A Virgin River Christmas

“Thank you, pastor,” she said, withdrawing herself. “Beautiful sermon.”



“Then, I thank you. I lack confidence in getting them ready. They’re a struggle. Come back and see us.”



“Sure,” she said, removing herself.



She went and waited by the truck, and while she was there, she watched Ian make his way to the pastor, shake his hand, speak to him, even laugh with him. And she thought—there are two of him! He is that guy who seems so alone and a guy who’s made his way in the world just fine. It’s just that his world is a different kind of world; it’s not that rushing, heavily populated world of demands and connections so many of us have. His is mostly a quiet world and his relationships seemed to be the same. The way he seemed to like it.



When she’d been looking for him, she had asked probably a hundred people if they knew an Ian Buchanan and the answer had always been the same. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.” Ian probably made his way through life, friendly enough, without anyone asking his name, without him ever offering it.



When Ian got to the truck and fired it up, she asked, “Did the pastor ask you your name?”



“No,” he said. “Why?”



So that was part of it. That and the fact he didn’t look anything like the picture she’d been flashing around. “No reason, just curious,” she said.



“I think we should have a nice, big breakfast. Do you feel like eating before we hit the library?”



“Sure,” she said quietly.



“You all right, Marcie?”



She shrugged. “I think I got a little sentimental there for a minute. A good strong cup of coffee should do the trick.”



“Well, you’re in luck—I know just the place.”



It was a truck stop, of course. Ian was quite proud of the place. There must have been a dozen eighteen-wheelers parked outside and when he walked in, a middle-aged, heavyset, bleached-blond waitress said hello rather familiarly. “Hey, Bub—you doing okay? Haven’t seen you in a while.”



“Doing great, Patti,” he answered. She wore a big name tag so Marcie couldn’t assume they were friends. But Ian had been seen around after all—in plenty of places. Coincidentally, none of the places she’d been looking.



Patti poured their coffee and said, “Need a minute?”



“Yeah, give the lady some time to decide,” he said.



After Patti had gone, Marcie said, “I guess you must get the same thing every time?”



“Just about. Yeah,” he admitted.



“Okay.” She studied her menu. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll have a cheese omelet.”



“Sounds good,” he said. He lifted his hand to Patti.



When she arrived he said, “A cheese omelet for the lady, trim it, and for me—”



“Four eggs, side of bacon, side of sausage, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, wheat toast, orange juice and coffee till you float,” she finished for him.



He smiled at Patti and it was most definitely a smile. If I were Patti, Marcie thought, I’d think he wanted to ask me out on a date. But all Patti said was, “Gotcha, Bub.”



By her first refill of coffee, Marcie started to get right with the world. Nothing straightened her out like caffeine, she thought. Hot coffee, not that stuff Ian left warming on the woodstove when he went to sell wood in the mornings. And this was good and strong. She came around. “So, are you and Patti friends?” she asked.



“Patti’s my waitress about once every two months,” he said. “She does a good job.”



“Why didn’t you sing in church?” she asked boldly.



He put down his cup. “I didn’t want to.”



“Why?”



“Look, don’t make me act all conceited. I was in choir in high school. I was in our high school musical—we did Grease. I have an okay voice. I don’t want to join the choir.”



“Who were you in Grease?”



“It’s not important.”



“Who?”



His hand went over his mouth and he mumbled something.



“Who?” she asked, leaning closer.



His eyes came up. “Danny.”



“You were the star! You were frickin’ John Travolta, except you sing better!”



His eyes shifted around nervously. “You just got a little loud there.”



“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. But really…Have you ever studied music?”



“I studied military strategy. I thought you knew that.”



“Okay, sorry, brushing up against that forbidden territory. But Jesus, you sing like a god! Wouldn’t that be something you’d think about pursuing?”



He was quiet for a long moment and finally said, “I sing for myself. It’s nice. It passes time. You’re not going to save me, Marcie. You’re not going to pull me out of the hills and turn me in to a rock star.”



She was speechless. For a split second, that was exactly what she’d had in mind. Not a rock star, exactly, but a famous singer at least. “Well, it’s just a stupid crime that you don’t even have a radio,” she said churlishly. “No matter where you live, you should have music around you.”



And he laughed.



Their plates arrived, along with a check that Ian snapped up. She just stared at his huge breakfast with wide, startled eyes.



“Now what?” he asked.



“Holy smokes, do they see you pull into the parking lot and fire up the grill? That didn’t take five minutes!”



He curved his lips into a smile for her. “I like that they’re efficient. They work, they get the job done.”



“Yeah,” she said. “Um—let me split the check. I have money.”



“I know. Eighty dollars.” He dug into his eggs.



“Really, I’d like to pay my share,” she said.



He lifted a sausage patty off his plate and slid it onto hers. “Forget it, I’ve got it. Try this, it’s the best sausage patty you’ll ever taste.”



