November 2

November, I’ve decided as I’m driving home from work, is a cold-hearted bitch. She is my least favorite month for a few reasons: the early darkness, the damp, chilly air, and the colors—or more accurately, the lack thereof. If I had to pick a palette for November, I’d choose hard yellow and mud brown. The only thing good about this month is that it’s thirty days instead of thirty-one. I can’t even count Thanksgiving as a bonus because Thanksgiving means family, and since my parents are planning to stay in Sedona until Christmas, I’ll be spending Turkey Day alone, unless I want to fly across the country by myself on one of the busiest travel days of the year. Hours at the airport and sitting in an aluminum tube 30,000 feet in the air with a couple hundred strangers who may or may not be harboring contagious viruses...no thanks. I’ll pass.

I guess November isn’t the only cold-hearted bitch.

I’ve been staying at the office a little later, just so the night at home will seem shorter. Murphy is going to be hungry, and if he were the type of cat to hold grudges, I’d be in for it. I’ll make it up to him with real tuna, not cat food, and we’ll snuggle on the couch with a fleece blanket and a little Netflix. Maybe a little Barefoot Moscato.

So not only is it November, but it’s dark and misting, thirty-four degrees according to my car thermometer, and I also realize, coming up on my house, that it’s only Monday.

But all of those gloomy thoughts shrink into wisps of irrelevance, because there is a black Ford Super Duty in my driveway, gleaming under the security spotlight.

That truck is supposed to be in Concord, New Hampshire. But somehow, it is not.

It is here.

I pull in behind the truck, turn off the ignition and climb out of my car. My legs are shaking, and it’s not because of the cold. I walk quickly to the door, my coat flapping and my skirt swishing at my knees, jabbing at the security keypad with fingers that don’t seem to want to work. I am vaguely aware of the warmth of my house rushing around me, vaguely aware of Murphy winding in and out of my legs. Automatically, I go to the pantry and throw a handful of dry Purina on the kitchen floor, my promise of tuna shoved to the back of my mind, because Jack.

Where is he?

“Jack?” I call out cautiously, like there’s some enchantment at work here, and I don’t want to break the spell. And then, when there’s no answer, a little more loudly. “Jack?”

Nothing. I walk a loop around the first floor, checking every room as uneasiness climbs up into my throat. Did I imagine seeing his truck? Is the bitch that is November messing with my mind?

The bedroom. Could he be waiting for me? My God. Yes—my unspoken fantasy, replayed hundreds of times, coming to life. I climb the stairs as fast as I can.

Only, no. Just my neatly-made bed, an indent on the comforter where Murphy likes to sleep, and the dark en suite bathroom.

So where is…

I swing my gaze to the bedroom windows overlooking the backyard. Lights, down near the water.

Clutching my coat in front of me, I clatter back down the stairs, out the side door, the damp breath of November coating my face. I’m wobbling in my heels as I cross the bumpy, frozen ground, praying that I won’t twist an ankle or fall on my face. Praying that everything is okay with Jack.

Past the now-dormant bushes of beach roses, there is light. Lights, plural—two sets of work lights on metal tripod stands, hooked up to what looks like a motor on wheels that’s humming steadily.

I walk along beside the orange extension cord on my way to the sea. And I see.

Jack is a blurry silhouette in the ocean mist, standing on the flat black picnic rock. His image sharpens and brightens as I get closer. He is not alone.

Surrounding him are neatly-constructed stacks of rocks of varying heights: fifteen or so, dwarfed even more by their creator’s size.

He made cairns.

I draw in my breath and hold it, like you do when you want to believe something so much, yet you don’t quite dare.

He steps into the glare of the work light, about ten feet away from me. I don’t dare to move. He’s wearing a thick, navy blue coat with a brown suede collar, jeans and work boots. His hair is wind-tossed and damp, a few pieces clinging to his forehead so he looks impossibly charming and boyish as well as insanely gorgeous. His blue eyes are bright and clear, with such depth and intensity I want to fall inside them and never come out.

I am trying like hell not to dissolve into the big hot mess that’s bubbling within me.

He starts the conversation. This is a good thing, because I can’t.

“I didn’t want to mess up your lawn by driving my truck down, even though the ground feels solid. So I wheeled down my generator, set up my work lights. Turned out to be a pretty sweet set-up, to get the job done.”

“You’ve been busy,” I say, finally.

“It’s like therapy, making them. I’ve learned a lot.”

I can see him shiver, beneath his coat. “You should have a hat on.”

“How do you know I don’t?” His grin is devilish, devastating.

My entire lower half bursts into flames. I raise my index finger, give him a point in the air. “It’s good to know that some things haven’t changed.”

“Agreed. But other things have. I have, Callaway.”

His expression turns so serious that I get scared—like really, really scared. Like maybe I’ve misinterpreted this whole thing. “Jack...if you’re here to say goodbye again...”

“Hear me out.” He takes a step closer. “I finally researched cairns, and how people use them as markers. One of the coolest things I read was that they let you know you’re on the path, but they don’t necessarily direct you. They just show you the way.” He pauses, takes a breath. I can see his frosty exhale on the air. “I needed to find direction on my own. And the path led back to you.”

