I didn't want to hear any more about how Callan felt betrayed, about how I’d used him. "I know. But he didn't bother to listen to my side of things. I'm upset too," I said, almost accusingly. "And I'm going to lose my job because of it."
Cormac's eyebrows went up, but he didn't comment on this. "He knows he screwed up." This was delivered quietly, as if Cormac was waiting to see how I would react before telling me more.
If it had been Callan sitting here, I figured, then maybe it'd be worth rehashing. But I didn't know if it was worth talking things over with his brother. "Well none of it matters now. I'm going home tonight, I'll find a new job, and this insanity will be behind us both."
"Right," Cormac said, sounding doubtful. "That sounds simple."
I squinted at him, partly annoyed at him because he was the one who’d suggested I get close to Callan in the first place. "Does everyone in this town feel like everything is their business all the time?"
"Pretty much," he said. "But my brother is my business. He needs to meet someone, settle down. I thought you might be the one."
"Um." I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, part of me wanting to open up to Cormac, and part of me a little put off that he was being so upfront about something that I felt should be private. "Clearly not."
He waved a hand, as if to dismiss that idea. "Misunderstanding."
"He won't even listen to me explain," I said, starting to feel angry now. Lottie came over with a coffee pot and a menu just then and leaned in with a smile.
"How are things with Callan?" she asked, a conspiratorial grin on her face.
"They've had a fight," Cormac told her.
Lottie's eyebrows shot up. "A fight? Oh no. What about?"
My head went back and forth between these two near-strangers as they discussed my most recent life disaster as if they were a part of my immediate family. This town was full of insufferable busybodies on top of the ludicrous devotion to the worst holiday on record. It would be refreshing to get back to Los Angeles where everyone just minded their own business.
Except.
Except it wouldn't. Being left alone wasn't actually what I wanted, not if I was being honest with myself.
An hour later, I had an empty plate in front of me and had told Lottie and Cormac the whole story. Even Helen had pulled her chair nearer, and she snorted in a somewhat sympathetic fashion now and then.
Lottie was about to say something when my phone rang, and I lifted it to see who was calling. Uncle Rob. I swallowed hard, fear and worry rising in my throat. This meant he'd probably seen the footage then, or at least been told I didn't comply with his request. I excused myself and went to the corner of the bakery to take the call.
"Hi Uncle Rob," I said.
"I'm disappointed, kiddo," he said. I was about to explain, but my uncle cut me off. "I was skeptical when I gave you the shot, honey, and I know now I should've listened to my gut. You're too soft for television, April. It's just … well, it's not going to work out." He paused, but I was too busy trying not to cry to get a word in. I’d known it was coming, but it still hurt. "I wanted to help out," he went on. "You and your mom have had a rough road. And you're family, so …"
I had just opened my mouth when he dove back in.
"But there's a point where business is business."
I waited, but it seemed that was the extent of Uncle Rob's 'you’re fired' speech. "Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"I expected this call. It's fine." As I said the words, my tears dissolving somewhere inside me, unshed, I was surprised to find that it actually was fine.
He paused, and I suspected that a man like Rob, who thrived on confrontation, was somewhat let down by this. "Oh, well. All right then. Merry Christmas, April."
"You too," I said, hanging up.
I turned back around, and nearly jumped backward into the plate glass window. Helen was standing just behind me, looking interested, her light blue eyes fixed on my face. "Fired, are you?"
"Yes."
"Television?" Helen asked, looking weirdly interested. "Production, right?"
"Yes," I said, wondering where this particular line of questioning was going.
"Well, no one listens to old ladies, I know that. But Ryan's got a new production company, and he's been struggling to find anyone with any experience here in Maryland. I could introduce you. For a price."
A little trickle of shock worked its way through my system. "Um, what?"
Helen sighed as if barely tolerating my lack of understanding. "My soon to be grandson in law, Ryan McDonnell? Maybe you've heard of him?"
