by Olivia Miles
“Okay, what the hell is going on here?” Mark asked. “It’s Grace, isn’t it?”
Luke deepened his frown. For a self-confirmed bachelor, Mark knew a lot about women. “That obvious?”
“It was either that or your usual Christmas funk. With all the recent developments this past week, I took a gamble and went for the most obvious choice.”
“You should take that strategy to the casinos,” Luke bantered, starting to feel a little more like his old self.
“Nah. Why play the slots when your love life is so much more entertaining?”
“Happy to be at your service,” Luke rolled his eyes and tipped back his mug. “But you’re right. It is Grace.”
“You giving up the storefront?” Mark asked, and then, noticing Luke’s expression, let out a sigh. “Does she know?”
Luke stared into his mug. “She knows all right.”
“And she was none too happy about it?”
“Nope.” Luke rubbed a hand over his forehead, recalling the hurt in her eyes. That store meant everything to her—to Ray. Luke’s gut tightened at the memory of Grace’s father. That store was the last piece of him around these parts. You couldn’t think of Ray Madison without thinking of him standing behind the counter of that dusty old shop, glasses sliding down his nose, grin on his face as he flipped another page in some old classic.
“She’s done a lot of work on the place,” Mark continued.
Luke frowned. “How would you know?”
“I went in there yesterday. She and Anna were making a last-ditch effort to save the store, it seemed. Can’t say they were very pleased to see me, though.”
“Oh, come on. Grace has always liked you. Now Anna, on the other hand…” He forced a smile at the tension between the middle Madison sister and his cousin, even though his heart wasn’t in it.
“You’re seriously going to renew that lease? I saw what that place means to those girls. You can’t do this, Luke.” Mark gave him a level stare, obvious in his disapproval.
Luke felt his jaw set. “Let it drop.”
Mark held up a palm. “Sorry. I hate to see you clinging to the past instead of living your life. Why not take the money you would spend renewing that lease every year and give it to charity instead?”
Luke frowned. He’d never thought of that before.
“Do you honestly think Helen would want you to hold on to that storefront for her?”
“It was her dream,” Luke said, his voice firm, insistent.
“I know, but Luke… Helen’s gone. She’s never going to have that dream. Let someone else have it.”
Luke shook his head. “It’s not that simple,” he insisted.
“Yes,” Mark said. “Yes, it is.”
Silence stretched and they sat huddled over coffee mugs, pretending to take interest in the bustle of the neighborhood joint, in the cheerful Christmas music reminding them that it was Christmas Eve Eve. It was hard to believe that only this morning Grace had been in his arms, drawing attention to that very fact.
“I should go,” Luke finally said, leaning back against his seat to pull out his wallet.
“Dude, it’s a buck thirty-nine. Please.”
Luke arched a brow. “A buck thirty-nine for a cup of coffee? I remember when it was fifty cents.”
“Get with the times, Luke,” Mark said waving away his cash. “Open your eyes to the present.”
Luke’s lips thinned. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“See you,” Mark said, no longer smiling.
“Feel like coming over Saturday?” Luke asked. “The game’s on.”
Mark gave a half smile. “Sure.”
“Think it’s always going to be like this?” Luke grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Two bachelors sitting around every weekend?”
“I used to think so,” Mark said, “but the older I get, the more depressing that sounds.”
Luke nodded slowly. “I know what you mean,” he said. It did sound depressing. Depressing as hell. And wrong—just wrong.
He’d never pictured his life that way—not back when he was with Grace, not when he was married to Helen, and not even now. He’d been given so many chances for happiness, to have the life he wanted, and he’d resisted every opportunity, doubted himself, and questioned it all.
Not anymore. He knew what he wanted. He’d always known. It wasn’t about convincing himself anymore. It was all about taking the chance.
The house was so quiet he could hear the floorboards creak under his feet as he walked into the kitchen. He plunked down onto a counter stool, eyeing the evidence of the night before. The wineglasses, one still bearing the imprint of Grace’s red lipstick on the rim, sat offensively on the counter, the dregs slightly pungent by now, reminding him of how quickly things could sour.
He dumped the remains down the sink and turned his attention to the stack of mail that had collected over the past few weeks. He could spot a Christmas card in the mail carrier’s hands from here, and they now sat in front of him, a neat stack of red, white, and even green envelopes. It was the stamps, he’d learned early on. People who sent Christmas cards always made sure to include one of those holiday stamps with a depiction of a little snowman or a sprig of holly.
Well, he was glad they did. It saved him the displeasure of having to open their letter.
Now, shuffling through the envelopes and reading the return addresses, he felt a wave of shame take hold. Some of these people he hadn’t spoken to in years, had blocked out of his life completely for no good reason other than because he couldn’t deal with seeing anyone for a while there, and yet here they were, reaching out to him. Wishing him a Merry Christmas. Hoping the best for him.
What was so wrong with that?
Here goes nothing. He tore open the first envelope, smiling when he pulled out a family photo showing an old friend from college. He had a wife and two kids now. Luke felt his smile fade, and he put the card back in the envelope and to the side. Trying not to think of how badly that hurt, he opened another. And another.
