Christmas in Destiny

by Toni Blake

  The woman before him appeared shocked, wounded. But he wasn’t sure why. After all, what did she expect?

  And then she began to shake her head, looking forsaken and confused. “Shane, I never . . . that’s not . . . that’s not what happened. At all.”

  Something in his chest pinched. Tight. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t move a muscle. Part of him didn’t want to hear what she meant by that, what she had to say about it. But he stayed, kept standing there—another part of him waiting, wondering . . . fearing. Did the truth lie someplace different than where he’d always believed?

  “Honey, I never sent you away.” She pressed her hands to her chest through her coat. “I would never, ever, ever have done that. You were my world, my life. Losing you . . .” She stopped, shook her head again. “It destroyed me. It changed me, turned me hard inside. You were my everything.”

  Now Shane was the one shaking his head. Because this just didn’t add up. They were pretty words, what every mother should claim—but this didn’t make any sense. “Then what happened? Why didn’t I ever hear from you again?”

  “Baby, your father . . .” She looked so damn pained, like she was about to collapse in a heap, but he couldn’t let that affect him. Even if it surprised him to discover that there remained some invisible tiny thread, something that connected to his heart and pulled on it to see her suffering. There was some tiny bond that hadn’t quite been completely severed, even after all these horrible years apart.

  “Your father . . . took you. He kidnapped you.”

  Shane’s chest went as tight as a stretched rubber band. “What?” That was ridiculous. Kidnapped? Who kidnapped their own kid?

  “He took you for the weekend and never brought you back. Just disappeared with you. And it was a long time ago. Things like Amber alerts weren’t common yet and there just weren’t easy ways to track people down.”

  A memory shot into Shane’s mind like a bullet. A stop in Illinois to trade in his dad’s car for a different one. I’ve always been more of a Ford man, Shaney. So what am I doing driving this old Dodge? What do you think about this one? What say you and me give this Taurus a nice drive and if we like it, we’ll take it—huh? A new car for a new start together—how about that?

  And Shane had thought it was . . . like a gift for him or something. A way to make him feel better about his mom sending him away, a way to distract him. The Taurus had been newer, nicer, than the cars they usually drove, and Shane had pointed it out on the lot, thinking the teal color made it look sharper than the other boring sedans. But now . . . had it been like . . . a getaway car? A way to keep them from being as easily trackable?

  “The local cops weren’t helpful,” she went on. “They thought I was blowing it out of proportion when I reported that he hadn’t brought you home on Sunday, made me feel like I was being irrational, emotional, like there had to be some logical explanation. And so I waited. But by the time they took me seriously, it was too late.”

  And he was acutely aware that Candy had suggested this very thing, that his father hadn’t been honest with him—but how could he believe that? Because she was making this sound too simple. Even if in the back of his mind he knew good and well that people kidnapped their own kids all the time—this couldn’t be that. That couldn’t have happened to him. His heart beat too hard and he gave in to the urge to argue with her. “You wanted to be rid of me. I was too much of a handful, just a burden to you. Dad said you weren’t ready to have a kid when you did and that you just didn’t want the responsibility.”

  His mother’s eyes flew wide in anger. “He told you that? Why, that son of a bitch!”

  And an even bigger anger flared in Shane’s chest now. “Shut the hell up! He loved me. He was good to me. As good as he knew how to be anyway.”

  Now the woman before him—his mother, a stranger—appeared weakened, almost breathless, and her voice came out weaker, too, as she asked, “Oh Shane—Shane, has . . . has your life been good? Where have you been all this time?”

  “Montana,” he told her. “And it’s been . . . fine. Until Dad died last month. Cancer.”

  And he knew fine was . . . almost an exaggeration. If his life had been so fine, he’d have something more to hang on to right now, and he wouldn’t be crossing the whole damn country looking for something new and better. But he couldn’t let her know that. He couldn’t let her think his dad had failed him. Or that he needed anything. Or anyone.

