When You Find Love

by Willa Blair

  Holt brushed her hair back and nodded. “Not yet. But soon. In the meantime, we have decorating to do.”

  Soon? She could have floated as she led Holt up the attic stairs, never touching a tread. Soon carried a lot of meanings, a lot of expectations. All things she welcomed.

  In the meantime, they were eager to find the boxes of garlands, colored balls, wreaths, stockings, and all the other things his great-aunt had used to decorate the estate. She stopped halfway up the steps and twisted around. “Ach, nay. We don’t have a tree.”

  “We can get one,” Holt assured her. “Or dispense with that this year and just use whatever strikes your fancy.”

  This year, the man said. Did that mean next year—with her—was also on his mind? “So, you, draped across the mantel?”

  “I can think of somewhere more comfortable than a mantel I’d rather be—but anywhere will do as long as you’re there with me.”

  Caitlin laughed and wagged a finger at him, then bounded up the rest of the stairs. “First we have to find those stockings.”

  An hour later, boxes littered the front hallway, and both she and Holt were covered in dust. They’d found the stockings and hung them on the front room fireplace mantel. Scattered ribbons and bows and decorative balls adorned the floor where Caitlin had dropped them while digging through the boxes. “Where is the garland these go on? And wreaths for the front door?”

  “What are you two doing?” Mrs. Smith’s voice echoed as she marched into the foyer from the long hallway leading from the kitchen, fists on hips.

  Caitlin and Holt exchanged sheepish glances. “We wanted to find stockings to hang on the hearth,” she explained. “But there are no wreaths or swag in these boxes to decorate anything else.”

  “That’s because every year, Farrell and I get them from the local farmers—fresh evergreens, mind you—and use all of those…things you’ve scattered about to make them festive. Given the circumstances and Mr. Ridley’s disinterest, we didn’t acquire any this year.”

  “Mr. Ridley’s disinterest has taken a hike,” Holt replied with a grin. He brushed back his hair and left a smear of gray dust on his forehead.

  “Are fresh evergreens still available?” Caitlin asked.

  “Here and there,” Mrs. Smith answered, crossing her arms. “Though we might need to take a ride up to the north fork. There are more farm stands up there.”

  “We’ll go,” Caitlin volunteered.

  “No, dear. You won’t know where to go. Farrell and I are old hands at this. We’ll go and be back before you could even find the north fork.”

  Holt grinned at Caitlin. “I think we’ve been insulted. Or was that a challenge?”

  Mrs. Smith shook her head. “If you want to do something to create some holiday cheer,” she said and gestured at the mess they’d made of the front foyer, “it’ll be easier to find what we want to decorate with if you’ll pick up all that and box like things with like.” She turned to go, then turned back. “Oh, and there are sandwiches on the kitchen table when you get hungry.” She left them to do as she bid.

  Holt watched her go, an odd half-smile on his face.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  “I thought I was the boss here.”

  “Nay, laddie, nay. Not when Mrs. Smith is around.”

  Holt laughed, and they bent to clear away the mess they’d made. What if she was his grandmother? He wouldn’t mind. Would she? If the DNA results with Doc Coats were disappointing, he’d ask her.

  ****

  After cleaning up the mess they’d made and eating the lunch Mrs. Smith had left them, Caitlin went back to work on her catalog. Holt left for an appointment in town, one he was looking forward to for a change. He had in mind a contingency—one he hadn’t discussed with Caitlin. It was something that, if it came to pass, he thought she’d approve. But he needed to discuss it with Mr. Thornton.

  After the lawyer confirmed his idea, Holt decided he’d put off long enough the most difficult visit of all. If he hurried, he could accomplish it and return to the estate before dark.

  Still he couldn’t make himself go directly there. Instead of taking the main route toward the village, he took side roads, cruising through neighborhoods. Eventually he went through Sag Harbor on the road to the bridge to Shelter Island and beyond it, to the north fork. Farrell and Mrs. Smith had gone up there after holiday greenery. The wine the estate served for dinner, which had been unfailingly good, also came from there. But going in search of the winery would take hours. A distraction, nothing more. Instead of continuing, he turned off onto the Long Beach road and followed it until he saw sand and water.

