A Christmas by the Sea

by Melody Carlson

  “Wendy?” Caleb came straight to her, grinning triumphantly. “Hey, I thought that was you walking through town just a few minutes ago.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “And it looks like you’ve been painting.”

  She nodded mutely. Could this get any more embarrassing?

  He pointed to a splotch of Sea Glass blue paint on her arm. “So how did this shade look in your bathroom?”

  She smiled meekly. “Pretty great. But the floor’s not down yet.”

  “And the White Sand color?” He pointed to her other arm.

  “I only got two walls painted in the living room so far, but it looks nice. Very clean and fresh.”

  “What about this shade?” He pointed to a splotch on her shoulder. “I don’t remember you getting that color.”

  “I actually mixed that color myself,” she admitted. “I took the half-used can of Sea Glass that was left over from the bathroom and filled it with some White Sand paint to get this pale blue color. I used it to paint my bedroom.”

  “Clever.” He nodded with approval.

  “It turned out really soft and pretty.”

  He peered down at the cardboard box in her hands. “What’s that you got there?”

  “Seashells,” she muttered with embarrassment. She felt like a child who’d been trying to peddle her wares—unsuccessfully.

  “Yes, I can see those are shells. But where are they from? What are you doing with them?”

  She lowered her voice, attempting to explain. “You see, I was clearing things out, you know, to paint. My grandparents have a ton of this stuff. I love it, but don’t know what to do with all of it. I thought a tourist shop might want to buy some.” She glanced around the fancy store. “I didn’t realize this shop had changed so much over the years.”

  He nodded as he picked up an abalone shell. “Yeah. Not much like when we were kids, is it?” He turned to the woman still behind the counter. “So what did you tell her, Crystal?”

  The snooty blonde held up her hands in a helpless gesture. “Just that we don’t buy seashells.”

  Caleb frowned. “But that’s not completely true.”

  “Well, we do buy them, but only from our suppliers,” she explained. “I think that’s what Ashley said.”

  Caleb nodded to Wendy. “Why can’t Wendy be a supplier?”

  “I don’t know . . . I mean, I’d have to ask Ashley.” Crystal frowned.

  “Did you call her?”

  “Well, no . . .”

  “Why not?” Caleb demanded.

  “She said she’s busy today. Getting ready for Thanksgiving and—”

  “Never mind.” Caleb turned back to Wendy. “Come with me.” Instead of leading her to the front door, he led her toward the back of the store.

  “Where are we going?” Feeling awkward, Wendy glanced back at Crystal in time to see her frown intensifying. But Crystal didn’t try to stop them.

  Caleb opened a door. “Go ahead,” he told her.

  “But what about that woman—”

  “It’s okay,” he assured her.

  She continued on, going into what appeared to be a small storage room. Tidy shelves filled with stacked boxes and bags lined the walls. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here,” she said nervously.

  “Don’t worry.” He led her past a counter with packing materials.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded as he opened another door.

  “Come on,” he urged, tugging her into a darkened space that smelled vaguely of fresh cut wood.

  “What are you do—”

  “Give me a minute and I’ll explain.” He flicked on a switch and the roomy space was illuminated with long strips of fluorescent lights. She looked around to see what appeared to be a well-equipped woodworking shop, complete with workbenches, fancy-looking tools, and stacks of miscellaneous shapes of wood. “What’s this? Are we trespassing?”

  He grinned, waving a hand. “This is my woodshop.”

  “Your woodshop?”

  He led her to a heavy worktable and pulled out a stool. “Have a seat.”

  She started to protest, but curiosity took over, so she sat down.

  “I’d like a better look at your shells.” He sat across from her and, sliding her box across the table, immediately began to sort through them, actually identifying many of them by name. “Wow, there are some beauties in here, Wendy.”

  “How is this your woodshop?” She stared in wonder at the well-organized space. “I thought you worked at the hardware store.”

