The Christmas Letters: A Magnolia Bay Romantic Comedy Read online

  Table of Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

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  Released titles include:

  The ABCs of Love Series

  Falling for her Foe: A is for Author

  Besting the Undercover Boss: B is for Billionaire

  Catching her Cowboy Crush: C is for Cowboy

  Dreaming of the Next Door Doc: D is for Doctor

  Embracing her Ever After: E is for Engineer

  Falling for a Former Flame: F is for Firefighter

  Gambling on a Gentleman: G is for Gentleman

  Hooking a Handyman: H is for Handyman

  The Gentlemen of Magnolia Bay

  The Royal’s Best Friend

  The Royal’s Enemy

  The Royal’s Fake Bride

  Chapter 1

  Dahlia

  Dahlia stood outside the oversized wooden door that led into the Southern Society’s organization headquarters. She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt, then squared her shoulders, and pushed her way inside.

  The heavy door creaked with age, the smell of the historical mansion immediately filling her senses. Dusty books. Plaster. Ancient wood floors. If history had a smell, the old Henderson mansion in downtown Charleston was it.

  Mrs. Greenly pushed into the foyer of the old house. “Dahlia!” she said, a wide smile on her face. “How nice to see you. Your mother said you’d be dropping by.” Mrs. Greenly was as Southern as Southern could possibly be, with the accent and sculpted hair to prove it.

  Dahlia smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Greenly. It’s so nice to see you.”

  The woman motioned her forward. “Come on back to the offices. We’ve got air conditioning there.”

  “I can’t believe we even still need it,” Dahlia said. “This weather is ridiculous.”

  “It’s been one of those years, hasn’t it?” Mrs. Greenly said. “I’m still wearing my Tory Burch flipflops, if you can believe it. At the end of October!” The woman lowered herself into a plush, green velvet chair behind an ornate desk, gesturing for Dahlia to sit across from her. “Are you staying with your parents out on the Isle?”

  Dahlia shook her head. “I’m just down the street, actually. I’m renting a condo across from Waterfront Park on East Bay Street.”

  Mrs. Greenly’s eyebrows went up. “Oh. Alone?”

  Dahlia bit back the sarcastic retort her mother would have scolded her for and nodded.

  “Well isn’t that nice.” Mrs. Greenly offered Dahlia a smile, but it looked more like a grimace than an actual expression of support or kindness.

  Dahlia could only imagine the words running through the older woman’s head. For Dahlia to be living on her own, in a rental, no less, was beyond the pale. Especially when every woman in the Southern Society’s elite membership knew exactly what—and who—Dahlia had walked away from a few years before. Dahlia could have been married to one of Charleston’s golden sons, a newly christened partner in one of the city’s most prestigious law firms. Instead, she’d fled, sacrificing Deacon Calhoun to her maid of honor.

  Not that Dahlia had any regrets. Lily and Deacon were perfect for each other. Walking out on her wedding day and flying to Bali on her own had been the smartest thing Dahlia had ever done.

  But that didn’t mean the likes of Mrs. Greenly would ever understand.

  Just like they would never understand why Dahlia had to live on her own. Why she felt anything but satisfied living in her parents’ ridiculously expensive house out in Mount Pleasant. It would have been easier to live at home. The old version of Dahlia would have, milking her parents’ generosity for as long as she possibly could.

  But not anymore. Dahlia was ready to start over. Ready to . . . well, she wasn’t exactly sure what just yet. But moving out of her parents’ palatial estate had been an enormous first step.

  “Your mother tells me you’re interested in volunteering.”

  Dahlia breathed out a sigh, happy that Mrs. Greenly’s society-proper manners kept her from bringing up Dahlia’s checkered past. “Yes. I’d really love to. I’m—” She nearly said she was starting school in January and so had a few months of time to kill, but the words stalled in her throat. Her plans still felt too new, too fragile, to share with anyone who probably wouldn’t understand what she was trying to accomplish anyway. “I’m really excited about getting involved.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful, Dahlia. We’d love to have you. Especially this time of year. The Christmas programs, you know, they take a small army to run.”

