CHAPTER EIGHT

Getting Real About Letting Go.

Veronica managed to get herself together and eat a few bites. Trudy cut the pie and seemed to enjoy eating it. Trudy didn’t open up much about her busted marriage, but obviously she planned to keep this house, and she’d survive just fine, thank you.

Veronica felt a little lighter, same as she’d felt at the first meeting. Maybe she should sob more often. She did cry a lot at home, but a silent drip, with Lulu curled up by her, one paw touching her leg.

When was the last time she’d sat over coffee and pie and talked to a friend? Maybe she should reach out to one of her old friends.

Trudy stood, meaning dismissal. “Okay, Katie will wrap up food for both of you to take home, because you are not going to eat a bowl of cereal or soup tonight, girls. Have pie for dinner.” She gave them an indulgent smile. “My daddy, Vincent Prescott, used to say, ‘Eat pie for dinner and wake up sweet.’”

Veronica hugged Trudy. “Will you adopt me?”

“Me, too,” Bethany said.

Trudy’s smile beamed a yes. “I think I already have.” Then she turned serious. “Tomorrow morning, Veronica. Bethany and I will meet you at eight? Okay?”

Veronica nodded, her neck cracking with the weight of that nod. “Thank you, Trudy. For everything.”

“You have to thank yourself,” Trudy replied. “You’ve forgotten how to be you.”

Bethany’s big eyes widened. “I need to remember to be me.”

Trudy did a tsk-tsk and held her arms out wide. “Bring it in for a group hug. Tomorrow, we start learning again.”

Veronica went home with a new purpose. Trudy had given her an extra assignment. She’d told Veronica to open the closets while alone tonight. “Breathe in the familiar scents and sniff out what’s hurting the most—the neglect, the sadness, the loneliness, the ache in your heart. Get it all out, accept what you can’t change, and then we’ll get to work.”

Now, hours later, she had to find a way to face this. It had been three years. Elle had finished college and found a great job and a sweet boyfriend who would soon be her husband.

Now the house they’d all lived in would soon be for sale. Another family needed to make memories here.

That ultimatum from her daughter had started this transformation. And that odd flyer from Mystery Man had added an extra layer of curiosity and urgency, along with a solid fear of moving on with her life. He didn’t like to be alone on Christmas, and now he’d made her see she didn’t like that either. Darn him.

Veronica couldn’t miss out on any more milestones in her daughter’s life. She had to follow through on her promise to herself and to Elle. She poured a glass of wine and went into Jay’s baseball-themed bedroom. Standing inside the door, she let the memories wash over her. From the day he’d been born until the day the state trooper had come to her door to give her the news of his death, she remembered everything about her son. Baby pictures and first-day-of-school milestones, Little League, soccer practice, fishing with Josh—it all came back to her. Jay would have been a teenager now.

“You’ve outgrown these clothes, baby,” she said as she touched items in his room—his Little League glove, a worn sheen making it glisten, his favorite movie discs and video games, his Atlanta Braves blanket, and Georgia Bulldogs beanbag chair. She touched her fingers to the team photo, her son and Josh standing together after their team had won an All-Star tournament, so proud they’d become champions.

She could hear the sound of the bat connecting with the ball, the cheers all around her while she rocked back and forth nervously on the bleacher seat with her friends.

Happy times that now made her cry.

“I want you to know, Jay. Mommy will never forget you. But there is another little boy somewhere who needs your clothes.”

Then she opened the closet and sank down on her knees and cried her silent cry.

An hour later, still sitting there with her back against the open closet door, Veronica heard the doorbell ring. Surprised, she stood, stiff and cold, her glass of wine sitting forgotten on the dresser.

“I didn’t order pizza,” she told Lulu. Her sweet dog had curled up beside her while she cried.

Lulu barked in glee, probably glad they’d been interrupted.

Veronica passed the hall mirror and quickly wiped at her puffy eyes and red nose. Then she opened the door wide.

Cullen Murdock stood there in jeans and a black sweater, carrying a bag from a swanky downtown restaurant and a bottle of expensive red wine.

“You have the wrong house,” she said.

“No, no. You found the flyer you weren’t supposed to find. I have the right house and I have food from Little Italy Kitchen.”

Did all of her new friends want to feed her?

Was that part of the healing process?

