by Candis Terry
Kate leaned forward and peered through her sister’s sunglasses. “Are you okay?”
“Are you?” Kelly asked.
Instead of answering, Kate twisted off the cap of her Starbuck’s Frappuccino and slugged down the remains. The drink gave her time to compose herself, if that were even possible. She thought of her dad. Simple. Hard-working. He’d taught her how to tie the fly that had helped her land the derby-winning trout the year she turned eleven. He couldn’t have been more different from her mother if he’d tried. And he hadn’t deserved to be abandoned by his youngest child.
“How’s Dad doing?” Kate asked, as the iced drink settled in her stomach next to the wad of guilt.
“He’s devastated.” Kelly flipped on the fan. Her abrupt action seemed less about recirculating the air and more about releasing a little distress. “How would you be if the love of your life died in your arms while you were tying on her apron?”
“I can’t answer that,” Kate said, trying not to think about the panic that must have torn through him.
“Yeah.” Kelly sighed. “Me either.”
Kate tried to swallow but her throat muscles wouldn’t work. She turned in her seat and looked at her sister. “What’s he going to do now, Kel? Who will take care of him? He’s never been alone. Ever,” she said, her voice an octave higher than normal. “Who’s going to help him at the Shack? Cook for him? Who’s he going to talk to at night?”
“I don’t know. But we definitely have to do something.” Kelly nodded as though a lightbulb in her head suddenly hit a thousand watts. “Maybe Dean will have some ideas.”
“Dean?” Kate leaned back in her seat. “Our brother? The king of non-relationship relationships?”
“Not that either of us has any room to talk.”
“Seriously.” Kate looked out the window, twisting the rings on her fingers. The urge to cry for her father welled in her throat. Her parents had been a great example of true love. They cared for each other, had each other’s backs, thought of each other first. Even with her problematic relationship with her mother, Kate couldn’t deny that the woman had been an extraordinary wife to the man who worshipped her. The chances of finding a love like the one her parents had shared were one in a million. Kate figured that left her odds stretching out to about one in a hundred gazillion.
“What’s wrong with us, Kel?” she asked. “We were raised by parents the entire town puts on a pedestal, yet we all left them behind for something bigger and better. Not a single one of us has gotten married or even come close. As far as I know, Dean has no permanent designs on his current bimbo of the moment. You spend all your nights with a stack of law books. I spend too much time flying coast-to-coast to even meet up with someone for a dinner that doesn’t scream fast food.”
“Oh, poor you. New York to L.A. First Class. Champagne. And all those gorgeous movie stars and rock stars you’re surrounded by. You’re breaking my heart.”
Kate snorted. “Yeah, I live such a glamorous life.”
A perfectly arched brow lifted on Kelly’s perfect face. “You don’t?”
While Kate enjoyed what she did for a living, every day her career hung by a sequin while the next up-and-coming celebrity stylist waited impatiently in the wings for her to fall from Hollywood’s fickle graces. She’d chosen a career that tossed her in the spotlight, but she had no one to share it with. And often that spotlight felt icy cold. “Yeah, sure. I just get too busy sometimes, you know?”
“Unfortunately, I do.” Kelly gripped the wheel tighter. “You know . . . you could have stuck around and married Matt Ryan.”
“Geez.” Kate’s heart did a tilt-a-whirl spin. “I haven’t heard that name in forever.”
“When you left, you broke his heart.”
“How do you know?”
“Mom said.”
“Hey, I gave him my virginity. I call that a fair trade.”
“Seriously?” Kelly’s brows lifted in surprise. “I had no idea.”
“It wasn’t something I felt like advertising at the time.”
“He was pretty cute from what I remember.”
“Don’t go there, Kel. There’s an ocean under that bridge. So mind your own business.”
Matt Ryan. Wow. Talk about yanking up old memories. Not unpleasant ones either. From what Kate remembered, Matt had been very good at a lot of things. Mostly ones that involved hands and lips. But Matt had been that boy from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks and she’d had bigger plans for her life.
Her mother had only mentioned him once or twice after Kate had skipped town. Supposedly he’d eagerly moved on to all the other girls wrangling for his attention. Good for him. He’d probably gotten some poor girl pregnant and moved next door to his mother. No doubt he’d been saddled with screaming kids and a complaining wife. Kate imagined he’d still be working for his Uncle Bob fixing broken axles and leaky transmissions. Probably even had a beer gut by now. Maybe even balding. Poor guy.
Kelly guided their mother’s boat around the last curve in the road that would lead them home. Quaking aspens glittered gold in the sunlight and tall pines dotted the landscape. Craftsman style log homes circled the area like ornaments on a Christmas wreath.
“Mom was proud of you, you know,” Kelly blurted.
“What?” Kate’s heart constricted. She didn’t need for her sister to lie about their mother’s mind-set. Kate knew the truth. She’d accepted it long ago. “No way. Mom did everything she could to pull the idea of being a celebrity stylist right out of my stubborn head.”
