Closing On Christmas (Second Glance Second Chance Book 1)

by Christine Zane

  “Is this about the gift certificate?” Mrs. Rimes asks. “Honey, we tried to see you yesterday, we really did, but time got away from us.”

  “No. It’s not about that. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Tomorrow, I think. He’s been rather secretive. He told me to keep the kids. I didn’t ask many questions. I think this has something to do with Amy. You know she passed two years ago today. The day after Christmas.”

  “I—no, I didn’t realize.”

  Mrs. Rimes nods. “I think he had a good time the other night. With you, I mean.”

  “I did too,” I say.

  She’s about to close the door when she stops herself. “Oh, you know what. He did say something—something about a fresh start. I don’t know what he meant. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  As the door shuts, I make my decision. If Jackson Rimes is ready for a fresh start, then so am I.

  * * *

  JACKSON

  Nick Kristopher is my realtor. Well, sort of. He is a realtor. But he’s also a former firefighter, and one of my best friends. And he’s been helping me sell my home in Atlanta—our home.

  We did it without putting a sign in the yard. That was my one rule, that Amanda couldn’t know.

  Now I’m regretting that choice. Maybe I should’ve clued in my eight-year-old. I was afraid of tears—afraid she’d talk me out of it. Hell, I already tried to talk myself out of it enough.

  But we need a change. I need a change. A fresh start.

  Nick sighs when he sees me. Not in relief. It’s more like a weight has been put on his chest and the air escaped.

  “I said you could overnight those keys, didn’t I?”

  “You might’ve mentioned it,” I say.

  “You don’t have to be here, man. It’s my fault. I told them we could move the closing date.”

  The house is spotless. Everything of mine is gone. It’s more spacious without the kids’ toys in every room. The hardwood floors echo with each step. I don’t remember them ever doing so.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Nick motions at the walls. They’re painted, all beige. I hate beige. Amy hated beige.

  “I really appreciate this,” I tell Nick.

  He grins and shakes his head. “I didn’t do any of this. It came out of this check. And I’m pretty sure the movers boxed up your trash can by the way, so have fun with that. You got an address for them to ship it all to?”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “You’re sure you won’t stay in Atlanta? I’d be happy to put you through some realty courses. It’s better hours. And with a face like yours, you could sell a shack to a millionaire.”

  He hands me an envelope. I hand him my keys.

  “You missed the buyers. They’re excited. Young couple. Two kids. They’re really going to take care of this place.”

  “Not with two kids, they aren’t.”

  Nick smiles. He knows my pain. He has three little boys of his own. “I always said it was the third that put us over the edge. But maybe not.”

  I laugh.

  “Jackson,” he says, “what are you doing here? It’s the morning after Christmas. You must’ve driven here on Christmas. Why aren’t you with your family?”

  “I could ask you the same.”

  “After this, I’m off the clock. This is the only thing I put on the docket today. And for me, driving home doesn’t involve eight hours on a freeway.”

  “Seven if I don’t make any stops.”

  “You never answered my question,” he says. “Why’d you come?”

  “I had to say one more goodbye.” It’s not a lie. For whatever reason, my mind was fixated on the thought of never seeing this house again. And I had to be here.

  “Why else?”

  God, I hate how he knows me so well.

  “There’s a girl,” I say.

  “Amanda?”

  “Not Amanda.”

  “So, by girl, you mean woman.”

  I nod. And I have to ask.

  “Is it too soon?”

  He shakes his head. “There’s only one way to find out. And it’s not here in an empty house you don’t own anymore. You take that check and you start your next adventure, Jackson Rimes. It’s what Amy wanted. It’s why she left you the money to pay off this house. Not for you to live here forever. She did it so you could get away.”

  “She was always better with finances than me.”

  “She was better than you in a lot of ways.” Nick pats me on the back. “You’re gonna be fine. Make an investment. Find a home. And for God’s sake, call that woman. If you’re willing to drive eight hours to get away from her, she must be something.”

  “She is,” I agree.

  And after hopping in the truck, she’s all I can think about.

  But I realize that I don’t have Eve’s number. When we were in high school, we didn’t exactly carry around cell phones. I’m able to find the number to her restaurant with Siri’s help. It goes through to an answering machine. I leave her a message that I can only hope she’ll get.

  I make two more phone calls.

  One to Bryan Ferguson, Scrooge McDuck himself. And the last call is the most important. I dial.

  * * *

  Hey, Sweetheart.

  Yes, I’m well aware that I’m going to have to stop this. Today might be that day. I don’t know.

  I’m always afraid your voicemail will be full—I don’t even have your phone anymore, just the number. And the bill.

  I have a confession.

  That sounds ominous, doesn’t it?

  Well, it’s not that type of confession. I already told you about the kiss. This is another type of confession.

  Do you remember Beau Barton, the baseball player you dated in high school?

  You remember telling me the whole story?

  Well, I remember. You were a little tipsy. We were driving home from one of your friends’ weddings, maybe Kristy’s. We got on the subject of the one who got away. Or rather, you got on the subject, told me about the boy who stole your heart in high school and left you for the big leagues.

