by Sydney Logan
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured against her hair. “I love you. I never stopped loving you. Not for a minute.”
She melted against him as he held her tight. She’d missed the warmth of his arms. How long had it been since he’d held her this way? How long since he’d touched her at all?
Ethan trailed his hand soothingly along her spine. He’d missed her sweet smell and the way her body fit perfectly in his arms.
He had missed his wife.
After the miscarriage, he’d had no idea how to comfort her. No idea how to deal with the mood swings and bitterness and the absolute refusal to talk about whatever she was feeling. Anything he said had been wrong, and every suggestion he made was met with resistance. It had taken Melanie’s mother to convince her to see a grief counselor, and that had helped some, but the damage to their marriage was done. Because his home was in shambles, he had devoted his life to his father’s company, neglecting his wife for far too long. Ethan knew that Melanie had felt responsible for the miscarriage—despite Dr. Lange’s explanation that she wasn’t to blame—but it never occurred to Ethan that she needed the real reassurance to come from her husband.
Ethan placed both hands along her cheeks and gently tilted her face toward his.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said softly.
Melanie’s eyes filled with fresh tears.
“It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. I never blamed you. Not once. I love you, and it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.”
She sniffled as he tenderly placed kisses along her wet cheeks, whispering over and over again that he loved her, and that she wasn’t to blame. There were plenty of kids in the world who needed a good home, and they would adopt a dozen if she wanted them. He told her they would sell the house that neither of them loved, and he would build her a new one.
“In the country?”
Ethan smiled through his own tears. She had always wanted to live in the mountains, but the daily commute to his dad’s firm had made the idea impossible.
Impossible, until now.
“Anywhere you want,” he promised her.
With the emergency lights of the elevator shining overhead, the two of them stared into each other’s eyes. They hugged tightly, wiped away each other’s tears, and whispered sweetly. There was so much to say, and for the first time in months, they finally said all the important things. They had missed each other. They loved each other. And nothing was more important than rebuilding their marriage.
“How long has it been since you’ve been properly kissed by your husband?”
Her answer was immediate.
“New Year’s Eve.”
He frowned. “Surely we’ve kissed since last January.”
“You said properly kissed,” Melanie reminded him. “Not a photo-op peck on the lips. The last real, toe-curling kiss that made my blood boil was New Year’s Eve. We were at the Hanson’s holiday party, and—”
Suddenly, Ethan’s mouth was on hers. Melanie groaned and slipped her hands around his neck as he deepened the kiss. Her fingers entwined in his hair, and she tugged a little, making him moan. The months of pent-up frustration and grief slipped away as their hungry kisses gave way to something softer and sweeter, until finally, Ethan buried his face against her neck. They held onto each other as they trembled with relief.
“I missed your kisses.”
Melanie sighed. “I missed yours, too.”
He grinned. “So, my beautiful wife, was that a proper kiss?”
She giggled, and the sound rocked him to his core. How long had it been since she’d laughed?
“Improper, I think.”
“I think so, too,” Ethan agreed with a nod. “And I think these improper activities need to continue once we’re home.”
Melanie blushed, and he couldn’t resist trailing his fingertip across her crimson cheek.
“If we ever get out of here,” he grumbled.
“I can’t be upset about getting stuck in this elevator,” Melanie said. “We must have a Christmas angel somewhere. I mean, really, what are the odds that the two of us would be shopping in the same department store on Christmas Eve?”
Ethan couldn’t argue with that. There was definitely some Christmas magic happening in this elevator.
“Speaking of which,” Ethan said, nodding at the red and silver gift bag. “Did you really buy me a twenty-thousand dollar watch?”
Melanie frowned. “Yes, and it’s ridiculous.”
Ethan laughed and lifted his hand. Snapped to his wrist was a beautiful gold watch.
Melanie sighed with relief. “It’s not the same.”
“We’ll return it, anyway. Nobody needs a designer watch.”
“Or an imported car.”
“Or a Chanel wallet.”
Melanie’s eyes widened a little. “Did you buy me a Chanel wallet?”
“I thought about it, but I decided to do something a little different. Something symbolic.”
Ethan offered her the gift bag. She excitedly reached inside and pulled out the small white box. It fit perfectly in the palm of her hand.
“Open it,” he said softly.
Melanie lifted the top, and nestled inside was a necklace. Dangling from the chain was a silver mistletoe charm.
“Turn,” Ethan murmured.
Melanie twisted around in his lap, and he fastened the necklace around her neck.
“It’s so pretty, Ethan.”
“I’ve missed my wife, and I wanted to guarantee that she’d let me kiss her this Christmas, so I needed mistletoe. I couldn’t decide between this and the diamond earrings, but the man behind the counter insisted on the necklace.”
Melanie gingerly touched the dainty charm before turning back around.
“I love it.”
“I love you, Melanie.”
“I love you, too.” Leaning in, she kissed him tenderly. “There. Just so you can go back to the store and tell the man behind the counter that the mistletoe worked its magic.”
