Christmas In Watch Hill : A Small Town Holiday Duet

by Sara Celi

  “So here we are,” Scott said in my ear when we were alone in the living room about a half hour later. The rest of the family had moved into the kitchen, ready to eat the large spread of food his mother had made for dinner. “I am so glad that you’re here.”

  “Me too.” I studied him. “And thank you for helping me realize that I have to make some major changes in the coming year.” I thought about the ads we’d started running the night before on social media—already I was happy with the results after less than twenty-four hours. The three he’d designed were getting better engagement than anything that I’d put together, and that made me hopeful. I knew my parents would be proud, too. Making a change didn’t mean I had to give up their legacy. “It was time, and you pushed me to do it.”

  “I think the store can have new life, Nora. I really do.”

  “Tara thinks so, too.”

  He tucked a few wayward strands of hair behind my ear. “Excited to be part of it. This is going to be a great year for both of us. I can feel it.”

  “To new beginnings that come in the most unexpected ways.”

  “And to the magic of the holiday season.” I gazed deep into his eyes, intoxicated by the warmth and happiness I saw there. “Merry Christmas, Scott.”

  “Merry Christmas, Nora,” he said before he kissed me.

  And he was right. It was a very merry Christmas indeed.

  THE END

  ALL I NEED

  A WATCH HILL HOLIDAY NOVELLA

  ONE

  IAN CRAWFORD

  Three days before Christmas, and I was back in Ohio. Back in Watch Hill, to be exact. And a long way from Washington, DC.

  Thank God.

  I parked my rental car in front of Already Perked Coffee Shop and Café, a small spot in the center of town that represented my best option for a much-needed caffeine jolt. The flight from DC to Cincinnati had been turbulent, and I hadn’t been able to take the nap I’d expected during the just over an hour trip. Once I got to my aunt’s house, I knew the excitement of seeing me would sweep away any chance of rest.

  Yep, a small black coffee will do me good, and start this trip off right.

  Watch Hill, Ohio, wasn’t home.

  In fact, I didn’t know where I would have called home. Watch Hill wasn’t it, even though I’d spent summers and the occasional Christmas there as a kid, visiting my aunt and my cousins. Watch Hill was their home, not mine. Still, it felt good to have a place to go for the first holiday season since my mother’s death. She died last spring following a long struggle with heart failure.

  I got out of the car and headed toward the warm, soft light streaming from the fogged windows of the coffee shop, which was tucked into a corner of Watch Hill’s main shopping center and surrounded by a few other boutiques and restaurants. I favored places like this one; their brew always tasted stronger and their drinks came with a side of love that a corporate joint couldn’t replicate. Plus, it always felt good to patronize small businesses.

  But when I reached the main counter of the cafe, my breath caught in my throat.

  “Jessica?”

  The blonde woman standing near the sink turned around, her eyes wide and her mouth a little open at the sound of my voice. I was right. It is her. I would have recognized her anywhere.

  Jessica Norman.

  Oh, God.

  “Um . . . hi, Ian,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s Christmas.” I shrugged, hoping I appeared more nonchalant than I felt. “I came to visit my aunt.”

  “Of course. Right.” She looked away and a hint of blush rose to her cheeks. “I saw your aunt the other day at the grocery store. She mentioned something about having a full house for the holiday, but I didn’t connect the two.”

  “She’s really looking forward to Christmas. More so than usual.” I glanced around the store, taking in the homey décor, the large clock on the far wall, and the long bookshelves full of knickknacks and well-loved paperbacks opposite the main counter. “So, uh, you work here?”

  “I own it.” She smiled.

  “Amazing. We . . . umm . . . we didn’t talk much about what you did for a living when you were in DC.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  She shook her head and looked away again, not needing to elaborate. The time we’d spent together over Halloween weekend had been interesting to say the least, full of all kinds of instant attraction and a no-strings-attached one-night stand after my friend’s annual costume party in Arlington. It had been a long time since I’d done something like that, and I couldn’t explain it. Something had drawn me to Jessica, and I hadn’t been able to stop myself.

