Chapter 9 #2
“That’s beautiful,” Taylor said. “I moved here four years ago and I can understand why you’d never want to leave.”
“Not often young people want to move here. Often I see they’re moving away.” Marjorie frowned. “They think it’s old-fashioned and believe that means it’s backwards, even though we both know this town is anything but.”
Taylor nodded. “I came here every Christmas with my parents when I was growing up. We’re from Chicago so it was close enough to drive to. I always knew I’d come back here.”
“You understand then. This town becomes part of your blood.” Marjorie sighed. “My daughter keeps begging me to leave. Or to at least come up for the holidays, but I can’t leave now. Won’t leave now.”
“I do,” Taylor said. “My dad’s still in Chicago.”
“Not your mom, dear?”
“No, we lost her a few years ago,” Taylor said. “But that’s part of why I live here and work here. Her memory.”
Marjorie’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s beautiful.” She gripped his hands and wouldn’t let go. “She’d be proud of you.”
Even though Marjorie had never known Teresa Hall, he hoped she was right. Though he could theorize what she’d be thinking of how he’d treated Rocco.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I hear you’re up for a big promotion,” she said.
“City manager is a big deal,” Taylor admitted.
“But you’re equal to it. I know what kind of good you’ve done for this town.” She paused. “And now I know why. Unlike that dolt, Steve Mills, who thinks he can waltz back here and try to tell us how Christmas Falls is.”
“He’s wrong,” Taylor said steadily.
“That he is, my boy.” She stood, carefully, wobbling a little, and Taylor reached out to steady her. “I have no doubt you’re going to get it, instead. The council might be difficult, sometimes, but they’re not stupid.”
“I hope so,” Taylor said.
“You’ve got this in the bag,” she said forcefully, and he imagined her going to each member of the council and insisting that they pick Taylor, now.
“Thanks. Couldn’t imagine a better person to be on my side,” he said.
After Marjorie wandered away, he toyed with his mostly empty cup and ended up dialing his dad. They talked once a week over the phone and usually more via text, but he was busy. Retired, but constantly staying busy.
This wasn’t Taylor’s normal time to call, so he wasn’t sure he’d get him, but he did. “Hey, Dad,” he said when his father picked up. “How’s it going?”
“I can barely believe it,” Walter Hall said dryly. “It’s not Sunday and you’re calling.”
“I . . .uh . . .figured you might be busy,” Taylor said.
“I don’t have pinochle until five, so you’ve got thirty-five minutes,” his dad said.
“You still going with that nice old lady. What was her name again?”
“Nina and no, she ended up moving to Florida with her daughter.” But Walter didn’t sound all that disappointed. “She was kind of a nag.”
“Mom never nagged,” Taylor said before he could snatch the words back.
“No, son, she didn’t.” Walter chuckled. “So what’s the special occasion?”
“For my call? Uh, well . . .nothing special. Just was thinking about you. Met a real nice lady here, reminded me of you.”
“Oh, yeah? Would I like her?”
Taylor laughed. “What would mom say if she could see you’ve turned into such a ladies’ man?”
Walter chuckled. “She’d laugh and roll her eyes.”
There’d been a time when they couldn’t joke like this. When losing Teresa Hall had been debilitating and so painful that some days Taylor hadn’t been sure they could move on. But they had.
They’d healed, because they’d had no other choice, but that didn’t mean all that suffering hadn’t left a scar.
“She would,” Taylor agreed. “You have any big plans for the holidays?”
“Oh, you know the place here does it up big, and I’m right in the thick of it. Sometimes I don’t know whether to rage quit or be relieved that it’s me running the organizing committee.”
They’d both dealt with those scars in different ways.
Taylor had gone back to their shared past, burying himself in memories, in the uncomplicated rose-gold sheen of nostalgia.
He’d searched for someone who’d stick. For awhile he’d believed that was Michael, and when he’d discovered he wasn’t even close to the right answer, he’d returned to the one thing that always was: Christmas Falls.
His dad had gotten busy and maybe a tad bit over-involved.
Somehow, Taylor realized, that had put them at cross-purposes, only passing each other like ships in the night.
“You love it,” Taylor reminded his dad.
“And so do you,” Walter retorted fondly. “You’re a chip off the old block, for sure, and I’m so proud of you. Any news on the job?”
“Not anything recent. I did finally meet the other candidate.”
“He suck as much as you thought?”
“More, actually,” Taylor said with a resigned sigh.
“Well, you’re gonna get it over him. I know you, and you don’t give up when the going gets tough. You’ll do what needs done to make sure you’re the best choice for the job.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Of course Walter Hall didn’t have any clue what he’d already done to ensure the job was his. Namely, Rocco Moretti.
