Mistletoe Magic (3 page)

Melanie gingerly touched the dainty charm before turning back around.

“I love it.”

“I love you, Melanie.”

“I love you, too.” Leaning in, she kissed him tenderly. “There. Just so you can go back to the store and tell the man behind the counter that the mistletoe worked its magic.”

When the lights flickered back to life and they finally made their way to the first floor, Ethan took his wife’s hand and led her out of the elevator. Tonight, they would go home and begin rebuilding their marriage. They would spend Christmas Day with their families, and for the first time in months, they wouldn’t have to force a smile.

And on the day after Christmas, Ethan would return the watch. He would thank the man behind the counter—a friendly manager by the name of Nick—and tell him that the mistletoe did indeed work its magic, just as he promised it would.

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Published by

The Writer’s Coffee Shop

A young girl needs to spread her wings, but a young woman needs roots.

English teacher Sarah Bray never thought she’d return to Sycamore Falls, but a traumatic event at her inner-city school leaves her desperate for the sanctuary of home. By returning to her roots, an older and wiser Sarah hopes to deal with the demons of her present and confront the ghosts of her past.

She discovers a kindred spirit in Lucas Miller, a teacher from New York with demons of his own
. They quickly become friends—
bonding through Lucas’s culture shock and their mutual desire to build new lives. When they open their wounded hearts to each other, their friendship effor
tlessly evolves into romance.

Their
newfound
love is put to the test when Matt, the quarterback of the football team, shares his deepest secret with Sarah. When the conservative community fi
nds out, Sarah and Lucas—
along wi
th the town of Sycamore Falls—
are schooled in the lessons of acceptance, tolerance, and love.

Voices roar through the high school cafeteria while students navigate their way to the tables. The cliques are easily spotted: the jocks, the geeks, the beauty queens, the slackers . . .

Where will he sit today?

Despite the fact he’s a handsome and impeccably dressed young man, he fades into the background. Knowing it’s pointless, the girls don’t bother to look his way, and the guys deliberately avoid his eyes.

He grips his tray tightly and heads toward the corner table with the rest of the outcasts. They nod hello, but that’s the end of any real attempt at conversation. It’s an unspoken rule of sorts. This is their refuge—a tiny bit of sanctuary in the hell that is public high school—and they’re content to sit in peace.

He takes a seat, and I can see the exhaustion on his face. It’s not a weariness that comes from too many sleepless nights. This is a bone-tired fatigue no seventeen-year-old kid should ever feel.

He’s giving in.

Giving up.

In my peripheral vision, I see a senior stalk into the cafeteria. He’s tall, with deep brown eyes and jet-black hair that won’t stay in place. He’s good looking, popular, and a little conceited, thanks to his father’s wealth and status.

He has a reputation to uphold.

Rumors to squash.

A score to settle.

He pulls the silver gun out of his jacket pocket. Amid the chaos, no one notices.

I notice.

I try to run, but I’m frozen in place.

I try to scream, but there’s no sound.

The first shot rings out, and suddenly, everyone’s on the cold tile.

Tears, prayers, screams.

Another shot, and for some reason, I’m the only one who can’t move. Who can’t scream. Who can’t do anything but watch as the young man’s body slumps over his tray.

Finally, I find my voice and scream his name.

The piercing chime of my phone jerked me awake. Disoriented and shaking, I grabbed my cell and struggled to focus on the screen.

Congratulations, Sarah. You slept a whole three hours.

Falling asleep had been difficult. My restlessness could easily be blamed on yesterday’s long drive or spending the night in a new place, but I hadn’t slept well in months, so my fitful sleep wasn’t all that surprising.

However, I could do without the nightmares.

It was nearly three in the morning when I’d finally arrived in Sycamore Falls. Exhausted from the drive, I’d collapsed on the couch, but sleeping proved impossible. It was just too quiet. I’d grown accustomed to noisy neighbors and blasting car horns.

A change of scenery could be exactly what I need
,
my therapist had told me.

Sycamore Falls was definitely a change in scenery.

Stiff and sore from the uncomfortable couch, I groaned as I struggled to sit up. My body trembled when my bare feet hit the hardwood floor.  I’d forgotten how cold this house could be, even in the summer, but anything with long sleeves would be in a box, and all the boxes were arranged in a chaotic mess in my living room.

Maybe some sunshine will warm me up.

I wrapped my blanket around me and circled the maze of boxes before shuffling toward the kitchen. It was neat and tidy as ever, with its faded yellow wallpaper. Grandma Grace had always loved wildflowers, and I smiled as I gazed at the collection of daisy canisters lining the wall next to the sink. Mom had been a terrible cook, so grandma had taken it upon herself to teach me. Baking was my favorite, and we’d spent countless nights in this kitchen with my apron covered in flour. Grandma had been fine with making a mess—as long as I cleaned it up—and that freedom had led to many honest discussions throughout the years.

