Christmas in Bruges

Dedication

Christmas in Bruges

More by Meadow Taylor

Praise for Meadow Taylor

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

For Paula Davidson

“It's a fairyland,” Paula whispered.

It was two days before Christmas. She was sitting in Café Terrastje, a cozy bistro lit entirely by candlelight, eating the best lasagna she'd ever tasted, a glass of excellent red wine next to her plate. Her table was beside the window, and she had the perfect view of what had to be the most perfect part of Bruges. Great flakes of snow drifted down to the cobblestone street while, gracing the branches of every tree, a million white fairy lights sparkled, their reflections dancing on the canal.

“Excuse me. I don't mean to interrupt, but isn't the line really, ‘It's an effing fairyland'? Pardon my language.”

Deep and rich with a playful edge, his voice was familiar. Familiar in a good way, reminding her of someone she'd always dreamed of seeing again but had lost all hope of re-encountering long ago.

But it couldn't be. Not here in Bruges.

She looked up, feeling a rush of excitement, a shiver that had nothing to do with the blast of cold air as he closed the door behind him. Brushing the snow out of his dark hair, he smiled down at her. That was familiar too.

Then his eyes caught the candlelight, and she knew it had to be him. There couldn't be two men on this planet with eyes quite that shade of green.
A sunlit forest
, she'd told him, looking into them for the first time.
That's what they remind me of . . .

He'd laughed.
I think you're in love . . .

“James?” His name came readily—it was never far away, as much as she'd tried to forget it. Still, she'd forgotten how absolutely sexy he was. Or had the years made him sexier?

He smiled even wider. “I saw you through the window watching the snow fall. I recognized you instantly, though I swear you're even more beautiful than I'd remembered. I had to come in. I hope that's okay.”

“Of course! I can't believe we're in Bruges at the same time. What are the chances? It's been, what, eight years since . . .?”

“Nine, but who's counting? It's so wonderful to see you, Paula. And you really do look amazing.”

“You look pretty terrific yourself. What brings you to Belgium?”

“That line you said, about Bruges being a fairyland. That's from
In Bruges
, right? That's why I'm here. I saw the movie and decided I had to come for Christmas.”

“It's why I'm here too. I could hardly pay attention to the story, I was so distracted by the scenery: the medieval buildings, the canals, the lights. I like how Bruges acts as one of the characters, a serene and peaceful contrast to the violence . . .” She trailed off, thinking she was sounding like a freshman arts student.

But that's what Paula had been when they first met. She, from Toronto, was studying drama at New York University, while he, from New Jersey and four years older, was in his first year of medical school there. Her very first boyfriend. They spent Friday nights making love and watching movies together, entwined on her couch drinking cheap red wine.

She wondered if she should remind him of this. Instead, she looked out the window at the snow dusting the stone gargoyles on the building opposite.

“Remember all the movies we watched together?” he asked. “We tried hard to be intellectual in our tastes, but it really was the action films we enjoyed best. I never dreamed you'd get the same idea. A Christmas miracle, I think.”

The door opened behind him with a jingle, and he moved aside. “Hey, about time,” the owner called out to the newcomers. “Come and try my eggnog!”

“We're going to do more than try it,” one of the group replied. Leaving the door ajar, they stomped the snow off their boots and joined the owner at the bar. Paula had discovered the bistro on her first night and had surmised that it was a favourite gathering place of English expats.

James closed the door. “People in Belgium don't seem to understand they have to close the door to keep in the heat.”

She laughed and, realizing that he was still standing, asked him to join her. “Have you had dinner? The lasagna is awesome. Even better than my grandma's.”

“Really? I remember your grandmother's lasagna,” he said, sitting down and unwinding his long red scarf. “Made me wish
I
had an Italian grandma.”

“She passed away two years ago.”

“I'm sorry. You must miss her.”

“Thanks. I do.”

James ordered lasagna and a glass of wine from the owner.

