Waiting for Gilbert: Holidays in Hadley Springs, #1

1

CORDELIA

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14

ELVIS PRESLEY—BLUE CHRISTMAS

Squinting at the blowing snow through my windshield while sad and pathetic breakup tears drip down my snotty face isn’t how I pictured my day going. I was going to be strong. I was going to be the strongest, toughest woman you’d ever seen. Psh! Shaun? Who’s he? Me? Engaged? Nope. It was like it never happened. A fling! A little run-o-the-mill date’em and drop’em. That’s how I roll. I’m made of steel, and I’m bad and tough and do what I want.

I make a popping noise with my lips—the one that drove my sister crazy when I was a kid. The hum of the engine and the warm air blasting through the vents are the only other sounds in the car as I tell these lies to myself in a hopeless attempt to stall another round of tears.

Let it be known that strong women cry. Sometimes a lot. But only because being alone is the worst. Not because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Shaun.

You know what? I’m glad Shaun called off the wedding. Someone needed to wake us up. I just wish I had thought of it first. We hadn’t even sent the save-the-dates. See? Let’s be thankful for that little blessing.

Breakups are yucky and sad even when it’s best to get out of a relationship that isn’t working. I know this.

I knew something was off between us. He was nice. But man, were we boring together.

I release a shuddering breath and veer left off of Highway Eighty-One. My next turn is nearby and I don’t want to miss it again, so I pull over onto the shoulder. I fish another tissue from my purse and blow my nose throughout another pep talk. Shaun did the right thing. Sniffle. Shaun is not the bad guy. Hiccup. I am not the bad guy. Blow. It hurts now, but it will be better soon.

Last week, after a meh sort of date, he’d ducked his head once and then looked me straight in the eyes to deliver his breakup lines. Cordy, you’re cute and fun, but I don’t see us having a family together. The longer we’re engaged, it just doesn’t feel right anymore. I know there’s someone perfect for you and it’s not me. It’s been a great two years. With soul-wrenching pity in his eyes he shrugged because there was nothing else to say.

The message is loud and clear. I’m not the kind of person men want to have families with.

Was it because the music was too loud at dinner and I could not stop bobbing my head and dipping my shoulders? The dance-party-for-one embarrassed him? Or maybe when I created an entire backstory for our server’s tattoo of an apple on her forearm. I’d concluded she was only waiting tables to save for tuition to transfer to Oxford and learn from the great scholars in England and her apple was a symbol of knowledge to propel her toward her quest. When I asked her—Shaun absolutely hated that I asked because it was none of our business, but I figure if you get a big ol’ tattoo on your arm, maybe you want to talk about it?—she giggled and raised her arm saying, I just looove Edward Cullen, yeah?

Oooh. I blinked. Me too!

Shaun sighed because he knew I was lying. So I kept talking to spite him. "Me too. Mmhmmm. It’s crazy what some people say about Edward being controlling and abusive."

Her jaw dropped. I’m bringing you a free dessert.

Yeah. It’s wrong to lie. If I’d known she was going to go nuts on me about it and act like we were new besties, I wouldn’t have said it. Ugghhh. No. Shaun didn’t dump me because of one boring date.

But he’s right. I’m twenty-eight years old. Maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe there’s a reason. A real, good solid reason that I’m not the kind of person men want to be with.

Fine, then! I vow not to be cute and fun. It’s my Christmas promise to myself. I shall not be cute. I shall not be fun.

Who’s Cordelia Jane? Not me. I have a serious name henceforth. I’m known across the country as plain CJ. I’m serious and I’m focused. And dang it, I’m crying again.

I dig in the door pocket for a handful of brown paper napkins leftover from lunch.

Settling for Shaun was a mistake. He was never my Gilbert. I know this now.

My mom is obsessed with Anne of Green Gables. Hence my sister’s name, Diana, and my name, Cordelia. Who names their daughter Cordelia??? My mom. From one little conversation in the book when Anne says to Marilla, I would love to be called Cordelia. It’s such a perfectly elegant name.

Sure it is. But elegant names do not beget elegant futures.

Regardless, I grew up watching Jonathon Crombie as Gilbert Blythe patiently woo Anne Shirley, and I childishly built the same fantasy for myself. I decided to wait for that. I would wait for my Gilbert. Since my hair is as bright red as Anne’s, I’ve always identified with her on a personal level.

When did I lose that dream? I scoff at the foolishness of it. The perfect man isn’t going to come knocking on my door in the middle of the night. I must go find him!

I can’t sit here and wait for some dashing, pre-med student from Canada to find me. I must take direct action. I’ll create an online dating profile. Yes! Then I’ll have the means to sift through potential candidates before I get caught in their sweet faces and adoring smiles.

Despite his good looks, Shaun was not Gilbert. Besides our limited passion—maybe because of—we never fought. He just gave me a disappointed look on occasion. Shaun doesn’t even like to read!

I smack my forehead on the steering wheel.

