“Hey, Deac,” Dahlia said. She carried the Santa letter back to her bedroom, tossing it onto her bed before pulling out a box of stationery her mother had given her for Christmas a few years back from her nightstand. She’d never had reason to use it before now. Did people even write letters anymore?
“Hey. Did Lily tell you about Emmett and Janie?” Deacon asked.
“Oh! I forgot,” Lily said. “You tell her.”
Dahlia braced herself for more happy-couple news. Deacon’s brother, Emmett, had gotten married not long before Lily and Deacon.
“He and Janie are expecting twins,” Deacon said. “Plus, Emmett’s latest single just hit number one on the country music charts which he swears is a bigger deal than I’m wanting to make it.”
“It is a big deal,” Lily chimed in. “Maybe not as big a deal as the twins, but still.”
Dahlia sank onto her bed and closed her eyes, imagining the waves in Bali crashing against the shore, the breeze blowing through her hair. She breathed slowly in and out, searching for her center, willing her joy for her friends to the surface. Her happiness for them was bigger than her loneliness, bigger than her jealousy. “That’s really amazing news,” she finally said, happy that she’d channeled her sincerity into her tone. “Truly. Please tell them I’m happy for them.”
“Keep me posted on the letter writing, okay?” Lily said. “And don’t worry about the paramedic. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“Who are you writing letters to?” Deacon asked. The hint of protectiveness in his voice warmed Dahlia’s heart.
“It’s a long story,” Lily said. “I’ll explain later.”
“Bye, guys,” Dahlia said before hanging up the phone. “I love you both.”
Dahlia climbed onto her bed, doing a few more breathing exercises before she opened C.M.’s letter and pulled a single sheet of stationery out of the box.
Dear C.M.,
I’m so sorry that when you originally wrote this letter you never got a response. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose your parents, but I wonder if you had gotten a letter all those years ago if it would have helped in some way.
I’m not really sure why I felt like I needed to write now. You’re an adult, I’m sure, and have likely long ago moved on with your life. But I just found your letter hidden in the bottom of the letter box and it felt wrong not to respond, to tell you that someone did finally read your heartfelt pleas. I hope life has been good to you over the past sixteen years and that you’ve finally found some peace and healing.
Dahlia paused, wondering what she might say that would encourage a response. If all she did was write a bunch of platitudes, whoever C.M. was would likely just toss the letter. And then what? She’d be no better off than she was now. She needed engagement. She needed him to write her back.
I wonder if you have any advice for people weathering similar challenges. I haven’t lost my parents, but I have lost . . . the life that I always thought was going to be mine. I’m learning to embrace a new version of myself now and sometimes, it’s really hard. I’m just a stranger, I know. But I can’t help but wonder . . . maybe you’ll know how to help. Maybe there’s a reason that I’m the one that found your letter after all this time. I hope you’ll respond.
Sincerely, Your Christmas Pen Pal.
Dahlia folded the letter without even reading it a second time, sure that if she gave herself the chance to second guess, she’d likely end up throwing it away without sending it at all. She’d hesitated over the signature, wondering if she ought to sign her name. But with the paramedic’s rejection still fresh in her mind, the idea of being anonymous felt safer, somehow. She might still get another rejection, but at least this way it would be faceless and nameless.
Nerves danced in her belly as she walked the letter to the mailbox. None of it made sense. She had no idea who the man even was. She didn’t know a single thing about him except that he’d lost his parents when he was ten years old. That was hardly enough to wish for a connection. And yet, she was sure she’d be checking her mail with excitement and trepidation for days to come.
Chapter 6
Connor
Connor pulled into his grandmother’s driveway, a little uncomfortable with his excitement level. He was picking up a letter from a mystery woman he’d never even seen before. That hardly warranted a second thought. Maybe he was just excited about the distraction? He’d had a hard time not thinking about Dahlia over the past couple of weeks. He’d seen her one more time at the hospital, and this time, they’d actually made eye contact. She’d been hanging up snowflakes in the windows of the ER waiting room, and he’d been hurrying through on his way back to his rig. She’d held his gaze for a moment before her cheeks had flushed, and she’d looked away.
He should have spoken to her, but he had technically been on the clock. And now, more than two weeks after she’d given him her number, what could he really say?
Still, why was he even thinking about her? And why did it seem like he was suddenly seeing her everywhere?
“Grandma?” he called, as he opened the front door.
She appeared in the kitchen doorway, a broad smile deepening the creases on her face. She held up the letter she’d called him about earlier. “I’ve nearly opened it myself at least half a dozen times.”
Connor sighed, dropping to his knees to give Roxie an obligatory head scratch. He ought to take the dog out on the beach. She was getting older in years and so didn’t seem to mind lounging around the house all day with Grandma June, but the exercise would probably be good for her. “Grandma, I told you I wasn’t getting my hopes up,” he said, even as he kept his eyes on the dog. He was willing to own that his curiosity was piqued, but he wouldn’t tell Grandma June as much. Even a spark of excitement would be enough to send her into matchmaking overdrive. She might even write the woman—whoever she was—back herself.
