Chapter 8

8

* * *

“Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Scrooge.

“I am!”

The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

“Who, and what are you?” Scrooge demanded.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Long Past?” inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature.

“No. Your past.”

Charlie inched her way along the crowded aisles of the warehouse-sized consignment shop, which was overstuffed with secondhand home furnishings, clothes for every member of the family, and shelves stacked with dishes and glassware. Near the back were Christmas decorations. Glass and plastic ornaments; dancing Santas that had, no doubt, done their last hula; and gold-beaded reindeer.

The aisles were filled with shoppers—some who looked as if they had no need of being there and others who appeared to be shopping for Christmas among the castoffs. Charlie cringed. Even as bad as it had been being the daughter of two convicts, life had never required her to open Christmas gifts previously owned by another child.

Thank the good Lord for Sis.

She blinked as an overhead sound system broadcast Josh Groban belting out the first verse of “The First Noel.” She glanced up to read a large banner stretched across the back of the store: Thank You for Shopping at A Second Chance . . . Because Everyone Deserves a Second Chance.

At least he’s trying to make his way back, Charlie.

Charlie gripped the edge of a nearby shelf, one stacked with a hodgepodge of well-read paperback books, their spines bent by long creases. Sis’s words echoed in her head.

Do you know why Charles Dickens had such concern for the impoverished?

Your father is directing the homeless shelter in Burke County.

She gasped as the inside of her head felt like pink cotton candy wrapped loosely on a paper cone, like the kind John used to buy her at the annual carnival. A wave of dizziness crashed over her. What was happening? Her fingers tightened, squeezing the metal beneath them.

“Charlie?”

She whirled around, inhaling deeply.

John Dixon stood no more than two feet away, concern etched on his face, his brow furrowed. “Charlie, are you all right?”

Now wasn’t the time. Not now. Not here, surrounded by townsfolk she didn’t know. And possibly one or two she did. Charlie straightened, pulled at the scarf wrapped around her neck, and swallowed. “I’m fine. I’m—what are you doing here?” She shook her head to push the rapidly spinning thoughts away. “Sis said you worked in Burke County.” Her face grew tight, and she felt her lips form a line.

John shoved his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, the ones a shade lighter than the sports jacket he wore over an untucked polo shirt. He shrugged. “I do. I had—” His eyes shot toward the far right back of the store. “I had a meeting with the manager here. We’re working on a . . . a joint project.” He offered a weak sort of half smile. “Mom says you’re working on the high school play.”

“I—” Charlie choked on the rest of her words, not knowing for sure what they would be.

“I guess you know the proceeds are going toward the homeless shelter.” He cleared his throat, his eyes studying her. “That’s the joint project I’m here about.”

Charlie pushed at the wistful tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid as she took a step back. “I can’t—I cannot have this conversation with you.” She attempted to step around him quickly. Just as suddenly, he grabbed her arm.

“Can’t we just talk?” he whispered. “A cup of coffee at The—”

“Get your hands off me,” she hissed, jerking away.

She dashed through the store, stumbling into a few customers—a mother shaking a rattler at the wailing baby on her hip, a group of teen girls giggling over a rack of denim jackets—all as Perry Como crooned “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” from overhead.

Charlie managed to make it back to the wide, storefront glass doors. She pushed through only to collapse on the other side into Dusty Kennedy’s arms. “Charlie,” he said, his hands gripping her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“Get me out of here,” she whispered.

He glanced up at the door swinging shut behind her as his arm came protectively around her.

Dusty turned her toward the main street cutting through town. “Come on,” he said. “The Spinning Bean is right around the corner.”

* * *

Charlie stared down at the cinnamon-sprinkled froth floating on the top of her cappuccino. “Thank you,” she half whispered as she slipped her iPhone into her purse. “I just sent Ashlynne a text that I might be late.”

Dusty leaned over the booth’s table, resting his forearms on its edge. Even in her fragile state, she noticed the intensity of his chocolate-brown eyes and the way his brow darted upward in the middle. She was keenly aware of the scent of him—all woods and spice—as the fragrance of his aftershave wafted across the table and the flavor of their coffees.

He was the last person she wanted to talk to about seeing her father.

He was also the first.

“Out with it,” he said as his finger grazed the ceramic of his coffee mug. “What’s going on with you?”

She attempted a joke. “I thought you were going to share first.”

“What?”

