Hope for the Holidays: a Christmas novella (A Hope Springs Novel Book 6) Read online

  HOPE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

  a Hope Springs novella

  Alison Kent

  Also in the Hope Springs series

  The Second Chance Café

  Beneath the Patchwork Moon

  The Sweetness of Honey

  Bliss and the Art of Forever

  The Comfort of Favorite Things

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 Alison Kent

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to locales, events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Developmental editing: Kivrin Wilson

  Line and copy editing: Jessica Poore

  Proofreading: Victory Editing

  Cover design: Covers by Combs

  Image Copyright: YuriyZhuravov BIGSTOCK™

  A Note to My Readers

  A year ago, almost to the day of this publication, I started writing about Cary Browning. I don’t know where he came from, or where I found Cilla, but there they were, fully formed and intriguing. A couple with a history that wasn’t a romance. Or much of a friendship even. A couple who came with secrets and baggage which I figured out along the way. I liked them.

  At that time in my life, my husband and I were living on the second floor of our home along with my daughter and her husband and our household zoo: four dogs (and a fifth temporary foster) and nine cats. The first floor of the house had been destroyed by Hurricane Harvey’s flooding.

  My husband and son-in-law were doing the rebuilding themselves. The noise made working very difficult. Then there was the fact that we’d lost so much and were making do in the meantime... a donated bed, thrift store clothes, an office converted to a bedroom. An upstairs bedroom converted to a kitchen and pantry with a dorm-sized fridge, a microwave, and a toaster oven.

  But it was okay. We were happy. We replaced our washer and dryer as soon as the laundry room was clean. It had no walls, only studs, but that was okay. Being able to wash clothes at home was a huge step back to normal. And those steps continued one at a time, day by day.

  We didn’t have to worry about Halloween that year, my husband’s FAVORITE holiday, because the neighborhood was empty. We were actually the only family living in our half-circle of five homes. It was quiet at night and so noisy during the day as construction crews worked.

  Time passed. December 20th arrived. I had an early doctor’s appointment. My husband picked me up afterward and we grabbed brunch. It was sunny. I brought my writing project outside. Later that evening he grilled sausage for dinner. I made instant mashed potatoes and opened a can of green beans. We sat at the folding table in our cabinetless kitchen to eat together. He made a big thing about us always eating together. Connecting at the end of every day.

  He showed me a funny Christmas video on his phone. Then he spent some time in the hot tub while I went upstairs to watch TV. He joined me later and we shared a piece of apple pie that a friend had sent us for Christmas. It was an amazing day. We laughed and flirted and teased.

  When I woke the next morning, he had passed away. He’d been sleeping on the sofa in my office which wasn’t unusual. Sometimes it was more comfortable for his back. Sometimes it was about me snoring too much. Or our old dog hogging the bed. She thinks she’s small. She’s not.

  He was my best friend. We were constant companions as we both worked from home. Life ground to a halt. I couldn’t think about writing. I wasn’t sure if I ever would again. Walt was my champion, my sounding board, my go-to guy when I was floundering. I could give him the bullet points and he’d throw spaghetti at the wall until something stuck. He did this for twenty years.

  The last thing he told me that final night when he came to bed was story related. He’d watched a video about the making of Star Wars. He was a story guy through and through. We published our first co-authored book in February 2017. He left me with the draft of the follow-up and notes on the final piece of the trilogy that I have yet to tackle. I’m daunted by the task, but I’ll do it.

  He believed in me. He nagged me. He got irritated when I didn’t work. He cheered when things went well. We spent hours discussing plots and characters: of our sci-fi trilogy, of my romances, of my police procedural. He saved my plot on that one, too. His strengths were my weaknesses and vice versa. It was why we made the perfect writing team. The perfect team in every way.

  A month or so before he died, we’d talked at length about our writing future as our house was being rebuilt. How it was now my job to get our second book edited and ready to publish so we could repackage and relaunch the series. We were so excited. And I’ve held that feeling close.

  It’s been hard to return to a creative life when within a year I lost half of my home and possessions, both of my parents, and my husband. What keeps me going is knowing how much he loved that I was a writer, how proud he was of my accomplishments—most of which he played a part in—and how excited we both were to continue our co-authored series.

  As much as I do this for myself, I do it for him. I’m certain my writing has changed because my view on life has changed. I hope you will accept that and continue this journey with me.

  Table of Contents

  HOPE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

  Also in the Hope Springs series

  Copyright

  A Note to My Readers

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Reader Letter

  More Books by the Author

  Sign up for Alison Kent's Mailing List

  Chapter One

  NINE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, Cary Browning walked out of Bread and Bean, a loaf of warm sourdough tucked in a brown paper sleeve held to his nose, and nearly ran into Priscilla Reddy.

  A very pregnant Priscilla Reddy.

