A Seaside Christmas

  “I really need to go.”

  “You love him and you’ve never let yourself love someone before, so you’re worried that the Great Mermaid had something to do with this, that she used her tractor beam of love to deliver him to your door. Am I right?”

  “The mermaid story is ridiculous. I don’t believe in the mermaid.”

  Rowan giggled. “That’s great, sweetie. But what if she believes in you?”

  • • •

  The doctor waited patiently for Nat to answer. This was a dilemma. He knew it was important to share everything with a doctor. Your life could depend on it. He also knew that if he told her the truth—that his thinking process and consciousness had been radically altered, that his emotions were on kamikaze autopilot, and that he’d even entertained the possibility that a bronze mermaid fountain might have directed him to his one true love—she’d order a psychiatrist to go with that CT scan.

  Nat stared at her. All he could manage was a laugh.

  “You know, Mr. Ravelle,” she said, “I live in the world of science, but science isn’t the be-all and end-all. Working as a physician, I’ve seen things I have no explanation for, and I’ve reached the conclusion that there’s more to life than we can prove with empirical data.”

  Nat really liked this woman. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “I grew up on Nantucket,” she said. “I’ve been coming to Bayberry Island all my life. I’ve always known there’s something extraordinary about this place.” She raised her eyebrows. “I met my husband here.”

  “No kidding?”

  The doctor’s expression seemed to glaze over for a moment. “Yes. At a totally kick-ass beach party during the 1980 Mermaid Festival.”

  “So I need a CT scan, huh?”

  She chuckled and reached for a prescription pad. “I understand that your reason for being here is job related, but if I may ask, what were your holiday plans, Mr. Ravelle?”

  He noticed she’d just used the past tense. “My whole family is in Boston for Christmas. My plan was to spend a couple days on this godforsaken piece of rock and take the first thing smokin’ back to Boston.”

  The doctor smiled as she wrote out something on her pad. “Well, those plans have changed. I’ve just written you a note excusing you from your job for two weeks. Have them call me if they have any questions. And here’s a referral for a CT scan.”

  “But . . .” Nat was bewildered.

  “I want you to stay put for a while. For the next few days, don’t leave this bed unless it’s for meals, showers, and maybe some slow dancing in front of the fireplace, but only if you feel up to it. And I think you should consider inviting your family to Bayberry for Christmas, since it’s better that you don’t travel. You can get your CT scan on the Cape.” She tore off both slips of paper and handed them to him.

  Nat knew his mouth was hanging open. He looked from the piece of paper to the doctor and back again. “What’s my diagnosis? Is it serious? What do you think is wrong with me?”

  She grabbed her bag and stood by the side of the bed. “Nothing that a couple weeks on this island with Miss Parker won’t cure. Merry Christmas.”

  • • •

  Now it was official. There had never been so many people crammed into her tiny house at one time. And the walls had never tried to contain so much chatter, laughter, music, and the sound of kids playing. Annie loved it. She couldn’t stop smiling at the idea that all these people—the ones she’d just met yesterday and the ones she’d known all her life—had come together to celebrate Christmas Eve. And they were here in her house, which she had expected to be cold and empty over the holidays.

  The only one who wasn’t enjoying himself was Ezra, now with a bow on his head and being carried around by Nat’s six-year-old niece.

  “What an adorable place you have, Annie.” Nat’s mother had followed her into the kitchen. “Has this property been in your family a long time?”

  “Only for about the last one hundred fifty years, give or take.” Annie smiled at her. She was a lovely woman who seemed enamored with the island and deliriously happy that her family could be together over the holidays. She also seemed just the teeniest bit curious about Annie and her life—and probably her shop’s dessert menu. It was obvious that Mrs. Ravelle hadn’t followed her into the kitchen only to help carry out more bacon-wrapped scallops.

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Ravelle had donned a pair of mitts to remove another tray of appetizers from the oven. “Well, Nat has told us a bit about you, and I have to say I’m a little surprised by the situation.”