“How are your parents?” he asked.

“They're well, though they divorced three years ago. This trip was a present from them. I think they realize Christmas just isn't the same for me now that they have new families . . .” She trailed off again, feeling awkward. She wondered if he was feeling the same way. There was a lot of history between them. “Are you in Bruges on your own?”

“Alone in Bruges and in the world. And you?”

She nodded. “Yes to both.”

“Then unless you have any objections, I'm going to change that order to a bottle.”

“Absolutely none,” she said, wondering whether James's statement was loaded or not.

“Are you still in Toronto?” he asked. “I ran into your roommate a few years ago, and she told me you'd gone back.”

She nodded.

“Still acting?”

“No. I didn't last long at that. A few bit parts in television. If they taught us anything at NYU, it was that we'd chosen a very hard path for ourselves. Once I got out there, I realized I didn't have the passion I needed to make it. I teach English as a second language now. Occasionally I do some community theatre. How about you? You must be a doctor by now.”

“Almost. I joined the reserves to help pay for medical school and ended up doing an eight-month tour in Afghanistan as a medic.”

“Really? That must have been . . . intense.”

“You could say that.”

The owner appeared with the food and poured the wine.

“To Christmas in Bruges!” James said, raising his glass. “It sure is good to see you again, Paula.”

“You too, James.” She took a sip of wine. “I thought you'd be married by now.”

“I was. Until I came back from Afghanistan.”

“I'm sorry. I've heard of that happening. Any children?”

“No. And you?”

She shook her head. “I lived with someone for a couple of years. Broke up this spring. No need to say sorry—it was for the best.”

“Okay, I won't.” He looked at her intently over his glass. “You know, I've toyed with the idea of getting in touch with you for years. The Internet makes it pretty easy to look somebody up. But we didn't part very amicably, did we?”

“That's an understatement.” She took a long sip from her glass, and James refilled it and his own. They were working their way through the bottle pretty quickly.
Alcohol, the cure for awkwardness the world over
, she thought.

They made small talk as James finished his meal. He'd arrived only that morning, while Paula had already spent two days in the city. They admired the bistro with its wooden tables and old mullioned windows. A real fir tree glittered with mercury glass balls and fairy lights, and the wine glasses over the bar sparkled in the candlelight.

They were just about to order dessert when the owner's wife brought not just dessert, but brandy too. “On the house,” she said with a smile. “It's
dame blanche
, a sort of Belgian hot fudge sundae. Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you!” they said, and as James complimented her on the lasagna, Paula could see the woman was completely charmed.

“We're open Christmas Day,” she said. “I'm cooking a traditional English Christmas dinner with turkey and all the trimmings. If I have to cook for the family, I might as well cook for my customers.”

“Perfect!” James answered for them both.

Would they really be celebrating Christmas together? She chided herself.
Don't get ahead of yourself. Just enjoy this moment.

“This is amazing,” James said, taking a bite of his dessert. “We're going to have to walk it off after.”

“Sure,” she said. She needed to walk off the alcohol too. The brandy was definitely tipping her over the edge.

The owner turned up the music, and the group around the bar joined Dan Fogelberg in singing “Same Old Lang Syne.” James joined in singing too. She knew the song, of course. Old lovers meeting on Christmas Eve, only to find themselves unable to get past what had separated them in the first place. A preview of the evening ahead? She hoped not.

“Do you still play your guitar?” she asked.

“I still fool around on it sometimes. It kept me sane in Afghanistan.”

“I always loved listening to you play. You have such a great voice too.”

“You always were my biggest fan,” he said, his smile going straight to her heart.

James insisted on picking up the tab, and with everyone around the bar wishing them a Merry Christmas, she followed him into the snowy night.

“Which way?” he asked, his breath coming out in white puffs.

“It doesn't matter. It's all wonderful.”

“Then let's start with that bridge,” he said.

