"No, no." April ran a hand through that mass of dark hair and it fell back around her neck and shoulders, glossy and thick. "Look, I'm sorry for barging in. I'm the producer of the show Holiday Homes. I was sent out here to solidify locations in Singletree to feature on the Christmas show, and your house is at the top of our list. Someone should have spoken to you already, and my executive producer says the contract was signed long ago, but maybe since you're just moving in …"
Frustration made my head pound. A contract? A television show? She had to be kidding. "No thanks."
"Mr. Whitewood, you bought the oldest and most historic house in town—the place was a plantation manor in the seventeen hundreds, and it's a critical part of the area's history. There's only one other house here with the same merits, history, and charm, and the woman who owns it ran our producers off her land with a shotgun in one hand and a joint in the other when they made their initial site visits. Your house is it, and featuring it on the show is a way to honor that incredible legacy, and if everyone I've talked to in town so far is right, the show won't be complete without it. The real estate agent my predecessor worked with promised us she'd spoken to you about it and that you signed the show contract, agreeing to be featured."
I scanned my foggy memory. Jessica had said something about decorating, or holidays … I hadn't paid much attention once I’d had the keys. Still, no one could barge in and force me to hang tinsel in my own house. I shook my head, "I didn't sign a contract that I recall, and I'm pretty sure I just told you no thanks." I moved around April, hoping that if I started walking down the stairs, she might follow, and it would put an end to this ridiculous conversation. I came here to get out of a spotlight, not to shine one directly inside my home.
April followed me down the stairs. "Look," she tried again, but I didn't stop limping toward the exit. "It's just that, I mean ... I'm kind of in a bad situation." Her voice softened, and I could hear that she wasn't trying to sell anything now. She sounded legitimately sad, and I hated the way my blood warmed in some misplaced protective instinct. I faced her, against my better judgment. "It's kind of my last chance, this show ... and well, if I can't feature your house, I'm pretty sure I'll lose my job." The bright eyes glistened as she stopped on the bottom stair, turning and looking back at me, her pretty lips pressed together.
I chuckled as I realized she was definitely still selling me—this was just another tactic. She was good, I thought. I almost believed her, not that it would have changed my mind. I was about to say something that would probably have been less than friendly when her face seemed to crumple, but then she quickly regained composure, pushing a hand through that incredible hair once more.
"I'm so sorry. That—that last part—that shouldn't make a difference. That's my problem, and clearly, I just need to do a better job explaining things, and—"
"No," I said, wondering now how much of her explanation was an act and how much was real. "Look, it has nothing to do with you. And I'm sure it's a great show and everything, okay? It's just that I'm really trying to keep my life private right now," I said. "To keep a low profile. You understand? I'll talk to a lawyer if I need to. I was kind of on autopilot when I signed all the paperwork, so whatever I signed—well, I'll just get it undone. I'm sorry for the confusion."
We stood on the bottom step of the grand sweeping staircase, and the movers came in and out the big front door ahead of us, carrying furniture and boxes. The sounds of scraping and shifting floated through the air along with the damp fecund smell of moist leaves littering the ground outside. April stared at me for a long moment, her eyes piercing the shield I’d been working impossibly hard to maintain as I felt a little piece of my wall shatter and fall, and then she nodded quickly. "I get it. I do."
She stepped down the final step and looked back up at me, her bright eyes glowing again. "But you should know I don't give up easily."
"The gate out front isn't usually standing wide open, you know."
She peered out the front door at the iron gate standing open at the entrance of my driveway. "I think I can scale it. I'm pretty athletic." She winked at me and then strode to the open door, turning. "See you again soon!"
That simple statement should have irritated me—I hated it when people wouldn't take no for an answer—and it did bother me, a little bit. But it also struck me like a promise, and despite the many promises broken in my life lately, I couldn't help feeling a little flicker of hope that April might keep hers. Even if I had no intention of being on her show, I wouldn't mind seeing her again.
