Текст книги "My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories"

Автор книги: Stephanie Perkins

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

But the kitchen is pristine. All the dishes are done, the counters wiped. Even the handles to the massive freezer have been sanitized. A few trays of dough are out to rise overnight, but there’s nothing left for me to do. A sticky note is stuck to the door, with a big, sloppy happy face drawn on it.

I clamp a hand over my smile, try to wipe it away. Because I don’t like Christmas, so I can’t like anyone here. Not even talented cooks with crooked noses.

*   *   *

Normally I drag out my after-school routine—locker, bathroom, library—as long as possible before shuffling to the car. But on Monday I practically sprint there.

You’re excited about the tips, I remind myself. Not the cook.

Rick jumps in surprise as I throw open the passenger-side door. I buckle my seat belt as he fumbles to remove the tape that’s already in the deck. “Quieras bailar conmigo?” a woman asks in a soothing, slow tone. There’s a pause, and then Rick manages to get it ejected.

“What was that?” I ask, reaching for it. “Are you … learning Spanish?”

“Nothing. No.” Rick tucks the tape into the pocket of his button-down shirt, clears his throat, and puts the car into drive. I watch him suspiciously but he doesn’t even look at me. Spanish is my territory—the thing my mom and I share that he doesn’t. Even if she won’t speak it with me anymore. I don’t want him there.

As we get close to Christmas, I lean forward, bouncing. This time Rick eyes me with suspicion. Embarrassed, I pack up my bag. I’ve never been so relieved to be out of that car. It’s a long enough drive when we’re pretending not to notice each other. But when we’re both being strange, well, it was interminable.

I take a shower, then mess around with my makeup. I skip to work ten minutes early, whistling cheerily.

For the tips.

“Ho ho ho yourself, you old sicko.” I pat the animatronic Santa on the head. This place is hopping, not its usual dead zone. Candy’s taking orders. She’s stayed the last two nights to help with the extra crowds, even though she had to keep running to the bathroom to puke. She looks hollow today.

Angel is sitting at the counter. He grins. “Hola, Maria!” I’ve never seen his teeth before, much less his smile. I didn’t realize his scowl lines weren’t permanently fixed.

“Can I get you anything?” I hope I don’t look as confused-slash-unnerved as I feel.

“Take your time, chica, you just got here.”

“Right. Thanks.” I barrel into the kitchen. “What did you do to Angel?”

Ben shrugs, clapping his hands together once in a satisfied sort of way. “He needed a good meal.”

“Right. The man who has spent the last three years growling orders at me is now calling me chica and smiling.”

“Yup.”

“Okay, be serious. Are you a drug dealer? Is that why you were in juvie?”

He laughs, stirring something on the stove range. “No. Not drugs.”

“I’m pretty sure you spice your cookies with something illegal.”

“Cinnamon is not a controlled substance.”

“That should be the title of your memoir.” I reluctantly button my uniform over my tank top and leggings. Candy comes back as I’m clocking in.

“Hey!” Ben’s eyes are bright and hopeful. “I made you something.”

She puts a hand over her stomach. “No, thanks.”

“I think it’ll help.” He holds the to-go container while she removes her apron and hangs up her uniform.

She takes the container. “Okay. See you tomorrow.” She shuffles out.

Ben goes to the window, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then his shoulders stoop, his whole body turning down in disappointment.

“She gave it to Jerry, didn’t she?” I ask.

“It wasn’t for him. It was for her.” He frowns. “Tomorrow I’ll make her something at the start of her shift, instead.”

Animatronic Santa ho-ho-hos at a customer, and I’m swept up for the next few hours. Ben more or less cooks what people ask for, and no one complains. My feet are sore from how busy we are, but my tip-collecting pockets are happy.

Angel has moved to the corner booth, leaning over the back to chat animatedly with Lorna, the gas-station owner. He’s drawing pictures on her napkin. I’ve never seen them so much as glance at each other before. But the way they’re acting, you’d think they were best friends. They’ve been in here every day. A lot of the locals have been coming more frequently than new-cook curiosity can account for.