No one had been that way for a while, and the snow on the bridge was postcard perfect. She was admiring it when James suddenly leapt onto the parapet, where he took a couple of steps along the narrow snowy surface. “Dare me?”

“Oh my God, James!” Paula shouted. “Get down!”

“Why?”

“You'll slip and fall! Don't you remember when you tried to walk across the parapet of the Gapstow Bridge in Central Park?”

He jumped down with a laugh. “Of course I do! I just wanted to see if you remembered.”

“You're terrible,” she said, hitting him playfully on the shoulder with her mittened hand. “You were lucky the pond was frozen that day.”

“No, I wasn't,” he protested. “I hit my head on the ice and had to go to the ER. I had a concussion.”

“You did not have a concussion. You didn't even see a doctor. We waited for three hours before you decided we should go for beer instead.”

“And it cured me instantly, as I recall.” He grabbed her mittens and pulled them off.

“Now what are you doing?” she protested.

He dangled her mittens over the side of the bridge. “What was his name?” he demanded playfully.

“Whose name?”

“Your boyfriend's name, of course. The one who dumped you this spring.”

“He didn't dump me. I dumped him. Though that sounds so adolescent—”

“Okay. But what was his name!”

“Jimarco.”

“Jimarco? What kind of a name is that?!”

“It's Jamaican. I called him Jim.”

“Jim, huh? From a James to a Jim. Sounds like you traded down. Like from a Mercedes to a Honda. No, not a Mercedes. I think I'm more in the Lamborghini league of men. Or is it like switching to light beer? Beer but without any flavour. James Light. Jim, the flat, boring version of James.”

“Stop!” she said, laughing. “That's not fair. And give me back my mittens!” She grabbed the end of his scarf, and he grasped his throat and pretended he was being strangled. They were drunken college kids all over again. They were going to wake the whole city. So much for
Silent night, holy night
.

“Okay, what was your wife's name?” Paula demanded.

Without answering, he shook her off and, still in possession of her mittens, charged over the bridge. She rushed after him.

“Wait! Stop there!” he shouted when he reached the other side. There was a flash as he took her photo. “Look at that,” he said, showing her the picture of her startled face. “Now I have something to remember my vacation by.”

“That's a horrible picture,” she replied. “Delete it!”

“Nope,” he said, dropping his phone into his pocket. “I like it. I can show my friends and say, ‘Just another of the many women who chased me through Bruges.'”

“Okay, don't delete it, you jerk. But answer my question. What was your wife's name?”

“Miriam. See, I didn't have to find someone named Paula or Paulamarco. I was completely over you. I told Miriam that too, but she didn't believe me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We weren't doing very well before I left for Afghanistan,” he said, all the playfulness gone from his voice. He looked at the mittens in his hand as if wondering where they came from. “The distance didn't make our hearts grow any fonder, and I just came back with a whole new source of baggage.”

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Don't be. As you said, it was for the best.”

James held out one of her mittens, and she slipped in her hand, but when he came to the other, he didn't let go, and Paula found herself walking hand in hand with her old lover. Christmas trees twinkled in the windows of the houses facing the canal, but she barely noticed them. God, she'd missed him!

“You know, I really thought you'd broken up with me,” he said.

Here we go
, she thought. “It was just a fight.”

“A fight in which you said you never wanted to see me again.”

“I know. But then you slept with your old girlfriend—”

“After you didn't return my calls for three days. I was twenty-two with a broken heart. She showed up with a bottle of Jack Daniel's and offered me a shoulder to cry on. It was stupid, I know. But it wasn't exactly a recipe for rational thought.”

“I realize now that if I'd returned your calls, it wouldn't have happened. But I wanted to break your heart. I was pretty mad at you.”

“You did break my heart, and maybe I wanted to break yours in return. Do you remember what we were fighting about?”

“When I told you I never wanted to see you again?”

“Yes. Was it really about a movie? That sounds so dumb now.”