting project. I was on my way to the restroom to clean up when I spotted Arnie sitting in the back booth with Kiera Granger. That’s where people sit when they don’t want other people to know what they’re up to. It doesn’t do any good. Everybody in New Bern is well informed about the business of everybody else in New Bern.
On another day maybe I’d have been able to forget the sight of Arnie and Kiera sitting in the dimly lit booth, heads together, hands nearly but not quite touching as they talked intently, so intently that Arnie didn’t even see me, but not today. I left my food and twenty dollars on the table and ran out the door and into the street, wishing the blustery December snowfall would turn into a blizzard and hide me from the world.
With only five shopping days until Christmas, Evelyn would need all hands on deck, but I couldn’t face going back to work. I fumbled around in my bag until I found my cell phone. Evelyn answered on the fifth ring.
“Cobbled Court Quilts. May I help you?”
I heard a car round the corner; the engine was so loud that I’m sure everyone within three blocks could hear it. I stopped in my tracks, hoping the heap would pass so I could continue my conversation. Instead, it slowed to a crawl and the noise from the engine grew even louder. I pressed the phone closer to my left ear, covered the right with my free hand, and shouted into the receiver.
“Evelyn? It’s Margot.”
“Margot? What’s all that noise? I can barely hear you. Where are you?”
“I’m going home.”
“What?”
I held the phone directly in front of my mouth, practically screaming into it. “I’m going home. I’m not feeling very well. I’m sorry, but … aack!”
A blast from the car horn nearly made me jump out of my skin. It was more of a bleep than a blast, the kind of short, sharp tap on the horn that drivers use to alert other drivers that the signal has gone green, but what did that matter? At close range the effect was the same. I yelped and dropped the phone, dropping my call in the process.
When I regained my balance, my phone, and some of my composure, I turned toward the street and saw a low-slung, bright blue “muscle car,” rusty in spots and with multiple dents, a tailpipe choking clouds of smoke, topped by a roof rack carrier piled high with possessions and covered with a plastic tarp that was held in place by black bungee cords—sort of. The tarp was loose on one side, exposing some boxes, a big black musical instrument case, and a hockey stick. Quite a collection.
The driver was a man about my age with black hair receding at the temples and brown eyes that peered out from rimless glasses. A boy of twelve or thirteen sat slumped in the passenger seat, looking embarrassed and irritated. The driver said something and the boy cranked down the window. The driver shouted to me, but I couldn’t make out his words over the roar of the engine.
What kind of person shouts at strangers from their car? Or honks? In New England, honking in a situation that is short of life threatening is up there with painting your house orange or coming to a dinner party empty-handed. You just don’t do it.
Climbing over a snowbank and into the street, I noticed that the car had Illinois plates and a Cubs bumper sticker. Were they visiting relatives for Christmas? If they were, I probably knew the family. So no matter how rude he was, I had to be nice.
Shaking my head, I mimed a key in my hand and twisted my wrist, signaling him to shut off the ignition. Instead, he shifted into neutral. That reduced the engine noise to a loud hum rather than an earsplitting roar. Better, but not much.
“Sorry!” he yelled. “If I turn it off, I’m not sure I’ll be able to start it again. Can you tell me where Oak Leaf Lane is? We’re lost.” The boy, who I supposed must be his son, slumped down even farther in his seat, clearly humiliated by his dad’s admission. I smiled to myself. Teenagers are so painfully self-conscious.
“Turn around, take a right at the corner. Oak Leaf Lane is the third right after the traffic light. Beecher Cottage Inn is down about a quarter mile on the left, if that’s what you’re looking for. Or are you staying with family over Christmas?”
Still grinning, he shook his head. “Neither. We’re moving here.” The man leaned across his son’s lap and extended his hand out the window so I could shake it. “I’m Paul Collier. This is my son, James. James is starting as a seventh grader at the middle school after the holidays and I’ll be starting a new job at the same time.”
“Dad!” James hissed. “You don’t have to tell her our life story.”
Paul Collier rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t. I was just making introductions. This is the country, James. People in the country are friendly. Isn’t that right, miss?”
He looked to me for support, but I decided to stay out of it. Paul Collier seemed nice, but I had to wonder how he was going to fit
