Beneath the Lights
A Holiday Novella
Taralynn Moore
Beach Cove Books
Copyright © 2019 by Tara Moore
Edited by Kate Brauning
Cover design by Sarah Hansen
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 the prior written consent of the publisher, Beach Cove Books, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Beach Cove Books is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Beach Cove Books
www.beachcovebooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-7338297-3-1
Created with Vellum
Beneath the Lights
For Bryan
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Taralynn Moore
Chapter 1
Present Day
His dark gray socks stuck out from beneath the tree, toes wriggling to stretch at random. The black sheen of his shoes, cast aside next to a crumpled suit jacket, glowed brilliant from the twinkling lights. I bit the inside of my cheek to fight off a giggle. My husband, the restaurant tycoon, the former executive chef—ever a child at Christmas—was sprawled out on the floor, staring up at me through the branches.
“Marc, honey. What are you doing? I thought you were working late.”
“I finished up.” He stuck one arm out and waved me over. “Come here.”
I shot a glance down the hall. I’d just put the kids to bed and didn’t want to wake them. Thankfully, their doors remained closed. I followed the circular staircase down, the large tree nestled in the curve, shooting straight up to the second story.
Kicking off my shoes beside his, I wriggled beneath the tree.
He looked over at me with a grin. “Hi.”
I couldn’t help but smile back, the light dancing amber in the brown of his eyes. “Hi.”
One look and he could always make me forget. That he’d missed out, that we’d missed out, on our time together. Again.
He turned his attention to the tree and let out a happy sigh. I joined him.
He was here now, wasn’t he? And I knew he’d make the most of it. Like always.
The ornaments shimmered above us, reminding me of happy moments, so many memories. We used to do this all the time, back when it was just the two of us, in our one-bedroom apartment. Even if we couldn’t afford presents, we’d always managed a tree.
“Remember the year I worked all Christmas Eve for the Joneses? Just so they’d give us that tree?”
My hand found his, lacing our fingers. “That was the best tree.”
“This one’s pretty good.”
I wrinkled my nose. “It’s fake.”
“No needles.”
“No smell.”
“True.” He squeezed my hand. We’d had the same debate for nearly a decade. We used to get both as a compromise. But not anymore. When had we stopped?
“Oh!” He took out his phone, and I waited for the inevitable work call to disrupt our moment. It would be over soon.
Instead, the sound of music filled the air, the classics tinkling from the tiny speaker. My breath released as the notes settled over me.
Marc was home. Marc was home and he was here.
The tree lights completed a round of their slow fade in rhythm to the music. An old trick from my mother. Wrap the trunk with fading lights, the rest with standard. The tree will glow. And it did. It always did.
“So.” He kissed the top of my hand. “What’s the plan for tonight?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I was planning on a bath and being Mrs. Claus without you.”
His brow furrowed. “You didn’t think I’d be back in time?”
I rolled my head, along with my eyes, deliberately in his direction.
“Right.” He tipped his chin in defeat. “Why would you.”
I snuggled into him, resting my cheek against his chest. “I’m glad you’re here though.”
“Me too.” His arms circled my waist. “You smell like the kids’ bubble bath.”
“You smell like the airport.”
“Okay.” He laughed and shimmied out from the tree, pulling me along by the ankles. “I see how it is.”
I giggled and gave him a little kick.
Unfazed, he popped me upright and kissed my nose. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” I frowned as he hurried me toward our room. It was cold out. “The kids are asleep.”
“Call your mom. See if she can come over.”
“It’s Christmas Eve.”
He threw the rest of his suit on the closet floor and started rifling through his jeans. “She can watch It’s a Wonderful Life just as easily here. She won’t mind. She’s always offering.”
“I guess,” I muttered, already dialing.
She picked up on the first ring. “Jillie? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Oh, good. Marc’s home then?”
“He is. Um, we were wondering if you could come by for a little bit?” I winced at the high-pitched work voice coming out of my mouth. Cleared my throat. “There’s a few last-minute things we need to do. If not, it’s okay. I’d hate to inconvenience you.”
“I’m already on my way.” And with that she hung up.
I stared at my phone for a second, then back at him. “You texted her earlier, didn’t you?”
His favorite green fleece hung around his neck and he shoved his arms into the sleeves with a big smile.
I shook my head. “You could’ve just told me.”
“It’s more fun to watch you go all Miss Manners on your mom.”
I tried to ignore his comment and quickly undressed, forcing myself to also ignore the heap of clothes now piled on the floor. My mother lived less than ten minutes away. And it was early yet. Why had I been so formal? Was it really such a habit now?
“Earth to Jill.” Marc tugged a red fleece over my head, snapping me back to attention. “There. Now we’ll even look like Christmas.” As an added touch, he plopped a Santa hat on my head, already donning his own, and pulled me back out of the bedroom just as my mother’s key turned in the door.
