Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two

by Stephanie Taylor

  Bridget steps forward hesitantly, hands clasped in front of her. She’s had time to shower at the B&B and put on fresh clothes, and she looks stunning in her clingy white dress and gladiator sandals, her blonde hair pulled up in a clean pile of curls on top of her head. She looks at Jake expectantly.

  “So, in addition to the fact that we’ve been living on an island for the past six weeks alongside more than a hundred locals,” he says, his eyes trained on her, “there’s also been hot water, indoor plumbing, and more food than you can imagine within arms’ reach.” The crowd chuckles. By now, Bridget has both hands over her mouth, and she’s clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But aside from all that, I have to tell you the truth: I’m no stranger to Christmas Key. In fact, I’ve been living here for a few years, and I’m actually the island’s only police officer.”

  Bridget blinks, stunned.

  “I have to give her credit,” Holly says, leaning across the table to River. “She’s either a great actress, or she’s really that dumb and naïve. It makes her seem younger than she probably is.”

  River makes a face, but Holly’s already turned back to the stage so that she doesn’t miss whatever is coming next.

  “You might be thinking that my living here gave me an unfair advantage,” Jake says to Bridget. “But I know for a fact that the production crew made me climb uphill both ways to ensure I didn’t win simply because I know the lay of the land.” Bridget smirks at him. “Anyhow, with that out of the way, I need to say that—as most of us know—to the victor goes the spoils.”

  Holly sucks in a sharp breath, holding onto the edge of the round bistro table with both hands so tightly that her knuckles go white.

  “Bridget, you and I have had some really…special times,” he says quietly, his eyes warm as he looks down into hers. Bridget moves in closer to him. “And I hate to think those times are over. So, to that end, I have something I want to ask you.”

  For what seems like an eternity, all Holly hears is the drizzling rain and the sound of the waves as they blend together like static in her ears. She looks around the room and sees faces that are joyfully surprised. Jake’s parents look on expectantly. Wayne and Leanna are watching from beside the small stage, obviously pleased, and the look on Wayne’s face tells Holly that he thinks he’s about to get exactly what he wants. Holly projects forward in her mind, imagining a televised wedding on the beach with a reception in the B&B’s dining room. She puts her fork down and reaches for her wineglass.

  On stage, Bridget’s cheeks are flushed and she looks giddy.

  “I was wondering,” Jake looks around at his neighbors and then back at Bridget, his face a mixture of nerves and unabashed joy. “Bridget Lindt, do you think you might want to—”

  “No,” Holly says firmly and audibly, shaking her head. “No,” she whispers again, this time to herself.

  “—stay here on the island with me for a while? I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

  “Nice work, Jakey my boy!” Jimmy Cafferkey whoops. As always, Iris whacks him on the arm to quiet him down.

  Bridget has her hands over her mouth again, and her eyes are shining. She smiles hesitantly at first, and then more decisively. “Yes, I want to stay,” she says loudly enough for the microphone to pick up. “This is all insane, but I really want to stay.”

  In an instant, Jake sweeps her up in his arms right there on stage. The crowd claps and cheers, happy to see young love in full bloom. Without thinking, Holly joins in, clapping along with everyone else, though no part of her feels excited. Across the table, River is clapping more enthusiastically than she is, a smile on his face like he’s watching a buddy shoot the ball from half-court in a contest to win a million bucks. Holly looks for Fiona over by the bar and their eyes meet for a split second. She knows that everything she feels is written on her face, and that she needs to get out of there as soon as possible.

  “Will you excuse me for a second? I need to do one little thing and then we can go,” Holly says to River, not waiting for an answer.

  As their neighbors shake hands and introduce themselves to Bridget in the middle of the bar, Holly makes her way toward Jake. She’s got her hand in the pocket of her overalls, her fingers worrying the item she’s been holding there all afternoon.