  “Well, not actually. Although I did work there one summer as a kid, about twenty years ago. I just wanted to help you yesterday. So I made myself useful.” He held a conch shell up to the light, letting out a low whistle. “Nice.”

  “But what about—”

  “You see, I run a furniture shop. It’s called Driftwood,” he explained. “And this is—”

  “Driftwood?” she echoed. “I looked in the window yesterday—it’s a beautiful store.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled, then waved to the workbench and tools. “This is where I make the furniture.”

  “You make the furniture?”

  “Well, not all of it. I do buy a few pieces—the kinds of things I have no interest in creating. Also, they help fluff it up a little. You know, so the place doesn’t get too sparse. Especially in summer when it’s really busy out there.”

  She nodded, taking all this in.

  “Anyway, the shell shop next door used to be my grandma’s,” he explained. “Back when we were kids. Then my mom took it over—oh, almost twenty years ago. For whatever reason, she wanted to make it fancy. More uptown for deep-pocketed citified tourists. I wasn’t too enthused about the idea, but I have to admit it turned out to be a pretty smart business move. She manages to stay open and turn a profit year-round.”

  “But she doesn’t buy seashells.” Wendy frowned down at her box.

  “Crystal was wrong about that. And I have no doubt my mom would be interested in some of these. Except that she’s in Florida for the winter.” He picked up a large scallop shell, holding it up. “However, I might be interested in some of these.”

  “Really?” She frowned. “Are you just being nice?”

  “Not at all.” He stood, picking up the box. “I’m closed today, but come into my store and I’ll show you around . . . if you like.”

  Within moments he was giving her a tour of what was an amazingly beautiful store. Not only were there gorgeous pieces of handmade wood furniture, but there were decorative items as well—items that had been crafted from arrangements of beautiful shells or nautical items. “I order these accessories from a catalogue.” He pointed to a large mirror trimmed in spikes of driftwood and a lamp with a shade covered in shells. “These accent pieces, along with my furnishings, sell like hotcakes in the summertime.” He went over to the counter, pulling out a shiny catalogue. “See.” He flipped through the pages, showing her item after item. “These boxes are really popular.” He pointed to a picture framed with scallop shells. “Each is one-of-a-kind. Not cheap either.”

  She nodded, studying the photograph closely. “I’ll bet they’re not that hard to make,” she mused aloud. “Just a glue gun and a few supplies.”

  “Especially if you already have the raw materials,” he pointed to her box of shells. “And if you have an artistic bent.” He glanced curiously at her. “Do you?”

  She turned to him in surprise. “I’ve dabbled in art some.”

  “I had a feeling.”

  “Why?” she asked. “What made you think that?”

  “Just a hunch. The way you were dressed the other day . . . sort of ‘boho-chic,’ my sister would probably say. But I suspected as much.”

  “So, do you think if I made some of these pieces that I could sell them?”

  “Sure. Maybe not so much in the wintertime. But you could get a good start—create a nice stockpile for summer.”

  “For summer . . .” She didn’t
want to admit that summer would be too late.

  “The off-season is always slow. Oh, I’ll probably get some traffic in here between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but after that, I usually just close shop. Unless it’s a holiday weekend. But I don’t mind. It gives me time to work uninterrupted and build up my stock for the busy season.”

  “Right.” She slowly nodded, wondering if she could possibly create any pieces in time for Christmas shoppers. It didn’t sound realistic. Not with everything else she had to accomplish before returning to Ohio. “Well, I don’t want to take any more of your time.” She closed the catalogue and picked up her box. “But I must admit that was interesting. Thanks for showing—”

  “Wait,” he said. “I was serious about wanting to buy your shells.”

  “Why?” she asked, studying his face and wishing he wasn’t quite so handsome—or so nice.

  “Sometimes I use shells for inlay on wood pieces. Besides, I like having them around for accents.” He pointed to a table. “For instance, a basket of pretty shells would look great there, don’t you think?” He pointed to a wall shelf. “Or a few up there, maybe with a candle or something.”