“You’re such a dork.” Kelly shifted in her seat and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Of course she was proud. She was forever showing off the magazine articles you were in. She even kept a scrapbook.”
“She did not.”
“She totally did.”
“Go figure. The night before I boarded that bus for L.A., she swore I’d never make a living hemming skirts and teasing hair.”
“No, what she said was, making a living hemming skirts and teasing hair wasn’t for you,” Kelly said.
“That’s not the way I remember it.”
“Of course not. You were so deeply immersed in parental rebellion she could have said the sky was blue and you’d have argued that it was aqua.”
“We did argue a lot.”
Kelly shook her head. “Yeah, kind of like you were both cut from the same scrap of denim. I think that’s what ticked you off the most and you just didn’t want to admit it.”
No way. “That I was like Mom?”
“You could have been identical twins. Same red hair. Same hot temper.”
“I never thought I was anything like her. I still don’t.”
“How’s that river of denial working for you?”
“How’s that rewriting history working for you?”
Kelly tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. “Someday you’ll get it, little sister. And when you do, you’re going to be shocked that you didn’t see it earlier.”
The remnants of the old argument curdled in Kate’s stomach. “She didn’t believe in me, Kel.”
“Then she was wrong.”
For some reason the acknowledgment from her big sister didn’t make it any better.
“She was also wrong about you and your financial worth,” Kelly added. “You make three times as much as I do.”
“But not as much as Dean.”
“God doesn’t make as much as Dean,” Kelly said.
Their big brother had always been destined for greatness. If you didn’t believe it, all you had to do was ask him. Being an NFL star quarterback did have its perks. Modesty wasn’t one of them.
“Almost there,” Kelly announced.
The green highway sign revealed only two more miles to go. Kate gripped the door handle to steady the nervous tension tap-dancing on her sanity.
Ahead, she noticed the swirling lights atop a sheriff’s SUV parked on the shoulder of the highway. The vehicle stopped in
front of the cop had to be the biggest monster truck Kate had ever seen. In L.A., which oozed with hybrids and luxury cruisers, one could only view a farmboy-vehicle-hopped-up-on-steroids in box office bombs like the Dukes of Hazzard.
The swirling lights dredged up a not-so-fond memory of Sheriff Washburn, who most likely sat behind the wheel of that Chevy Tahoe writing up the fattest citation he could invent. A decade ago, the man and his Santa belly had come hunting for her. When she hadn’t shown up at home at o’dark thirty like her mother had expected, the SOS call had gone out. Up on Lookout Point the sheriff had almost discovered her and Matt sans clothes, bathed in moonlight and lust.
As it was, Matt had been quick to act and she’d managed to sneak back through her bedroom window before she ruined her shaky reputation for all time. Turned out it wouldn’t have mattered. A few days later she boarded a bus leaving that boy and the town gossips behind to commiserate with her mother about what an ungrateful child she’d been.
As they approached the patrol vehicle, a deputy stepped out and, hand on gun, strolled toward the monster truck.
Mirrored shades. Midnight hair. Wide shoulders. Trim waist. Long, long legs. And . . . Oh. My. God. Not even the regulation pair of khaki uniform pants could hide his very fine behind. Nope. Definitely not Sheriff Washburn.
A double take was definitely in order.
“Wow,” Kate said.
“They didn’t make ‘em like that when we lived here,” Kelly noted.
“Seriously.” Kate shifted back around in her seat. And frowned. What the hell was wrong with her? Her mother had been dead for two days and she was checking out guys?
“Well, ready or not, here we are.”
At her sister’s announcement Kate looked up at the overhead sign crossing the two-lane road.
Welcome to Deer Lick, Montana. Population 6,000.
For Kate it might as well have read Welcome to Hell.
Late the following afternoon, Kate stood amid the mourners gathered at the gravesite for Leticia Jane Silverthorne’s burial. Most were dressed in a variety of appropriate blacks and dark blues. The exception being Ms. Virginia Peat, who’d decided the bright hues of the local Red Hat Society were more appropriate for a deceased woman with a green thumb and a knack for planting mischief wherever she went.
No doubt her mother had a talent for inserting just the right amount of monkey business into things to keep the town blabbing for days, even weeks, if the gossips were hungry enough. Better for business, she’d say. The buzz would catch on and the biddies of Deer Lick would flock to the Sugar Shack for tea and a sweet treat just to grab another tasty morsel of the brewing scandal.
Today, the Sugar Shack was closed. Her mother’s cakes and pies remained unbaked. And the lively gossip had turned to sorrowful memories.
Beneath a withering maple, Kate escaped outside the circle of friends and neighbors who continued to hug and offer condolences to her father and siblings. Their almost overwhelming compassion notched up her guilt meter and served as a reminder of the small-town life she’d left behind. Which was not to say those in Hollywood were cold and unfeeling, she’d just never had any of them bring her hot chicken soup.