  “Jake,” she says throatily. “Talk to you for a second?” It comes out awkwardly, like she’s trying to speak and swallow at the same time. He follows her through the bar and down the steps, and just like that, they’re alone on the beach at night again, exactly as they’d been that summer. Only this time, there’s no chance that Jake will ask her to dance at the water’s edge while Joe Sacamano plays Beach Boys songs from inside the bar, and there’s no way he’ll ask to take her home for the night.

  “Pretty good ending, huh?” Jake stares out at the darkened sky hanging over the water. Holly notices that he’s keeping his physical distance from her.

  “Yeah, about that,” Holly says, not able to meet his eyes. The rain has finally stopped, but the air is misty around them. There are no visible stars in the sky, no moon to illuminate their faces. “I feel responsible for this.”

  “For me winning?”

  “No, for—” Holly wiggles her fingers, unable to find the words. “For…you know—getting you mixed up with a reality show. And they didn’t feed you, and you’re so—” She reaches out and puts her hand around his bare arm, the feel of his skin on hers both familiar and strange. She pulls her hand back.

  “Okayyyy,” he says, his brow knit in confusion. “I mean, you don’t need to apologize, Hol. This has been a crazy experience, and I can eat all I want now that I’ll be back at home.” He stands there, waiting for her to make a point that’s worth hearing.

  “I’m not doing this right.” Holly looks down at her feet. “I just wanted to say that I missed you—we all missed you around here. And more importantly, we don’t want you to turn into Mr. Hollywood or anything.”

  He laughs. “I won’t. I’m sure you’ll all keep my head from getting too big.”

  “But what I mean is,” she swallows hard, “what I mean is that you have values and a strong character, and I don’t want the promise of fame or whatever to change you.” Holly rakes a hand through her hair. From her pocket she pulls the timeworn wedding ring that Jake keeps in the box on top of his dresser. She holds it up between her thumb and forefinger, the gold glinting in the light that comes from the Ho Ho. “You always said you wanted what your grandparents had, and that you wouldn’t settle for anything less, so…I just didn’t want you to forget that.”

  Jake says nothing—he doesn’t even reach out a hand to take the ring from her.

  “Here. Take it.” She reaches for his hand and turns it over so that his palm faces up. He’s still making a fist, so she unfurls his fingers with her own. Looking into his eyes, she places the ring in his hand. “It was ever thus,” she says softly, echoing the engraving on the inside of the ring. They stare at one another for a long moment before Holly walks back up the steps to the bar, leaving Jake alone on the beach.

  On the dance floor of the Ho Ho, Holly cuts through the crowd, ignoring the drinking and merrymaking. She blocks out the Christmas music that’s playing once again, and finds River near the bar.

  They drive back to her house in silence.

  Chapter 28

  The rain is gone when Holly wakes on Christmas Eve morning. In the kitchen, River stands before the window over the sink, holding a cup of coffee and staring out at the yard.

  “Hey,” Holly says sleepily. She’s wearing boxer shorts and the Depeche Mode concert t-shirt she’s had since college. River doesn’t respond as she slips her arms around his waist and rests her cheek against his hard back. “Merry Christmas.”

  They stand that way for a good minute, with River not moving or speaking. Finally, he turns around to face her. With a reluctance that Holly can feel all the way into her bones, he puts his arms around her shoulders and rests his chin on top of her hea
d. She’d woken up hoping for gingerbread pancakes at the Jingle Bell Bistro, followed by a Christmas Eve walk on the beach with Pucci and River. In a perfect world, the day would end with an evening at the chapel with the other islanders, but in her heart she knows that there’s been a shift between them these past couple of weeks that’s going to change all of her hopes and plans on her favorite day of the year.

  “We need to talk about last night,” River says, his chin still resting on her head. He sways slightly as he speaks, and in his voice Holly hears his reluctance to let go of her and face the issue at hand.

  In response, she holds him tighter. “Can I get coffee first?” she asks.

  “Go sit on the couch. I’ll get you a cup.”