“Oh, just read it,” she said, swatting him in the arm with the letter as he stood. “What would it hurt to get a little excited every once in a while?”
He followed her into the kitchen.
“Are you hungry? I’ve got half a sweet potato pie with your name on it.” She lifted the half-eaten pie from the back of the stove and set it in front of him.
“You ate your half before I got here, I see?”
“You hush,” she said. “You know I couldn’t eat all that pie by myself.”
“Well who ate it then?” Connor teased, liking the way he could make his grandma smile.
“I have people in my life besides you, Connor McKay, but if you must know, Peyton came by this afternoon. And brought Will with her.”
Connor stilled. “Will, huh? You two are on a first name basis now?”
“You ought to give him more of a chance, Connor. He’s really wonderful for Peyton. They’re happy.”
“I know they are. And I’m happy for them. I didn’t mean for that to sound . . . judgy. What are they up to?”
“They came by to make sure I’d received my invitation to the Southern Society’s annual Christmas gala. It’s here on the island this year, at Will’s new hotel. Peyton knows how much I love going to the gala every year.”
“That’s true. She does.”
“She said they’d love to escort me if I can’t convince you to take me,” she said as she heaved a generous slice of pie onto a plate and slid it across to Connor.
Connor chuckled. Peyton knew him well enough to know he’d need a really good reason to go to the gala. Unless his grandma told him explicitly she needed his company, he wouldn’t be donning a tux and attending a fancy party just for fun.
He took a bite of his pie, savoring the nutty sweetness. It was different this time—a little more full-bodied than usual.
“Bourbon,” Grandma June said. “I figured if it works in pecan pie, it might work in this one too. What do you think?”
He took another bite. “Don’t ever make it the other way again.”
She beamed. “Pey
ton said the same thing.”
Connor bit back his question about whether or not Will had enjoyed the distinctly Southern dessert. He really wasn’t mad at the guy. He’d stood and clapped at their wedding reception and felt genuine joy for their happiness. He just couldn’t think about their happiness without being reminded of his own loneliness.
He was ready to move on. Ready to find someone of his own. He picked up the letter sitting to the left of his plate. If that someone of his own wasn’t Dahlia, and it wasn’t, maybe it was the “beautiful” mystery woman that had written this letter.
He broke the seal on the envelope and scanned the contents, nervous if only for his grandmother’s looming presence across the counter.
“What does it say?” she finally asked.
“Nothing, really. She apologizes that no one answered the letter and then asked me how I managed to move on.”
“Let me read it.” She held out her hand and Connor handed her the letter, waiting while she read it. “Your Christmas Pen Pal? There isn’t a name anywhere else?”
Connor shook his head. “That’s it.”
“Is there a street address? I bet we could use the Google to find her name.”
Connor squelched his laughter over his grandmother’s use of the Google. “When did you become such an internet detective?”
“Get with the times, Connor. You can learn anything on the Google.”
“We’re out of luck this time, Nancy Drew. This address is for an apartment complex over on East Bay. There’s probably fifty different people with the same address.”
“The apartment number will be different though. Let me see it.” She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and peered at the envelope before setting it aside to reach for her phone.
Connor watched, entertained by his grandmother’s efforts and notably impressed with how quickly she navigated to a search engine and typed in the address.
“There. Is that it?” She tilted the phone for Connor to see.
“Looks like it.” He watched as she initiated the search, though he doubted it would find anything worthwhile. If the address were to a house that someone owned, he’d have been able to look up property records to see who was on the deed. But an apartment that was likely rented? Those records weren’t public. Sure enough, the address pulled up a few outdated listings on real estate sites, but nothing else significant.
Grandma June sighed and closed out the search. “Are you going to write her back?”
Connor shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I guess so. She asked me a question. It feels wrong not to answer it.”
Dear Christmas Pen Pal,
Thank you for responding to my letter. Even after all these years, it’s nice to know that someone read my words and cared enough to respond. I wish I had an answer to your question, but honestly, time is probably what helped me the most. I was young when my parents died. I was surrounded by people who loved me, and that made a big difference. The island also helped. My grandma lived on Sweetgrass Island and I moved in with her after everything that happened. If any place is capable of healing someone, it’s Sweetgrass. I still spend most Sundays on the beach.
Maybe there’s some place like that for you—a place that fills you up and makes you feel whole even when the rest of your world feels like it’s falling apart. What is it about your life that you’ve lost? I like to think that what we make of our lives is up to us. Maybe it isn’t too late to get it back? Thanks again for writing back—C.M.
Chapter 7
Dahlia
Dahlia glanced up from her book, watching as the gulls swept down toward the water then back up again. The beach was relatively quiet for a Sunday afternoon. It had been a long time since she’d spent time on the beach alone, but C.M.’s letter had spoken of how the beach brought him peace. The beach had always done that for her, too. Growing up, it had been the one place she could always go to feel like she was truly herself, away from all the expectations and pressures of life. That’s probably why Bali had been so good for her. The beach had long been a place that spoke to her soul.