  She grinned. “I knew you were an interior decorator.”

  “Well, that’s a bit of a stretch, but I suppose you weren’t totally wrong.” He shrugged. “And my mother likes to brag to her friends that I’m an arteest.”

  She ran a hand over the sleek golden top of a live-edge console table. “I’d have to agree with her. This is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” He jerked his thumb toward the back room. “How about if you leave your box of shells with me? I’ll go through them and come up with what I think is a fair price—that is, if you can trust me with them.”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “That’d be fine.”

  “And I’ll buy some for the shell shop too. Despite what Crystal says, I’ve got a feeling my mom and sis would be glad to get their hands on some of these beauties.”

  “Great.”

  He led her to the front door. “I’ll let you out here—so you won’t have to cross paths with Crystal again. I’m sorry she was being so snooty. She’s not usually like that.”

  “Maybe it was how I was dressed.” Wendy laughed to see the paint still on her hands, wedged into her fingernails, and probably in her hair. “I probably scared her.”

  “So how is your plumbing project coming?” He opened the door. “You got running water yet?”

  “Don’t ask.” She let out a groan as she went outside. “It’s worse than we thought—but it should be done by the weekend.”

  “Well, I was trying to invite you and your son and, uh, anyone else in your family . . . I thought you might want to share Thanksgiving with me and my family.” His tone was warm. “But you were giving me the brush-off.”

  She considered the state of the beach cottage as well as the expense of taking Jackson out for a fancy dinner—especially in light of her unfortunate finances. “You know, Caleb, that sounds really wonderful. We’d love to come. What can we bring?”

  “Just bring yourselves and a pair of athletic shoes.”

  “Huh?”

  “Hopefully you like to play football,” he said, writing an address on a small pad. “Here.” He tore it off and gave it to her. “Two o’clock tomorrow. And I’ll have a check for your shells by then too.”

  She thanked him, said goodbye, and hurried back to her car. Once she was safely inside she felt tears in her eyes. Relief or pent-up frustration—possibly hope? She couldn’t be sure, but she let them flow freely as she drove back to the cottage.

  seven

  ON THANKSGIVING MORNING, Wendy decided the breakfast dishes could wait until later. “We need to go beachcombing,” she announced as they put their plates in the sink.

  “Can we go right now?” Jackson asked. “The tide’s really low—they call it a minus tide. And it sounded kinda windy last night. So maybe we’ll find something really good out there.”

  “Let’s get our buckets.”

  Soon they were out on the beach, and after just a few minutes, Jackson gave a happy shriek. He was wearing Poppa’s tall rubber boots and was actually wading in the water, claiming that was the best place for good finds. Wendy wasn’t so sure, and since she had on tennis shoes, she stayed on the dry side of the surf.

  Jackson let out another happy yelp, running toward her. “Mom! Mom! I found a sand dollar!”

  Wendy hurried closer to see, and sure enough, he had a sand dollar in his hand. Although it was a dull gray color, it was good sized and unbroken. “Jackson!” she exclaimed. “That’s fantastic. And it’s all in one piece—”

  “There’s another one!” He bent down to pluck something from the rolling surf.

  “You’re kidding!” Was it possible he’d actually found two sand dollars? In her whole life she’d never found one.

  “It’s like I read about online.” He held it up. “You gotta go in the water at a minus tide after a storm. Hey, there’s another one!” He ran through the water to get it. “I think I hit the mother lode.”

  Wendy kicked off her shoes, rolled up her jeans, and despite the chilling water, waded in to look as well.

  “Another one!” he shrieked.

  She ran over to see him putting the fourth sand dollar in his bucket. “That’s amazing,” she told him.

  “I read that people don’t find them because they’re looking for white sand dollars, but the sand dollars are mostly gray. Until they’re dried out or bleached, they sort of blend with the sand and—hey, there’s another.” He pointed down through the ankle-deep water. “See it, Mom? It’s right there. You can pick it up if you want.”

