Her Christmas Wish (The Cottages on Ocean Breeze #1)

Chapter Eleven

S age dressed with care on Saturday. Herself and her daughter.

Calling on her one day a week to be allowed to choose Leigh’s clothes on her own, she laid out a unicorn-covered smock, with a small ruffle around the bottom edge, and purple shorts to match. It was her current favorite of Leigh’s clothes. A gift from Iris’s collie, Angel, the previous Christmas.

“But, Mommy, this is my bestest,” the little girl said as she wiggled into the shorts. And then pulled the top on, sliding her hands into sleeves with the tornado force she was, and ran off to the coloring she’d been doing—unaware, uncaring or both, that the shirt was on backward.

Sage let it go while she pulled on a white denim skort, midthigh length, with the necessary Lycra attached undershort in case she had to climb or crawl to rescue or play with her daughter.

Topping the skort with a formfitting, short-sleeved black blouse, she slid into her favorite pair of two-inch wedged black flip-flops with the silver-and-pearl-studded bling, and went out to convince Leigh to turn her shirt around.

And then, with a determined demeanor and a spirit filled with purpose, she suggested that the two of them walk up to Uncle Scott’s house to meet his friend. She was done playing childish games. Enacting scenarios where she and Leigh could just casually run into Gray, get the introductions done and the awkwardness over.

Leigh was the key.

The closure.

She had no reason to carry the loss from the past any longer. She had the future she’d most wanted. The future she’d chosen.

Was truly happy.

The problem was bridging her current world to her past pain, in order to make herself one again.

That was the closure. Welcoming Grayson Bartholomew into her new life, rather than shunning him. A person shunned pain. Loss.

She’d forgiven Gray. The fact that she’d opted to help him—truly wanted to help him—get his life back was proof of that to her.

She just hadn’t completely let go of the pain he’d caused her.

“What’s Uncle Scott’s friend’s name again?” Leigh asked as she skipped beside Sage on the beach, sending grains of white sand atop both of their feet and ankles.

“His name is Grayson Bartholomew, but you can call him Mr. B.”

“How come the mister? That’s only at school and when you work.”

On the beach, Leigh called most people aunt or uncle before their first names. But only because their neighborhood was such a unique place on earth.

“What about Lindy’s mother?” Sage asked, in her flow with the little girl. As long as she paid attention, she was usually able to keep up, and a lot of times stay a step or two ahead. “Lindy’s your best friend and you call her mother Mrs. Miller.”

Leigh stopped to pick up a shell. Carefully put it in her pocket, and then started hopping toward Scott’s cottage.

“Is Mr. Buzzing Bee Uncle Scott’s best friend?” the little girl asked a few yards later.

“It’s just B, Leigh. Like the alphabet letter. Bartholomew is a long word and it starts with B so that’s why I told you to call him Mr. B.”

The child looked up at her, those blue eyes filled with incredible, joy-sustaining life. “I like Buzzing Bee, anyway,” she said.

And didn’t return to the best friend question.

For which Sage was grateful. Sometimes distraction worked.

Sometimes not.

Gray texted Sage as he walked to his SUV outside the second shelter he volunteered at on Saturday.

How soon will I have a first draft of company bylaws and regulations, specifically pertaining to the multiple clinic model and multiple veterinarians?

She could be working. She’d said she sometimes worked on Saturdays.

In its current state, his whole life consisted of work.

And he’d had a great conversation with two other veterinarians from San Diego, who’d been visiting the shelter he’d just left. Doctors he didn’t know, who knew all about him, and when he’d said he was in the process of working with a corporate firm to reestablish himself, they’d both expressed interest in joining him.

Not at all put out by his reputation.

On the contrary, they’d been impressed by what he’d managed to accomplish, by the business practices that had largely become public knowledge as, piece by piece, his life had been laid bare.

They’d chosen to believe that he’d had nothing to do with the illegal drug dealing going on at GB Animal Clinics.

And yet, when he’d gone to speak with established clinics—hoping to find work for himself in the interim between his clinics being part of large-scale criminal charges being brought, and the case actually being adjudicated—he’d heard an entirely different story. By and large, established, successful practices hadn’t wanted to be associated with him.

With the news hounds and viral social media posts, there were a lot of people who believed he was guilty by association.

GB Animal Clinics was his corporation. Therefore, he had to have known what was going on inside at least one of the sites.

Gray was in his car, debating about what to do with the rest of his day—deciding on piling his back end with moving boxes and tape, and heading to his house to begin the onerous task of packing—when the clonk sounded again.

Deciding not to wait until he got to the store, he drove another block and pulled over instead.

I’m not working today. Will you be back at Scott’s in time for a cookout on the beach?

He read. He sat. He stared.

And read again.

No. He spoke the mental answer in total silence.

What did that mean, I’m not working will you be back in time for a cookout?

That she wanted personal time with him?

Wanted to know if she could have a cookout with her brother—and he assumed others since it was on the beach—without worrying that he’d invade her space?

If she wasn’t working, the question had been personal. Not part of the strictly business mandate between them. But couldn’t really be part of the one established exception—that he be nice to her kid if he ran into the little one on the beach.

Bothered by how much weight the text was carrying into his day, he typed:

No.

Stared at his phone some more.

Considered his quiet, remote, locked-up and sold home.

The hours of packing with only darkness outside. Mirroring the darkness that had fallen over his world.

Hit Delete.

Typed again.

Is this an invitation?

And hit Send.

Sage was busy calling other Ocean Breeze residents, arranging salads and veggies and other goodies to complement the meats that she and Scott would be providing, when Gray’s text came back.

