The Christmas Letters: A Magnolia Bay Romantic Comedy Read online

  Dahlia groaned in frustration.

  She could only hope he actually texted her.

  And introduced himself when he did.

  When she’d finally been freed from the bathroom stall, she’d been wholly overwhelmed and unprepared to see the paramedic saving her in all his delicious, manly glory. She’d guessed he’d been good-looking. Or maybe she’d just hoped. But she hadn’t expected his dark hair, his generous dusting of freckles, his captivating blue eyes. She’d known in a matter of seconds that there was no way she was leaving without giving him her number.

  It was an interesting sensation, the wanting. Dahlia hadn’t felt ready to date in a very long time. It had been two years since her broken engagement. Six months since she’d finally returned from her solo honeymoon-turned-life-retreat in Bali. She’d stayed as long as she needed to stay in order to feel settled. Centered. And she’d recognized all the reasons why her relationship with Deacon had failed. He and Lily were happy now, and they were expecting their first baby.

  Dahlia was happy for them. Truly.

  There were few people in the world she loved as much as she loved Lily. She and Deacon deserved every ounce of happiness they found in each other. But Dahlia had made it all the way to her wedding day with Deacon. Right up to the minute when she’d known, with startling clarity, that he was not the man for her. Actually what she’d realized more than anything was that she was not the woman for him.

  She still didn’t regret running. Clearly, it had been the right move for Deacon, too. She’d never seen him so happy. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t upended her world to reassess her priorities and realize how wrong she’d been getting it. How selfish she’d been. Eighteen months of meditation and yoga in Bali would show that to a person.

  Settling back into normal life hadn’t been as easy as Dahlia had hoped. It turned out her pre-Bali life had been pretty shallow.

  School would help. And Lily had insisted the volunteering would help too. Dahlia glanced at the box of Santa letters sitting on her passenger seat. She could only hope.

  Turning onto East Bay Street toward home, Dahlia wondered how long it would take her paramedic to call her. He’d said he didn’t have a girlfriend, so surely he would call. Dahlia didn’t want to be overconfident, but she’d been in the dating game long enough to know that she was pretty in the kind of way men usually liked. She’d learned in Bali not to feel proud of the fact. It’s not like she’d done anything to deserve it. It was genetics and luck more than anything. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t acknowledge reality. And Dahlia’s reality had always been that men called. And quickly.

  Dahlia dove right into the box of Santa letters that evening, with a Hallmark movie playing in the background and a mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table beside her. The letters were adorable—heartwarming in a sweet way. For the first few, she followed the template to the letter, copying the words Mrs. Greenly had given her. The reply was a little impersonal, in her opinion, but the kids would probably be so excited to get a letter back, maybe they wouldn’t notice if it sounded like it had been written by an advertising executive at a bank.

  Thanks so much for writing. Mrs. Claus and I were so excited to get your letter. We hope you’ve been good this year and we’re looking forward to bringing you . . .

  Dahlia dropped her pen. It felt wrong to send a form letter to Sophie, the little girl who had asked Santa to bring her a puppy. Why not write a letter about puppies? Give the girl a few tips, suggest she check out one of the shelters in town?

  Seeing her phone light up, Dahlia jumped at the chance for a new activity. She was maybe beginning to understand Mrs. Greenly’s glee at handing the box off to her. When Lily’s face lit up the screen, Dahlia smiled and answered the call.

  “Hey,” she said before taking a sip of her hot chocolate. “What’s up? How are you feeling?”

  “Starving,” Lily said with a groan. “And enormous. And irritated all the time. Are you busy? Want to come over? Want to bring me a cheeseburger?”

  Dahlia laughed. “That good, huh? How was your appointment today?”

  Lily sighed. “Fine. Baby is measuring a little big. They think I might go early.”

  “Hey, well done. Fewer weeks to be pregnant can’t be a bad thing.”

  “Just as long as she’s fully cooked before she decides to come. What are you up to? I was serious about you coming over.”

