Four Steps (Four)

The men look different — carefully groomed and particularly handsome, with Lennox and Lincoln in sweaters, deep red and dark green respectively, Barrett in a crisp white dress shirt, and Bronson in a dark blue sweater subtly patterned with a row of snowflakes, even though snow almost never falls on Four Points Island.

My stomach is nervous and my heart is heavy, but it’s so good to see their faces. How is it possible that I seem to have missed them more this past week than I did in the past ten years?

“Hi, Caz,” Bronson says. Rather than sounding irritated or confrontational, his tone is soft, like maybe he’s missed me too.

The three others echo greetings, and I say “Hello,” sounding like a shy stranger. I’m startled by how my body and heart are reacting to the sight of them. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through tonight.

“How are you?” Lennox asks.

There’s so much I could say if I was being honest. I’m hanging in there. I’m coping. I cry more than I ever have in my life. I feel like a shell of myself going through the motions.

“I’m fine. How are all of you doing?”

“Not great,” Barrett says.

I give him a pained look, and am about to ask that we put everything aside for tonight, when Rachel appears.

“Here you go, dear.” She hands me a mug topped with mini marshmallows and decorated with a candy cane hanging from the side. It smells delicious.

“Thank you,” I say, grateful for something else to focus on as I wrap my hands around its warmth.

“Help yourself to cookies, too.” She gestures to the coffee table, where there’s a platter covered with familiar-looking treats.

“You baked!” I’ve been picturing Rachel sitting around in mourning, but the house is actually very festive, with decorations throughout the room and a tree in the corner surrounded by gifts.

“Barrett and Lincoln helped,” she says with a smile.

“Is Michelle here?” I ask.

Rachel takes a seat in the open chair, while Bronson gestures for me to sit in the chair he’d been using. “She went home last week to get ready for Christmas,” Rachel says, “but she and her family are coming to visit tomorrow.”

“Oh, I thought that was her car out front.” Internally, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Rachel’s face turns brighter than the lights twinkling on the tree. “That was my Christmas gift,” she says. “From my boys.” I can almost see the pride bursting out of her. “I told them not to get it, but they insisted.”

“You needed a new car, Mom,” Lincoln says.

“They have gifts for me under the tree, too,” she says, sounding almost embarrassed. “They’ve been buying me too many things since they’ve been here.”

“You deserve nice things,” Bronson says, “and I’m glad we can get them for you.”

Rachel smiles at her sons for a long moment before she turns to me. “Caroline, I heard you got a new job?”

I reach for a star-shaped sugar cookie. These were always my favorites. “It’s just seasonal,” I say. “My main job slows down at the end of the year, so I wanted to fill the time.”

If Rachel knows anything about the drama at Rusty’s, she doesn’t let on, and the men don’t mention it either. I know they wouldn’t bring up anything that might start an argument. Of course, they wouldn’t want to upset their mom, which is why I’m sure they’ve realized that I was right about us needing to stop seeing each other.

I answer Rachel’s questions about the restaurant I’m working at, all the while ignoring the looks coming my way from the brothers. There’s a complicated blend of emotions across their expressions — irritation, confusion, sadness, and I think I see longing. Or maybe I’m just projecting my feelings onto them.

I’m about to take a bite of my second cookie when Barrett says, “Should we open gifts?”

27

Tiny white box

Rachel exclaims over the gift I brought her as if it’s something special. “Why, Caroline, this is the most beautiful Christmas cactus I’ve ever seen. There are so many blooms.”

She’s exaggerating its value, but she really does seem to like it, so I’m pleased.

She hands me a flat box tied with a ribbon, which I open to find a scarf and hat knitted from gray yarn, subtly accented with silver sparkles. “Did you make these?” I ask, as I lift the scarf out and open it to its full length.

Rachel nods. “Do you like the color?”

“I love it, and it’s so soft.” It’s too warm in the house to put the hat on, but I wrap the scarf loosely around my neck and cuddle its fuzzy texture against my cheek. “Thank you for making these for me.”

“Of course, dear. I have something else here for you, too.” She produces a tiny box and an envelope from the table beside her and places them in my lap. “These are from your dad.”