Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Stella
The parade is first-rate this year. Probably the best one I’ve seen in years. Actually, it’s the only one I’ve seen in its entirety since I was about five. I’ve been in every parade for the past twenty years.
I thought I’d be sad about being on the sidelines this year, but I’m enjoying playing spectator.
Especially with Rhys behind me, his arms wrapped around my shoulders, commenting on every parade float.
His observations and questions border on cynical, but when I laugh, he does too, and I can tell he’s having fun.
We’re both shivering, though, when the last float finally lumbers past. Nick, dressed as Santa, waves from his bright red riding lawnmower “pulled” by his Saint Bernard dressed in full reindeer costume, down to the red nose.
“That’s not a reindeer,” Rhys says flatly.
“Obviously,” I say before catching a mini candy cane Santa tosses into the crowd. “But his name is Rudolph, and he loves playing the part. Look how he’s smiling.”
Rhys huffs. “Dogs don’t smile.”
“Not at you. You have to smile at them first.” I catch him shaking his head and grinning.
“Yep! Just like that!” I point to his smile.
He quickly wipes it away but lets me grab his hand and tug him to follow Santa, who’s steering his sleigh toward his temporary lodge set up in the middle of the town square.
“Where are we running to?” Rhys asks.
“We need to hurry if we’re going to see Santa. The line gets long fast.”
He stops dead. “We’re doing what now?”
“Telling Santa what we want for Christmas.” I tug again, but he’s immovable, and we’re getting left behind by every kid in town.
“I’ll stand in line with you, but I’m not sittin’ on some bloke’s lap to tell him my wish list.”
Rhys reluctantly moves with my next tug, but he moves so slowly, I’m tempted to leave him behind. If this visit to Santa were about me, I would.
“You don’t have to sit on his lap. You’ll still get what you want, and you can ask him for anything.” I quicken my pace, but if I let go of Rhys’s hand, he’ll bolt. He’s twitchy as a deer during hunting season.
“I don’t want anything, La-La.”
Now I stop long enough to give him my most serious look. “Think of something, then. Since you don’t believe in Santa, someone will probably need his help to pick out a gift for you.”
Rhys’s mouth lifts into a lazy grin. “Couldn’t that someone just ask me what I want?”
“Maybe that someone wants you to experience the magic of Christmas with her.”
There’s nothing lazy about his grin as he tugs me close enough to circle his arms around my waist. “How about we make our own magic?”
I narrow my eyes until my left one twitches. “Keep it up, Rhys, and you’re going to find yourself on the naughty list.”
He leans down with that slow-burn smirk that got him famous. “How ’bout we skip this line and get naughty together?” he whispers against my ear.
My skin prickles with heat. If he’s suggesting what I think he is, I’ve fantasized about that, too. Doesn’t mean I’m ready for it. I’ve got a lot more to cross off my list before I am.
I push him away and glare harder. “This is when I ask Santa for a letter from my dad. Nick is waiting for me. He won’t give it to me until Christmas Eve, but my asking is part of our tradition. That line is only getting longer, and we still need to help Mom with the tree.”
I tip my chin toward the line winding outside Santa’s hut, threatening to fill the town square.
Rhys’s eyes soften. “Sorry, La-La. I forgot about the letter.”
He squeezes my hand and takes off at a jog that’s hard to keep up with. By the time we reach the line, I’m out of breath, but Rhys doesn’t stop. He bribes kids and their parents to let us cut to the front.
The kids are thrilled by the fives, ones, and tens Rhys keeps pulling from his wallet, but the parents—most of whom I know—recognize exactly who’s bribing their kids.
“Why do you have so much cash?” I ask. “Do you have a side hustle as a stripper?”
He snorts. “My name’s not on cash like it is on a credit card. Less chance of someone clockin’ who I am.”
I nod. But I’ve seen recognition in every adult’s—and a few kids’—eyes in this line.
They know exactly who he is, no credit card necessary.
The fact that not one person has been surprised to see Rhys James in Paradise—or me with him—is a testament to how fast news spreads in a small town.
No one has a problem letting us crowd to the front of the line.
When Rhys’s back is turned, more than one mom mouths to me to call her or points to Rhys and gives me a thumbs up.
Hope and Charly are at the front of the line when we get there. Despite Charly’s questionable taste in favorite songs, Rhys is smitten with her. Even though Hope tries to refuse, he insists she take the twenty he hands Charly to let me go first.
