Christmas on Mimosa Lane (A Seasons of the Heart Novel) Read online

  This had to stop. Her neighbor’s inability to keep track of his daughter, let alone help the child properly grieve for her mother so Polly could heal and move on…It had to stop.

  Mallory wasn’t going to be sucked any deeper into these strangers’ lives. She was nothing like them. They knew nothing about her. And, besides, what possible good could she do? She was having a hard enough time in Chandlerville trying to patch together her own version of happiness.

  “Excuse me?” Pete mumbled. “It’s nearly one in the morning. Who is this?”

  There was rustling on his end of the call, and Mallory imagined him sitting up, all sleepy and sprawling and mussed. Brown, unruly hair the same shade of mink as his daughter’s. Brown, emotional eyes. Dark stubble that he let grow along his chin and jaw each weekend. Did he sleep in the nude?

  “This is your conscience speaking,” she said, irritated with her wayward thoughts. The man had made no secret of his dislike for Polly’s involving Mallory in their family problems. And he was right. Mallory’s interjecting herself into their situation could only make things worse. Except his child seemed to have her own agenda. “I’ve once again stumbled across something very precious to you.”

  “What are you…?” His voice thinned from groggy to suspicious. “Polly?” Mallory actually heard him stumble out of bed and across the floor, presumably toward his daughter’s room. “Who is this?”

  “It’s your next-door neighbor,” she said. “Your daughter let herself inside my place this time. She’s in my kitchen eating what you’ll no doubt consider offensive cold cereal. The patio door’s open. We’ll see you when you get here.”

  Chapter Two

  Forever is Composed of Nows…

  What kind of man couldn’t keep his child tucked safely in bed at night?

  Pete Lombard shoved his feet into the beaten-up sneakers that had stood sentinel outside his patio door since late September, the last time he’d mowed the lawn. Without tying them, taking only a moment to pull on a sweatshirt over his pajamas, he sprinted through the chilly November night. A fenced backyard ran catty-corner to his own, the curve where Mimosa Lane twisted into their cul-de-sac transforming the house next to his into his backyard neighbor as well. He let himself through the partially open wooden door he’d helped old Mr. Lancer cut out because Polly had loved to play with his basset hound, Charlie Brown.

  What a difference two years could make.

  The Lancers and Charlie had retired to sunny Florida. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Polly play. And now he was making a midnight visit to his new neighbor who at best thought he was an idiot, more likely an unfit father.

  Light blared from inside Mallory Phillips’s place. Her Christmas tree had been up and decorated like a gaudy holiday farce since two weeks before Thanksgiving, twinkling through the thermal-paned windows the Lancers had installed to make the twenty-year-old ranch more salable. Was the tree what kept drawing Polly over? Pete had caught her staring at the monstrosity from her second-story bedroom window.

  What the hell was she doing out of bed in the middle of the night? And how, how, couldn’t he have known she was gone? He saved lives for a living, but he hadn’t been able to save his wife. Now he was failing his child.

  Thank God they lived on quiet, insulated Mimosa Lane. Still, as an EMT for the fire department he saw enough each week to reinforce the tragic things that could happen to a kid who slipped away from the safety of home. Especially an emotionally fragile little girl his Polly’s age. Too bad the house she’d shared with her mother was now the last place on earth Polly felt safe.

  Emma, what am I going to do? How many times had he asked that of the soul mate he’d lost forever? He kept trying to figure things out, to reason them through, to get something of his falling-apart world back under control. But nothing made sense anymore, for him or Polly. I’m screwing this up. Help me, darlin’. Somehow, you’ve got to help me.

  The sliding glass door leading into his neighbor’s house was open. He knocked anyway. There was no answer.

  “Hello…”

  He stepped into a room overwhelmed by an artificial, ornament-filled tree. It was like Christmas had swooped in and attacked the poor plastic thing, inflicting forced cheer on anyone who caught a glimpse of it. Standing there he felt himself drowning in the festive holiday season he’d been trying to fake for Polly’s sake.

