Chapter Five: Nick
“I don’t know who she is,” I said to Toby Snow, a jack-of-all-trades who befriended me when I need one the most and helped me get this barn together.
Toby stared at the photo, occasionally squinting. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was Holly Gardner. She owns ‘Hearts and Roses Flower Shop’ on Bell Boulevard. I know she was there that night because she provided the wreath at the entrance.”
“Do you know her that well that you can spot her in the dark from a few hundred feet away with her back to you?” I asked.
“Well, that woman,” Toby answered, “doesn’t appear to be looking for a runaway kid, so it was someone who went alone, and Holly is as alone as it gets.”
“Sounds like a tragic story, Toby. Thanks for the name. If I do anything with the picture, I know where to look.”
Toby Snow was the one guy everybody knew. He could fix a leak, overhaul your car, or re-raise a barn. I don’t know if he owned a car. Twelve months of the year, he would just show up like magic, always on his trusty ATV. And always on time.
I must have looked like a sad stray when he drove up to the new homestead four years ago. “Word is you want to fix up the old barn,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it. We need less ‘new’ in Prince Edward County and more ‘rustic’.”
Toby patiently listened as I stuttered through some half-baked plans of building a site for my photography; half computer editing room, half photography studio. His insight, structural knowledge, and unflagging energy carried me through the months that followed. Winter slowed the progress that first year, but he picked right up where we left off that next spring.
It was magnificent. All I could think was that Melanie would have been so happy.
Except the barn was supposed to be for her painting.
Half studio, half art gallery.
“You OK, Nick?” Toby asked, seemingly aware when my mind drifts where it shouldn’t. The guy sure had a knack.
“Yeah, I am. Hey, thanks for stopping by tonight. I appreciate it.”
“You are welcome, Nick. I’m not one to let a friend be alone throughout the holidays. If there’s anything I can do to help, you let me know.”
He handed me back the picture of “the woman on the hill” as I’d dubbed her.
Holly Gardner.
If nothing else, it was a nice name.
Chapter Six: Holly
Three Weeks Ago
I wasn’t really all that keen on setting up a small shop for the “Pop Up Market” in nearby Trenton. I loved the town and did a good business there, but the holidays were busy and I was pretty short staffed as it was. It would fall to me to work it, so I had to make the call. Did I want to be that busy on Saturday afternoons for the next three weeks?
Of course, I decided that spreading myself too thin was better than sitting around staring at the calendar. I spent Friday night loading up poinsettias and wreaths for the booth I’d purchased, and readied myself for a day outdoors.
Christmas music filled the air as happy shoppers, eager to support local businesses, flooded Centennial Park that Saturday. Time flew, as did my inventory, and by 3:00, I’d run out of stock. I had planned to close by 4:00 anyway, but I still felt disappointed for the shoppers I’d had to turn away. I just hated losing a customer, though they all took it in stride and vowed to come earlier next week. I knew most of them would pick up their flowers somewhere else this week, but I appreciated the goodwill.
As I closed up the building, grateful for thirty minutes to wander the other booths before leaving, I spotted a photographer taking promotional photos of the signage. He was a man about my age, mid-thirties, though a bit rugged to be a photographer. Most cameras guys I knew were slender nerdy types. This guy looked like he was more comfortable outdoors with a canoe and a tent, rather than a Nikon with a telephoto lens.
He earnestly chose his angles and was friendly with shoppers who scurried out of his shots.
It took a second before I realized I had never seen him before.
I rummaged through my knapsack to grab my phone when I heard my name. I looked up to find him slowly walking toward me with his hand up in greeting.
“Sorry, are you Holly Gardner? I saw ‘Hearts and Roses’ on your booth. Are you the woman who owns it?” the photographer asked.
I rearranged my knapsack to offer him a handshake. “I am. Have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m Nick Barron. I freelance photography, and I teach it at Loyalist. I have a studio in the County as well.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Nick, but I’m not interested in modeling.”
“No no,” he said. “Sorry, it’s just that I think I took a picture of you last Friday night at Jane Forrester Park, and I was hoping for permission to use it. I think it’s a remarkable shot.”
So, this guy takes secret pictures of women and just bumps into me today? How dumb does he think I am?
