Closing on Christmas
A Second Glance Second Chance Romance
Christine Zane
Copyright © 2019 by William Tyler Davis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Epilogue
Soundtrack
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by…
One
EVE
PROM
SOME YEARS AGO
“It looks like I peed myself,” I say.
“You didn’t though, right?” he asks. He seriously asks me that.
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. We’re only ten minutes into the night, and I’m ready for it to be over.
“’Cause, ya know, if you did, we’d probably need to clean the seat too.” He has to say it, making things even worse.
I’m not the argumentative type. Instead, I like to push my feelings deep down inside, letting them stew. Letting them fester. But this is just one thing too many. The tears well up in my eyes.
I’m that girl—the one blubbering on the library steps. This while my friends are taking staged photos before heading off with their dates to prom. I’m supposed to be in those photos. I’m supposed to be smiling. I’m supposed to be happy.
It’s our senior year. And I’ve worked so hard to get to today.
“Is it something I said?” Jackson asks. “’Cause seriously, if you peed it’s not a big deal. I mean, you know I would’ve stopped somewhere if you’d asked.”
“I didn’t pee,” I protest. “The flowers—your flowers did this.”
I show him the plastic vial at the end of the rose he brought me—the cracked vial.
“Oh.” He winces. “So, it’s my fault you look like you peed.”
“Stop saying that it looks like I peed!” I hiccup a laugh between sobs.
“Sorry. So sorry.” Jackson eases down onto the step above me. He throws his hands in his lap, tapping his thumb on his thigh, thinking. He’s probably wondering if he should hug me or pat me on the back. If he should do something reassuring.
He should. Anything will do. I just don’t want to sit here crying any longer.
Jackson looks the part of senior prom date. He’s handsome in his tux. He even got a baby blue bowtie to match my dress. His short brown hair doesn’t need any product, but he gelled it into a wave cresting at the part. The setting sun mutes the gray of his eyes. He smiles reassuringly. It’s one of those smiles that says he doesn’t know what else to do or say. Welcome to the party, pal.
I can’t blame him. Jackson’s not my boyfriend. I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not his anything. Jackson and I, we’re just friends—barely friends. Friends who both won the I don’t have a date to prom lottery with only two weeks left. So, we decided to go together.
And I’m a mess. It’s not really his fault. Damn the florist.
Jackson did have a date, a real one. That is, until Ashley Adams dumped him so she could go to prom with some college guy she met during spring break.
But me, I’ve been dateless—boyfriendless—since middle school. When the other girls developed hips and a chest, I developed acne and a self-conscious disposition. Then I got braces years after everyone else. Thanks, Dad, for finally paying years of owed child support. Here I am, a metal mouth for senior prom—and with a boy who just happened to need a date, anyone would do. It’s like being the girl picked last for softball—which is also true any time I play softball.
This night is supposed to live in my memory for the rest of my life. Senior prom. I’ve seen enough movies and sitcoms to know how important it is. Important enough that Hollywood writers won’t stop writing about it.
I’ve built up this day in my mind, thinking it’s the third most important day of my life—after having a child and getting married.
It’s supposed to be the perfect moment, something I can reflect on. Something that will encompass my high school years in one neat place.
But now I can’t take photos because I look like I peed myself. My best friends, Lana and Avery, wave. They’re by the pond with their dates. They’re waiting.
I can picture how bad I look. My mascara must be running down my rouged cheeks. And there’s that nasty wet blotch, front and center.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell Jackson. “Really, it’s not. It’s whoever designed this stem tube thing.”
“Yeah. They’re the real jerk. I’m going to have to get my money back. And maybe some for the dry cleaner, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I repeat, smiling for the first time tonight.
I take a few deep breaths. The crying’s over. I dab a tissue to my eyes. I don’t want to ask him how I look. The words hot mess express come to mind.
But Jackson tells me anyway. “You look great tonight, by the way.”
He takes the tissue from my hand and studies my face. Then he sops up whatever mess there is under my nose. Part of me thinks gross; another part thinks sweet.
“I’ve got an idea,” Jackson says. “Prom photos are awkward already, right? A guy standing behind a girl holding hands all weird at the girl’s waist?”
I nod. “A bit weird.”
“Well, what if we switch it up? I can stand in front of you. You put your hands on my shoulders. I mean, you could put them on my waist if you wanted. But you don’t have to.”
“That would look silly,” I agree.
“I know. Which is why it’s perfect. Then we can just do a train for the group photo. No one will ever see that your dress has a little stain on it.”
“A pee stain,” I giggle.
“Your words, not mine.” He smiles so hard I think the dimples on his cheeks are going to burst. Then he offers me his hand. “Shall we?”
NOW
Over twelve years later, that memory comes flooding back to me as Jackson Rimes enters my restaurant.