  Hadn’t wanted to stop myself.

  “I should have done a better job of keeping in touch after . . . after that weekend. That’s on me,” I said. “But I did try to friend you on Facebook.”

  Tried to friend you on Facebook? Is that the best I can do? It all sounded a lot lamer once the words left my mouth.

  “I’m not on social media much,” Jessica replied. “I think it’s a waste of time.”

  “Me too.”

  “But I’ll check my friend requests when I have a minute and make sure you don’t slip through the cracks.”

  “I’d like that.” I paused. “I’d like it a lot, actually.”

  We stared at each other.

  “Anyway, nice to see you in town.” She nodded at the large blackboard behind her, a jumble of scripty fonts and colorful chalk laying out the roadmap of specialty coffee drinks and prices. “Let’s get you that drink. What are you having?”

  “Only a large black coffee, please. No cream or sugar.”

  “Which roast?”

  I surveyed the offerings by the machine. “The dark blend.”

  I wanted something to push me through the next few hours; I wasn’t in the mood for a fancy drink with a made-up name and inflated price. Jessica murmured her approval about my choice and set about pouring my order. Moments later, I had it in my hand, the $2.56 bill paid.

  “Well,” I said, trying to fill the awkward silence between us. “Now you know I’m in town for a couple of days.”

  “Yep.” She drew out the reply, her mouth popping around the “P”. “Welcome to Watch Hill, Ian.”

  “Pleased to be here.”

  Soon enough, I was back in my car, my aunt’s house at the top of Cherry Grove Lane in my sights. And it was only after I parked in her driveway that I realized I was breathing hard.

  TWO

  JESSICA NORMAN

  Ian Crawford.

  Of all people to stumble into my coffee shop on the Friday night before Christmas, it had to be Ian Crawford. Ian flipping Crawford. I slammed the lid onto the nearby jar of coffee beans. The force made it slip off the counter and clatter to the floor, spilling a mound of coffee at my feet.

  I yelped. “Crap.”

  Steve, the barista helping me close that night, rushed into the main dining room from the small service kitchen in the back. “What’s wrong?” Holding a dishcloth, his gaze fell to the tile. “Oh. That.”

  “Yep. This.” With a long sigh, I knelt and began sweeping the coffee grounds with my hands. I hated being so clumsy and hated the loss of product. Plus, why did Ian Crawford have to show up here?

  “Let me help.”

  Steve took the handheld broom and dustpan from the cabinet underneath the main sink and rushed to my side. Together we worked to get every grain of coffee from the floor, then wiped down the tile for good measure.

  “Of course, I would have spilled the Guatemalan roast,” I said when we’d finished, talking more to myself than to Steve. That coffee hadn’t been cheap to purchase, and I’d sourced it from a small farm deep in the middle of that country. “Not sure we can get more from our supplier before the new year.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll have enough to make it through.” Steve looked at the front door. “By the way, who was that customer who came in a couple of minutes ago? It sounded like you kne
w him.”

  “Oh, that was no one.”

  I knew the tone of my voice implied that yes, the customer was someone I knew, but I didn’t care to talk about it with Steve. He was a friend, and I sometimes confided in him, but I wasn’t ready to do so at the moment. I stood as Steve walked the spilled coffee beans to the trash can and threw them away. Suddenly, though, I wanted to be alone.

  Needed to be alone.

  “Hey, I was thinking, we’re not busy right now, anyway,” I called to Steve. “We can probably close early. In fact, let’s go ahead and do that.”

  Steve didn’t argue with me, and I knew he appreciated the early night off this close to Christmas. We’d both been working so hard to make Already Perked successful, and it had been a long year. In fact, the short four-day weekend I took to DC over Halloween represented the only real vacation I’d had since taking over the shop.

