“Coincidence,” he said. “Tell you what, Holly’s mom. If you’re so good at communicating from beyond the grave, why don’t you send me a message or two? Or better yet, have my dad send me one. Prove to me this is real and I’ll go back there so fast your freaking heads will spin.”
He sat still a minute, caught himself waiting, watching, listening, looking all around, as if he really expected something to happen.
“Idiot.”
Sighing, he took the bit of pine with its popcorn and cranberry strand off the package, and then he tore the newspapers off it. It was an old cardboard box she’d probably found in the attic. On the front was a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and read, “Thanks. Last night was the best Christmas present I ever got. This gift isn’t the original, but I’ve had it for years, and I always loved it. I thought maybe you’d enjoy it, too.” She’d signed it, “Love, Holly,” and jotted her phone number underneath her name.
If he was smart, he’d crumple that paper up and toss it out the window.
But he wasn’t smart, because he folded it and tucked it into his pocket instead.
Then he took the lid off the box.
Inside was a hat. An old, black felt fedora.
His throat closed off. He couldn’t even breathe for a second. And he thought his hand was shaking as he picked the hat up out of the box and turned it slowly in his hands. My God, it was exactly—maybe a little more worn but—no. It wasn’t the same hat. Of course it wasn’t. But it was so like that old hat that lived in his memory—so very much like it that he couldn’t help himself.
He turned it over, and looked at the tag that was sewn into the lining.
The initials were there. Faded, barely readable, but there. His father’s initials.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, but right then, Matthew came close. His eyes were burning and so blurry that he could barely see. Because if this wasn’t a sign, if this wasn’t some kind of magic, he didn’t know what was. He lifted his head, and whispered, “Dad?”
A truck pulled into the parking lot beside him. It was an orange truck and the men inside looked to be a road crew. There were signs in the back. One, the one facing him that caught his eye, read, “WRONG WAY. GO BACK.”
A smile split his face. He nodded hard. “All right, Dad. I’m going.”
He put the hat on his head, almost laughing out loud as he adjusted it to the same cocky tilt his dad always used. Then he turned the car around, and headed north on I-81.
HOLLY CRIED UNTIL SHE WAS SPENT, AND THEN SHE PICKED herself up, told herself to stop being pathetic, and to do her best to enjoy Christmas. For her mom’s sake, she could do that.
She decorated her tree, stringing the popcorn and cranberry garland all over it, and topping it with a foil-and-cardboard star. At 4 p.m. the power came back on. She set her table—an upturned crate in front of the sofa, topped with a bath towel for a tablecloth. She’d brought some real china for the occasion, even had two tall taper candles, one red, one green, in crystal holders to add the finishing touch. And wineglasses, one of which she filled.
Her holiday dinner was keeping warm in the oven. Turkey breast, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, mixed veggies, squash, and pumpkin pie. It was more than one person could hope to eat. More than four or five could probably manage, but she would try to do it justice.
But first, as long as the power was on, she decided to take a long, hot shower, and put on the dress she’d brought along. She always dressed for the holiday. And this one would be no different.
The shower was soothing, but she battled loneliness through the whole thing. If only Matthew would have stayed one more night. If only he would have celebrated Christmas with her.
Oh, but he was right. One more night would have only left her wanting another, and another, and more after that. It was probably better he left when he did.
She lingered in the bathroom, dried her hair, put on makeup and high heels. It was Christmas, after all. She donned the long red dress. It was pretty, slinky and clingy.
And then she opened the bathroom door and heard music. She blinked, wondering if she’d left the radio on, or if her mother was getting even more talented in cross-plane communications. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was playing on the radio. It brought a teary smile to her face.
She walked slowly down the stairs, humming along, and stepped into the living room. All of her food was on the makeshift table. Her candles were lit, and the other lights were turned off.
Matthew was standing by the fire, staring at the flames, sipping a glass of wine. The hat was perched on his head. She froze, just stood there, staring at him, wondering if he was some kind of an illusion. When he looked up and saw her, he set the wineglass on the mantle.
“I’d have been back sooner, but I had a stop to make.”
She wanted to rush into his arms. She wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to kiss his face off. But she forced herself to wait, to walk slowly to him, and not touch him. Not yet.
He took the hat off and said, “Where did you get this, Holly?”
“From my Aunt Sheila. She got it from a homeless man who used to frequent the diner. He found it rolling down the street, he said. I’ve always liked quirky things like that, so she gave it to me.” She shrugged. “When you told me about your dad’s hat, I thought this might be like it, so—”
“It’s not just like my dad’s hat. Holly, this is my dad’s hat.”
She blinked. “I don’t—”
“He put his initials inside. They’re there. This is the same hat.”
She pressed her fingers to her lips.
“I think it’s a sign. I mean, how could my dad’s hat make its way from Flint, Michigan, to here? Why would it end up with you? Unless…somehow, we were…meant to…”
“Meant to…what?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But I know I want to find out.” He handed her a card, in a large envelope, and she opened it. A couple of kids, a boy and a girl, building a snowman was on the front. She opened it and read the inside. “You’re why I love Christmas,” it read.
Her tears spilled over, and she flung herself into his arms.
“I want to buy this house,” he told her, holding her close. “But not to flip it. I want us to fix it up together, and spend time here together, and just…just see where things lead.”
“You mean you don’t know where they’re going to lead?”
He stared into her eyes, searching them. “Do you?”
She smiled. “Yeah. We’re going to live happily ever after.”
He smiled slowly as he lowered his mouth to hers. “Okay.”
CHARLOTTE’S WEB
Erin McCarthy
One
“I JUST HAVE ONE QUESTION,” WILL THORNTON SAID CASUALLY as he stood on a ladder and nailed fresh evergreen swags above Charlotte Murphy’s front door.
“What?” Charlotte dragged her gaze off the seat of Will’s jeans with a significant amount of effort, refusing to feel guilty. Lord, Will was slow sometimes. Her arms were straining under the weight of the boughs she was holding for him and her feet were getting cold in a hurry. Checking out the view he provided at eye level from his position on the ladder was fair compensation for the discomfort she was enduring.
“Who just grabbed my ass?”
Charlotte almost fell off the front step. “What? What are you talking about?” Okay, so maybe she had entertained the idea once—or nine hundred times—of cupping his backside and giving a nice, hard little squeeze, but she would never act on it. Probably. She was pretty sure. But definitely if she did, she would know it. Savor it. Make it count.
“Someone just copped a feel, and since I can see you out of the corner of my eye, and your hands are full, I was just wondering if you could tell whoever did it that it’s not wise to grope a man on a ladder, unless she wants me to break my neck.”