37
D illon followed Bailey back outside. The late afternoon sun was strong enough to begin drying out their world. The air was impossibly clean, the sky a fine China blue.
Bailey saw none of this. “What am I supposed to do with this mob?”
Dillon replied, “They’re anything but.”
“Maybe you’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
“Bailey, these people are looking for a reason to party.” He liked how she looked at him, trusting him enough to show her very real fear. “They’ve been cooped up since forever. Their town has been storm-hammered for weeks. They’re gathering here because they want to be a part of whatever’s coming.”
She gave that a moment’s silence, then, “Think you can handle them?”
“I guess. Is that what you want?”
“What I want . . .” A smile fought to break through her nerves. “I wish I could kiss you.”
Which was exactly what he did. There in as public a setting as Miramar could offer. With what seemed like the whole town watching. And cheering.
* * *
Dillon was in his element. He stood behind the sawhorses framing the fire station’s front area and studied the happy, yammering crowd. It was growing larger by the minute, as were the numbers of boxes and bundles of Christmas ornaments. The donations said it all. These people wanted to be part of whatever was happening. They wanted a reason to celebrate.
There had been times in his previous life when he had been the loner in a crowd. Traders and bosses were all caught up in a news alert that threatened to reshape their world. Everyone was looking for the direction to stampede. Dillon had loved those moments, being able to separate himself from the tension and fear and explosive energy. And do what he was doing now.
Porter stepped up beside him and observed, “You’re the only guy here who’s not in total panic mode.”
“I’m just hiding it better.”
“Maybe you should be a cop.”
“Not on your life. No offense.”
“None taken. Bailey said you might be needing a hand.”
“Bailey’s right.”
As Dillon sketched out his half-formed idea, Gleason shouldered his way through the crowd carrying an overfull box. The shop owner announced, “Got your booklets.”
“They’re Bailey’s,” Dillon replied. “But thanks. A lot.”
“You don’t want to check them out?”
“No time,” Dillon said.
“Yeah, you and the chief look super busy,” Gleason scoffed.
“Thinking,” Dillon said. “Planning. Doing what the mayor told me.”
“Bailey’s back inside,” Porter said, pointing behind him. “Look for the lady on the verge of a total freak.”
Dillon asked, “Once you’ve made your delivery, want to help us with crowd control?”
Gleason offered a very rare smile. “That’s why I got into politics. So I could tell the town what to do.”
Porter shook his head. “I try to avoid that at all cost.”
“Just as well,” Gleason replied. “Since nobody wants to listen to you anyway.”
Over the next hour, Dillon fielded a dozen urgent issues. More. The crowd seemed more or less agreeable with the idea of a stranger giving them orders. Enterprising locals brought in mobile food vans. The power company shifted ornaments and lights from the powerless outer streets to the blocks of Ocean Avenue leading to their lane. Local musicians, including several semiprofessionals who backed up Connor Larkin, set up on the town hall’s broad front porch—but only after they solemnly promised Dillon that every other number would be about Christmas. Gradually one side of the street began to take on the recognizable form of a street party.
The area around the fire station, however, was a very different story.
A bit later, he stopped for a coffee and fresh-cooked doughnut. Dillon stepped back far enough for the van to block him from most of the throng, granting him a much-needed breather. In the days and weeks to come, Dillon suspected he’d look back on this moment as his very own Christmas epiphany.
Standing there on the muddy rain-soaked earth, surrounded by the town and locals he’d fought so hard to leave behind . . .
He was as happy as he’d been in a very long while.
And something more.
Dillon felt genuinely fulfilled.
It wasn’t coming home that did it. Or facing defeat. Or rising from the destructive flames. Or even standing on the verge of a new love.
It was all of those things. And more besides.
If Dillon had ever designed a motto for those years since leaving Miramar, it would have been, Success first, life after .
Or something to that effect.
And now, in the cacophony of a half-formed street party, he faced a future he could never have dreamed up. Not in a million years of yearning. Where there was nothing for him except the wonder of living this noisy, fractured, joyful day.
Which was when Bailey’s daughter stepped in front of him and demanded, “Why are you hiding back here?”
“I’m not,” Dillon replied. “I’m . . .”
Elena stood with hands on hips. “You’re what?”
Dillon grinned. “Okay. Hiding works as well as anything I can come up with.”
“Mom sent me over to make sure you weren’t in a total panic. And if you are, she said to tell you that’s her job.”
Dillon stepped away from the van and looked across the street. The mayor stood in the middle of the fire station, surveying the array of photographs now adorning the station’s rear wall. “Bailey looks in pretty good shape to me.”
“She’ll be delighted to hear the disguise is working.” Elena took hold of his free hand. “Oh, and the governor’s late.”
“Outstanding.”
“Exactly what Mom said. Only with more volume.” Elena tugged on his hand. “Come on, sport. There are things to do and people to yell at.”
“One second.” Dillon surveyed the three segments that made up the growing street carnival. The smallest was also the quietest. And by far the most orderly. Inside the fire station, a stern-faced mayor oversaw a quietly cheerful team laying out trestle tables, benches, and folding chairs carried over from the town hall. In one corner of the fire station’s rear wall, alongside Olivia’s pictorial display, now stood a podium, mikes, and loudspeakers. Dillon wanted to rush over, embrace Bailey again, tell her what an incredible job she was doing. All that.
But he couldn’t. Because the other two segments shared an element that could be summed up in just one word.
Party.
Elena demanded, “Why are we standing here?” “I’m trying to find where I can help out.” Dillon swept his free hand over the noisy scene. “It looks to me like people are pretty much getting on with their jobs.”
Elena lifted up on her tiptoes and squinted. “You ask me, the zebras and hippos have taken control of the circus.”
Dillon’s response was cut off by Claire shouldering through the crowd, followed by a grinning Arnaud. Claire planted fists on hips and demanded, “What’s the big idea?”
“About what?” Dillon sketched a wave. “Hi, Arnaud.”
“Don’t mind me. I’m just the innocent bystander here,” Arnaud replied.
“You and me both,” Elena said.
Claire asked, “Why weren’t we invited to help out with this gig?”
“Nobody invited anyone. This all just sort of happened.”
“Huh.” She glared at Elena. “Have you ever in your entire life heard such a lame excuse?”
“Thinking.”
“I’ve got six turkeys ready to come out of the oven,” Claire announced.
Arnaud cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m the one—” “Don’t you start.” To Dillon, “I called Bailey an hour ago. She claims you’re directing traffic. So direct.”
It was Elena who suggested, “Turkey tacos.”
The three adults stared at her. Dillon said, “That’s actually a very good idea.”
“California fast food, Christmas style,” Elena said.
Claire looked at her husband, who said, “Works for me.”
Claire said, “We can whip up some sides of slaw and potato salad.”
“I can,” Arnaud replied. “You can’t boil water.”
Dillon pointed to the fire station. “Set up your station in the chief’s office. Get ready to feed the governor’s crew and all the Miramar biggies.”
“Don’t forget Santa,” Elena said, offering them a happy shrug. “What can I tell you. I’m still ten.”