Comfort And Joy

They stood in front of the refreshment stand, where Greer Briscoe waited to take their order. Olivia could have wished for anyone else. Seventy-two-year-old Greer was kindhearted, but she often exercised her right to behave as a self-professed “magnificent crone.” The advantage of old age, she always said, was that you could dispense with conversational filters. You were old, and you were supposed to tell it as you saw it.

“Your nose looks cold, too, Ms. Marshall,” Gabriel said, before turning to Greer. “Four hot chocolates.”

“Whipped cream or marshmallows?”

“Whipped cream,” he replied, without consulting Olivia. “But before you top the two for the kids, can you add a little milk to cool the hot chocolate?”

“You got it.”

When Greer slid the drinks for the boys across the counter to Gabriel, she looked at Olivia.

“Olivia, hello. I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said, as if the fourth drink wouldn’t be for Olivia. As if, of course, Ms. Marshall would be unattached.

“I’m with them,” she replied without thinking.

“Oh?” Greer glanced at Gabriel and the boys with interest. “Wait a minute. I thought you looked familiar. You’re Walter Brant’s son. The Hurricane Katrina refugee.”

Olivia saw Gabriel flinch at the loaded word.

“I prefer to be called a survivor,” he said, his jaw tight.

“Well, you’re certainly in the right company,” Greer declared, passing the other two hot chocolates their way. “Olivia has the softest heart in all of Hennings. Why, as a little girl, she brought home every stray cat and injured bird…”

Gabriel didn’t wait to hear the rest. He picked up the handle of the wagon and stormed away up Main Street, leaving Greer still rambling on and Olivia smarting.

The day could not end this way.

She picked up the two abandoned drinks and hurried after him.

When she caught up, he didn’t slow his pace.

“Hold on!” she implored. “The boys will spill their hot chocolate.”

He stopped abruptly to face her. “I was wondering what your game was.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve met other women like you, who get their kicks doling out pity. Taking on the downtrodden. Feeling so satisfied when you save one of the hopeless from the brink.”

Both boys were staring at the adults, worried expressions making their young faces seem much older.

“That is not what’s going on,” she insisted with a significant nod toward his sons.

“No? The offer to fund the boys’ school supplies, the loan of the wagon, the willingness to buy drinks…”

“Have you been gone from Hennings so long you’ve forgotten what being neighborly means? Gabriel, this is me. Olivia.”

Something flickered in his eyes—a light that disappeared as soon as it appeared. “Let me make this perfectly clear,” he said. “We’re not refugees. We don’t need your pity. And we don’t want your charity. We’ll borrow the wagon for today, but I’ll return it tonight. If my kids need something, I’ll provide it.”

He pulled the boys away and left her standing with two cups of hot chocolate and a guilty feeling in the pit of her stomach.

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