  Annie turned to face her, puzzled. “You’re surprised he would be interested in me?”

  “That’s not what I meant at all!” Mrs. Ravelle laughed. “There’s no surprise there. Any red-blooded man would be interested in you. You’re beautiful, smart, funny, and I’m just glad you seem as smitten with Nat as he is with you.”

  “Scared me there for a minute,” Annie said.

  “I’m sorry. What I meant was . . . well, dammit, I’m just going to come right out and say it.” She took a breath and rested the oven mitts on her hips. “Nat has never brought a girl home for us to meet, not once since he moved to California for college. He had a girlfriend in high school, and I really thought he was in love with her, but that was it. We were starting to think, well, you know. He’s in his thirties now. He lives in LA.”

  Annie laughed out loud. “Nat is definitely not gay.”

  “Oh, thank God! Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. We just weren’t sure, and it’s such a relief to know one way or the other.” With that, Mrs. Ravelle grabbed Annie and squeezed her tight. “Thank you, my dear girl.”

  “That was your question?”

  “Oh no. I just had to get that out of the way before I asked what I really wanted to ask.”

  Annie crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the counter. “Fire away.”

  “Would you consider—and you don’t have to if you are sick of doing it at this point—but would you consider telling us the story of the mermaid legend after dinner? I think the girls would love to hear it. They’re in that phase, you know.”

  “Which phase is that?”

  “The true love stuff. Fairy tales and princesses. Magical powers. Knights in shining armor.”

  “Ah, that phase,” Annie said, grinning. “I think I remember it.”

  Many hours later, Annie’s friends and neighbors had returned to their homes and the Ravelles had settled in at the Safe Haven B and B. She and Nat were in the kitchen washing dishes and listening to Christmas music.

  “Let’s take a break,” Nat said.

  “Is your back bothering you?”

  “Nope, but this is my favorite carol.” He grabbed Annie by the hand and led her into the sitting room. He flipped off all the lights, leaving only the Christmas tree and the fire to cast a warm glow.

  “What are you—?”

  “Shh. This requires ambience.”

  She giggled as he pulled her to the front of his body and began to sway to a slow and jazzy version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Since the room had already been rearranged for maximum party space, there was plenty of room for dancing.

  Nat gazed down at her, his eyes sparkling with the lights. “Annie Parker, before this night ends, I wanted to be sure to thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Saving me. Bringing me to shore.”

  7

  Six months later . . .

  “Fifteen minutes to Bayberry Island, Mr. Ravelle.”

  Nat looked up from his shooting budget and smiled. “Thank you very much, John.”

  “Beautiful June day out here. Water is as smooth as glass.”

  “Yes, it is.” Nat began to gather h
is things, tapping his shirt pocket to make sure he had his sunglasses.

  “Staying on for good? I think you told me last time that you hoped to be. Will you be here for the whole summer? Will you be here for the Mermaid Festival?”

  “I will, John.”

  “Will your family be coming?”

  “Yes. They’ll all be here in August for festival week.”

  “That’s lovely. Very nice people, your family.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How’s Annie doing? I got to chat with her the last time she was on her way to Boston to catch a plane to see you. She tells me that Los Angeles is more than six hours away by jet! I’ve never been much of a flyer myself. I prefer to travel by sea, you know.”

  Nat smiled again. Yes, he did know. In fact, by now the only thing about John that remained a mystery was his preferred brand of underwear, and the ferry conductor seemed dangerously close to revealing even that before they reached the public dock.

  Just then, a little boy and his mother ran for exit, the kid clearly suffering from seasickness.

  John puffed out his chest and pulled on his belt. “Tourists,” he whispered to Nat, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, welcome home, Mr. Ravelle. Nice chatting with you, as always. Give Annie my regards.”

  “I certainly will. Take care of yourself, John.”