When the lights flickered back to life and they finally made their way to the first floor, Ethan took his wife’s hand and led her out of the elevator. Tonight, they would go home and begin rebuilding their marriage. They would spend Christmas Day with their families, and for the first time in months, they wouldn’t have to force a smile.
And on the day after Christmas, Ethan would return the watch. He would thank the man behind the counter—a friendly manager by the name of Nick—and tell him that the mistletoe did indeed work its magic, just as he promised it would.
<*> <*> <*>
Also Available by Sydney Logan
Published by
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
Preview: Lessons Learned
By Sydney Logan
A young girl needs to spread her wings, but a young woman needs roots.
English teacher Sarah Bray never thought she’d return to Sycamore Falls, but a traumatic event at her inner-city school leaves her desperate for the sanctuary of home. By returning to her roots, an older and wiser Sarah hopes to deal with the demons of her present and confront the ghosts of her past.
She discovers a kindred spirit in Lucas Miller, a teacher from New York with demons of his own. They quickly become friends—bonding through Lucas’s culture shock and their mutual desire to build new lives. When they open their wounded hearts to each other, their friendship effortlessly evolves into romance.
Their newfound love is put to the test when Matt, the quarterback of the football team, shares his deepest secret with Sarah. When the conservative community finds out, Sarah and Lucas—along with the town of Sycamore Falls—are schooled in the lessons of acceptance, tolerance, and love.
Prologue: Lessons Learned
Voices roar through the high school cafeteria while students navigate their way to the tables. The cliques are easily spotted: the jocks, the geeks, the beauty queens, the slackers . . .
Where will he sit today?
Desp
ite the fact he’s a handsome and impeccably dressed young man, he fades into the background. Knowing it’s pointless, the girls don’t bother to look his way, and the guys deliberately avoid his eyes.
He grips his tray tightly and heads toward the corner table with the rest of the outcasts. They nod hello, but that’s the end of any real attempt at conversation. It’s an unspoken rule of sorts. This is their refuge—a tiny bit of sanctuary in the hell that is public high school—and they’re content to sit in peace.
He takes a seat, and I can see the exhaustion on his face. It’s not a weariness that comes from too many sleepless nights. This is a bone-tired fatigue no seventeen-year-old kid should ever feel.
He’s giving in.
Giving up.
In my peripheral vision, I see a senior stalk into the cafeteria. He’s tall, with deep brown eyes and jet-black hair that won’t stay in place. He’s good looking, popular, and a little conceited, thanks to his father’s wealth and status.
He has a reputation to uphold.
Rumors to squash.
A score to settle.
He pulls the silver gun out of his jacket pocket. Amid the chaos, no one notices.
I notice.
I try to run, but I’m frozen in place.
I try to scream, but there’s no sound.
The first shot rings out, and suddenly, everyone’s on the cold tile.
Tears, prayers, screams.
Another shot, and for some reason, I’m the only one who can’t move. Who can’t scream. Who can’t do anything but watch as the young man’s body slumps over his tray.
Finally, I find my voice and scream his name.
Chapter 1: Lessons Learned
The piercing chime of my phone jerked me awake. Disoriented and shaking, I grabbed my cell and struggled to focus on the screen.
Congratulations, Sarah. You slept a whole three hours.
Falling asleep had been difficult. My restlessness could easily be blamed on yesterday’s long drive or spending the night in a new place, but I hadn’t slept well in months, so my fitful sleep wasn’t all that surprising.
However, I could do without the nightmares.
It was nearly three in the morning when I’d finally arrived in Sycamore Falls. Exhausted from the drive, I’d collapsed on the couch, but sleeping proved impossible. It was just too quiet. I’d grown accustomed to noisy neighbors and blasting car horns.
A change of scenery could be exactly what I need, my therapist had told me.
Sycamore Falls was definitely a change in scenery.
Stiff and sore from the uncomfortable couch, I groaned as I struggled to sit up. My body trembled when my bare feet hit the hardwood floor. I’d forgotten how cold this house could be, even in the summer, but anything with long sleeves would be in a box, and all the boxes were arranged in a chaotic mess in my living room.
Maybe some sunshine will warm me up.
I wrapped my blanket around me and circled the maze of boxes before shuffling toward the kitchen. It was neat and tidy as ever, with its faded yellow wallpaper. Grandma Grace had always loved wildflowers, and I smiled as I gazed at the collection of daisy canisters lining the wall next to the sink. Mom had been a terrible cook, so grandma had taken it upon herself to teach me. Baking was my favorite, and we’d spent countless nights in this kitchen with my apron covered in flour. Grandma had been fine with making a mess—as long as I cleaned it up—and that freedom had led to many honest discussions throughout the years.
“Sycamore Falls has its issues,” Grandma had told me one autumn day while teaching me how to make fried apple pies. “We’re too sheltered from the rest of the world. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Sometimes it isn’t. The world can be a scary place. It’s good to know you have a safe place to come home to when the world gets a little crazy. You’re one of the lucky ones, Sarah. You will always have a home here. Remember that.”