Rhys tries to nudge me forward, but I shake my head. “You bribed your way here. You first. And you might give believing a try, like I did.”
He opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again when I raise an eyebrow. I need to know what Rhys wants for Christmas, so I’m not about to budge. I’d love to give him the kind of Christmas magic I get to experience every year.
“Fine,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile. He trudges up to Nick like a man on his way to a dentist appointment.
Nick pats his knee for Rhys to sit. Rhys gives me a look that could curdle eggnog, then perches on the very edge, gripping his thighs to keep from actually sitting.
“What’s your name, young fella?” Nick asks, patting Rhys on the back.
“Rhys,” he says, reluctant but polite.
“Rhys?” Nick repeats before ho-ho-hoing loudly. “I hear you’re a very talented musician.”
Rhys glances sideways. “Who told you that?”
“Why, one of my elves, of course! Told me you’ve had a rough year, but you’ve still been a very good boy.”
“Has she now?” he says to Nick while shooting me an accusing look.
I raise both hands—wasn’t me. I haven’t talked to Nick since last Christmas, so I’m not the elf he got his intel from.
Nick winks. “He certainly has. Larry’s one of my best elves. He told me what you might want, but I’d rather hear it from you.”
Between his twinkling eyes, real beard, and rosy cheeks, Nick really could be Santa’s double.
He definitely works some Christmas magic on Rhys.
Something in him shifts—his shoulders drop a little, the defensiveness softens.
He leans in, whispering something I can’t hear.
For a split second, I swear I see the same look in his eyes I’ve seen when he sings something that means too much to speak it.
Whatever he says makes Nick’s eyes go glassy. When Rhys stands, there’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips, but behind it—something else. Hope…or maybe fear.
Which is great, except I was hoping to overhear his request. Now I’ll have to risk my “nice” status and try to get it out of Nick. Based on the look on Nick’s face, whatever Rhys asked for is a lot harder to make or buy than, say, a new guitar.
It’s the same look I remember when I was nine and asked for a letter from Dad.
“Go stand by Charly,” I tell Rhys, shooing him away before I take his place.
“How are you, Stella, peach?” Nick gives me a tight squeeze, and I hug him back. “We’ve missed you around here. You ready to come back yet?”
“I’ve missed everyone too, Nick, but no, I’m not ready to come back. LA isn’t Paradise, but it’s a close second.”
He chuckles. “Long as you spend Christmas here at home.”
“Wouldn’t miss it!”
A chip in the gold-painted trim that lines his red velvet chair catches my eye.
This chair used to seem so big and luxurious.
I’ve never noticed the spots where the velvet is rubbed thin or the fraying cuff of Nick’s suit.
I’m hit with a wave of sadness that washes away the excitement of the morning. Everything gets older.
Except for Dad.
It occurs to me that the day is coming soon when I’ll be older than Dad was when he died.
What will his letters sound like then? Every one I’ve received has some piece of advice for the age I’m at.
In grade school, it was about trying everything, then sticking to the things I loved.
In middle school, it was treating everyone like a friend.
In high school, it was setting goals and achieving them.
I’m in his military and newly married years now.
The advice he gave me last year was about self-discipline.
The one common thread through all the letters, though—the one thing he wants most for me—is to be kind.
I think I know Dad well enough now to recognize that, no matter how many letters I get from him, or whoever is writing them, he’ll always have that one piece of advice for me. Be kind.
But what happens when he doesn’t have experiences I can relate to or advice for my current age? Then what? Do I keep asking for letters? Or do I pay it forward and do for someone what Paradise has done for me and make Christmas magic again?
I glance at Rhys, kneeling in front of Charly. Over the noise of music playing, people laughing, and carolers singing, the soft notes of “Fa-La La-La Land” find me. Rhys is singing with Charly.
The scene is straight out of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Rhys with his brow furrowed but fighting a smile. Charly, with her hair in two space buns on top of her head, swinging Rhys’s hands side to side, totally oblivious to how uncomfortable he is.
I turn back to Nick. “Can I ask for something else this year?”
He blinks with surprise before his face splits into a smile. “Of course you can. Do you want a new bike? Or maybe a surfboard now that you’re a California girl?”
I laugh nervously. I hope what I ask for is worth sacrificing a letter from Dad this year. “No, something easier than any of those. I want to know what Rhys asked for.”
Nick loses his smile. “Oh, now, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that. His wish might not come true if I do.”