by Irene Brand
Holly’s face reddened to match her suit. She could either get up and leave or tell the truth. “Yes, what you’ve said is true. My mother did leave me on the doorstep of Mr. Goodnight’s shop on Christmas Eve.”
Savanna tapped her fingers together. “And you’ve never seen your mother since?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What do you mean, Holly?”
“I supposed my mother could have come through town to check on me. But if she did try to seek me out while I was growing up, I never knew about it.”
Savanna leaned toward her. “And how does that make you feel?”
Was she on TV or a psychiatrist’s couch? “Do you have a mother, Ms. Cummings?”
Savanna raised a manicured brow. “Yes. Everyone does.”
“Well, how would you feel if your mother abandoned you?” Holly took a sip of her water while Savanna mulled over the question.
“I’d feel anger and fear, I suppose.”
“Yes, anybody would. But the real story here is the divine intervention that took place that night. My father—Mr. Goodnight—was working late at the shop, and as he was locking up he found me in a little basket. He’d never married, but he’d always dreamed of having a family. He considered my appearance on the doorstep a miracle. A Christmas gift. He adopted me, and he’s been the best father any girl could have. So on that Christmas Eve I may have been abandoned, but I was also greatly blessed.”
Tears welled up in Savanna’s eyes. “I love a story with a happy ending. But what about your mother? Would you still like to meet her?”
Holly panicked. Was it a trick? Had they gotten her on the show to spring her long-lost mother on her? Equal amounts of excitement and terror coursed through her. “Yes, I would.”
Savanna turned to the camera. “If you are Holly Goodnight’s mother, she has a message for you. Your daughter has grown up, forgiven you, and she’d love to meet you. There’ll be no problem finding Holly since she’s still working at the same shop where you left her thirty years ago.”
After the absolute worst seven minutes of Holly’s life, she drove home to Noel. Then she drove straight to her father’s house, cut the engine, and glanced up at the old stone frontage with the green shutters—a place she still loved to call home.
Her father opened the door and waited for her on the porch.
She ran up the sidewalk and fell into her father’s arms.
“You did great, Cricket. A real pro. Owen thought so too.”
“Thanks.” She rested her head on his shoulder, and then they settled in the living room on her favorite overstuffed couch. She wondered who was watching the shop. Must be Owen—dear, sweet Owen.
Her father’s pet parakeets, Nicholas and Kringle, argued like an old married couple in the next room, and the scent drifting from the kitchen meant cookies had just come out of the oven. Home.
Holly wasn’t sure where to begin. “About the woman who interviewed me—”
“Savanna Cummings?”
“Yeah.”
“Boy, that woman. Don’t get me started. You were being vulnerable, and she brought out a stick to beat you with it. And that novelist, Keaton. He should have gotten your permission to blog about your life. He should have honored the fact that you needed to take things slowly, that maybe you weren’t ready for the world to know everything all at once—on live television, no less.”
Holly picked at one of the throw pillows on the couch. “I thought maybe they’d found my mother, and they were going to bring her out in the studio right then. When I realized it was just a request, I felt let down.” Holly looked at him. “I’m sorry, Dad.” She tossed the pillow on the floor.
“Every girl longs to have a mother. It’s only natural. I told that Keaton fellow I wanted you to talk about the past. Get it out. Always wanted you to do that. But I never wanted to stir the pot if you didn’t want it stirred. We should have talked more, though. I regret it now.”
Holly took hold of her father’s hand. His skin felt cooler than usual, and the veins were more prominent than they used to be. It bothered her to see it. She hated to see her father age. “I was always afraid that if I talked about my mother or tried to look for her, it might be too upsetting for you.”
“I won’t lie, Holly, and say it would have been a piece of cake if you’d taken a sudden interest in finding your mother. I mean, you might have reconciled with her and left Noel. Left me. You might have grown to love her more than—well, these things had entered my mind. And yet I always knew it was selfish to think that way.”
