A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  Even if slightly longer was only an inch—maybe two.

  But showing a few candy stripes above the knee wasn’t nearly as bad as showing stocking lines at midthigh.

  “Hey, Willa—you do realize you were supposed to be gone five minutes ago, right?”

  I took a last glance in the mirror on my closet doors and prepared to face the peanut gallery in the living room.

  At first I thought the lack of immediate criticism when I exited my bedroom and beelined for the hall closet was a good sign. Maybe I’d overreacted. Maybe the outfit as a whole would simply blend in with the holiday fanfare and go unnoticed.

  And then I saw my brother’s face.

  He was blinking, yet no words escaped him.

  Savannah tilted her head to the side and began to count the horizontal lines that ran the length of my legs.

  “Why do you look like you’re going to a Halloween party at a frat house?” And there it was.

  “I do not.” Please, please let that be true.

  “Can I feel your tights, Mommy?” Savannah hopped from the couch and ran her palm over the stockings.

  “See?” Weston gestured to my daughter. “She just proved my point. That’s what any frat boy would ask you, too.”

  “I didn’t pick it out, okay. I think the costume shop messed up.”

  Weston laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Or perhaps Davis just played you like a fiddle.” He huffed in mock appreciation. “At least he finally upped his game. Too bad he’s too late.”

  My cheeks became stovetop burners.

  Davis wouldn’t do this on purpose. He wouldn’t.

  Then his words from the other night popped into my brain. “Best to keep your name off Santa’s naughty list.”

  Wait—was I being punished for giving him the let’s-just-be-friends talk?

  My fingers tripped over the buttons on the long wool peacoat. “There is no game.”

  Weston leaned back into the sofa and shook his head slowly. “Dang. I kinda want to go to this thing now.”

  “But you said you didn’t mind babysitting tonight.” Savannah had been coughing most of the day; a cold virus was going around her class again.

  “That was before I knew there’d be an English-language Spanish soap opera happening at the toy drive.”

  “What are you talking about?” I swung my purse over my shoulder and reached for the doorknob.

  He lifted his hand in a mock salute. “Nothing. Don’t worry about us. We’ll just be over here playing Guess Who?”

  “Weston.” I tried again.

  But he’d already opened the game box and was reminding Savannah of the rules.

  I rolled my eyes and slammed the door on the way out.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  At the community center, the Friday-night bingo paraphernalia had been stripped and replaced with Santa’s Village. A line of adoring kids had already formed, and the photographer was setting up his tripod to capture the first of many Christmas card options for the season.

  The charity’s influence had grown beyond our city limits into bordering towns, inviting patrons who dropped off a toy to receive a free five-by-seven photo of their child with Santa. The drive had always been sponsored by a local business, and this year, that responsibility had fallen to Davis.

  Davis. He was easy to locate.

  If he hadn’t already been sitting on his Santa throne with his snap-on beard, I’d have happily started the first public domestic disturbance between Mr. and Mrs. Claus.

  My stride was quick, though I doubted that speed walking in this festive getup was the best way to prevent me from being seen.

  I pushed open the white picket gate and entered the land of all things merry.

  “Willa? I mean, Mrs. Claus?” Davis’s eyes grew rounder the lower his gaze traveled down my stockings. “You look . . . uh . . .”

  “PG-13?” I tried.

  And then I considered him: stuffed potbelly, oversized hat, and a holly jolly grin. Why did he get to be the traditional Santa while I got stuck playing the naughty mistress of the North Pole?

  “Seriously, Davis?” I waved a hand over the crushed-velvet catastrophe. “What happened at the rental shop?”

  As if I’d just held him up at gunpoint, Davis lifted his white-gloved hands in the air. “I swear I didn’t pick that out for you. The guy behind the counter asked me some questions and a few minutes later I was out the door with the costume bag.”

  I sighed through my teeth. “I’m supposed to be your nine-hundred-year-old wife. Not your nineteen-year-old girlfriend.”