  Nat grabbed his carry-on and tugged the strap of his laptop case across his chest. He’d shipped the last of the remaining boxes from LA before he caught his flight. His Truly Weird coworkers, neighbors, and friends had thrown him a going-away party two nights before. He wouldn’t lie to himself. He would miss some things about LA, and he’d definitely miss his friends. But he’d already hired a few of them to work with him on the mermaid documentary, and they’d be joining him later in the summer. The rest of them were so charmed by Annie, and by tales from Bayberry Island, that they were all planning to visit.

  Nat stepped out onto the passenger deck, the sea spray hitting his face as the sun beat down on his skin. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with salt and wind. He heard the cry of seagulls and the beat of the ferry against the ocean. As the engine slowed, he opened his eyes. He saw her right away, and his heart somersaulted in his chest. Each time he returned, he was happier to see her. Each time, he loved her more. And very soon now, everything would change.

  As he waved to Annie, his cell phone rang. He ran back inside so he could hear.

  “Everything’s ready,” Rowan said. “We’ve got the champagne. We’ll be hiding in the bushes on the other side of the fountain. Is the ferry on time?”

  “Yep. Just pulling in now.”

  “Great. See you in about ten minutes. Hey, Nat?”

  “Yes?”

  “I—” She sniffed. “Never mind.”

  “Ah, man, Row. You’re not crying, are you? Nothing’s even happened yet!”

  “I know. I know. I’ll pull it together. It’s just that I’m so happy for Annie! For you! It’s just such a happy day! She’s going to be so surprised!”

  “I sure hope so. Thank you, Rowan. See you in a few.”

  Nat put the phone away and checked his pants pocket for the velvet box. It was there. And this was it.

  Moments later, Nat stepped onto the dock, and Annie threw herself into his arms. He lifted her up and held her against him for a long time, so tightly that he was afraid he would hurt her.

  “I’ve missed you so much, Annie.” Nat buried his nose in her fragrant hair, kissing her neck again and again. He let her slide to her feet so he could kiss her properly. Her lips were sweet and soft against his. When she moaned into his mouth, he felt himself being pulled into a vortex of love and happiness powerful enough to drown a weaker man.

  “Let’s take a walk to the square,” Nat said. “I hear the mermaid is pretty spectacular when the fountain is up and running.”

  Annie smiled at him. “She positively glistens.”

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  “Is it true what they say about the mermaid statue?”

  “Yeah, like, can she really hook us up with some hot guys while we’re here?”

  Rowan Flynn’s eyelid began to twitch. She gently closed the cash drawer and smiled at her latest arrivals, grateful they couldn’t read her thoughts. But holy hell—this had to be the hundredth mermaid question of the day! At this rate she’d never make it through festival week without completely losing her mind.

  “And, like, where’s the nearest liquor store?”

  But wait . . . what if this were the opportunity she’d been waiting for, the perfect time to knock some sense into the tourists? Maybe these girls—two typical, clueless, party-hungry twentysomethings checking into her family’s godforsaken, falling-down bed-and-breakfast—would be better off knowing the awful, horrible truth about the Bayberry Island mermaid legend. And love in general.

  The thought made her giddy.

  Rowan was prepared for this opportunity. She’d rehearsed her mermaid smackdown a thousand times. The words were locked, loaded, and ready to zing! from her mouth and slap these chicks right on their empty, tanned foreheads, perhaps saving them from years of heartache and delusion.

  Yo! Wake up! She could say. Of course there’s no truth to the legend. Trust me—the mermaid can’t bring you true love. It’s a frickin’ fountain carved from a lifeless, soulless hunk of bronze, sitting in a town square in the middle of a useless island stuck between Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, where . . .

  “Uh, like, hell-oh-oh?”

  The girls stared at Rowan. They waited for her answer with optimistic, wide eyes. She just couldn’t do it. What right did she have to stomp all over their fantasies? How could she crush the romantic tendencies nature had hardwired into their feminine souls? How could she jack up their weeklong vacation?

