A Christmas by the Sea

by Melody Carlson

  “And?”

  “Anyway, Maggie’s family used to own a furniture store—”

  “Stewart’s Fine Furnishings,” Wendy supplied. “My grandma bought a recliner there. It’s still in the house . . . well, at least for a while. I plan to let it go soon.”

  “Maggie worked there after school and in the summers. And I worked at She Sells sometimes. That’s sort of how we first became friends—when we were both seventeen. She was so outgoing that she went after me. I could hardly believe it. By our senior year, we were dating pretty steadily, and after graduation, we both went to UNE . . . and we continued dating.” He got a sad, faraway look, and Wendy regretted pushing him. She suspected that the popular young woman had found someone else and broken his heart. Maybe it was still painful.

  “So it ended badly?” she finally said. “You both went your separate ways?”

  “Sort of. She died in a car wreck shortly before college graduation.”

  “Oh . . . I’m so sorry.”

  He barely nodded. “We were engaged by then, planning to get married that summer. I was totally devastated by her death. That’s when I decided to take a job in New York. I guess I hoped to lose myself in the big city. But after a few years, I got homesick for Seaside and a quieter life. I’d always loved woodworking, so Nana encouraged me to start my own business and helped me get set up. And I’ve just been working really hard ever since. I had some pretty lean years early on—after the economy tanked. But it’s steadily picked up. I guess my best excuse for not having been snatched up, as you say, was that I’ve been too busy. Oh, I’ve dated now and then. Friends and family are always trying to set me up. But the right woman just never came along.”

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Wendy broke the silence. “Well, I know how hard it is to lose someone you love,” she said quietly. “And I appreciate you sharing your story with me, Caleb.”

  He changed the conversation to happier things, asking about her cottage renovations and giving her some useful tips for bringing the pine floor in the kitchen back to life. As she helped him clean up after dinner, Wendy was surprised at how relaxed and comfortable she felt with him now. Familiar . . . and good. But it was also a bit disconcerting. She wasn’t used to feeling like this—or being alone with a man in his home.

  As she dried her hands on the kitchen towel, Caleb set something in the sink. She turned to see him gazing at her with a look she hadn’t seen in a long time. “I, uh, I probably should go,” she said. “Jackson is home alone and I, uh . . .”

  He moved closer to her. Like a magnet, she moved toward him, and the next instant they were embracing and kissing—right there in his kitchen! When they finally stepped apart, she felt breathless and speechless . . . and embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t planned that.”

  “Me either.” She hung up the towel. “I, uh, I really should go.”

  “Yeah, it’s getting late.”

  “I hate to eat and run.” She moved away, putting the breakfast bar between them. “But I really don’t like leaving Jackson home alone for too long.”

  “I understand.” He nodded with a solemn expression. “You’re a good mom.”

  She shrugged. “Not as good as I wish.” Thoughts of how she’d misled Jackson pressed in on her.

  “No one’s as good as they’d like. It’s just part of the human condition.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” She pulled on her sweater.

  “Speaking of the human condition”—he followed her to the front door—“I invited Jackson to church tomorrow, and he sounded interested. The youth group is supposed to be pretty good.” While he walked her to her car, he gave her the specifics. Still feeling a little off balance, she thanked him and left. As she drove the short distance home, she daydreamed about Caleb—wondering if he was what could keep her and Jackson in Seaside. Or had she read more into this evening than he’d intended? After all, he’d practically admitted he was a confirmed bachelor. As she parked her car in front of the cottage, she reminded herself that dreams didn’t usually come true. At least not for her. Better to focus on reality—and just make the best of it.

  twelve

  I LIKE CALEB’S CHURCH,” Jackson said as Wendy drove them home. “The youth group is pretty cool. I want to ask Taylor to come next week.”

  “That’d be nice.” Wendy wanted to remind Jackson that next week might be their last Sunday here. She planned to call a Realtor in the next few days, hopefully list the cottage by next weekend . . . and go home. But the words got stuck in her throat.

