A Saltwater Christmas (The Southern Isles #1)

Chapter Seventeen

T he part of Allie that felt sad wanted to go back to her little cottage and curl up under the covers. The covers that were still dirty with the smell of fire and dog and needed to be washed. If she was honest, the sad part of her was strangely comforting. As long as she was sad, she was honoring her dad. Joy would be offensive, like she didn’t love him enough. If he looked down on her from heaven, she needed to make sure he knew that she missed him, knew that her life was not the same without him, that she needed him, and that his life on Earth made a difference to his one and only daughter. Without him, she was flesh without bones, canvas without a frame, a little pile of fluff without shape to hold her up.

She drove toward Charleston, spinning with the same thoughts she’d had for exactly three years. But this time, she wasn’t crying. It was like every time she allowed the grief in, every time she felt sorry for herself, the intense emotions lost some power, loosened their hold. Slowly, she was incorporating loss into her life, learning how to navigate her new normal. If she weren’t careful, she might actually end up happy again.

With each overcast mile, each signpost passed, Allie felt stronger. She was driving out of the anger stage of grief and into acceptance. Finally. When she drove past a roadside stand selling seagrass baskets and floral bouquets, she turned around and went back. Hanging from the rafters of the old nailed-together wood and tin lean-to were Christmas stockings. She picked out a large one, forest green with white trim. It felt overly optimistic to choose a stocking big enough to hold full-sized candy bars, new underwear, makeup, and still have space for her mother’s tradition of a stuffed animal sticking out of the top. She wasn’t getting any of that, of course. But there was room for it. Then she bought one for Sam, and a third for Cuppie.

It was almost noon, and she wasn’t yet starving, thanks to Sam’s pancakes. If she stopped by the grocery store, she could switch things up and make a meal for him. She wondered if he’d ever had a decent charcuterie board—the kind with brie cheese, honey, salami, grapes, and olives stuffed with almonds. She had a good job now. She could afford it. The excited feeling of planning a surprise made her smile—and drive more than her allowed five miles over the speed limit. Yes, she would surprise Sam with hors d’oeuvres, a good bottle of wine, and some sort of fancy homemade dinner. The plan made her feel like her old self again.

Parking was rough along King Street. Last-minute shoppers had lost time during the storm and were frantic to make up for it now. Christmas spirit was low and annoyance was high. Some folks didn’t even make way on the sidewalk, just plowed down the middle, forcing others to yield to them. Two hours and several long lines at checkouts later, she held three bags—one from a custom knife store where she bought a hand-forged cleaver for Sam, one from a boutique where she found a soft sweater in her mother’s signature eye-matching Carolina blue, and one from an upscale kitchen store that sold beautiful sets of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. She bought one each for Jessa, Libby, Joey, and Duke. It didn’t matter that people around her were stressed and showing it—Allie felt great. She knew her dad would approve. Yes, he’d died just days before his favorite holiday. But maybe the way to honor him was not to have Christmas alone but to celebrate it in a way that didn’t revolve around her mother, and didn’t revolve around their pain. The thought felt better than anger and sadness. Maybe there was joy to be found in the traditions again.

“Is this what you want for me, Dad?” she whispered into the chilly Charleston air. “I think I can feel you with me.”

The grocery store was worse than the shops, but she made it out with a big bone for Cuppie and a Christmas Eve spread that was sure to make Sam smile. She bought enough so that his visiting friend could have some too.

Cuppie announced her arrival when Allie pulled into the driveway, and stood squarely in her way, demanding attention, when she opened the door. “Just a second, Cup. I have to get this stuff to the kitchen.” The dog buried her nose in the plastic bag holding salami, cheese, and her Christmas bone the whole way to the kitchen.

“You need help?” Sam asked, already heading for the door.

“You’re home! I thought you had work this afternoon.”

“I was there a couple of hours, then got someone to cover for me. There’s an active search-and-rescue operation up in the Summerville swamps, and they need me and Cuppie. We were just about to head out.”

“Who’s missing?”

“An elderly man with dementia.”

“Oh, no.” Her heart immediately went to the family. “And right before Christmas.”

He seemed seriously concerned about the old man, just like a search-and-rescue volunteer should behave—like he cared. “Listen,” he said as he reached into the trunk of her car and hung every last bag on his flexed right arm. “I was hoping to talk to you tonight about my guest tomorrow. It’s your Christmas Eve, too, even if you’re not celebrating.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” She would surprise him tomorrow with her new Christmas attitude. That would be fun. No need to tell him now. “I bought enough groceries to feed us all.”

He looked surprised. “You did? I was going to do that—”

“All done.” She slammed the trunk for added emphasis. Those two words were extraordinarily pleasing to say.

“You seem to be doing really well, considering the day,” he said as she opened the front door for him. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“I’m okay,” she said, surprised by the peaceful sound of her voice. “Don’t worry about me, just focus on the lost man who needs you.” They had the kitchen counter filled with plastic bags. “I’ll put this away. You rush on out there.”