  “Why, because I can get you a burger on my way?”

  “I was joking about the cheeseburger, but if you’re offering to stop for food, I would rather have some of Mabel’s chicken salad.”

  “You want me to drive all the way to Sweetgrass Island?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not that far. And how often is your best friend pregnant?”

  “What’s Deacon up to tonight?”

  Dahlia had been around Deacon plenty enough for things not to feel awkward. But he and Lily were just so . . . happy. It wasn’t super fun to be the third wheel.

  “He’s in court and then after he has to prep for tomorrow’s day in court, so he won’t be home until late. Please?” she begged. “I swear, when you’re pregnant I’ll bring you whatever you want to eat every single day.”

  An image of her paramedic flitted through her brain and Dahlia’s cheeks warmed. An hour of random conversation through a stuck stall door and she was already thinking about his babies? She really did have it bad.

  “Fine. I’ll bring you chicken salad. But you have to help me answer Santa letters for the Southern Society.”

  “You went and volunteered? Well done!” Lily said, her voice warm and genuine. “What all are you doing?”

  “Aside from the Santa letters? I think I’m visiting the hospital a couple of times a week. I’m supposed to get a schedule for that some time tonight.”

  “Oh, yay! You’ll love visiting the hospital. I mean, it’ll be hard. But it’s totally worth it.” Lily was a pediatric nurse at MUSC Children’s. She knew better than anyone.

  “K. Let me finish this one letter then I’ll be over.”

  “You’re my favorite, Dahl,” Lily said. “I’m . . . I’m glad you’re home.”

  It didn’t take much effort to understand the true meaning behind Lily’s words. She was glad Dahlia was home, and she was glad Dahlia was different. The old Dahlia never would have been the one driving to Sweetgrass Island for chicken salad. That was the kind of thing Lily had always done.

  “I’m glad too,” she said softly. And she really, really meant it.

  Dahlia dropped Sophie’s half-finished letter back into the box with the others, pausing when she noticed the corner of something sticking out from behind the wrapping paper that lined the old box. It looked like another envelope. She gently picked at the wrapping, loosening it enough to slip whatever was hidden into view. It was an envelope, slightly tattered.

  Curious, Dahlia leaned back into her sofa and opened the letter. The date in the corner was from sixteen years ago.

  Dear Santa,

  First, I want to start by saying I’m pretty sure you aren’t real. I’m ten, and ten-year-olds are too old to believe in Santa. But I thought I’d write a letter anyway. Just in case you are. If you reply, maybe that will be my sign.

  Dahlia grinned. Whoever this kid was, they had spunk.

  I don’t want any of the regular things kids want for Christmas. I already have a Nintendo, and my skateboard works great. I even have a dog. But I don’t have my parents anymore. So instead of presents, I’m hoping you can bring them back. If you’re real, then you’re a miracle. That’s obvious. There’s no other way you could get all over the world in one night anyway. If you can do that? Then bringing my parents back shouldn’t be a big deal. I live with my grandma now. She’s nice. But she doesn’t know how to make the pancakes my dad used to make every Saturday. And she doesn’t read stories as good as my mom. If you can help, please tell them I’m on Sweetgrass Island with Grandma, but I’ll come home the minute they call for me.


  Sincerely, C.M.

  Dahlia wiped a tear from her eye. Poor kid. It probably wasn’t the only letter written to Santa asking for a lost parent or sibling. For a second, she wondered if anyone had ever responded to the letter, but she’d broken the seal, so the answer had to be no. It must have gotten wedged behind the wrapping paper and stayed hidden for years. The thought made her sad. Poor C.M. He’d—she couldn’t be sure, but based on the toys mentioned, she guessed it had been written by a little boy—probably waited and hoped for an answer all season.

  Dahlia did some quick math, looking at the postage date stamped on the outside of the letter. If C.M. was ten when he’d written the letter, that meant he was close to her age now. Did he still live out on Sweetgrass? Did his grandma? She hoped he’d found some measure of happiness in his life, that he’d been able to move on from such a tragic thing to experience as a kid.

