The Holiday Visitor. Tara Taylor Quinn
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what was that you were reading when I came in?” Bonnie asked after a few minutes of silence as the two of them, spreaders in hand, covered dozens of sugar cookie renditions of Santas and bells and Christmas trees with red and green and white frosting and sprinkles.
Marybeth grabbed the nonpareils. They’d always been her favorites—even way back when her mom had been the one doing the baking. “A letter from James.”
“A recent one?”
“Yeah. His mom died this year, too.”
“So you’re still writing to him.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Fourteen years and he continues to write regularly?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t realize you were still in touch with him.”
“Of course I am.” She was addicted to him. With every single one of the hundreds of letters she’d received from James over the years, she’d read and reread the most recent until she heard from him again. And if something in her life was particularly challenging, if she needed some extra strength, she’d pull out the plastic storage boxes under her bed and reread some of the others, as well. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked the person she was closest to in the world next to James.
“I don’t know.” Bonnie’s shrug, the way she was concentrating so hard on putting little Christmas tree sugar shapes in a row along the cookie to make them look like a string of lights, caught Marybeth’s attention. “It’s just that I worry about you.”
“About me?” No way. Those days were long gone. She didn’t need sympathy anymore. Or worry. She was a big girl now. All grown up, in control and happy with her life. “And James?”
“Not you and James. I wish there was a you and James.” Bonnie’s reply wasn’t timid. “Look at you, sweetie. You’re twenty-six years old and gorgeous with those blue eyes and blond hair, and you haven’t so much as had a date that I know of since you graduated from college three years ago and took over this place.”
“That has nothing to do with James.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Of course not.” Frost, sprinkle, lay out to dry. Frost, sprinkle, lay out to dry. She worked her way through a pile of stars.
“Then what does it have to do with? Your mother?”
“No!” Her mother’s death had been fourteen years ago. She’d lived before then. And since. So why did people continue to seem to tie every single thing in her life back to that one event? “It’s not that I have a problem with dating,” she said. “I’m not afraid. I have no aversions. I simply haven’t yet met a man who inspires any feeling in me. There’s no attraction. No spark.”
“What about with James?”
“I’ve never even seen a picture of him, how could there be an attraction?”
“What about feelings of affection?”
“Of course I have feelings for James. How could I not? He’s my best friend. I can tell him anything.”
“This guy you’ve never met.”
“Right.”
“You sure you aren’t using him as an excuse not to open up too completely to any of the real, flesh-and-blood people in your life?”
“I open up to you. You’re flesh and blood.”
“I’m different,” Bonnie said. “I’m talking about people out there in the world. Someone you could actually build a life with.”
Marybeth frosted. Cookies for Bonnie. Cookies for the senior center. Cookies for here. With any luck, she’d be done in time to have a tray of them on the desk at check-in by three o’clock for her visitors to enjoy.
“I have a life,” she said after taking time to think about what Bonnie had said. “James isn’t taking the place of any other relationships,” she continued. “He’s his own relationship. We have these ongoing philosophical discussions that always hit home with me. Probably because, based on the unusual nature of our relationship, we talk about things that people don’t usually share. You know, deep, random thoughts, illogical matters of the heart and head and life. Observations that generally pass through your mind and are forgotten in the business of daily living.” She’d been discussing the meaning of life with James for fourteen years and wasn’t about to stop now. Wasn’t sure she could even if she wanted to.
“You have no idea how many times we help each other find solutions to challenges we’re facing. We don’t judge each other. We just talk.”
“All things you could be doing with a spouse.”
“Do you and Bob do them?”
Bonnie’s silence was answer enough.
“James is my peace, Bonnie. My solace and support. He’s my kind inner voice counteracting my inner critic who, as you know, so often tries to rule my life. He’s not a romance. Or a partner in life.”
Marybeth finished the stars and the Santas and moved on to help Bonnie with the trees. And because her friend remained silent, she continued to talk. “James is like this ethereal being who, unlike any spiritual, omniscient being, knows nothing of my everyday life, you know? And he shares nothing of his. We share a past, a dark time. We both went through the same thing at the same time in our lives. That’s it.”
“I hope so, my dear,” Bonnie said as they finished up. “I just know that your idea of normal isn’t healthy. You, here all alone, living vicariously through the people who parade in and out of this inn.”
“I take care of them. It’s my job. My livelihood. And I like it.”
“I know you do, sweetie, and I’m thrilled that you’ve found something that satisfies you. I just wish you had a private life, too.”
She did have a private life. Not a single one of her guests had ever stepped foot beyond the public parts of the house. What went on out there was work. What went on back here was her life.
She simply hadn’t found anyone she wanted to share that life with in the way Bonnie meant. Marybeth didn’t really even want to try.
“I’m not lonely,” she told her pseudomother. “But if I ever start to feel that way, I promise you, I’ll find someone. I’ll start frequenting the personal ads if I have to.”
“You wouldn’t have to,” Bonnie assured her. “I know of a half dozen people in this town who’d love to take you out.” So did she. Unfortunately none of them interested her in the least.
CRAIG ANTHONY MCKELLIPS drove slowly by the Orange Blossom Bed-and-Breakfast, every one of his senses reeling with sensation. His mouth watered. He could practically taste the oranges that were pungently ready for picking on the trees that lined both sides of the lot, separating the freshly painted white Victorian home—complete with grand balconies upstairs and an even grander porch down—from the picturesque old homes on either side.
Sweating in spite of the crisp fifty-nine-degree temperature, Craig pushed the button to lower his window a bit and was hit with the sweet scents wafting from the wildly colorful, but perfectly tended flower gardens in manicured rings in the yard and lining the entire front of the house. He could taste a hint of salt in the air, letting him know that he was by the ocean again. By nightfall he’d be feeling the salty residue on his skin.
And the quiet. It amazed him! This California coastal town, maybe an hour’s drive from the Los Angeles he’d known as a kid, was the exact antithesis of the noisy, frenetic southern California he’d grown up in.
A perfect place to spend his first Christmas alone—his first Christmas since his mother passed away.
Satisfying himself that he knew where the house