Christmas in Echo Creek_A Sweet Holiday Romance

by Kacey Linden

  “Have you told her?” she burst out, her hands buried inside the sleeves of her oversized sweater.

  “Told who what?” he asked, shoving his own hands into his pockets to keep them warm.

  “Mrs. Dillon. About…” She glanced up, appearing embarrassed, and then back down. “Us,” she almost whispered.

  “No, I thought you would,” he said cautiously. “Is something wrong? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Willow assured him, “but I thought maybe we wouldn’t have to say anything. Yet. I wouldn’t want her to be disappointed if…”

  “You mean you don’t want her to be upset when you find out I’m really a monster in human form and decide to break up with me the day before Christmas?”

  “What? No!” Willow hugged herself and curled her toes in her fuzzy socks.

  “Why are you out on this freezing-cold porch without shoes on?” Cale teased. “Or at least a hat.”

  “I don’t have a hat,” she reminded him impatiently, “and I wanted to catch you before you go in to make sure you won’t say anything. I just feel like we ought to wait. She’s so happy and I don’t want to do anything that might change that.”

  “You don’t think she’d be happy to find out that we’re—”

  “No, I know she would be,” Willow interrupted, almost as if she was terrified of whatever word he’d been about to say. “But what if it doesn’t work? I know you think I’m ridiculous, but I’m so afraid you’re going to change your mind the minute you get to know me. I can’t stand the idea of hurting her, so I’d rather we just…”

  “Willow.” Cale moved a step closer and brushed her hair behind her ear. “I’m not going to change my mind. And if I do, it would be because this thing between us isn’t working, not because I don’t like you. You’re beautiful, tenacious, brave and funny, and I can’t imagine anyone not liking you. Except maybe Alicia.”

  Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t seem to come up with any words.

  “Also,” he went on, “small town, remember? Do you really think there’s any chance Marcia hasn’t heard from Rory by now?”

  “No, there isn’t,” Mrs. Dillon said, poking her head through the barely open door. “She called me about five minutes after Cale left Creekside this morning. And now I’m going to hug you because I’m so happy I’m about to start crying.”

  She proceeded to do both, embracing each of them warmly and even bestowing a kiss on Cale’s cheek. “Let’s eat and then you can tell me everything.” She wiped her eyes on her sweater and vanished back inside the house, leaving Willow, her mouth still hanging open, standing on the porch staring after her.

  Cale chuckled. “Sorry?” he said with a grin. Willow looked rather lost, so he took a chance, wrapped an arm around her shoulders and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. “We’d better do as we’re told.”

  Cale couldn’t have said whether it was the atmosphere or the company, but that evening seemed to recapture some of the magic of Christmases past. Even Willow seemed to relax as the garlands were hung and myriad lights festooned whatever portions of the house had not yet been thoroughly bedecked. Soon they were all laughing at Mrs. Dillon’s stories and sipping tea while carols played in the background.

  After the garland was finished, Mrs. Dillon pointed Cale to a pile of empty boxes stacked next to rolls of wrapping paper.

  “I want some presents for the tree in the front sitting room,” she informed him. “Would you be a dear and wrap those up? A few in each pattern?”

  Cale eyed the stack doubtfully. He’d never been much of a gift-wrapping genius, but he was willing to try. He glanced over at Willow, who had just been handed a box filled with rolls of wired ribbon.

  “We need bows, too,” Mrs. Dillon said. “There’s craft wire and cutters in the box.” She walked into the kitchen, leaving the two of them to stare at their tasks with distaste.

  “I don’t know how to make bows,” Willow groaned.

  “I think you just make loops out of the ribbon and tie wire around the ends,” Cale offered. “I’ve seen my mom do it and it doesn’t look that hard.”

  Willow eyed him suspiciously. “Is your mom one of those energetic people who makes all her own everything and creates her own DIY videos for Pinterest?”

  “Maybe?” Cale grinned sheepishly. That actually described his mom perfectly.

  He turned to his own task and began to measure and cut and tape. When it came to attaching the paper to the box, he never could quite remember which parts to fold first. Was it the sides?

  After placing the last piece of tape, he held up the box for Willow’s inspection. “Does this look right?”

  She took one look and burst out laughing.

  “What? All the corners are taped down, and the box is covered.”

  She was still laughing. She laughed so hard that Marcia came in from the kitchen to see what was going on.

  He held up the box again.

  Mrs. Dillon’s mouth opened. “Oh, Cale dear, no.” She took the box out of his hands. “Maybe you should help Willow with the bows.”

  They both turned to Willow, who presented a misshapen lump of ribbon with what looked like ears and a single long tail. “I don’t think this is what bows are meant to look like,” she pronounced emphatically, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “We may need some Christmas craft lessons.”

  “I have a better idea,” Mrs. Dillon said, after recovering from her apparent horror at Willow’s efforts. “The two of you go fetch the scones from the kitchen and make them disappear while I do boxes and bows.”

  Willow dissolved into laughter again as she tossed her knotted mess of ribbon at Cale’s head. “I think this makes a better missile than decoration,” she said, as he caught it and threw it back.