What would he say about Rocco?
Taylor barely needed to give it a moment of thought. Walter would say, in that kind, patient, but spine-of-steel way of his, You like this boy? Then you do the right thing by him.
Taylor of a few days ago might’ve believed that “doing the right thing by him” would be dissolving this faux relationship and staying casual friends.
But now, he wasn’t so sure.
No—that was a lie. He was sure. Terrified, but sure.
“You’re awfully quiet today,” Walter said. “You sure there isn’t anything on your mind?”
“I . . .uh . . .” He didn’t mean to say it. He really didn’t mean to. But it came out anyway. “I met someone.”
“Really? Oh, Taylor, that’s great news. Who is he?”
“He just moved here, actually. Bought the coffee shop. Then changed everything. Kinda pissed off a lot of caffeine lovers in town.”
“You’re gonna rescue him, aren’t you?” Walter sounded amused.
“Actually . . .Rocco’s more the kind to rescue himself. I helped him see it, but he’s on the right path. Forging his own path, actually. He’s . . .well.”
“Speechlessness is always a good sign,” his dad teased. “When I met your mother, I felt like I couldn’t string together a sentence for months. But really, I’m happy for you. You work too hard. Could use a little more fun in your life.”
Was Rocco fun? Well, he sure as hell wasn’t dull.
Taylor always felt more alive when they were together, like he was seeing and tasting and smelling for the first time in a long time.
“I think so too,” Taylor agreed. “Guess we’ll see if it plays out.”
“Just like that job you want, you give this Rocco kid that kind of attention, show him a real good time? He’s going to love you, just the way I do,” his dad said firmly.
“Dad,” Taylor chuckled weakly.
“It’s true. You’ve got this.”
Taylor didn’t think he really did, but his dad’s confidence, like always, gave him confidence.
“I gotta get to pinochle,” Walter said. “But it’s the holiday season. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
“Okay,” Taylor said, a sudden lump forming in the back of his throat. “Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too.”
Rocco didn’t know what the heck he was doing.
In this moment.
Or frankly, in general.
He’d not only let Taylor kiss him, he’d been a more-than-enthusiastic participant, and then he’d just let him—and himself!—off the hook.
What he should’ve done was tell Taylor to fuck right off and then insist it was off, their “relationship” was over.
But he hadn’t done that.
Rocco huffed under his breath as he opened the door to the Christmas Falls Museum. It had been days and days since their last date and their kiss, and he still wasn’t over it.
Still wasn’t done thinking about it. Or Taylor.
To distract himself, Rocco had been doing some digging, trying to figure out the best place to get what he needed, and at the end of the day, it seemed that would be the Christmas Falls Festival Museum and its curator, Harvey Novak.
The floorboards creaked as he walked in, the big rooms full of old floats and display cases full of memorabilia. There was even an old mechanical Santa that Rocco gave a second look to, because he looked a little creepy.
“Hello?” Rocco asked, surprised at how empty the place was. Of course it was a Wednesday afternoon, so maybe that was why it felt like crickets echoing through the tall rooms.
“Oh, hey!” a man who had to be Harvey said, walking up to where Rocco was standing. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“It’s pretty quiet,” Rocco pointed out.
“We’re usually much busier on the weekends,” the man said and extended a hand. “I’m Harvey Novak.”
Rocco shook it. “Rocco Moretti. I’m new to town. Just bought Jolly Java in the summer.”
“Oh! You’re the one who took pumpkin spice off the menu,” Harvey said.
“Don’t tell me you’re a PSL fan,” Rocco joked weakly.
“Oh, no, no, I just heard some complaining about it. I just like my coffee black. And yours was delicious the few times I stopped by.” Harvey paused. “But that’s obviously not why you’re here. What can I help you with?”
“I was wondering if you had any old records here? I know you have all this really great stuff, but I’m looking for something more specific. Like old recipes?”
“Recipes?” Harvey looked confused. Hopeful, but confused.
“I’m hoping to make some classic Christmas Falls recipes to add to my regular rotation. Marlene thought you might have some old records, maybe?”
Now, Rocco knew he’d erred with his enthusiasm on removing popular items people were comfortable with, but what he should have done was add a few things.
Create some daily or weekly specials. And if he wanted new stuff, he needed to think about Christmas Falls and how it celebrated nostalgia.
Surely he could find some old recipes and maybe punch them up a little?
But everyone he’d talked to had blanked—finally Marlene had suggested that he try Harvey at the museum.