Christmas on the Coast

by Lee Tobin McClain

  So Mary started with a question. “Did your mom ever bend the truth or lie to you?”

  “Are you calling her a liar?”

  Mary sighed. “Not completely. I just had a very different perception of your father than she did. It’s possible she was wrong.”

  “You’re calling her a liar,” Imogene said flatly.

  This line of discussion was going nowhere. “I have some old pictures I thought maybe you’d want to go through. If there are some you want, you’re welcome to take them.” Imogene didn’t immediately say no, so Mary went to the dining room table and pulled two old-fashioned photo albums off it. She carried them over and handed them to Imogene.

  Imogene grabbed the top one and flipped the pages, ripping one, and Mary had to clench her fist to keep from grabbing the books back. But that wasn’t the point. She was trying to build a bridge. She sat down beside her stepdaughter and watched as images of her younger self, her daughter, Ben and, yes, Imogene, played before her eyes.

  Seeing Daisy at three, four and then five choked Mary up. Daisy had been such a sweet child; all her teachers, all the other mothers had commented on it. She’d been the first to run over and help another child who’d fallen on the playground. She had cried when Mary hit a fly with a flyswatter or stepped on a spider. And she’d adored her new big sister, even though Imogene hadn’t returned the warmth at all.

  Seeing her younger self made her shake her head. She’d thought she knew difficulty and pain then, but she’d barely scratched the surface of those emotions.

  Savor what you’ve got, she wanted to cry out to her younger self.

  Imogene ran a finger over the picture of her father standing beside Mary. “You were so pretty,” she said.

  It was the closest thing to a compliment that Mary had ever heard from Imogene. Maybe they were getting somewhere. “So were you,” Mary said, and it was true. Imogene had been a beautiful teenager.

  Beautiful, but unpleasant and thoughtless, like most fifteen-year-old girls. Had Imogene been more that way than most? Mary couldn’t be sure. It might be that she’d been too damaged by her childhood with her mother and her issues, or it might be that the loss of her father and the aftermath of that was what had pushed her into a basically ruined life.

  They came to a photo of Ben holding Daisy. “He liked your daughter better than me!” Imogene’s voice was tortured.

  “No, honey, he didn’t. He loved you the best, of course. You were his pride and joy.”

  “Then why’d he take her with him that day?” The words burst out as if straight from Imogene’s troubled heart.

  Mary’s heart twisted. Here it was, the core of Imogene’s anger and grief. She reached a hand toward Imogene, but the younger woman recoiled before contact was made.

  Understandable. They’d have to talk it out, then, not hug it out.

  And Mary had thought about Imogene’s question time and time again. God forgive her, but she’d wished Ben had chosen Imogene over Daisy, as he usually did. Wished it had been Imogene in the accident, which was terribly, terribly wrong, another source of guilt. “He didn’t take Daisy with him because he liked her better, not at all,” Mary said truthfully. “I was supposed to bond with you that day. Your father thought it might help our relationship.” Which had certainly been rocky. A young stepmother with a small child of her own was the worst-case scenario for a teenage girl who had her doting father wrapped around her little finger.

  She studied Imogene thoughtfully. Her earlier suspicion turned into certainty. Imogene hadn’t ever changed from that sullen fifteen-year-old. It was as if she’d been frozen at that stage, by all the trauma.

  They flipped a couple of pages ahead, and there was a picture of Mary and Ben on their wedding day. It took Mary’s breath away because she remembered the love. Love she’d never experienced before or since.

  “I miss him,” Imogene said, her voice choked.

  “I do, too, and I’m so sorry about what happened. I never meant it to turn out the way it did, no one would, but I’m just so sorry.” She paused, then added, “To this day, I’ll never understand why he came back home so quickly. If he hadn’t, if he’d continued on to the park like they’d planned, I wonder if he might have...if they both might have...been safe. I wondered if maybe I was supposed to be the target, not your dad.”

