Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

FINDING WABI-SABI

Holly

M y five-mile run stretches into a ten-miler as my thoughts churn. The cold air settles my sour stomach and my muscles warm up quickly, as I follow the road out of town and swing left on Lake Road. At the bend, I pause in front of the pair of stone lions. They guard the gate at the Swansons’ place. I can see Vicky’s little free library, clearly visible from the road. Painted the same buttery shade of yellow as the shingles and shutters on the Swansons’ rancher, the box is on a post set in the middle of her garden, abloom with brilliant winterberry holly bushes.

As Jack noted, there isn’t a no trespassing sign. Or a locked gate. Nothing at all visible from the road to suggest the Swansons don’t want anyone to access the little free library in the garden. If I squint, I can just make out the little plaque on the library that I assume instructs visitors to ring the bell to unlock the library. But the box wasn’t locked, so what’s the legal basis for charging Jack?

I know even as I ask myself the question that there is none. Anderson saw an opportunity to get some press and make a name for himself, so he did. Criminal cases are far and few between around here, and he wasn’t about to let the facts stand in the way of this one. It’s as simple and cynical as that. The worst part is, I get it. I don’t condone it, but I do understand his thinking.

I huff out a breath that hangs in the cold air, readjust my fleece headband, and start running again, working out the first stage of Jack’s defense as my long legs churn over the pavement. I reach Snow Lake and do the circle around the outside, watching the lamentation of swans glide gracefully across the water. It turns out Snow Lake, despite its name, doesn’t freeze in the winter because there’s a natural hot spring underneath it. So the swans enjoy year-round swimming.

The weak winter sun glints off their downy white feathers as they skate over the water. Steam rises in dancing ribbons as the cold air meets the surface of the spring-fed lake. The snow piled high around the lake glitters like diamonds. I breathe, taking it in all. And then I return to my ruminating.

The sad truth is that all my legal strategizing, all the miles I’ve run, and all the natural beauty and wildlife I’ve admired can only distract me for so long. Eventually my mind returns to Jack. Jack, and our kiss. I fell asleep thinking about the kiss, and I woke up this morning thinking about it. I can’t believe I did it. To say it’s out of character for me to make out with a near-stranger in public is an understatement on par with saying kids are mildly interested in talking to the big guy in the red suit.

Did I do it to make Anderson jealous? I consider this possibility seriously, without judging myself, and decide that wasn’t my motivation. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope Anderson regretted throwing away a five-year relationship for some action in a closet. But Anderson Wilson Carson most definitely was not on my mind when Jack told me he was going to kiss me. What was on my mind was the pressure of Jack’s broad, warm hands on my back, the way his eyes darkened with desire, the fit of my body against his, and the clean, grassy smell of his skin under the gingerbread-scented soap. I wanted to feel the press of his lips against mine. It was a moment of pure, raw want. And the heat that flares in my belly just thinking about it makes it clear that want hasn’t gone away.

And if it weren’t for professional rules of conduct, I’d want more. But there’s no point in going down this path because the rules do exist. And while I hate to give credence to anything that comes out of Anderson’s mouth, he’s right: not only is it inappropriate to pursue anything with Jack, it’s a poor legal strategy.

I speed up as I cross the hill and loop back around toward town, pushing myself harder as if I’ll be able to outrun my thoughts, outrun this desire, if I only move fast enough.

By the time I reach the cottage, my legs are limp noodles, my hair is sweaty under the headband, and my face is windburned. But the thought of kissing Jack is still lodged in my brain. So much for that plan. I did get a decent workout out of it, though.

I punch in the door code, let myself in, and find a note from Jack scribbled on the back of the one I left for him:

Went to the library. Back in time for the tree farm.

I do a quick cool-down stretch, guzzle some water, then eat a bowl of yogurt and granola while standing over the sink. If I were in my loft, I’d strip my stinky running tights and base layer off right here in the kitchen, but Jack could come home at any moment. So I push open the bedroom door to head into the attached bathroom.