  That fact stood out to me.

  When I worked in my previous life as a bookkeeper, I used my savings for at least three vacations a year, and a trip abroad at least every two. But things were different now that I was the mistress of my own destiny and had the chance to pursue my own slice of the American dream. It was my responsibility to make Already Perked a triumph. That would only happen if I stayed at the helm and did the hard work of making it run the way I wanted.

  Once alone in the shop, I sank into the leather couch near the bookshelf full of board games, hardcover books, and magazines. It was warm and quiet, the large picture windows near the door fogged from the intersection of cold December air and heat.

  Here it is, the end of the year. At last.

  I yawned, and it occurred to me how tired I truly felt. Running this business had been more difficult than I expected, especially lately. I’d been so depleted and rundown from the extra effort required to fulfill specialty coffee orders as people stopped between shopping trips, parties, and family trips to get Christmas trees or extra lights for their home. I guess the season has finally caught up with me.

  A nap was just what I needed.

  THREE

  IAN

  My aunt and uncle lived in an Edwardian revival on one of the leafier streets of Watch Hill, a road that twisted and turned between well-maintained houses and manicured lawns. Their neighborhood brought a certain kind of vintage charm to the village. And when I arrived on Cherry Hill Lane after a long day of travel, I had to admit even I felt some of the Christmas spirit as I took in the carefully strung lights and inflatables decorating her lawn and the others on the street. My aunt always loved the holidays, that part hadn’t changed.

  Thank God, because so much about my life had.

  DC hadn’t been what I thought it would be five years earlier when I packed my bags and moved from Chicago to the nation’s capital. After starting my career at an international bank, I wanted to try my luck as a lobbyist for Meals and Change, a political action committee focused on food insecurity and the fight to reduce fruit and vegetable waste. At the time, I’d been so sure I could make a difference. I was going to hit the Hill and make things move, changing the outcome for future generations.

  How wrong I’d been.

  Instead of spearheading consequential bills that passed Congress with a flourish and sailed through presidential approval, I ended up mostly having dinners at fancy restaurants with congressional members who wanted to be anywhere else and attending glittering parties with people who had no intention of hearing my real message. DC was a cesspool of naked ambition more pronounced than I’d anticipated. I could never call it home, no matter what neighborhood I lived in or which connection I made.

  In short, I needed this break.

  My aunt Eliza opened the front door right after I parked the rental car, a big smile on her weathered face, a flowery apron wrapped around her stout body. “Well, look who we have here,” she said to my Uncle Mark. He stood a few steps behind her, holding a craft beer and wearing his signature fluffy beige cardigan. In one swift movement, she embraced me in a cloud of apple spice and talcum powder, an instant reminder of the comfort that came from being around her. “I guess the swamp hasn’t rubbed off on you too bad.”

  “Bad enough. I’m almost an alligator.”

  She laughed into my shoulder. “Probably shouldn’t hug you too hard, then.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”

  I moved from her hug to Mark’s, greeting him with contentment, too. They weren’t my parents, but they were close enough to it; they’d been there for me since my mother died. They helped me bury her, sell her home on the west side of Cincinnati, and untangle her massive medical bills. I could never repay them.

  Mark took my coat and Eliza showed me to the guest bedroom, where I dropped off my duffel bag and briefcase, not sure why I had bothered to bring work with me on this trip. The farther away I was from Washington, the less I wanted to fire up the laptop and answer emails.

  After a few minutes of relaxing on the bed, I wandered downstairs toward the smell of warm apple muffins wafting from the kitchen. Eliza stood in front of a large pot and told me she planned on making chicken stew for dinner. “I hope you’re hungry. I’m making enough to feed a football team.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Molly will be here in a few minutes.” She eyed the clock above the stove. “And speaking of football, if you want to watch some, Mark has one of the bowl games on in the den.”

