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ONCE HER WORK-DAY was over—after 10 p.m.—Brynne climbed the stairs behind the kitchen to her apartment on the second floor.
Her cat, a rescued tabby named Waldo, met her at the door, winding himself around her ankles and meowing piteously for a snack.
Brynne smiled and bent to pet him. “Don’t give me that poor-starving-cat routine,” she said. “You had supper at six, like always.”
Waldo subsided, but only slightly.
Brynne flipped on the lights and surveyed her spacious living room with a sense of lonely satisfaction. When she’d taken over the restaurant after her parents retired, she’d had the former storage/office space completely renovated, putting in a living room with bay windows overlooking Main Street, along with a streamlined kitchen, a master suite and a truly decadent private bath.
There were two small guest rooms as well, linked by a full bath and, of course, a powder room down the hallway.
Brynne sighed, kicking off her shoes and padding across the kitchen to fill the electric kettle and plug it in. A nice cup of herbal tea and a long, decadent soak in her garden tub would help her to decompress.
Running the café wasn’t exactly stressful, but it was a thriving concern, as it had been when her mom and dad ran it, and it kept her busy for as many as twelve hours a day.
And that was good, because when Brynne wasn’t rushing from one task to another, solving problems and putting out fires—sometimes literally—she started thinking about her life.
The mistakes she’d made.
The opportunities she’d missed.
The three years she’d wasted loving Clay Nicholls and believing that he loved her in return.
“Stop it,” she said aloud.
Waldo meowed again, more insistently this time.
“Beggar,” Brynne scolded fondly. While the water heated for her tea, she took an open can of tuna from the refrigerator and spooned a few flakes into Waldo’s empty dish.
He devoured the treat, then sat primly, watching Brynne as she washed her hands at the sink, took a mug from the cupboard and dropped a tea bag into it.
Minutes later, teacup in hand, she shut off the kitchen and living room lights and headed down the hallway toward her suite.
There were photos on the hallway walls—her mom and dad with their recently purchased RV, living it up at the Grand Canyon, wearing mouse ears and huge grins at Disney World, standing in front of Mount Rushmore. Interspersed were small paintings Brynne had done herself, mostly watercolors, and pictures of Davey and Maddie, Clay’s children.
Clay had taken some of them, Brynne had taken others.
They’d all been so happy back then—or, at least, Brynne had thought they were. She certainly had been, as had the children, but then there was Clay.
Had he ever been happy, or had he been pretending the whole time?
He’d told Brynne he loved her, and she’d believed him.
Until Geoffrey-the-Gym-Monkey had clued her in, that is.
She tore herself away from the photos—there she went, thinking again, and continued along the hallway.
She passed the closed doors of the two rooms she’d put in—admit it, with visits from Davey and Maddie in mind—resisting the temptation to open the doors and peek into those rooms, one decorated for a boy, one for a girl.
At times, like now, for instance, she wondered what she’d been thinking to set aside so much space for children who weren’t her own and would never wind up in Painted Pony Creek. She ought to tear out a few walls, create a nice studio for herself, or at least convert one to an office.
Because hope died hard, even when it was completely unfounded, Brynne hadn’t made the decision. She didn’t have time to paint these days, and her dad’s old office downstairs, a converted supply closet, filled the bill.
Besides, if she renovated again, there would be all the commotion that comes along with construction, not to mention the expense.
Brynne had earned a good living in Boston, and she’d saved a lot—sold a few of her own paintings, too, for sums that still surprised her—but, while Bailey’s brought in a decent income, she wasn’t going to get rich selling breakfast, lunch and dinner to the locals.
She was still young by modern standards—thirty-four—but she was also an unmarried woman, with zero prospects, and she had to think ahead. After all, she’d be old one day, probably sooner than she thought.
Entering her bedroom suite, Brynne chuckled at herself. She took a steadying sip of raspberry tea and admired the space around her.
It was as much her own design as any of her paintings—French country furniture, a few cherished artworks on the walls, a working white brick fireplace, visible from the bath as well as the bedroom.
Here, as in the living room, a set of mullioned bay windows overlooked the street out front. Brynne’s small Christmas tree sat between them, dark and magical, tinsel swaying as if stirred by the snow falling beyond the glass.
In that moment, she figured she needed a little Christmas, so she went over and tapped the switch on the cord to set the bubble lights bubbling.
How she loved those old-fashioned lights. They brought back so many happy memories of her childhood.
Waldo, having toddled after her, took his place in the wing-backed chair next to the fireplace, where Brynne had expected to spend quiet nights reading, and nestled in for the night.
Brynne entered the bathroom, separated from the sleeping area only by a low tiled wall, started the water running in the tub and stripped to the skin. Then she added a generous sprinkling of the scented bath salts she’d received as a Christmas gift from Miranda, her favorite waitress, climbed into the water and sighed with relief as the day’s tensions began to dissolve.
She sipped her tea and wished momentarily that she’d taken the time to start a fire in the hearth to complete the ambience, then decided it didn’t matter. The little tree in front of the bay windows blazed with light and color, and Brynne found herself feeling almost festive, even though her feet still hurt and there was a twinge in her lower back.
She stayed in the tub for a long time, adding hot water when necessary, and finishing her tea.
She’d be glad when the holidays were over—Christmas had been quiet, with friends and staff members gathering downstairs to celebrate—and Brynne had enjoyed a long video call with her parents.
They were at their condo in Arizona this month, playing golf and attending flea markets, having the time of their lives, to hear them tell it. Brynne worried about them often, out there on the open road in their cumbersome RV, but they seemed happy, referring to themselves and their occasional traveling companions as the Geriatric Gypsies. They’d be swinging back through Painted Pony Creek come summer, to live in the house they still owned, over on Pine Street, the house Brynne had grown up in.