Chapter 5

5

* * *

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.

“You are fettered,” said Scrooge, trembling. “Tell me why?”

“I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?”

Scrooge trembled more and more.

“Or would you know,” pursued the Ghost, “the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!”

Charlie helped Sis the following afternoon by bringing all the Christmas ornaments and decorations down from the attic, one vacuum-sealed bin after the other.

“I usually like to wait until closer to the holiday,” Sis told her as Charlie placed the final bin on top of a small stack of others, “but with you being here the entire month, I say let’s enjoy every last second of it.”

Charlie brought her hands to her hips and stretched her back. “I need to leave. I’m meeting Dusty in town at four o’clock.”

Sis brightened. “Are you now? When did that happen?”

Charlie winked. “When you weren’t looking. Or meddling.”

“What do you think about putting the tree over there?” Sis pointed to the French doors as though Charlie hadn’t ribbed her.

“Instead of in the corner where we’ve always put it?”

Sis nodded. “I think I’d like to change things up a bit this year.”

Charlie reflected on the earliest Christmas she could recall. “You used to put it there when I was a little girl.”

Sis opened the top bin and peered into the collection of carefully wrapped ornaments. “John always liked it there.” She smiled wistfully. “He said Santa could see the lights better. Would know how to find him.”

Charlie turned to leave the room and the conversation. “Anyway, I’m meeting Dusty in a few to talk about the carolers.” She reached for the heavy coat she’d been forced to bring out over the past twenty-four hours and the knitted scarf she’d bought the year before during the post-Christmas sales. “Do you want me to bring you anything from The Spinning Bean?”

“See if they have any of that White Christmas, or whatever it’s called,” Sis called back to her. “Decaf.”

Charlie glanced at her watch. She needed to leave now. “All right then. I’ll be back in time for supper.”

Charlie rushed from the house and any further thoughts of her father. She understood—more or less—that John Dixon was her grandmother’s son. And she surely understood—more or less—that Sis had precious memories of the little boy she’d reared in the very house where they both now resided. Still, that person, that boy whose name had found its way to Santa’s Nice List, was a stranger to her. She knew him only as the thief. The absent father.

She knew only wearing the shame, even when no one knew the truth.

Charlie blinked back tears as she neared Testament. Overnight, lights had been strung between lampposts where holiday flags now hung. Just yesterday they’d boasted Thanksgiving and autumn leaves. Now holly and wreaths and the silhouette of a crèche.

She reached for her phone to call Sis, to tell her that Christmas had already come to town, and realized the passenger’s seat where she usually threw her purse was empty. “Oh, nooo,” she moaned.

Charlie slowed her car at the next traffic light and turned right, then right again, and again until she headed back in the direction of home.

Within minutes her car bumped along Sis’s driveway. Someone had parked a car she didn’t recognize in her usual place, right next to Sis’s BMW. Charlie frowned at the West Virginia car tag. Who in the world did Sis know from West Virginia?

She parked quickly and jumped out, leaving the car running and her door open before dashing up the steps, along the side porch, and through the front door. “Sis, I—” Charlie stopped, mouth frozen, her words refusing to come.

“Hey,” Sis’s visitor said softly, even as her grandmother said, “Oh, no.”

Charlie could only stare. John Dixon was older, yes, but she would have known him anywhere. In any setting. Especially this one.

His piercing gray-blue eyes met hers as his brow furrowed, adding lines to an already etched face beneath a close-cut beard. His hair, once dark brown, framed his head in shaggy gray.

“Hey,” he said again. The scent of recently consumed coffee and a woodsy cologne reached her. “Look at you.”

“Charlie—” Sis started.

Charlie raised her hands. “No.” She shook her head, keeping her focus on John. “No. I don’t believe this.” She looked at Sis. “I—I can’t believe this.” She looked over her shoulder to see her purse on the kitchen countertop. “I forgot my—” She didn’t bother to finish. Instead, she grabbed it and turned again for the door.

“Charlie, wait,” John said, his voice tinged with anxiety. Or was it fear? Certainly not authority. Because surely he didn’t think he held any over her.

She swung around, gripping the strap of her handbag. “No,” she said. “We have nothing to say to each other.”

“I’m sorry,” Sis added. “He—he didn’t want you to see him like this—he—”

“I saw you leave,” he said, taking a step toward her.

Charlie inched back, her breath coming too quickly. She scanned the length of him to further assess time’s damage, from the way he wore his jeans—relaxed fit and naturally faded—to the well-fitting denim jacket partially hiding a plaid cotton shirt.

Still the cowboy.

“I waited,” he said. “I told Mom—”

Sis wrung her hands as she took a step closer to her son. “Charlie, you only need to listen for a minute, and I’m sure your daddy and I—”

“John!” Charlie shouted, then willed her voice to return to some semblance of normal. “His name is John. He’s not my . . . my daddy.”

“Charlene Anne Dixon,” John said, using her full name as if he had the right. “Don’t talk to your grandmother—”

She pointed at him. “Charlie. Charlie Dixon.” Heat rose up inside her and, for a moment, she thought her head might explode. “And the only reason I kept my last name is because it also belongs to Sis.” Tears stung her eyes. “How could you?” She aimed the shaky words at the woman whose own tears had escaped and made watery trails down her cheeks.

