Page 4 of Entangled
“Just calling to chat.”
“I’m working right now. Can we talk later?” I turn the windshield wipers up to full speed. They aren’t doing shit because Joe should’ve replaced them months ago. Come to think of it, the truck needs a new battery too. I’m keeping a list of necessary repairs. “We’re getting a snowstorm here, and I have a ton of deliveries.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. Please be careful.”
“I will. I’ll call—”
“Wait! Before you hang up, I need you to tell me if you’re coming home for Christmas. I’m off today, and I planned to do some shopping.”
I release a heavy sigh. “I don’t think so. I’m not feeling it this year.”
“You said that last year, Henry. And the year before. You can’t let what happened ruin your holidays for the rest of eternity.”
Oh, but I can.
The familiar pang of sadness settles in the hollow where my heart once was. Every carol, wreath, and lit tree reminds me of my loss. Since it was mystupid idea to start over in a Christmas-themed town, I’m the only one to blame for the irony that punches me in the gut day after day. Yes, I went where the job was—or where Ithoughtit would be—but that fizzled out two months after I arrived. Which begs the question: why am I still here?
I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I like the pain.
“You’d feel differently if someone handedyoudivorce papers on fucking Christmas Eve.” I clench the steering wheel like it will turn my failed marriage around, but I know better. It was over long before Chelsea made it official. Even though I gave it my all, the counseling we did during our separation was only for show. She’d already made up her mind.
“I’m sure I’d hate Christmas as much as you do.” Her sigh fills the cab. “Look, I didn’t call to piss you off. I just wanted to convince you to be around family instead of being sad.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, even though I’ve done all the thinking I plan to. I have no intention of flying to New York. The last thing I need is a run-in with my ex-wife.
“OK, bye.” She hangs up before I can respond.
Guilt squeezes my chest. I know how much Dahlia loves the holiday season. Even though I miss her, I’d hate to put a damper on her mood just because I can’t get over a woman who never truly loved me. Our wedding vows run through my head like they always do when I let myself walk down memory lane.Through good times and bad, my ass. Those words were nothing but empty promises.
A huge iron gate up ahead jolts me out of my pity party. I slam on the brakes, and the truck grinds to a stop. I must have missed the signs informing me this is a dead end. Thanks to the snowbanks, there’s no place to park other than in the middle of the road, but at least I don’t have to worry about blocking the street. I turn off the engine and peer through the trees at the Punzel estate. Although estate is the wrong word to describe it—the place is a literal castle.
Grumbling to myself, I hop out of the truck with my work tablet and the tiny brown package addressed to R.A. Punzel. I trudge toward the gate, which, to my relief, is slightly ajar. Hopefully, my luck continues for the rest of my stops. With my newly expanded workload, I don’t have time to wait around for people to let me in.
Slipping through the opening, I survey the residence for the most appropriate entrance. The darkened windows flanking the front door aren’t too welcoming. Neither are the massive gargoyles guarding the porch steps. Sweeping my head from side to side, I noticeallthe windows are dark.
Maybe no one is home.
Good. That crosses one stop off my list. Joe’s warning about the Punzel family lawyer drifts through my mind again. Since I don’t want to ruffle any billionaire feathers, I need to make an actual attempt to deliver, as in, knock on a door.
While no tire tracks mar the pristine snow beyond the gate, fresh snowflakes blanket the old set of footprints leading to the turret rising from the west side of the stone fortress. A soft glow emanates from the tower’s upper windows. Whoever’s up there needs to sign for this damn package.
I silently follow the path toward my destination and arrive at a heavy wooden door. There’s a note affixed to the knob that reads:
Tony,
I’m upstairs working in my studio. Let yourself in and give me a holler. I’ll come right down. I hope you brought your appetite because I made your favorite muffins this morning! I invested in a single cup coffee brewer too. This way you can have a warm drink while we visit.
<3 <3 <3 R
I frownat the feminine handwriting. Tony is a married man, and he’s been up here having muffins and coffee with a rich lady who signs her notes with hearts? Talk about inappropriate.
I tap on the door. No answer. Glancing at the note once more, I sigh. No, I’m not Tony, but the woman is clearly expecting Ryder Parcel Services today. Eager to get this delivery over with, I gently twist the knob and push the door open.
“Hello? This is RPS. You have a delivery,” I call, stepping into a darkened kitchen. Warm apple cinnamon greets my nose, making my stomach growl. I skipped breakfast. I could use a snack for the road. “Hello?”
No one answers, but loud music vibrates the ceiling. There’s no way she can hear me over all that bass. While I don’t know what kind of work this woman does, if she’s anything like Dahlia when she’s in her art studio, she’s completely immersed in her task. I spot a staircase across the room and make my way over.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “RPS here.” When she doesn’t respond to my shout, I heave a disgruntled sigh and climb the steps. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