  Imogene’s face turned red. She grabbed the photo, ripped it in half and threw it to the ground. “I hate you for what you did!”

  Mary hated herself, too, had for years. She leaned forward and picked up the pieces, putting them on the end table beside her, smoothing them out. “I can understand that.”

  Imogene thrust the album aside and rested her face in her hands. After a minute, Mary dared to put an arm around her.

  To her shock, Imogene leaned into her, crying. Mary stroked her hair. Despite everything Imogene had done, Mary still felt the younger woman’s pain as if it were her own. How terrible to lose your beloved father at such a young age, when you were still dependent on him but unable to show it.

  Suddenly, Imogene jerked away and shoved at Mary. “Don’t be so understanding!”

  Coco had been sleeping at their feet, but the jerky movements woke her and she snapped at Imogene’s ankle.

  Imogene kicked out, and the little dog flew several feet and landed, yelping. Mary rushed to pick her up, running her hands over the pup’s body, her heart pounding.

  Coco cried a few more little bleats and then settled into Mary’s arms, nibbling at her, too.

  Mary sank down into an armchair beside her, cradling the dog.

  “You love that dog more than me, just like you loved your baby more than me.” Imogene came toward them, reaching toward Coco, eyes fierce and angry.

  Mary stood and turned so that Coco was shielded by her body. “Stop,” she said. “Hurting an animal is just wrong.”

  “Hurting an animal is just wrong,” Imogene said in a mocking, shrill voice, exactly the way she’d sounded at fifteen.

  And Mary realized, finally, that all of her efforts were futile. Maybe someone else could help Imogene. She certainly needed help, a lot of it.

  But if Imogene was sick enough to threaten a puppy, she was too sick for Mary to even nudge onto the road toward healing. “You need to go,” she said. “Now.”

  “Scared of me, old lady?” Imogene taunted, looming over her.

  Actually...yes. Mary was afraid. Imogene’s eyes looked like those of a villain in a horror movie.

  But showing fear was the wrong thing to do. Mary had learned that from her abusive first husband. So she narrowed her eyes and, still holding the puppy close to her body, she moved past Imogene. She walked to the front door, opened it and stepped out onto the porch.

  At a time like this, she was glad Kirk James and his father lived next door, was glad of Primrose Miller’s habit of watching everything that went on in the neighborhood. If Imogene attacked her physically, someone would at least call the police.

  She held open the door. “You need to leave,” she said.

  Imogene came toward her, stepped out the door and hesitated, too close.

  Mary braced herself and turned the puppy farther away from Imogene’s reach.

  Kirk James’s ninetysomething father came out on the porch next door, a cell phone in his hand. He didn’t speak; he just stood watching them.

  Imogene made a disgusted noise, spat on Mary’s porch and stomped down the stairs and off down the street.

  And Mary collapsed onto her porch chair, waved thanks to old Mr. James and cuddled her dog close to her chest.

  For better or worse, she was done trying to connect with Imogene.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  PAUL LOOKED AROUND Mary’s store, at the little circle of parents and children listening to Mary read a Christmas picture book to them, and felt incredibly grateful to be here, among the
se people, in this small town that was starting to feel like home.

  When Davey climbed out of Paul’s lap and into Amber’s, snuggling against her, he felt even happier. Especially about the loving way Amber cuddled him close.

  It was a Christmas event with cocoa and puppets and a free book for every child. Paul had invited Amber after they’d wrapped presents together two nights ago. Now she looked over at him, caught him studying her and Davey, and smiled. What was she thinking?

  Even Trey and Erica were there with Hunter. He’s way too young, Erica had told Paul beforehand, but we love stuff like this. I can’t wait till I can read to him more. She was cuddling Hunter in one of Mary’s comfy chairs right behind where Paul and Amber sat with the others on the floor. Trey stood beside Erica’s chair, his back to the wall.

  Stop being a cop, Amber mouthed to him, making Paul smile.

  A text came in on Paul’s phone from an unknown number, and he ignored it. But when another from the same number popped up, he opened the message.