  “Already? That’s—”

  “Oh, of course,” Mrs. Greenly said, cutting her off. “We already have four dozen letters to Santa that the fire department sent over, and we’ll have twice that by the end of November. We’ve been planning the Christmas Eve Gala for weeks already; we’ve got a new location this year—the Coral Monarch out on Sweetgrass Island. Have you heard of it? It’s just this little gem of a place. Run by these delicious Brits who are actual members of the aristocracy. Can you believe it?”

  Dahlia nodded. “I have a friend who lives out on Sweetgrass. I remember seeing all the construction.”

  “Of course, we’re constantly visiting the children’s hospital at MUSC—those visits aren’t unique to this time of year, but we’ll start decorating the week before Thanksgiving, and keep everything festive and updated through New Year’s. It does so much to keep those poor darlings’ spirits up.”

  Dahlia nodded. Her cousin Lily—Deacon’s Lily—was a nurse at the children’s hospital. She’d been the one who’d convinced Dahlia that getting involved in her mother’s charity wasn’t such a terrible idea.

  Her mother had nearly fainted when Dahlia had finally agreed to stop by and see Mrs. Greenly.

  “I’d love to visit the hospital,” Dahlia said. “That sounds perfect.”

  Mrs. Greenly’s face lit up. “Wonderful. I’ll send you the schedule and let Julia know. She’ll be thrilled to have a young face join her team. What else can I put you down for? How are you at fundraising?”

  Dahlia cringed. Her mother helped with fundraising and it made Dahlia’s skin itch the way she pandered to Charleston’s elite, milking donations from them with a practiced combination of guilt, duty, and expectation. “Think of the children,” she’d heard her mother say countless times before throwing out whatever amount the last person she’d spoken with had agreed to. “I’ve just gotten a check from the Vanderhorsts,” she’d say, her voice polished and perfect. “Isn’t that so generous of them?”

  “I don’t think fundraising is for me,” Dahlia said. Old Dahlia would have been good at it. But not the person she was trying to be now.

  Mrs. Greenly frowned. “The silent auction, then? We’re gathering art this year. Do you know anything about art? My Trish is heading that up. I’m sure she’d like to catch up.”

  Dahlia shook her head, hoping Mrs. Greenly didn’t remember that Dahlia had majored in art history at the College of Charleston. It had been one of the “acceptable” degree programs on the lis
t her mother had provided. It wasn’t like she’d need to work once she was married to Deacon anyway. But Dahlia would rather eat her diploma than spend one single minute in the company of Trish Greenly. The woman had been Dahlia’s mortal enemy through all of cotillion and had intentionally poured a glass of punch on Dahlia’s dress at her debutante ball. No amount of connecting with her inner peace on the shores of Bali could give her enough Zen to deal with Trish any longer than absolutely necessary.

  “I don’t know much about art,” Dahlia lied.

  Mrs. Greenly tapped her pen against the desk. “Well, I suppose you could handle the letters to Santa. It’s tedious work, but you could do it from home.”

  Dahlia perked up. She liked the idea of doing something from home. “What would that involve?”

  “It’s easy, really; the fire station collects the letters and sends them over to us every week, then we take care of writing the responses. We like the letters to be handwritten so they feel more authentic—you know, so they think they’re getting something directly from the North Pole—but you write the same thing in every letter, just filling in the child’s name and address. No creativity required.”

  Dahlia tried not to feel insulted. Mrs. Greenly didn’t seem overly confident in her abilities. “So I just copy the letter and mail it back?”

