Christmas on the Coast

by Lee Tobin McClain

  She swallowed and leaned back, away from his intensity. “But then it would be over, and neither of us would feel good about it. We’re just not at a place in life where something casual will work.”

  “Why does it have to be casual?”

  “I have a 40 percent chance of recurrence.” Even just saying those words made her stomach cramp, but she pushed past it. This was too important to wimp out about, so she forced herself to go on. “I could die. You’ve already been through that, and more importantly, Davey has already been through that, and he shouldn’t go through it again.”

  Paul’s eyes closed for a moment then he opened them, reached across the table and grasped her hand.

  She pulled it away. “Go date other people. Find someone else.”

  “What if I want you?” He reached for her hand again, and this time, he kept hold of it even when she tried to pull it away. Her hand felt small inside his, delicate.

  The temptation was strong to let him take care of her. To let him put his coat around her, hold her hand, soothe her worries.

  He was strong and handsome. Caring and compassionate. The clink of glasses, the low voices of the men at the bar, the country music playing softly, all of it faded until there was nothing but her and Paul and this thing that shouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen, between them.

  She needed to find some resolve, some way to go against her own heart and cut off this sweet and promising connection.

  It’s for Davey, she told herself. Davey needs his dad, and who knows how Paul will feel if he finds out the truth.

  “If you get together with me, people will feel sorry for you. They’ll think you’re a horrible father for doing this to Davey. They’ll ask you how I’m doing in that quiet church tone.” She heard her own voice getting louder. “They’ll say how skinny I am. They’ll think there’s something wrong with you for hooking up with another cancer victim.”

  “Amber. Don’t get riled up.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do and how to feel!” Now she was being loud and shrewish; she heard it in her own voice and hated it. She stood, looking down at him. “I’m sorry. But see, I’m scarred by this disease and it isn’t just physical. You would have a lot to deal with, just like you did with Wendy. Probably more.”

  He stood, too, and grasped her arm, stroked it. “Hey, hey, calm down. We don’t have to figure all this out today.”

  He was being kind. But everything she had said was true. He would have a lot to deal with, just like he had with Wendy. In fact, he didn’t even realize all he’d had to deal with regarding Wendy. He didn’t know the truth about her.

  And he could never find out. And that meant that, even if their other barriers could be overcome, she could never get together with him. “There’s nothing to figure out,” she said. “We’re not having a relationship, and that’s that.”

  * * *

  AMBER HAD BEEN RIGHT. He knew she was right. They couldn’t have a relationship.

  But Paul couldn’t forget yesterday’s kiss. Running his fingers through her soft hair, pulling her close and feeling how slender she was and yet how strong, finally, finally getting a taste of her lips. One touch and they’d ignited like a forest fire.

  He knelt at the edge of Davey’s classroom, watching the kids greeting each other and having a few minutes of free play before the official start of class activities. The bright colors, the play areas full of educational toys and the happy voices of the children would lift anyone’s spirits.

  Paul was glad he had agreed to help out today at the school. Not only was Davey thrilled, but it had given Paul a sure excuse not to work with Amber today.

  Another woman came rushing in with her child, full of apologies for being late, taking off her coat. She was obviously the other parent helping in the classroom today, and when he recognized Laura, the mother who’d found Davey’s toy gun and bailed on the playdate, he groaned inside. He’d sent her an email on Sunday after talking to Georgiana and Ferguson, but she hadn’t answered.

  He wouldn’t blame the woman for keeping her child away from him and Davey indefinitely. He might have done the same had their roles been reversed. But Davey had been begging for another playdate with Justin, so he guessed he would have to confront the mom today and find out whether she was holding a grudge against Davey and him.

  The teacher was doing some kind of opening exercise now with the whole group, so Paul walked over to the side of the room where Laura was standing. “I don’t know if you got my email, but I spoke to Davey’s grandparents right after that playdate,” he said quietly. “Turns out they’re the ones who got him the gun. It’s gone, and they understand they are not to buy him any gun-type toys again.”

