8. On the Bookstore Sound System “Underneath the Tree” by Kelly Clarkson

CHAPTER 8

ON THE BOOKSTORE SOUND SYSTEM: “UNDERNEATH THE TREE” BY KELLY CLARKSON

In the name of Christmas shopping, Nicolette is browsing an independent bookstore in Burlington. Her family has so much money that holiday shopping is futile. There’s never a thing that anyone really needs.

Still, she’s picked out the new Malcom Gladwell for her father and the new Dan Brown for Cam.

For herself, she’s getting a nonfiction book and also a copy of Stephen King’s Revival . She’s been waiting for this book for ages, and she’s 99 percent sure nobody in her family will have a clue about that. Just in case she’s wrong, she’ll stash the book in the closet until Christmas morning. And when it fails to appear, she’ll be able to read it anyway.

She has other errands to do, too. She has to visit a shoe-repair shop, and her stepmother wants her to pick up several flower arrangements for her annual party. But Nicolette finds herself lingering in the shop, scanning the colorful spines on the shelf. Because books are the most exciting thing in her life at the moment.

After she’s shopped the entire store, she finally adds herself to the line of holiday shoppers at the checkout desk, where two cashiers are working furiously.

As the line slowly inches forward, she becomes aware of a tall, dark-haired man across from her who’s peering at the books in her stack. Nicolette suddenly gets goosebumps. Damien , her mind offers up, even if she hasn’t yet seen his face.

She turns and braces herself to see the same bombed-out shell of a person she saw last time at the airport. But that’s not what she gets. No, this version of Damien locks her gaze on the first try. And then he smiles. “Nicolette. Wow. Hi.”

His hair is longer than she’s ever seen it before. He’s wearing an unfamiliar puffer jacket. She’s relieved he’s smiling, because after their last, disastrous meeting, a friendly expression would not be a given.

“Hi,” she says stupidly. Then she adds with a little more enthusiasm than necessary, “You look great.” She feels herself flush to the hairline. But this is how it’s always been. Damien always turns her into a blithering idiot just by showing his face.

It’s been, what, nine years since that first day he drove her to the airport? And she’s still a babbling mess. But he never seems to mind.

“Listen,” he says, cutting through her reverie. “I don’t know what you’re up to today, but if we ever get through this line, I’d really like to buy you a cup of coffee. You got a half hour for me?”

“Absolutely,” she says without even considering it.

Because it’s Damien.

Her heart runs a race inside her chest as they wait for their coffees at Uncommon Ground on Church Street.

That’s normal, right? You see an old acquaintance, and you feel effervescent inside? Like a flute of champagne poured from a newly opened bottle.

You’re married , she reminds herself. Get over your teenage crush .

“I see a table,” he says.

She realizes their drinks are ready. It’s too late in the day for coffee, so she’d ordered a decaf. Now she follows him over to a table near the back. This coffee shop is delightfully old school, with wainscoting and tile. She sinks into a chair and takes a sip of her latte.

He settles across from her with a patient smile. “All right. Now catch me up on all the recent episodes of the Nicolette Overland show. I know I’ve missed a lot.”

It’s Nicolette Wentworth now, actually . But she doesn’t correct him. “Well, to my father’s horror, I haven’t gone to law school yet. I’m still working as a paralegal in a Boston firm, trying to decide whether to reapply.”

He sips his coffee. “If the decision is so hard, maybe that’s not what you want.”

“Maybe,” she agrees. “The problem is that I don’t know what else to do. It’s not like I’m holding myself back. I’m just uninspired.”

“What about your writing?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “How’s that going?”

“Slowly, since you asked.” He smiles at her again. “I’m still writing, but it’s just a hobby. I don’t want to put pressure on my stories like that.” Besides, she can’t just start referring to herself as a writer. Not with merely a half-finished novel. And nobody else in her life seems to think it’s a real career.

“Fair enough. What else is going on? You make it to Vermont very often?”

“Every couple of months or so. Cam and my father both work in commercial real estate, and they have several projects together. So we built a guesthouse on my father’s property."

His eyes widen. “ Nice ."