  And that was when she did the last thing he expected in that moment—she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him, strong and tight and desperate. He felt that in her embrace—desperation. Longing. An ache. A mother’s love. As much as he didn’t want to feel that, he did, practically permeating his flesh, coursing through his veins.

  And he tried like hell not to feel any of it, tried to shut it out, put up some sort of wall against it, keep every ounce of anger in place no matter what the truth might or might not be. But then . . . something inside him gave way—until he was hugging her back, letting his arms close around this woman who’d given birth to him but whom he barely knew.

  The winter sun sank early behind the trees and hills of eastern Ohio, and the freshly falling snow had added a bite to the cold air—but an emotion Shane had never known flooded his body. And for that moment in time, he let himself just succumb to it, succumb to what it was to be hugged by his mother.

  Until it hit him that this was fucking insane, and too much to take, and he pulled away from her, saying, “I can’t do this.”

  Then he turned and stalked aimlessly from the garden in the silly Santa suit he still wore, feeling like some surreal Christmas monstrosity.

  He didn’t know where he was going—hell, he didn’t even have a car of his own to drive away in—but he didn’t care. He just needed to be gone, anywhere else.

  He barreled forward, dropping his gaze to his feet as he trudged down the cottage’s front path and onto the road, mostly empty of cars now. And he started toward Candy’s house since, like once before, he simply had nowhere else to go.

  Candy watched in horror as Shane left the garden. She wanted to go after him, but her feet felt frozen in place. And Anita apparently felt the same compulsion, starting toward the gate—yet that was when, for the first time since all this had started, Walter stepped up, blocking his fiancée’s path, and saying in his calm, knowing way, “Let him go for now, honey. It’s a shock to him, a shock to all of us—give him some time.”

  And despite herself, Candice thought maybe he was right. She herself was still trying to wrap her head around what she’d just seen unfold, so she couldn’t imagine the jolt the rest of them were suffering. Even as much as it pained her to let him walk away alone, he probably wouldn’t welcome any of them chasing after him at the moment.

  Now Anita stood before her shaking, clearly a big ball of jumbled emotions. “I can’t believe he’s here,” she said, “and—and, Lord, I’m so thankful he’s well. Walter, did you see him? Did you see what a fine, handsome man he grew up to be?” She smiled at her intended, clearly filled with joy and relief—just before bursting into tears. “But to think he thought all this time that I didn’t want him . . .” And then she collapsed into Walter’s arms.

  Candice wasn’t sure what to do, but decided to retreat, especially since the last few party guests had left the garden now, too. Though when she heard Anita say, “It’s nothing short of a miracle that he ended up here. How could that be?” she decided she should probably stay.

  “I can tell you that part,” she volunteered, stepping cautiously back toward Anita. “He arrived on the night of the blizzard. He wrecked his truck in a snowbank and walked to my house in the middle of the night.” She went on to explain how he’d been on his way to Miami but had made a pitstop in Destiny because his father had told him to on his deathbed.

  When she was done, Anita said, “It sounds like you’ve come to know him.”

  Candice nodded. “We’re . . . seeing each
other.” The simple version of I’m in love with him even though he’s leaving any day now.

  Anita left Walter’s lingering embrace, reaching out to take Candice’s mittened hand, and asked gently, “Tell me about him. What’s my boy like?”

  As the snow continued falling around them, gathering on the shoulders of Anita’s coat now and sprinkling her hair, Candice considered what a big, complicated question that was, one she could have answered in a hundred different ways. Finally she said, “He’s . . . smarter than he probably gives himself credit for. And kinder than he thinks. Sweet when he wants to be. A tough guy . . . until he’s not. He pays attention to what’s going on around him—and he sees humor in little things. And today I learned that he has a soft spot for children that he probably never knew about until they were sitting on his lap.

  “I think he had a rough upbringing. He sees himself as trouble. But what I see is . . . a good man who’s just been a little lost.” Now Candice squeezed Anita’s hand in return, trying to console her, reassure her. “I’ll . . . talk to him, Anita. I’ll try to make him understand, come around.”