“Bennett,” I say.

“Not short for Bennett,” Ben answers.

“Do you have Angel’s order?”

He puts up a tray, and I frown. “This is not his.”

“It’s for him.”

“He ordered chicken-fried steak. He always orders chicken-fried steak. This is … what is this? Fruit salad? Have you seen Angel?” I gesture toward him: hulking, tattooed, shaved head with several prominent scars. “He’s not the fruit-salad type.”

“It’s beets, carrots, jicama, and fruit with a citrus dressing. Ensalada Navidad! And here.” He presents a second plate.

“Tamales.” A sort of pain, like a sore muscle, pulses through my whole body. I’m filled with an inexplicable need to hug my mom. “We don’t serve those here.” The sudden ache inside my heart makes me sad. I scowl at Ben. “Make him the stupid steak.”

“Maria. Trust me. Take it to him.”

“No.”

He sighs. “How about this: if he doesn’t like it, you don’t have to share your tips with me for the rest of the week.”

“And you tell me how you learned to cook in juvie.” His eyebrows come together so I raise my hand. “Not why you were in juvie. Only the cooking part.”

“Deal.”

I take the plate, surly but certain of victory. Angel has ordered the same meal for as long as I’ve worked here. When I set down the food, he looks shocked.

“I didn’t order this,” he growls.

“I’m sorry, it’s the new cook, he—”

“Are those tamales?”

I still have my hand on the plate, ready to whisk it away. “Yes?”

He leans forward. His eyes wrinkle upward in a smile. I swear his skin creaks, having to force decades of grim frown lines in that direction. “Y ensalada navidad! Mi madre siempre…” His hard black eyes soften, looking far past this dinner.

“So … you want the food? Because I can take it back!”

“No!” He leans over it protectively. “I want it.”

“Great. Let me know if you need anything else.” I scowl at the kitchen window, where Ben is giving me his full-wattage smile. I give him the finger down low, where Angel can’t see it.

“Maria!” my mom says, aghast.

I shove my hands into my apron like that will erase the offending digit. “What are you doing here?”

“Kitchen. Now.”

I follow her back, dragging my feet. She pushes straight through the back door into the alley between the diner and the gas station.

“What was that?”

“Just … goofing off.”

She throws her hands up in the air. “We can’t afford to goof off!”

I fold my arms, take a step back from her. “I’m not getting paid. So goofing off is about all I can afford.”

“Ay, Maria, we’ve talked about this. We’re a family. Everything we earn goes into the same account, so—”

“We haven’t talked about it! We never talk about anything. What do you need all my money for? So you can live in a crappy, nowhere town, in a crappy, freezing duplex, with your crappy, tightwad boyfriend. Yeah, Mama, I get it.” I turn away from her, slam into the kitchen and past Ben, who is leaning over the stove so intently I’m positive he heard every word.

*   *   *

My mom stuck around for a while, talking to Ben about his weird food supplies requests. He convinced her to go along with it. I guess he can afford to goof off. Meanwhile, she ignored me until she left for the mine. When I finish closing, I’m going home, straight to my room, to recount the tips I’ve managed to save. Angel left me fifteen bucks tonight, which still blows my mind. That puts me at exactly $2,792. Three years of working every day, and that’s all I have to show for it.

I turn around to find Ben, yellow bucket filled with hot, soapy water. He squeezes the excess out of the mop.

“That’s not your job,” I snap.

But he shrugs and gets started without a word. With his help, the restaurant is clean in record time. Ben and I shove the cleaning supplies back into the closet.

I hang up my uniform. “I’m still mad at you. I should have won that bet.”

He pulls out a tray of cookies. “Eggnog-chocolate-chip peace offering?”