I pause just inside the bedroom door. I feel like I’m trespassing, which is silly, I know. But it feels like a violation of Jack’s privacy. I resolve to walk through the room as quickly as I can without snooping but can’t help but notice that Jack made up the bed this morning. For some reason, he strikes me as the kind of guy who would leave the sheets rumpled, but they’re flattened and the quilt my mom made is spread reasonably neatly over the king bed. The pillows are even fluffed.

Impressed, I head into the bathroom. As soon as I spot the soaking tub, I revise my plan to take a quick shower. I turn on the tub filler, toss in two of the peppermint-scented bath bombs from Frost & Fizz Soap Works, and pull a fluffy white towel down from the rack. Then I double check that I’ve locked the door to avoid any sitcom-worthy mishaps if Jack returns before I’m out of the bath.

I shed my running clothes and sink into the hot water with a contented sigh. The invigorating scent of peppermint clears my mind and I trace lazy circles in the water as my body relaxes and my brain climbs off the hamster wheel it’s been on. I close my eyes and lean back, content and calm for the first time in at least twelve hours.

But as I drain the tub, my mind’s already back on the kiss. No point fighting it, I need to address it—and the fallout. I step into the shower to wash my hair, and throw on jeans and a thick cable-knit sweater. It’s casual for a visit to a judge, but it’ll work for the tree farm later.

Judge MacIntosh’s daughter Quinn answers on the second ring. By the time I wind through town to the MacIntosh’s orchard near Starlight Lake, Quinn has coffee brewing and a half-dozen of Merry’s cookies plated.

As soon as I walk through the door, Quinn wraps me in a tight hug and tells me to make myself comfortable before disappearing into her dad’s study. I wriggle out of my coat and hang it on the rack near the door before heading into the cozy living room. I pour myself a cup of coffee and nibble on a snickerdoodle while I examine a large canvas propped against one wall. I think it’s one of Pedro’s but, if so, it’s a departure from his signature bright colors and bold brush strokes. This abstract piece is muted, delicate, and, somehow, perfectly imperfect. I step back and consider it from a new angle.

Quinn pops her head into the room. “Dad’ll be out in a minute. I wish I could stay and visit with you, but I was about to head into town to help make sets for the ballet.”

I turn to smile at her. “We totally need to catch up. It’s been forever since we hung out.”

“I’ll call you one day this week,” she promises. “Lunch at Sushi Station?”

“You’re on.”

Judge MacIntosh appears in the doorway. Quinn gives her father a peck on the cheek before grabbing her coat and keys from the stand beside the front door. I catch the faint sound of humming and recognize “The Waltz of the Flowers” from the Nutcracker as she leaves.

I gesture toward the painting. “One of Pedro’s?”

“Yes. He calls it What Remains Beautiful. ”

“It’s different.”

He nods. “He’s been experimenting with principles of wabi-sabi, finding the beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and incompleteness. Maybe you’ve seen cracked Japanese pottery mended with gold? It’s the same idea.”

A lump rises in my throat as I study the painting some more. Art doesn’t usually make me emotional, but with the judge’s explanation, the clay, slate blue, and moss green geometric shapes that Pedro’s painted take on new meaning. They look like ceramic shards, falling, shifting, and transforming, connected in places by a fine, golden line that suggests transition, transformation, and repair. My heart squeezes and I clear my throat. “It’s evocative. Beautiful.”

“I’ll pass that along. He’ll be glad to hear it.”

“Is he in the city this weekend?” I ask the question mainly to give myself time to regain my composure.

Pedro and the judge have been together forever—at least twenty years—but Pedro has always split his time between Mistletoe Mountain and Brooklyn, where he teaches an art class and runs a gallery collective.

“Yes. He has office hours on Monday for his History of Modern Art Class, then he’s coming back for the rest of the festivities. He’s giving his final online this year so he doesn’t miss the gingerbread house building competition.”