  He pulled off in a parking lot and lowered the car’s windows to breathe in the scent of water, trees, and sunshine. For a few minutes, he watched children in rolled-up pants chase each other as ducks glided out of their reach in the cold shallows, and parents sitting on beach towels keeping their gazes on every move their offspring made. It struck him that those kids were enjoying life more fully and easily than he had at that age. But how much of what he thought he remembered was real, and how much was colored by his family history?

  He started the car and followed the road until he could turn east, then south. Before he knew it, he recognized the turnoff to the cemetery. He pulled up to the entrance and stopped, still reluctant. But it was time. Past time. He pulled forward. Inside the gates, much had changed, but he found his mother’s marker easily, nonetheless. He’d insisted she be laid to rest on a knoll under a tree, giving her the view of forest, sky, and, if he squinted, a sliver of ocean. The kind of view she’d missed after her aunt threw her out like common trash. He’d made enough money to give her the view in a high-end condo during her last year of life—though the thing she’d wanted most, him nearby, had been impossible by then. His company took all his time and energy. If he’d known he’d lose her so soon, would he have done anything differently? Come east more often? Flown her out to see him? He hoped so.

  “How are you, Mama?” He knelt and laid a hand on the headstone. Jennifer Cooper Ridley, it read. Beloved Mother, as she’d requested. Her final shot at her aunt—as if that woman would have ever visited this grave and seen the inscription. But perhaps someone told the old witch about the epitaph. That would have been enough.

  “You won’t believe why I’m here.” He paused and looked around him, feeling foolish, yet needing to say what he now realized he’d come here to say. To ask. “I’m sure you haven’t seen your Aunt Amelia where you are, so she hasn’t had a chance to torment you.” He paused to clear his suddenly tight throat. “She left me everything she denied you. You know I don’t want it. I’m going to get rid of all of it as fast as I can, one way or another. But I need to know, does everything include the curse you told me about? I never really believed in it, but whether it’s real or not is starting to matter to me. A lot.”

  She didn’t answer. Of course not. Holt was crazy to be talking to her headstone, much less to be talking to her headstone about a two-hundred-year-old curse. Even crazier to expect an answer.

  But if something as crazy as a family curse could be real, perhaps so could this sudden sense of disquiet piercing his grief. Was that her answer?

  After another moment of silence, he stood and turned to squint at the horizon, looking for that sliver of sea. He missed it, lost in a low cloud bank as the storm retreated out to sea. He missed her. She’d done the best she could, raising a gifted son alone. He hadn’t been able to repay a fraction of what he owed her. He never would. But he could get on with his life and make it better than hers had been. Not the money necessarily, but the family, friends, and loved ones. Children chasing ducks at the shore.

  If Caitlin was right, he could have all of that. When he’d threatened to send her home, she’d said she had only wanted to help, to bring him some happiness. She’d thought she’d ruined everything. She was wrong. She’d helped. She’d made him feel…something. Happiness? He wasn’t sure, but he was sure she’d give
n him hope.

  ****

  Caitlin welcomed Christmas Eve’s calm and cold. Last week’s storms had mirrored the conflict between her and Holt. But they’d made peace in time for and in the spirit of the holiday.

  Holt drove them into the village in silence. Caitlin knew he had to be nervous, but so was she. They’d heard from the lab Holt had chosen and planned to meet Doc Coats at the village Christmas celebration to open the report.

  On the way, Holt told her, “I had a thought.”

  “I hope you didn’t strain anything.”

  He cut her a side-eyed glance. “Again, not funny. Are there any funny people in Scotland? I’d like to meet one.”

  “Sorry, you’re out of luck. You’re stuck with me. So what thought?”

  “About what to do if this report doesn’t confirm a match.”