  “Excuse me,” she said, sidestepping before their feet tangled and one of them, or both of them, tumbled to the sidewalk fronting the Fourth Street foodie boutiques.

  Bread and Bean, Bliss, and Butters Bakery occupied the same block—a block that stayed busy not only during the holiday season but year-round. Not a surprise considering the offerings: coffee, fresh-baked bread, artisanal chocolates, cookies, cakes...

  It was a wonder there weren’t more foot-traffic accidents what with additional shops opening, others relocating to this growing business district, and some, like Butters Bakery, being sold. The previous owners had retired and the new owners had expanded into pastries and pies.

  Cary didn’t mind the changes but then he was part of them. Because in addition to earning a reputation as a destination for antiques and crafts as well as food and wine, the small Texas Hill Country town of Hope Springs had seen a lot of folks returning for a second chance.

  In his case, it was more of a first.

  “Cilla?”

  She looked up, blinking and rattled as if she’d forgotten that she’d spoken to him first. Her eyes were a dull sort of green. Flat. The same spruce he used for coloring Tabby Danger’s.

  An uncomfortably aching heartbeat passed, then... “Cary? Are you kidding me?”

  Her cheeks flus
hed and she reached up to brush her hair from her face. It was dull, too, though he was lost for a work-related comparison. He just remembered the way her fat blond curls had bounced around her shoulders while she’d led pep rally cheers.

  Her hair wasn’t bouncing now.

  It surprised him, her appearance. She’d always been... perfect. And he hadn’t been the only one to think so. Maybe the difference was being pregnant. Except expectant women were supposed to glow or something, right? Cilla looked about as bright as the lead in his favorite slate-gray pencil.

  “Not kidding,” he said, moving clear of the Bread and Bean door. It closed behind him with a Christmas-bell jingle from the overhead chime. He looked around briefly for a husband or boyfriend, but she appeared to be alone. “It’s me.”

  “What are you doing here? I don’t mean here”—she waved a hand toward his purchase, her laugh strangely effervescent when the rest of her was so drab—”because you’re obviously buying bread. But what are you doing in Hope Springs?”

  Right. She wouldn’t have had any reason to keep up with him. “I’m living here again.”

  Her face paled, what looked like regret—or guilt—etched at the corners of her unmade eyes. She wasn’t wearing makeup. That had to be part of why she looked so... not like Cilla. He couldn’t remember her ever looking like less than a million bucks.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” she was saying when he found his focus, her eyes reddening, her gaze searching his face for what he thought might be forgiveness though that was most likely his imagination. “I heard they’d both passed.”

  Huh. He and Cilla had never run in the same circles in school—his friends had lived in the pages of comic books—and he couldn’t imagine anyone knowing about his folks, much less talking to her about their deaths. They’d come two years apart, almost to the day. Cancer and grief.

  He’d been surprised by the latter. He hadn’t thought his father—either of his parents really—capable of the emotion. Of being struck down by loss. Of feelings at all. Especially not when it came to family. They’d only acknowledged his existence when they had to, leaving him to surmise that he hadn’t been wanted. That ignoring him was how they dealt with what they considered a mistake.

  He shook off his past, done with all of it, curious to find out what was going on with Cilla. Because this woman was not the spirited girl he’d crushed on the three and a half years they’d spent together in high school.

  He balked at the insistence prickling at his nape and saying nothing about his feelings for her had changed. “What about you? What are you doing back?”

  She started walking and Cary followed as she held up the small red foil package in her left hand. She wasn’t wearing a ring. “I’m looking to drown my sorrows in chocolate,” she said, lowering the bag from Bliss before lifting the one from Butters Bakery, “before I finish them off with vanilla buttercream.”

  That explained what she was doing on this particular block but not why she’d returned to town. “You can’t get chocolate or vanilla buttercream in New York?”

  This time when she glanced over, a spark of the girl from his past danced teasingly through her expression. And a dimple appeared in her cheek. “Now why would you know where I’ve been living?”

  He shrugged, not sure he was ready to be that honest. “I heard someone mention it once.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said and kept walking.

  And since she hadn’t left him with a farewell of any kind, he kept walking, too, watching as she took in their surroundings: matching wreaths with red plaid bows hanging on the doors of the shops. Glittery garland in silver and gold wrapping street signs and light poles. Twinkling lights like sheets of white stars dangling from storefront awnings. Branches of the tree standing tall in the town square holding colorful, oversized balls.

  Her dimple deepened. Her eyes twinkled, too. “It’s funny how even with the changes, like the chocolate shop and coffee bar, everything still looks the same. I’ve always loved Christmas in Hope Springs. The decorations. The seasonal smells.”

  There was something to be said for the familiar, he supposed. He couldn’t think of another reason why he’d stayed after his father’s passing. Or why he hadn’t tossed more of his parents’ stuff and replaced it with what worked for him. He should spring clean now rather than wait.