“Look, I’m sure you didn’t take my picture, so have a wonderful afternoon,” I said, turning away. I walked over to a soap and candle booth next door, unsure whether he could take the strong hint.
I picked up a few samples, pretending to be interested in the scents, just waiting for him to leave. I stole a quick glance back to see him looking at an 8 X 10 photo in his hand. It was a strange sight, as most pictures were now all digital.
He looked up as I turned away, certain he’d caught my interest. I boldly turned and strode back to him. “Let me see that,” I said, snatching the glossy sheet.
There I was, in my pain, silhouetted against the darkened sky, reliving the worst night of my life. Captured in stunning detail, perfectly centered. Awash in circling lights, oblivious to what lay beneath.
I gasped for breath, unaware I’d been frozen to the core. To this man, it was a beautiful photo worthy of display. A solitary woman seemingly at the crest of a hill, challenging the night. A powerful pose, lonely by design among the throngs who ignored her accent to the top.
I knew otherwise, so it wasn’t his fault. But at that moment, all I could think to say was, “How dare you?”
I tore the photo to pieces and scattered them at his feet. Blinded by my ever-present tears, I hurriedly stumbled to my car.
Chapter Seven: Nick
I was mortified. Actually, it was worse than that. I watched the look on her face change from indignant curiosity to sheer horror as she tore the photo and scattered the bits like petals on the ground. Her voice scraped my ears when she roared, “How dare you,” and raced away.
I stood embarrassed, sure everyone had witnessed the outburst, but few had noticed. It had happened so quickly that I could spin toward her.
“Wait,” I called, certain she wouldn’t, but I had to say something. “I’m sorry, I really am. Please, let me explain.”
The woman I now knew as Holly Gardner waved her arm in protest without turning around as she neared a gray SUV with her business logo on the hood. She leaned on the driver’s door, and with a heaving chest yelled, “Get away from me”.
I stopped about twenty feet from her and held my palms up in a show of apology. “I am so sorry. I had no intention of hurting you. A friend of mine, Toby Snow, thought that you were the mystery woman in that photo, and I just wanted to make sure. I did not know that you would feel so violated. I don’t care about the photo anymore, and I will never bother you again. I just want you to know how sorry I am for causing you to be so upset, and I am leaving now.”
I turned away from her and crept back into the park. I would wait until I was sure she had left before returning to my SUV, parked two spots away from hers.
It didn’t surprise me she hadn’t started the engine. She would need ample time to compose herself after what I had just put her through, though for the life of me, I did not know what would cause such a painful reaction. But then, pain seems to follow me around now. It is also December, so there’s that.
I wandered back to the pile of scattered pieces, collected them as best I could, and tossed them into a nearby garbage can. One stubborn piece stuck to my glove. It was about two inches in diameter and featured her shoulders and the back of her head, in what I thought of as a defiant pose. I held it in my hands like a piece of a map.
What had I done? And was there any way I could try to make it up to her?
I fished my phone out of my coat and called Toby. The call went straight to voicemail, which was rare, but then the guy knew everyone.
“Hey Toby, it’s Nick. I really screwed something up today and I need some advice. Can you call me when you get a second? Thanks, buddy.”
I popped my phone back into my pocket and looked back at the parking lot. Holly Gardner was still sitting in her vehicle. My stomach lurched at the thought of what I’d done to cause her this much pain. Within seconds, the headlights flashed on as she slowly turned from the parking spot and onto the road leading to the park exit.
As it disappeared from sight, my phone chirped.
I hit the green button, but before I could say anything, Toby Snow uttered, “Boy, I’ll say you screwed up. I haven’t heard Holly that upset in years.”
Chapter Eight: Holly
I just had to get to my car. I had to be anywhere away from this guy. What was his name? Nick. He said his name was Nick.
Why had I gone up that hill? Why didn’t I listen to that little voice that has protected me from that frosty night four years ago? Why didn’t I just stay home?
I could hear words as this Nick guy blathered some apology before walking away. I chanced a glance up to see him retreating to where I tore up the photo.
The photo. Oh my God. It was an actual photo.
Photographs have negatives. I had ripped up that glossy, but he’d have an old-fashioned way of re-producing it. My anger was slowly morphing into nausea.
I wrenched the car door open and fell into the driver’s seat, scrambling to pull out my phone. I blindly stabbed at the contacts, looking for Toby Snow. How did he know this guy?