  “I’ll join him in a minute.” Sinking onto the wooden barstool underneath the island counter, I thought of my trip to Already Perked. “By the way, I didn’t realize Molly’s friend Jessica owned the coffee shop in town.”

  “She didn’t tell you that when they visited over Halloween weekend?”

  I shook my head. “We didn’t spend a lot of time . . . talking.”

  “She’s run it for about eighteen months or so. I guess her bookkeeping firm did some work for the previous owner, and when he decided to retire, she insisted on buying it from him to save the business.” My aunt began removing some of the apple muffins from the cooling rack and putting them in a Tupperware container. “Jessica updated it and put a lot of work into it. Won a redevelopment award from the city council earlier this summer.”

  “I wish she would have told me.”

  Eliza gave me a knowing grin. “I’m sure you all had plenty of other things to do while Molly and Jessica were in the city. There’s always so much to see in DC.”

  “There is.”

  I chose not to elaborate, though—no need to. The truth was, Jessica and I had spent more time drinking and in bed than we had talking. There was something about the raw laissez-faireism of her trip and the no-strings-attached nature of it that had made me act that way. A one-night stand never hurt anyone. We were adults, after all.

  I just hadn’t expected to see her moments after I arrived in Watch Hill. And when Molly showed up at the house, I couldn’t resist mentioning that I had seen Jessica again.

  “I stopped at Already Perked when I got in,” I told her. “Great coffee.”

  Molly sat on the opposite bar stool. She was two years younger than me. While that held more significance in childhood, it didn’t matter now.

  “Didn’t realize that Jessica owned it,” I added.

  “Jessica’s the best thing to hit that place in five years.” Molly cocked her head. “I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, but I know she’s been busy. I should text her and see if she wants to meet up with us later tonight.”

  “You all are going out?” Eliza took a stack of bowls from the overhead cabinet.

  “I guess we are now,” I replied.

  “Sure, we are,” Molly said. “Tonight is one of the biggest bar nights of the year.”

  FOUR

  JESSICA

  When I woke up from my nap, it was seven thirty. I’d slept longer than I wanted, my late Friday afternoon fading into the early evening. Rubbing my eyes, I checked my phone in my apron pocket and saw six text messages from Molly.

  Mo
lly could be relentless.

  I admired that quality about my friend, whom I’d known since we roomed together during freshman year at Kent State. Once she decided to do something, she didn’t give up until she got what she wanted. She wanted to meet up at The Tap Room bar on Route 50, and she wasn’t going to allow me to beg off tonight, bringing up the fact that no, we hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks, and yes, she missed me, too.

  Just come out, the final text read. You know you want to.

  I locked the phone and thought about it for a moment. I liked The Tap Room, which was known for having a cheesy-but-cute band on December weekends called The Sleigh Bells, featuring a lead singer dressed as Santa and the rest of the band dressed as elves. They usually played sets of carols mixed in with rock music.

  What the heck? I got up from the plush sofa. I don’t have anything else to do.

  I turned on the coffee shop alarm system, drove the few blocks home, and freshened up with a black leather jacket, a pair of over-the-knee boots, and the skinny jeans I’d splurged on during the Cyber Monday shopping frenzy. About a half hour later, I took a deep breath in the parking lot of The Tap Room before walking into the popular watering hole. I guessed Molly would have Ian in tow.

  She did.

  They sat at a table in the back of the main dining room, and Molly waved me over as soon as she saw me cross the doorway. They already had a round of beers, a bowl of guacamole, and a basket of chips. Molly smiled as soon as I reached them.

  “So glad you were able to make it.”

  “Me too.”

  I intentionally took the seat across from Ian instead of the one next to him. Our weekend together had ended on friendly terms, but it was clear to me on the plane ride home that it was just a one-time weekend between two people who had decent chemistry and happened to spend a crazy night together. Even earlier in the coffee shop, I hadn’t been sure what remained between us, if anything.