  Fake…That’s what the monstrosity was screaming—every mass-produced inch of it. Looking around the room he realized there wasn’t another decoration in sight. Just Mallory Phillips’s christmas, Christmas, CHRISTMAS tree.

  The small home’s family room stretched the entire width of the house, and sparse would be too generous a word to describe its decor. There was a soft-looking oversize cream couch, a brass lamp with a beige shade, and a sad-looking recliner covered in a tweedy kind of plaid that for some reason made him think it was secondhand. Probably because there’d been something like it tossed into the corner of his fraternity’s front room. They’d needed furniture because visitors had to sit somewhere, but his college buddies hadn’t really cared what any of it looked like. Clearly, neither did the elusive Mallory Phillips. Even her floor was covered in a nondescript oatmeal Berber.

  I-give-up carpet, Emma had called it when he’d hastily picked something similar for their place in the hope of skirting her out of the store and home to work on making the baby they’d been so desperate to have.

  “Hello?” he called, louder this time.

  “Hey—” Across the empty dining area to his right a butler’s door pushed outward, flashing a glimpse beyond of a kitchen filled with crazy colors. A tousled-haired blonde burst into the room in plaid Disney pajamas that made her look ridiculously young, tempting him to smile for the first time since spring.

  For a moment he didn’t recognize her. At school, Mallory kept her hair pulled back. She dressed in boxy scrubs covered in outlandish cartoon animals. So far no one in the community had gotten much of a look at her in anything else.

  She didn’t tend to her own yard like the rest of their neighbors—she had a guy come over once a week to do the bare minimum. The entire time she’d lived in Chandlerville she’d only attended a single Mimosa Lane get-together, a Sunday-night barbecue at the beginning of the school year that she’d arrived at late and had left after less than ten minutes, hardly speaking to anyone. She’d made herself scarce each evening and weekend and most recently during the Thanksgiving holiday, though no one had seen her pack her car for a trip.

  It was as if Mallory Phillips were living among them, only she wasn’t.

  Her silky hair was down now, bouncing about her shoulders. The softness of her purple-plaid nightclothes accentuated generous curves that weren’t the least bit childlike. Basic politeness said Pete shouldn’t be staring at the swooping neckline of her pajama top, but he couldn’t help himself. She clearly didn’t realize or didn’t care how she looked just rolled out of bed, or how a man could find himself reaching for something that warm and inviting and never want to find his way out of it.

  “Good,” she said, all business. “You’re here. I was about to resort to another blast of sugary bribery.” Still moving toward him, she held out her hand.

  “Ms. Phillips.” He shook briefly and let go.

  His gaze made a discreet pass over the cartoon fairy embroidered on her top. The perky thing danced above the kind of firm, athletic breasts he’d preferred since falling in love with the high school track star who’d become his bride.

  “I’m sorry about all this.” He decided to look at his neighbor’s summer-blue eyes for the rest of their conversation. And only her eyes. “I’m not sure why my daughter keeps seeking you out.”

  “I think it’s pretty clear Polly’s looking for something, Mr. Lombard.” Her directness each time they spoke was unsettling, given her skittishness whenever she’d interacted with others on the lane. “I can only assume her behavior has something to do with missing her mother.�
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  “Call me Pete,” he said, the offer not coming out entirely friendly.

  He’d asked her to use his first name when he’d phoned yesterday. She’d ignored him then. Just as he’d sidestepped her daily attempts when he picked up his little girl from the clinic at school to talk about Emma and how losing her was affecting Polly.

  Everyone else in his life, his family and friends and his colleagues at work, got that he couldn’t talk about it yet, losing the love of his life. This stranger to his turned-upside-down world couldn’t be expected to understand. But the least she could do was stop asking questions that chipped away at what was left of his heart.

  “Mr. Lombard?”

  She’d repeated his name a couple of times, he realized. How long had he been standing there staring?

