49
Even
though Claire had insisted that Dillon’s and her night together in Portland was going to be a onetime thing, after they returned home to Shelter Bay, she realized it was going to be impossible to return to the way they’d been. Too much had happened between them.
Not just the sex, which had been amazing, but a bond had formed that had begun that first day when he’d shown her the gym, then driven out to the cottage to talk with her about Matt. The night he’d cooked the clams and gotten through to her son about paying more attention to his classes when she hadn’t been able to.
As she’d predicted, it proved impossible to keep their relationship a secret, but to her relief, everyone seemed pleased that yet another couple had found love.
After Mary Joyce had mentioned the small Irish town of Lisdoonvarna drawing thousands to their annual matchmaking festival every year, the mayor was quoted in the
Shelter Bay Beacon
as saying that Shelter Bay should consider promoting itself as a place for visitors to find true love in order to draw in even more tourism business.
As Christmas approached, the town began to look less like the whale-watching capital of America and more like
It’s a Wonderful Life
’s Bedford Falls before George Bailey’s loss of faith had shown it as a dark and tragic town. Students from the elementary, middle, and high schools painted holiday scenes on local business windows, tinseled lit garlands and wreaths with huge red bows were strung across the downtown streets, and fairy lights sparkled in the branches of trees all over town.
A Douglas fir donated by a local Christmas tree farm towered over the lacy white Victorian bandstand in Evergreen Park. And to the delight of Shelter Bay’s children, who got to be passengers, a small, brightly painted Santa train chugged around the park.
“You used to love going to tree lightings,” Claire said, coaxing Matt when he’d balked at attending with Dillon and her. The annual Beverly Hills lighting had taken place on Rodeo Drive, all the better to encourage holiday spending.
“I used to be six years old,” he retorted without heat, not bothering to look up from watching Oregon State blowing out Arizona at home. He was sprawled on a La-Z-Boy that had come with the cottage. While she planned to get it reupholstered when her remodeling was completed, for now she’d covered the duct tape on the arm with a holiday plaid wool throw she’d bought from Dorothy and Dottie’s expanding home decor section. Jessie was snoring happily at his feet, while Toby was curled up in front of the fireplace.
“Lots of kids your age will be there,” said Dillon, who was sitting on the couch next to Claire. “Johnny—”
“He doesn’t have any choice. If Angel wants him there with her, he’ll walk through fire to get there.”
“I won’t argue that,” Dillon agreed easily. “The cheer squad’s going to perform a dance.”
Matt folded his arms and, for some reason Claire couldn’t discern, glowered a bit at that idea. “Good for them.”
“And the Madrigals are performing Christmas songs.”
“Which I get enough of here.” He shot his mother a look.
“I like holiday music,” she said. “You used to, too. I still remember when you performed ‘Rudolph’ for your second-grade Christmas play. . . . He looked so cute,” she told Dillon. “My mother made him a costume with a nose that actually lit up and blinked. I’m sure I have a photo of it somewhere.”
Now that her show was over, she really ought to do something about all those boxes of photos that had piled up over the years. Perhaps, Claire considered, she could make Matt an album for a present. Oh, he wouldn’t necessarily appreciate it all that much now. But someday, when he had children of his own, she knew those memories would be important.
“Aimee’s in Madrigals,” Dillon said.
Matt didn’t answer, but Claire saw his shoulders tense at that announcement.
But later, over a surprisingly successful clam linguini Maddy Chaffee had taught her to make just yesterday at the restaurant’s school, Matt said, with exaggerated casualness, “I guess I could go. If it means that much to you.”
Claire had no idea what had happened between her son and the girl Dillon had assured her was special, but she wasn’t going to pry.
“It does,” she admitted. “Because it’s our first year here. And the first holiday season without your grandmother.”
“I miss her,” he admitted. “A lot.”
“Me, too,” Claire said as Dillon took her hand beneath the table. “A lot.”
50
What Dill
on had worried about was coming true. After their first exhilarating win, the little team that could stalled out on their way to state.
“We can’t even buy a break,” he told Don Daniels two weeks before Christmas and the night after the Astoria Fighting Fishermen had blown them out of the water. They’d won only a single game since that first one, and that had been only because half of their opponent’s team had been battling the flu.