  You talked about the mansion you might’ve had and the life that you might’ve lived, and then we laughed because we both knew our life, the one we made together, was perfect—perfect in its totally imperfect way.

  Then you looked up his stats—his RBIs and home runs. You told me how your heart had sunk when he didn’t win the American League MVP and he totally should have. More importantly, you told me how he broke your heart. And you made me promise never to do the same.

  Then you asked me if I had a similar story. I told you about Eve. At the time, it didn’t compare to your story. I felt a little guilty telling you, like somehow even thinking about the past was cheating on our future.

  I never told you that last part.

  Now I’m in a similar position, except it’s our past hindering my future. And I’m so scared I’m doing the wrong things.

  Selling our house, our always-messy, still-in-need-of-renovation, totally imperfect house, has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s the house we bought together. We both inked our names on that mortgage. It’s the house we brought both Amanda and Jordan home to, and the house where you drew your last breath.

  It’s the last one I can’t bear. I needed out. I needed help, to be closer to family. And here I’ve found so much more.

  So if you’re angry about the house, I understand.

  But if you’re angry about Eve, then I beg you, please don’t be. Know that I love you and I always will.

  I’m yours forever.

  Nine

  EVE

  A rush of cold adrenaline sweeps through my chest, then twists downward, churning into butterflies in my stomach.

  Mister Patterson is long-winded—he has a story for every comment I make. It feels like I’ve been in his office for hours.

  After signing away Mable’s Kitchen, I decide to make my comments short and to t
he point. I allow him to have everything—the menu, the kitchen, the tables and booths. Everything except the location, which isn’t mine to give.

  “You don’t have to hand over the keys now,” he tells me. “I understand if you need to pick up some things. And I assure you, you’re leavin’ it in good hands. You’re welcome anytime. My treat.”

  “I’ll have to take you up on that.” I say it, but I don’t mean it.

  Today, I’m starting down a new path. I hope. The plan is to start fresh. To talk to Jackson.

  I leave Mister Patterson’s office, his car dealership, and my autopilot sets a course for Mable’s Kitchen. The sky is gray and getting darker. It’s cold. My teeth chatter before I unlock the side door and go inside.

  I take one last look around. I run my fingers on the tabletops, I breathe in the smells of the kitchen, and I glance around my office. It’s so disheveled. I should clean it. I should organize the receipts and paperwork. But this mess isn’t really mine anymore.

  The restaurant’s cellphone perches atop a mound of unopened mail, exactly where I left it the day I found out about being Mrs. Claus.

  There’re several messages, some unanswered calls. But the last voicemail catches my eye. It’s from an unknown Georgia number.

  My heart sings.

  * * *

  Hey Eve,

  It’s uh, it’s me, Jackson. I don’t know if you’re mad at me or not. Mom said you stopped by on Christmas. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m really sorry.

  I left pretty hastily. And I broke a promise to you. I’m sorry about that too. Look at me. Now I’m the one apologizing for everything.

  I do need to tell you one more I’m sorry.

  Eve, I need you to know that there’s someone else. There’s been someone else. Her name is Amy and she’s the mother of my children.

  And sometimes when things get tough, a lot of times recently, I find myself calling her number. Sometimes I text too. Hell, her phone is still in service. That probably sounds incredibly sad and pathetic, doesn’t it?

  Don’t answer that.

  I’ve been keeping a secret this whole time. I sold our house in Atlanta. And I didn’t know where we’d end up. I didn’t tell my folks and not the kids either.

  You’re the first to know that I’m moving back to Caribou Lake.

  I have one last surprise—a surprise, not a secret. If you’re willing to hear me out, meet me where I ruined your prom dress tonight at six.

  I’ll explain everything.

  * * *

  JACKSON

  I realize I’ve made a huge mistake, only it’s too late. I miscalculated. And I don’t have Eve’s number. Even if I did, she should already be here.

  Here at the library in the dark. Only a few lampposts by the lake illuminate the ground beside the partially frozen lake. And what they do illuminate is a flurry of snow silently falling.

  Snow, the day after Christmas—the day after anyone really wants it.

  I half expect to see Eve waiting for me on the steps, those steps where she cried years ago before prom. But then I think how stupid that is. It’s freezing outside. There isn’t another car in the parking lot.

  Why would she be waiting for me here? She probably didn’t get my message. I have to know someone with her number. I have to know someone with her address.

  I’m committed to seeing this through. I decide to wait where I was hoping she’d be for at least ten, fifteen minutes. Then, if she doesn’t show, I’ll figure something else out.

  I don’t sit on the steps. I bounce around, keeping my body warm as snow swirls around me. Headlights on the road trick my heart into beating fast, even faster as the lights turn down the library’s drive.

  The car is old, beat-up, and shouldn’t be on the road in these conditions. It’s Eve’s.

  I run out to meet it, sliding on ice on the sidewalk, recovering like a not-so-graceful ice skater. Eve’s out of the car. She’s hesitant.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she says. “I just got your message.”