  Just then, Adam Becker, who’d been helping with cleanup down at the dock, stuck his head through the arched garden gate. “Did I just see a haggard Santa Claus walking down the road in the snow or did someone spike the eggnog?”

  “Both,” Candice informed him.

  That was when Adam seemed to take in the vibe that something heavy was going on—or maybe he noticed Anita’s tear-streaked face.

  And while Candice had thought it wise to let Shane be for a while, now she wondered where he was headed—and if he’d have sense enough to come in out of the snow. Normally, yes—but right now wasn’t normal, and she worried about his state of mind.

  She approached Adam and touched his arm through his coat sleeve. “Can I ask a huge favor? I hate to run out on Miss Ellie, but I really have to go. Would you mind making sure anything that needs to be cleaned up today is, and promise her I’ll be back tomorrow to do the rest?”

  Adam must have seen the gravity of the situation in her eyes since he said, “Don’t worry about coming back tomorrow, Candice. I’ll make sure everything’s taken care of. You did a great job with the party—Sue Ann is still here, and so are Mick and Jenny, and we’ll take care of getting everything back in place for Miss Ellie. Go do whatever you need to do.”

  Her heart warmed and she made a mental note to tell Sue Ann what a keeper Adam was. “Thank you,” she replied, hoping he could feel the depth of her gratitude.

  And as she started to leave, Anita called to her, “Tell him I love him. Tell him I love him more than anything and I always have.”

  Shane reached up under the Santa suit and into the pocket of the coat he wore underneath, pulling out the gloves Candy had given him. His hands were damn cold. Probably had been for a while, but it was just now hitting him. Hell, his hands had been cold since he’d shown up in this town—and maybe it had taken this fucking long to admit to himself that he wasn’t impervious to everything.

  In fact, maybe he wasn’t impervious to anything. At the moment, he felt beat up. A little calmer than he had five minutes ago, leaving the garden, but just . . . tired—so damn tired. He was cold, wet, and shocked as hell.

  And he didn’t know what to think about anything his mother had said. Shit, his mother—who could have known he’d be having a conversation with his mother today? But maybe none of it mattered. He’d been headed for a new life somewhere else anyway, so maybe this changed nothing. Whether or not she’d loved him, whether or not his father had lied to him—that changed nothing, either. No one could go back and fix the past—his childhood, his upbringing. So what difference did it make where the truth lay?

  He walked up Candice’s driveway, now covered with fresh, still-falling snow, and made his way in the back door. He’d learned that she kept it unlocked. And he thought it was nice that places still existed where you could do that, but at the same time, he reminded himself to scold her for it—because no one was really safe anywhere, no matter what they thought.

  He’d almost felt like he was safe here. In Destiny. He’d almost let his guard down. He’d started to relax. He’d started to grow fond of people, trust them. And then—boom—turned out he wasn’t safe here at all. And it wasn’t anyone’s fault—it just was.

  He pushed through the back door into the kitchen and smelled something good, then remembered Candy putting together a beef stew in the Crock-Pot this morning. Then he walked into the living room, thankful for the warmth of the house, annoyed by the needy white cat instantly at his feet. “Get away,” he said to Frosty.

  That’s the problem with forming connections. You start spending time with people—or cats, for that matter—and they start caring about you. And then they want things from you. They want you to play Santa for them. Or help them repair a church. Or go ice-skating with them. Or pet them. He glared down at the cat still rubbing up against his ankles even as he tried to shed the Santa costume and his coat.

  And none of that had actually been so bad. Some of it had been—hell, it had been downright nice or he wouldn’t have gone along with it. But now suddenly here was his mother—Anita of the Christmas Eve wedding at the damaged church, which still blew his mind—wanting . . . what? Forgiveness? Absolution? Love? For him to act like they were some sort of normal mother and son after twenty-five years apart during which he’d thought she hated him? When he didn’t even know for sure . . . what to believe. Or again, if it even mattered. After all, the damage was done. It wasn’t fixable now.