  “Well . . . if it helps, I was right.” His smile could have been decorated with gumdrops. “You are definitely the prettiest Mrs. Claus Lenox has ever seen.”

  Before I could turn away, Santa pushed his puffy self off his big red chair and caught my arm. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Willa. I should have checked the bag.”

  So it wasn’t revenge after all. Just really, really bad luck.

  I let out a defeated sigh. “I’ll try to forgive you before Christmas.”

  With a wink he pointed to the small fake kitchen table near us. “You should probably grab your tray of cookies to hand out to the children. The elves are opening the gate.”

  “I should cookie you,” I mumbled under my breath as Davis returned to his throne.

  “What’s that you say, dear?”

  “Nothing, Santa, darling.”

  A redheaded boy trotted up to Santa’s lap, pulled his beard, and then rattled off a long list of toys he hoped he’d receive under his tree.

  After the third hour of being gawked at by every parent standing in line, I was ready to pepper frosted sugar cookies at Davis’s head.

  Too bad I’d just run out.

  I leaned over Santa’s shoulder. “Where are the cookie refills?”

  He patted his large belly. “Maybe I ate them all. You’re such a good baker, Mrs. Claus.”

  A group of kids at the front gate laughed, but my humor had long ago been spent.

  He turned his mouth to my ear. “There’s some extra in the prep kitchen.”

  Of course there were—because the prep kitchen was on the opposite side of the building. Again with the luck today.

  “Perfect.”

  “Hey, wait just a minute there, Mrs. Claus.” His hand hooked around my oversized belt loop. “We need to get a picture to memorialize this event.”

  The photographer gave us a thumbs-up.

  “Um . . . I’d rather not, Santa.” I’d actually like to forget this particular event ever happened.

  And then Santa morphed back into the man I’d known since high school. “I would really like to hang a picture up at the clinic, Willa. Sponsoring this event is important to the community.”

  One suck-it-up grin later and I was sitting on his lap, furiously yanking at my hemline.

  “You look fine. Stop that,” he said at my back.

  I ignored him and continued the tug-of-war until I was 100 percent certain that nothing but candy cane tights would be revealed in this picture.

  “Ready?” the photographer asked, his voice like the dull side of packing tape.

  “Sure.” But as I lifted my face to the camera lens, my stomach bottomed out.

  Patrick stood just on the other side of the gate, wearing the same pained expression that haunted my dreams.

  “Mrs. Claus?” the photographer called. “Can you smile?”

  No. I really couldn’t.

  “Mrs. Claus?”

  I tore my gaze from the only man who could cripple my resolve with a single glance and stared into the camera’s big, glossy eyeball. The smile I slapped on my face more closely resembled a stray dog baring its teeth than a cherished holiday couple spreading holiday cheer.

  I slid off Davis’s thigh and reached for the empty cookie tray.

  Out of breath, I escaped through the back gate, which slammed into my kneecap before I could cl
ear it.

  “Ouch.”

  If I could have sprinted without fear of showing my backside, I would have. Even with my gimp knee.

  The distance from the miniature North Pole village to the prep kitchen must have been miles, because by the time I pushed through the swinging door, my lungs were a breath away from collapse.

  Cookies. Cookies. Find the cookies.

  Easier thought than done.

  Glittery snowflakes cut from white paper plates and an army of pipe-cleaner angels littered the countertops. Bags upon bags of miscellaneous winter crafts lay scattered on every surface.

  Searching for white sugar cookies in this mess was like trying to find Where’s Waldo? in Candy Land.

  The rustling of plastic sacks drowned out the squeaky hinges on the kitchen door, but I didn’t need to be alerted to his presence.

  I could feel him.

  My fingers paused and the Great Cookie Hunt plummeted to the bottom of my priority list.

  I pivoted on the heel of my red boot.