  This is awkward, but I need to talk to you. I’m a friend of Wendy’s, and I’m in downtown Pleasant Shores, hoping to see you for a few minutes.

  The mention of Wendy made him curious enough that he responded with his location, and the person texted back that they would be there in five minutes. So after listening to a little more of the story Mary was reading, Paul whispered to Amber that he was leaving for a minute and headed outside.

  He was in a great mood. Such a wonderful, warmhearted community, so good for Davey. He’d like to stay here. And he’d like to be here with Amber, and so would Davey.

  There was a lot to think about.

  Outside the store, a man in the kind of designer outdoor clothing favored by Wendy’s parents lifted a hand. “Andrew McMartin,” he said, holding out a hand. “You’re Paul Thompson?”

  “Yes.” Paul got a strange, nervous vibe from the man. “You wanted to connect because of having known Wendy?”

  Andrew nodded. He sucked in a breath and looked off down the block, then met Paul’s eyes. “This is embarrassing, but let me just dive in. I was with your wife, and, well, you should know that your son is technically mine.”

  “What?” Paul stared at the other man, trying to process the nonsensical words. “What are you talking about?”

  “I would never try to claim custody. But look. If you need to make some kind of financial arrangement...”

  “What?” Why was this person talking about money? What was he saying? “What do you mean you were with Wendy?”

  The guy looked at him like he was dense. “We had an affair,” he said.

  Paul shook his head. “You couldn’t have.” Wendy had been committed to him one hundred percent. This guy must be some kind of nut who’d managed to find Paul’s number. Why, Paul couldn’t fathom.

  Or maybe he was an ex of Wendy’s, or a delusional coworker. Paul wasn’t sure whether to try to get him to leave or to get his contact information just so he could keep track of him, make sure his hallucination didn’t lead him to do something stupid.

  The man talked on, and Paul tuned back in. “Big mistake,” he was saying, “and we both knew that almost right away. We were only together a few times.”

  This man, this Andrew, spoke logically, calmly. Not like a deranged person, even though his words were impossible to believe.

  “I didn’t want to tell you. What was the point? But after this past weekend, I figured I should.” He paused, seeming to wait for Paul to say something, and then went on, rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke. “Again, man, I’m not saying I want custody or anything. In fact, I’d like to keep this quiet.”

  A sick feeling rose in Paul’s stomach. Was it possible that he was telling the truth?

  “When I saw him this weekend, I panicked. Figured I’d better come and talk to you, make sure we were on the same page.”

  This weekend... Paul was starting to understand, but he couldn’t find words. Couldn’t figure out how to feel. “Did you say you’re Davey’s biological father?”

  Andrew nodded his head yes as he peered through the store window. “Is that him in there? With the skinny gal?”

  Paul nodded slowly. He noticed his own breathing had sped up. His heart pounded, too, but it wasn’t like a panic attack. This was something else.

  Andrew shoved his hands in his pockets, still looking into the store where Davey sat leaning against Amber. “Wow. Cute.” He shook his head a little. “That’s that author, right? The pretty one.” He shook his head. “I never did understand why Wendy chose her to confide in.”

  Once again, the man was saying something that didn’t compute. “What do you mean?”

  “I guess Wendy felt guilty. She was the guilty type, you know? She sent me an email right toward the end, telling me she’d let that woman know about the affair and about Davey, but she hadn’t told anyone else.” He frowned. “Wendy thought that author lady could keep it to herself. Guess she was wrong. Women sure do like to gossip.”

  Paul reached out a hand and turned the intruder to face him.

  Fear rose in the man’s eyes and he lifted his hands and started to back away.

  All of a sudden, Paul’s fist connected with the guy’s cheekbone and sent him flying.

  He felt like he was dreaming as he watched—what was his name? Paul kept forgetting—scramble to his knees and put a hand to his face.