Holly gave her father’s hand a squeeze. “I could never have cared for her more than I do you. Because of you, I never became an orphan. I wasn’t moved from one foster home to another. Instead, I had a home and love and meaning in my life. We have history, you and me. We’re family, and we have a bond that no one can break.”
Tears fell from her father’s eyes, staining his cheeks. “Thank you, Cricket. I wish my parents could have lived a bit longer, so they could have met you. I know they would have loved you as I do. Without grandparents, I’m afraid you’ve always been short on family. So if you ever want to search for your mother—or your father—you have my blessing.”
“Well, as they said on live TV, my mother knows exactly where I am. If it’s meant to be, she’ll come back. And you are my father. Nothing can ever change that.” She kissed his hand and then released him. “But I do wish I could have known my grandparents before they died.”
He swiped at the wetness on his cheek, paused for a moment, and then turned his kind gaze on her. “You know, Cricket, beyond all of this, you’ve seemed so unsettled lately. Is there anything else on your mind?”
“You know me so well.” Holly gazed at a photo of them canoeing the Elk River together. Her father kept it near him, where he read every evening. “On my drive home I realized what I needed to do. Savanna Cummings said I’d forgiven my mother, but it wasn’t true. So right now I make the choice to do that and say the words out loud. I forgive my mother.” Holly took in a deep breath and released it.
“You’ve done a good thing. One more peel off the onion.” Her father smiled and then said, “I’ve often wondered if the only reason you stayed at the shop and never moved away was because you were waiting for your mother to return.”
Holly fingered her earring. “Some part of me was waiting, hoping she’d come back. But I love Noel, and I love you. I don’t ever want to move from this place. It’s home. The old saying is true—that no one ever leaves Noel. At least it’s true for me.”
“That goes down real good—like a fine cup of cocoa.” Her father laughed, sounding like Santa Claus. “Speaking of which, how about some hot chocolate and a plate of sugar cookies?”
“How about you hold onto your health?” Holly teased.
He slapped her with a throw pillow. “I know you’re just trying to keep me alive, but I’d like to have some fun in my last years.”
“I know you won’t leave me like my mother did, but I don’t want you dying before your time. I can’t even stand to think about it.” Holly crossed her arms, trying to hold onto a frown.
“All right. All right.” Her father rose from the couch and picked up a cushion. “How about I whip us up some tofu pumpkin pie then?”
“Ew.” Holly picked up a throw pillow and pelted her father with it. “How about we have some cocoa and one whole wheat cookie?”
“Haven’t you heard the latest? Whole wheat is the leading cause of heart disease and strokes.” Laughing, her father hobbled along the back of the couch and launched a surprise attack on Holly with the cushion. After a rather spirited pillow fight, the two finally headed toward the kitchen, still chuckling. They finally decided on one cup of cocoa and two sugar cookies each.
Holly downed the last of her cup and wiped off her cocoa mustache. “So what do you think of Van Keaton now, Dad?”
“Well, for his behavior with that blog, I guess you can either shoot him—or marry
him.”
Van Keaton was sweating again. It was something he’d grown proficient at over the years as he tried to keep his career afloat. But this time his perspiration came from two new sources.
Van paced back and forth in his hotel room, fingering the stubble on his chin. First of all, he was in love. He’d spent enough time with Holly during his earlier visit to know how he felt. But he had no idea if his sentiments would be reciprocated. There was the rub. He’d even written out a proposal of marriage within the manuscript, hoping to surprise Holly. He picked up the pages that contained the proposal and rolled them up into a sweaty scroll. He didn’t just want to make readers weep, he wanted to make Holly say yes. But when would he give it to her? Would he hand her the pages and say nothing? He was totally without a plan. Not good. It made him sweat even more.