  Just like it had in his parents’ kitchen, his jaw seemed to tick to the rhythm of my pulse. Only that night, I’d understood the reason for the heated intensity on his face. I’d tested his restraint, pushed his limits, and broken him down kiss by kiss.

  But he had no right to wear that expression now—not when we hadn’t seen each other for nine days.

  Not when I’d left him alone the way he’d asked.

  Not when he’d been the one to quit me.

  His eyes fixated on the belt around my waist. “That’s quite the costume.”

  I curtsied and held my chin up high.

  “Thanks. I picked it out myself.” I smoothed my damp palms over the thick bell skirt and wondered if my lie was as obvious to him as it sounded to me.

  His face darkened.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “I volunteered to load the toys out back.”

  Of course he had. Because assisting strangers was what Patrick did best. It was his friends that he dumped.

  His stare intensified, but I refused to be the one who blinked first.

  “Are you with him?”

  “What?” My attempt at sass had sprung a momentary leak.

  “Are. You. With. Davis?” He stretched out each letter, emphasized each syllable, lengthened each word.

  With Davis.

  A hot current zipped through my core. “If that’s a serious question, then you don’t know me at all.”

  “You were sitting on his lap.”

  “He’s Santa Claus!” I threw my arms wide. “Everybody sits on his lap. If you’re willing to wait in line I’m sure you can have a turn, too.”

  He heaved a long sigh and glanced up at the ceiling. Perhaps he was looking for a clean slate for this conversation. But unless he had a time machine, that was impossible.

  “Weston mentioned Savannah has a cold.”

  Weston the traitor strikes again. “She’s fine.”

  He leaned against the edge of the counter. “I’d be glad to check her out.”

  “She’s already been seen.”

  Hurt flickered across his features. “You could have brought her to the clinic.”

  No, I couldn’t have. “I really can’t do this right now—”

  He stepped toward me. “Are you going to interview for the teaching position?”

  My mouth popped open. Unbelievable. “I’m not your little apprentice anymore, Patrick. You quit me, remember?” I pressed a hand to my chest. “I gave you my heart and you told me to go home. It doesn’t get much clearer than that, so stop playing games.”

  “Willa, please—”

  “No.” The sound of my name on his lips was too much. “There’s nothing more to be said. You’ve made your stance very, very clear.”

  Where are those dang cookies? I started the search again.

  “I never wanted to hurt you.” His voice sounded heavy, as if it took physical effort to lift the words from his chest and push them out of his mouth. “Please, believe that.”

  “What I believe shouldn’t matter to you.”

  He smacked the counter with his hand. “Of course it matters to me! You matter to me.”

  Finally, I spotted them—the snowflake cookies camouflaged in the corner.

  I gripped the plastic handles, placed my palm on the door, and glanced over my shoulder. “Not enough.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Weston stood at the back of the auditorium with Savannah perched on his shoulders. The sight still made me queasy, but some types of progress were easier than others. Right now, not wanting to punch my brother in the chest was progress enough.

  “I’m shocked you got her here.” Weston jerked his chin toward the stage. Alex was next in line. “I thought she was gonna claw your eyes out at the Thanksgiving table just for suggesting it.”

  “Everyone has a reason to be brave.” Patrick’s words rolled off my tongue like my own, and the thud of my heartbeat echoed in my chest.

  “Guess so.”

  Weston cleared his throat.

  He was dying to know how my phone call with Principal Schultz had gone earlier that day. He’d hinted at it twice since we’d arrived, but it was rare that I got the chance to hold something over him. He cleared his throat again, only this time the sound was better compared to the start of a race car engine than someone in need of a glass of water.

  Several people twisted in their seats to stare at us.

  I dropped my voice and kicked his shoe. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”

  “Good thing I’m pretty tight with the theater owner.”

  I rolled my eyes at his smirk and he bumped my shoulder. “So? What happened? Tell me.”

  “It went well.” Better than well.

  He smashed me to his side. “I’m proud of you, Willa.”

  “There’s still a few more details to be worked out—I don’t have the job quite yet.”