Charlie’s eyes darted around the room, hoping to avoid his as they took in the holiday decorations that had been hung since they’d been there only days before. She noted the way the light shone on the large glass ornaments clustered in Christmas colors of green, red, gold, and blue, and nestled among boughs of pine-scented evergreens. On the wall overhead, a P. J. Clarke’s Christmas-inspired train stretched along a shelf hanging two feet from the ceiling.

She wondered if it worked.

John had always been big on train sets, especially at Christmas. Every year before his incarceration, he’d placed one around the base of the tree. She wondered if the sets were still in the storage bins, if Sis would want to put them out this year, once they got a tree set up in front of the French doors. John always liked it there. Sis seemed determined to push her into Christmas Past.

“Charlie?” Dusty’s voice brought her back.

She forced a smile as she brought the cappuccino to her lips. “You. Remember? You go first.” She took a sip, swallowed, and added, “All God’s children got junk?”

Dusty hung his head like an old hound dog. “Yep. We sure do.”

“So you tell me first.” And allow me a moment to gather my bearings. To figure out how to tell you that I’m the daughter of convicts.

His eyes met hers, and he took a deep breath. “You know I was married, right?”

Charlie returned her cup to its saucer as he took a long swallow of his black coffee. “Yeah. Sis said . . . I mean . . . you have a son, Jeremy.”

Dusty’s eyes grew misty and warm. “My boy.” He shook his head. “That child has done more to heal my heart than all the balm Jeremiah sought in Gilead.”

“Children have a way of doing that.” She waited, and when he only stared off, she spoke softly, “What was your wife’s name?”

“Emily.” His eyes found hers again. “We met in college.”

Charlie tried to smile but found it more difficult than she imagined.

“She was . . . funny and beautiful and caring.” He took another sip of coffee, then pushed it out of the way. “And she loved me. Boy, did she love me.” Dusty swallowed so hard Charlie heard it across the table and over the sound of “Do You Hear What I Hear?” from the overhead speakers. “After Jeremy was born, Emily had that—you know—that postpartum depression.”

Charlie shook her head. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never . . . I mean . . .”

Dusty raised one hand as though he were excusing her, then dropped it. “Of course.” He blinked. “Well, the doctor put her on some medication. You know, to help with it all. Then he weaned her off after a while. Only, Emily seemed to get worse instead of better. The doctor admitted her to the hospital—psych ward—and then after a few weeks, she came home.”

Charlie reached for her coffee, then decided against it.

“For a few weeks, maybe a month, it seemed like everything would be all right. Then . . .” His eyes filled with tears.

Instinctively, Charlie reached across the table and slid her hand in his. Dusty’s fingers wrapped around the whole of her hand, squeezing. “You don’t have to finish,” Charlie whispered.

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “I came home one day. Jeremy was in his crib, screaming his little head off. I called out to Em.” He shook his head. “She didn’t answer. I gathered Jeremy in my arms—” Dusty brought his free hand up to his heart as though he were cradling a baby. “And I walked into our room. Em was in the bed.” One shoulder shrugged. “I thought she was asleep, but then . . . then I saw the empty medicine bottle on the bedside table. The half-consumed glass of water. Her handwriting scribbled across a piece of paper next to it.” A tear slipped from his eye and he sniffled. “I didn’t even have to check to know she was gone.”

“Oh, Dusty.” Charlie reached for his other hand, and he readily gave it to her. “I had no idea. If I had . . .” If she had, what? She’d known his wife had died, but she’d imagined pneumonia or possibly that she’d died in a car accident.

But not by her own hand.

Dusty blew a breath from his lungs as though he’d rid himself of an old demon. “You’re the first one in town I’ve told this to.”

Charlie dipped her head to one side. “Not even Sis?”

He gave a light shake of the head. “No. She only knows that Emily died. I guess a woman leaving behind a husband not yet thirty and a baby is enough to cause her to bestow pity.”

“How old was Jeremy?”

“Two.” He pulled a napkin from the chrome holder and wiped his nose. “Enough about me. Your turn.” Dusty raised his brow and nodded.

Charlie straightened, bringing her hands to her lap and lacing her fingers. “I’m not even sure mine is worth mentioning now.”

“No, no.” Dusty waggled a finger at her. “You’re not getting out of it that easily. Come on now. I just totally bared my soul.”

“All right,” she said quietly, licked her lips, and concentrated on her hands. “I saw my father in A Second Chance.”

“Your dad?”

Charlie looked up. “Until two days ago, the last time I saw him, the police were leading him and my mother away in handcuffs.”

Dusty fell back against the booth’s thick vinyl cushion. “You’re kidding, right?”