“Follow me.” I take him out back, where a rusting ladder is bolted to the side of the building. We climb up to the diner’s flat roof. I show Ben where to step to avoid tripping on the peeling tarpaper as we make our way toward the two lawn chairs that Candy and I hauled up years ago. She hasn’t been here with me in ages.

The last time I climbed up was Christmas Eve. My mom and Rick took an extra night shift for overtime. We “celebrated” early, but sitting by myself in Rick’s duplex was too depressing. So I came here, alone, and glared at the junky buildings around me, hating Christmas and Christmas.

The night is cold. Our breath fogs out in front of us. During the day it’s warm enough, but at night the desert temperature drops. We sit, and Ben passes me a cookie. It’s obscenely good. Warm, bright bursts of chocolate, with the creamy comfort of eggnog.

“Show-off.” I elbow him in the ribs. I keep finding excuses to touch him.

I need to stop that.

I lean back, looking up at the sky. That’s the one benefit to living in a census-designated place. The stars don’t have any light to compete with.

“Everyone had to help at my juvie center,” Ben says, without preamble. “Laundry, cleaning, kitchen duty. I’d never cooked anything before, but I had a knack for it, and, before long, they put me on permanent kitchen rotation. The staff was great—they want the kids to get better and have good lives—so they let me play around. I loved it. I’ve never felt anything so right as I did when I was making food for other people.”

I shiver deeper into my jacket. “How do you guess what people want to eat?”

He looks at me sideways, eyes hooded. “What do you mean?”

“The woman with the macaroni that first day—no one even took her order. Don’t think I forgot. Angel and the random Mexican food. And this weekend, that horrible green Jell-O with whipped cream, pineapple, and shredded carrots no one in their right mind would ever order, but that you made special for Lorna. She cried. You made Lorna cry with Jell-O. None of this is normal, Ben.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“You willingly moved to Christmas, California, to work in our dump of a diner. I already think you’re crazy.”

“Fair enough. I figured it out while I was in juvie. Kind of like … a sixth sense? For what would make someone happy to eat. I see someone and I just sort of know.”

“So you’re a food psychic.”

He cringes, his friendly face shifting into something defensive, shielded. I don’t like that look on him, so I hurry on. “My mom’s aunt could tell every disease or health problem someone had by looking at their eyes. I kid you not. She had a perfect track record.”

“Really?”

“We lived with her for a while in Los Angeles when I was little. People were constantly dropping by to have her diagnose them. So. Having a food sense seems way more pleasant than her eyeball trick.”

He relaxes, more at ease now that I haven’t dismissed him. “I think if you can find the right food to connect yourself to a happier time, or a happier version of yourself, it can help you remember. Help you get back to who you were when you were happy. It can change everything. For example, when did you start liking me?”

I stammer, grasping for some response other than The moment I saw your face. Is it that obvious?

Ben answers for me. “When I made you the gingerbread cookies. That’s when you decided to be my friend.”

“Right! Exactly. Yes, gingerbread.”

He gives me a look that makes me think maybe he was saying more. Maybe he wants me to. But I don’t know what to say, so he turns away again. “I like using something I’m good at to help other people. Even if it’s something silly like cooking.”

“That’s not silly. You know what you love, and you’re good at it. I wish I had something like that.” The moment stretches between us, too honest, and that sore-muscle feeling wells up in my heart again. I clear my throat. “Besides, as long as you keep making cookies, I don’t care if it’s magic or not.”

He balances a cookie on the tips of his long fingers. His ring finger is bent at an odd angle. Like his nose, it’s a testament of broken bones in his past. “If you were a food, you’d be a gingerbread cookie. Spicy enough to keep life interesting, but with just enough sweetness to balance it out.”

I laugh. “I’m not sweet.”

“You gave your tips to Candy.”

I dig my shoe under a strip of tarpaper. I don’t want to talk about her, so I say, “What would you be if you were a food? No, better! What food would you use your sixth sense to feed yourself?”

He puts a hand on the edge of his chair, holding it palm up, almost as an offering. It would be so easy to slip mine into his. I nearly do, but … it’d be an anchor. I can’t be anchored.