  She stared down through the surface of the water, not seeing anything but wet gray sand. And then she noticed a round shape. Bending down, she plucked what was, indeed, a sand dollar. “Wow.” She studied it closely. “This is a first for me.”

  But Jackson was already working his way down the beach and finding more. Perhaps he was right—maybe he had hit the mother lode. She walked a bit farther, staring down at the shallow water, and there, to her shock, she spotted another. “I found another one!” she yelled.

  “Great, Mom! Let’s keep working this section of beach and see how many we can find before the tide turns.”

  Wendy continued hunting, letting Jackson direct her toward which section to search. To her amazement she continued to find more sand dollars. Finally, as the bottom of her bucket disappeared, she couldn’t help but do a happy dance. “This is so fun!” she cried. “I feel like a pirate discovering a sunken treasure.”

  “Arrr, matey. We be hauling in the loot,” he called back in a good pirate imitation.

  Before long, she was as good at spotting the sand dollars as her son, and her bucket was actually getting heavy—making her feel seriously giddy. She couldn’t remember when she’d had such a good time—maybe not since childhood. Finally, the tide had fully turned and the water in their “lucky” gathering area grew too deep to continue.

  “How many did you get?” she asked Jackson as they stood together at the water’s edge.

  “I lost count.” He held up his bucket to show it was more than half full.

  “Me too.” She held hers out for him. “Not as much as you though.”

  He stared out over the rolling waves. “I wish we could get more.”

  “We’ll come again tomorrow,” she assured him. “You can check the tide tables and tell me what time we need to be down here.”

  “All right.” He nodded. “Now we gotta take these home and clean ’em.”

  “How do we clean them?”

  “I read how you’re supposed to rinse the sand out, then dip ’em in a bleach solution, rinse ’em again, and let ’em thoroughly dry.”

  “Well, you’re the expert.” She ruffled his hair. “Your grandfather would be proud.”

  Back at the house, they spent about an hour cleaning a grand total of eighty-seven sand dollars. Wendy could hardly
believe it as she looked at row after row of gleaming white sand dollars covering every available surface in the kitchen. What would her grandparents say if they could see this?

  “Are they valuable, Mom?” He was placing the last ones out to dry on the old towel she’d laid on the kitchen table.

  “I honestly don’t know. But they’re valuable to me.”

  “I bet we can find even more tomorrow—if we start sooner. You’re sure you really wanna go again?”

  “You bet I do. I wouldn’t miss it. That was so fun.”

  “But we shouldn’t tell anyone about our find.” Jackson set the last sand dollar down. “Like when we’re having Thanksgiving dinner with those people.”

  “Why not?” She had already imagined telling Caleb about their amazing luck. She could just imagine how impressed he would be.

  “Because we don’t want everyone coming out here and looking for our sand dollars.”

  She laughed. “So we really are pirates, trying to keep our treasure to ourselves? Keeping it a secret?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Of course!”

  Wendy felt nervous as she rang the doorbell. It was the address Caleb had given her, but the house was large and fancy—one of those big beach houses that probably cost a couple million dollars . . . maybe more. Was Caleb really rich? As they waited, she remembered he’d mentioned they’d be eating with his family—and this certainly looked like a family home. Although they’d never discussed their marital status, she’d assumed he was single.

  “Is this the right place?” Jackson asked.

  “The name Colton was on the mailbox,” she explained. “Caleb Colton is who invited us—” She paused as the tall front door opened and a pretty redhead smiled warmly. “You must be Wendy and Jackson. Just the two of you?”

  “Yes.” Wendy nodded. “That’s all.”

  “I’m Ashley Colton.” She shook Wendy’s hand and guided them into the foyer. “I’m so glad you could join us. We believe in ‘the more the merrier’ theory.” She took their coats, then led them into a large room where about a dozen other people of varying ages were mingling about. Some appeared to be watching a football game on a big-screen TV while others were just visiting. “Hey, Caleb,” Ashley called out. “Why don’t you introduce your friends to everyone?”