"Ryan McDonnell?" I parroted. "The movie star?"
"Helen, that's a great idea!" Lottie had rushed to her friend's side and was grinning from ear to ear. "And then you don't have to leave at all, dear," she told me.
It was like the town was trying to adopt me or something. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant feeling, actually. "Um, sure, I mean … I'd love to talk to him about it."
"Right." Helen whipped an iPhone from inside the pocket of her sweat suit and wandered away, barking into the phone.
"You should go ahead and cancel your flight, dear," Lottie told her.
I met Cormac's eyes over the older woman's head, and he smiled and shrugged. "Once you've been absorbed into Singletree, it's pretty hard to get out," he said. "That's how I ended up here."
Lottie went to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder. "And we're keeping you," she said. "Even if your brother is a moron."
"He's had a rough time, Lottie," Cormac said. "We all have."
Her face softened and she patted his shoulder. "I know, honey."
"Ryan's on his way!" Helen announced, seating herself next to Cormac's table again and giving me a meaningful look. "Now, about the price."
I felt like my world was spinning out of control. Hadn't I come in here to get a muffin? And now suddenly, I was supposed to cancel my flight and meet a movie star? "Oh, okay, well …" I reached for my purse.
"I don't want your money," Helen barked. "But Juliet and Ryan won't hook me up with any of the California-grade weed you've got out there. I don't suppose you have any connections, do you?"
I actually felt my jaw drop open.
"Oh for fuck's sake, everyone's a prude," Helen said, sliding off the high stool and shuffling back to the counter. "I need another brownie, Lottie. None of them have had pot in them so far, but I'm willing to keep looking."
Cormac began packing up his computer, shuffling things into his messenger bag. "Well, I need to go get the girls," he said. Then he fixed me with a stern look. "You're staying then, right? At least you're not leaving today?"
My head was spinning. "I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Join the club," he said, pulling on his coat. "This is a good place to be lost though, I promise. Don't leave tonight, okay?"
I watched him leave, pulling his phone from his pocket as he went out the door and calling someone on the sidewalk as he walked away, head down against the wind. I had about fifteen minutes of relative silence during which I tried to figure out what to do, when the door opened again, and my day got even weirder.
“Hello,” the movie star said, coming in the door and stamping his feet on the mat to get the snow off. "Hey Lottie, Gran." He fixed his famous icy blue eyes on me. "You're April?"
I nodded as Ryan McDonnell sat down in the seat Cormac had just vacated.
"Let's talk about production," he said, and I decided to just give myself over to the strangeness of Singletree.
22
Wizarding Dickens
Callan
I had to admit that I’d been ready to give up. I’d allowed myself to be a little bit defeatist, spending the day after April had filmed my house feeling sorry for myself and grumbling around my big empty house. But when Cormac called and told me she wasn't leaving town immediately, it seemed like maybe it was time to slap myself around a bit and get to work.
Cormac's words helped too.
"No one else
is going to set up your life for you, bro. You'll have to actually do something."
It was true. For years, other people had pretty much set up my life. Soccer had come naturally to me, and when the scout had seen me play in high school, it really had felt like everything just happened after that. College, more scouts, my agent—they'd all arranged things so I really didn't need to think too much. I’d just had to do what I loved, and continue doing it well.
Until I couldn't.
But now? Now my brother was right. There were no more scouts, no agents coming to make me offers that were too good to be true. I’d have to take some responsibility. And though the realization was a little bit scary, it was also exciting.
And I was going to start with April. But I’d need a little help.
I was on the phone most of the day, and by that night, everything was in place. The only thing left to do was to see if I could get April to cooperate, and Annabelle promised she would help with that.
The call came earlier than I was expecting, and I was glad. "So she's in for the night?" I asked Annabelle, my heart rising into my throat.
"Yes. She said she has a lot to think about and after eating muffins all day at the bakery she didn't want dinner."
"Are you ready?" My heart was beating furiously, and I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans.