He seemed nervous or jittery. Maybe it was the adrenaline of getting called in. She’d never seen him like that before. Aside from that one horrible nightmare, he’d always been calm and steady. Now he was practically vibrating, his eyes darting around.

“Cuppie! Heel.” The dog was immediately on task, glued to his side.

And then they were gone.

Allie took her time loading the fridge and transporting the gifts from the back seat of her car into her bedroom for wrapping. Should she have gotten something for Dottie and Tulip? What about Fred? She checked her pantry. She could always make something sweet for them. That’s what neighbors did, especially when they were new. They weren’t close enough friends for store-bought gifts, but a sweet treat would work nicely. Her mother had the perfect recipe for those times when you needed something fast. It involved unlikely ingredients, like fiber cereal, that Allie happened to have on hand.

She pulled on her apron and set out the ingredients. She couldn’t believe it, but she was actually in the mood for Christmas music. When Bing Crosby began singing about white Christmases, she retrieved the stockings from the brown paper bag and took down Sam’s tiny one from the mantel. She dug up a white paint pen and wrote their names in block letters onto the fabric encircling the top. Allie , Sam , and Buttercup . Then she hung them up.

Her hands were covered in chocolate when Elvis began crooning about having a blue Christmas. Her dad’s song. The one that couldn’t come on without him vamping up his deep baritone and wiggling his hips. It triggered a shock of grief and loneliness, and she prayed it wouldn’t trigger another panic attack too. She didn’t want the comfort of her sadness in that moment. She had plans. Happy ones.

“Dad,” she said into the air above the kitchen sink as she washed her hands. “I miss you. I can still hear your voice so clearly.” The last sentence sparked the tears. “It’s like someone came into my life and robbed me of my most precious thing, of my most loved person. And even if we caught them and put them in prison, we still couldn’t get you back. God!” She threw the drying towel into the sink. That old mix of emotions was always ready to pounce. “I hate this!” Her legs felt weak, so she went to the couch and sat. “Mama has this stupid new boyfriend and she threw out all of my stuff and you’re not there to make things better and I’m living with this guy on an island and now I think I like him and I shouldn’t want to celebrate Christmas. But I do.”

She stared at Sam’s Christmas tree, breathing heavily, until the lights blurred together. “I don’t want to feel this way anymore. This anger keeps popping up. I need to get rid of it.”

It was barely perceptible. It may not have actually happened, but it seemed like every light on the tree blinked off and on in unison. Just once. Just enough to agree with her.

By the time Sam got home, two large trays of chocolate candies were hardening on the counter. The fiber cereal gave them crunch, the honey-roasted peanuts gave them a sweet saltiness, the cut-up marshmallows added a satisfying softness, and the mix of semisweet and milk chocolate was the perfect binder and complement. All of that without turning on the oven. But she did turn on the oven, because now she was in a baking mood. She made snowballs with so much butter that the powdered sugar on top turned into a sort of icing. They looked great on the plate for the Boones, but the assortment still needed one more thing. Maybe a bar of some sort—a dense brown-sugary oatmeal bar. She stood sprinkling sea salt over the hot bars when Sam walked in. He looked exhausted.

“Did you find him?”

He nodded sadly. Cuppie didn’t even say hello to her. Normally, if Allie was in the kitchen, Cuppie was at her feet, hoping she’d drop something. Instead, the dog went straight to her fluffy round bed by the couch and curled up.

“Are you guys okay?”

“We will be,” Sam said. “We’ve been through this before.”

The air around them felt heavy. Allie knew the moment they walked in that the person they’d found hadn’t been alive. “How’d he die?”

“It was a drowning.” He plopped onto the couch with his arm over the side, petting Cuppie on the head.

“Cuppie’s been through this before?”

“Cuppie and I found one of our best friends—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but Allie knew. “He stepped on a device.”

She sat beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Would you think less of me if I said I have a therapist?”

“No, I would think more of you.” She put her hand on his knee.

There was something in his eyes that looked like relief. “I don’t admit that to many people.”

“Well, I’m your roommate. You can tell me anything. I’ll be here for you whether you want me or not.”

“My ride-or-die roomie.”

“Roger that, soldier. Ride or die.” She thought about saluting, but that was taking it too far.

He put his hand on top of hers. “Maybe I’ll cancel my Christmas plans. It’s hard to celebrate when there’s so much to be sad about. We can both sit this one out.”

“No,” she said. “No, I was completely wrong about Christmas. We need to honor our loved ones. Not change things because of them. What was your friend’s name?”

“Grayson Carter. But we called him Ghost.” Redness appeared on his neck and flushed up to his face.

“And what was the man’s name from today?”

“Robert Flack.”

“I’ll be right back.” She ran outside to the woodpile where she’d seen half of an old flat piece of fencing. She brushed off the dirt and took it inside. “This will be our memory board.” With the same paint pen she’d used for the stockings, she wrote Merry Christmas on the top of the board, then began a list of names underneath beginning with Paul Westley , then Grayson Carter (Ghost) , and Robert Flack .

“I have more names for that list,” he said softly, his eyes bright with something that felt like surprise and appreciation.

“We have plenty of room.”