“At least Martin and Templeton are still hot,” the assistant coach said as Matt passed to Dirk, who went in for a jump shot. He missed, but he managed to outmuscle his defender and get his own rebound.
“True. But even as good as those two kids are, two against six damn well isn’t working.”
“At least the town’s still behind them.”
“Again, that would be true.” He’d been surprised that, if anything, attendance at the home games had increased. It was as if everyone was trying to pull their Dolphins up by sheer force in fan numbers. “But I wonder what’s going to happen if we don’t turn the program around.”
“Other than Ken’s head exploding, everything will be copacetic,” Don said. “Hell, they didn’t win before you came here. No one except Ken and his boosters ever seriously expected you to turn things around. And definitely not in the first year.”
That was probably true. But, dammit, Dillon was not accustomed to failure. Even when he reminded himself that he’d been hired to be a teacher first, a coach second, the fact that his team was not only not on the road to state, but in danger of becoming the worst high school team in Oregon, stung.
“Failure,” he said grimly, as he watched Johnny Tiernan-St. James throw up a brick of a free throw, “is not an option.”
* * *
“Failure,” Matt said to the team, who’d gathered together in an empty banquet room of the Crab Shack, “is not an option.”
He still thought Dirk was a tool. And from the way the guy ignored him off the court, except when he was flaunting his rebound romance with Taylor, he figured the feeling was mutual. But there was one thing they agreed on. That somehow, some way, they were going to play at least one state tournament game on that glossy wooden floor in OSU’s legendary Gill Coliseum.
“We might be able to outrun our opponents,” Dirk said, “but shooting, rebounds, and steals are in single digits.”
“And our free throws suck,” Matt said. “Hell, we gave the game away to the Seagulls last week.” He and Dirk had broken their own Dolphins scoring records against Seaside. But even that wasn’t enough to pull out a win.
“There’s a reason they’re called
free
throws, ladies,” Dirk said derisively.
“Did you call us here to ream us out?” Brendan Cooper complained.
“And if so,” Jim Ryan, the team’s power forward said, “I think the rest of the guys would join me in asking who died and made you coach?”
“Let’s remember we’re a team,” Matt said, holding up both his hands. It had been his idea to hold this meeting, he’d been the one to go to Jake and ask if they could borrow this room away from the school, and he was damn well not going to let the dickhead screw it up.
“We’re being outplayed, pure and simple. And watching the game films after practice, it’s obvious that we’re not going to be able to turn things around with our shooting fast enough to get a berth at state. So we’re going to concentrate on free throws.”
“You have to be fouled to get those,” Johnny pointed out.
“And then you have to make them,” Dirk said, “which you’re not.”
“He’s not the only one,” Matt said quickly, in defense of his friend. “But this is something we can fix. Dick—uh, Dirk—is right. There’s a reason they’re called free throws. So, starting today, every single person on this team is going to shoot two hundred shots. Every day. If you don’t have a basket at your house—”
“Why the hell don’t you?” Dirk demanded.
“Could you just let me finish?” Matt complained. They might be cocaptains, but the guy was still a douche. “If you don’t have a basket, there are always the hoops at Evergreen Park. Or you can come over to my place. Or Dirk’s.”
“Or mine,” Johnny volunteered.
“Great. Thanks. So two hundred shots every day. Even if it’s raining fish and frogs. Because no way is any Dolphin player going to miss a free shot. But Johnny’s right. We still have to get the foul calls to give us a chance to shoot. So we’re holding Saturday practice at the fire station every week on how to position ourselves so the other guys will foul us.”
Now that Aimee was no longer driving him to school, on the days when a storm didn’t force him to take the stupid yellow bus, Matt rode his bike past the fire station. One day, when he’d seen the firefighters playing hoops in a side yard, this idea had sparked. He’d stopped and asked Flynn Farraday if they could borrow the court. Not only had the fire captain readily agreed, but better yet, having played high school hoops for the Shelter Bay Dolphins and for the Midshipmen at the Naval Academy, Captain Farraday agreed to give the team pointers.
“Is the coach going to be there?”