He picked up a creamy white envelope, not bothering to glance at the return address, and stiffened when he saw the contents. It was a letter. A long letter. From Helen’s mother.
The room went completely still as he scanned the handwritten note; the only sound he could make out was the pounding of his heart. When he came to the end, he started over at the beginning, slower this time, a raw ache forming in his throat as he read her words. The words from a grieving mother. From a woman he hadn’t spoken to in two years. Out of guilt. Out of shame. Because he couldn’t look her in the eye.
It didn’t seem fair, somehow, for him to share his grief with her. Helen was her daughter, the person she had loved most in the world. And Luke… He couldn’t say the same.
Gritting his teeth, he read the letter once more, focusing on the last paragraph again and again until the hopes Helen’s mother expressed began to crack his hard shell and break through the surface, touching him in a place he had thought could never be healed.
Luke closed his eyes and turned the letter facedown on the table.
Down the dark hall, past the shadows of tree branches that reflected off the cedar-planked walls, was the door that Luke kept firmly closed. Helen’s studio. He hadn’t been in there since the day he buried her. It felt too real, too raw, and too wrong, going through her stuff like that. It was Helen’s space, filled with Helen’s stuff. He knew Mark raised an eyebrow every time he came over, a silent judgment that it was time to move on.
Luke put his hand on the doorknob, gripping the cold metal in his palm. His heart was pounding, but something propelled him forward, and with one quick turn and thrust, the door swung open. The shade was pulled on the window above her desk, and Luke switched on a lamp, smiling sadly as the room came to life.
All of her things were here, in front of him. He stood above the desk, choosing not to sit, and picked up the framed photograph from their wedding day. It was a candid photo, caught wh
en they thought no one was looking. Helen looked radiant, her smile so bright, it wrenched his chest. His brow pinched when he studied himself, and he pulled the frame closer, scrutinizing his expression.
He was smiling in that photo, gazing at Helen, who was looking at the camera, her eyes bright and cheerful, laughing at something… They looked so happy.
He frowned and set the photo exactly where it had been and then swept his eyes over the room. The back wall was lined with shelves filled with colorful fabrics. Helen’s sewing machine was still perched on a table, as if waiting for her to come and put it to use. On a rack, dozens of beautiful dresses hung side by side. All handmade by Helen.
It had been her dream to open that shop. The lease had been signed, ready for occupancy on the first of January. And she had died just before she could take the key and start designing her vision. She was going to paint the walls a pale blue, he remembered. She’d take all this stuff to the back room of the store, she promised, hinting that this room might make a good nursery one day.
Luke huffed out a breath. He’d held on to this room like he’d held on to that lease. And now he had a decision to make. He could keep that storefront for another year, preserve Helen’s dream, or he could let it go. Let Grace have it.
The phone rang and he jumped, chuckling at himself as he steadied his pulse. He strode into the kitchen, where the phone sat on the counter, lifting his eyes to the ceiling when he saw who the caller was. She always had the best timing.
“Hello, Mother,” he said with mock annoyance.
“Don’t ‘Hello, Mother’ me!” Rosemary snapped. “I’ve got thirty prima donnas over here and I can’t get the audio system to turn on.”
Luke frowned. “Where are you?”
“Where am I?” Rosemary trilled. “I’m at the auditorium! Oh, for the love of Pete, don’t even think about having so much as a sip of that cola with that costume on—take it off. Take. It. Off!” From somewhere in the distance, Luke could make out the sounds of a little girl’s protests, a disappointed whine.
He covered the receiver so she couldn’t hear his laughter, but Rosemary was sharp.
“Don’t you laugh at me!” she cried, but before he could interject, she said, “Snowflakes do not laugh, they dance. And they don’t dance in cola-stained costumes. This isn’t the waltz of the dirty snowflakes!”
After a beat and a rustle of the phone, she breathed, “Sorry.”
He pressed his lips together. “That’s all right.”
“So are you coming to the show?” she asked.
He pressed a palm to his forehead. Of course. The Nutcracker.
“It’s Christmas Eve Eve,” she huffed and Luke’s pulse skipped a beat.
A memory of Grace lying in his arms, her skin so smooth under his fingertips, he was mesmerized, lulled, her hair falling loosely over her bare shoulders. He closed his eyes. He’d lost so many chances for happiness, was he really prepared to let another one go? For what? So he could feel like a man, feel like he had done the right thing, the honest thing?
Or just so he could be a fool?
“Something’s—”
“Don’t tell me something’s come up!” Rosemary warned, her voice growing shrill. “The whole town comes to see this show and we don’t have any music!”
Luke drew a breath. This is what he’d insisted on, what he claimed he wanted in life more than Grace at a certain time—to be right here, in Briar Creek, with a family who needed him to do things like fix audio systems or construct scenery. A simple life—a boring life—he knew it, Grace knew it, and every time he doubted his choice, he wondered if Grace had been right, if he could have had more. Now he knew, this quiet life, this boring life, was the life he wanted. And he had Helen to thank for that, for showing him that it really was where he was meant to be.
