An Heirloom Christmas
Megan Squires
Copyright © 2019 by Megan Squires
Cover design by Paper & Sage
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For everyone who stills believes
in the magic of Christmas.
Contents
1. Chrissy
2. Nick
3. Chrissy
4. Nick
5. Chrissy
6. Nick
7. Chrissy
8. Nick
9. Chrissy
10. Nick
11. Chrissy
12. Nick
13. Chrissy
14. Nick
15. Chrissy
16. Nick
17. Chrissy
18. Nick
19. Chrissy
20. Nick
21. Chrissy
22. Nick
23. Chrissy
Epilogue
The End
About the Author
Also by Megan Squires
Chrissy
“I’M NOT SURE I want this masterpiece hanging on anyone’s door but my own!”
Doris lowered her tortoiseshell reading glasses to peer over their rim as she held her wreath at arm’s length to survey her craftsmanship. Predictably, she’d opted for a coffee theme this year, with plastic mugs adhered to the floral wire and letters that read, ‘But First, Coffee!’ arching over the top. Given that Doris Beasley and her husband, Earl, owned the only coffee shop in Heirloom Point, it was an expected choice.
Nita O’Dell, the other half of the LOL’s—or Little Old Ladies as they’d coined themselves years before—stuck to a more traditional holiday theme. She’d adorned her wreath with holly berries, an expertly tied wire-ribbon bow, and mistletoe sprigs tucked into the pine branches. Even with the classic theme, her wreath was anything but generic.
Chrissy Davenport would be proud to display either on her front door and she knew she would have the hardest time choosing at the upcoming Silent Night Silent Auction. This event was a favorite Heirloom Point tradition, something she counted down to each year, crossing off the days on her calendar as they led up to the month of December. It was a town-wide celebration where everyone gathered to bid on Christmas wreaths in an effort to raise money for charity.
This year, all proceeds would go to the brand new children’s wing at the local hospital. Chrissy had participated as a young girl, often working alongside her mother, until she was finally old enough to design her own wreath to enter in the auction. The nostalgia of that tradition filled Chrissy with holiday spirit like no other celebration could. And today was November 30th; just one more satisfying stroke of her red marker on her calendar until the exchange officially kicked off. She could hardly wait!
“Nice choice with the flocking, Everleigh. Makes it feel so wintery,” Chrissy said, nodding her head toward her sister’s handiwork. Everleigh squinted her eyes, the tip of her tongue darting through her lips as she narrowed all concentration on the glue gun in one hand, the snowman ornament in the other.
“Shhh,” Everleigh hushed, eyebrows scrunching together. “I need complete focus here. I only recently formed a new fingerprint after last year’s hot glue snafu. Sizzled that sucker right off!”
“Could be convenient if you’ve got a warrant out for your arrest,” Doris noted aloud, still eyeing her wreath over glasses that she used more for fashion than function. She was the smaller of the two LOL’s, petite in stature in an almost elfish way. But she had the mightiest personality, no question about that. She was often even more boisterous than the caffeinated coffee drinkers that frequented her shop in the town’s square. “One less fingerprint equals one less way to confirm your guilt.”
“With a police officer for a dad in a town where everyone knows everyone else’s business, no chance of that!” With a contented grunt, Everleigh secured the figurine onto her wreath. “Plus, I’m not the one with a law breaking background. Let’s not forget the time my older and much more criminally-inclined sister spent the night in the slammer.” She nudged Chrissy with her elbow.
“I was barely eighteen. Practically still a kid,” Chrissy retorted.
“The law doesn’t care how many hours into adulthood you are when you break it. Illegal is illegal, even if it was technically just trespassing.”
“If my memory serves me correctly,” Doris began, “and at my age it often doesn’t, so take this with a heaping spoonful of salt—wasn’t Nick McHenry truly to blame for that little incident?”
The fine hairs on Chrissy’s neck bristled at the name. For nearly a decade, she’d only heard it spoken through the echo of her television speakers or read it typed as a headline on the Heirloom Point Post. The town was good at celebrating Nick’s victories, but also took note of his shortcomings. Wasn’t it always the tragedy that garnered all of the attention, all of the publicity? It was as though there was some inexplicable pleasure gained in watching a person’s fall from success. Not that Nick had any real say in his sudden and swift departure from the limelight. Despite his failings, he was ever the hometown hero. To everyone except Chrissy, that was.
“Sure. Nick was totally to blame,” Everleigh snorted, sarcasm thick like peanut butter in her tone. “Just like he was to blame for that career ending knee injury that had him out the majority of last season.”
“I heard he’s making a permanent move back to Heirloom Point, you know,” Nita spoke up, her Minnesota roots revealed in the timbre of her voice. She was much meeker than her LOL counterpart, grandmotherly and warm. “I almost can’t believe it. Retired at the ripe old age of thirty. I guess years as a professional hockey player are calculated in dog years.” She giggled.