“Sycamore Falls has its issues,” Grandma had told me one autumn day while teaching me how to make fried apple pies. “We’re too sheltered from the rest of the world. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Sometimes it isn’t. The world can be a scary place. It’s good to know you have a safe place to come home to when the world gets a little crazy. You’re one of the lucky ones, Sarah. You will always have a home here. Remember that.”

I remember.

I opened the front door and was instantly greeted with cool morning air. Eager to see the house in the daylight, I gingerly walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Thankfully, Mr. Johnson had hired someone to mow the grass before I arrived, which allowed me to mark one thing off my to-do list.

As I gazed up at the house, I could see my list would be long.

Growing up, I’d thought my grandmother’s home was the most beautiful in Sycamore Falls. Majestic and blue with its white shutters and wrap-around porch, it was the place I’d always felt the most comfortable and safe.

Time hadn’t been kind to the house, and that was my fault. Mr. Johnson had done his best, but a house needs tender loving care, and its last two years without an occupant had been rough on the place. The chipped siding needed a coat of paint, the flowerbeds resembled a jungle, and some of the shingles needed to be replaced, but none of that mattered.

I felt a small sense of satisfaction and breathed a sigh of relief.

I was safe.

I was home.

* * *

“Tell me you’re joking. There can’t be only fifteen hundred people in that town.”

The dilapidated city sign proudly displaying the town’s population passed my window in a blur.

“I didn’t say fifteen hundred. I said fourteen hundred ninety-nine.”

I felt a little guilty. After all, some poor soul was going to have to change the sign. Then again, with a town boasting the highest unemployment rate in the state, someone could probably use the work.

“I still don’t understand why you moved back,” Monica said. “You’ve never wanted to return to your hometown.”

“I want to teach in a small town.”

“Sarah, there are small towns just outside of Memphis.”

“I want to teach here.”

Monica’s voice became a whisper. “Because it’s safe?”

“Because it’s home.”

It was a simple answer and so much easier than the truth.

After promising to call tomorrow, I tossed my cell onto the passenger seat and gazed at the highway. Monica was my best friend, but she couldn’t understand my turmoil. Granted, she’d stood by my side through it all, but she wasn’t the one consumed with memories and needing a fresh start.

She couldn’t possibly understand.

Breathing deeply, I flexed my fingers around the steering wheel and tried to concentrate on the scenery. The two-lane highway leading into town was surrounded by nothing but countryside and brimming with wildflowers. As I crept closer to the city limits, the mountain range became visible, standing tall and proud and unbelievably green.

I reached for the radio dial and pressed a button in search of the local station. I grinned when John Cooper’s gravelly voice filled the air. The man had to be in his sixties by now, and his tired tone reflected those years. Coop had been on the air every weekday afternoon since I’d been a kid. He hadn’t been very popular with the teens because he’d played oldies instead of anything remotely current. When his raspy voice introduced a George Jones song, I smiled.

It was just further proof that very little changed in Sycamore Falls.

* * *

“Sarah Bray, is that you?”

It was only the eighth time I’d heard those words in the past hour, but who was counting?

Sighing softly, I closed the freezer door and dropped the ice cream into my grocery cart. When I turned around, I was greeted with the pearly white smile of Shellie Stevens.

“It
is
you!” Shellie clapped her hands, reminding me of the regional basketball game when she had fallen from the top of the cheerleading pyramid, landing face first onto the gymnasium floor. I vividly recalled the blood and her horrified expression when she realized her two front teeth had been broken.

But that was a long time ago, and it would probably be impolite to mention it now.

“Hi, Shellie. How are you?”

“I heard you were back in town. Teaching at the high school, I hear.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m the cheerleading coach.” She smoothed her hair with her palm. It was still long and blond and straight out of the bottle.

“Are you a teacher, too?”

“Nope, I’m a dental hygienist over in Winslow.”

How ironic.

“You don’t have to teach to be a coach,” she explained. In small towns, it was sometimes hard to find good coaches. It was even harder to keep them here.

I smiled. “Well, I’m sure you’re a wonderful cheer coach.”

“You’ll make the second new teacher this school year. One just recently moved here from New York to take Mr. Franklin’s place,” Shellie said as she followed me down the produce aisle.

Charles Franklin had been my American history teacher my sophomore year. His was the only class besides English I’d truly enjoyed.

“Did he retire?”

“He suffered a stroke and passed away in March.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We miss him.” Then, her face brightened. “But wait until you see the new teacher. He’s single and so handsome. Rumor has it he was in the middle of some big scandal up North and moved to the mountains to make a fresh start. Kind of like you, actually.”

The people in Sycamore Falls probably knew as much about his “scandal” as they knew about mine, but that wouldn’t stop them from gossiping. I wondered if the poor guy had any idea what he was getting himself into by moving to a small town.