Plans had been made for a potluck gathering at the local Grange—a building that sported Jack Wagoner’s award-winning moose antlers and held all the community events—including wedding receptions and the Oktober Beer and Brat Fest. The cinder block structure had never been much to look at but obviously it remained the epicenter of the important events in beautiful downtown Deer Lick.
A variety of funeral casseroles and home-baked treats would be lined up on the same long tables used for arm wrestling competitions and the floral arranging contest held during the county fair. As far as Kate could see, not much had changed since she’d left. And she could pretty much guarantee that before the end of the night, some elder of the community would break out the bottle of huckleberry wine and make a toast to the finest pastry chef this side of the Rockies.
Then the stories would start to fly and her mother’s name would be mentioned over and over along with the down and dirty details of some of her more outrageous escapades. Tears and laughter would mingle. Hankies would come out of back pockets to dab weeping eyes.
The truth hit Kate in the chest, tore at her lungs. The good people of Deer Lick had stood by her mother all these years while Kate had stood off in the distance.
She brushed a speck of graveside dust from the pencil skirt she’d picked up in Calvin Klein’s warehouse last month. A breeze had cooled the late afternoon air and the thin material she wore could not compete. She pushed her sunglasses into place, did her best not to shiver, and tried to blend in with the surroundings. But the cost alone of her Louboutin peep toes separated her from the simple folk who dwelled in this town.
Maybe she should have toned it down some. She could imagine her mother shaking her head and asking who Kate thought she’d impress.
“Well, well, lookie who showed up after all.”
Kate glanced over her shoulder and into the faded hazel eyes of Edna Price, an ancient woman who’d always reeked of moth balls and Listerine. The woman who’d been on the Founder’s Day Parade committee alongside her mother for as long as Kate could remember.
“Didn’t think you’d have the gumption,” Edna said.
Gumption? Who used that word anymore?
Edna poked at Kate’s ankles with a moose-head walking stick. “Didn’t think you’d have the nerve,” Edna enunciated as though Kate were either deaf or mentally challenged.
“Why would I need nerve to show up at my own mother’s funeral?” Oh, dumb question, Kate. Sure as spit the old biddy would tell her ten ways to Sunday why.
The old woman leaned closer. Yep, still smelled like moth balls and Listerine.
“You left your dear sweet mama high and dry, what, twenty years ago?”
Ten.
“It’s your fault she’s where she is.”
“My fault?” The accusation snagged a corner of Kate’s heart and pulled hard. “What do you mean?”
“Like you don’t know.”
She had no clue. But that didn’t stop her mother’s oldest friend from piling up the charges.
“Broke her heart is what you did. You couldn’t get up the nerve to come back when she was breathin’. Oh, no. You had to wait until—”
Kate’s patience snapped. “Mrs. Price . . . you can blame or chastise me all you want. But not today. Today, I am allowed to grieve like anyone else who’s lost a parent. Got it?”
“Oh, I got it.” Her pruney lips curled into a snarl. “But I also got opinions and I aim to speak them.”
“Not today you won’t.” Kate lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head and gave Mrs. Price her best glare. “Today you will respect my father, my brother, and my sister. Or I will haul you out of this cemetery by your fake pearl necklace. Do I make myself clear?”
The old woman snorted then swiveled on her orthopedic shoes and hobbled away. Kate didn’t mind taking a little heat. She was, at least, guilty of running and never looking back. But today belonged to her family and she’d be goddamned if she’d let anybody drag her past into the present and make things worse.
Great. And now she’d cursed on sacred ground.
Maybe just thinking the word didn’t count. She already had enough strikes against her.
It’s your fault. . .
Exactly what had Edna meant? How could her mother’s death be any fault of hers when she’d been hundreds of miles away?
Kate glanced across the carpet of grass toward the flower-strewn mound of dirt. Beneath the choking scent of carnations and roses, beneath the rich dark soil, lay her mother.
Too late for good-byes.
Too late for apologies.
Things just couldn’t get worse.
Unable to bear the sight of her mother’s grave, Kate turned her head. She startled at the sudden appearance of the man in the khaki-colored deputy uniform who stood
before her. She looked up—way up—beyond the midnight hair and into the ice blue eyes of Matt Ryan.
The boy she’d left behind.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Candis Terry was born and raised near the sunny beaches of Southern California and now makes her home on an Idaho farm. She’s experienced life in such diverse ways as working in a Hollywood recording studio to scooping up road apples left by her daughter’s rodeo queening horse to working as a graphic designer. Only one thing has remained constant: Candis’ passion for writing stories about relationships, the push and pull in the search for love, and the security one finds in their own happily ever after. Though her stories are set in small towns, Candis’ wish is to give each of her characters a great big memorable love story rich with quirky characters, tons of fun, and a happy ending. For more, please visit www.candisterry.com.
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COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ANY GIVEN CHRISTMAS. Copyright © 2011 by Candis Terry. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