  “Speaking of Taylor!” Jackson leaned forward, pointing to a girl walking on the side of the road with a shopping bag. “Can we give her a ride?”

  “Sure.” She pulled over.

  “Where you going?” Jackson asked as Taylor hopped in.

  “Home. I just walked to the store.”

  “That’s a long walk,” Wendy said.

  “I know. Almost five miles round trip. But Mom was asleep, and we were out of milk and cereal. I would’ve ridden my bike, but it’s got a flat.”

  Wendy felt sorry for Taylor but didn’t know what to say. She’d barely met Taylor’s mom, but could see Kara struggled to make ends meet. It wasn’t easy being a single mom in a seasonal tourist town. Wendy understood.

  “My uncle’s taking Tessa and me to get a Christmas tree later,” Taylor said. “We’re gonna go out into the woods and cut one down ourselves. I mean a wild one, not like from a tree farm. Uncle Greg is a logger so he knows how to do it.”

  “Cool,” Jackson said.

  “Uncle Greg said there’s a big storm coming and we gotta get our tree this weekend because there could be a lot of snow by next weekend.”

  “Really? A big storm?” Wendy pulled in front of Taylor’s house. “Do you get snow here on the coast?”

  “I guess so. Anyway, that’s what Uncle Greg says. We didn’t live here last year.” She reached over the front seat to nudge Jackson. “Wanna come with us, Jackson? You could bring Oliver too. It’d be fun.”

  “Can I go, Mom?” he asked.

  “Well, I—”

  “Please,” he begged.

  Wendy reluctantly agreed, and Taylor told Jackson to be at her house before one. “And wear warm clothes and tough shoes,” Taylor told him. “That’s what Uncle Greg told us.”

  When it was time to go to Taylor’s house, Jackson looked well prepared, but when he started to go, Wendy grabbed her coat and insisted on walking with him. “I want to meet Taylor’s uncle,” she explained as they walked against the wind. She wasn’t even sure that this “Uncle Greg” was really an uncle. For all she knew, he might be Kara’s boyfriend. Sometimes moms called boyfriends “uncles.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Call me overprotective, but I’m not letting my only son go off with a complete stranger.” She didn’t admit that she’d been imagining what could’ve been a scene from a Stephen King novel, where some toothless guy with a beer belly and a broken-down pickup carted away her precious son. “And just so you know, if I don’t feel good about him, you can’t go.”

  He grumbled even louder now. But to her relief, Greg appeared to be a respectable guy. He politely introduced his wife, Lori, confirming that he was indeed Kara’s brother, and exchanged phone numbers with her. “I’m the reason Kara and the girls moved here.” He opened up the back door to the crew cab pickup, waiting as his nieces scrambled in. “I felt like Taylor and Tess needed some family in their lives.”

  Jackson gave her an I-told-you-so look as he and Oliver climbed into the backseat with the girls. Satisfied that her son was safe, Wendy waved goodbye and hurried back home. Her plan was to get the kitchen put back together and a few other things done. Hopefully she’d get everything wrapped up by the end of the week—and call a Realtor.

  A couple of hours later, Wendy stepped back to admire her “new” kitchen curtains. She’d up-cycled white pillowcases
with hand-crocheted lace trim for in here and in her bedroom. And the recycled vintage linens looked perfectly charming—if she did say so herself. She was just closing them when she noticed Greg’s pickup pull into her driveway. The next thing she knew, Jackson, with Greg’s help, was hauling a large evergreen tree into the living room.

  “What have you—”

  “Greg let me get a tree too,” Jackson declared. “I cut it down myself.”

  “Merry Christmas!” Greg called out. “Enjoy!”

  “But we don’t even have a tree stand or ornaments,” Wendy helplessly told Jackson. “And it’s so big, where will we put—”

  “Greg told me to wedge it in a big bucket with some stones and just fill it with water.” He pointed to the wall adjacent to the fireplace. “How about right there?”