  After three or four more volleys, Cale ducked into the kitchen, grabbed the promised plate of scones and carried them back into the living room. Willow collapsed on the couch, and he dropped down next to her, leaving as little space between them as he thought he dared.

  “Scone?” he offered, holding one up to her lips with a grin.

  She turned pink and snatched it out of his hand, but when she leaned back and took a bite, she didn’t move away. Her shoulder was warm against his as they watched Mrs. Dillon wrap boxes with a professional flair and devoured their scones down to the last crumb.

  “How about you two hang stockings,” Mrs. Dillon suggested, after she put the finishing touches on her fourth box. “No talent for crafts required. I think most of them are in the box by the mantle, but there are a few more in the gray bin over there by the recliner.”

  Cale sighed and extricated himself from the depths of the couch, offering his hand to Willow to help her up. She didn’t even hesitate before she took it, and Cale wished he didn’t have to let go after she was on her feet. He liked the feeling of her small, strong fingers in his. Liked that she trusted him enough to take his hand.

  She crossed the room to the bin, so Cale opened the box nearest the fireplace and rummaged through it. Somehow, Marcia had collected an entire army’s worth of stockings over the years.

  “I like these.” Cale pulled out a pair of dark green velvet ones, with gold braid at the top.

  Mrs. Dillon turned to look. “But those don’t match,” she insisted. “The theme is rustic, so we can’t have gold.”

  Cale held up a fuzzy red and white one instead.

  “The red and white is more traditional,” Marcia noted. “What do you think, Willow? Would you prefer that? Or I think there’s a dark red pair with pine cones somewhere.”

  “Let’s do something else.” Willow waved away the red and white one. “That’s just like the stockings my dad threw into the fire when I was six.” She dug back into the gray bin, oblivious to the reaction of her audience.

  “Into the… fire?” Marcia asked, sounding dismayed. “Was it an accident?”

  “No,” Willow said matter-of-factly. “He was mad because Mom spent his booze money
on presents and firewood, so he decided no one was going to get anything.”

  Cale realized a little too late that he’d crushed the stocking in his hands into a shapeless ball of red and white. His hands trembled around it, but he couldn’t let Willow see his anger—not when she finally felt safe enough to share a detail about her past. He didn’t want to scare her into retreating again.

  But the thought of someone burning his own child’s Christmas presents out of spite… Cale wanted to snatch Willow up and hold her and promise that she would never again experience the despair of having no one to love her or look out for her. But he didn’t think she was ready for that, so he held back and watched as she went on humming under her breath.

  Mrs. Dillon, unlike Cale, wasn’t interested in holding back. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” she declared firmly. “Willow, dear, it’s pretty clear to me that your father was not what a father should be. But did he ever… hurt you? Is he the one who hit you before you came to Echo Creek?”

  Willow’s head jerked up and she turned around, her eyes as wide and startled as a deer’s. “No,” she said. “No, he never hit me. He ignored me, spent all of our money, and left my brother and I to fend for ourselves, but he didn’t hit me. He might have hit Elliot, but we never talked about it.”

  “It was Elliot, then, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Dillon asked calmly. “Your brother left those bruises on your face.”

  Willow looked over at Cale, her brow furrowed with indecision. Her face was shadowed by dark memories, and for a moment, he thought she would brush aside the question. Instead, she let out a long breath.

  “Yes,” she said, her shoulders bowing over the box in front of her. “It was Elliot.”

  Chapter 10

  She’d done it. She’d told them and now there was no taking it back.

  “I’d been living with him for a while because I thought I could save more money, but it definitely wasn’t worth it.” If only she’d realized sooner just how terrible that idea was. “So I left, and I’m not going back.”

  She glanced up, and the intensity in Cale’s eyes scorched her to the bone.

  “That’s not all of it,” he said quietly. “Is it? This isn’t just about not going back. You think he might follow you. Why?”

  Did she dare tell him the rest? Was there anything that might lead him to discover the truth about the car?

  If she didn’t tell him, he might go looking for answers on his own, and that would be worse.

  “He needs money,” she said, wrapping her hands around the edge of the bin and staring into its depths. “He’d been stealing my paychecks for the last few months to pay for his drugs. I finally got a new account and refused to let him have access, and he got so angry…” She shut her eyes. “I’m pretty sure he owes his dealer.”

  Her hands began to shake, recalling that last terrible encounter. “After he knocked me around, Elliot told me I’d better change my mind and give him the money. That he owed someone who didn’t like to wait, and if he couldn’t pay with money, maybe the guy would take something in trade. And then he just looked at me…”

  The terror of that moment swamped her and she buried her hands under her arms while her pulse hammered in her ears and her throat grew tight. “I knew I had to get out and get as far away as I could…”

  She didn’t see him coming. Hands rested gently on her shoulders and turned her around. She had only an instant to see that it was Cale before he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly into his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head while he pressed his cheek against her hair.

  “No,” he said, and he held her so close she could feel his heart pounding, like he’d run a mile to get to her instead of simply crossing the room. “You don’t have to talk about it. That’s never going to happen. Never again.”