  Paul was going to wake up soon. He’d feel the sun on his face and hear Davey in the next room and realize he’d overslept.

  The door of the bookstore opened and Trey came out. “What’s going on here?”

  Andrew was getting awkwardly to his feet.

  So it wasn’t a dream. “I just got some surprising news.” The voice was coming out of Paul’s mouth, but it seemed to belong to someone else.

  Trey and Paul watched as Andrew brushed himself off and hurried down the street, glancing back as if afraid he would be followed.

  “Will he press charges?” Trey asked.

  Paul shook his head and rubbed his knuckles. They didn’t hurt—adrenaline—but they were red and starting to swell. “Doubt it. The slime.” He looked in through the window at Davey, who’d climbed all the way into Amber’s lap now, looking half-asleep.

  The idea that Davey wasn’t his son was impossible to process. Paul’s whole life was centered around protecting Davey, and he felt no diminution of the desire to do that. No way, no way was this jerk Andrew going to have any contact whatsoever with Davey.

  Bits and pieces of significance were tapping on his skull now, demanding entry into his brain. Wendy, perfect, angelic Wendy, had had an affair. Was that even possible? Wendy had been so strict with herself in every way. Strict with others, too, but she’d never held them to a higher standard than she had for herself.

  But why would this Andrew, the pretentious jerk, have come to him claiming such a thing if it weren’t true?

  He was still looking into the store, so he saw how Davey shifted in Amber’s arms, leaning more against her, his eyes closing.

  Amber knew. Andrew had said Amber knew.

  That wasn’t possible, because Amber would have told him if she knew something that momentous about his family and his life, about Davey. But something must have given Andrew that impression.

  Paul didn’t trust himself to walk into the store just now. He didn’t feel like he could be with ordinary people. “Would you mind asking Amber to come out here a minute? I need to talk to her.”

  Trey didn’t move toward the store. “Do you have control of yourself?”

  Of course, Trey was being protective of his sister-in-law. Rightly so, since Paul had just hit a man. Paul drew in a long, slow breath, relaxed his shoulders and nodded. “I have control. I just want to talk to her out here for a couple of minutes.” He kept his voice steady. He was proud of that. “Maybe Erica
or you could hold Davey for a few?”

  “Okay, but I’ve got my eye on you.” Trey gave him a warning glare and then walked into the store and tapped Amber on the shoulder, whispered something into her ear. She looked over toward Paul, then nodded and handed Davey to Trey, who stood inside the store window where he could see Paul.

  Amber came toward him, questions in her eyes.

  He watched her come, this woman he’d gotten close with, come to care about, maybe even loved. What was he going to say to her? What could he say?

  * * *

  AS AMBER WALKED toward the entrance of the store, she caught the expression on Paul’s face and dread wrapped around her heart. His brow was wrinkled, his eyes strained, his mouth a flat line.

  Something had happened. Something was wrong. She pushed open the door of the store, shivering as the cool wind hit her. She’d left her coat inside.

  Paul was rubbing his knuckles absently, and when she looked at the hand he was rubbing, she saw some discoloration. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  He was studying her face as if trying to read hieroglyphics. “You knew.”

  “Knew about what?”

  He glanced down the street. “A man was here who said he had...” He shook his head. “He said you knew. He said Wendy said you were the only person she told.”

  Oh. Oh, no.

  “Is it true?” The muscles in his jaw were working. “That Wendy had an affair? That Davey’s not my son?”

  She looked into his eyes, his dear eyes, now stormy. Everything was about to change between them and not for the better.

  But the truth had to be told. Slowly, she nodded. “It’s true.” She reached out to touch his arm, wanting contact, wanting to know he didn’t hate her.

  He jerked away. “How could it be true? And how could you know something like that and not tell me?”

  Amber’s throat felt so dry that it was hard to get any words out, but she had to explain. “I’m basing it on what Wendy said, but yes. She had an affair and...” Amber swallowed the lump in her throat. “And conceived Davey that way. She made me promise not to tell you.”