Except in person, he’s nothing like that faded memory. He’s twenty pounds heavier, all muscle. The roundness in his cheeks is chiseled away like stone.
On his hip, he’s carrying a miniature version of himself, a dark headed boy with a fresh haircut and gray eyes. A little girl trails behind them, hunkered in close.
They both eye their daddy like he’s the only thing they got in this world, which I know to be true.
“Eve,” Jackson says, “is that you?”
* * *
JACKSON
Of course I know it’s Eve Halliday.
For one, she hasn’t changed since high school. Well, she has changed a bit. No braces. And that pimple on her nose—the one she swore was going to ruin our prom photos—it’s not there.
I’m the one who ruined our prom photos by the way, gifting her a flower that leaked onto her dress. Satin and water don’t mix.
Eve doesn’t have a clue how I felt about her in high school. How devastated I was when I asked her to prom only for her to say, “As friends, right?”
She’s the one who got away. She’s the girl who was always on the periphery of my vision. Everyone’s friend. A member of almost every club, of band, and an honor roll student. I hid my crush away for years until it was almost too late. Until high schoo
l was over and we were going our different ways, her to university and me into the Air Force.
“Not as friends,” I was too frightened to say. Amazing how a girl only a hundred pounds sopping wet could intimidate me so.
I had the bright idea to stand in front of her in our photos to shield her dress, producing one of the most awkward prom photos in existence. For whatever reason, that photo is one my mother has deemed worthy enough to stay on the mantle. It sits along with one of my wedding photos to Amy, and two giant pictures of my kids, Jordan and Amanda.
With those two rascals in tow, I know I won’t get much of a chance to speak to Eve. Jordan has to be held, despite being three and fully capable of doing most things on his own. Amanda, my eight-year-old, isn’t far off. Her head hovers under my elbow where I accidentally graze it, unable to see her beneath Jordan’s bulk.
Kids never make anything easy—even something so trivial as buying a gift certificate.
Not to mention, asking someone out. Even today, I feel that same crushing fear of rejection. In her gorgeous restaurant, Mable’s Kitchen—named, I think, for her grandmother—I’m overwhelmed by just the sight of her. She probably has a boyfriend or three. I’ve been checking her Facebook status religiously over the past few months, just in case. But Eve’s the type to keep things like that private.
Her hair is darker than I remember, only a few streaks of blonde among the mostly caramel colored waves. Her brown eyes rest on me before she grins.
“It’s me. In the flesh.”
Eve’s smile is as bright as I remember it. It’s like a beacon of light at the end of a long tunnel. The tunnel being two of the worst years of my life. Not that the year before those were any better. The year of Amy’s diagnosis. The year of treatments and tears. Lots of tears.
“You know I heard you were going to be here this Christmas,” she tells me. “But I didn’t think I’d actually see you. I was so sorry to hear about Amy.”
“Mommy’s in heaven.” Amanda’s not so good at holding anything back. Her words send a sucker punch right to the gut. And everything I’d dreamed about with this casually staged encounter gets thrown to the wayside.
Eve takes it in stride.
“She sure is,” Eve agrees. “And what’s your name?”
“Amanda. This is my baby brother, Jordan.”
“I’m not a baby,” Jordan shoots back.
He’s too shy to speak to Eve but too fierce to let his sister get away with calling him a baby.
“I didn’t call you a baby.”
“Kids.” I try to quell the fight before it escalates. “Tell Miss Eve why we’re here. Maybe she can help us out.”
Okay, back to the teleprompter. Maybe this will work out after all. But I already feel like we’ve taken too much of Eve’s time. An older couple standing behind us leans around my shoulder, obviously ready to be seated.
“We’re here to buy a gift certificate for Nana and Pop,” Amanda says on cue. “This is their second favorite place to eat.”
“Amanda!” I scold. We’re off script again.
“What? Pop says he likes Outback better.”
“That’s because Pop is a basic steak and potatoes kind of guy. I’m sorry about that.”
“That’s all right,” Eve laughs. “I like a basic steak every now and then. Hey, do you mind if I seat Mister and Missus Gatlin?”
I shake my head as the older couple scoots past us. Both of them give Amanda a little wink and a smile.
The little spitfire is as cute as they come. Big green eyes, just like her mother’s, with silky blonde hair and missing front teeth—but they aren’t the only thing she wants for Christmas.
Eve strolls back to the hostess stand. She scours the small stand, searching under the reservations book and pulling out a thin stack of gift certificates.
She struggles for a moment. “So, I have this,” she says, “but they won’t be good much longer. It’s not really a good Christmas gift. We’re closing on Christmas.”
“Most places are closed on Christmas,” I say.
“No,” Eve says sadly. “I mean Christmas Eve is our last day open. After that, I’ve decided to close the restaurant.”
I don’t know what to say.