She wonders if he really thinks it sounds nice, or if he’s actually thinking how spoiled she is. Talking to Damien has always made her see her own life differently. He pierces the weird little bubble she lives inside. “We might not get up here much next year, though. Cam—my husband,” she clarifies.

He nods.

“—he’s exploring a run for congress during the next election cycle.”

“Fascinating,” Damien says, setting his cup down. “Like a real campaign? Speeches and kissing babies?”

“Yep. Lots of smiley photographs. I now own several pieces of clothing in red, white, and blue.”

He chuckles. “Wow. Can he win? ”

“Maybe?” The idea makes her feel slightly hysterical. But it would be disloyal to say so. And she already feels disloyal. Cam would hate that she’s sitting here with Damien. Not because he’s a jealous ogre. He isn’t. He’d hate it if he knew how Damien makes her feel.

“So you might move to Washington D.C.?”

“Well, we’d get an apartment there, and also keep our place outside Boston. Life would be pretty chaotic.” She feels herself wince. “But that’s almost two years away. So I don’t have to worry about it yet.”

He studies her with calm brown eyes. “That sounds like… a lot. Are you happy?”

It’s such a simple question. But an awkward beat goes by before she answers. “Absolutely.”

It’s the only possible answer, because an Overland doesn’t complain.

So she doesn’t mention how lonely she is sometimes.

She doesn’t explain how Cici has become so distant since Nicolette married her brother.

And she doesn’t explain how all her Duke friends are spread all around the world. Or that all their Boston friends are really Cam’s college friends. And some of them are snobs.

“I have a steady job, even if it’s a little dull,” she says. “And a husband who thinks I’m great.” Usually , she adds silently.

Things have been strained with Cam lately. They’ve been trying to get pregnant, and it’s not working. It’s led to some stupid fights. When she suggested they give it a break for a while, because the whole thing stressed her out, he actually said, “I’m in a phase in my life when a man should have children.”

And she hurled back, “Do you actually want them? Or would they just make your campaign photos look better?”

They barely spoke to each other for days, and then Cam sent her three dozen roses for their wedding anniversary. They were so beautiful, and she was so tired of being angry that she cried. And then they had sex, and she cried some more in the shower after. Because she didn’t want Cam to see.

Now it’s almost Christmas, and her stepmother will invariably ask them when they’re going to start a family. Like it’s any of her business.

Across the table from her, Damien sets down his coffee cup and leans forward in his chair. “Look, it’s more fun talking about you than me, but I have something I need to say.”

“Okay?” she says, relieved to change the subject. “Hit me.”

“First of all, I need to thank you for that box you sent me when I was in the sandbox. It was, like, the best present ever.” He gives her a shy smile. “I mean that.”

Oh . “You’re welcome. I wasn’t even sure you’d gotten it.”

“Yeah, I bet.” He winces. “Look, I need to show you something.” He stands up.

She’s baffled as he thrusts a hand into his pocket and retrieves something. He sits down again and shows her his palm.

It’s her lucky marble. Right there in his hand. She barely manages to hold back a gasp.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I got your package. And I started to write you a letter back but…” He looks down into his coffee. “Well, it got heavy. And then I didn’t feel I could send it. I’ve felt bad about it ever since.”

“Damien,” she says, gobsmacked. “Don’t apologize. I’m just glad it reached you.”

“It reached me all right.” He rolls the marble between his thumb and forefinger. The move looks habitual. Like he’s done this many times before. “All that chocolate—I was the most popular guy in the barracks for a week.”

Something warm blossoms inside her chest. “That makes me so happy.”

He glances up, giving her a fleeting smile. “I’m sorry I let so much time go by without saying so. When I saw you a couple years ago, on that drive from the airport?”

Four years ago, almost exactly , she mentally corrects him. That awkward hour is hard to think about, even after all that time. It makes her cringe to remember the way Cam treated Damien—like the help.

She wanted to snap at her husband, “Don’t talk to my friend that way.” Except Damien wasn’t acting like a friend, he was acting like a robot. She’d tried to forget the whole thing.

“Back then, I wasn’t in a good place,” Damien says quietly. “It took me a while to, uh, recover from my time in the army. It was ugly there for a little while. I had a full-blown case of PTSD.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says quietly.