He looked good and the food sounded wonderful, but she wanted to be alone. “I don’t want company tonight,” she told him in an echo of her thought process.

“I can see that. Sometimes, the one time we don’t want company is the very time we need it.”

“You’ve timed all those times perfectly, right?”

“Are we going to stand here repeating repetitive words while this food grows cold, or will you let me in since I’m already cold?”

She wanted to tell him she couldn’t let him in just yet, but Veronica was too wiped out to banter with him. Besides, she needed to find out more about him and why he’d created a strange Christmas-not-Christmas club.

“Come in.” She opened the door wide, and Lulu greeted Cullen like an old friend.

“You must know that even though you accidentally found me, and you’ve literally run into me a couple of times on the street, and also offered to kiss me, I have no interest in you whatsoever. I’m only letting you in for food and information. Got it?”

“Got it,” he said, his eyes crinkling while his grin showed he got a lot more. “And I need you to understand I did come here to Hidden Mountain to decide my plans about the new property I bought, and it has nothing to do with starting an impulsive fling with a woman I still don’t know. A woman who clearly wants to stay locked into the past she can’t get over.”

“Yeah, that’s it exactly,” she said, his declaration stinging like a honeybee. But she’d told him where she stood. He had a right to do the same. And yes, she’d been stuck, but she was trying really hard to lift herself above that pain.

After he put down the bag of food and sat the wine on the counter, she whirled to face him. “I have to go through their closets. I was up in Jay’s room for a while.”

She told him about Trudy’s suggestion.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “Letting yourself mourn.” Then he followed her into the kitchen. “If you’re ready, Veronica, I can help you pack Jay’s stuff. Only Jay’s.”

Veronica wanted to shout no, but she was too much of a coward to try doing it alone. “Trudy and Bethany will be here in the morning.”

“I’m here now,” he said. “As a friend, nothing more.”

“A friend,” she said with a smile. “That might be exactly what I need, a friend who doesn’t come with my past loaded into their system.”

Cullen liked her sarcasm, but he understood she used it to hide her pain. Wondering why he’d bought food and wound up at her door, he knew he was playing with fire. But Veronica intrigued him. Why had the flyer he’d put on the door of the Cearley house been lifted by the wind to land at her feet? Fate? Karma? Just his luck? She would have found it on the door, and yet, it literally fell from where he’d hastily tucked it between the intricate door handle and the wood of the door. Fell off and ended up in front of her.

Maybe she would have ignored it otherwise?

His grandmother would say God had lifted that paper in the wind. Maybe so, but God wasn’t making this trip any easier by putting this woman in Cullen’s path.

The old saying rang true. Life happened when you were out making other plans. He’d roll with it and let this one interesting wrench in his carefully calculated to-do list play out.

He bought properties and designed new houses, fixed up old houses and built buildings. There were always problems to be found in either a new or old project. Houses, like humans, had flaws, and when left empty, clung to the past. This house seemed to be holding on by a thread. Each splinter, each chip of old paint, each smudge of dust, and the many piles of brittle old leaves—they all told a story. Neglect could fester into despair and disrepair.

He’d learned to make the problems of aging properties into fresh-faced opportunities. Owning this home would be more than an opportunity. It was a life mission.

Veronica wasn’t a project, but she could be an opportunity.

A good-looking, lost soul of an opportunity. He wouldn’t take advantage of her, but he’d always loved a good challenge. Did she really want to sell this house? Would she let him buy this house?

“So, why have you been crying?” he asked after he’d opened the wine with a corkscrew she’d dug out of a drawer.

She gathered dinnerware and napkins and set them out on the round walnut kitchen table. “What makes you think I’ve been crying?”

He rolled his eyes. “C’mon.”

“Okay, yes. Like I explained, I’m doing the assignment you gave us. We need to empty our closets of things we don’t use—mostly clothes for the Methodist Mission House.” She explained what she’d done tonight. “I got as far as Jay’s closet, and I haven’t even opened Josh’s closet in . . . in a long time. But Trudy says I have to say goodbye tonight, then tomorrow she and Bethany are going to help me with gathering clothes. I don’t want to gather clothes.”

“Ah.” He poured the wine and waited for her to finish opening the wrapped food. Antipasto, Lasagna Bolognese, and freshly baked brea sticks. With cheesecake for dessert.

“Ah?” she echoed. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re trying to let go, and you’re fighting it.”