  It was just before seven when Dahlia arrived at Mabel’s; even after the dinner rush, the line still snaked all the way to the door. When it was finally her turn to order, Dahlia worried there wouldn’t be any chicken salad left this late in the day. She smiled at Mabel. “Please tell me you still have some chicken salad left.”

  Mabel grinned back. “Enough for a couple of sandwiches, I’d guess.”

  “Oh, good. My very pregnant friend will be thrilled to hear it.”

  “It’s not the first time an expectant mama has craved my chicken salad. Can I get you anything else to go with it?”

  Dahlia finished her order, a thought suddenly popping into her head. Mabel’s had been around as long as Dahlia could remember, and Sweetgrass wasn’t a big island. Would she know anything about the mystery letter Dahlia had found?

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Dahlia asked as Mabel handed over her food.

  “I can’t guarantee I’ll know the answer, but I reckon asking won’t hurt anything.”

  Dahlia smiled, loving the soft lilt to Mabel’s Southern accent. Lowcountry island Southern had a sound all its own; it was softer, gentler, rounder than a typical Southern drawl.

  Dahlia pulled out the letter. “Old Magnolia Road is on Sweetgrass, right?”

  Mabel nodded. “Sure. It runs along the water a block over.”

  Dahlia had known as much, but in her head, it had seemed like a smart lead-in question. She’d almost married a top-notch attorney. She’d learned a thing or two about approaching a witness. “Do you happen to know if someone with the initials C.M. lives on Old Magnolia?”

  Mabel narrowed her eyes. “That’s kinda general. There might be plenty of people with those initials. Why are you asking?”

  “I don’t mean any harm,” Dahlia said quickly, wanting to put Mabel at ease. She sensed the woman was loyal to her fellow islanders. Best to be transparent and hope for the best. She held up the letter. “I found this. I do volunteer work with an organization that answers letters to Santa. But this one got stuck in the box and no one ever answered it. It’s from someone with the initials C.M. They would be an adult now, close to my age.”

  Mabel’s face softened. She held out her hand. “May I?”

  Dahlia handed her the letter, still uncertain what she was hoping to accomplish. Maybe she just wanted to know the kid was okay. That he’d grown up and married someone lovely and lived on the island somewhere with his beautiful wife and a dog named Chester.

  “I’ll be,” Mabel said. “Poor thing.” She folded up the letter and handed it back over. “I remember when it happened. Nearly killed the whole island losing Evie and Drake like that.”

  “Evie and Drake?” Dahlia asked. “Those are the little boy’s parents?”

  Mabel nodded. “Evelyn grew up on the island. Moved to Charleston after she got married, but her mama stayed on the island and Evelyn was out here all the time with the kids. After the accident, the kids moved in with their granny full time.”

  “On Old Magnolia Street?”

  Mabel nodded. “She’s still there, though the kids have both moved away.”

  Dahlia’s heart twinged with . . . something. Not sadness, exactly. She’d just hoped for a more definitive happy ending. Poor C.M.’s letter had been on her mind since she’d read it more than an hour ago.

  “Off the island, anyway,” Mabel continued. “Though I see the youngest one often enough, you’d think he still lived on the island. I reckon he’s the one who wrote that letter.”

  Dahlia perked up. “He lives nearby?”

  Mabel nodded, apparently having decided that Dahlia was harmless enough. “Over in Charleston now. But he takes good care of his grandma. Visits all the time.”

  Dahlia nodded, liking the idea that the boy she’d envisioned had become the kind of man who took care of his grandma.

  Mabel leaned on the counter, a sudden gleam in her eye. “What are you going to do with the letter?”

  Dahlia looked up, not sure how to interpret the woman’s interest. “Oh. Nothing, I guess. You could keep it if you like. And give it back to him the next time you see him.”

  “I could,” Mabel nodded. “Or you could keep it. You could respond.”