  Wendy was speechless. Of course, Jackson assumed they’d be here for Christmas. Somehow she needed to straighten him out.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll get it all set up. Just trust me.”

  “But I need to paint that wall first,” she protested. “And I didn’t plan to start on it until tomorrow or the next day.”

  “I’ll paint it. Right now, if you want.” He smiled brightly. “I like to paint!”

  “Well, you did a great job on your room.” She’d been really impressed. Not only did the paint look good, he’d arranged the furniture nicely too. Almost like he knew it needed to be staged. So she agreed he could paint while she fixed dinner.

  By the time Wendy announced bedtime, the pine tree, now wedged in a five-gallon bucket, stood proudly next to the freshly painted wall. “It looks really good.” Wendy hugged Jackson. “Nice work.”

  “Thanks.” He stifled a yawn and called out to the dog, already snoozing on the rug by the fireplace. “Time for bed, Oliver.”

  The next morning, Wendy got up before the sun. She had a lot to get done this week. So much, in fact, that she sat down at the kitchen table to make a long list. Her goal was to get the house thoroughly cleaned, complete the painting, and attractively stage it—by Friday. Then she’d call a Realtor and try to have it listed for the next weekend. All of that sounded easy compared to breaking the news to Jackson. But she was determined to do it this morning. Her plan was to invite him to do some beachcombing . . . and then when they were at least twenty minutes from home, she would gently break the news. She knew he’d be upset, but hopefully on the walk back to the cottage, he’d have a chance to cool down and listen to reason.

  Although she’d protected him in the past, it was time for him to grasp their financial situation. As delightful as Seaside was, she could not afford to live here without a steady source of income. And without selling the cottage, she would never climb out from beneath her load of debt. Even with their social security pittance, she still needed full-time, year-round employment with benefits, which was practically nonexistent in Seaside. Selling the cottage was the only real option. She had to make him understand.

  Hearing him clomping down the stairs, chatting cheerfully with Oliver, she folded her to-do list and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. “Good morning,” she told Jackson. “You’re up early.”

  “Because it’s Monday.” He took Oliver to the laundry room, pouring kibble into his bowl.

  “I know it’s Monday.” She frowned. “So?”

  “So it’s a school day.” He opened the fridge, taking out the milk.

  “A school day?” She blinked.

  “Yeah.” He poured a glass of milk. “And the bus will be here in about five minutes. I forgot to set the alarm on my phone.” He downed the milk then reached for an apple. “This is all I have time for this morning.”

  “But Jackson—what do you mean? How is it you’re going to school?”

  “Mom.” He took a bite of the apple as he pulled on his jacket. “I’m a kid. That’s what we do. Remember?” He grinned as he loudly chewed.

  “But how do you—”

  “Taylor told me about the bus, which will be here any minute. Can I have some lunch money?”

  “But you have to be registered,” she said anxiously, “and I’d have to go with you and sign things and—”

  “Nope.” He shook his head, still chewing as he handed her purse to her. “When Taylor’s mom took Tessa to the grade school, Taylor went to the middle school by herself. She said it’s really easy. You just go to the office and give ’em your social security number and the name of your previous school and some other stuff. Then bring home papers for your mom to sign. No big deal.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Hurry, Mom.” He pulled out her wallet for her. “Taylor said lunch is around three bucks, but we can probably get on the free program—if we’re poor enough.” He reached into her wallet to extract three dollars. “Thanks!” He pointed to the window. “There’s the bus. I gotta go. Taylor said she’d tell them to stop for me.” Just like that, he shot out the door and raced down the driveway where a big yellow bus hissed to a stop, swallowed him, and chugged off toward town.

  Wendy sank into a kitchen chair. This wasn’t happening! It couldn’t be happening. What was she going to do? She felt sick inside. She’d allowed this to go too far. Way too far. It was like she was getting buried alive in this town. Somehow, she had to dig them out. She refilled her coffee cup and tried to think.