“I haven’t found it yet.” He flexes his long fingers, opening his hand even more. “I like it here. I’m renting a room for almost nothing, so I save what I earn. And small towns are cozy. Familiar. You can slip into other people’s routines, become a part of them. I’m staying here until I have enough money saved for culinary school.”

“I’m getting out of here as fast as I possibly can,” I blurt.

His fingers curl up. “Why?”

“Why not? There’s nothing for me.”

“But … it’s your home.”

“I live in my mom’s boyfriend’s duplex. Nothing here is mine. I hate it here. The minute I graduate I’m leaving.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m hopping on a bus and going until I can’t go any farther. Until I find a place that feels like home.”

He’s quiet for a long time. “How will you know what home feels like?”

It hangs in the air between us, as frozen as our breaths. I don’t have an answer.

*   *   *

Ben pokes his head out of the kitchen window. “How were the waffles?”

Candy barely glances at him. “Fine. Thanks.”

He looks lost as he stares at her untouched plate. The waffles were crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, with a Nutella filling and sliced strawberries on top. Unlike Candy’s, mine are gone.

“They were fantastic,” I offer, but he disappears, muttering to himself.

It’s three days until Christmas. The diner has never been busier. Locals come in whenever they can now. We’re also getting a holiday bump in freeway travelers, lured by the seasonal coincidence of our exit’s name. For once in my career, I don’t pity their optimism. The Christmas Café is—dare I say it—worth stopping for.

Ben whips out holiday-themed plate after plate. Every shift, he makes something new for Candy. And when she inevitably throws it up or rejects it in her zombie-like demeanor, he looks even more discouraged.

I grab Candy’s plate and turn toward the kitchen, looking up at my elf out of habit. Only he’s not holding a knife anymore. He’s holding a tiny glass vial with a skull-and-crossbones symbol on it.

I cackle so loudly that Candy jumps. She’s actually trembling.

“Sorry!” I say. She flees, straight to the bathroom.

I find Ben leaning over the counter, furiously crossing off items on a list. “Benedict! Are you the one who messed with my elf?”

He looks up, distracted, and then shakes his head as though clearing it. A smile crinkles his eyes as he pushes his hair away from his forehead. His goofy chef’s hat sits on the counter next to the paper and pen. “Not short for Benedict. But yes. I thought he ought to mix things up a bit.”

I laugh again, delighted. “Nobody even notices him except me.”

“I notice everything.” His eyes linger on my face before he blushes. He clears his throat a few times, toying with the pen. “This Christmas menu isn’t working. I don’t know what to do.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “You always know what to do.”

A deep line has formed between his eyebrows. “I thought so, but nothing’s working.”

“Everything’s working! People have never been so happy to eat here. It’s like they actually enjoy living in Christmas.”

He looks back down at his paper. “Not you.”

I hover, torn between leaning into him and backing away. I can’t commit to this place or anyone in it. I have to be able to leave.

“And not Candy.” He drops the pen. “I haven’t made a single thing she’s liked.”

“Well, she’s puking all the time. Kinda throws things off.”

“I should be able to help. What would she like?”

“I don’t know. She used to be my friend, but then she stopped. She stopped being anything.” Just like my mom. They stopped being the people I needed them to be. “Don’t worry about it. She won’t let you do anything. No one can help her.”

Ben’s brown eyes are so soft, but somehow pierce right through me. “Someone needs to.”

Santa ho-ho-hos the arrival of a customer. Scowling, I head for the door. Ben crumples up his list and throws it in the trash.

*   *   *

Later that night I storm into the house, pulling on my house jacket with an annoyed huff.

“Maria? That you?”

“Yeah,” I shout, answering my mom.

“How was work, mija?”