  “Does Polly leave your place a lot after dark?” she asked.

  “Of course she doesn’t wander around the neighborhood at night.” He was doing the best he could, damn it. He loved his daughter, and he’d do anything to keep her safe. “I have an alarm that sounds off in my bedroom if any of the doors or windows open.”

  His neighbor raised an eyebrow.

  “I checked the system before I came over.” The pulse at his temple thudded like muted cymbals crashing against his skull. “Polly must have disengaged it.”

  “She’s a smart little girl.” A smile transformed her features the way sunshine set morning mist to sparkling. Then all that glitter disappeared behind a frown. “And a desperate one.”

  He rocked back on his heels. “Desperate for what?”

  She shrugged. “Freedom?”

  The breath rushed out of him.

  He could see his wife, propped up on pillows in their bed, home from the hospital for the last time, looking beautiful and serene and frail. I can feel it, Emma had said, the words breaking him while he clung to every syllable. The freedom. It’s going to be okay. I’m finally going to be free of it.

  Free of the cancer that wouldn’t turn her loose, and the world that couldn’t keep her without causing more pain. Emma had needed to hear him say it was okay to let go. She’d held on until he found a way to give her that last gift. But he refused to do the same for his child. He couldn’t lose Polly, too. Thanksgiving had been a disaster, and she seemed to be preparing to hate Christmas just as much, but somehow he’d make things right for her again. Failure had never been an option for him, and he’d already lost too much of his family. He refused to watch Polly slip away, too.

  “I’d like to see my daughter.” The bite in each word was impolite, but he didn’t care. It was late. He was at his wits’ end. This woman needed to get out of his way.

  “Of course.” Mallory turned.

  A view of Tinker Bell’s backside twitched between her shoulder blades. She marched off, a leggy, flannel-draped queen leading him through the swinging door into the next room.

  Her tree wasn’t the only garish thing she’d blown her money on. Her refrigerator was blue. The oven, a sage green. The dishwasher’s front was powdery red. The counters and tabletop were a blinding-white Formica, with the kind of chrome edges that belonged in a fifties-era sitcom.

  Polly sat amid it all wrapped in a vintage-looking bathrobe covered in more frolicking fairies, shoveling food into her mouth like a normal seven-year-old. A box of cereal was open at her elbow. She stared first at Mallory, panic creeping into her sprite green eyes. Her face lost its animation when her attention shifted to Pete. Every trace of the happy child she’d been until six months ago faded away. She dropped her spoon into the bowl and wiped at her milky mustache with the bathrobe’s sleeve. Her gaze fell to her lap.

  She never looked Pete in the eye anymore. He’d felt her pulling away for months. Then she’d run from the Thanksgiving table at Emma’s parents’ house, screaming to go home. She hadn’t stopped crying until he’d tucked her into her own bed. She’d barely slept or spoken to him since. She couldn’t stand to be around anyone anymore.

  And the hell of it was, he understood completely. He was going through the motions of staying positive for his daughter’s sake, but he didn’t want to be around anyone, either. Not friends, not family, sometimes not even his own child. He’d never admit it, but sometimes he wished they’d all go away. It hurt too much, feeling close to the things and people he’d shared with Emma.

  Fear had been Pete’s constant companion since his wife’s death. In his job he was a pro at pushing through the uncertainty of not knowing what would happen next. A rescue worker had to act regardless of the desperation of the moment. But with his little girl, after months of trying and failing to comfort her and be the father she deserved, fear had become a paralyzing mainstay. Fear and the crushing loss of the happy life they’d taken for granted.

  Out of answers, he felt his neighbor’s gaze boring into him as he knelt beside Polly’s chair.

  “You scared me, darlin’.” He stroked the dark curls that were even softer than her mother’s had been. “You can’t keep wandering away from me. And you absolutely can’t leave the house at night.”

  “Ms. Phillips doesn’t mind if I visit her at school,” Polly said to her lap.