  “No. I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m sorry I left the party. I’m sorry I didn’t see you on Christmas Eve. I’m sorry I wasn’t there Christmas Day. And I’m sorry I called you out to the library when it’s dark and freezing.”

  Eve’s lips curl into a teeth-chattering smile. It’s like the exact opposite of those year ago, her crying on the library steps.

  “Yeah, it is that,” she says. “Can we maybe sit in your truck?”

  I open the door for her, then slip-slide to the opposite side of the truck. I crank it, turn on the heat and the seat warmers—a luxury I’m sure she doesn’t have in her old car.

  “What’s this surprise?” she asks.

  “We’re going straight there, huh?” I smile, glad that I don’t have to skirt around the subject. “You get to keep Mable’s Kitchen for as long as you like.”

  “What do you mean?” There’s an edge to Eve’s voice like what I said doesn’t make any sense, which I guess from her standpoint makes sense. It took Bryan a lot of going back and forth to figure it all out.

  “I mean I know your new landlord,” I tell Eve. “And he says you’re welcome there for as long as you want.”

  “You know my new landlord?” The way she’s questioning it is funny like she, too, needs to get something off her chest.

  “Eve,” I say, “I’m your new landlord. I talked to Bryan. He talked to Tim Hastings, ya know, the mayor?”

  “I know the mayor. But what does that have to—”

  “They worked everything out with the owners. The town has a lot of say about what can go onto Main Street. And they don’t want some chain. They want Mable’s Kitchen. I’m buying the building.”

  “But I sold Mable’s Kitchen,” she says. “I wanted a fresh start—a fresh start with you.”

  “You’re serious?”

  She nods.

  “Eve,” I say, “I want a fresh start with you. Restaurant or no restaurant.”

  She smiles. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  I go to kiss her but stop short. “Actually, I’m wondering if we’re okay to kiss without mistletoe. It feels like there might be a rule.”

  “Shut up and kiss me,” she says, drawing me close. Kissing me. Allowing me to kiss her.

  There’s a give and take, an ebb and flow where we take turns hungrily putting our mouths together. When one of us needs to take a breath, it’s the other’s turn to press forward, neither of us let the momentum of this moment slow.

  The only thing holding us back is the center console between us. We’re both twisted awkwardly to each side of it, pressing to get closer.

  “Do you want to go to the back seat?” she asks.

  But a jeaned buttock is in my face before the question even registers. It’d be a lot easier to go outside, to use the doors, but I don’t want the heat of the moment to fade. I squeeze through to be beside her.

  Then she’s on top of me, kissing me like she means it—like she’s means to keep kissing me for a long long while. Her tongue caresses my lips, it strokes across my front teeth, it tricks my tongue into false moves. I’m always a second behind, struggling to keep up until I take control.

  With one hand, I squeeze her hip. With the other, I hold the back of her head and press her face into mine. Her mouth open, I flick my tongue into hers. I do it again. And again. My hands move, instinctive, down the small of her back. At first I’m just over the jeans, but that’s not enough. In this moment, I need more than just that.

  She does too. It’s like she’s everywhere at once. She’s kissing my cheek, my neck. She nibbles on my ear.

  “Okay—now it feels like prom,” I say, mostly to myself.

  Eve giggles, her breath warm on my neck. “We never did this at prom.”

  “No,” I say, “this would’ve been after prom.”

  “This is parking, huh.”

  “It’s usually in a more remote spot. Later at night.”

  �
��I don’t see anyone here.”

  She’s right. It’s dark. Only our two cars in the parking lot. And no headlights out on the street. Snowflakes sprinkle the windshield. The glass on the window behind my shoulder is as cold as ice.

  Eve folds into me. She’s warm as a sweater, warm as the fire in both of our hearts, burning for each other. And even though we both know this moment will eventually end, there’s hope for a thousand other moments like it.

  Epilogue

  EVE

  My body does this thing. 4:55 a.m. Five minutes until my alarm. My eyes snap open.

  Why? Why, body? Why?

  I mean what’s the point in setting an alarm if I’m just going to wake up ahead of it? Well, I’ll tell you. The point is if I don’t set the alarm, I wake up two hours later, feeling refreshed but severely late for work.

  I roll over, yawning, stretching—the usual routine. But I bump into something solid. Something warm. Someone. Someone with his mouth slack open making a terrible gargling sound. I guess we can call that breathing.

  Do all sexy men snore? Do they have terrible morning breath and steal the covers only to poke one foot out? Oh, just mine? Just my luck.

  I hold my breath and peck his top lip. His scruff tickles my lip. He stirs, breathing normal for a minute. By the time I’m out of bed and in the bathroom changing, the snores come hard again.

  I sneak around the house using my phone to illuminate my way. There’s a low growl from what used to be the spare bedroom.

  “Max, it’s just me.”

  The defector has found someone else to snuggle up to at night, a little boy who still wants a dog even when he has one wrapped around his finger.

  Amanda sleeps like a log. It’s her brother I’m afraid of waking. Max is no help.

  Some nights, most nights, Jackson falls asleep while tucking Jordan into bed. The little boy only falls asleep after his dad—resilient to the very last.