And how did this Nick guy know the only person who truly understood what I went through?
Toby picked up right away. “Holly? How are you?”
The dam broke at the mention of my name. “Oh, Toby, I’m not good. There’s…there’s this guy with a pi..picture of me at the park.” I choked back tears to try to finish. “He s.s.said he knew you.”
Toby’s gentle voice cut through my pain. “Holly, where are you? What happened?”
I took a deep breath to settle myself. “I’m at the Trenton Pop-Up Market. He came over with a picture of me on the hill. Why would he take that picture? He said that you told him it was me. Why would you do that?”
“So, he showed you the picture?” Toby asked.
“Of course he showed me the picture! It was a clear invasion of my privacy, and to make it worse, you should have told him to throw out the negative.”
“Holly,” he said, “I wasn’t 100% sure it was you, but it was a beautiful picture. I thought you might like how strong you looked.”
Men.
“Toby, I’m not concerned about how I looked. You should have known how I felt standing there.”
“OK, look. I’m sorry it hurt you as badly as it had, and I’m sorry I didn’t expect how you’d feel. But don’t take it out on Nick. He meant no harm.”
At the mention of Nick’s name, I looked up to see if he was around. He was scooping up what was left of the bits of paper that had been my picture. I watched him toss them into a garbage can.
“I gotta go, Toby. Keep this guy away from me.”
After clicking off the phone, I started up the SUV and slowly drove to the exit of Centennial Park, monitoring the photographer. It seemed as I made the turn, Nick was answering his phone.
What are the odds it was Toby?
Chapter Nine: Nick
With just a couple of weeks to go before Christmas, things were slowing down at the studio. Most Christmas photos are done in September and October anyway, to prepare for Christmas cards or family newsletters.
My teaching assignments at Loyalist College were done for the Christmas break, so I used what time I had to straighten up and clean the cameras and clear the hard drives on my computers. Photography software updates always take a while to download, so I scheduled those and wandered back to the house to make a coffee.
On the back porch, I found a poinsettia and cracker gift basket. I looked around to see if Toby was playing a prank, but found only small footprints in the snow to and from the porch back up the driveway leading to a set of arriving and departing tire tracks.
I bundled the gifts in my arms and pushed open the back door, plopping the plant on the kitchen table, and sliding the basket onto the kitchen island. I rummaged through the basket cellophane looking for a card declaring “Happy Holidays” or “You’ve Been Served”. After striking out, I flipped my fingers around the base of the poinsettia.
The only thing I could find was the nursery where the plant originated.
It was Hearts and Roses.
Instinctively, I sat down and flipped the business-sized card through my fingers. It could be a complete coincidence, but it didn’t totally explain the lack of a sender card. Either the sender wouldn’t need to identify themselves (and I didn’t know anyone that well) or the sender wanted to remain anonymous.
I filled the coffeemaker, cleaned out my morning mug, and stood at the sink, staring out at the barn. Something was trying to worm its way into my mind.
No, that wasn’t true. Something that was in my mind was trying to get out. What was it?
I looked back at the poinsettia and thought about Melanie. She loved flowers and plants. Roses were her favorite. Was it the red of the poinsettia that reminded me of Mel?
That must be it. I shuffled over and picked it up, wandering into the living room to place it on the far end table where I wouldn’t knock it over.
I turned to go back to the kitchen, when the sound of gravel caught my attention. I looked through the front window and saw an SUV delivery vehicle.
Hearts and Roses.
Suddenly, I understood. They had delivered the plant and the crackers to the wrong house. Out here in “The County”, it happened a lot. The driver, realizing his mistake, must have returned, hoping it was all still on the back porch. Well, I could have some fun with that.
I slid into the kitchen and ripped open the cracker basket, pulling out the uppermost box. I tugged the flap free and tore the plastic bagging inside. Grabbing three or four crackers and jamming them into my mouth, I rushed out the back door to catch the driver’s reaction.
Instead, I almost slammed headfirst into Holly Gardner.
“Whoa,” she said. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were home.”
I stood stunned while the wad of soggy crackers caused me to gag slightly, and I coughed up a few loose crumbs, landing on her coat, and I’m pretty sure some found her hair.