She sank down in her chair and started serving the food. “Your perception is remarkable. Of course, I’m fighting it. I should have taken the food and shut the door. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He wouldn’t push her. “Let’s eat then.” He wouldn’t leave her alone, either. “I told you I can help. I won’t ask questions or pester you if you want to keep things.”

She stared at the food. “I had planned to eat pie for dinner, but I guess pie is also good for breakfast.”

He put his hands on the table. “Look, I’m here, the food is still warm, and you need to relax. I’m not going to make demands on you. I told you I don’t like to be alone on Christmas, but I also don’t like to have dinner alone. Humor me and pretend we met while out walking and we’ve become friends. That’s what I’m going with.”

Her eyebrows arched and her eyes widened. “That is a fantasy.”

He looked straight at her, his heart accelerating. “Yeah, it could be.”

She sat up. “Don’t flirt with me. Tell me about you, so I won’t regret this.”

He had to be careful here. What should he reveal? The whole truth, or only the parts she needed to know. “I was born in Ireland, but when I was eight years old, I moved to the States . . . after my mum passed away.”

Veronica dropped her fork. “Cullen, I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, his throat tightening. He did not like to talk about this. “My mum had a drinking problem, probably because my da left us.” He took a sip of wine, memories dancing as he stared into the rich red liquid. “I waved bye to him from a cracked window. That was the last time I saw the man.” Looking up at her, he took a breath. “She drank herself to death and left me to my own devices. My grandmother—my mum’s mother—came and brought me home with her. Here.”

He had her attention now. No pity, but an understanding. “So you had to be removed?”

“My grandmother, who came here from Ireland in the 1950s, came for my mum’s funeral. She took one look at our horrible cottage and packed my clothes. My da never tried to get me back, or even stay in touch. He still hasn’t tried, after all this time.” He shrugged. “It’s a cliché story, but it happens everywhere, really.”

“Where does your grandmother live?”

“She’d dead now.”

“And . . . did you know your grandfather?”

“I did indeed. He was a harsh man, Southern to the bone, and still very much a rebel. He worked construction and met my grandmother at a work site in Ireland. Brought her to America, but her heart belonged in Ireland. It didn’t go over very well. My mum left as soon as she turned eighteen and went back to our relatives there and married my da, mainly because she was pregnant with me. That didn’t work very well either.”

“What made your grandfather so mean?”

“He did things his way. Let’s leave it at that.”

“So you grew up here in the South?”

He’d let that and other information slip. “Yes.”

“Do your roots run deep like everyone else’s around here?”

“I lived outside the city limits. But yes, Hidden Mountain. Although being on the outside didn’t allow for any strong roots.”

“Okay.”

They finished dinner and then she turned to him. “I’d like it if you sat with me while I pack up Jay’s things. Only Jay’s, as you said.”

“I’ll do it. I’d be glad to do it, Veronica.”

She’d relaxed a little. Maybe misery really did love company. After they went upstairs, he glanced around. He didn’t want to force her to leave her home, but if she’d sell it, he’d buy it. Then he turned to look into the boy’s room.

And time stood still. She’d left it here like a shrine.

She motioned to a red-and-black-plaid chair. “Just sit.”

He sat.

She had boxes lined up on the bed, so she went to the closet and started taking out boy-sized clothes. Jeans and shirts, some with sports logos on them. “Why did you buy the old lodge?”

“It needed someone to buy it. I had plans to tear it all down and start from scratch, but I’m reconsidering that now.”

Bringing out bundles of clothes, she said, “You might know, that old campground has been a bone of contention with the homefolk. Some want it gone, and some want to hang onto it and recreate it. But none of them can have their way, because they don’t own it, nor do they want the hassle of owning it.”

“I had heard, but thank you for reinforcing that dilemma.” He finished his wine. “I can handle the hierarchy of this town. None of them want it, but they don’t want an outsider to have it. I was and will always be an outsider.” Then he had to ask, “Why are you selling your home?”

She paused, glanced around, then looked back at him. “It’s time. It’s big and lonely and . . . I need to start fresh.” Touching her hand to an old, faded University of Georgia sweatshirt, she shrugged. “It’s not official, other than that sign. I’m supposed to be staging it. Does this look staged to you?”

He lifted his chin. “It looks lived in, with a soft, worn kind of welcoming feeling.” He stood and started folding clothes into boxes. She didn’t object.