  “I might have had the same thought,” Caitlin told him. “You first.”

  Holt slowed, then stopped to let some people cross the street. “Mrs. Smith’s son is also dead. He lived in the same house. He and my mother were friends. Sometimes proximity and teenage hormones…”

  “We’re in sync. But let’s see what the report you received says. If we’re wrong, we can approach Mrs. Smith about testing her.”

  Holt accelerated smoothly once the street cleared. “She might like having me as a grandson.”

  “Of course she would. You’re adorable. And that would give her an excuse to shop for toys.”

  “So not funny.” But he grinned at her.

  They parked a few blocks away from the square and walked back, drawn by the lights, colored and white, the holiday music, and the sound of laughter. Scents both savory and sweet filled their nostrils as soon as they reached it.

  “It’s lovely,” Caitlin remarked as they circled the huge central fir tree, fully decked out in lights, garlands, and ornaments—many handmade by local school children. Singing drew them to one side of the square, where carolers in Elizabethan garb entertained the crowd. They listened for a while, then wandered on, admiring the holiday displays set up by local businesses. Holt bought them hot chocolate to keep them warm. It didn’t compare to Mrs. Smith’s, but it was hot.

  Finally they found an empty bench in a quiet corner and sat down. They hadn’t seen Doc Coats yet, but Caitlin was confident he would show up soon.

  “Caitlin,” Holt said, startling her out of her thoughts. “I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?” She was genuinely puzzled. He hadn’t done anything today to owe her one.

  “For…everything. For not believing you. Not trusting you. I should have seen that everything you’ve said and done since I met you was meant to help me.”

  “It took you long enough,” Caitlin muttered. She understood his suddenly pensive mood and wanted to cheer him. It was Christmas, after all.

  “You’ve been nothing but truthful with me, and you’ve stood your ground when I…I gave you a bunch of crap you didn’t deserve. No matter what happens with the paternity test, I think you’re an amazing woman.”

  “Aye. I know that.”

  “Humble, too,” he added with a sudden grin.

  Caitlin smirked back. “What are you trying to tell me, Holt?”

  “That we’re running out of time, and I’m falling in love with you. I wanted you to know that. I never expected…I guess you never know when it’s going to happen. When you find love. I have. I hope you feel the same way.”

  Caitlin’s heart stopped, then beat a frantic pace in her chest, sending her blood pulsing to her extremities. Heat and cold washed through her, one after the other, over and over. She did feel the same, but she’d never expected to hear those words from the very guarded Holt Ridley. And not at a time like this, when he was about to discover if his life would include a father he’d never known.

  “Caitlin? Say something.”

  “I do. Feel the same way, I mean.” Caitlin coughed and waved a hand in front of her face when Holt reached for her. “I’m okay. I just didn’t expect—”

  “That I could let you inside my walls? I’m surprised about that, too.”

  “And that you could ever say the words. You’re right. You don’t get to choose when you find love. But you do get to choose what to do about it. So what shall we do? I live in Scotland, and you in California. Or here. I—”

  “Not here. But we can work something out. As long as we choose each other. Six months in each?”

  “That would be horribly expen—”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Ach, aye. I guess I don’t know how to imagine living with that kind of wealth.”

  “But you’ll enjoy learning.”

  Caitlin twisted on the bench to face him. “I don’t care about that. I care about you.”

  “I know. I want—”

  A hoarse shout rose above the background noise of Christmas music and the happy rumble of many voices in the square. Then a scream sounded and shocked silence followed for a moment before voices resumed, tense and urgent.

  “What’s happening?” Caitlin asked, jumping to her feet and trying to see where the commotion was coming from. Holt joined her as another shout sounded, then he grabbed her hand and tugged her in that direction. In moments, they spotted a tattered-looking man waving a butcher knife and sobbing in front of the huge, central Christmas tree. Medals and military insignia covered the tattered fabric of his jacket.