"I think so," Annabelle said. "I had Andrew set up the television like you said. Hopefully this will work!"
"If everyone plays their parts, it will," I said. "Though I have no idea how April will react." I tried to imagine her face—the last time I’d seen her she’d been so closed, so cold. A spike of fear shot through me. What if this didn’t work? What if I’d been reading it all wrong?
"Really?" Annabelle sounded skeptical of my doubt. "She's in love with you, Callan Whitewood. I'm sure of it."
Even hearing Annabelle say it made my heart rise with hope. "She's mad at me though."
"She won't be able to stay mad after this," Annabelle said.
"I hope not."
"I better go," Annabelle said. "I'll see you when you get here."
I was already dressed and all I needed were my car keys. I flicked on the Christmas lights, took one long last look at Christopher the tree, which would always remind him of April, and went out.
The drive to the Candlestick Inn had me feeling nervous and worried. The slick roads around town didn't help either. Winter had well and truly arrived, in the form of freezing temperatures and black ice. I wondered absently if we’d be having a real white Christmas, but I cleared my head of that thought. I couldn't think about Christmas yet—I was too busy working on today.
I parked and went inside, meeting Annabelle at the desk.
"Is this ridiculous?" I asked, suddenly doubting every bit of planning I’d done all day and wondering if it wouldn’t be better just to go back home.
"No," she said, and the way she drew out the word told me she meant it. "No, this is perfect. She is in the Dickens Suite, after all."
"Maybe she'll just be more angry at me for bothering her." I was trying on the words, but they didn't feel true.
"Quit being a pansy. Do you have the recording?" Annabelle's blue eyes glittered with excitement, and I found a fondness for her growing inside me. Even if she was a little over-enthusiastic about the holidays. She waved me toward a table at the edge of the lobby next to a severe-looking nutcracker soldier, and after disentangling one of her alarmingly upright pony tails from the statue's rifle, she sat down across from me. "Andrew says once you're on the network, you'll be able to see all the devices you can cast to. Hers is 'Dickens.'"
"Okay," I said. "Yes, I see it here."
"Be ready to go," Annabelle warned. "As soon as you take control, whatever is playing on your phone will be on her screen."
"Man, I hope she isn't in the bathtub or anything."
"Oh!" Annabelle hopped up again and scooted back behind the desk, picking up the phone and making a call. She grinned and nodded as she spoke, and then gave me a thumbs up.
"What did you do?"
"I told her we'd had some frogs get into the plumbing and that the guy was here getting them out but that it was important no one takes a shower or a bath for a while."
I was pretty sure that was not a legitimate plumbing problem experienced by hotels. "She believed that?"
"She sounded a little skeptical, but said she wasn't planning to take a bath or shower right now."
"Good." I flicked through my phone, setting up the video so I could easily hit play. I did not need to be thinking about April in the shower or bathtub at the moment, and told my overeager wizarding staff as much. Internally, of course.
The clock struck seven, and I connected to April's television, hit play, and held my breath.
23
Ghost of Christmas Glitter
April
I was sitting on the edge of my bed with my legal pad in my hands and the House Hunters marathon on television in front of me. It was time for a pro/con list, and I had every intention of working on it, but after the insanity in the bakery, I was a little drained. Still, when you were offered your dream job by Ryan McDonnell less than an hour after being fired from your not-dream job, you thought pretty seriously about moving across the country.
But that would have her moving into the town where Callan lived.
And given that he was a stubborn jerk, that could be bad.
I wished my heart would quit jumping around like an over-eager puppy, telling me it would be good instead. Of course Singletree wasn’t only about Callan now, though he weighed heavily on my mind. But I also thought about Annabelle, Lottie and Helen, Cormac and the girls and all the other people I’d met and fallen in love with since I’d come here. Maybe I could live here without ever seeing Callan?
I was just about to begin the list when House Hunters went dead. And something else came on my screen. Some ONE else.
Callan.