3
There is Such a Thing as Too Much Cheer
April
I returned to the Inn that Christmas ate, only slightly demoralized by my less-than-successful attempt to confirm the most important home on the list. At least I’d had no issues with the other two homeowners I’d visited. They'd been friendly and almost too excited about the whole thing. I was shuffling papers into my bag as I entered the inn, wishing I’d paid more attention to my mother's organizing tips, when Annabelle at the front desk called out for me.
"Oh, Miss Hall!"
The front desk was an explosion of cheer now that the lobby décor was finished, and Annabelle wore an elf hat and a little white collar with peppermints fastened to the points that draped around her shoulders and chest. I approached, unable to stop my mouth from dropping open as I got a good look at my hostess. Annabelle's ears were usually hidden by the soft short gray curls that framed her face, but today they were visible. And they were pointed, like an elf's. Only upon closer inspection could I see the lines around the prosthetic additions to the woman's natural ears.
"Aren't they marvelous?" Annabelle raised a hand to touch the pointy tip of one ear.
I smiled to keep myself from laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. "They are something," I agreed.
"I have something special for you," Annabelle said, reaching beneath the counter and producing a huge gingerbread house on a foil-covered tray, dotted with gumdrops and candy canes and absolutely screaming of Christmas cheer.
"That's ... for me?" I stared at the thing, which was easily as large as my overnight bag.
"The third graders had a field trip to the corner cafe today and they all worked together to make this in honor of the show coming to Singletree." Annabelle said, her smile wide and open. "Everyone's just so excited about it."
"Not everyone," I said, before I could stop myself.
Annabelle's smile faded and she shook her head a touch, as if trying to imagine who in the world wouldn't be excited about my insane holiday spectacle of a show. Her eyebrows pulled together.
"Is something wrong, dear?" Annabelle set the house on the reception counter.
I hadn't actually meant to confide in Annabelle, and a little spike of fear edged through me, accelerating my heartbeat. I needed to walk a fine line producing this show. I couldn't break any rules, couldn't even slip a toe into the rule-breaking pool. I needed to pretend that pool wasn't even there, not even spare a glance at any rule-breaking skinny dippers who might be cavorting over there, trying to coax me toward the swim-up bar. So I wondered, was confiding in an innkeeper about a difficult host breaking a rule? "It's not a big deal. Just ran into a little reluctance today over at Singletree Manor."
Annabelle drew in a sharp breath. "Oh. Him." Her expression soured.
"Do you know Mr. Whitewood?" I suddenly realized I might be able to enlist some help if I could find someone in town who Callan Whitewood might listen to.
"No," the older woman shook her head. "I just can't believe this town let someone like that buy our grandest home. That place holds half the history of Singletree. The town was practically born there. The man who built Singletree Manor—Mr. Joseph Calvin—planted the tree in the town square that gave our town its name."
I called up a quick mental image of the town square I’d driven past yesterday, and remembered the large tree around which the rest of the square seemed to be arranged. Then my mind fastened
to the other thing Annabelle had just said. "What do you mean, 'someone like that'?"
Annabelle leaned over the counter, her voice dropping to a whisper. "A playboy. A sports star." She scowled, looking like someone had just eaten one of the cookies she'd set out for Santa.
I felt my eyebrows climb. Callan Whitewood was a sports star? He'd practically tripped going down the stairs, and though I’d never point it out, the man had a very pronounced limp and a terrible attitude. What sport could he have played? Maybe he played horseshoes or some other sport most people didn't follow. Like shuffleboard. Or sheep rolling. I’d heard that was a thing in the tiny island country of Durnland. “Is that right?"
"Word is he's retired now, but he made plenty of noise and trouble when he was a big important soccer star."