I remember.
I opened the front door and was instantly greeted with cool morning air. Eager to see the house in the daylight, I gingerly walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Thankfully, Mr. Johnson had hired someone to mow the grass before I arrived, which allowed me to mark one thing off my to-do list.
As I gazed up at the house, I could see my list would be long.
Growing up, I’d thought my grandmother’s home was the most beautiful in Sycamore Falls. Majestic and blue with its white shutters and wrap-around porch, it was the place I’d always felt the most comfortable and safe.
Time hadn’t been kind to the house, and that was my fault. Mr. Johnson had done his best, but a house needs tender loving care, and its last two years without an occupant had been rough on the place. The chipped siding needed a coat of paint, the flowerbeds resembled a jungle, and some of the shingles needed to be replaced, but none of that mattered.
I felt a small sense of satisfaction and breathed a sigh of relief.
I was safe.
I was home.
* * *
“Tell me you’re joking. There can’t be only fifteen hundred people in that town.”
The dilapidated city sign proudly displaying the town’s population passed my window in a blur.
“I didn’t say fifteen hundred. I said fourteen hundred ninety-nine.”
I felt a little guilty. After all, some poor soul was going to have to change the sign. Then again, with a town boasting the highest unemployment rate in the state, someone could probably use the work.
“I still don’t understand why you moved back,” Monica said. “You’ve never wanted to return to your hometown.”
“I want to teach in a small town.”
“Sarah, there are small towns just outside of Memphis.”
“I want to teach here.”
Monica’s voice became a whisper. “Because it’s safe?”
“Because it’s home.”
It was a simple answer and so much easier than the truth.
After promising to call tomorrow, I tossed my cell onto the passenger seat and gazed at the highway. Monica was my best friend, but she couldn’t understand my turmoil. Granted, she’d stood by my side through it all, but she wasn’t the one consumed with memories and needing a fresh start.
She couldn’t possibly understand.
Breathing deeply, I flexed my fingers around the steering wheel and tried to concentrate on the scenery. The two-lane highway leading into town was surrounded by nothing but countryside and brimming with wildflowers. As I crept closer to the city limits, the mountain range became visible, standing tall and proud and unbelievably green.
I reached for the radio dial and pressed a button in search of the local station. I grinned when John Cooper’s gravelly voice filled the air. The man had to be in his sixties by now, and his tired tone reflected those years. Coop had been on the air every weekday afternoon since I’d been a kid. He hadn’t been very popular with the teens because he’d played oldies instead of anything remotely current. When his raspy voice introduced a George Jones song, I smiled.
It was just further proof that very little changed in Sycamore Falls.
* * *
“Sarah Bray, is that you?”
It was only the eighth time I’d heard those words in the past hour, but who was counting?
Sighing softly, I closed the freezer door and dropped the ice cream into my grocery cart. When I turned around, I was greeted with the pearly white smile of Shellie Stevens.
“It is you!” Shellie clapped her hands, reminding me of the regional basketball game when she had fallen from the top of the cheerleading pyramid, landing face first onto the gymnasium floor. I vividly recalled the blood and her horrified expression when she realized her two front teeth had been broken.
But that was a long time ago, and it would probably be impolite to mention it now.
“Hi, Shellie. How are you?”
“I heard you were back in town. Teaching at the high school, I hear.”
“Yes, I am.”
&
nbsp; “I’m the cheerleading coach.” She smoothed her hair with her palm. It was still long and blond and straight out of the bottle.
“Are you a teacher, too?”
“Nope, I’m a dental hygienist over in Winslow.”
How ironic.
“You don’t have to teach to be a coach,” she explained. In small towns, it was sometimes hard to find good coaches. It was even harder to keep them here.
I smiled. “Well, I’m sure you’re a wonderful cheer coach.”
“You’ll make the second new teacher this school year. One just recently moved here from New York to take Mr. Franklin’s place,” Shellie said as she followed me down the produce aisle.
Charles Franklin had been my American history teacher my sophomore year. His was the only class besides English I’d truly enjoyed.
“Did he retire?”
“He suffered a stroke and passed away in March.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We miss him.” Then, her face brightened. “But wait until you see the new teacher. He’s single and so handsome. Rumor has it he was in the middle of some big scandal up North and moved to the mountains to make a fresh start. Kind of like you, actually.”
The people in Sycamore Falls probably knew as much about his “scandal” as they knew about mine, but that wouldn’t stop them from gossiping. I wondered if the poor guy had any idea what he was getting himself into by moving to a small town.
After exchanging phone numbers, Shellie headed for the checkout while I grabbed what I needed and dodged other friendly faces. It was useless. Pastor Martin caught me in the deli and invited me to church. Lee Ann Patterson, a former classmate, asked if we could meet for dinner one night this week, and Imogene Jordan found me near the bread aisle. She brought tears to my eyes by telling me I was beautiful—just like my mother.
By the time I made it to the cashier, I was an emotional mess.
“You’re Grace’s granddaughter. Sarah, I believe.”