  Holly pads out to the living room and curls up on the couch. She grabs the fleece blanket from the arm of the chair next to her, laying it over her bare legs. If there’s any way to have a last-minute Christmas wish granted, she prays for it now, hoping above all else that this discussion will be a simple step back, maybe a chance to look at how different things are from their heated summer romance without throwing the baby out with the bathwater. She hates that term—has hated it ever since a college professor wrote it across the top of her first essay in an English course where she’d denounced all British literature as “dull” and “drafty”—but it definitely applies here. If River can just remember the fun they’ve had together, then maybe he can look at this uneven visit as a bump in the road rather than a roadblock they can’t work around.

  River’s hair is still wet from a shower that she slept right through, his cheeks smooth from a recent shave. He hands her a steaming mug and sits in the chair next to the couch. This seating arrangement isn’t a good sign, but rather than let her concern show, Holly looks down into the swirl of cream that’s spreading through her coffee, watching as it pools and blends.

  “So.” He holds his own cup of coffee in both hands and watches her intently. “What do you think?”

  Rather than answer, Holly takes a sip of her hot coffee and lets the caffeine work its way into her system. She isn’t awake enough to be having this discussion.

  “Maybe we should start with what I think,” he says, more plaintive than sarcastic. “I think there are too many miles between us.”

  “But you knew I never wanted to leave this island,” Holly says, jumping to her own defense.

  “I don’t mean physical miles, though that isn’t helping.” River stares at her. “I mean we’re in completely different places.”

  “We’re both single, no kids, busy lives, and we like each other. Those things don’t seem all that different to me.” Holly sets her coffee on the low table in front of the couch and pulls the blanket tighter around her legs.

  "I like to have fun,” River counters. “I’m quippy and spontaneous, and those are the things I liked about you when we met last summer."

  “Quippy?”

  “It’s a word,” he promises.

  “If you say so,” she says, stopping herself from going off on a tangent. “But now? Now I’m not those things anymore? And I’m not quippy?”

  River stands up and sets his coffee mug on the table next to Holly’s. He ambles over to the Christmas tree; the lights are already on, and he stands there for a moment, watching them flicker. “I don’t know. You're so busy running around, trying to make everyone own up to who they are, but you won't even own up to who you are.”

  Holly's eyes narrow. “And who do you think I am?”

  River faces her, hands open like he's expecting the answer to fall from the sky. He lets out a huge breath before he answers. “I think you're a girl who can only pledge her allegiance to one thing: this island.”

  “I can pledge my allegiance to other things,” Holly croaks, her defensiveness melting into tears.

  “Really? You can?” River's eyes have a dark gleam to them that she's never seen before. “Okay, Yankees or Mets?”

  “That's not fair—”

  “Progress or total control?”

  “Both,” Holly says decisively, her chin jutting out. The hot tears she’d felt brewing just a minute ago have subsided.

  “Jake or me?” They both go silent. This, of course, is at the heart of everything. All of the running around she’s done since Halloween, all of the fretting and worrying. Jake’s well-being. Jake’s happiness. Jake’s love life. And, more importantly, the fact that Holly can’t accept his current romantic entanglement. Fiona had been right, of course—everyone has been able to watch her wage an inner battle over two men and she hasn’t even seen how obvious it’s been.

  “Yeah,” River says simply, sadly. They don’t really have to say anything else, because they both know that River can't be across country without wondering whether she's switched teams again, and she can't promise that it won't happen.

  “Buckhunter said he’d run me over to the dock so I can catch the ferry that’s taking the television crew to Key West. I’ve got a lot of travel ahead of me, but if I leave now and don’t hit any flight delays, I can make it home for Christmas Eve dinner.”

  There isn’t much to say now. Holly begging him to stay won’t fix the fact that her indecisiveness has ruined this visit—not to mention Christmas. And him staying wouldn’t give either of them the space they need to think.

  “If that’s what you want,” Holly finally says, her voice small.

  River nods, eyes fixed on the floor of her living room. “It is.”

