After Christmas
Sweet Contemporary Romance
Anna Catherine Field
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Also by Anna Catherine Field
1
Collins
The worst time of year to hold an estate sale is between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s the one time of year people save all their money for new, shiny things and aren’t interested in picking through the old, dusty remains from someone’s life.
That’s what I’m thinking as Molly Edge struggles with the lock on the front porch of her recently deceased mother’s home. That me, like everyone else on Haven Island, would rather be at the mall listening to the loop of holiday music, fighting with crowds over the check-out stand, and watching my money dwindle out of my bank account.
“Sometimes it sticks,” Molly says, grunting and fiddling the key. “I told Mother she needed to get a new key, but…”
Her voice gets small and I share a glance with my mother. This part of the process is hard. Actually, every part of the process is hard, but sometimes just getting in the door is the hardest part of all. Literally.
“Why don’t you let me try,” Mom says, handing me her notebook and purse. She gives Molly a tight, sympathetic smile and takes the key and begins her own battle with the lock. It’s not really a surprise the lock is stuck. We do live in coastal Georgia where everything metal is humid, sticky, and rusted shut.
Molly stands back and wrings her hands. She’s not that much older than me—I’m eighteen—a freshman at the Art School in Savannah. Molly, if my memory is right, is the same age as my brother Tillman, who is twenty-two. Or is it Van? Who is twenty-one. I know it’s not Miller, who is the closest to me, twenty, and best friends with Molly’s brother, Julian.
Ugh. Julian.
Molly and I watch as my mother fights with the key, and I look across the yard. Our house is right next door, and we’ve known the Edges forever. I realize with a little sadness that this will be the first year the Edges' house isn’t fully decked out for Christmas. Mrs. Edge loved holidays, particularly Christmas, and expressed that passion by going all out with multiple trees, flags, wreaths, and figurines.
“I think I’ve got it,” Mom grunts, slamming her hip into the door. Finally, it dislodges. She grins happily, handing the key back to Molly. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got.”
I let them go first, anticipating the closed-off, musty scent of a house uninhabited for too long. Mrs. Edge had died just before Halloween. She’d been in hospice before that. The funeral had been a whirlwind, and with Julian at college, there was no time for them to deal with the estate at that point. It’s a normal time lapse; there’s paperwork, and emotions, and reorganizing one life while finalizing another.
But that’s not the only reason it’s taken Molly this long to get started.
One step inside, and it’s obvious what we’ve got.
A mess.
“So we’re going to do it?” Tillman asks, piling his plate high with pasta. The food is on the stove. “Even though it breaks your ‘no estate sales during the holidays’ rule?”
“I tried talking her into waiting for the new year, but she wants Julian to be here to help.” Mom sits at the head of the kitchen table, her own small plate of food in front of her. Tillman pours sauce over his spaghetti and sits across from her, at the other end, next to Van, who is singularly focused on his meal.
My oldest brother has broad shoulders and occupies too much space. The instant he sits at the table, the dynamic changes. He’s serious and thoughtful. He’s my mother’s second-in-command, and has been since she adopted all of us, one by one.
“Maybe we can use her holiday collection as leverage?” I suggest, twisting the strings of pasta. “Use it to get people to the sale?”
“Maybe,” Mom says. “The house itself is quite the spectacle. I’m sure people will come just to see inside, although we don’t need a lot of looky-loos wasting our time.”
Tillman nods. The Edges, like us, live in the old fort—on Officer’s Row. The houses are large, historic, and beautiful. Residents and tourists both like to drive down the narrow streets and look at the houses on one side of the street and the ocean view on the other. A house like the Edges', that has been occupied by the same family for sixty years, is definitely of interest.
“Don’t let Julian hear that,” Miller says, wiping his mouth. “He’ll shut this whole thing down.”
“I know this is going to be hard on him,” Mom says, using her sympathetic voice, “but it has to be done.”
“If Julian wants to have an opinion on what’s happening with the estate,” I say, “then he should get down here and deal with it.”
All eyes shift to me. Miller’s are the most annoyed. “Collins, his semester is almost over. He’ll be down here in a few days.”
“Good. Molly needs him.” I swallow back what I really want to say. That Julian should have been down here when his mom was sick, that he should have stuck closer for his sister, and all the obligations after a funeral. That he was too busy running off and living his own life to worry about the people still on Haven Island. And most of all, what I really keep to myself, is that I know he’s going to come down here and reappear after being gone the last two years and think he can take over, make my life miserable, and then just vanish again when we’re done.
I’m not sure if I can do it.