He put dilemma number one on hold while he pondered predicament number two. Fortunately he’d already apologized for blogging about Holly’s life. He could be so insensitive sometimes it scared him. But his exchange of e-mails a few minutes after her TV interview would make that blogging blunder look like a pencil scribble on a building marked for demolition. Holly might feed him to the sharks when she found out what he’d done to facilitate the delivery of even worse news.
Van made a quick mental note not to use mixed metaphors in his writing. Then he walked into the bathroom and began to shave the bristles off his face. Since he was used to being the mastermind behind his characters’ lives, constantly raining down discord on their heads, he knew well it could happen in real life. Fiction reflected reality, after all, so no matter how precise or distorted a work of art, it usually rose from something within the human experience. He believed that. But the news Holly was about to receive went far beyond art.
Any minute now a stranger would walk into The Little Bethlehem Shoppe and tell Holly about her mother. It would be gritty, and it had the potential to alter the course of Holly’s life.
He rested his hands on the edge of the sink and released a groan. Then he pulled out a bottle of disinfectant spray from his travel case and gave the bathroom a spritz.
He went through all of his grooming rituals, repeating some of them twice, because his obsessive-compulsive tendencies worsened with stress. Then he pulled on his author’s uniform—slacks, crisp white shirt, knit tie, tweed jacket, and loafers. Van stared at himself in the mirror. Why hadn’t he ever noticed he looked like a clown? No, a better description would be that he looked like a con artist—a man hiding behind a costume. He yanked off his clothes and dressed in jeans, a North Face coat, and Nikes. Better.
Van let the hotel door slam shut and then wiggled the handle three times to make certain he’d locked it. Lovely. I’m a mess. He strode down the hallway, wrestling with more questions. How would Holly feel when she found out his role in bringing news about her mother? She might love him for it, which is what he prayed for. On the other hand, she might hate him for participating in the dispensation of such bad tidings. It might even jeopardize the project.
From a purely professional standpoint, this sudden turn of events came at the perfect time. Just when he thought he might need to supplement Holly’s story with imaginary events, a fresh plot twist had arrived. The newest development would give him a lot more literary clay to mold. Pretty selfish, Keaton.
Van slid into his pre-owned Lexus, unscrewed the lid from a bottle of Evian, and took a sip. Then he backed out of the hotel parking lot, maneuvered his way onto Highway 71, and sped toward Noel. Amidst his anxiousness about the marriage proposal, he felt even more anxiety over what would happen when a woman named Beatrice Monroe showed up with the tragic news that Holly’s mother was dead.
Chapter Nine
The bell over the front door jingled. Like curious little elves, all the customers looked up. Holly did too.
Van Keaton strolled through the door of The Little Bethlehem Shoppe.
“Hi, there,” Holly called out to him. “Welcome back to Noel.”
Van waved.
She didn’t take her eyes off him as he walked toward her.
The customer at the counter gaped at Holly. “The bow goes on my gift box, not your hand.” The woman noticed Van and then turned back around with a knowing look. “Oh, I see.”
“Sorry.” Holly taped the bow on the box and handed it to the woman. “Here you go. I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving. Oh, and merry Christmas too.”
“Thank you.” The woman grinned at them both and left the shop.
Holly offered Van her hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Now, now, we know each other much better than that.” Van went behind the counter and pulled her into a hug.
It was true. They were indeed beyond handshake status. During Van’s first visit to Noel, their interviews had very quickly turned into dates. After his return to Houston, they’d shared phone calls and e-mails daily. Their budding relationship was a surprise to her, but she received it with delight.
He rocked her gently in his arms. “You’re irresistibly soft—like the gossamer caress of a butterfly’s wing or the murmur of celestial beings.”
“It’s just the velvet apron, Van.”
“No, it’s your velvet nature.”
Holly grinned at his hyperbole and yet melted a little too. This time he smelled of woods. Vast improvement over the antiseptic.