  “What the hell?” Holt had barely uttered the words when a town constable approached the man, but when the man waved the knife in front of him, then brought it up to his own throat, the constable stopped several yards away.

  “No,” Caitlin breathed. “He can’t do that. My God, there are children everywhere.” Mutterings reached her, something about a homeless vet, but that was all she understood. She spotted Doc Coats approach on the constable’s other side. He spoke urgently to him, but low enough that she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then he turned and made a quick gesture behind him.

  Suddenly a medium-sized mixed-breed dog approached the distraught man, the animal’s long floppy ears bouncing as it trotted forward. The dog stopped in front of him and sat, looked up with sad eyes, and whined.

  Surprised, the man lowered the knife from his throat and held it against his chest, his gaze on the dog.

  Caitlin feared the constable would rush the man while the dog distracted him, but he didn’t. The dog stood and stepped forward, never taking its gaze from the man. When the man didn’t move, the dog licked the empty hand by his side and pushed against his leg, nuzzling him, then licked his hand again.

  The man tossed the knife aside and fell to his knees. He wrapped his arms around the dog, which squirmed in delight, yipped and licked tears from the man’s face as fast as it could.

  The constable approached then, but he only picked up the knife. He gave the man a few minutes with the dog, then took charge of him.

  Doc Coats called the dog back to his side where Holt and Caitlin joined him.

  “You did that,” Caitlin said. “How did you know the dog would calm him down?”

  “It’s what I do. What I’m training some of these dogs for. To help homeless vets who are suffering with PTSD.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” Holt said. “You saved that man’s life.”

  Doc Coats reached down and rubbed the dog’s head. “No, Chauncy did that. We just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Holt couldn’t believe what he’d just seen—what the man who might be his father had accomplished. “All that took was a quick gesture to a friendly dog,” he said.

  “And weeks of training beforehand,” Doc Coats answered with a smile. “To protect the man, of course, but also the dog if the man failed to respond and threatened him.”

  Chauncy looked up in adoration, tongue lolling, and panting with excitement. “You did a good job, boy,” the vet said, crouching down to hug the dog. “You saved a life tonight.
”

  Other people approached then, voicing their amazement and congratulations. Holt’s heart swelled with pride. Whether this man was his father or not, he was glad to know him.

  Once the crowd around them and Chauncy thinned, Caitlin spoke up. “Did you get a lab report yet?”

  Doc Coats turned his gaze to Holt and held it for a moment. “I did. Did you?”

  Holt nodded. “Haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Nor have I.” He pulled an envelope out of an inside pocket and proffered it.

  Holt handed over the one that had come to him. “This seems as good a time and place as any…”

  When Doc Coats nodded, Holt ripped open the envelope and pulled out a single folded sheet of paper.

  Doc did the same, eyed him, and opened the form.

  With a glance aside at Caitlin, Holt unfolded his. He didn’t look at the report right away. Caitlin’s expression captured his attention. Her eyes were shining, and she smiled encouragement at him. He nodded and looked down but couldn’t focus on the writing. He blinked. It was hopeless. He was too wound up. Everything appeared watery. Instead of fighting it, he handed her the paper. “Read it, please. I can’t.”

  Doc Coats passed the report he held to her. “Please.”

  Holt watched as Caitlin studied first one form, then the other, her eyes growing wider as she read. Then she pressed both sheets to her chest and looked up, first at Doc Coats, then at Holt.

  “Both forms confirm a familial match. Holt’s DNA is a fifty percent match to yours, Doc,” she said, favoring him with a smile. “The rest,” she said, turning back to Holt, “must be your mother’s. You’ve found your father, Holt. Merry Christmas.” She stepped forward and hugged him.

  Knees suddenly weak, Holt wanted to hang on, grateful for Caitlin’s support. But she pulled away, turned and gave his father a hug. His father. The words sounded strange, alien in his mind.

  When Caitlin stepped back, she shifted her gaze to Holt and tilted her head. Her message couldn’t be any more clear.