The rest of my shift was terrible. Ben was being all, I don’t know, normal—he made people exactly what they ordered. I tried to complain to him about Paul McCartney simply having a wonderful Christmastime, and he just shrugged. Two people stiffed me on tips. And, to top it all off, Candy’s creepy boyfriend showed up early, while she was puking in the bathroom. She still hasn’t told him the news, so I had to lie and say it was food poisoning. His stare was even colder than this wretched duplex.

My mom’s standing over the stove, stirring a pot of macaroni. It gives me a pang of loneliness for Ben. Which makes me angrier, because why should I miss a person who I only left five minutes ago?

“Maria, we need to talk.” She points at a stack of envelopes on the table.

“Were you in my room?” The envelopes are college applications, mailed to me or forced on me by my school counselor. I tried to throw them away—so many times—because they’re pointless. But it felt too depressing to get rid of them, and too depressing to stare at what I can’t have, so I shoved them under my bed. Right next to the duffel bag I keep my tips in. “Did you take my stuff?”

“I was vacuuming. Why aren’t any of them opened? Where have you applied?”

“Did you take my money?”

“I would never take your money. I want to—”

“You take my money every day! I work my butt off at that stupid restaurant and you don’t even let me get my own checks.”

She sets her spoon down, looking worried. “I didn’t take any money from your room. I want to know which colleges you’ve applied to.”

I bark out a bitter laugh. “None. Why would I apply to college?”

Her eyes go wide. “None? You’re going to start missing deadlines!” She grabs at the envelopes, frantically searching through them. “What about this one? It’s in Barstow. It looks nice. Or Cal State San Bernardino. It’s not too far away.”

“I want to go far away! And since when am I going to college? We can’t afford that.”

She shoves the applications at me. “You can’t afford not to. You don’t want to be like me. We work so hard, and so long. We don’t want that for you. You deserve more.” Her eyes are intense, pleading. “Por favor, mija, necesitas aplicar. Para tu futuro.”

It’s the most Spanish she’s spoken to me in years. She always said we shouldn’t leave Rick out by using a language he doesn’t know. But hearing it now makes me feel like a kid again. So, like an obedient little girl, I grab the first application and start filling it out while she watches, holding her breath.

*   *   *

“Can you help me with a project?” I ask Ben, two days before Christmas. He’s slammed, doing as much prep work as he can, but he immediately stops.

“What do you need?”

“I want to make something. For my mom. Something special. But I don’t know how.”

“What were you thinking?”

“She used to tell me about rice pudding. Her grandma made it for them every Christmas. And she tried to make it a few years ago, but then she got sad and dumped it all down the sink, said it wasn’t right. She’s never tried again. She works really hard. She deserves some of your magic.”

Ben’s smile is the powdered sugar on top of a cookie. “I think we can do that.”

We work all morning. He shows me how to get the milk simmering at just the right rate. I scorch the first batch, and we have to throw it out. But Ben insists it’ll be more magical if I make it myself. So I try again. This time I keep the temperature steady. I skim the surface like he shows me, so that the milk doesn’t get a skin. We add the rice, and I tend to it with feverish intensity. He takes over the stirring while I mix together eggs, sugar, vanilla, more milk.

“It needs…” I tap my finger against the counter, glancing at him for clues. “Nutmeg?” He smiles wider. I sprinkle some in and pour the mixture into the rice on the stove. His body is next to mine, and we both lean in, breathing the sweet steam as it rises up. I turn my face and breathe him in, too. “Keep stirring?” I whisper.

He nods. And doesn’t move. So we stand, occupying the same space, watching as ordinary ingredients combine into something I hope will be magic.

*   *   *

“Mama?” I push the door shut with my foot, carefully holding the still-hot dish. Normally rice pudding is served cold, but when I sprinkled the cinnamon on top, it felt … right. Perfect. “Are you home?”

“We’re up here.”

I hurry upstairs. They’re just off a super-early morning shift. My mom wears her weariness beneath her eyes and in the slope of her shoulders, but she manages a smile for me. “Sit down,” I command. I put the pot on the stove as I get out two dishes. I hear Rick pop a disc into his DVD player. The familiar sounds of Bonanza’s opening theme trigger memories of insomnia-plagued nights.