She glances over each shoulder. “I’ve been trying to tell people individually before making a post online about it. I was thinking of posting something today, actually. Let people know so they can come in one last time.”
“That’s terrible,” I say. “Not about the post. About closing, I mean. I didn’t realize—”
“Oh.” Eve waves me off. She must know what I’m about to say. “It’s not that we’re doing bad. We could always do better. But it’s not that. It’s complicated. I can’t really get into it.”
If I was punched before, now I’m down for the count. Like everything in life, timing is everything. And mine always has been the worst.
Still, there’s a chance I can see Eve again over this holiday. I can make it happen.
“I think we’d like a gift certificate anyway,” I say. “We’ll give it to Nana and Pop early—today, so they have some time to use it. I’m sorry I never made it in. I meant to. I wanted to. I still want to.”
“I understand.” Eve smiles. “You have a whole life in Atlanta. Not much time for us here in Caribou Lake. And there’s still a few days. You could eat now, if you wanted.”
“McDonald’s,” Jordan whispers in my ear, “you promised.”
He’s right. I did promise. But Eve wasn’t supposed to hear about it. Three-year-olds don’t understand how the things they say make others feel.
Eve makes a face, and I know it’s too late.
“I promised.” I shrug. “But I’ll be back soon. That’s also a promise. Honestly, I love it. The place is gorgeous.”
Eve has it decorated for Christmas. A wreath on the door, garland and white lights strung on the walls. She must pour everything into this place. I get it. Almost everything I’ve bought over the past eight years has been for the kids, not for me or Amy. I cringe thinking about the vacations we never went on, the jewelry I never bought her, and that stuffed animal mountain on Amanda’s bed.
“I’ve heard the food’s good too,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “I like to think so. Tell your parents I say hello.”
Eve finishes filling out the gift certificate, and I exchange it for a fifty-dollar bill. “They really are some of my best customers. They always tip well. And they didn’t mind waiting when I was short-staffed—which was pretty often in the beginning.”
It’s funny because they have to call and tell me every time they do eat here. And never once have they said a bad thing about it.
We wave goodbye to Eve. Per Christmas tradition, I smooch Jordan’s cheek as we pass under the mistletoe she’s hung at the door to the restaurant. He wipes it off unceremoniously.
Outside, it’s chilly, cold enough for a sweater but not a coat. And I feel a sucking rush of adrenaline leave my chest. My heart hammers, not from the change in temperature. It’s my body’s way of telling me I was dumb. I should’ve gotten her number. I should’ve asked her on a date. That was the plan. And it went to crap.
Now my excuse to see her is done.
But you promised to eat there before she closes, I remind myself. And like my dad often says, “A promise is a promise is a promise.”
Two
EVE
There’s something cathartic about flipping an OPEN sign to CLOSED at the end of a long day. That is, if you don’t think about the fact that you’re going to be doing so permanently soon. Which, of course, I do.
I linger there under the mistletoe by myself, my fingers caressing the placard, peering out on Main Street. It’s all done up for Christmas with blinking garland signs on each post. Stars, Christmas trees, gingerbread men—even a palm tree, though I don’t why. Caribou Lake is the opposite of tropical, nestled inside the Blue Ridge Mountains.
If it were a Friday or a Saturday,
I’d have an hour to prep for the dinner service. Every other day of the week, except Sunday, Mable’s Kitchen is open for breakfast and lunch.
And any other day but today, a week before Christmas Eve, I’d have the evening to myself. Well, me and Max would have the evening to ourselves. Max is my almost twenty-year-old schnauzer. We like to fret over things at the restaurant and watch sappy movies.
But not today. No more fretting today. Today, I promised my best friend Avery Martin that I’d go with her for some last-minute Christmas shopping. It should take my mind off things. At least, in theory.
I look for her car but don’t find it. So, I take refuge in the closest booth. My legs are killing me. I’ve been up since before the sun. And I know that keeping up with her tiny self is going to be a task.
Not a minute later, she storms inside like the wrecking ball I know her to be. Avery studies me, a manicured hand on the hip of her pencil skirt. Four foot ten inches of sass over five-inch heels.
“Have you checked your work phone?” she asks in lieu of greeting. I wonder if I was supposed to meet her outside. “Wait, no—I can tell you haven’t. Eve, you need to check your phone.”
“Why?” I grumble. “Who would call the restaurant’s line?”
The restaurant’s cellphone is probably buried under a million receipts in my office. And that’s all the way at the back of the restaurant. I’ll get to it eventually. Before next week, for sure.
“I’ve been on my feet all day,” I remind her. “What is it that can’t wait five more minutes? Is it a text from you? A me-me? A meme. However you pronounce it. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing worth crossing that kitchen for one more time.”
Closing On Christmas (Second Glance Second Chance Book 1) Page 1