  She looked at him blankly for a minute, and then seemed to process what he’d said. “Oh, my email, I haven’t checked it. Life has been crazy. I haven’t even had time to comb my hair, which you can probably tell.”

  Paul chuckled. Nice to see another parent struggling in the trenches, the way he did every single day. And he could tell she hadn’t combed her hair, but she looked fine and he told her so. “I just wanted to apologize for upsetting you and Justin. I don’t think I’ve ever been so shocked as when you pulled out that plastic gun and handed it to me.”

  “I was shocked to see it, too, and I probably overreacted,” Laura said. “Let’s set up another playdate soon.”

  Good. That was that. The teacher called them into service, and they got their assignments helping the children at different stations. Paul was assigned the play kitchen, so he sat on the floor while the kids cooked pretend pizza and vegetables on the little stove. One of the little girls gave him a baby doll to hold, and another fed him plastic corn on the cob. When he exclaimed how good it was, several more kids clustered around him, clamoring to feed him what they’d cooked.

  They were probably getting a little too loud and rowdy, but Paul couldn’t bring himself to scold them because Davey obviously loved having him here. He plopped himself into Paul’s lap, displaced the doll and took charge, making the kids line up to offer Paul their meals.

  They were so innocent, so sweet, and he felt protective of all of them. Most of all, Davey. Paul had to protect Davey at all costs. That meant he had to protect himself and keep control of himself, a control that Amber threatened in a way Wendy never had. Paul had never been in so much danger of being swept away as he had yesterday, kissing Amber, and he felt guilty for being so attracted to her.

  Kids from the other groups started drifting into the kitchen play area, and finally, Laura brought her group over. “All the kids want to be with the dad,” she said. “Moms are a dime a dozen.”

  Davey had climbed out of Paul’s lap and was now hitting the table with a plastic hammer, repairing it, another little boy offering advice at his side. Now he looked up. “I wish I had a mom,” Davey said, and then went back to his hammering.

  His words twisted a knife in Paul’s gut.

  Laura sat down on a child-sized chair beside Davey. She studied him and then looked at Paul. “Is his mother...” she asked softly, and trailed off.

  “She died of cancer two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be so hard to deal with.” She ran a hand over Davey’s hair, and he leaned into it before turning back to his hammering task.

  “We’re coping,” Paul said, matching her quiet tone.

  “Are you dating again?”

  The blunt question took him off guard. “No!” He wasn’t. Kissing Amber didn’t count as dating.

  “If you’re looking to be set up, I’m good friends with Kayla Harris.” She gestured toward Davey’s teacher. “She’s great, and she’s single, and Davey likes her. All the kids do.”

  Paul pulled his mind away from Amber and let Laura’s words sink in. He turned to look at Miss Harris.

  She was pretty for sure, and fun. He could ask her out.<
br />
  I don’t want to ask her out.

  But maybe his reaction to Amber was just physical. Its intensity had taken away his sense.

  He’d been thinking for a while that he ought to date, that Davey would benefit from having a woman in his life. His son’s casual statement just now, that he wished he had a mom, confirmed that notion.

  He should do it.

  “Do you want me to set something up?” Laura asked.

  “No. No, thanks, but I appreciate your giving me the idea.” If he was going to ask Davey’s teacher out, he’d do it himself rather than having someone help him like they were preschoolers themselves.

  He looked over at Laura and saw that Davey had leaned against her again. She was stroking his hair.

  Yes, Davey needed a woman in his life. He needed a mom.

  Paul would wait until school was over and then speak to Kayla Harris, ask her out. No matter that it felt like a betrayal. Not a betrayal of Wendy, but of Amber.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “THIS IS WHERE you live?” Imogene’s voice dripped with scorn.