“Does he still stay up watching that show until four every morning?” I stir the rice pudding one last time.

“Hmm? Oh, no. Why would he?”

“I thought he liked doing that.”

“You know he only did that for you, right?”

I stop stirring. “What?”

“I can’t stay awake for the life of me. Never been able to. But he didn’t want you to be alone, so he’d come out and watch television with you until you fell asleep.”

“He—but—I thought he didn’t need much sleep?”

“He was exhausted. But when he was growing up, he had a few years where he had insomnia, too. He said being awake when everyone else is sleeping was so lonely it made him feel crazy. He didn’t want you to feel that way.”

“That’s weird.” All those nights, all that sleep he gave up. It doesn’t make sense.

“How is it weird?”

“Well, I mean, he doesn’t really like me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He never talks to me. And when he does, he talks about when I leave. Like he’s counting down the days.”

“Sweetheart, Rick doesn’t talk much, period. And he is excited for you to leave. Who do you think tapes your report cards up on the fridge?”

I’m shocked. Rick? Plastering my name all over something that belongs to him?

“It was his idea to drive you to and from school. He didn’t want you wasting your time waiting for city buses. He worried your grades would suffer and you wouldn’t get into college.”

“I can’t afford college! And besides. The food. All the labels. The penny-pinching, refusing to turn up the heat. I’m an intruder in his space. He puts up with me because of you.”

Tears fill my mom’s eyes. “Oh, Maria. Why would you think that? You’ve felt like this all these years?”

My eyes are tearing up, too. I get out one more dish. One for Rick.

She takes my hand. “Do you remember your father at all?”

I shake my head.

“Good.” Her voice is fierce. “It’s one of the proudest points of my life that that man has no imprint on you. It wasn’t easy leaving. I had to sneak and save money for years before I had enough to get somewhere far away and safe. I was terrified you’d remember what it used to be like.”

“I don’t. I remember moving around until we settled here.”

She nods. “Rick can’t show affection the way most people do, but he doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body. And, after my life, he’s exactly what I needed. What we needed. I know Rick is odd. He labels his food so he can make sure that he’s not spending more on groceries than he needs to. We keep the heat off so that we can save more, the same reason we take overtime and holiday shifts. The same reason we put all your paychecks straight into savings. He’s been putting away money since the day we moved in. He—oh, we were gonna surprise you, but—Rick? I think we need to give Maria her present now.”

The television goes silent. Rick comes back in the kitchen, hands shoved deep into his Wranglers. “What about Christmas morning?”

My mom laughs, wiping away her tears. “It already smells like Christmas in here. Maria made rice pudding.” She leans over her bowl, breathes in deeply. I cross my fingers, praying I got it right. “Mí abuela used to make this for us. Then we’d sing and later we’d get an orange. Rice pudding and oranges.” She smiles, happy tears streaming down her face. “I’d actually forgotten what it was supposed to smell like. This is perfect.”

She takes a bite, sighs happily, and leans her head on my shoulder. I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like, but I like what I made. If asked to describe the flavor I could really only say this: It’s warm. Perfectly warm. And with this in my mouth, I can understand a little of how my mom remembered Christmas feeling.

Rick has already eaten his whole bowl. He clears his throat, then says in an exaggeratedly careful accent, “Muchas gracias. Esta comida es muy buena. Me gusta.”

My mom gasps. I gape. Rick looks terrified as he continues. “Yo estoy aprendiendo español. Para hablar contigo. Por que … te amo.”

My mom fully bursts into tears, which makes poor Rick look even more horrified. “Did I do it wrong?” he asks.

“No!” I beam. Because now I understand he wasn’t trying to take anything away from me. He was just trying to fit better into our lives.

“That was wonderful,” my mom manages. “Muy, muy bien.”