  “That’s it,” Mrs. Greenly said. She stood and walked across the room, pulling an oversized file box from the shelf behind Dahlia. The box was covered in faded Christmas paper that wrinkled and lifted at the corners. It looked absolutely ancient. “Bitsy will be thrilled to pass this off to someone new this year. She’s turning ninety in February. The way her hands are trembling, oh, what a relief this will be for all of us.” She gave Dahlia a knowing look as she handed over the box. “Everything you need is inside. You’ll just have to stop by the office and pick up any new letters once a week or so.”

  Dahlia lifted the lid and looked inside, picking up the letter on the top of the stack. The letter was postmarked in Charleston, even though the letter was addressed simply to, Santa Claus, The North Pole. “How do they wind up here?” Dahlia asked.

  “Oh, they’ve been showing up at the post office for years,” Mrs. Greenly said. “The fire station started collecting them back in 1963 and took care of answering them for a few years. It was a project the wives took on. In 1987, the Southern Society started answering them, and we’ve been doing it ever since. The fire station still has a drop box for the letters though, and the post office delivers any they get to the fire station. So it’s still a group effort, naturally. I’ve debated just asking if we can have the drop box here, but tradition is tradition. Besides, I can’t say I mind having a reason to stroll over to the station to pick up the letters every week. There is something delicious about a man in uniform.”

  Dahlia could only hope Mrs. Greenly wouldn’t expound on just what was so delicious about Charleston’s firefighters. “That’s sweet,” she said, a tight smile on her face.

  Mostly, it was perfect. Visiting the hospital would give Dahlia a reason to get out of the house, and writing Santa response letters would give her a reason to stay in.

  It wasn’t so much that Dahlia didn’t like hanging out with friends, and she loved being in Charleston. But rewiring her life was hard work. If she wasn’t careful, it felt all too easy to slip back into her old habits. And most of her friends and family—everyone but Lily, really—didn’t seem all that excited about accepting the new and improved, Bali-refreshed, Zen and centered version of Dahlia. And when they doubted, she doubted.

  Dahlia stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Greenly. Please tell Bitsy thank you for letting me help this year.”

  “Of course, child. We’re so happy to have you with us again. We thought you might never come back.”

  Dahlia forced a smile. She’d only stayed in Bali eighteen months. True, she was only supposed to have been there a week, and it was supposed to have been her honeymoon trip. But it’s not like she’d traveled to Mars. “I’m happy to be back.”

  Mrs. Greenly reached out and placed a hand on Dahlia’s shoulder. “We were all so happy when your mother told us you’d finally come home. I’m sure it was embarrassing after everything that happened, but there’s nothing to worry about. You’re with us now. We’ll get you right as rain before you know it.”

  Dahlia clenched her teeth. She wasn’t embarrassed. How could she be? Not when she knew how happy Deacon and Lily were. She’d never felt more right in all her life. “Thanks, Mrs. Greenly,” she said, making a mental note to keep her distance from the woman. She was happy to volunteer. The Southern Society did great work at the hospital and answering Santa letters actually sounded fun. But that didn’t mean she had to subject herself to the criticisms of her mother’s crowd.

  “Of course, darling.” Mrs. Greenly walked Dahlia to the office door. “Will you be at the yacht club this weekend? I heard the Stagers’ son is back in town for a visit.” She raised her eyebrows at Dahlia, suggestion in her eyes.

  Dahlia swallowed a sigh. Spending time with Johnny Stager almost sounded worse than curating art with Trish Greenly. “I don’t think I can make it this weekend. But thanks for thinking of me. Will you tell Johnny I said hi?”

  Dahlia said goodbye one more time and escaped into the muggy Charleston air, a surprisingly cool breeze lifting the hem of her skirt. Dahlia breathed deeply, savoring the unexpected chill. Fall had so far been disappointing. But that didn’t stop her from hoping winter would amount to something. At least weather cool enough for her to wear a jacket.

  She looked to the sky, the palm trees lining the street swaying against a backdrop of heavy storm clouds. That explained the breeze. She hurried toward her car, knowing from experience that a Charleston storm could start up quick as lightning.