“You know it’s a hot mess.”

“Do you really want to sell?”

“I’m going to clean it up a bit and see what happens. Most of the houses on this street never go up for sale. They keep passing through generations—with a lineage that dates back centuries. My real estate agent says it should be snapped up soon, no matter how it looks. She believes whoever buys it will gut it and start over anyway.”

“That wouldn’t happen.”

She gave him a surprised glance. “So you like traditional homes.”

“I like good real estate.”

“I can’t wait to see what you do with the lodge.”

“I have to decide that one way or another,” he replied, surprised she hadn’t asked if he wanted this house. But then, she didn’t know he’d been in this house many times long ago.

He changed the subject, and they closed the boxes full of clothes. Then she moved to shoes and toys, her silent motions like a delicate dance to an unsung tune.

When the closet was empty, she stood in the doorway, Lulu by her side now, and let out a sigh. Cullen wished he could capture her like that, her hair all messy, her head lowered as if in prayer. The beauty of a mourning love caught at his heart.

He reached for the worn baseball glove on the desk. She turned so abruptly it startled him. “No, Cullen. That stays.”

Cullen moved back and nodded. “I understand.”

She didn’t have a comeback, and he almost missed that. Instead, she lifted her head and wiped at her eyes. “This hurts, you know. Like a knife slicing through your gut.”

He moved closer. “Veronica, is there anything else I can do?”

Lulu let out a soft woof, as if trying to give him a hint.

She shook her head and all that tumbling hair followed. “I’ve missed good meals, good wine, and good friends.” She shrugged. “I lost a lot of friends. People don’t like grief. They don’t like messiness and trauma or family issues. They want to keep that pretty façade that’s captured in a family picture on the beach, or the framed Christmas photo taken by the Christmas tree.”

“If you lost friends because they couldn’t deal with your grief, then they were not true friends.”

“Took me a while to see the truth, but now my eyes are wide open. I pushed them away. I don’t think I need them back.”

He guided her to the door, the room now looking different, waiting. “Is that why you don’t trust anyone, not even yourself?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t want people to see me collapse into the fetal position. Being vulnerable only gives people reasons to walk away.”

“And you use charm and sarcasm to make people think you’re tough?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

He laughed at that as they went back downstairs. When they reached the bottom, he turned in the entryway and stared at where she stood on the last stair tread. “Veronica, I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Because I accidentally came to your strange non Christmas celebration?”

“Yes. And no. I’m a firm believer in God’s work. My granny taught me that. But how she lived with my pappy is the one thing I’ll never understand. I believe, at times, God puts us where we need to be. This is one of those times.”

She came down and went into the kitchen and poured more wine. Holding her goblet in between her index and middle fingers, she gave him a questioning stare. “Why would God put us together, Cullen?”

He leaned in. “So we can both get on with the rest of our lives.”

She put down the wine and started clearing the table. “What if I haven’t made it that far?”

“You got through today. We have to have faith.”

“But you’re not depending on God, you’re playing God. I’m not sure I can deal with that. I lost two people I loved, and He has yet to tell me why.”

“Answers sometimes take time.”

“I want answers now. This ache in my chest won’t go away.”

Cullen moved to help her clean their plates. “I probably should go.”

She kept staring at him with those green eyes that reminded him of rolling foothills of fresh grass.

“I can stay, Veronica. I’d like to stay. What if I stay and I listen? Would that help?”

She gave him a confused stare, her need to be seen and heard sparring with her need to be left alone. “You’re messing with my self-imposed exile. I’ve been cloistered and isolated for so long, I’ve forgotten how to act around people. It hurts to feel anything again.”

“Okay.” He took her hand and held it in his. “I enjoyed being here with you. Feelings do hurt, but holding them in makes things worse, as we both obviously know. I won’t push you, because I know grief. I can handle your grief, as a new friend, as a member of the X-Mas Club. I’m here for a month, and I’m willing to listen. Also, I’m leaving the cheesecake.”

Then he turned, Lulu following him to the door. “Bye, girl,” he said to the sweet dog. “Go and be with your human. She needs you.”

Veronica followed him to the door. “Cullen, thank you. For the food, the quiet, the understanding. I did get through today. Now I have to face my husband’s closet and I need to do that alone.

Cullen wished she needed him, but that could never happen.