Soccer. I thought back to the solid presence of the man I’d met—he wasn't especially tall, but he did look strong. I had tried to focus on the work of convincing him to let me use his house for the show, but that hadn't stopped me from noticing the soft dark hair tousled on his head or the soulful chocolate brown eyes. Now that I thought about it, I felt like maybe I had seen him before. My mind ticked and whirred, and suddenly I could picture a billboard standing over the 405 Freeway, one I passed most days on my way to work. When I brought it up in my mind, I realized it was Callan Whitewood's moody gaze and bare muscled chest under which I had driven every single day. It had been a year or two ago, and another player had replaced him there recently, but I remembered those eyes. "Huh," I said, understanding clicking into place as I recalled him saying something about knowing who he was. "Kind of full of himself, maybe."
"Most likely," Annabelle agreed with the sentiment I hadn't meant to speak out loud. "Those types always are. His brother is nice enough, though."
"You know his brother?" I found it hard to fathom there could be another man from the same gene pool that had produced someone as handsome as Callan Whitewood.
"He lives here too. He's a quiet type though, family man. He's the reason that playboy came to town, though, so my opinion of Mr. Cormac Whitewood has dropped a bit."
I nodded. Maybe I’d just been given a new way to approach this problem. "Thanks, Annabelle." I turned and headed for the stairs, purposely forgetting the gingerbread monstrosity.
"Don't worry about the gingerbread house," Annabelle called after her. "Andrew can bring it up to your room for you,"
"Great," I called over my shoulder, hoping Annabelle didn't hear the flat note of sarcasm in my voice. I climbed the stairs and entered my room, preparing for a quick round of Google stalking on the Whitewood brothers.
* * *
I was just settling in with my laptop on the table before me and a hot cup of hotel-room coffee in my hand when my phone rang. I checked the screen and my stomach dropped upon seeing Uncle Rob’s name on the screen. I set down my coffee, took a deep breath, and pressed the speakerphone button. "Uncle Rob!"
"Hey April, just checking in. How's Appletree?"
"It's Singletree, actually, and things are going well." My voice held a bright note that sounded false and foreign to my own ears. I hoped Uncle Rob wouldn't notice.
"Right. Singletree." I heard the clack of a keyboard and realized Rob was distracted. Which was normal. "So you've got all the homes on board? The production team arrives in a couple more days to get started staging and filming."
"I'm working my way down Juliann's list," I said, planning to check in with the last two homeowners in the next day or two and make sure they were on board.
"And we're all set with the feature spot? That big plantation Jules was so excited about?"
I leaned back in my chair, pulling my long hair into one hand and dropping it over my shoulder. "That house has recently been sold," I said. "I visited with the new owner, but he'd barely moved in. He didn't think he'd signed the contract, and I'm not sure he's very interested in—"
"I'll stop you there. We're not inviting the guy to prom, April. He doesn't have to be interested. Someone signed the contract and we're paying this guy—handsomely, by the way—for the use of his house for a couple hours. Get him in line. Without the plantation, there's a lawsuit ahead of us and no show in Silvertree."
"Singletree."
"No show. That house is the anchor. There’s a whole hour of House or Spouse reruns queued up in case this goes off the rails." His voice was dark, and I felt the threat percolate in my stomach. No show meant no job. No job meant I would likely be done working in television. For good.
"I'll get him," I promised, Callan Whitewood's dark eyes flashing through my mind. I would get him. I had to. I just had no idea how.
4
Hanging with Elves
Callan
When the front gate buzzed, I cursed my ankle and the size of this house. It took me a full five minutes to get from the master bedroom upstairs down to the front door to answer the buzzer and open the gate. Luckily, I figured, I probably wouldn't have many visitors since I didn't know anyone in town. I could share the gate code with Cormac. If I could remember it. Seven-six something? I wasn't sure, but since I hadn't left the house since getting to town, it hadn't mattered.
I pulled the front door open and watched Cormac guide his super-duty truck around the fountain in the center of my driveway.
"This," Cormac said, hopping down from the silver truck and waving a hand to indicate the house and yard, "is pretty fantastic."