“Right on time, Mom.” Marc gave her a big hug. “Thanks again.”
“Any time.” She kissed his cheek, then aimed for mine. “Have fun, baby girl.”
We backed down the long driveway, the house looming before us like a temple of lights. I still couldn’t believe we lived in it. We’d bought it on a wing and a prayer, an investment, knowing the area was about to boom. And we’d been right. It had. But then Sasha was born, and big sister Alex and little Finn had begged to stay. They didn’t want to move. Again. And honestly, neither did we. Plus Marc had landed the promotion . . .
His car jolted over the stones of a back road.
“Um, Marcus, can I ask where you’re taking me?”
“You can ask.” His eyes glinted in mischief.
I laughed as we hit a giant dip in the road. The suspension of his precious Jag was getting thoroughly tested. “Missing the Jeep?”
He grinned at the memory of his former ride. “You know it.”
Tiny wh
ispers of snow started to fall as our destination came into view, peeking through the overgrown tree branches. Our old ice skating spot. The white lights strung above, just as they’d been back in high school. All the nights we’d spent, spinning in pond-sized circles, electric thrills pulsing through our mitten-joined hands, came rushing back.
In a flash he was out of the car, had opened my door, and was easing my feet into skates, tightening the laces as he went.
My voice shook with each tug. “You paid him to stay open.”
“Old Man Jones didn’t mind.”
He wouldn’t admit it, but I knew he’d been generous.
Old Man Jones, that was. He was always generous.
We waved at him through the window, remembering the days when his wife used to stand by his side waving too. Marc made quick work of his skates, and we headed straight for the ice, leaving our blade covers near the entrance.
For over an hour, we wove trails under the white light of memory, laughing and dancing our way back to us, pushing away the chaos that threatened to consume.
Marcus was here.
Marcus was here and so was I.
By morning light, I was blanket-wrapped on our bedroom floor near the darkened fireplace, well-loved, the smell of bacon filling the air. I sat up quickly. How had he found the energy to start breakfast? And how were the kids still in bed?
I brushed my teeth and followed the heavenly scents into the kitchen. Marc was standing at the stove, and I leaned in, planting a kiss on his lips. “Where are the monkeys?”
“Stockings. Upstairs. I made them wait to come down.”
“That must’ve been a battle.”
He wriggled his eyebrows and slid a cup of coffee my way. “Santa’s orders.”
I laughed, nodding toward their voices in the loft. “Now?”
He took a long swallow of coffee and held up his phone, camera ready. “Kids! It’s time!”
We raced to the stairs as their footsteps pounded down. Happy cries and the shredding of paper commenced. He was quite proud that their favorite gifts were the new ice skates he’d bought from Old Man Jones on a whim during our evening out.
After a quick clean-up, our bellies full of pancakes, Marc lay down on the couch, his Santa hat tipped over his eyes. I swept my hand across his whiskered cheek, made my way over to the tree, and slid beneath it, watching the slow magic of the fading lights.
Three pair of feet appeared beside me.
“Mommy.” Finn’s skinny little toes wiggled like his father’s.
“Shh, baby. Daddy’s sleeping. Come here.”
One by one, they joined me beneath the tree. Sasha’s brown mop of curls fluffed into my face, just like his dad’s had before he’d started cropping it short. Alex’s big green eyes mirrored mine, content. I winked at her and kissed the top of Sasha’s head. “Did you have a good Christmas?”
“So good.” She grinned.
“Me too. Me too,” Sasha added.
Finn pulled just a little at one of the branches, watching the ornaments bounce.
I lifted my eyebrow at him in warning.
He grinned. “The lights are pretty, Mommy.”
“Yes.” I smiled. “They are.”
“Daddy goes to work tomorrow?”
I looked back up to the tree. “Yes. He does.”
Finn sniffed.
Alex kissed the top of his head, mimicking my hold on Sasha. “It’s okay. Know why?”
“Why?” His tiny voice came out muffled from beneath her swath of blonde hair.
“’Cause he always comes home, right Mommy?”
Her calm voice caught me, and I had to fight back a tear. The wisdom of a child.
“That’s right, baby.” I scooped them tighter into my arms. “Daddy always comes home.”
Chapter 2
Twenty Years Prior
“Jillie?” Mom pointed her elbow at my mess, wrestling with the batter bowl to get the last of the pancakes poured. “Clear off the table, please.”
I tugged at my pigtails and shifted in my seat, scooting the chair back a bit. “But I just got it set up. Perfect.”
My colored pencils and construction paper lay fanned out before me, a Christmas-colored rainbow of orchestrated creativity. Each finished card sat neatly stacked, the list of recipients checked twice. Literally.