  Besides, her mother would kill her if she flipped out in front of her paying guests. The Flynns relied on the B and B to keep them afloat—a predicament that was 100 percent Rowan’s fault.

  So she handed her guests the keys to the Tea Rose Room, put on her happy-hotelier face, and offered up the standard line of crap. “Well, as we locals like to say, there’s no limit to the mermaid’s magical powers—but only if you believe.”

  “Awesome.” The dark-haired woman snatched the keys from Rowan and glanced at her friend. “Because I believe we need to get laid this week!”

  The girls laughed so hard they practically tripped over themselves getting to the grand staircase. Rowan cocked her head and watched them guffaw their way to the landing, banging their rolling suitcases against the already banged-up oak steps. For about the tenth time that day, she imagined how horrified her loony great-great-grandfather would be at the state of this place. Rutherford Flynn’s mansion was once considered an architectural wonder, a symbol of the family patriarch’s huge ego, legendary business acumen, enormous wallet, and enduring passion for his wife—a woman he swore was a mermaid.

  “Oh! Like, ma’am, we forgot to ask. Where’s our room?”

  Ma’am? Rowan was only thirty, just a few years older than these girls! Since when was she a damn ma’am?

  Oh. That’s right. She’d become a ma’am the day she’d left the real world to become the spinster innkeeper of Bayberry Island.

  “Turn right at the top of the stairs.” Rowan heard the forced cheerfulness disappear from her voice. “It’s the second room on the left. Enjoy your stay, ladies.”

  “We are so going to try!”

  As the giggling and suitcase dragging continued directly overhead, Rowan propped her elbows on the old wood of the front desk and let her face into her hands. So she was a ma’am now, a ma’am with three check-ins arriving on the evening ferry. She was a ma’am with one clogged toilet on the third floor, twenty-two guests for breakfast tomorrow, four tem
porary maids who spoke as many languages, and eight hellish days until the island’s annual Mermaid Festival had run its course. Oh, and one more detail: The business was twenty-seven thousand dollars in the hole for the year, losses that absolutely had to be made up in the coming week or bankruptcy was a distinct possibility. Which also was this ma’am’s fault, thank you very much.

  And every second Rowan stayed on the island playing pimp to the mermaid legend was a reminder of the lethal error she’d made while visiting her family exactly three years before. She’d dropped her guard with that fish bitch just long enough to leave her vulnerable to heartbreak, betrayal, and the theft of what little remained of the Flynn family fortune. It was hard to believe, but Rowan had been happy before then. She’d studied organizational psychology and had a career she loved, working as an executive recruiter in the higher-education field. She had a great apartment in Boston and a busy social life. So what if she hadn’t found her true love? She’d been in no rush.

  But she’d returned for the Mermaid Festival that year and met a B and B guest named Frederick Theissen. He was so charming, handsome, and witty that before she could say, “Hold on a jiff while I check your references,” Rowan had fallen insanely in love with a complete stranger determined to whisk her away to New York. Her mother and her cronies insisted it was the legend at work and that Frederick was her destiny.

  As it turned out, her charming, handsome, and witty stranger might have loved her, but he also happened to be a Wall Street con man who used her to steal what remained of her family’s money. Destiny sucked.

  Of course, her mother wasn’t entirely to blame for her downfall. Rowan should have known better. But she still had the right to despise anything and everything related to the frickin’ mermaid until the day she died.

  The familiar putt-putt of a car engine caught her attention, and Rowan raised her head to look out the beveled glass of the heavily carved front doors. She watched the VW Bug plastered with iridescent fish scales come to a stop in the semicircle driveway. Since it was festival week, the car was decked out for maximum gawking effect, with its headlights covered in huge plastic seashells and a giant-assed mermaid tail sticking out from the trunk. Her mother got out of the car and strolled through the door.