I tried for a smile as I stood on the front porch and waited for my brother to open the back doors of the cab. As soon as he had, a curly blond head appeared and big wide blue eyes took me in as Cormac swung the little girl down and set her on the driveway. My other niece hopped out behind her, and held her book in the air by way of greeting. "Uncle Callan!"
Madison and Taylor were beautiful little girls—probably because Cormac's wife had been beautiful—and I had always enjoyed spoiling them. Now Maddie trundled toward me at top speed on chubby legs, her wide three-year old smile melting some of the ice inside me as I stepped down the wide stairs to catch her, scooping her into my arms.
"Hey Maddie," I said, hugging the little girl tight and then opening an arm and bending down to hug Taylor, too. "Hey gorgeous."
At three and six, the girls were beginning to become their own people, and I loved noticing all the ways they changed between visits. They were a big part of the reason I’d chosen Singletree—the girls, and my brother, Cormac.
"Come on in, guys." I gave my brother a nod over Taylor's head, and we all went into the big house, where most of my things still sat in boxes. The place had a musty smell I hadn't noticed before.
"Love what you've done with the place," Cormac joked. "Planning to actually move in, or is this just a stop on your way to something better?"
The words stung. Cormac was the older brother, but I had had always felt the bite of his jealousy as my soccer career had developed and then exploded. Dad had been a huge sports fan, and my natural athleticism had pulled an unequal amount of his focus, probably leaving Cormac feeling abandoned at times.
"I'm staying," I said, leading the little group to the back porch, where I had actually arranged furniture and put down an outdoor rug. "Come hang out." I waved at a chair for my brother and put Maddie down on the porch next to her sister, who had already climbed into a chair and opened her book in her lap. It was unseasonably warm for late November, and the porch caught a light breeze coming up off the river.
"Maddie," Cormac said, catching the little girl's attention as she climbed down the big steps to explore the wide grassy expanse behind the house. "Stay up here where I can see you. Don't go down to the water."
Maddie nodded and then turned to stare at the Potomac sliding quietly by at the bottom of the long rolling hill. "Big water," she remarked, and then began turning circles on the grass just beyond the porch, her arms extended outward and her head tilted back at the bright blue sky.
"The girls look good," I said. I examined my brother's face, taking in the dark c
ircles beneath his eyes, the drawn cheeks. "You look less good. You okay?"
Cormac sighed and gave me a half smile before turning his gaze to the water. "I still miss her. Every day." He whispered it, as if he didn't want Taylor to hear, but then cleared his throat and spoke more loudly. "We're managing. It's hard."
"I'm so sorry, Mac. Linda was a great catch. I miss her too."
I watched my older brother swallow hard at the mention of his late wife, his eyes dropping shut for a long moment and then clearing. Linda had died suddenly just over a year before, of an aneurysm. It was shocking and horrible, and Cormac had been devastated. From what I could tell, he hadn't recovered.
Cormac cleared his throat and turned his attention to me. "What's your plan here, Callan? What are you going to do? This is a small town—not a big market for former sports stars."
"Happy enough to leave all that behind," I said, though it was more what I wished than what was true. "Beyond just getting this house set up, staying out of the spotlight, I don't really have plans."
"How'd the team take the news?"
"The Sharks have plenty going on without me. Just brought on two hotshots recently. Some guy they're calling the 'fire' and another guy who talks more like a computer geek than a pro striker. But he is pretty good, I guess. Max Winchell." I didn't like the way the names of my replacements felt coming out of my mouth. The Sharks had been my team for a good run, and walking away had been difficult. Especially because walking was difficult. I didn't really walk away. I limped away. All the more reason to leave.
"You're gonna get bored."
I shrugged. My life had been the opposite of boring for so long, I didn't know if my brother was right, or if it would be good to have a break. "Want a drink?"
Shaking the Sleigh: Seasons in Singletree Page 3