40
F orty minutes later, Elena texted that the governor’s entourage was on its way. Their work connecting the generators was almost done, and only now did Dillon have time to regret his stained and sweaty state. He was tempted to go back and shower and change.
As in, return to the jail.
Where he was about to spend Christmas Eve.
Of course, some of his former investors would no doubt cheer the news.
Charlie Hurst stepped up beside him and demanded, “What’s got you taking a bite from a spoiled pickle?”
Dillon opted to stow away his mental baggage and reply, “I was thinking maybe I should run back and shower. ”
“Not a chance.”
“I’m filthy.”
“Join the club. The mayor’s got more important things to worry about than your smelly state. Now come help me change.”
The cottage that had once been Olivia’s home now possessed its own set of decorative lights. Two of their tallest candy canes flanked the front door. Dillon entered and stood between a pair of Christmas trees as Charlie pulled a red velvet Santa suit from a battered canvas satchel. Charlie lay the jacket on the high-backed chair now occupying the cottage’s front room and declared, “This thing keeps getting tighter every year.”
Charlie stripped off his boots and trousers, struggled into the pants, then stopped when the open zipper formed a six-inch V-shaped gap. “Uh-oh.”
“Not good,” Dillon agreed.
“Okay, that’s it.” Charlie shucked off the trousers and pulled his own back into place. “You try.”
“Me? No way.”
“Get your sorry Christmas carcass over here and strip.”
“Charlie, there’s no way I’m playing Santa.”
“Oh, really.” He held out the velvet trousers. “You think it’d be better for me to greet the kiddies and their parents with my pants open for business?”
“There’s got to be somebody else.”
“We don’t have time for this.” He shook the trousers. “Say, ho ho ho.”
“Ho ho ho.”
“Okay, that was pretty lame. Do it again, only this time add some salsa.”
“Ho ho ho.”
“Louder!”
“Ho ho ho!”
“Okay, you’re hired.” Charlie tossed him the pants. “Now get dressed.”
* * *
Porter drove the lead vehicle and took it slow up Ocean Avenue. The street was illuminated by a few feebly glowing streetlights. The procession’s solemn air was emphasized by how empty the town appeared. Not a soul walked the sidewalks, no cars, no lights in all the buildings they passed.
One of the governor’s security detail sat next to the police chief. Olivia shared the rear seat with Ransom Bates. The state auditor was both glum and cross, his expression saying exactly what he thought of spending his Christmas Eve in Miramar.
The security was a stocky woman with a voice almost as deep as Porter’s. “Looks like a ghost town.”
The chief pointed through the front windshield at the glow illuminating the horizon. “You’ll meet the locals soon enough.”
She leaned forward and squinted. “Tell me that’s not a riot.”
Porter actually laughed. “This is a Christmas festival, Miramar style.”
The agent was clearly displeased. “I didn’t see any memo about your hosting a party for the governor.”
“This sort of happened at the last minute. Not to mention how we only heard about your visit yesterday.” Porter smiled at her. “We’ll do our best to make you feel welcome.”
As they passed the shuttered Castaways and entered the first block illuminated by Christmas lights, their progress was halted by noisy, happy, jostling crowds. Porter announced, “We’ll need to hoof it from here.”
The agent looked doubtful. “You’re sure it’s safe?”
“Don’t you worry.” Porter pulled into the empty fire lane. “Me and my team, we’ll have your back.”
As they rose from the vehicles, Olivia decided it was a night made for drama. Behind her, the darkened blocks of Ocean Avenue had been stripped of decorations. A few strands of tinsel still drifted from the lampposts. Otherwise nothing stirred.
The road up ahead was something else entirely. Their way was illuminated by every imaginable form of lawn ornament, strung in happy abandon from telephone poles, shop fronts, bushes, trees. The governor’s security were mildly freaked as they pressed forward. This was, after all, California. But it was also Christmas Eve. In Miramar. A block later, surrounded by good-natured throngs, the governor finally told his guard detail to hang back and keep cool. Then he began working the crowd. The journalists and television crews managed to get their lights on and cameras focused as . . .
Word spread that Governor Lowell was among them. People shouted hellos, called and yelled messages no one bothered to hear, held out babies and young children for him to greet, flashed a million selfies. All in all, it was as warm and easygoing a welcome as any politician could hope for.
Olivia saw how both the governor and his team were confused, uncertain. They had come to inspect and meet officials of a storm-damaged town in serious need of help. Instead, they were swept up, carried along, and invited to join the celebration.
The streetlights were out here as well, but their poles were festooned with baubles and lights connected to the softly thrumming generators. The road was lined with a forest of illuminated lawn ornaments—tree-size candy canes, reindeers, mangers, mock Christmas trees, Santas, elves, angels galore. Yet more lights climbed the town hall’s front, illuminating the band playing a jazzy rendition of Santa coming to town.
Then the crowd parted, and Olivia caught sight of her cottage.