She was so grateful they’d hammered out the issue of his blog-tattling spree. All had been made right with an eloquent speech and a fervent apology. She grinned, thinking Van really could finesse the honey right out of a bear’s mouth. “How’s the writing going?” She eased out of his embrace, suddenly concerned that a customer might pop in and see them.
“I have almost half of a rough draft.” Van glanced at his watch, and then his gaze darted around the shop.
Was he looking for someone? “You really are a prolific writer.”
He focused on her again. “I can be productive when I’m inspired.”
Holly felt a familiar flush creeping up to her face and began organizing all the froufrou Christmas wrappings on the counter. She certainly couldn’t deny her feelings for Van, but she didn’t want to get too moony. “Did you have a pleasant drive from Houston?” She noticed a sack of her father’s buttermilk donuts on the counter and hid them in a drawer under a pile of papers.
“Well, things are pleasant now that I’m here with you.”
There was that smile of his again, full of innuendo. What was she going to do with him? She had to admit his creative ways and beautiful words had won her affections. Even his phobias and loafers were somehow endearing. She glanced down at his feet and was surprised to see them clad in athletic shoes. In fact, his whole look was different. Were the changes for her? To impress her?
“I just wondered.” Van coughed. “Have you had any special—visitors—today?”
“Visitors? Yes, we’ve had some Christmas shoppers come in. Quite a few, actually. Business is picking up.” In spite of their sweet reunion, Van looked anxious about something. “Is everything all right?”
He pressed his hand over his heart. “I just thought—”
The door jingled open, and a woman wearing a gray coat and an even grayer countenance stepped inside the shop.
“Hold that thought.” Holly grinned at Van and then turned toward the woman. “May I help you?”
“My name is Beatrice Monroe, and I need to speak with Miss Holly Goodnight.”
“I am she.” Why was the woman so stern and pale? Holly walked over to her. “You look like you could use some hot spiced tea to warm up. Would you like some?”
“I’d better not, but it’s kind of you to offer.” Ms. Monroe straightened, but her shoulders still seemed to sag. “May I talk to you in private? Please.”
“Of course.” Holly glanced at Van, whose face had lost all its joy. He was such a kind and sensitive man to be concerned. Then she caught a glimpse of Owen and her father coming into the shop, but she didn’t stop to wave at them.
Instead she led Ms. Monroe into their small office area, shut the door, and offered the woman an armchair. “How may I help you?” Holly sat down behind her desk and inspected her visitor.
Ms. Monroe appeared to be a middle-aged woman with brown eyes and mousy hair. She sat twisting the handles on her purse until they looked as though they’d tear into pieces. Her gaze darted around room and then landed on Holly.
“I can see you have something unpleasant to tell me. Please feel free to just say it straight out.” Holly rested back in her chair, hoping it would make the woman feel more at ease.
“I saw you on television,” Ms. Monroe finally said.
“Oh, that. It didn’t go so well, did it?”
“You did a fine job.” She licked her lips. “But when I saw you I realized I hadn’t kept a promise I’d made a couple of years ago. So I drove here as quickly as I could to make things right.” Ms. Monroe touched a hanky to her nose. “You see, I knew your mother—briefly.”
“My mother?” Holly leaned forward. “Where is she?”
“I’m sorry to give you the sad news that—that your mother is dead.”
Holly covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “My mother? Dead? But how? When?” Her heart skipped a beat. “How do you know this?”
“I didn’t really know your mother. I merely shared a hospital room with her. This was two years ago. She made me promise that if she died I would tell you—that I would give you the news in person. I’ve had my own hardships, so I’ve been delayed in coming. I’m very sorry. But I’m glad I was able to be here now—to fulfill my promise.”
“I see.” Holly pressed her palm over her forehead. All the hopes she’d ever had of meeting her mother now vanished with the woman’s revelation. Such terrible news. It was hard to breathe. God, give me courage.
“I’m afraid that beyond her name, I don’t have much information.”
Holly looked up. “What was her name?”