“I’m not trying to be a jerk,” I say, ignoring my bothers’ eye rolls as they stuff their faces, “but will I still have time to work on my project?” I’d been accepted to the annual New Year’s Day art showing at the school. It’s a pretty big deal. Unfortunately, I hadn’t even started. I guess it’s a good thing I work well under pressure.
“We can figure out a way for you to limit your schedule.”
“Thank you,” I reply, fighting the urge to tell them the truth. That my days with the business were limited.
“Julian is like part of this family,” Mom says, holding my eye, “he’s going to need our help with this transition, and we’re going to give him all the support he needs. That’s what the Fleetwood Estate Management has done for two generations.”
Her words snap us all back into place, and I eat my dinner in silence, listening to my brothers talk about their jobs and the broken muffler on the truck, and if they want to go surfing in the morning. I think about how, like Julian, I’d wanted to run away from this place too, away from my family obligation, but in the end I couldn’t do it. Mom needed me. My brothers needed me. The business needed me. Over the years there had been a lot of friction between me and the boy next door, but him escaping the island was the hardest one to accept.
My grandmother started Fleetwood Estate Management in the 1970s. She loved old things; houses, possessions, things she called “treasures.”
“One person’s trash is another’s treasure.” That was her favorite saying, and as someone that has grown up in the business, she’s right. People love some garbage.
My grandmother worked until she was ninety-two. By then my mother was mostly running the day-to-day activities, despite being a single mother to four foster
children that she ultimately adopted. On our adoption day, Mom allowed us to pick any name we wanted. Tillman started it off, choosing his original last name as his first name, claiming he didn’t want to forget where he came from. Since the rest of us idolized him, we each did the same. Van, then Miller, then me, Collins.
Our mother collected children the way some of our clients collect commemorative spoons: with dedication and passion.
Slowly, we all fell into our own roles in the business. Tillman, already muscular from football and surfing, became a natural for lugging around furniture and hauling trash to the dump. Van, with his love of tools and machinery, would sort the workshops and garages. Miller is the charmer—a salesman through and through. He’s handsome with sparkling blue eyes and an easy grin. People love him, young and old. They trust him, which makes it easier for the rest of us to do our jobs.
And what’s my job? For a long time, as the youngest, my job was to simply blend in, keep an eye out. Watch out for thieves (yes, people loved to steal things that are already basically free), keep everything organized and clean, pretend to be a shopper—a kid playing with the toys in an old bedroom.
But I’m not a kid anymore, so now I just do whatever my mother needs me to, despite the fact that I’m starting to hate this business. I can’t stand the musty scent that clings to my clothes, and the dust that stains my fingers. I hate talking to the bereaved and talking them into parting with belongings that we all know they don’t need.
I’d planned on telling my mother that starting in January I’m not going to help anymore, so I can focus on school. I figured we’d have a month to ease into it. Little work, holiday fun, but now that the Edge estate has fallen into our laps, I feel the noose tightening around my neck.
It’s as if the fates knew I was planning on making a change and decided to send me on one last job.
And boy, it’s going to be a doozy.
2
Julian
I didn’t plan it, but I cross the waterway just as the sun sets to the west. I’m headed south, but on Haven Island there’s no such thing as a bad view at this time of day. It’s high tide, making the marsh glisten from the sun’s reflection. It’s a warm homecoming.
One I’m barely ready for.
It’s the second time I’ve made this drive knowing my mother wouldn’t be on the other side. Knowing there’s nothing but burdens and belongings and obligations in the old house. The first time I was numb, barely functioning, surviving on casseroles sent over by Ms. Fleetwood and the other families in the community. This time it’s different. I feel awful for making Molly deal with it alone, but she’s better with stuff like this. At least that’s what I tell myself so I don’t feel like such a jerk.
I’m not a jerk. Just devastated. I lost my mom. I’m going to lose my childhood home. Those things were really the only things that kept me tied to this place. Other things…other people. I’d lost hope a long time ago that I could have them in my life. Her in my life.
It was better this way.
I pass over the boat ramp, where the shrimp boats head out each morning. It’s a glorious sight, one that masks the sweat and tears that it takes to make a living doing that job. I worked on a boat one summer. It was grueling and confirmed I never wanted to do work like that again. That summer was the first time I realized I didn’t want to stay on the island forever, and I refocused on my studies. I got into the university six hours north, entered the business college, and embraced a new life. I’d come to the decision that with the exception of a few weekends home to see my mom, Haven wouldn’t be my home in the future.
Except my mom got sick and died, my sister needs my help, and I can’t close the door on this chapter in my life until all this is settled.
I keep driving as the sun coats the waterway, leaving everything I pass bathed in gold, and head onto the island. The water fades behind me, and I roll into town; seeing the familiar tourist spots; the surf shops, the bike rental places, the rental offices. I also drive by the local haunts including the Dive, our favorite hangout. The weathered building looks out over the waterway, where I know at this moment the customers are having a shot, like they do every night, celebrating another end of a beautiful day.