Charlie turned, jerked the door open, and nearly stumbled as she ran out.

* * *

“What’s wrong? I got your text about running late.” As soon as he saw her enter, Dusty had stood at the table for two near the back of the restaurant. Sheet music as well as a copy of A Christmas Carol lay on the table next to a mug of delicious-smelling coffee while, overhead, the faint chords of “Silent Night” eased through the sound system.

“Nothing,” Charlie breathed out, which was something she’d had to force herself to do most of the distance between the cottage and town. “I forgot my purse. I hate being late.” She pointed to the seat with a trembling hand. “May I?”

Dusty pulled the chair out for her. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” She crumpled into the seat.

Dusty remained standing. “I’ll let our server know you’re here.”

Charlie looked at her watch as he walked away. Four thirty.

Within seconds, Dusty returned with a young woman who looked to be no more than twenty. “What can I getcha?” she asked.

“Uh, how about a caramel latte?”

“Size?”

“Medium.”

“You got it.”

Dusty returned to his seat. “Talk to me,” he said softly. “I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.”

Charlie shook her head as she shrugged out of her coat. “It’s—nothing.”

“Hmm.” He straightened as Charlie dared to look at him.

“What?”

“I’m only hoping you’re a better choir director than you are liar.”

“Carolers. Four singers do not a choir make.”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” he countered, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I’m doing no such thing.”

“Again, I hope you’re a better—”

The server returned then with her coffee. “Anything else? We’ve got some cranberry scones fresh from the oven if I can tempt you.”

Dusty smiled up at the young woman. “Bring us two,” he said, and she walked away. “With real butter,” he called after her.

“It comes with honey butter,” she called back.

Charlie’s stomach rumbled at the thought.

“Now,” Dusty said, drawing her attention back to him. “Talk to me.”

“What if I told you it’s personal?”

“All God’s children got junk,” Dusty said. “And I bet I can match you trauma for trauma.”

Instinctively, Charlie realized he spoke of his late wife. “So, if I tell you mine, you’ll tell me yours?”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

She opened her mouth to speak—to tell him he’d have to go first—when two delightfully scented scones were presented. Dusty shoved the papers to one side, then rubbed his hands together. “Go ahead and box another one of these up to go,” he said.

“Will do,” the server said. “Here’s the honey butter.” She grinned at them. “It also has a little lemon and orange zest,” she said. “You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Charlie broke apart her scone and reached for the butter knife resting on her plate. “I could use a little heaven,” she muttered.

“Hey there, you two.”

She looked up to see Ashlynne and William edging their way around the tables, where only a smattering of customers lingered over coffee and conversation. Ashlynne threw her thumb over her shoulder. “Can you believe they’re already putting up the Christmas lights?”

Charlie pointed up. “Listen. I believe that’s ‘Good King Wenceslas’ playing.” She glanced at the table. “These scones smell unbearably good. Want to join us?” And keep me from having to answer any embarrassing questions?

Ashlynne, who looked as if she’d stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog dressed in a stretchy cable dress and flat-heeled knee-high boots, and Will, dark and handsome as he’d ever been, shared a look, then nodded. “Do you mind, man?” William removed his trademark cowboy hat as he directed the question to Dusty.

“Of course not. I needed to talk to you anyway.” He gathered the papers on the table. “Let’s move to a booth.”

A minute later, two additional scones had been ordered along with one coffee and a hot tea.

“William is building our sets,” Dusty said between bites. “And Ashlynne has agreed to help with costuming.”

She grinned from behind the rim of her tea. “It’s my thang.”

“Sounds fun,” Charlie said.

Ashlynne laced her fingers around the mug. “Maybe you and I can meet sometime and look at the possibilities together? There’s a resale shop that’s positively bursting with vintage clothing where I’m sure we can find some things we’ll need.” She pulled her purse from the back of her chair and dug around until she found her iPhone. “How about Wednesday afternoon?”

“Sure,” Charlie said. “I guess.”

Dusty leaned over. “Charlie isn’t into vintage, Ashlynne. She likes contemporary.” He air quoted the two opposing words.

“That’s okay,” William said, bringing the final bite of his scone to his mouth. “Once upon a time, Mrs. Decker here wasn’t so keen on country either. Now look at her.” He eyed his wife. “I’ve loved the city right out of her.”

Ashlynne nudged him with her shoulder. “Hush up,” she said, then added, “but it’s true. There was a time when I wouldn’t be caught dead inside a Walmart.”

“She didn’t even know what a Walmart was.”

Ashlynne’s eyes grew large, even as they winked with merriment. “Hush up right now or you’ll sleep with the dogs.” Then, turning back to Charlie, she said, “Walmart has the best candles.”

“I’m fond of their wax cubes myself,” Charlie said, then laughed.

Ashlynne took a sip of tea. “So there you have it. I changed my opinion on discount shopping,” she said. “Sometimes we simply have to roll with the way things are.” She twirled her hand in the air. “Try new things . . . ideas . . .” She gave a definitive nod. “I’m living proof that a person can change.” Ashlynne glanced at her husband. “Right?”

Will Decker nodded back at her. “Shoot, I reckon.”