With a quick call to her brother, she had Scott take over the Gray-being-there portion of the impromptu gathering she’d talked Scott into hosting.

Under the guise of introducing Gray to everyone in the neighborhood. Canine and human.

Leaving it up to Gray to determine whether or not he wanted to make his profession known to them. He’d come to them as a haven from the mongrels who were trying to keep drama going by insisting that he had to have something to do with the drug dealing at his properties. He was the owner. The buck stopped with him.

In the smallest part of herself, she knew the truth. She’d suggested the gathering to get herself out of that past and into the present.

To heal herself.

Impromptu meeting attempts hadn’t worked.

Storming up the beach looking like a hundred bucks hadn’t worked.

She had to find a way to ensure that Gray would be present.

A party in his honor ought to do it.

As the morning and early afternoon had worn on, and acceptances poured in one after another, she’d begun to consider her idea inspired.

Gray deserved the enthusiastic welcome their neighbors were offering him.

And she could get the bridge gapped from past to present without ever having to speak with him one-on-one at all.

A party. With lots of people. All wanting to meet him. Say hello. Welcome him.

Most of them dog owners, which would give Gray a lot to talk about with them.

And she could be a fly perched...somewhere.

Watching Leigh—currently the only child on the beach of cottages owned by successful single professionals.

Other than arranging the food and time, getting the burgers out of her freezer to thaw, reminding Scott to take out the brats he had in the freezer—leftover from a Fourth of July gathering—she wasn’t doing much. Everyone knew to bring a chair.

They’d set up in the middle of the beach—which ended up being in front of Sage’s cottage—and Scott would wheel out her grill.

Needing to keep Leigh occupied, she put the little girl in the car and drove up to town for buns. And stopped at a store that sold discounted goods for a couple of new outdoor fun toys to occupy Leigh once they were down on the beach.

Knowing full well she wouldn’t need them.

Ocean Breeze residents, both canine and otherwise, adored Leigh. It was like they’d all adopted her—their vicarious child—and she moved among them with a confidence that filled Sage’s heart.

Still, just in case, she didn’t want her four-year-old to have an age-appropriate meltdown the first time Gray met her.

The closure would be more complete, and quick, if it was perfect the first time out.

She was just pulling back into her space on Ocean Breeze when her text sounded.

Scott says you’re organizing food. What can I bring?

She read it twice. Looked at Gray’s contact information twice and smiled. A not altogether wholesome expression.

Generally speaking, the guest of honor was told not to bring anything.

But it was Gray.

He was going to attend.

And was playing nice.

She was safe.

Was getting her closure.

The weeks ahead looked brighter.

So she typed:

The broccoli salad your grandma taught you to make. The one with the dried cranberries in it.

And hit Send.

Darkness had fallen. Gray stood at the edge of the small gathering—residents from thirteen of the fifteen occupied cottages on Ocean Breeze. The other two had had previous commitments. He’d already met the residents from one of the two—Harper and Aggie. And there were still several more cottages yet to be renovated and sold. Or sold and renovated, he’d been told. In case he was interested in joining them.

That last had been offered by Dale, a bearded writer, whose constant companion, Juice, was the quiet but strong man’s service dog.

He’d been so busy meeting neighbors—at least ostensibly—that he’d managed to be out of speaking distance of Sage’s daughter, Leigh, ever since he’d arrived. He’d caught sight of her, of course, many times, but had always had his attention drawn back into one or another of the conversations going on around him.

Talking to everyone, most particularly Dale, he’d been germinating his impromptu morning plan to perhaps start a service dog water rescue course on the beach. And as he stood there, with a brief moment in the shadows, holding his mostly full bottle of beer, he contemplated just making the announcement right then and there. The class would be free.

No business or tax ramifications.

He’d make copies of his service dog training certificate for everyone.

And... “Mr. Buzzing Bee?”

He heard the voice. It was close. Glancing down, he saw the pudgy-cheeked face looking up at him with a way too serious expression for a child that young.

He hadn’t heard her approach. Glanced out over the crowd for Sage.

Or Scott.

First glance gave him nothing.

He had to glance down again. “Mr. Buzzing Bee? Who’s that?” He sure as hell wasn’t up on kid shows and their various characters. Past or present.

“Mommy says you’re Mr. B, like the alphabet, but I like Mr. Buzzing Bee, that’s who.”

Mr. Buzzing Bee. His heart flipped. And then flopped.

Sage’s daughter had given him her own name.

He looked for her mother. Didn’t see her.

“Are you mad at me?”

Peering down into those big, soul-deep eyes, Gray dropped down to his haunches. “Oh no, never,” he told her. Not because Sage had told him to be nice. Or because he feared her child would ruin their truce by saying he was mad at her.

But because...nothing else came to mind except making certain that he did not, in any way, have an adverse effect on the child.

“You know why I could never be mad at you?” he asked, sifting through a dozen reasons that popped immediately to mind, so he gave her the best one.

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded so big her chin touched her chest full of unicorns with every downward pass.

“You do?”

Her gaze at him was steadfast. “Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re Uncle Scott’s friend and Uncle Scott loves me.” The little one’s tone of voice sounded as though she was talking to a child who didn’t understand. The answer was clearly obvious to her.

And not one of the twelve or so he’d come up with. A lot of them dealing with her mother. But Leigh’s version was also true. And worked just fine.

As the little girl ran off, Scott took a long sip of beer. And digested the fact that Sage, and/or Scott, had chosen not to mention that Gray had also, once, a long time before, been friends with her mother, too.