If the mention of Nick’s name gave her chills, this information made Chrissy go white hot with panic. Watching Nick compete on the ice rink from her living room couch was vastly different than seeing him walk through Heirloom Point Square. She wasn’t sure what she would do if she bumped into him during an afternoon of holiday shopping, or worse yet, if he stopped into his parents’ hardware store located directly across from her own little candle shop. She had so many things she wanted to say to him—a myriad of questions and as many pointed assertions—but she figured in that moment, she’d fall instantly mute.
“Do you two still keep in touch, sweetie?” Nita asked.
Everleigh shot a brief, knowing glance toward Chrissy, then turned to the older women at their shared craft table. She spoke on her sister’s behalf. “Chrissy and Nick? Oh, come on LOL’s. That news is older than the light bulb in Chrissy’s store window; you all know that.”
“And just how many years has that bulb been on now?” Doris asked, head tilted. She finally slipped the unnecessary glasses from her pert nose and settled them onto the table. “Would you believe I remember seeing it when I was a young girl, always shining and sparkling in that front display. Almost magical, when you think of it.”
“As the story goes, it’s been illuminated for seventy-four years and counting, minus the occasional power outage,” Chrissy answered, more than grateful for the change in topic. Plus, she always loved talking about her shop and its quirky eccentricities. It was absolutely filled with them. “It’ll hit the seventy-five year mark this holiday season. I think that deserves a storewide sale!”
“Isn’t it amazing”—Doris winked directly at Chrissy, a deliberately long blink that served as a signal—“that something could still burn brightly after all of these years? Some things
really do withstand the test of time.”
Chrissy picked up on the double meaning, but it wasn’t just time that had pulled Nick and Chrissy apart. Even though she’d tried to get out of the conversation which had suddenly spun full circle, she hadn’t been successful. Rising to stand, she collected her wreath from the table. “I think I’m all done with this one. I’ve managed to fill every inch of it and I worry if I add anything else, it’ll be too heavy to even hang on a door!”
“I’ve got a few more embellishments to add before mine’s auction worthy.” Everleigh grabbed ahold of the hot glue gun, wincing. “Shoot!” She thrust her thumb into her mouth to soothe the new burn. “Another one bites the dust.”
“I think you’ve officially started your own tradition, sis.” Chrissy patted the crown of Everleigh’s blonde curls, so different from the sleek, auburn strands that fanned out just above her own shoulders. “I must say,” she noted, looking at the Christmas wreath she’d spent all morning crafting, “I’m truly pleased with my work this year. I’m curious to see whose door it’ll end up on.”
“Won’t be mine!” Doris exclaimed with a barking laugh. “I’m not bidding on yours this year, or any year, for that matter. In fact, I’d pay good money for you to keep it!”
“That’s just cruel, Doris.” Chrissy clutched her chest with her free hand, feigning offense.
Doris shook her head, making a tsk-tsk sound between her teeth. “I’m still trying to recover from that awful bout of fruitcake food poisoning, I’ll have you know.”
“I thought it was a nice gesture to bake a sweet treat for the highest bidder of my wreath,” Chrissy said. “As I recall, you did pay a pretty penny for it.”
“And my digestive system paid an even higher price,” Doris deadpanned.
Chrissy shrugged. “Isn’t it sort of an unspoken rule to give a little thank you gift to the winner of your wreath, anyway? I mean, I think that’s the only reason Dad bids on Miss Sandra’s every year. Her wreaths are hardly spectacular. He’s in it purely for the legendary apple streusel she takes down to the station the day after the auction. Makes the holidays feel even cozier when you really engage with your neighbors and get into the gift giving spirit, doesn’t it?”
“Of course! And I can imagine it would feel even cozier if your highest bidder was someone you were technically engaged to at one point in time.” Doris flashed Chrissy a sideways glance that made Chrissy feel as though her stomach had bottomed out.
Hugging her wreath close to her body, Chrissy pretended she didn’t hear that last comment. She couldn’t let her heart settle into a discussion that involved Nick, even if it was just about a silly wreath. In fact, she often found herself bowing out of any conversation that merely mentioned his name. Avoidance was her go-to whenever Nick was involved.
Taking a backward step toward the community center’s automatic doors, Chrissy said her quick goodbyes and made her way for the exit. She admired the finished wreaths spread out on the tables like delicately iced sugar cookies cooling on a tray. By the looks of it, this year promised to bring in more bids than all previous years combined. The number of town participants was at an all time high. That very thought made Chrissy’s heart swell with pride in her community and gratefulness for the generous donations she knew the hospital would receive this holiday as a result of the auction. She couldn’t wait until it was her turn to select a wreath from among the beautiful handiworks.
She also couldn’t help but wonder which neighbor would choose her wreath this year, knowing deep down it wouldn’t be Nick McHenry like the LOL’s predicted.
Nick made his choice many years ago, and it was clear it would never be Chrissy.
Nick
“THANK YOU, MR. Davies. This will be perfect.”
Nick McHenry surveyed the eight-hundred square foot in-law quarters, sensing in one sweeping glance that it had everything he could possibly need. He even noted the Italian manufactured espresso maker on the counter, a luxury he never afforded himself in his previous bachelor pad. Not that he even knew how to use a complex machine like that. Fancy coffees weren’t really his thing. In fact, he was more of a smoothie drinking guy, often hiding the leafy greens his personal trainer insisted he eat in something more appealing.