  She stays on the couch under the blanket, watching the lights on the tree as he leaves to gather his things. The mini-lights wink and twinkle, flashing different colors on the only package under the tree. Holly’s heart sinks as she realizes that it’s from River, and that she hasn’t even had time to think of what to get for him. In an instant, she knows that he’s right to go.

  “I’m not the kind of guy who can wait around, just hoping you'll pick me,” River says from the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He’s standing there, duffel bag next to his feet, shoes laced up, windbreaker zipped over his sweatshirt. In his hand is the Mets hat he’d sent to Holly. “Let me know if you ever decide to be loyal to one team,” he says calmly, walking over to her. He puts his warm lips on hers, lingering just a few seconds too long before he breaks away. “Merry Christmas, Holly.” His eyes are sad—not angry—as he backs away, setting the Mets cap on his blonde head and pulling the brim down low.

  “Merry Christmas,” she whispers back as he heads through the house and out the front door. He closes it so softly that Pucci doesn’t even lift his head from the floor.

  Holly pulls the fleece blanket over her head and starts to cry.

  The chapel is draped in icicle lights, and the palm trees outside its doors are wrapped in strings of white fairy lights to match. Inside, flickering candles sit in the windows, sending a warm luminescence out into the darkness. The sun has been gone for hours, and the clear night is the perfect backdrop to the tiny, glowing chapel on the beach. There hasn’t been an official minister or preacher on the island since Alfie Agnelli’s passing, but each year—regardless of religious orientation—the islanders gather on Christmas Eve to sing carols and hymns together, and this year is no different.

  As he has for the past decade, Cap oversees the holiday proceedings.

  “Come one, come all!” he says merrily, standing on the steps of the chapel. He’s left his white hair loose, and the gold hoop is back in place on his earlobe. Holly approaches the chapel from the sandy road, her small purse clutched tightly in her right hand. As she always does on Christmas Eve, she’s traded in her Converse and baseball hat and dressed in her finest—this year a floor-length forest green ball gown that she’d found on clearance after the previous year’s holiday season. She’d spotted it in a window display at the mall in Tampa, and after begging the salesgirl to pull the last size six off the mannequin for her, she’d taken it home.

  The high-necked bodice of the dress is made of a rich, green velvet, and the skirt fl
ares out at the waist with layer upon layer of glitter-flecked green tulle. It hits the ground around her, so technically she could get away with wearing her beloved flip-flops or Converse beneath it, but the occasion calls for something much nicer, so she’s wearing the silver flats that she bought with the dress.

  “Sugar!” Bonnie calls. “Aren’t you a Christmas vision!”

  Holly stops at the bottom of the stairs to wait for Bonnie. The triplets and their respective husbands pass by, greeting Holly with hugs and pats on the shoulder, and Carrie-Anne and Ellen approach the chapel in matching black velvet pants and holiday sweaters. As Ellen hugs her, Holly gets a whiff of her vanilla-scented perfume.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Bonnie says, hurrying to the chapel from the spot on Holly Lane where she’s parked behind the other golf carts. She’s always fully done up when it comes to hair and make-up, but tonight she’s traded her usual pants-and-blouse combo for a short, red lacy cocktail dress, nylons, and high heels. It’s a look Holly knows is partially for the holiday, but mostly for Wyatt Bender.

  “Is old Slugger already in there saving us a pew?” Bonnie asks, putting her hands on both sides of Holly’s face and forcing her to bend forward for a red-lipped kiss on the cheek.

  Holly says nothing and Bonnie lets her go. The smile falls away from Bonnie’s smooth, round face as she looks deeply into her young friend’s eyes. “Oh,” Bonnie says quietly. “Oh, honey.”

  “It’s okay,” Holly says in a rush. “It’s for the best—at least for now. Everyone should be happy on Christmas, and if I wasn’t making him happy here, then I want him to be at home with his family.”

  “Of course you do,” Bonnie clucks.

  “I’m fine, Bon. I promise.” She tries to look convincing. “Should we go in?”