Page 9 of Yuletide Acres

“How is that? We haven’t seen each other in a decade.”

Poppy barks out a laugh. I know that laugh. The gloves are off and her fighting spirit is about to come out swinging. “You’re right. I didn’t see you again after you disappeared in the middle of the night.”

I knew it would go there, eventually. I’m oddly glad she mentioned it first. “My father was sick.”

“I know that. But you promised to come back, and you never did.”

“Some promises can’t be kept.” The words hurt me to say, but I know from her expression that they wound her worse.

She nods, her eyes glassy. “What can I do for you, Dylan? Or should I call you Mr. West? I mean, we obviously don’t know each other at all.”

“I came by to welcome you to the town.” Wow. Talk about irony.

“Word of advice? Get someone else. You suck in that capacity.”

We stand there, glaring at one another, the energy rising between us. I’m at the end of my rope. I either leave immediately or claim that luscious mouth and after my terrible welcoming behavior, I doubt she would accept the second option.

My phone rings, jolting into the moment. I’ve never been so glad to receive a text message. Glancing down, I chuckle. It’s Marissa, holding brownies in each hand, her mouth covered in chocolate.

“So, you can still smile,” Poppy observes. “You always had such a nice smile.”

Damn this woman. She’s impossible to hate and so very easy to adore. Every emotional brick I lay, she shoves away. I hold out the phone, showing her the photo of my munchkin. “My daughter, she’s at the bake sale, gorging herself.”

I wait for the inevitable change in disposition, a cloud to cover Poppy’s smile once she learns that I’m a father.

Poppy bites her lip, her face breaking into a grin. But I know each and every one of her smiles, this one is tinged with sorrow. “She looks like she’s enjoying herself. Can’t say I blame her. How old is your daughter?”

“Six. Her name is Marissa.”

“She’s beautiful. Looks so much like you. Do you have any other children?”

I shake my head. “No. My wife died in childbirth.”

Poppy’s hand flies to her mouth, a yelp escaping her throat. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible. God, I’m sorry, Dylan. I wish I knew something better to say.”

Of all the sentiments I’ve heard over the years, Poppy offers the most genuine one. But that’s the thing about Poppy. She’s always been real. “It’s okay. It was six years ago.” I shuffle, feeling the stirrings in my body again. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from touching her. “What about you? Are you married? Kids?”

“No.”

“Too ordinary for you, Poppy?”

“Naïve though I may be, I’m holding out for true love. At this point, I’m likely never to find it, but I try to keep the hope alive.” She gazes down, her slight fingers tracing along the countertop. “I thought I found it once, but I guess I was mistaken.”

Her words hit my armor like bullets, each one triggering the intense guilt I harbor over leaving her in such a manner. The pain it dredges up is something I’ve buried for the last several years, and I have no desire to relive it again.

My heart shattered for her once. I won’t allow it that close to the danger zone this time.

“True love is a fallacy. A myth. You’d do well to learn that fact.” I need to go. My last vestiges of restraint are breaking with each passing second. “I have a meeting, so I’ll see you later. Welcome to Yuletide Acres.”

“Thank you. It was a most offbeat welcome.” Another sad smile. Christ, but I’m good at hurting her feelings. “Wait, just a second, please.” She grabs a few stones and puts them in a velvet bag. “Here. Will you give these to Marissa? They’ll bring her good luck. Besides, they’re pretty.”

I don’t move to take the bag, although my heart clenches at her thoughtful gesture. “Marissa doesn’t believe in hocus pocus, either. Have a good day, Poppy.”

* * *

“Have you met our newest resident? I told you she was lovely.” My mother shuffles around the kitchen, putting away groceries.

“I met her all right.” I fail to mention that the woman has been playing on a permanent reel in my mind since I walked out of her store. Stormed out is a more appropriate term.

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