  He could redo the whole house. Give himself new furniture for Christmas, hire Keller Construction to open up the first floor so the house could breathe. He could afford it.

  And he was tired of suffocating. “Familiarity’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it was,” she said, stopping at the intersection and looking up for the crossing light.

  He couldn’t help himself. “Your New York’s showing,” he said, walking by and waiting for her in the middle of the empty street.

  “Ha ha.” She smiled playfully, the old Cilla, and shoved her shoulder into his arm as she passed, then kicked at a whorl of cracked brown leaves and pine straw blowing across her path. “I guess you can take the small town out of the girl.”

  “Is that a problem?” He asked because of the weight of the sigh she’d used as punctuation.

  They reached her car then, a rental angled face-forward against the curb on the next block in front of an art gallery. She used the fob to unlock it. She opened it. She met and held his gaze across the doorframe as if it were a safety barrier, one more thing to come between them, to keep them apart.

  “I hope not since I’m moving back, too.”

  Time ticked between them, a slow-motion second hand that clanged like cymbals. That shifted the ground beneath Cary’s feet. That reverberated as if the earth had quaked, shaking him.

  He thought about the house he’d grown up in, the big, ugly foursquare he’d returned to and where he now lived and worked alone. Where he’d always been alone, even before he’d been kicked out in the middle of his senior year.

  Then he thought about her family’s home, the constant stream of visitors, the brightly lit windows, the laughter he’d heard from the street when riding past on his bike. He’d done that a lot. He’d done that too often. He’d been so unbelievably lame.

  “You want to get lunch?” he asked, because he wasn’t ready to let her go. The idea of wondering when he’d see her again made his throat tighten; the years he’d pushed down, shoved and locked away were bubbling to the surface. He was desperate.

  He hated feeling desperate. “We can go to Two Owls. But you’ll need to drive.”

  He could always eat the bread later. Or buy another loaf if this one went stale because he knew without hearing her speak the words that Cilla was in trouble.

  And he might never again have the chance to thank her for what she’d unknowingly done for him all those years ago.

  “You don’t have a car?”

  Her question had him circling back to what he’d said. “I do, but I walked over. My house is just a few blocks from here—”

  “On the corner of Lucky and Seventh,” she finished for him, curling both hands over the top of the open car door. Her bags bounced against the glass, but she gave no sign of caring that she might be crushing the contents. “I remember—”

  He was surprised she’d ever known.

  “—but I don’t remember anything called Two Owls.”

  “It’s a lunch place. A café of sorts. They only offer one or two things and you serve yourself.”

  “One or two things?” she asked, as if the concept was completely foreign.

  He shrugged. Most folks were skeptical. Until they got a mouthful of the food. “It’s only ten bucks. Used to be five. And it’s all-you-can-eat. Plus, they’ve got a crazy selection of brownies.”

  Her eyes went wide and brightened. “Brownies?”

  “For dessert.” He lifted a hand to return Grady Barrow’s wave as the teen cycled toward his mother’s obstetric clinic, then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and glanced back to find Cilla studyi
ng him curiously. “Let’s just go. You can see for yourself. Unless you’re in a hurry. Or not hungry.”

  “I’m eating for two,” she said, her voice softly amused. “I’m always hungry.”

  “Is that a yes?” Because he wasn’t sure he could take much more of her emotional flip-flopping, forget his own.

  “It’s a yes,” she said with a nod.

  “You sure?” And now who was he trying to convince? “I’m not keeping you from anything?”

  The smile she gave him nearly swept his legs out from under him. “From nothing at all, Cary Browning. From nothing at all.”

  TRUTH BE TOLD, HE WAS keeping her from being alone. From feeling sorry for herself. From throwing a pity party for one... and how boring was that? Parties should be fun. Exciting. Glasses clinking, music barely discernible above the conversation and glee. And food. So much food. Sweet desserts and savory hors d’oeuvres.

  More food than those in attendance could ever consume... or so according to her ex’s social circle who dropped extravagant amounts of money on lavishly presented tables no one touched for fear of being seen eating. Drinking on the other hand...

  Shaking off the thought, Cilla focused on driving and recalled the first time she and Cary had spoken one-on-one, and about more than just English homework or their teacher being a jerk. Fifteen years after graduation and it was as clear as that day sophomore year...

  Since moving to Hope Springs as a freshman, Cary had drawn cartoons for the school paper, for flyers, for signs. He’d designed posters for club events and graphic captions for the yearbook. He’d won every art competition he’d entered—though she’d heard his teacher collected and saved all his ribbons. Cary hadn’t cared.

  That day, she and the other cheerleaders had been in the gym making banners for that week’s football game. She’d run to the art room for more tempera paint and found Cary there alone. It was late. School had let out two hours earlier.