The home she grew up in and fought so hard to escape was transformed. Of the house itself there appeared to be nothing left. Instead, there before her stood a Christmas cottage made up exclusively of light. And laughter. And great good cheer.
Angels and sleighs and reindeer and elves crowded for space along the roof. Her former home was now the centerpiece, the heart to this joyous moment. The storm had passed, and the town was swept into a sweet hour of celebration. Welcoming Miramar into a season of hope.
Her cottage, Olivia decided, had been made for this very moment.
Abruptly the Christmas lights, Miramar’s happy clan, the music, coalesced into a certainty that her mother was close at hand. Olivia could almost hear her humming along with the band playing carols, sharing in this miracle.
Then Dillon appeared in her cottage doorway.
He was dressed in an ill-fitting Santa suit and held a child of perhaps three or four. The girl wore Dillon’s red cap and squealed with laughter. Charlie Hurst and Gleason stood to either side of the doorway. They pretended to keep a mob of kids and their parents in an orderly line. But the two men were laughing too hard for the children to pay them any mind.
Then Dillon spotted Olivia. He slipped the hat back on his head, handed the girl to her giggling parents, then lifted his arms in the air and shouted, “HO HO HO!”
The crowd yelled back to him. Hundreds of voices, like they had spent weeks readying for this very moment. Ho ho ho.
Olivia realized the mayor and her daughter had stepped up beside her. Elena pointed to Dillon and said, “I know what I want for Christmas.”
Bailey took hold of Elena’s hand. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s go make Santa’s day.” To Olivia, “Go show the governor your work. I’ll be with you directly.”
* * *
Watching Bailey and Elena march toward him, Dillon felt like all the Christmases he’d ever known were crystallizing into this grand instant. He stepped through the doorway, snagged Gleason, passed him the red hat, and said, “Tag, you’re it.”
Dillon moved away before Gleason could object, and was ready when the two ladies joined him. Bailey wrapped her arms around his neck, and Elena hugged the two of them. Dillon’s own embrace was strengthened by his Christmas wish. He breathed the heady aromas of love and spoke his wish aloud: “I want this union to be forever forged.”
“Wow,” Elena said. “Chills.”
“Good,” Bailey said. “I like having something we can agree on.”
“Something important,” Elena said. “Something vital.”
They stood there a long moment, awash in music and laughter and many voices singing off-key. Finally Dillon asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be hosting the governor?”
“He’s a big boy,” Bailey replied. “He can take care of himself for three minutes.”
“Olivia’s making sure he doesn’t get lost,” Elena said.
Just the same, Bailey gently pried herself free. “Does Santa get hungry?”
“This one sure does.”
They started toward the fire station, Dillon holding hands with Bailey on one side and Elena on the other. Being linked as a threesome made for heavy going through the crowd, but Dillon did not mind and clearly the ladies felt the same. Across the street, the band played a jazzy rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” The two singers, both women, were excellent. The crowd cheered, sang along, kissed, danced.
The firehouse was a hive of good cheer. Elena released him long enough to snag three tacos. As they ate, they shifted toward the rear wall and took up station a few steps removed from where Porter and Olivia led the governor’s group. Both Victor Lowell and his number two appeared fascinated by what was on display. Even the auditor, Ransom Bates, lost some of his sour cast. Olivia only spoke if the governor or Boyd said something. Otherwise she and Porter let the photographs do the talking.
The pictures were a collage that rendered Miramar into a colorful and glorious before-and-after display.
When Dillon stepped before the sea wall medley, he breathed a soft, wow .
Elena said, “I know, right?”
He took a step back, trying to absorb the entire display at once. “It’s like . . .”
“She’s captured the whole town,” Elena said.
“These aren’t just pictures,” Bailey agreed. “They reveal . . .”
“The town’s hidden heart,” Elena said.
Dillon asked, “Do you often put words in other people’s mouths?”
“Only when she’s at her most irritating,” Bailey replied.
“Just the same, it’s true.” Dillon could see Olivia’s future there on the wall, clear as a roadmap to what she would soon become.
Bailey finished her taco, carefully wiped her fingers and mouth, then clung to him. One arm was wrapped firmly around Dillon’s waist, the other gripped his arm, while her head rested in the point where his shoulder met his neck. A spot, Dillon decided, that was made for her. A place that had been empty for far too long.
Elena clung to his free hand and bounced on her toes, so excited and happy that she was, for this one moment, still a child.
Another step, another set of images. Dillon felt as if the two ladies, the photographs, and the entire moment served as a mirror. He saw anew his younger version, and recalled how hard he had fought to break free. The Dillon who had done his best to carve a niche in a fiercely competitive world. And he had succeeded. Until he failed. And that had brought him back to Miramar, where he’d hoped for nothing more than a chance to catch his breath. Healing was a word he had dared not use.
And look what this Christmas had brought him.
Purpose. Hope. A tomorrow. And so much more besides.
Dillon told them, “It’s good to be home.”