“Happiness,” he says, but I’m not sure if he’s talking about what I want or the fact that he’s bitten into what I would call one of the best apple cider doughnuts in New England.
“I’m glad you like it.” I point to the half-eaten pastry in his hand. Never mind the crumbs sticking to his face.
“You have hope,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes.”
My head cocks to the side as I study him. “For what?” I ask.
Gabe looks at a few passersby, making he wonder if he’s ignoring me. Maybe he’d rather stand here and be by himself, or maybe he’s not right in his mind or suffers from posttraumatic stress and I’m only hearing what I want, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
“Love has a funny way of making people unhappy. Yet you seem to have a spark. I can see it,” he says calmly.
I want to call him crazy and tell him he has no idea what he’s talking about, but he’s right. This morning when I woke, I felt better, as if I had more pep in my step. Ruby noticed, too, and chatted happily with me about her last day of school before break and how she plans to sleep in on Christmas morning, which I knew was a total lie. She’ll be up before the sun, jumping on my bed and begging me to get up because Santa has been to our house.
“You must follow the path laid out in front of you, not the one you think you must forge. Happiness is there, waiting for you, and as long as you have hope, you’ll find it. Thank you for the coffee and doughnuts, Mrs. Sutton. It’s much appreciated. I’m humbled by your kindness. It’s easy to see where Ruby gets hers.” He nods and bends to gather his things and walks away, leaving me speechless. On more than one occasion, this man has said exactly what I needed to hear.
I don’t know how long I stand there. It’s well after he’s disappeared behind a building. I’m tempted to follow, to ask him again for more words of wisdom, but I’m frozen, still stunned by how eloquently he speaks. I want to know who he was before his demons took over and he ended up on the street, homeless and begging.
“What are you doing?” My sister’s voice catches me off guard.
“Um …” I look around, wondering exactly where I am. A window display catches my attention. It’s a replica of Miracle on 34th Street with Kris Kringle holding hands with a Susan. I don’t remember walking to the department store, yet here I am.
“Are you okay? Did you fall and hit your head?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You look confused.”
“No, I’m fine, just …”
“Just what, Gwen?”
I shake my head and smile. “Nothing. I’m good. Are we ready to shop?” I play off my confusion. I could’ve swore Gabe was standing near the other side of the street, closer to the park, not on the other side of town.
My sister sighs. “Yes. My list is a mile long. Do you know what you’re getting Mom and Dad?”
I reach for the door. “Not a clue. They’re impossible to buy for.” Inside, Santa’s sitting off to the side, bellowing out “ho ho ho” as we walk in. “Do you remember coming here as kids to see him?” I ask, pointing at the man dressed in red.
“I do, and I remember you pulling on the poor man’s beard once because some kid told you it wasn’t real.”
I blanche at the memory. “Santa told me I was going to get coal in my stocking for that stunt. I was so scared on Christmas morning.”
Eliza laughs hard at the memory. I was mortified. So were my parents. “Come on, let’s shop,” I say, dragging her down the aisle.
“Is Amber joining us?” she asks.
“No, she couldn’t get the time off. Something about an end-of-the-year audit creeping up.”
Eliza and I start out together but end up going our separate ways after a bit. I’m not having much luck finding anything, which is a bit bothersome. Christmas is a few days away, and I still have so much to buy.
I happen upon the men’s section and hesitate before crossing the imaginary threshold. I don’t need anything here since Rory’s presents are tucked deeply in my closet. I haven’t wrapped them, mostly because I don’t know if they should come from me or Ruby. Yet I find myself thumbing through the flannel shirts that are on sale and adding a few to my pile.
“Who are these for?” Eliza picks one of the shirts up and rubs the fabric between her fingers.
“Gabe.” His nam
e pulls me up short.
“You met someone.” It’s not a question, but more of an accusation.