Lock and Key(52)

“Yeah,” I said as she took another gulp of coffee, “but accepting help doesn’t have to mean giving up control.”

It occurred to me, saying this, that I should take my own advice. Thinking back over the last few weeks, however— staying at Cora’s, my college deal with Jamie—I realized maybe I already had.

Harriet was so obsessed with her business that, from what I could tell, she had no personal life whatsoever. During the day, she worked at the kiosk; at night, she went straight home, where she stayed up into the early hours making more pieces. Maybe this was how she wanted it. But there were clearly others who would welcome a change.

Like Reggie from Vitamin Me, for example. When he was going for food, he always stopped to see if she needed anything. If things were slow, he’d drift over to the open space between our two stalls to shoot the breeze. When Harriet said she was tired, he instantly offered up B-COMPLEXES; if she sneezed, he was like a quick draw with the echinacea. One day after he’d brought her an herbal tea and some ginkgo biloba—she’d been complaining she couldn’t remember anything anymore—she said, “He’s just so nice. I don’t know why he goes to so much trouble.”

“Because he likes you,” I said.

She jerked her head, surprised, and looked at me. “What? ”

“He likes you,” I repeated. To me, this was a no-brainer, as obvious as daylight. “You know that.”

“Reggie?” she’d said, her surprised tone making it clear she did not. “No, no. We’re just friends.”

“The man gave you ginkgo,” I pointed out. “Friends don’t do that.”

“Of course they do.”

“Harriet, come on.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I mean, we’re friends, but the idea of something more is just . . .” she said, continuing to thumb through the receipts. Then, suddenly, she looked up at me, then over at Reggie, who was helping some woman with some protein powder. “Oh my God. Do you really think?”

“Yes,” I said flatly, eyeing the ginkgo, which he’d piled neatly on the register with a note. Signed with a smiley face. “I do.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” she said, her face flushing.

“Why? Reggie’s nice.”

“I don’t have time for a relationship,” she said, picking up her coffee and taking a gulp. The ginkgo she now eyed warily, like it was a time bomb, not a supplement. “It’s almost Christmas. That’s my busiest time of the year.”

“It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”

“There’s just no way,” she said flatly, shaking her head.

“Why not?”

“Because it won’t work.” She banged open the register drawer, sliding in the receipts. “Right now, I can only focus on myself and this business. Everything else is a distraction.”

I was about to tell her this didn’t have to be true, necessarily. That she and Reggie already had a relationship: they were friends, and she could just see how it went from there. But really, I had to respect where she was coming from, even if in this case I didn’t agree with it. After all, I’d been determined to be a one-woman operation, as well, although lately this had been harder than you’d think. I’d found this out firsthand a few days earlier, when I was in the kitchen with Cora, minding my own business, and suddenly found myself swept up in Jamie’s holiday plans.

“Wait,” Cora said, looking down at the shirt on the table in front of her. “What is this for again?”

“Our Christmas card!” Jamie said, reaching into the bag he was holding to pull out another shirt—also a denim button -up, identical to hers—and handing it to me. “Remember how I said I wanted to do a photo this year?”

“You want us to wear matching shirts?” Cora asked as he took out yet one more, holding it up against his chest. “Seriously? ”

“Yeah,” Jamie said. “It’s gonna be great. Oh, and wait. I forgot the best part!”

He turned, jogging out of the room into the foyer. Cora and I just stared at each other across the table.

“Matching shirts?” I said.

“Don’t panic,” she said, although her own expression was hardly calm. She looked down at her shirt again. “At least, not yet.”

“Check it out,” Jamie said, coming back into the room. He had something behind his back, which he now presented to us, with a flourish. “For Roscoe!”

It was—yes—a denim shirt. Dog sized. With a red bow tie sewn on. Maybe I should have been grateful mine didn’t have one of these, but frankly, at that moment, I was too horrified.

“Jamie,” Cora said as he bent down beneath the table. I could hear banging around, along with some snuffling, as I assumed he attempted to wrangle Roscoe, who’d been dead asleep, into his outfit. “I’m all for a Christmas card. But do you really think we need to match?”

“In my family, we always wore matching outfits,” he said, his voice muffled from the underside of the table. “My mom used to make sweaters for all of us in the same colors. Then we’d pose, you know, by the stairs or the fireplace or whatever, for our card. So this is a continuation of the tradition.”