The Atlantic wasn’t as blue and the sand wasn’t as white as they were in Bali, but the wind and waves made fast work of dispelling her stress and easing her into a more peaceful frame of mind. The only thing they weren’t able to dispel was the lingering sting of yet another rejection . . . from the same paramedic who had slighted her the first time.
She’d been hanging snowflakes in the windows of the ER waiting room and he’d nearly walked straight into her. They’d made eye contact for a long, awkward moment, and then he’d darted around her without saying a word.
If she’d had any doubts about his intentions before, he’d made them perfectly clear the second time they’d met.
She half-wondered if this was some sort of punishment—fate’s way of humbling her after years of walking through life like she was the most important thing in it.
Down the beach, a man tossed a stick toward the water, a large chocolate lab retrieving it then lumbering back to its owner for another throw. She watched as the duo repeated the action over and over again.
Maybe she needed to get a dog. A dog wouldn’t care about her misguided past. A dog would love her no matter what. Wouldn’t pretend like it hadn’t seen her in a crowded ER waiting room.
As if lured by her very thoughts, the chocolate lab she’d been watching trotted up to her to prove her very suppositions. The dog extended its nose, sniffing Dahlia’s hand before leaning forward and licking the side of her face.
Dahlia laughed, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Well, you’re friendly, aren’t—”
She looked up, her words freezing in her throat when she saw the dog’s owner approaching. She scrambled for somewhere to go, somewhere she could hide, but she was on the beach. Hiding was impossible. Not unless she wanted to crawl under her blanket and pray the man didn’t notice.
Because it was him. The paramedic. The one person on the planet she most hoped she would never see again. What were the freaking odds?
She shooed the dog away, but her efforts only made the animal try harder to gain her attentions. Finally, she opted for pulling the hood of her sweatshirt tightly around her face and lifting her book up directly in front of her.
“Sorry if she’s bothering you,” the man said. He stopped a few feet away from Dahlia’s blanket.
“No, no, she’s fine,” Dahlia said, dropping her voice a little in disguise. They’d talked a long time through the bathroom stall. He might actually recognize her voice before he recognized her face. She pulled the book closer, so close the words blurred on the page, but reading them was hardly the point anyway.
The dog made one more attempt, nuzzling his nose in between her hand and the book, then adding a salty wet paw to her lap. When the dog shifted her weight forward onto Dahlia, she gasped, the book flying out of her hand as she was pushed backward onto the blanket. The dog hovered over her, licking her face with renewed vigor.
“Roxie, heel,” the paramedic said. “I’m so sorry. She’s my grandma’s dog and she doesn’t get out much. She must really like you.”
The dog finally left Dahlia prone on the blanket where she felt a little like she’d been hit by a slobbery tornado. Her face was still turned away from the man, and she thought about staying that way. Hoping he’d just leave her be. Walk the other way and never realize what woman his dog had just affectionately mauled.
But she was maybe feeling a little bit salty. She pushed herself up. “I guess she didn’t learn that from you,” she muttered under her breath.
“I’m sorry?” the man said.
Dahlia sighed and turned around, facing him fully.
The man’s shoulders slumped. “Oh,” he said, finally recognizing her. “I probably deserve that.”
Dahlia stood and brushed the sand off her jeans and pushed back her hood before retrieving her book and dropping it into her bag. “Don’t worry about it. I need to get going.”
“D
ahlia, wait.”
“I don’t think I will, actually. I was enjoying a pretty peaceful Sunday up until Roxie decided I needed a bath. I’d like to keep it that way, and I’m pretty sure a conversation with you would do the complete opposite.”
“Can I just explain?”
Dahlia laughed under her breath. “I—no. Please don’t. Honestly, just let me walk away, okay? It’s fine. You aren’t interested. I get the message loud and clear. I don’t need to relive it a third time.”
She tried not to notice how good he looked in street clothes. He’d looked good in a uniform but this laid-back look—jeans and a hoodie—was its own kind of sexy.
She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and stepped off the blanket before scooping it up and shaking the sand loose.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not personal.”
She whirled around to face him. “But it is personal. I felt a connection, you didn’t. That’s personal. But truly, it’s fine. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
Dahlia felt a sudden impulse to ask him his name, but she didn’t do it. Forgetting him seemed far more likely if he remained a nameless paramedic.
“I did feel a connection,” he said. “That wasn’t—that’s not why I didn’t call.”
Dahlia stilled. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, hitting the crook of her elbow, and she swung it down, dropping it onto the sand at her feet.
“Then why didn’t you call?”
He looked at her for a long moment until he finally asked, “Where did you go to high school?”
“What? Why does that matter?”
“Just humor me.”
“Ashley Hall for two years and then Bishop England.”
“Two different private schools?” Connor asked.
Dahlia shrugged. “It’s a long story. I may have been a bit of a handful in high school.”
“What does your dad do for a living?”
“He’s an attorney.”
The Christmas Letters: A Magnolia Bay Romantic Comedy Page 5