by Irene Brand
“Not impossible, no. But love is as fickle as the weather. No, much worse.” Holly had come close to falling in love a couple of times. “Do you ever think about destiny?” She handed him a piece of taffy.
“Not much.” He took the candy but only toyed with it, twisting the wrapper until it tore.
“I mean, it’s all so scary if destiny is real.” Holly leaned down with her palms resting on her knees. “What if you pass someone on the sidewalk and that person is the one, but you just don’t know it? What if you don’t follow the trail of crumbs to your own destiny? Will that person come back and give you one more chance, or will you lose your one chance forever? Or if you lost your one chance, maybe it wasn’t meant to be after all. But what you end up with, no matter how terrible, is really your real destiny.” She looked back at him. “What do you think?”
Owen blinked. “I have no idea what you just said.”
Holly rolled her eyes at him, snatched the candy out of his hand, and crammed it into her mouth.
“You sure you don’t have dating confused with Russian roulette?”
Holly grinned and then pressed the tips of her fingers on her temples.
“Getting a headache?”
“Maybe.” She chomped on the large wad of taffy in her mouth like a cow chewing cud. The peppermint candy made her jaws ache and her head pound even more, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“Here, turn around.”
Holly did as he said, and Owen kneaded her shoulders.
“All right. That does feel better.” She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So, this decision you’ve made about getting married. I guess you’ve officially added this to your life list then?”
“You could say that. Right alongside setting a world record in a fruitcake-eating contest.”
Holly leaned back on Owen, chuckling.
“Hold still now.”
She straightened.
“What about you?” Owen massaged her neck and back. “I know you always talked about getting married.”
“I’m not sure what went wrong over the years. It just never happened. I never fell in love. Not really.” She swallowed a wad of candy and then packed another piece in her mouth. Perhaps the shop had consumed all her younger years, but it felt wrong to say those words out loud.
Owen stopped his massage and just held her by the shoulders. “We sound like a sad pair, you and I.”
“We do.” She relaxed and leaned into his touch.
“Holl, is there something else wrong?”
“No, why?”
“Because you’re eating taffy like you actually like the stuff.”
Holly closed the shop at five o’clock, which was a treat, since soon they would need to stay open later for the Christmas season. She sank onto the office chair and let her arms go limp. Her father had left early, and Owen had gone home only after she’d assured him there was nothing left to do. Holly filed a pile of paperwork, and then she checked out Van Keaton online to see if he was indeed who he said he was. The man had nine novels to his credit. Not bad.
Within moments, though, the rocking of the chair lulled her into a dreamy land of gnomes, and her eyelids weighed as heavily as her father’s pumpkin pie.
Some minutes later she heard herself murmur the word “mother.” The dark stage of her nightmare opened its curtain to her conscious mind, and she awakened with a start. Her dreams were almost always the same—she was a child again, peering through a keyhole, forever searching for her mother in a room full of strangers. She would catch a glimpse of her hair, her arm, and a trace of her perfume, but just before she saw her mother’s face, she would awaken.
Here she was, thirty, and still unable to shake off the nightmares. Some part of her was still waiting for her mom—and probably always would be. Where did she go, and why didn’t she come back? Holly had always envisioned her mother rushing up to the front step of the shop, out of breath and desperate to find her daughter. God, I’m still waiting and wondering. Holly looked upward. Are You listening, God? If You are, now is a good time for a sign. You know, to let me know You’ve got it under control.
She slipped on her comfy headband, the one with the fuzzy reindeer antlers attached to it, and stared at her computer screen.
A new e-mail popped onto her screen. Not from anyone she knew, though. When she clicked on the message it mentioned The St. Yves Show. Holly had heard of it, since it was a popular local talk show, but why were they e-mailing her? Surely that wasn’t a sign from God. Then she remembered the award. Hmm. She scanned through the rest of the e-mail, hoping it wasn’t a request for an interview.
It was.
People from the network had heard about the award, and they wanted her on the show within a matter of weeks. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.
Visions of her utter failure in high school speech class came back in vivid detail—the time she tried giving a talk on the history of her grandmother’s mistletoe ball and passed out in front of the whole class. She’d hit her head hard enough that her teacher had to take her to the emergency room. Her classmates had tormented her about the incident until she graduated, and the memory lingered in her psyche as potently as a steaming cow patty.
I’ll just decline the interview. There, she’d made the decision. Ahh, life was easy again. Well, easier.
Just as she’d finished typing out a gracious and articulate reply, she remembered her father’s upcoming retirement. Any free advertisement would mean more sales, and that would translate into extra money for him to live on. Holly sighed. She couldn’t possibly say no. Her father would call the invitation a divine overture.
Holly deleted her response and began another one, this time stating how pleased she was to accept the interview on The St. Yves. Show. She hit the SEND button before she could change her mind. Angry rumblings rose in her gut. So not good. She got up from her chair, turned off the “Silent Night” CD, snapped off the lights, and trudged out the front door.