How did I ever think it would work between us?

Currently I’m trying to get to my sister’s house in tiny Hadley Springs, Nebraska. Not because I’m running away. That’s something a cute and fun girl might do. No, I’m a serious, focused career girl looking for a house to rent, and I’m not too proud to live with my sister and all of her adorable gremlins until I find the perfect place. Also, Christmas.

My phone’s light momentarily blinds me when I check the map. At five thirty it’s already as dark as midnight here in the Midwest.

Okay, I’m going the right direction. I shut off the screen because I’m not the kind of girl who needs a phone to tell her where to go every second. And because I’ve been here five times and I should know this already. I pull back onto the deserted road just as my phone buzzes with an incoming call from my cousin. I tap my earbud to answer. Mark Brader! The one and only!

Hey, Cordy.

I smile. My favorite cousin, editor, and friend also happens to be an odd sort of coach who doesn’t take crap from me ever. Not since our days at college and not since we both started working in the publishing world. He with the editing. Me with the writing—and the cooking and picture-taking as a food photographer. He spends his days making authors cry from an office in Phoenix, and I do cookbooks. It’s my job to test recipes and write lovely blurbs to convince people to cook the food. That’s my jam. Sometimes literally. I did a whole book on different jams once.

Mark! Where you been all my life? We talked yesterday.

He takes a noisy sip of his coffee. I know it’s coffee because if there wasn’t a cup nearby he’d have it through an IV into his bloodstream. I imagine a no-nonsense black mug with his alma mater in a gold scrolling logo that he carefully clicks into place on a little mug heater. He would have one of those because he’s too uppity to put it in a thermos like the rest of us peasants. Mark would probably explain that coffee tastes better when given the chance to aerate.

What’s up? I sniff from the leftover Shaun emotions, and I’m instantly regretting the action. Nooo. But it’s too late.

Uh-oh. You sick?

Nope, I squeak.

Shaun. He spits the name like an expletive.

"Don’t distract me. I am serious and focused. "

And I’m a dancing monkey.

Good. So we needn’t argue. Take note, I’m changing my name to CJ.

Oh, we are serious, he says.

And focused.

So… CJ, hit me with the list. Oh, right. Check-in time from Coach Business. What do you have going on this week? On track?

The snow streaks over the windshield like a trip through a sci-fi space movie. There’s nothing but the black road before me while the stars, er snowflakes, zoom around my trusty Toyota.

Yeppers. I lie. Totally not on track. Packing my apartment and moving two weeks early on a whim was not on the schedule.

Awesome. Then why the name change and refusal to answer my first question?

I sigh because I want to tell him it’s not his problem. I don’t have to explain myself to you? That was not supposed to come out as a question, but it most certainly did.

Is this because you’re an adult?

Yeeesss, and I do what I want to do?

He chuckles. How’s that working out for you?

I inwardly grumble. There’s a reason Mark is up in my business. A few years ago I asked him straight-out to help me with reaching goals and staying on track with work. For the most part, he’s phenomenal. He could get a job as a life coach making big money. Thankfully I’m on the friends and family free plan. Today I wish he’d forget about this and mosey along.

Name change. Spit it out. Coach Business does not beat around bushes.

I cave at the inevitable and spill my guts. I think Coredelia Jane has a silliness about it. People don’t take me seriously with my childish height and a name like that. Changing it to CJ should help.

Hm. He doesn’t sound convinced.

Just say it, Mark.

You are who you are, Cordy. Going by a different name won’t change that.

We’ll see. Meanwhile… This is the part I’m scared about. Confessing I’ve moved. Moving. On a whim. Decided today to pack my things and relocate two weeks before a massive work deadline right before Christmas. He’s sure to nag me about that. That’s something a Cordelia Jane might do. I pull in a deep breath and rush into my confession. Diana mentioned a few days ago there’s a perfectly adorable cottage for rent on the edge of Hadley Springs. And then after the breakup I didn’t want to stay in Kearney anymore so I’m moving even though I have a big deadline, and it’s terrible timing, but it’s already done. So that’s how it is. Whew. I restore my oxygen and practically yell, Therefore, I brought everything. My car is packed tighter than your mama’s spice drawer.

Mark is quiet for a beat.

Mark?

I’m trying to decide if that’s an innuendo for something else.

Ahh, no. Spices? Doesn’t she have a lot of them? My mom keeps hers in a drawer but it’s so full that all the bonus spices are left on the counter all the time.

"Next time just say that. Don’t bring my mom into it."

Roger.

That’s a lot. He tut-tuts with his tongue, thinking. Let’s see. Did you check that the rental is available now?

I’ll stay with Diana until it’s ready.

Are you going to be able to refocus quickly enough and finish the last few pages of the cookbook by your deadline?

Planning on it.

Did you call Diana to tell her you’re coming today and intending to stay?