He’d thought that he hadn’t needed to do any soul-searching the way Grace had, that he was certain of what he wanted as much then as he was now. Only he’d needed to live through it to know for certain. They both had.
He’d stayed the course, he’d love and lost, and, in the end, it all came back to Grace.
“Luke?” His mother’s voice was panicked in his ear. “I really need you here.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said to her obvious sigh of relief and set the phone back on the counter.
From the corner of his eye he caught the open door of Helen’s studio. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture her in there, behind the door, humming. Happy.
He smiled and ever so softly whispered, “Thank you,” and as he turned down the hall, he could hear the sound of her soft voice, humming a tune over the whirr of her sewing machine.
He grabbed his coat and bolted out onto the porch. Christmas Eve Eve. The biggest day of the year for his mother and thus the entire Hastings family. He’d love nothing more than to run the whole way over to the Madisons’ house, to beat down the door and claim the woman he loved, but just like five years ago, he had other people that needed him.
He’d waited this long for Grace. He would have to wait one more day, and hope it wasn’t a day too late.
CHAPTER
30
Grace leaned back in her chair and stared at the blinking cursor on her screen, doing a perfectly miserable job of fighting off a smile if she did say so herself. With a quick press of the button, the document went to print, and she darted into her father’s old study, watching with a swell in her chest as the pages chugged out of the device, piling neatly.
She pulled the stack from the tray, a little stunned by how thick it was, and grinned. She hadn’t thought it possible that she would write again, much less produce something she felt this good about, but inspiration had taken hold and well… she knew how that usually ended.
Her mother appeared in the open doorway, and leaned against the jamb. “Grace? What’s that?”
Grace wavered. Her mother had never supported her writing, not outwardly at least, not the way her father had done. Things were different now, she reminded herself. This was a fresh start.
“It’s a new book I’m working on, actually. I started yesterday, and I haven’t been able to stop.” She didn’t mention that she’d already passed the first chapter to her agent and had received a positive response. For now, she was happy to think that she was finally writing again.
“I saw the light under your door last night,” Kathleen mused, stepping into the room. “I was wondering what you were up to.” She held out a hand, “May I?”
On reflex, Grace pulled the manuscript against her chest. At her mother’s crestfallen expression, she said, “It’s not ready yet. But… I’m on to something here. I can feel it.”
Kathleen grinned. “Maybe you’ll let me read it when you’re finished?”
Grace gave a slow smile. “That means a lot, Mom.”
“There’s one other thing you can do for me,” Kathleen said, gesturing for her to follow.
Venturing into the hall, Grace looked around and sighed. The house looked like something out of a magazine. Kathleen had taken her theme to a new level, turning the Victorian home into a gingerbread house itself, right down to the metallic peppermint candy ornaments hanging invitingly from the front porch roof.
“Still more decorating, Mom? The judges will be here in only a few hours. Maybe we should leave well enough alone.”
Kathleen’s eyes burst open. “Oh, honey, I’m not lifting another finger on this house. Besides, you and I both know that no one in town can compete with this,” she added, and Grace bit back a smile. “No, I’ve got some copies of your books and I was hoping… Maybe you could sign them for me?”
Stunned, Grace felt her cheeks flush. She hugged the manuscript tighter to her, searching her mother’s hopeful face.
“I read them all the day they came out, but… I didn’t know how to properly discuss them. Your father was the literary buff. I let him call you about it.”
Grace tipped her head, saying softly, “Yo
u didn’t need to impress me with some serious discussion about the books, Mom.”
Kathleen shrugged. “Oh, well. I just figured—”
“We both figured a lot of things,” Grace said, giving her mother a sad smile. “All this time I thought maybe you didn’t like them. Especially the last one…”
“Oh, that one was my favorite!” Kathleen gushed and after a shocked second, Grace burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?”
“That’s the one that flopped!”
Kathleen shook her head. “See? Shows what I know.”
She led Grace into the bedroom, quickly retrieving three well-thumbed paperbacks from her nightstand drawer. “Your father had them on display on the shelves downstairs, but I like to keep my copies here.”
Grace set her manuscript facedown on the bed and picked up the top book. Her first release. She opened the spine, frowning at how loose it was. “You’ve read this more than once?”
Kathleen nodded. “So will you do me the honor? I’ve only been waiting years for this.”
Grace swallowed back the emotions that were building within her and took the pen, taking a moment to think of something special to write in each one.
“Don’t read it right now,” she said, handing the stack back to her mother.
Kathleen winked. “Thanks, honey.”
Grace’s eye lingered on the cover of the third book. Her last book, she should say. “It wasn’t so bad,” she said, giving a half smile. “You weren’t the only person who told me they liked it, you know.”
“Oh no?” Kathleen placed the books back in the drawer. “Who else? Your sisters?”
Grace pursed her lips, knowing not to take offense to her mother’s unintentional insult. Of course her family would have to say they liked it—she stopped herself, realizing this wasn’t true at all. Her mother had said she liked the books and that had meant more to her than any glowing review from a random stranger.
“Luke, actually,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She avoided her mother’s watchful eye and lifted her manuscript from the bed.