The artificial Christmas tree on the outside step had toppled over again. Even the smallest puff of wind easily knocked the thing over. Just like me. She shoved the tree into the entryway and locked the front door. Why was she Miss Clever when it came to helping other people, but such a wuss with her own problems? And then it hit her. There would never be a good time to talk about her mother, to work things through. It was just easier to press out the crinkles in other people’s lives than to deal with her own. How cliché.
Her subconscious had tried to take care of the problem for her, tried to force the issue. But the nightmares about her mother had only increased over the years, and if she didn’t deal with her past, perhaps her troubles would visit her in a more potent way. Who knew what form it might take next. Addictions? Obsessions? Paranoia? After all, when someone squeezes a balloon on one end, it only bulges out somewhere else.
Holly felt a buzz in her purse. Knowing it was probably a text from her father, she glanced at her phone. It was Owen texting her, and for some reason he wanted to meet her at the pizza shop. Hmm. She buttoned up her cape, tightened her wool scarf, and strode up the sidewalk with the pesky feeling she’d forgotten to do something back at the shop.
The sky was looking more Gothic by the minute, but Holly didn’t mind, since it meant Christmas was coming—only three months away! Just the thought of it was enough to lighten her mood. It was the time of the year to reflect on holy things, decorate the church, dress up the store, buy loads of poinsettia plants, and sing about geese getting too fat for their feathers. Holly let out a snort—a habit only Owen thought was endearing. Guess she’d better not release a chortle like that on live TV.
Anita Plumtree waved from across the street. She was always so friendly, but why was she pointing at her head? Holly remembered the reindeer headband and yanked it off. “Thanks, Anita!”
“I need one more postal volunteer to help stamp the ‘Christmas City’ postmark on all the Christmas cards coming through,” Anita called out. “Can you
help out this year?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’d love to, but we’re always so busy during this season—”
“Honey, we’re expecting over forty thousand cards and letters this year. Hope I can count on you in November.”
Holly always found it impossible to say no to the woman. “All right, all right, count me in.” She waved back at Anita and then opened the door to the pizza parlor. The scent of rising dough and simmering toppings filled her nostrils. Mmm. A hug for the senses. Such pleasant memories in this cozy place. She had just raised her hand to wave to Owen, who was sitting in their usual booth, when she noticed he wasn’t alone.
Uh-oh.
Van Keaton, the novelist, sat across from him. So, Quig and Keaton had set up an ambush.
Chapter Four
Owen shot Holly the peace sign as he tried to read her expression. She didn’t look pleased to see Van. And she’s not too pleased to see me either. He reached for another napkin since he’d already torn the first one into bits.
Holly ordered a hot chocolate—a double—and strode over to the table. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Van brightened. “Really? You’ve changed your mind about the interview?”
“No.” She leaned on the table. “That I won’t give Owen a good thrashing for inviting you here.”
Owen’s chuckle came out more jittery than he’d intended.
Van joined in the laughter, but he had a microcosm of terror in his eyes.
Owen pulled out a chair for his dearest friend. “Sit…please.”
Holly slapped her antlers on the table and sat down.
With a bit of flair Owen pushed a fresh-out-of-the-oven, deep dish, everything-on-it pizza in front of her. It was what she always ordered.
Holly’s eyes narrowed into a half-lidded glint as she looked back and forth at them both. “So, is this a bribe?”
Van winced. “Is it working?”
“We’ll see. I think I deserve to hear your most convincing spiel.” She reached for a large, gooey slice of pizza, slid it onto a plate, and dug in.
Owen thought Holly enjoyed their squirming a bit too much. “It’s pretty simple, I think,” he said before Van had a chance to reply. “As I said earlier, it really might be a healthy thing for you to talk about your mother and what happened. And this might be a good way for you to let it out. And it might help other people who’ve experienced…something similar.”
Genie, the waitress, came over with a huge mug of hot chocolate.
“Thanks, Genie. Put it on their tab.” Holly grinned.
“Be happy to.” Genie picked up the ticket and sashayed away.
Holly dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I realize it was only a matter of time before someone brought this up.”
“I wanted to say—” Van folded and unfolded his hands. “I wanted to say how sorry I am for the way I approached you earlier. Totally botched it.”
“Yes, you did botch it.” She stared into her cup. “Apology accepted.” Holly took a sip of her beverage. “When I was a kid, I would sometimes ask questions about my mother, but every time I did, I could see the pain in my father’s eyes. He knew nothing about her really, so it was an impossible situation. So I let it go. Now he’s older, and I’m afraid that if I wallow in the topic too much, or if I try to search for my mother, it might be too much for his heart.”
Owen touched her hand. “But not talking about the past—not facing the anger and confusion you must feel over what your mother did—may cause you health problems someday. And I know your father wouldn’t want that.”
Holly cringed. “Who said anything about anger?”
Owen looked down at her fingers as she squashed her pizza into a wad.
She stared at her hands. “Okay, maybe I’m a little angry.” She sighed. “I might consider this proposition—if my father approved.”
“He does approve,” Van said.
“Oh yeah? How could you possibly know that?”
Van winced. “Because I saw your father on Main Street earlier and asked him.”
