Maggie Shayne - An Enchanted Season

And yet, she couldn’t help it.

Leaning back against the door, she waited until she heard the Porsche start up and pull slowly away. And then she cried her eyes out.

HE MANAGED TO DRIVE FOR ABOUT TWO HOURS BEFORE HEhad to stop for gas and food and to kick himself a little more thoroughly than he had been for the last hundred miles. What the hell was wrong with him? He was fighting the most irrational urge to turn the damn car around and go racing back there. And what good would that do? It wasn’t like there was any future for the two of them. It wasn’t like you could meet someone and fall in love in freaking twenty-four hours. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real.

Okay, maybe it felt possible. But that was nonsense. You couldn’t form the basis of a relationship in one day. You couldn’t . It just didn’t happen. There was no such thing as love at first sight. Maybe infatuation. Maybe great sex even, but not love.

It didn’t happen. And there were no signs, and he was not meant to be with her. It was all coincidence. That’s all. Coincidence.

He sat in the car outside the diner, where he’d stopped for a quick lunch. He had an hour to spare before his flight, and only a few more minutes to the airport. But for some asinine reason, he couldn’t convince himself to go inside. Not just yet. He was eyeing the box, the gift Holly had given him, and knowing that he wasn’t going to get out of that car until he opened it. Because he was wallowing in feeling guilty for hurting her, and the gift, whatever it was, would certainly make him feel even worse, so he might as well take it.

Love at first sight. Bullshit. And this was just one more Christmas to add to the list of horrible ones. One more pile of the romantic crap people heaped on the holidays. If it hadn’t been Christmas, she might not have been quite so vulnerable.

It was like she thought her mother had delivered him to her as a Christmas present. The way she did the tree.

And how about that tree, anyway? She said there would be one, and then there was. How the hell did that work out?

“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 PICKEDherself 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.”