Rick sighs in relief. He’s actually sweating. He must have been so nervous. It’s adorable, which I honestly cannot believe I’m thinking about Rick.

I look at my mom, really look at her for the first time in years. She’s beautiful. Sweet and soft and warm, too. I wonder how we went this long without talking about things that mattered. And why it took a pot of rice pudding for me to be able to see that—even though she’s not aggressively affectionate—she’s here. She’s always been here for me. She’s done the best she can.

“This is for you.” Rick slides over a sheet of paper to me. My mom gets up and stands behind him, squeezing his shoulder. The paper is a list of numbers. No … it’s a bank statement. For a savings account with forty thousand dollars in it.

Under my name.

“How—what—where did this come from?”

“I told you,” my mom says. “Rick started saving the day we moved in. Every bonus, everything we didn’t need to live on.”

“But … I can’t … what about you two? The mine won’t last forever. You won’t have any savings!” Here I was, hoarding every penny I made so that I could run away to my own empty future. And here they were, saving every penny they made so that my future was a better one than their families gave them.

I am the worst person in the world. I’m crying, both out of gratitude and guilt.

“We’ll be fine,” my mom says. “The mine has a few years left.”

“We can find work anywhere.” Rick’s voice is soft and even. I always thought of it as monotonous, but it’s more like the rice pudding. Gentle. “Wherever you end up, we can move and get jobs.”

“But this is your home,” I say.

Rick raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Wherever you two are is my home. Tu … eres mi casa. That probably wasn’t right.” He frowns.

I smash them both into a hug. Rick clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, but I don’t care.

I was wrong.

I’ve been wrong for years.

Being wrong feels amazing.

*   *   *

On Christmas Eve, I show up at work to find Ben drizzling white chocolate onto peppermint bark. He’s muttering to himself again. It looks like he hasn’t slept.

“You’re incredible!” I throw my arms around him, hugging him from behind.

He startles. “What did I do?”

“The rice pudding! It was perfect!”

He puts his hands on top of mine, tentatively. “You did that, remember?”

“Only because you let me borrow your magic.” I’ve been hugging him for probably too long now. I don’t want to let go, but I begrudgingly release him and point at the peppermint bark. “What’s that for?”

“I thought maybe Candy might like it. I don’t know. I can’t—it’s not working. Nothing’s working with her.” He hangs his head, and his laugh has a note of bitterness that stings my heart. “Maybe I was never magic to begin with. Maybe this whole thing is stupid.”

“Ben, I need to tell you—”

The animatronic Santa announces an arrival. I go up on my tiptoes and see the top of Jerry’s head. “Candy!” he shouts.

I push through the kitchen door with a scowl. “Are you here to apologize?”

Jerry looks at me. His gaze is even but his fists are clenched. “For what?”

“For your bratty girlfriend! If she was going to ditch her Christmas Eve shift and make me take it when I requested it off a month ago, the least she could have done is let me know. Ben had to call me in when she didn’t show.”

“She isn’t here?”

I gesture at the empty diner. “If she were here, why would I be? Tell her if she’s a no-show again, I’m calling Dottie.”

He takes a step closer, looming over me. Don’t look scared, Maria. Look angry.

“Any idea where she is?”

I roll my eyes. “She’s not my girlfriend, dude.”

His nostrils flare, and he leans even closer.

“Maria.” Ben is leaning in the doorway, casually holding a thick rolling pin. “I need some help back here.” He nods at Jerry. “Tell Candy to call the next time she’s not coming in, okay?”

Jerry storms out. I collapse against the counter, my heart racing. “Thanks.” I gesture at Ben’s rolling pin.

“Where is Candy? What was that all about?”

“She’s halfway to an Amtrak station, on her way to live with an old high school friend. Rick picked her up at four this morning, while Jerry was still on the night shift.” When I told my mom and Rick about my new tip-funded escape plan, this time featuring Candy, they didn’t even hesitate. Thinking about it gives me a burst of affection for Rick—silent, strange, gentle Rick.