She dropped her pizza onto the plate. “What—what would make you do such a thing?”
“Stupidity.” Van smiled.
“I have to agree with you there.” Holly pursed her lips. “What did my father say…exactly?”
Van took a deep breath. “He said he’d always wanted you to settle things in your mind about your mother, and so this book might be a godsend for you.”
“A godsend. My father said that?” Holly ran her finger along the edge of the table.
Van nodded. “Your father said he’d wanted to talk to you about the subject, but it always seemed to upset you.”
“Upset me? I can hardly believe it.” Holly sank back in her chair. “And here I never broached the topic because I feared it would worsen his health.” She mumbled as if speaking to no one. “What a terrible miscommunication we’ve had all these years.”
Owen had guessed at Holly’s reasons for not talking about her abandonment, but he’d never imagined that Mr. Goodnight had buried the past for the same reasons—only in reverse. What an unfortunate misunderstanding. He reached out to Holly and squeezed her hand. He could barely stand to see her shoulders sag from the weight of the news. He would have taken her into his arms to comfort her if Van weren’t inches away.
“I guess sometimes it takes a stranger to shake things up,” Holly said to Van, “to make us see what has become totally obscured.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “Before I give you my answer about the book, I have some questions for you.”
“Anything at all.”
“Why would an author of your caliber need my story?” Holly picked up another large piece of pizza. “I looked you up online, and you have lots of books out. None of those novels were true stories—were they?”
“Not one of them.” Van organized the condiments like he was lining up an army of defenses.
Holly placed her hands over his, which stopped his fidgeting. “You obviously know how to tell a good story without me. Why take my personal tale of woe when your head is full of them?”
Van pulled free from her grasp. “Good question. I guess it’s because I want to do things differently now. People like stories that are based on something true. It makes them invest their hearts more…deeply.”
Owen wasn’t buying his answer.
Holly seemed to study Van. “This is just a feeling, but I think you’re holding something back.”
That a girl, Holl.
“Okay, you’re not going to let me get by with anything. That’s a good start.” Van grinned. “You see, I have my own tale of woe.” He downed the last of his water.
Van was stalling for some reason. Owen cleared his throat.
“Okay.” Van looked at them both. “You saw my Web site, but what you didn’t see were my book sales. They have been declining significantly—with my last two books especially. My publicist is concerned. Jerry, my agent, is concerned. I’m concerned. My publisher has been gracious, but even I wouldn’t trust me again. So, you’re my only hope, Holly.” He put his hands up. “No pressure, of course.”
“Your whole failing career is in my hands, and there’s no pressure?” Holly chewed on her lip.
“Let me word it more tastefully,” Van said. “I think one of my problems is that lately I’ve had no passion for my stories, my characters. And readers are intuitive. They can sense these things. So when I heard about your story I thought this could be…well, destiny.”
Holly’s face was suddenly awash with solemnity as she pressed her hand over her mouth.
Bingo. Van hit the jackpot with his word choice. Owen wasn’t quite sure why women got so enamored with the word destiny. It was definitely overrated.
Holly took hold of Van’s sleeves so he couldn’t move his arms. “If we do this, I can’t promise you my story will sell more books for you.”
Van straightened. “And I can’t promise that talking through your past will help you move on.”
“Okay, fair enough.” Holly released him. “But one more thing… I don’t really think my life has enough story. I mean, I was left there on the doorstep of the Christmas shop, and we have no more information than that.”
“When a book is based on a true story, writers are usually given some leeway. Poetic license.”
“In other words, you’re going to fill in the gaps of my life like smearing putty in a crack.”
“Yes—some putty will have to be added here and there.” Van poured some water onto a napkin and daubed at his mouth.
Owen hoped Holly would be fine with all the sudden attention. Opening up a delicate subject that had been closed for so long might be more painful for her than he’d first imagined. And he hadn’t given much thought to the actual interviews or the final manuscript. “What if Holly doesn’t like the putty you use?”
Holly took a deep breath. “Good question, Quig.”
“All right,” Van said. “I won’t be writing anything that would be contrary to your beliefs–nothing that would tarnish the integrity of your life.”
“Okay, good reply. But there’s no grand finale to my story. No happy ending. Will you need to manufacture that too?” Holly asked.
“I don’t think so,” Van replied. “You seem like a well-adjusted woman who is loved by her adoptive father and who helps run a Christmas shop that has just won a national award for excellence. I think there’s a happy ending already there. Don’t you?”
“I do.” Holly smiled.
“Good.” Van picked up his water glass, circled it away from his pizza around the outside of the table, and then lifted it to his mouth.
Holly chuckled. “That’s an odd way to drink water. Sort of the long way around.”
Van laughed. “Well, I’m kind of a germ freak. I didn’t want to drip any condensation from the bottom of my water glass onto my pizza.”
Owen stared at Van. Excuse me? “Yeah, but your water glass is clean.”
“True.” Van pointed to the bottom of his glass. “But the underside of my water glass has been sitting on this table, which might or might not be clean.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know, direct contact.”