  Mary sighed inwardly as she stepped out onto the porch to hold the door open for her stepdaughter. She looked up and down Sunset Lane, trying to see it from Imogene’s perspective. The short street, which dead-ended at the school grounds, consisted of single-story homes fairly close together. Each house had a little yard in front, most with small flower gardens, some sporting picket fences.

  At this time of year the flowers had died, and the most that you could see was the light brown remains of some standing tall grasses. Mary forced a smile. “It’s a little dreary right now, but it’s a comfortable place to live.”

  Yes, there was the challenge of having Kirk James right next door, but he didn’t ever intrude by dropping by unannounced. And Primrose Miller, down the block, tended to sit and look out her window, seeking gossip to spread, but that was more of an annoyance than an actual problem. Primrose had health issues that made it hard for her to get out, so reporting on her neighbors was sometimes the most exciting part of her day. Mary always listened politely to Primrose’s stories and then mentally discounted three-quarters of what she had heard.

  “Pretty crappy location if you ask me. Thought you’d live somewhere like we lived before.” When Mary had married Ben, they’d lived with Imogene and Daisy in a big, new home on a street of other big, new homes. Mary hadn’t been a fan of the monotonous beige of the houses nor the lack of big trees, but Ben had loved it and she had loved Ben, so it had been fine. A happy home for her and her daughter, who’d loved the big, wooden playset in the backyard and the pink-painted bedroom they’d decorated in princess style.

  The memories squeezed at Mary’s chest. She breathed deeply, trying to focus on the present moment.

  Imogene walked into the front room without wiping her muddy feet. Mary opened her mouth to call her on it and then snapped it shut again. This was a visit designed to build bridges, not walls. She wouldn’t have criticized another guest for the lapse so she shouldn’t criticize Imogene.

  Letting Imogene know where she lived had been scary, but Mary was hoping this visit would break through Imogene’s anger and help both of them to heal.

  If what Paul had said at the Christmas shopping event was correct, if PTSD was a bigger thing than just soldiers and cops, then maybe Imogene had it. Maybe they both did. Maybe the unpleasant, sometimes downright mean way Imogene acted wasn’t her fault, and maybe there was help available.

  Mary gestured to the three big boxes of decorations set up in the living room. “After dinner, I was hoping you’d help me decorate.” When Imogene didn’t respond with interest, Mary walked over to the box of lights and pulled out a couple of strands. “I always debate between white and colored lights, so I ended up having both. What do you prefer?”

  Imogene flopped down on the couch. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  Mary’s stomach tightened but she pressed forward. She was always trying to make restitution, help others, but maybe God wanted her to do that closer to home, with Imogene. Helping others wasn’t always an easy thing to do, but it was the right thing.

  “You got any of our old decorations?” Imogene’s voice sounded sullen. But at least she’d asked a question.

  Mary handed Imogene the oldest of the boxes. “A few ornaments. You’re welcome to look through and see what you remember. Take anything you’d like.” She’d gotten rid of all the holiday decorations related to her daughter, because seeing the little handprint ornament, or the angel with Daisy’s face pasted on, was just too painful. But she’d kept a few of Ben’s decorations that hadn’t seemed so personal, hadn’t hurt so badly.

  “You trying to soften me up, being all sweet and family oriented?” Imogene flipped roughly through the box of ornaments and then shoved them away as she spoke, not looking at Mary.

  Mary braced herself, hearing the tension in Imogene’s voice and knowing it was likely to rise into a full-out display of histrionics. Maybe, not likely but maybe, she could tamp that down. “You were upset about Thanksgiving, about not being involved with any family activities, so I thought you might like to get involved with some Christmas things. Besides, I want to talk to you.”

  “You think I have extra time to sit and shoot the breeze with you?”

  It seemed to Mary that Imogene had nothing but time. “Come eat first.”