  Arriving at her car, she dropped the box of Santa letters and her purse into the front seat. Catching a whiff of Vera’s coffee on the breeze, she glanced up at the sky. She could hardly be this close to Vera’s and not get a caramel macchiato, but the brushed leather of her purse would not do well in the rain.

  She glanced at the sky one more time.

  It was definitely going to rain. Pursing her lips, she grabbed her wallet and keys from inside the bag and locked the car. If she was lucky, it wouldn’t matter, and she’d make it back before the storm started.

  Vera’s was more crowded than it should have been on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, but then maybe she wasn’t the only one hoping to beat the storm. She finally turned away from the counter, macchiato in hand, and frowned. Rain slid down the front windows of the coffee shop in thick sheets. Guess she’d be waiting out the storm at Vera’s. She dropped into a chair by the window, feeling suddenly naked without her purse or her phone.

  What on earth was she supposed to do without her phone to keep her entertained? She riffled through a People magazine someone had left on the counter while she sipped her drink, her eye catching on a photo of the Coral Monarch, the hotel Mrs. Greenly had mentioned during their visit. Curiosity piqued, she read the article about the three younger sons of earls who had traded their London lives to settle in the Lowcountry. The thought filled her with a measure of unexpected pride. She’d never loved the suffocating expectations of Charleston society. She’d hated it, even. It had been what had driven her away from the altar of a failed wedding, and then to Bali. But she would always love her city. It made her happy to think that others did, too.

  Pushing the magazine aside, she looked again at the thunderous rain outside and sipped the last of her drink. It might be time to just brave the rain. At least her purse wouldn’t have to endure it.

  Tossing her drink into the trash bin, she made her way to the back of the coffee shop to the narrow hallway that led to the bathroom. The floor sloped downward as she walked—crazy historical Charleston buildings—and the ceiling dropped, making her feel a little like she was entering a cave.

  The bathroom was nearly as narrow as the hallway, just wide enough for two s
talls, their doors flush with the floor and reaching nearly to the ceiling, and a small pedestal sink. Dahlia slipped into the first stall, the heavy door slamming shut behind her with a thud that startled her. She’d never been in a bathroom stall quite so private.

  She did love her city, but maybe she didn’t love tiny bathrooms in tiny hallways in old buildings that definitely hadn’t been constructed with indoor plumbing in mind.

  Finishing up, she adjusted her skirt then reached for the handle of the stall door. The knob twisted in her hand, but the door didn’t budge. That was weird. Nudging her shoulder against the door, Dahlia tried again, shaking the locking mechanism. Still no luck.

  Panic gripped Dahlia’s throat, and she closed her eyes, taking several slow, deep breaths. This wasn’t a reason to freak out. The door was just stuck. It couldn’t stay stuck forever. Grabbing the lock one more time, she gave it a good tug, spinning it the opposite direction to dislodge whatever held her captive.

  Instead, the lock broke off in her hand.

  Dahlia swore under her breath before throwing her whole weight at the unwieldy door. This couldn’t be happening. Her caramel macchiato was good, but it wasn’t get-locked-in-a-bathroom-stall good. Especially not when she didn’t have her phone to call for help.

  “Hello?” Dahlia called, banging her hand against the stall door. “Is anyone out there?”

  Nothing but silence met her frantic calls. What kind of bathroom had floor to ceiling doors anyway?

  Closing her eyes one more time, Dahlia imagined Bali. Warm sand under her toes, cool waves lapping over her ankles, fresh breezes lifting her hair.

  This was temporary.

  Someone would eventually come into the bathroom. Vera’s had been packed with people. It’s not like she was the only woman in Charleston that ever needed to pee.

  But no matter how hard she tried to stay calm, every time Dahlia opened her eyes, it was hard not to feel like the four walls of the tiny stall in the tiny bathroom at the end of a very tiny hallway at the back of Vera’s Coffee Shop were quickly closing in around her.