"Hi April," he said, looking handsome and perfect as he sat in an armchair next to the soaring Christmas tree in his parlor. What the hell was happening? Why was Callan on my television? Was I having some kind of moonshine-inspired hallucination? I shook my head, but he was still there, eyes deep and dark as ever, boring into me. Could he see me?
"Um, hi?"
Callan's voice cut off my response, and I realized with some relief that he couldn't hear me. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing on your television. Especially because I think you're pretty angry with me right now."
"Yeah, I am," I said, though my voice lacked conviction. Mostly, I just wished I could rewind a couple days and live forever in the time I’d spent at his house, in his arms, in his warm soft bed.
"First," he said, that deep voice rich and smooth enough to make my ovaries stand to attention. "First, I owe you an apology. I should have given you a chance to explain the second contract instead of jumping to conclusions. Cormac told me you lost your job because of it. And I'm sorry. But we can talk about that later."
I couldn't believe what was happening. He'd hijacked my television to give me a half-assed apology?
"I'm here now to give you a warning. Kind of a warning. More of an announcement. Or an alert?" Callan seemed to be struggling for words. "I don't know what to call it. I'm just telling you something. To prepare you. So what is that called? An announcement, I guess. Dammit, I'm rambling. This isn't good at all." He dropped his gaze from the camera for a second and seemed to be thinking. He looked back up. "I'll just get on with it." He took a breath and leaned forward, his face serious.
I felt myself lean forward in response.
"Tonight you'll be visited by three ghosts," Callan said, and I couldn't help the snort-laugh that escaped my lips. Was this A Christmas Carol? Three ghosts? I looked around my suite. It was the Dickens Suite, after all.
"First," Callan said. "You'll see the ghost of Christmas past."
Callan's image flickered away and was replaced by footage of snow falling.
My
heart was beating very rapidly, and I forced myself to take a few deep breaths, to calm down. What was he doing? And was he going to let me watch House Hunters or not? I put the pad and pencil aside on the bed and stood up, but the face that appeared on my screen next had me sitting back down. Hard.
"Hi honey." Someone I hadn't seen in years appeared on my screen, sitting in a folding chair in front of a window through which was a bright green lawn and a blue sky. His face carried more wrinkles than it had the last time I’d seen it—which had been more than twenty years ago now—and he was thinner than I remembered him. A churn started low in my gut as my father continued to speak. "It's a little early, I guess, but I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas."
"Bastard," I whispered through my teeth. I wanted to turn him off, to smash the television, to make him stop talking. How dare he tell me merry Christmas? He'd been the one to singlehandedly ensure I’d never have a merry Christmas again.
"Listen April. I know you're angry with me. I know you have been for years. Since that night …" He had the grace to drop his eyes to his hands. He looked back up at me, and his eyes were shining, pleading. "Since the night I left," he said, voice stronger now despite the unshed tears standing in his eyes. "I wanted to come back for you so many times, I can't even tell you. Second-guessed myself a million times after I left. And the timing … honey, I know the timing was awful." He shook his head.
I sat frozen on the edge of my bed, my hands in my lap. I was surprised to feel a drop of wetness land on my thumb. My father had left almost twenty years before, and he still had the power to make me cry. Why was Callan showing me this?
"The thing I need to say to you, April, is this. I don't ask your forgiveness, I know you can't give me that. I don't ask you for anything, but maybe an effort to understand. Things between your mother and I—well, they weren't good. They had never really been good, if you want the truth, but none of this was her fault. We'd been struggling, and it all came to a head that night. I don't know if you're old enough now that you can understand this, but …" he dropped his eyes again, maybe struggling for words. "Relationships can be hard," he continued. "Sometimes they get complicated and so layered with hurt and resentment that you lose the thread. You lose the reason why you were together in the first place, and everything just feels like hurt and anger. And that's where your mother and I were. But we had you. And so we stayed together. For a long time."
Shaking the Sleigh: Seasons in Singletree Page 22