No matter how long I’m gone, Haven looks the same, mired in the past. I’ve never been so aware of the dual nature of how this can be both comforting and stifling, as I am as I grip the steering wheel, bracing myself for the next few weeks. It’s really time for me to say goodbye to my home and everyone else in this small town for good.
3
Collins
I’m counting place settings in the rosewood china cabinet when I hear the kitchen door open with a whining creak. It closes quickly, followed by a thud on the floor.
“I’m in here,” I call, assuming it’s my mother or maybe Molly. “Dining room.”
With a quick scribble, I total up sixteen tea cups. A sixteen-piece Climbing Rose china setting? That’s going to be impossible to sell.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice startles me, familiar, yet not. I turn and face the kitchen door and see Julian standing in the entry. His golden-brown hair is tousled, and his blue eyes accusatory. I’d seen him from a distance at the funeral—giving him space during his grief. I’d noticed then that he’s several inches taller than when he left for college, shoulders wider, too. Long gone is the scrawny kid that used to chase me with sand crabs and pinch my calves under the dark water of the Atlantic Ocean.
The person standing before me is a man. Or almost. And he’s very handsome.
“Julian.”
“Collins.” He glances at the notepad in my hand, and over to the matching dining room table that is covered with stacks from two different sets of china. One is a Christmas theme. Mrs. Edge apparently had a thing for dishes; one for each season and holiday. Molly says there may be more in the basement. “Again, what are you doing here?”
“Just making some notes for the sale. I need to figure out exactly what we’re dealing with, what we want to sell, and what needs to be cleaned out.”
He looks around room, like it’s the first time he’s really seen it. An emotion, grief maybe, flickers in his eyes. “Did Molly give you a key?”
“Yes.”
His jaw clenches. “I’d like it back.”
“Julian, I know this is hard, but we’re going to make this process as painless as possible—"
“Collins,” he holds out his hand. “Don’t make me ask again.”
He knows he’s putting me in a tight spot. He understands this business, and what we’re trying to do. He’s worked enough small jobs for my mom over the years. I also know Julian, and despite the aloof, hostile exterior, he’s raw and grieving. He’s also the one that has avoided coming home for weeks. It has to be done.
“Let us help you. You know my mom and the guys all want to do what they can to help you and Molly."
He runs his hand through his hair, eyeing the stacks of newspaper, the piles of mail and the bundles of catalogues down the hall. “When did it get so messy?”
“I don’t know,” I say, watching as he walks over to the carved, wooden mantle and touches a Christmas figurine that was never taken down the prior year. Mrs. Edge was a notorious packrat but had also kept a tidy, clean home. Somewhere along the way, probably after she got sick, things started piling up. “We’ll help you with everything.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s not your job. Molly and I can do it by ourselves.”
“Julian, it’s our job. Literally.”
“Collins, I know you think you’ve got everything under control, and that this is just another one of your jobs, but this is my house. My house. Molly never should have called you because I definitely didn’t give my approval for you, or anyone else, rifling through my mother’s things. Give me my key and get out.”
I step back, shocked at his tone. We’ve never been friends, but because of Miller and our family’s proximity, we
grew up together. And yeah, I may have, at one point in time, had a tiny crush on him. Just like every other girl on Haven Island. The anger lacing his words brings the pin-prick of tears to my eyes. Not because I’m hurt, but because I’m mad.
“Fine,” I say, tossing the notebook on the table. The china rattles. “I don’t want to be here anyway. This was my last job—the last one—and I only agreed to do it as a favor for my mom and your sister. If you’re going to be a jerk about it, then I’ll quit now.” I shake my head, ignoring the angry set of his jaw. “I knew you would be a pain about this. I told Miller—”
“Told Miller what?” my brother says from the doorway. He looks between me and Julian. Julian’s face not only brightens when he sees him but looks a little guilty. “Hey, man. I saw your car. Did you just get here?”
The two guys embrace, like lost soul mates, and I stand to the side, fuming.
“What’s going on?” Miller asks, eyes narrowed.
“Nothing,” we both mumble at the same time.
“Good,” he says, knowing that isn’t the truth. Miller doesn’t accept negative energy, and this room is filled with it right now. He claps Julian on the back. “Let’s get out of here, then. You want to go to the Dive? Get a burger?”
“That sounds great.”
“Collins?” my brother asks.
I roll my eyes. “No thanks,” I step past them. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I’m halfway out the door when Miller calls, “Hey, you left your notebook.”
After Christmas Page 1