“Baby, there is no perfect. Especially for ten-year-olds. We’ve talked about this.” She snuck up behind me, slipping a still-warm, paper-towel-wrapped bundle of pancakes into my hand. “Here. Why don’t you run this out to Marcus, and I’ll take care of the table.”
“But he’s not—” A bicycle bell chimed twice.
She smiled. “There he is.”
My cheeks flushed. “He’s delivering papers. He can’t stop.”
“Cute paperboys always stop for cute girls.”
“Mom!” I made a quick grab for my teacup, grinning behind the rim.
“And food.” She laughed, kissing my cheek. “Go on, baby girl. I promised his mom we’d look in on him today.”
I hopped up, layering on my coat and scarf over my sweater. I ran to the stove and poured some steamy water from the kettle into a travel mug and dropped in two tea bags, tightening the lid as I ran outside.
“You sure he wouldn’t prefer cocoa?” Mom called from the door.
I shook my head. “He likes tea.” Another grin, this one harder to hide. “Like me.”
The wind cut cold, but the sun shot its warm rays above the horizon, breaking through what was left of the dark. The Christmas lights on most of the houses still glowed, dotted down the street in random intervals. I spotted Marc’s bike jetting across the road. Sometimes he did one side of the street, then the other. Sometimes he zig-zagged. It was clearly a zipper day.
I shuffled up to the next driveway he was aiming for, and he screeched to a halt. A crooked smile fell across his face. “Jill, whatcha doin’ here?” He pushed his beanie off his forehead and a puff of brown curls stuck out.
“Mom made pancakes.” I held out the delivery. “I made tea.”
“Cool.” He laid down the bike and stomped over. “Thanks.”
He moved as if in slow motion, and all I could do was watch. Last June we’d been playing in the sprinklers, but by the end of the summer he was a foot taller, his voice a little deeper. Eleven-year-old Marc was not the same boy who’d left me stranded on the skating pond as a joke the winter before. Eleven-year-old Marc gave me rides on the handlebars of his bike, picked flowers and tucked them behind my ear, called me Jill instead of Jillie. And most of all? Gave me butterflies, butterflies that made my stomach and heart flip all at the same time.
But there was no way he could ever know that. No one could.
His hand met mine as he took the tea and a tiny giggle escaped before I could stop it. He gave me a funny look, and I buried my still-tingly fingers in my jacket.
“Cold.” I shrugged.
He sat on the curb in a pocket of sunshine and tapped the concrete for me to sit beside him. I plopped down and hugged my knees to my chest. He turned his attention to the pancakes.
“Mmm. Honey?” Crumbs flew out with the words.
“Yes.” I laughed. “Hungry?”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I like it when she makes ‘em like that.”
“I know. Here.” I handed him the tea from its resting spot by his foot.
“Oh, thanks.” He took a swig, his face scrunching as he swallowed. “Hot.”
I nodded. “So, your mom’s at work again?”
“Yeah. Every Saturday. The hotel needs her.”
“And your dad? He—he’s still gone?”
He looked away, kicking at a stick on the pavement. “I don’t think he’s coming back.” His voice came out tight. “Mom said.”
“Oh.” I kicked at the stick with him. “I’m sorry. You must be sad.”
“I’m okay.” He sniffed, then jumped up. “I gotta go.”
“It’s okay if
you are. Sad,” I called out after him. “I’d be.” I swallowed. “I am.”
He turned, his eyes filled to the brim.
I blinked at him, not sure what to make of the level of sorrow on his face. “My dad’s gone too.”
“I know.” He sniffed again.
We stared at each other for a minute before he shook his head and ran off into the shadows between the houses.
I took off after him, pushing aside the bushes he’d managed to disappear behind. He was leaning against the siding, face turned up, warm breath clouds mixing into the soft glow of the lights lining the roof.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
He nodded. Blinking fast. Wiping at his face.
I walked over to him and pulled the creation I’d made out of my pocket. A Christmas card. Just for him. “Here.”
He held out his hand but didn’t look down, still trying to catch his breath.
I opened it and read aloud. “Dear Marcus, I’m glad you’re my friend. I will always be your friend too. That way we can always have Christmas together. Jill.”
His breathing eased.
“See?” I closed the card and placed it in his still-outstretched hand. “Even if they leave, we don’t have to.”
His fist tightened around the card. “We can stay.”
“Yup.”
He looked down, reading my face. “Me and you.”
The butterflies in my stomach sprang into action. “Yes.”
His eyes filled again, and his head dropped to his chest. Without a second thought I reached out and hugged him. I hugged him and pretended he wasn’t crying, because somehow I knew that’s what he wanted. I hugged him and stared up at the Christmas lights, letting the colors blend and bleed together through the tears.
Beneath the Lights Page 1