“Well, he does have a title to defend.”

“Actually, he’s judging this year.”

The shift in topics does its job. My emotions are tucked back into their box when Uncle Chris gestures toward the seating area. I perch on an armless chair and he settles on the low settee.

“Quinn said you need some professional advice.” He pours himself a cup of coffee. “I trust it’s not about the Bell case.”

Ex parte communications are frowned on. We shouldn’t talk about Jack’s case without including someone from the district attorney’s office. But I need his counsel.

“Only tangentially,” I tell him. I square my shoulders and blurt it out. “I want to self-report an ethical violation.”

A faint smile appears on his lips. It’s so brief I think I may have imagined it. But then he says, “Ah, the kiss in the beer garden.”

My jaw hinges open. “ How? How did you hear about that ?”

“Holly Evelyn Jolly,” he says, “you’ve lived your whole life in this town. Don’t you know by now that news travels through the Mistletoe Mountain grapevine faster than Santa’s sleigh circles the globe?”

He has a point, but still. “You weren’t even there. I didn’t see Quinn either.”

“You’re right. I went to the social club after the tree lighting and Quinn was at a birthday party for a friend over in Stonebridge. They ended up at Rudy’s with the late-night crowd. People were talking.”

People were talking. I’ll bet those people share my DNA. Traitorous sisters.

“So you see the problem. I kissed my client. Or he kissed me and I kissed him back.” I shift my gaze to the cup in my hands unable to say “kiss” one more time to this man.

He chuckles and I lift my head. He studies me gravely over the tops of his glasses. “Things happen, Holly.”

“Things happen? Things happen!” I sputter. “Tabitha and Anderson were there. He saw us.”

The chuckle grows into a guffaw. “That’s rich.”

I stare at him. “Uncle Chris, it’s not funny. Anderson threatened to report me to the bar.”

He snorts and slaps his thigh. “Are you kidding? It’s hilarious. Have you both forgotten who chairs the ethics committee?”

“I know it’s you, that’s why I’m here.”

He must hear the desperate break in my voice because turns serious. “I highly doubt he’s going to report you. He doesn’t have the cleanest hands himself.”

“That’s true. I told him if he did, I’d file a complaint about him and Tabitha having an affair at the DA’s office.”

He nods. “Exactly. You have mutually assured destruction. I’m confident DA Waterson will stop him from making that mistake.”

“I think so, too. She hustled him out of the tent in a hurry. But, just in case he goes rogue, I wanted to come to you first. I understand if you want to remove me from Jack’s case.”

This earns me another snort—a derisive one. “Nice try. I presume you told Mr. Bell that you can’t get involved with him while you’re representing him.”

“I did.”

“So what’s the issue? You shared one kiss, Holly. If memory serves, Rule 1.8 prohibits beginning a consensual sexual relationship with a client after undertaking a representation. Presumably, I’d have heard if you and Mr. Bell had sex on the dance floor.”

“Uncle Chris!”

He waves off my outburst. “Just keep it chaste for the remainder of the case. After it’s wrapped up, you and Mr. Bell are free to do whatever you want.”

“After it’s wrapped up, he’ll go back to Florida or continue on to Montreal or out West or wherever the spirit moves him,” I say with a heat that surprises me. “That’s not the issue.”

“As far as I can tell, there is no issue.”

I stare at him for a long moment. “If only the judge hadn’t ordered me to live with the guy,” I finally snark.

“Heh. Maybe there’s one teeny issue.” He finishes his coffee and rests the mug on its saucer. “In all seriousness, I’m glad you came to talk to me about it. It shows integrity.”

I’ve clearly been dismissed, so I stand up. “Of course.”

On my way out of the room, I take a final look at Pedro’s painting. It hits me squarely in the feels again. “What did you say this is called?”

He follows my gaze. “ What Remains Beautiful. ”