I cannot move. Cannot speak.

“I learned that cairns are a way to communicate. And that they symbolize connection. And I know you really like them. So I thought I’d use these to communicate my connections to you. Come here.” He reaches out a gloved hand. I take it, my body buzzing with anticipation and curiosity. And fiery arousal, even with this minor physical contact.

Some things never change.

He leads me, gently, to the cairns and points as he explains each one. “This one represents my connection to your humor. I tried to make it look twisted, because that’s how our humor can be. And that one next to it is supposed to look like it has a roof, with the pyramid-shaped rock on top. That’s your house, which was our first connection.” He squeezes my hand. “Couldn’t figure out how to make it look like a bathroom, but you get the idea.”

“The little one with the light-colored rocks...that’s your innocence, your vulnerability. I was drawn to that right off.”

He walks me from cairn to cairn, keeping my hand in his, until he’s told me about each connection: a cairn that appears to widen toward the top, for the trust I showed in him and for what he’s built toward me. A solid stack for my strength of character, a tower of “the prettiest rocks” he could find to represent how he’s attracted to me. There is even a small cairn for Murphy, with a curve of little rocks in a shallow S for the tail.  And lastly, the biggest stack of all: his feelings for me—complete with a heart-shaped rock on top.

“So like I said, I’ve learned a lot about cairns, and I saw some posts on line from people pissed off about rocks being moved around and little creatures being disturbed, but since I’m freezing my ass off out here, I figured there wasn’t anything actually living under them. At least, I hope not. And we can definitely take them all down.” He looks so earnest, so genuinely concerned, I have all I can do not to throw my arms around him, hold him tight.

But there is more that Jack Decker needs to say. He takes my other hand so that he’s holding both, rubbing his gloved thumbs over my knuckles, warming my chilled skin.

I feel his touch everywhere within me.

He sighs shakily, that perfectly-sculpted mouth parting. “Jesus, this was a lot easier to say when only my truck could hear me. I’ve got to be honest, Callaway—the feelings I’m having scare me shitless—way beyond my spider phobia. And that’s why I kept pushing you away, until I finally got it through my head that you can’t escape something that’s in your heart. As much as I tried to deny what was happening, I kept taking you with me.”

His eyes don’t leave my face. They skim over my forehead, down the bridge of my nose and linger on my lips. I can’t stop trembling.

“When a female client would call me for a job, I’d make a game out of predicting what she would look like. I’m usually pretty accurate, but with you, I was totally wrong. In my defense, though...nothing could have prepared me for your reality. And I was wrong about thinking I could apply my usual rules to you. I couldn’t. Most of all, I was wrong to think I could leave you. Because I fucking can’t.”

My cheeks are wet, but it’s a warm wet, spilling out of my eyes and mingling with the light rain. I want to wipe them, but I don’t want to let go of his hands. Or him. Ever.

“I would have arrived at this conclusion at some point on my own, but I had some help from a very wise man who taught me about the importance of not wasting time.” His eyes are glistening.

I almost don’t dare to ask, but I have to. “What about Concord?”

Jack shakes his head. “I’m not going. I called my dad today and told him. He took the news way better than I expected. There’s even a good chance he’ll still have me take over for him and stay in Maine. I recommended my buddy Drew to run the store down there, and Dad liked the idea, so it’s a win-win. Drew gets to move up in the company, which he totally deserves, and I get to...stay.”

The sea breeze whips strands of hair into my mouth, and I reluctantly let go of Jack’s hand to brush them away. My heart soars into the November night, somewhere over the clouds that can’t hold on to the rain any longer, just as I can’t hold on to my tears, or my joy.

“Oh,” is all I can manage to say, although what I’m thinking is, oh. My. GOD. He’s going to stay. Jack is going to stay.

He puts a hand on each side of my face, brushing my cheekbones with his thumbs. “Don’t cry, my sweet girl,” he murmurs.

Which of course brings fresh tears. “I love...your truck,” I sob. “I really, really love your truck, and seeing it in my driveway.”

“I love my truck in your driveway, too, Callaway. And I love your house. Funny thing about houses...there’s a feeling that each one gives off. When I walked into yours, I was surprised that it felt so comforting and familiar. Now I know why.” His voice grows husky. “Because I felt like I’d come home.”

With a little choked cry, I stand up on my tiptoes, as high as I can, and wrap my arms around his neck. He bends toward me, making one of the sexiest half-groans, half-sighs that could ever be uttered and crushes my lips with his warm mouth. We kiss and gasp at how good it feels and kiss some more, until he breaks away. “Callaway...I want to kiss you forever, but can we do it inside? Because I can’t feel my ass. Literally, I can’t feel it.”

Laughing, I slide my hands around to the back side of him and squeeze. “No worries...it’s still there. Still firm, still grope-able, still amazing. But yes, let’s go in.”

I wrap my arms around myself as Jack races to the generator and shuts it off, then scoops me up in his arms and buries his cold nose in my neck, making me squirm and giggle. And even though there is a frigid wind coming off the water, a hard rain pelting my head, and there’s not a star to be seen in this black, black night, everything is color, everything is brightness, everything is warmth...and I love November, so much.

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