  It made him feel calmer to go through the routine of just getting back to normal. The steps of building a fire in the hearth calmed him. Setting the wet Santa suit out to dry nearby calmed him. Taking off his coat and his shoes calmed him. And hell, much as he hated to admit it, when he sat down on the couch to just rest finally, and Frosty hopped up next to him, curling up at his hip—that calmed him, too.

  The truth was, when he’d left the party, he’d wished like hell he could go back to his place above the Mercantile and just be alone. Or maybe blow some of the last precious cash in his pocket on a bottle of something at a liquor store and get good and drunk and just forget about this for a little while.

  But . . . this was better. Being at Candy’s. With her silly cat. And her warm fireplace and her friendly Christmas tree. And knowing that in a while she’d come home.

  It wasn’t that he wanted to have to talk to her about all this. It was just that . . . she’d be there. And that it felt . . . better than choosing to be alone.

  The front door opened sooner than he expected. And he suffered the brief fear that she’d have Anita with her—but thankfully she was by herself.

  He looked up from his place on the couch. “Sorry I ruined your party.”

  “You didn’t ruin it,” she assured him. “It was wonderful, in fact. And it was pretty much over when . . . well, by the time . . .”

  “By the time I ran into my mother for the first time since I was a little kid?” He raised his eyebrows sardonically. The whole thing sounded absolutely, fucking surreal.

  She let out a soft breath. And as their eyes met, saying more in silence than they could with words, he took in how damn pretty she looked even after a day of being out in the cold. She smelled like snow and cold air—it hung about her. But he’d never liked that fresh, odd scent of cold so much as he did in this moment.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling,” she said softly.

  “Is it still snowing?” he asked. And absently stroked the cat’s side. Distractions. Because he wasn’t quite ready to go there yet.

  She nodded. “Coming down heavy now.”

  He nodded, too. “I started a fire.”

  “Thank you. It’s nice to come home to.” She walked over to it, took off her mittens and set them on the fireplace screen, held her fingers out to soak up the warmth.

  They stayed quiet for a few minutes, so quiet that he wished he’d clicked on th
e TV before she came in or turned on some music or something.

  Finally, she said, “Are you hungry for some stew?”

  He gave another nod. “It smells great. Perfect on a cold night.” And indeed it had gotten dark out quickly, early, from the snow plus being one of the shortest days of the year.

  She took off her coat, walked to the coat tree near the front door, and hung it near where he’d hung his own a few minutes earlier. “I’ll go dish some up and we can eat in here by the fire where it’s cozy. Sound good?”

  More stroking of the cat. And nodding. “Sounds perfect.”

  Only, as she walked behind the couch toward the doorway that led to the kitchen, he heard himself ask, “How do you think he knew? That she was here?”

  His heart beat harder in the very asking. He’d been pretty happy Candy was willing to let it drop, so why had he opened this door of conversation?

  She stopped, walked back to the couch, peering down at him. “Maybe he somehow kept up with where she was through common old acquaintances or something. Or maybe he Googled her. She owns a bar—”

  “She does?” That surprised him.

  “Yeah, the Dew Drop Inn outside town. So she’s probably searchable on the Internet, even if only just a little. Or . . . you know there are those places you can pay online to get someone’s address. So I guess there are a lot of ways he could have known.”

  Shane took a deep breath, let it back out. Tried not to feel this. He’d done good at that for a few minutes, and again wondered why the hell he’d returned to the subject.

  “Well, however he knew, she’s obviously the reason he told me to come here. But . . . the thing is, why? Why bother? Whether she sent me away or he took me, why send me back to her?”

  Candy sat down on the arm of the couch next to him, reached out, touched his shoulder. “I think maybe it was . . . a classic deathbed confession, the kind you hear about. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t even get it all out—maybe he hadn’t planned to say it at all, but it just started coming out in those last moments.”