  As she stared out the window toward the foggy beach, it slowly came to her. Why not let Jackson go to school for a few days? She could use that time to get the house ready, have the Realtor over . . . and then when it was time to put the FOR SALE sign in the yard, she would tell him. Okay, it wasn’t a fabulous plan, but it was all she had at the moment. And after procrastinating this long, what difference would a few more days make?

  So, instead of sitting around in a pool of pity, Wendy rolled up her sleeves and opened a paint can. It was time to finish up the painting—with no distractions. Well, except for a dog.

  But she came to realize, after a couple of days of quietly working, that Oliver was actually fairly low-maintenance. Other than his food and water and an occasional walk, he was pretty easygoing. And to her surprise, he was good company.

  “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she told Oliver as she drove to town on Tuesday afternoon. “I really do. It’s just that I don’t know what we’re going to do with you when it’s time to go to Ohio. I’d really like for you to find a good home.” With the cottage in pretty good shape, she had four tasks to accomplish—go to the hardware store for some final tweaking items, get some groceries, find a reliable Realtor, and stop by the vet clinic.

  She decided to tackle the hardest chore first, going directly to the veterinarian where she’d earlier posted a “found dog” notice—that had gotten no response. Today she would post a “free dog” poster on the bulletin board. Without access to a printer, she’d relied on her own artistic talents to draw a sketch of Oliver, complete with red bandana. But as she returned to the car, where Oliver was happily waiting for her, she felt like a traitor. In a perfect world, she would gladly keep the dog. But unfortunately, her world was less than perfect.

  Her next hardest task was to find a good Realtor. She started with a well-located office, the sort of a place where a visitor might make an inquiry. She went in and spoke to a receptionist, giving her some general information about the cottage. “Sandi Atkins is who you need,” the receptionist said as she wrote down Wendy’s phone number. “She’ll call you as soon as she gets back from the dentist. I happen to know she’s got a cash buyer looking for a property just like that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. If it’s as nice as it sounds, your house could be sold in no time.” The woman smiled. “Sandi should be back here in about an hour.”

  “If she can’t call before three, I’d prefer she call tomorrow morning.”

  The receptionist made note of that, and then Wendy left for the hardware store. Not only did she find all the items on her list, she also got a couple strands of white Christmas tree li
ghts. So far they’d been simply enjoying the tree in its natural form, but she knew Jackson wanted it lit. Perhaps it would help cheer him up—after she broke the news. Finally she went to the grocery store, where she had to shop carefully since her cash was running low. Still, the hope that there could be a cash buyer out there—that the house could be sold within days—well, it almost made her want to celebrate. Or cry.

  Back at the cottage, Wendy opened the front door and, letting Oliver go inside, pretended to be a buyer here to see the house. The living room, with all its walls painted and windows scrubbed, looked fresh and clean. The wood floors, though worn, were gleaming, and the thinned-down furnishings helped the room appear larger. She still didn’t have any window coverings in here, but with the open view of the ocean, she thought perhaps it was better.

  She frowned at the bare tree. It would be more appealing if it was decorated, although she had no ornaments or cash to spend on some. She carried her groceries into the kitchen, wondering if there was something she could bake and hang on the tree. But seeing her nearly finished shell-framed mirror project still on the table, it hit her—she had shells! Not only did she have about a hundred beautiful white sand dollars, she had all sorts of other shells too. She would make shell ornaments for the tree.

  She put her groceries away, then got out a box of sand dollars and began to play until she came up with a simple design. Before long, she was hot-gluing two clam shells onto a sand dollar, like wings, and using a piece of sea glass for a head—to make what resembled an angel—a little white sea angel. By the time her phone jangled she had made a dozen.

  “Hello?” Wendy answered cheerfully.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Sandi Atkins,” a pleasant voice said. “I hear you might be interested in listing a beach cottage.”