“No. We don’t want to risk him getting in trouble for calling extra practices outside of the school week. So this is voluntary.”
“What happens if I decide I don’t want to show up?” Brendan asked.
“Then I track you down, rip your fucking head off, and piss down your neck,” Dirk shot back. “Any more questions?”
Unsurprisingly, there were none.
5
1
Two days after having managed to pull off one homemade meal without poisoning her son or Dillon, Claire decided to try another recipe. The braised chicken legs with tomatoes, onions, and garlic was one of the most popular items on Lavender Hill Farm’s menu, but Maddy had assured her that she was up for the challenge.
She’d just set the dish to a slow simmer on the stove when the doorbell rang.
She opened it to find Dillon standing in the yellow circle created by the front-porch light. And he was holding a huge . . . tree?
“What in the world?”
“I brought your tree,” he said as both dogs raced by her and began jumping and dancing around him in gleeful welcome.
“In the first place, Marty Reynolds told me he’d deliver it tomorrow afternoon.” She’d bought the tree at a lot set up in the market’s parking lot but hadn’t wanted to even think about tying it to the top of her Lexus for the trip home. “And in the second place, that’s not my tree.”
“It’s not your
original
tree,” he corrected easily. “Yours was really, really short.”
She folded her arms. “I bought a tabletop one because my house is really, really small.”
“This’ll be better. A friend has a Christmas tree farm up by Rainbow Lake. He’s the guy who donated the town tree. He’d been pruning this one all year for himself, but since he’s a Dolphins fan, he gave it up for the phenom and his mom.”
“Tell me that you didn’t play that stupid phenom card!”
“Sweetheart, you gotta play the cards you have. So are you going to let me in?”
Unlike the small, tidy tabletop tree she’d bought, the towering blue spruce filled the room.
“Don’t you do anything halfway?” she asked as he adjusted the stand.
“That’d be boring.” He stood back, tilted his head, and eyed the tree. “What do you think?”
“That it looks like the tree that ate Shelter Bay.” Not only was it huge; he’d cut three feet off the bottom and the tip was nearly touching her ceiling.
“You don’t like it?”
Because he looked honestly concerned, she shook her head in defeat. “It’s beautiful.”
But so large.
“Maybe I did overdo it.”
“No.” She went over and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love it. And I love that you brought me a tree when you’re not getting one for yourself.” He’d told her that because of the basketball schedule, he wouldn’t be able to go back to Texas for Christmas with his mother, sisters, and new stepfather his mother had surprised everyone by marrying while he’d been in Afghanistan.
“Maybe you’ll let me share yours,” he suggested, drawing her closer and brushing his lips against hers.
The door burst open and Matt came barreling in, bringing with him a gust of wind and a winter chill.
“Whoa!” He came to an abrupt stop as he eyed the tree. “That is so freaking dope!”
“The kid’s got good taste,” Dillon said as he stepped a bit away. But he still kept his arm around Claire’s waist.
“We can put all Gram’s ornaments on it,” Matt said, looking nearly as happy as he had the Christmas he’d come downstairs and found that shiny red ten-speed bicycle beneath the tree.
Her mother had collected ornaments, all of which had very personal stories behind them, over her lifetime. Some were expensive, others not. But to Claire, the most valuable of all were the ones she had bought for Matt each year to someday share with his own children on his own family’s tree.
She should have thought of that. After what he’d said on Thanksgiving, about missing his grandmother, this was no time to be practical. It didn’t matter that her house was so much smaller than the one she’d left behind; she should have bought a larger tree. One that, for their first Christmas in their new home, would hold all those ornaments and help keep alive the memory of the woman who’d been like a second mother to her son.
But once again Dillon seemed to have a knack for fitting perfectly into their lives. As Matt raced to retrieve the carton of ornaments she was temporarily storing in her bedroom closet, she realized that perhaps because he’d lost his father at such a tender age, he understood, more than she ever could, exactly what her son was feeling.
And it was at that moment, although she certainly hadn’t planned it, and wasn’t even sure she
wanted
it, Claire realized she’d fallen in love with this man who’d brought her son and her the most perfect Christmas tree she’d ever seen.