He shrugs. “Don’t be. I’m doing much better now. Just wanted to explain myself, because I’m not proud of the way I acted.” He glances away, but then meets her gaze again. “You know that book you sent me? The sketchbook?"

"Of course. Did you use it?"

“I did. But I can’t show you the sketches. They’re gone.”

"Oh no. What happened?” She’s picturing a bad coffee spill.

“Hard to say. Our outpost was attacked, and I ran out of there to a firefight and never saw my stuff again. My friend died in that battle. The notebook was probably blown up or burned up. Or—who knows? Maybe an insurgent is using it to draw the next great graphic novel.”

She doesn’t laugh. "I’m sorry, Damien. That sounds terrifying.”

“It wasn’t great. But I’m here now and a lot of guys aren’t. So I can’t complain. Or at least I shouldn’t.” He clears his throat and swallows roughly.

She can feel in the pit of her stomach how bad it must have been to cause him to make that face.

“I think you should take this back,” he says, extending the marble. “I think it worked its magic on me already. I’m here in one piece.”

Her heart flutters. “All right,” she says softly. “I suppose I could use a turn.”

He grins as he puts it in her hand. “Here. I’m going to want an update on how this goes.”

She pulls a coin purse from her bag and zips the marble carefully inside. “You know, I worried a lot about something happening to you over there. Know why?"

His eyes warm. "Because I’m probably a better taxi driver than a sharpshooter?"

She shakes her head. “No. I’m sure you could do anything if you try. But I gave you that song and lecture about going to school. And in that note you left with Rose you said the G.I. bill was one reason you enlisted.'"

“Overland.” He sits back in his chair. “You did not make me enlist."

"I know. I know. I don’t mean to overstate my own importance. But if you didn’t come back, I was going to feel responsible."

“Well, you shouldn’t have. I joined up because I didn’t want to just…settle. I thought I might look up someday and realize I’m fifty and still stuck in a rut. So, yeah, maybe I got more than I bargained for. It messed me up a little. But I don’t really regret it. I saved a lot of money, and I learned some things about myself. And I survived it.”

“Well, good. Because it really beats the alternative.” She clears her throat.

“No—I meant it in a bigger way than that. Like I chose to accept the help that was offered, and let my family take care of me, and then work on myself. And now I can go to school on the damn G.I. bill. If I want to.”

“Do you?”

He looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “Yeah, I think I do. But only if I can study art. I’m pretty old for college, so I’ll only do it on my own terms, you know? I can study art and drive a taxi. Other people might find that weird, but I don’t care what they think. I just need to try.”

“You should try,” she says, startling both of them with her intensity. “I wish I wanted something badly enough to rearrange my whole life for it.”

He gives her a strange look. “I guess I’m really good at wanting impossible things.”

The conversation gets a little less intense after that. The topic moves on to horror movies and books. It’s been too long since they compared their favorites.

This is how it’s supposed to be , she thinks as he teases her about her taste in B-movies. Easy .

It’s so easy that she loses track of time. Before she knows it, there’re only twenty minutes left to make it to the shop for Veronica’s pickup.

“Oh, heck!” she curses. “My stepmother will skin me if I don’t come home with her flowers.”

“Sorry,” Damien says, rising to his feet. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“No! I just lost track of time.” She’s grabbing her shopping bag off the floor, jumping to her feet. Flustered. “It was so great seeing you.”

The hug just happens. Later, she’ll try to remember who leaned in first, and she won’t be able to decide. All she knows is that she loves the feel of Damien’s strong arms around her. He’s so sturdy, and it’s hard to remember the last time she’s been hugged so thoroughly and so well.

But then it’s over, and he’s leading her toward the door. “It was really great to see you,” he says. “If you’re in Vermont again sometime and you have a free afternoon, call me. We’ll hit a bookstore. Have a coffee. Argue about The Walking Dead . Wait—” He grabs a card out of his pocket. “In case you don’t have my number.”

“Thanks,” she says brightly. She really needs to get to the flower shop, but he’s still looking at her intently.

“I’ve really missed you,” he says. “Thank you for taking the time today.”

She blushes to her hairline again. “It was entirely my pleasure.”

And then she makes herself hurry away.