Page 4 of Waiting for Gilbert
“I’m not dressed for a party. Are there cookies? Wait, no.”Keep it together, CJ!I will not be distracted by delicious food. “I’m not party crashing.”
“You’re withme. I’minvitingyou. And hurry. You do not want to miss the cello man. He’s single. And hot.”
“Too soon, Diana.”
“It’s never too soon to admire God’s creation.”
Since when are cellists hot? I immediately picture a stout man with thinning hair and a nerdy vibe who got stuck with the cello in middle school because everything else was taken, but he kept practicing because his mom made him. Thirty years later he’s still single and invited to play at parties because it keeps him from always being the fifth wheel at group events. “Nah,” I say. “I’ll pass.”
“I’m telling you, he’s swoony. Even Nathan agrees.”
“Oh, perfect. That’s exactly what I need! A cello man that your husband thinks is hot.” I fake gag. “Now I hate him on principle.”
“Get over yourself, Cordy. You and Nathan havegotto stop hating each other. It’s weird and immature.”
“Whatevs. I don’t need a hot guy. Shaun was hot, remember?”
“Who’s Shaun?” Aw, Diana is sweet when she wants to be. “Okay, it’s the house with all the cars. There’s a little statue of Mary and baby Jesus in the yard. See you soon.”
Nope, I take it back. She’s detestable. “I’ll be atyourhouse. I’ll see you when you’re all partied out.”
“My house is locked.”
“Good one, sis. In Hadley Springs? Don’t make a liar of yourself. I’ll call your bluff.”
“Cordelia Jane Thompson! Quit being a dumb-dumb and get over here. It’s not that kind of a party. It’s a potluck thing we do every Thursday. I’m in sweatpants and there’s baby drool on my shoulder. My kids are all running around like yahoos. Aaaaaaand.” She sings that word. “There’s food here and none at my place. Lots and lots of food. Everyone brought something.”
I sigh. I do like food. “Did you make those little ham sandwiches that are ah-may-zing and annoyingly messy with secret sauce dressing all over the bun?”
“Guess you’ll have to come find out. Bye, now. They’re playing one of my favorites. Got to go.”
And that’s how I find myself walking into a stranger’s house in my grey leggings, tousled red curls in a wild bun, and green hoodie with my favorite Anne Shirley quote: Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think.Hmm. Diana was right—I fit right in.
The large living room is crowded with a few teenagers huddled in the corner, babies on laps, men and women standing or squished together on a large wrap-around couch and a dozen folding chairs. Everyone’s attention is aimed at the corner of the room. There’s a man playing a full-sized keyboard, and yep, another playing the cello.
I’ve never seen a cello in real life. Did I mention that? It’s like a fiddle but huge. When talking to Diana I realize I’d been picturing a bass, but this is smaller. There’s a pointy thing about a foot long touching the floor and the rest of it fits easily between the musician’s thighs. He’s sitting on a stool in faded blue jeans, leather ankle boots, a V-neck black sweater pushed to his elbows, and a Santa hat.
The man moves with the music, and a foot comes off the ground as he rocks to one side. His fingers fly across the strings. He smiles at the piano guy then nods. Their upbeat version of “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” morphs into something new. The melody is there, but it has blossomed intomore. With perfect synchrony the musicians increase the tempo. Cello Man sweeps his gaze across the room, and Oh. My. Word.
His smile.
I’m planted in the entryway. I’m a tree in an enchanted forest and my roots grow deep. I shall not be blown over by wind or storm. My heart now beats in rhythm to the magic emanating from the man who has captured me with a grin.
His eyes lock with mine, and his fingers miss a chord. He blinks and turns his attention back to his music. The air in the room is thick. I suddenly want to escape because I don’t understand this feeling. It’s a mix of adoration and curiosity with a dash of boldness and a sprinkle of desire.
A fleeting baby thought reminds me of my Christmas vow. I scowl at the back of the couch as the room erupts into applause.
You mean I can’t engage in a Christmas fling with the cellist across the room?
Loud conversation fills the house and my hands have turned to fists while I watch the men pack their instruments. My leaves begin to wilt. The creek is reduced to a trickle. I have nothing to say to him. Not two hours ago I vowed to be serious. Hmmm. And why did I do that?
And focused.
That’s right. I tilt my chin up. Because men don’t want anything to do with a girl who can only offer punchy one-liners and cute red curls. And just like that, I’m not rooted to anything.
2
CORDELIA