She knows I’m coming for the holidays. We talked recently. I turn up the defrost. Mark, I hear you rolling your eyes. The fog that had begun to creep along the edges of my windshield vanishes. Gosh, okay. I’ll call her.

I double tap the earbud before he has the chance to comment. Nosy cousin always telling me what to do…

The call to my sister rings long enough that I’m resigned to leave a chatty voicemail that she will hate. She finally answers, This is Diana. Her straight-forward tone implies she didn’t bother to look at the caller ID.

I’m almost there! I force the smile through my words. Excited to see you and squish all those babies. Patches of packed snow cover parts of the road and I tap the brake to come out of cruise control.

Hi! My sister’s voice screeches through my head and I turn the volume down. How far out are you?

Just made the turn from Highway Eighty-One. Five miles? Sudden cheers and piano music blares through the call.

Say again?

I clear my throat. Five minutes tops. Are you not home?

Sorry, hang on. The noise fades but is still audible in the background. A baby gurgles in my ear. Can you hear me, Cordy? Gosh, it’s loud in there.

Is that baby Jack with you?

You know it.

And live music? Sounds like quite the party.

A couple guys from church always—No! Leo, put it down. Down! You’ve had enough. Put it down. Don’t lick— Diana lets out an exasperated breath. Go find Dad. Go on. And no more cookies. Fine, one more. A little one. She immediately switches from mom-voice to sister-voice. Sorry, sis. Um. Did I miss something? What happened to next week? You’re in town?

My gas light blinks on and I do a little happy dance because I made it. Take that, gas meter. I left early, and I’m trying to beat the storm. Mom warned me five times yesterday. I pitch my voice higher. You better not be on the road when that storm hits.

Ha! You sound just like her. No, baby. It’s not for you. Jack squeals. Ouch! Jack, quit it.

I’m driving down your street. See you in a sec.

There seems to be a struggle on the other end. Oh! No, Cordy. Keep going and turn left on 10th. We’re at a Christmas party.

I’m not dressed for a party. Are there cookies? Wait, no. Keep it together, CJ! I will not be distracted by delicious food. I’m not party crashing.

"You’re with me. I’m inviting you. And hurry. You do not want to miss the cello man. He’s single. And hot."

Too soon, Diana.

It’s never too soon to admire God’s creation.

Since when are cellists hot? I immediately picture a stout man with thinning hair and a nerdy vibe who got stuck with the cello in middle school because everything else was taken, but he kept practicing because his mom made him. Thirty years later he’s still single and invited to play at parties because it keeps him from always being the fifth wheel at group events. Nah, I say. I’ll pass.

I’m telling you, he’s swoony. Even Nathan agrees.

Oh, perfect. That’s exactly what I need! A cello man that your husband thinks is hot. I fake gag. Now I hate him on principle.

"Get over yourself, Cordy. You and Nathan have got to stop hating each other. It’s weird and immature."

Whatevs. I don’t need a hot guy. Shaun was hot, remember?

Who’s Shaun? Aw, Diana is sweet when she wants to be. Okay, it’s the house with all the cars. There’s a little statue of Mary and baby Jesus in the yard. See you soon.

Nope, I take it back. She’s detestable. "I’ll be at your house. I’ll see you when you’re all partied out."

My house is locked.

Good one, sis. In Hadley Springs? Don’t make a liar of yourself. I’ll call your bluff.

Cordelia Jane Thompson! Quit being a dumb-dumb and get over here. It’s not that kind of a party. It’s a potluck thing we do every Thursday. I’m in sweatpants and there’s baby drool on my shoulder. My kids are all running around like yahoos. Aaaaaaand. She sings that word. There’s food here and none at my place. Lots and lots of food. Everyone brought something.

I sigh. I do like food. Did you make those little ham sandwiches that are ah-may-zing and annoyingly messy with secret sauce dressing all over the bun?

Guess you’ll have to come find out. Bye, now. They’re playing one of my favorites. Got to go.

And that’s how I find myself walking into a stranger’s house in my grey leggings, tousled red curls in a wild bun, and green hoodie with my favorite Anne Shirley quote: Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. Hmm. Diana was right—I fit right in.

The large living room is crowded with a few teenagers huddled in the corner, babies on laps, men and women standing or squished together on a large wrap-around couch and a dozen folding chairs. Everyone’s attention is aimed at the corner of the room. There’s a man playing a full-sized keyboard, and yep, another playing the cello.

I’ve never seen a cello in real life. Did I mention that? It’s like a fiddle but huge. When talking to Diana I realize I’d been picturing a bass, but this is smaller. There’s a pointy thing about a foot long touching the floor and the rest of it fits easily between the musician’s thighs. He’s sitting on a stool in faded blue jeans, leather ankle boots, a V-neck black sweater pushed to his elbows, and a Santa hat.

The man moves with the music, and a foot comes off the ground as he rocks to one side. His fingers fly across the strings. He smiles at the piano guy then nods. Their upbeat version of Oh Little Town of Bethlehem morphs into something new. The melody is