  The words drifted over her, but Willow barely heard them. Her own heart was pounding in rhythm with Cale’s, an echo of all-too-recent pain and fear. But gradually, as she leaned against him and let his warmth and strength sink into her, she was able to remind herself that she wasn’t alone anymore. She was safe, and she didn’t need to be afraid.

  Her mind retreated from the ugly memories, but as it did so, her pulse began to rise for other reasons. It was a heady feeling, being in Cale’s arms, held close to his chest while he stroked her hair, sending a ripple of sensation through her body with each gentle touch.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled back, but Cale only let her go so he could cup her jaw in his palm and stroke her cheek with his thumb. His eyes were so dark and intense, Willow could gladly have fallen into them and stayed there. “I’m glad you told me,” he said. “Willow, I promise I won’t let him hurt you again.”

  She closed her eyes and felt the tears well up until they spilled over. Was this what home was supposed to feel like? A place of safety and acceptance, filled with people who cared?

  A sniffle sounded from behind her and Willow turned to see Mrs. Dillon, arms outstretched, tears running down her own face. “Come here, my dear.”

  Willow turned from Cale’s embrace and was snatched up into another.

  “You’re safe now, do you hear me?” the older woman said fiercely. “You are safe and you are loved. I don’t care what anyone says—this is your home now and we will fight to keep you.”

  “You barely know me,” Willow choked out, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Mrs. Dillon’s eyes blazed and her cheeks were flushed with emotion. “We choose you, and that’s that.”

  “I wish it was that easy,” Willow murmured softly, thinking no one could hear her, but when she looked back at Cale, his expression told her that he had.

  It seemed she had a choice to make. Would she let herself love and be loved, as Rory said? Or was she too afraid of happiness, convinced it would never last?

  Whenever she looked around her, it was almost impossible to hang on to her pessimism. Christmas was everywhere. She had Marcia, and Rory and Cale. A job she loved and all the scones she could eat. Even if happiness didn’t last, she wanted to take Rory’s advice. Wanted to give love a chance. It might be the only opportunity she would ever have to find out what it felt like, and she would be a fool to throw it away.

  The following week passed in a blur of happiness. Cale would stop by the coffee shop each day while Willow was working and sit with her on her break, and on his days off he spent the evenings with her and Mrs. Dillon. On the one day they were both free, he picked her up and took her back to his house, where they cooked together, played with the dogs and stayed up until after midnight swapping stories about their families. Willow began to feel herself open up to the idea of having someone in her life that she could trust, even with the murkier parts of her past.

  Cale proved to be a patient listener, so she told him some of what it had been like growing up without a reliable parent or a stable home. Some of the stories she hadn’t remembered in years, or even thought of as strange. They were simply her life. But Cale’s reaction told a different tale. He would get a desperate look in his eyes and move closer until they were touching in some way, as though he could somehow banish the darkness with his warmth.

  It was Friday, late, as she was getting off work that this reaction began to trouble her. When Cale parked his truck and walked up to meet her where she waited on the sidewalk, she gripped his coat sleeves and held him back from hugging her.

  “Cale, have I told you even one thing about myself that’s happy?”

  He tilted his head and crossed his arms so he could put his hands over hers.

  “You really need gloves,” he said. “Your hands are like ice.”

  “I’m serious, Cale. Tell me.”

  “No,” he answered, and she could hear the honest regret in his voice. “You’ve had a rough go of it. I hope you know that I admire you like crazy for your determination to make something better with your life.”

  “But…” Her frustration s
uddenly choked her—she wanted to scream, or cry, or beat on something with her fists until it shattered. “Shouldn’t I have at least one happy memory? Shouldn’t there be even a tiny part of my life that isn’t ugly and broken and shameful?”

  “Willow.” Cale’s lips twisted and he lifted his hands to her face. “There’s nothing ugly or broken or shameful about you,” he said firmly. “You can’t change the people who raised you, or what they’ve done to you, though I would crawl to the ends of the earth and back again if it meant I could give you those happier memories. But you are not your parents. You are not defined by your family or by their tragedies. You get to choose for yourself.”

  “But how do I even know what to choose?” she demanded. “Everyone I know has made a mess of their life. My mom may have gotten away from my dad’s abuse, but she chose just as badly the second time. Her second husband controls her every moment of every day. Cale, how do I even know when I’m about to make a huge mistake?”

  It wasn’t the question she really wanted to ask—the question that mattered most, and the question she didn’t dare voice to Cale.

  What if she could stay? What if she didn’t have to keep running? Cale and Marcia already knew about Elliot and the drugs. Already knew what she’d run from. Maybe Elliot would never report her. Maybe he would be too busy paying off his dealer to bother trying to find her.

  But what if he had already gone to his crooked cop friend, the one who kept his record clear and had always gotten his drug charges dismissed? Elliot had always kept her in line with the threat that his own crimes could be pinned on her if she crossed him. If he’d reported her theft, her idyllic life here was no better than a ticking bomb.

  They were the same arguments that had been circling in her head since the day she left Seattle, and she was no closer to an answer.

  Cale tugged at one of her hands, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Come on,” he said, backing towards his truck. “At least get in the truck before your fingers and your nose fall off, and then we can talk some more.”