“You don’t have to call me Mr. Davies, Nick. It’s been over ten years since you were my student. Robert will be just fine.”
“Not sure I’ll be able to do that, sir,” Nick admitted. It would be a hard habit to break. Reconnecting with his high school teacher brought back that dreaded unprepared-on-test-day panic. Instantly, he’d transported to his teenage years. It wasn’t just the sight of his old geometry teacher that took him on that journey through time, though. The moment his truck tires rolled over the Heirloom Point county line, every memory from his youth rushed in like a break in a levee.
But the rented space on Mr. Davies’s property was uncharted territory and the unfamiliarity of it was refreshing, like a crisp sheet of blank paper, ready for a new story to be penned. It was hard to find something that didn’t hold the many memories Nick had tried to stuff down over the last decade. As he expected they would, his parents had offered his old bedroom when he first broke the news of his homecoming. However, the thought of a grown man living in a room that boasted rock band posters and a bookcase full of youth hockey trophies didn’t sit well with Nick. Things were different now—even if they felt remarkably the same—and he couldn’t go back to the life he’d lived before in Heirloom Point. He had to make a new one. He had no choice but to start over.
“You’re more than welcome to join us for dinner, Nick,” Robert Davies said, standing in the doorframe, readying to go. “Pamela’s got a lasagna baking in the oven and I’m headed to the store to grab the forgotten bag of salad I promised to bring home on my way from school. There will be plenty to go around if you’re hungry.”
“I appreciate the invite, but I already told my folks I’d swing by later on tonight. Mom’s video calling Kevin and she has this whole plan for a family dinner around the table. We haven’t had a real one in years,” Nick explained. “I’d love to take a rain check on dinner, though. Home cooked meals are at the very top of the things I missed most about home list.”
“Rain check it is.” Robert smacked his hand against the open door, almost as a high five. “Go ahead and get settled in. Pamela and I will give you your space, but please don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything. We’re here and happy to help.” Tipping his head and stepping over the threshold onto the small front stoop, Robert said, “Good to have you back in Heirloom Point, Nick.”
“Good to be back, sir.”
And it was good. For the most part. Around ninety-five percent good. The leftover five percent, though, that little sliver wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad, necessarily, it was just this wedge of uncertainty that wouldn’t let Nick slip into feeling entirely good about his move back home. Several things fell into that five percent portion, but namely Chrissy Davenport.
At one point in time, she had been Nick’s everything. His one hundred percent. He’d always told her that, too, and she’d argued that she couldn’t be his everything if hockey was also his everything. You couldn’t have two everythings. But Nick never compartmentalized things that way—not until now with his five percent slice of doubt that suddenly felt much larger the more he dwelled on it.
In fact, the longer he stood in the middle of his rented home, his chest compressed with apprehension and unease, the more those percentages slid all around. Maybe coming back to Heirloom Point was a toss up, a fifty-fifty sort of situation. People would either be glad about his homecoming, or they wouldn’t. But even if all of the town’s population was happy to have Nick back and Chrissy wasn’t, it would still feel wrong to be there.
How Chrissy could still have that much influence over his emotions bewildered Nick. They’d called things off abruptly; a clean break. No looking back. It was a decision they had made together, neither encouraging nor dis
couraging it more than the other. It was simply the only reasonable thing to do and they were both logical people.
Even still, the fact that they hadn’t communicated for ten full years floored Nick when he let his mind linger on that reality. The first few days were the hardest, but he had forced it into an out of sight, out of mind thing. As the days stacked one on top of the other, it became almost natural to go without speaking. It was like creating a new habit—how it took several weeks of discipline and determination to change one’s ways.
Nick had to create the habit of living a life without Chrissy Davenport in it.
When he was drafted to the Newcastle Northern Lights, he almost fell off that wagon. His fingers had dialed her phone number—all but the very last digit—without even intending to. It was like playing a piano song memorized in childhood, your fingers knowing the notes and plunking them out on their own accord. Instinctually, almost.
It had been instinct to want to share that news with Chrissy. He had wanted to tell her first, before she saw it as the newspaper headline, those big block letters detached of feeling. They couldn’t convey the emotion that was so weighty in that life-changing announcement.
It had been Nick’s childhood dream to play in the NHL. As a young boy learning to skate on old Prosper Tomlin’s frozen pond during Heirloom Point’s lengthy winters, he’d envisioned himself competing in an arena as a part of the Newcastle Northern Lights. One year for Christmas, Chrissy had saved up all of her hard-earned money from working at Nick’s parents’ store as an after school job, using it to purchase a pre-owned, Dusty Hayforth Northern Lights jersey off the internet for Nick. It was visibly well-worn before it even got into his hands, but the sacrifice Chrissy made to buy that jersey made Nick’s heart turn to mush. If he hadn’t already been head-over-heels for the sweet seventeen-year-old with wavy dark hair that smelled of springtime, that gesture would’ve catapulted him into full-on love. He wore that jersey his entire junior year of high school, until the stitching came completely off of the number 9 patch and it dangled by a thread.
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