  Imogene followed her into the kitchen and watched, leaning against the counter, while Mary took the steaming pot of oyster stew off the stove and poured it into a pretty tureen. The table was already set, and she pulled a skillet of cornbread from the oven she’d turned off right before Imogene arrived. “I remember how you always loved cornbread, so I made some,” she said brightly. “It goes perfectly with the local specialty of oyster stew.”

  “I just can’t believe you live in such a little place with all the money you have.” Imogene looked around the modest kitchen, her lip curling. “You don’t even have a dishwasher.”

  Weariness pressed in as memories of trying to reach the teenage Imogene rose in her, along with the heavy sadness that had punctuated that time in her life. “Well, dear, I live alone. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to use a dishwasher. Some of the houses up and down the street have them, but I never got around to the purchase.” She considered handing Imogene the tureen of soup to carry in, decided against it and handed her a plate of cornbread instead. If Imogene dropped it, whether accidentally or on purpose, there’d be less to clean up.

  They sat down, and Mary decided to forgo her usual prayer. It would do nothing but annoy Imogene. She ladled soup into her stepdaughter’s bowl and handed it to her, then passed her the cornbread and butter.

  “Got any wine?” For the first time, Imogene’s voice was a little humble. “I could really use a glass.”

  Mary didn’t like to lie, but this time she felt it was the lesser of two evils. “I don’t tend to keep alcohol in the house.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Imogene stared at her, looking disgusted. Then she ate a couple spoonfuls of oyster stew and made a face.

  Mary did deep breathing while she served herself. Imogene really hadn’t changed a whole lot since her teen years when Mary had met her.

  Some people just never grew up, apparently. After she’d taken a couple of bites of stew, and Imogene had eaten a large piece of cornbread, Mary figured she might as well break the silence. “Have you ever heard of PTSD?”

  Imogene glared. “I wasn’t raised under a rock.”

  The windows rattled, and outside, pine branches whipped and swayed. Mary forced herself to take a bite of cornbread, chewed it, took a sip of water. “Have you ever thought that the incident we witnessed could have caused you to have it? That maybe that’s been part of your problem all these years?”

  Imogene shoved away her dishes, sloshing stew out of her nearly full bowl. “I don’t
have a problem. Why would you say I have a problem?”

  Being gentle was getting Mary nowhere. “Well, let’s see. You’re almost fifty years old and you’re broke and begging money from your stepmother, who you can’t stand.” Mary pushed her own dish away and met Imogene’s eyes with a steady gaze. “If that’s not a problem, I don’t know what is.”

  “Is that what you invited me here for, to insult me?” Imogene stood quickly, her leg bumping against the table, causing more soup to slosh out of their bowls. “Look at you. You live here alone, a pathetic old lady in a crappy house with no friends. Here I’m trying to help you, and you’re acting hateful.”

  Mary raised her chin. “You’re trying to help me?”

  “That’s right! I’m trying to show you what you can do to make up for the horrible accident you caused. You can help the only thing you have that’s close to a family, me, but you’re too selfish to do it.”

  Mary was no stranger to beating up on herself, but she could also recognize a line of baloney when she heard it. “Look, if you ever want to talk about PTSD in a civil way, I’m here. I’ll work with you to find help, counseling, support. It’s out there.”

  “Shut up, you hear me?” Imogene’s voice rose to a shrill cry. “Just shut up!” Her fists clenched.

  The doorbell rang, and Mary slid out of her chair and almost ran to open it. Only now that someone had come over did she realize that she was actually afraid of Imogene, of what the younger woman might do to her in a rage. She was even glad to see Kirk on the other side of the door, and she opened it immediately and invited him in.

  “What’s he doing here?” Imogene said. Her voice had modulated from the earlier shrillness, but only by a few degrees, and her face was an open sneer. And while Mary could tolerate that type of behavior toward herself, was used to it, she couldn’t stand seeing a friend treated that way. “Kirk is a guest in my home,” Mary said. “Watch your tone.”