Page 2 of Postmarked December

Heather held her breath and sharpened her hearing. “What was what?”

“Did I hear a sniffle? Your nose sounds stuffy.”

She faked a cough. “I might be coming down with something.”

“Heather… You okay?”

“I’m fine. Really.” She forced another cough.

“I’m coming over,” Marion said. “I’ll pack a bag in case the roads get bad and I can’t get back home. Be there in twenty minutes with two coffees and a sack of obscene carbohydrates.”

“I might be sick, remember? Sniffling…” The drive over was not ideal on the slick roads and, given the early and unpredictable snow-and-ice mix, the route was sure to be treacherous. The last thing she wanted was her poor friend to have to trudge outside in the icy mess because Heather couldn’t keep her emotions in check.

“You’re not sick. Your cough doesn’t sound like that.”

“You don’t have to come,” Heather said. “What about Anthony? You don’t want to leave him stranded in the snow.”

Marion and her husband Anthony had been having marital problems. Marion had said, more than once, that she didn’t want to burden Heather with her “drama,” given what Heather had been through, so her friend had been tight-lipped about the situation.

“He’s a big boy. He’ll probably enjoy a night without me jabbering away. And he’ll have Scarlett to keep him company.”

An image surfaced of the calico kitten Marion and Anthony had gotten a few months ago that they’d named after the heroine in Gone with the Wind. Marion had thought the shared responsibility might give her and Anthony common ground, something positive to focus on apart from their troubles. Scarlett was a little ball of purring fur and so adorable that Heather almost asked her to bring it, but she didn’t have a litter box.

“Walking through your door in twenty,” Marion said.

“See you soon.” Heather ended the call, stuck her phone in her pocket, and ran her fingers under her eyes.

Heather actually hoped Marion would get snowed in with her because that would be the best thing that could happen. She needed someone to yank the remote from her hand, shake her by the shoulders, and force her to think about anything other than the fact that she wasn’t even thirty yet and already a widow.

This first Christmas break without Toby was harder than she’d thought it would be. He was the one who’d anchored her holiday. He’d always done all the cooking, but when Christmas came around he really shined. He found time in the kitchen to be both creative and calming, so they had a never-ending stream of delectable dishes and baked goods. He also put up a freshly cut tree each year and played Christmas music on his guitar, constantly. Without him this season, the silence was deafening.

A Nashville songwriter and musician, Toby had always been everywhere. He’d written for quite a few big names in music, and his songs played in every restaurant and honky-tonk in the country. But this year, that was especially the case. With the success of Make Me Whole Again, his Christmas album played relentlessly in all the shops and cafés, so she hadn’t wanted to leave her apartment.

The final cut of his record the September before last had been the last celebration he could muster, before he’d gotten too sick to go out. Knowing what was ahead of him, he’d teased her and told her he’d rather be sick than attend a gala.

And then there was the press. Luckily, in Nashville, people left her alone, but with his death, his songwriting and incredible acts of charity came to light, and people realized his talent both behind the scenes and as a performer. His fans across the globe wanted to know the details about his rapid decline in health, and national magazines and news programs were all too eager to oblige. She’d endured countless online conspiracies before he died: that he’d given up his career, that he’d assumed a new identity, and that he was penniless—those were the big ones.

Already this season, she’d had calls from a few magazines, the local news, and a couple of independent reporters, but she hadn’t called them back. Toby had said he didn’t want anyone to focus on the thing that took him, but rather, to remember him by his music.

Heather folded the blanket she’d been covering up with and placed it on the edge of the sofa. She’d gotten the red blanket for Toby when he’d really started to get sick.

Toby hadn’t known he had cancer until it was stage 4. From there, it had progressed quickly. Not a fan of conventional medicine, he’d tried everything—fasting, experimental drugs, natural remedies—but his recovery wasn’t in the cards. He had moments where he’d get bursts of energy, and they’d talk for a few hours, but most of the time he slept.

“A friend of mine—remember Stone, the guy we saw at the bar last summer who was so funny?” Toby seemed to struggle even to swallow, his lips chapped and dry.

“Yeah?” She put his water cup on the tray by his bed.

“He has a kid at Ellis Elementary,” he said, his eyes bobbing shut. “He called to see how I was when you were in the shower.”

“You answered the phone?” she worried aloud.

“It’s my only diversion these days.” He forced a smile. “But he made small talk about…”

For an instant, she thought he’d fallen asleep midsentence, but he opened his eyes and continued.

“…nothing at all. It was torture.” He tried to smile again at her and make eye contact. Those eyes that had looked at her with so much love were yellow and fading. “They said his daughter hadn’t returned her library book when she had. It came out that they’re shorthanded, so his wife’s been volunteering. They’re struggling to find a long-term sub for the librarian on maternity leave.”

She nodded, unsure of where he was going with that.