  “I’m not worried,” he said.

  “I’m not either.”

  And for the first time in forever, that was the truth. I’d had several late-night conversations with Megan Hudson over the last week, and I was becoming more and more convinced that this rare opportunity wasn’t coincidence, but part of God’s divine plan.

  Alex took a step toward the stage and adjusted the microphone.

  I moved closer, clasping my hands at my chest. Her eyes roamed over a few scattered theater junkies sitting in the fold-up chairs and then parked on me.

  “You can do this,” I mouthed.

  “Hi . . . uh, my name is Alex Reyes. I’ll be singing ‘Standing Tall.’ It’s an original song.”

  Georgia pointed to the pianist, and seconds later the auditorium was hushed by a pulsing bass note—a musical heartbeat.

  And then Alex was singing—the lyrics heartfelt, honest, and somehow achingly familiar.

  Alex was singing her story. The story of a lone building standing tall in a world of ruins. Everything crushed. Everything scattered. Everything lost. But still it stood. Brave and bold. Against what was and what would come.

  The smoky rasp of her voice hypnotized every person in the room.

  Weston leaned over my shoulder. “Uh . . . I think I should quit my day job and become her manager.”

  I flashed him a grin. He was right; Alex deserved every chance this world had to offer.

  He lowered Savannah to her feet and she took my hand, mesmerized by the performance on stage. I closed my eyes to listen to the last few notes.

  Perfection.

  The final chords of the piano faded out and were replaced by an awed, stunned silence.

  Like the slow leak of an inflated balloon, I exhaled.

  Georgia got to her feet.

  One by one, every student who’d stayed to hear the audition began clapping and cheering—all for this girl who had been given so little praise in her young life.

  The second she was off the stage, I rushed her and threw my arms around
her neck. She hugged me back, adrenaline humming off her skin.

  “You were amazing, Alex.”

  I expected sarcasm and sass to follow my compliment, but instead her grip on me tightened. “Thank you. For believing I could do this.”

  My heart squeezed. “You’re easy to believe in.”

  I may not have been expecting this girl with the hypercolor hair and the razor-sharp wit, but whether she liked it or not, I wasn’t going to give her up. In such a short period of time, Alex had enriched my life, expanded my world, and challenged my perspective.

  Just like someone else I’d known. Only I didn’t get to hold on to him.

  I pulled back and scanned her face. “You want a cupcake?”

  She huffed. “I’m not five, Willa.” Ah. There was the girl I knew.

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Yet I know you’re not about to turn me down.”

  “Nope.” She reached for Savannah’s hand and then froze.

  Sydney stood at the back of the theater, propped against the wall. Her thin lips were pursed but her eyes shined with the same emotion I’d heard in Alex’s voice.

  “Syd?”

  The woman didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. She just took a step and Alex broke into a quick stride.

  Hugging my chest, I watched these polar opposites embrace. My own eyes teared as Weston slung his arm over my shoulder.

  He pulled me to his side and nodded toward them. “Maybe I should start calling you a miracle worker.”

  I shook my head as the half sisters actually communicated without their normal sarcasm and explosive arguments.

  “I’m just grateful I’ve been able to be a good friend.”

  I swallowed back the tightness in my throat and tried not to think of Patrick’s face. But the truth was impossible to ignore, no matter how much I wanted to. Patrick had been one of the best friends I’d ever had. And I missed him. Terribly.

  “You’re welcome to join us at the Frosting Palace, Sydney,” I said as we approached the sweet reunion.

  Sydney lifted her chin. “I think I can do that.”

  “You coming?” I asked Wes as Savannah pushed through the auditorium doors.

  He shook his head and pointed toward Georgia in a way that suggested his night was already booked. A dull ache spread through my abdomen.

  My suggestion for cupcakes hadn’t only been motivated by Alex’s killer vocals, but also by the growing void I hoped a strong dose of sugar might fill. At least for tonight.