“Aw ma gawd”, I yelled, horrified. “Um tho thorry.” I waved her into the kitchen as I ran to the sink to grab a glass of water. I drank down the glass, running my tongue over my teeth to clear whatever was left of my clever cracker joke. When I felt as if the coast was clear, I said in a clearer voice, “I am so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was a mistake…oh never mind. I don’t know what I thought.” I reached into a drawer and handed her a tea towel. It seemed like the right thing to do.
“Are you alright? You had a lot of crackers there.” She said.
“Yeah, again, never mind. Thank you for delivering the plant and the basket. I didn’t know you did all your own deliveries as well.”
“Well, technically I don’t,” she confessed. “This was a special trip, in consideration of how I reacted last Saturday. Consider the plant and the gift basket as a token of my apology.”
“An apology for what?” I asked. “This was all on me. I should have bought you a gift, but you made it clear that you didn’t want to hear from me, so I didn’t want to upset you again. I truly am sorry, so you certainly didn’t have to come out all this way and bring this to me.”
She gave me a pained smile, then did the most remarkable thing. She pulled out a chair, took off her coat, and hung it on the back.
Holly turned, and squaring her shoulders, she asked, “Do you mind if we have a talk?”
Chapter Ten: Holly
Two Weeks Ago
I stewed over that picture for almost the entire week. It brought the feelings back to the surface, and other times, I was exhausted trying to keep them buried. I slept in fits as I stared at the calendar, knowing the day was coming up. By Friday morning, I was a mess. I had to do something. I thought about what Toby had said, that the photographer meant no harm. My opinion of him also changed when Toby explained how “Nick’s” wife had died after they had moved, leaving him alone in a new community with a big old barn to fix and no way to do it. So, getting a character seal of approval from Toby, and because he had not tried to contact me that week, certainly confirmed that he was sorry, and was keeping his word about leaving me alone.
He meant no harm. I had to admit to myself that it was true. He found the picture artistically pleasing and wanted to find the woman. That was understandable. So, the longer I thought about that, the notion that there might actually be something romantic about it flooded my imagination.
Not that I had feelings for the guy. Please. We talked for thirty seconds and then I wanted to run him over with my car. But a guy who meant well and kept his word was worth having a talk with, just to clear the air. By the time I got to the store, I felt a lot better and planned a delivery.
Toby gave me Nick’s address, and I set out after lunch with the GPS barking the turns until I found his old stone house with a wrap-around porch, dwarfed by a large century old barn in the back. It was a beautiful property.
I hoisted the poinsettia and a small cracker basket I’d found from a cancelled delivery and walked onto the front of the porch. I steeled my nerve as I knocked on the door and waited. What would I say? “Surprise! I’m here to yell at you again!” Ugh, I should have planned this better.
But there was no answer, and no vehicle in the driveway. I walked around to the back of the house and got a better look at the barn. It clearly had been recently renovated with a smaller sliding door in the old style, giving it a modern touch with a classic feel. A walkway had been formed by gravel and paving stones from the barn to the house.
The barn must house his photography studio.
As tempted as I was to sneak a peek, a big part of me was relieved that I could leave the delivery and be gone without having to embarrass myself with a face-to-face apology. I scurried up onto the back porch and dropped the plant and basket, and hurried back to the delivery van. I reversed out of the driveway, eyeing the road for any random traffic.
My perfect escape went undetected.
When I got back to the main highway, I pulled over to check for messages when I saw it.
Damn. I didn’t leave the card!
I couldn’t drive all this way and not go back. Clearly Nick wasn’t home, and I hadn’t been passed by any traffic going the other way, so he couldn’t have slipped by me. I will just drive back, slip the card in the basket and get the hell out of Dodge.
I pulled back into the driveway and eased around the house, and noticed two things. First, the barn’s sliding door was now ajar.
Of more concern, the gift basket and poinsettia were gone. Which means Nick is home. And that the barn door is ajar means he was out there when I was back here. I stood and ran through a dozen scenarios, the most hopeful being that he was back inside the barn and I could just slip into the house and put the card in the basket. Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed.
I trudged up the porch, listening for any sign that Nick knew I was there.
I reached for the latch when the heavy oak door swung open. The man lunged at me, his cheeks flush and puffy.
I jumped back in self-defence as the man I now know as “Nick” began to gag and cough.
And that was how I got crumbs in my hair.
Great job!