  “You’re in her house now.” The home of a woman who clearly wasn’t the Won’t you be my neighbor? type. “We talked about this last night. You haven’t been invited. It’s a no-no to just walk into someone’s yard and their home when they don’t know you’re coming.”

  “I wanted to see her tree. It’s the best tree ever, but I can’t see all of it from my window.”

  Why the hell did Mallory insist on never closing her curtains? What was her back door doing unlocked in the middle of the night, so Polly could let herself inside?

  The community rumor mill kept buzzing with each new quirk they discovered about this woman. Beginning all the way back when she’d arrived after closing on the Lancer place with a single U-Haul trailer hitched to an ancient Beetle. After which she’d greeted the steady stream of good-natured neighbors who’d brought over baked goodies and housewarming gifts with stuttering attempts to welcome them that had morphed into a strained thank-you and less-than-subtle excuses for saying good-bye before anyone was invited inside.

  No one had gotten the impression that she was being intentionally rude. It seemed more likely that she didn’t have the first clue what to do with any of them. She was a puzzle no one in Chandlerville could solve. Which evidently made her the only person his child could bear spending time with.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Polly said. She looked to Mallory. “I just wanted to see what your Christmas looked like up close.”

  Mallory patted her on the back and closed up the cereal box. She handed Polly her spoon. And damn if the kid didn’t dive back in for her without complaint.

  “We’ll go buy our tree this week,” Pete promised, forcing himself to sound positive while their broken holiday shattered into even more pieces. Polly had refused every attempt he’d made to get her excited about decorating the house—something she and Emma had always done together. “We’ll make our own Christmas great, just as soon as you’re ready. And if you can’t sleep, you need to come get me up—not bother Ms. Phillips. I’ll read you a story. I know it’s hard at night, but I’m always going to be here, Polly. You can come get me no matter how late it is. We’ll put you back to bed and make whatever’s bothering you better.”

  His child shook her head, her bangs falling into her eyes. Pete reached to smooth them back, and she jerked away—the same as she had when he’d tried to comfort her at Emma’s parents’. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  He wanted to take her into his arms and hug away her loneliness and his, but that would mean another tantrum like the ones she had each night at bedtime. Her doctors said not to push closeness on Polly, but not to let her pull too far inward, either. Give her time. Give her space. But give her love, whether she accepted it or not.

  How was he supposed to do that when each time he reached for his child he found a stranger in his grasp
instead of the daughter who’d once worshiped his every move? How were they supposed to survive Christmas, Emma’s favorite holiday, when not having her there was unbearable for them both?

  “Did your wife read her bedtime stories?” Mallory asked.

  “What?” He’d forgotten where he was. His neighbor’s question froze time, then accelerated it. He stood, his scattered thoughts free-falling yet again.

  The memory was so clear. Him coming off a day shift at the station, driving home to find dinner left warming on the stove and the house smelling like Polly’s bubble bath. Emma was cuddled up with their sleepy little girl reading one last story before bed. Pete settled in to watch like he always did, loving them both so much and content with being exactly where he planned to be every night he wasn’t working, until Polly was too old to think of their nightly ritual as heaven on earth.

  It had been warm there where the three of them were happy, where he could no longer return. Warm and real and already forgotten by a child who cried now whenever he tried to read to her the way her mommy had.

  “If Polly’s having difficulty with you at night,” Mallory said, looking perversely curious as she stared him down, “I was wondering if it used to be a time when she was especially close to her mom.”

  “Of course it was a special time,” he snapped.

  “Then maybe she’”

  “Can I speak with you privately?” He was already halfway through the swinging door. She was likely a damn fine nurse, and she clearly cared about his daughter’s well-being. But his neighbor’s meddling in private matters she couldn’t possibly understand was officially over.

  He stepped into her excuse for a dining room and waited for Tinker Bell to join him. Once Mallory had, he swung the door closed and turned on her, losing his stranglehold on his temper.

  “Exactly who the hell do you think you are, lady, questioning how I parent my own child?”