But it was what it was, and he was who he was, and she was going to have to resign herself to dealing with it. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll have her ready Saturday.”
“I won’t get over until late morning,” he warned.
Which meant his date was going to be more than a date.
“Fine,” she said, and ended the call without bothering to say goodbye.
She was fuming when she walked back in the house.
“Oh, good, my book came,” said her mom.
“Can we have our soup now?” asked her daughter.
“Yes, we can,” Arianna said, handing the envelope to Mia.
Her mother had a new book, which she would, of course, share. They had homemade chicken noodle soup to enjoy. Arianna may have been divorced, but she’d landed in a safe place. And she’d just celebrated Christmas in January. It had been a great day and Sophie was happy. Was she going to let her ex ruin it? Not even in a parallel universe!
Arianna White’s angry “You shit!” reached all the way to Alden’s front porch. Like a river diverted, it turned the direction of his thoughts. Only a moment ago he’d been admiring her willingness to try something new, even when the attempt wasn’t perfect. But that temper... It reminded him of Cynthia.
Except who could blame someone for being pissed at their ex? Most people were, especially when the breakup had yet to move into the distant past. Still, Arianna’s outburst made him leery, especially since it wasn’t the first one he’d overheard. Why was the ex the ex? Weren’t there always two sides to a story? What was his?
For that matter, what was Arianna White’s? Alden didn’t know. Did he want to know? It was a good thing he’d be working the next few days. Less chance of encountering his neighbor. With other things to focus on, she’d hardly enter his thoughts at all.
What was her story?
CHRISTMAS
IN FEBRUARY
6
Molly was not having a good Valentine’s Day, and her Santa bobblehead and the elf one she’d added to keep him company were not doing their part to lift her spirits. It started with a customer whose card was declined. “It’s always worked,” he said, glaring at the offending card.
“Try again,” Molly suggested. Again didn’t work any better than the first time. He glared at her.
“Do you have another card?” she asked.
The second card didn’t work any better than the first.
“Cash?” she suggested.
“Cash? Who the hell carries cash anymore?” he demanded.
People whose credit cards weren’t working. “I’m sorry,” she said. “How about a debit card?”
“I don’t have one.” He sounded surly.
And he didn’t seem inclined to leave. People in line behind him were starting to fidget.
“I wish I could help you,” Molly said.
“Well, you can’t,” snapped Mrs. Bigman, who was back like a bad smell you couldn’t get rid of. “Move on, mister.”
He turned his angry face at her and snarled. “Mind your own business, lady.”
The man may have been twice her size, but he didn’t intimidate Mrs. Bigman. She pointed a skinny finger at him. “You are holding up the whole line with your fouled-up finances.”
“There is nothing wrong with my credit cards,” the man informed Molly. “It’s your machine.” Yes, it was always the fault of the post office, never the customer.