  Dahlia furrowed her brow. “What, like, write a letter back?”

  “Sure,” Mabel said. “Send it to his granny’s place. He’ll get it if you mail it there.”

  Dahlia slipped the letter back into her purse, wondering again why Mabel seemed to care.

  “Take it from me, honey. He’s a man worth getting to know. If I’m not mistaken, he’s single right now. I think he could benefit from getting to know someone as pretty as you.”

  Dahlia chuckled. Now it all made sense. Mabel served up her famous chicken salad with a splash of matchmaking on the side.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Dahlia signed the receipt for her meal, adding a generous tip. The odds of her ever actually writing a letter to a strange man she’d never laid eyes on just because Mabel suggested it were slim to none. But she had to give the woman props for trying.

  Chapter 4

  Connor

  Connor paused outside the emergency room doors of MUSC and stretched. After back-to-back shifts, he was beyond exhausted.

  Ben walked up behind him, clapping him on the back before heading toward the rig. “Long day.”

  Connor only nodded. “I’m beat.”

  “You have a few days off now, yeah?”

  Connor pushed a hand through his hair. “Off till Friday.”

  Ben suddenly gripped Connor’s arm. “Hey, isn’t that the girl we saved last week? From the bathroom stall?”

  Connor’s heart picked up speed just at the mention of Dahlia. On impulse, he ducked behind the rig, not wanting Dahlia to see him. But it was her. Looking as incredible as she had the first time he’d met her.

  “What’s she doing here?” Ben asked.

  Connor looked at the group of women she walked with, unsurprised to see the familiar scarves the Southern Society women wore. He would have pegged Dahlia for the “society” type. “Volunteering, it looks like. Those women are from the Southern Society.”

  “How do you even know that?” Ben asked.

  “It’s the scarves. They all wear them when they volunteer. My mom used to have one.” Connor glanced around the corner of the ambulance, then ducked back down as the women passed by not twenty feet away as they entered the emergency room.

  “Why are you hiding? I thought you guys really hit it off. Didn’t she give you her number?”

  “She did, but . . . I wasn’t planning on calling her. Seeing her would be awkward.” Connor reached out and pulled Ben down beside him. “Can you maybe be a little less obvious?”

  Ben frowned. “If you say so. But seriously. Why aren’t you calling her?”

  Connor had considered calling her. Until he’d noticed her last name programmed into his phone and watched her drive away in a BMW that cost more than he made in a year. Dahlia was a Ravenel, which made sense. She looked like a woman who came from one of the oldest families in Charleston. A
nd that is what had reminded him of Peyton. Not regular Peyton. She’d always been pretty good at dressing herself down into an island girl who loved Mabel’s deli and glass-bottled Cheerwine and fresh fried pork rinds from the open-air market. But there was still a fancy Charleston Society girl inside of her. It was a walk and talk that she knew, that her family knew and frequently expected; he couldn’t help but wonder if their different worlds and social circles had had something to do with why they’d never felt that world-tilting spark.

  As a paramedic, money wasn’t something he would ever have in excess.

  True, Dahlia already knew he was a paramedic, and that hadn’t deterred her interest. But even if she was cool with his life choices, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t pull him back into a world he’d intentionally left behind when he’d graduated from his very private, trust-fund-funded, fancy high school.

  “It’s what your parents would have wanted,” his grandma had told him, when he’d begged to go to the local high school on the island. “That’s why they left you all this money, Connor. To pay for you to get the best education.”

  And it was a lot of money. Enough that he could have paid full tuition at the university of his choice, Ivy League or otherwise. Enough that he could buy himself any house he wanted anywhere in Charleston or on any of the islands. And maybe have some to spare. He didn’t actually know how much money sat in his trust account. His parents’ estate attorney emailed him monthly updates, but he deleted the messages unread.

  He didn’t want the money. He hadn’t needed the Ivy League to become a paramedic, and he didn’t need money to be happy.