“You obviously need a lot of fuel to do what you do,” she commented. Then she tasted the patty. “Hmm, right. You’re so right.”



He plunged his fork into the large biscuit and gravy and held it out to her. “Here. This is even better.”



For a second she was still. He was feeding her right off his fork? Then before the mood could drift away, she leaned toward that fork and sampled the biscuit and gravy. She hummed in agreement, let her eyes drop closed in appreciation and when she opened them, he was smiling happily. There was something so intimate, so generous about that simple gesture, it touched her heart.



“I knew you’d like it. I can never finish everything. Help yourself.”



“Thank you, Ian,” she said quietly.



When they pulled into the Eureka Public Library, she asked, “Can we browse a little? Or are we in a hurry?”



“How are you feeling? You coughed some.”



“I feel so much better doing something. I’d like to pick up a couple of books to keep me busy while you sell firewood. And I’m not sure what I want.”



“Take your time. I like to read the papers,” he said.



And she did take her time, luxuriously. Roaming the stacks, picking up novels with pretty covers, reading the cover copy and then the first page, having a real hard time choosing. She sat on the floor in the crowded aisles, so happy to be in the midst of entertainment again. She’d been reading classics to Bobby, more for herself than him, but her own tastes ran to newer romances. Deep, emotional romances with happy endings. Where things worked out. Whatever book she chose would have to be the right one; it was the only diversion she had. She had no idea how much time had passed when he said, “You just about ready?”



“Oh! Sure. Can I please have these three?”



“You think you’ll read that many before you leave?”



She just smiled at him. “Yes,” she said, knowing that was half an answer. Or less.



While Ian was checking out the books and then waiting by the door, Marcie was chatting it up with one of the librarians. They started off talking softly but very soon they were laughing, touching each other’s arms as they whispered close. He cleared his throat once and both women looked at him. He treated them to a glower, then they just resumed their conversation, interspersed with soft laughter. It looked as though they’d become best friends in just a short time.



Finally Marcie tore herself away from a hug and followed Ian to the truck. When they were inside, he was sulky. “You weren’t going to get all involved. Hook up with people. All that.”



“I didn’t,” she said.



“Well, that looked pretty cozy, back there. I told you—you’re the kind of person people want to get to know, talk to—”



“Don’t worry, Ian. I totally protected your anonymity. I told her you were my brother.”



“Great,” he pouted. “Now she’s going to ask me about you. And I told you—I’m friendly and pleasant and then I move on.”



“You can do that. She’ll find it perfectly understandable.”



“Oh? And why’s that?”



“Well, she wondered about you. Said you ask for some heavy reading sometimes, but that you didn’t make much conversation.”



“Oh, really?”



“Yes,” Marcie explained. “I said you were brilliant, but not a very social animal. I said she shouldn’t expect a lot of chitchat from you, but you were perfectly nice, and there was no reason to be shy around you—you’re safer than you look.”



“Is that so? And how did you convince her of that?”



“Easy. I said you were an idiot savant—brilliant in literature and many other things, but socially you weren’t on your game.”



“Oh, Jesus Christ!”



She noted the late-afternoon sky, the sun beginning to lower. “Ian, when was the last time you went out for a beer?”



“Been a while,” he grumbled miserably.



“I’d so love to see that Christmas tree in Virgin River at night. Could we pass through there for a beer? By the time we’ve had a beer, it might be dark. I should try calling my sister again before she comes hunting me down—and there’s that nice little bar there, with a phone I can use.”



“Aw, Marcie…”



“Come on. It’s been such a perfect day. Let’s end it on a positive note. Let me buy you a beer and maybe some of Preacher’s dinner—he cooks like a dream.”



“Preacher?”



“The cook in that little bar.”



“I don’t really like big crowds.”



She laughed at him. “Ian, if the whole town turns out, there will be fewer people there than in that truck stop or in the church. Besides, you told me that you’re around people all the time, you’re just not a joiner. So come on. Man up.”



It was barely five o’clock when Marcie and Ian entered Jack’s bar, and there were about twenty people there. Ian stood by the door and surveyed the new surroundings warily. He noted hunting and fishing trophies on the walls, the dim lighting, the welcoming fire. It didn’t look threatening. While there were a couple of tables of people engaged in friendly conversation and laughter, there were also a couple of solitary men having a drink or a meal apart from the crowd. One he recognized as the old doctor, seated up at the bar and hovering over a drink, left entirely alone.



Marcie went right up to the bar, leaning on it, talking with the bartender. Ian spied an empty spot at the far end of the bar in the corner where he thought he’d be comfortable. He approached Marcie’s back, meaning to steer her there. As if she felt him come near, she turned and said, “Ian, meet Jack Sheridan. Jack, Ian.”