Page 84 of Fa-La La-La Land
Despite my arguments, the tug of home quickens my pace, and we break into run.
Derek is waiting for us outside in Rhys’s SUV. We stop briefly at home for Rhys to shower, change, and grab a bag, and I do the same. When he ushers me back into the car, Jack and Millie are waiting for us.
“You’re coming too?” I ask, thrilled to see them.
“Your mum invited us. Hope that’s okay,” Millie says, grinning wide, and I’m so stunned I can’t even speak.
Then we’reoff.
VibeHouse has its private plane waiting on the tarmac for us. In a little over an hour, we land in Florence, then a quick forty-five minute drive to Paradise. I want to ask what’s happening, but Rhys shakes his head every time I try.
We pull into town just before midnight. Mom’s house glows from a mile away, and cars line her driveway and street.
“What did you do?” I whisper to Rhys.
He just smiles.
We step inside a house filled with family and friends. People I haven’t seen in years. Friends of my dad’s from high school. From the military. Some of them I barely remember, but it doesn’t matter. They’re here.
My cousins are here, including Zach, Georgia, and Britta—along with Dex—who’ve all come in from LA. Mom’s passing out drinks and nudging people toward a buffet table loaded with food. Christmas music is playing. The smell of cinnamon fills the air. There’s hot cider on the stove.
Seb sees us, begins cheering, and everyone else joins in.
I assume it’s for Rhys. His performance was streamed live. But then I hear, “Merry Christmas, Stella.”
Nick is standing in the center of the room, dressed in a Santa suit. He’s smiling—and holding an envelope in his hand. I freeze.
“What is this?” I whisper as he hands it to me.
“It’s your Christmas letter,” Mom says, eyes shining. “The last one.”
My hands tremble as I reach for the envelope. My name is written on the front—in the same handwriting as the others.
I recognize the handwriting. It matches the first letter I received.
“Did Dad write this?” I whisper.
Mom nods, her eyes shimmering. “He wrote one right after you were born, but then he thought of more things he wantedyou to know if he wasn’t here to tell you in person. He ended up writing four before deploying and gave them to your Grandpa to keep for you.”
A couple dozen pairs of eyes are on me. I smile, knowing. Remembering.
The first letters I received when I was nine—a preteen girl, growing and changing, unsure of who I was or who I was becoming. Those letters from Dad helped me figure it out. I smile again, remembering his advice that people are often unkind when they’re hurting and I should return meanness with kindness.
“But who wrote the others?” I ask, clutching the envelope in my hands.
Uncle Pete steps forward. “Your Aunt Heidi,” he says gently. “She wrote the ones you got in middle school, before her dementia.”
His eyes glisten. Pete’s wife Heidi was my dad’s sister. She passed away not long ago. I press my lips together. I can’t speak. But I remember those letters. She wrote them as Dad, but they were her memories of him, written before she could have known how soon Alzheimer’s would take them from her.
A couple of my dad’s friends from high school step up next.
“We wrote a few too,” one says. “Mike was a good guy. As big as he was, he could have been a bully. But he was always kind.”
Tears threaten again.
A man in uniform speaks up next. “You needed to know what your dad was like in the military,” he says. “And what he was like in a combat environment. We were paid to fight, but he tried to create peace wherever he went.”
My mom hands me a box of tissues, and I wipe my nose, then glance at Grandpa.
