Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

ZEVA

M agnolia is a Christmas wonderland, I decide, an hour after the taxi drops me off in the center of town. They are decorations and lights on every shop window and when the doors open to let patrons in and out of the shops, the sounds of carols float in the wind. The air smells of apple pie, pine needles, and fresh bread from the mom and pops bakery. All that’s missing in Magnolia are snowflakes.

I take photos of the enormous Christmas tree and can’t wait to see it lit at night. I almost squeal at being given the assignment, then sober, remembering why I’m really in this pretty little town.

Daniel wants a story that will shock and outrage his readers, not a tale of magical trees that give me goosebumps and fills my heart with joy. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my two-week vacation. All I have to do is find the story and submit it to Daniel, then the rest of the holiday is mine.

With an hour left before I check into my bed-and-breakfast, I decide on a late lunch overlooking the water. The Mad Vine is perfect. Online reviews give the restaurant five stars and I’m too hungry to fuss over the ten minutes it will take to walk there.

When I arrive, I’m awestruck. The Mad Vine isn’t just a name. Deep blue velvet chairs, glittering crystal chandeliers, and thick, green vines climbing the pillars make the restaurant feel intimate and luxurious.

“Right this way,” a waitress says. She’s in her early twenties, with blonde hair that’s pulled back into a ponytail. “I’m June and I’ll be your server.”

“Nice to meet you, June. Is it possible to get a table outside?” The restaurant is surprisingly busy for early afternoon, but that just means I’ve made the right choice.

“I’m afraid they are all filled, but if one becomes available, I can always move you. How does that sound?” She flashes me a bright smile that falters when she looks over her shoulder.

“That would be wonderful,” I say, following her gaze. “Thank you.” Close to the side entrance of the establishment, two men are in an intense conversation. Though I can’t hear what they’re saying, their body language ripples with tension. They are both dressed in black suits. The one doing the talking, with occasional daggers aimed toward my server, is the shorter of the two. While the other is at least six one, with a lean frame. His side profile suggests he has a low stubble covering a firm jaw that is even harder than the bulging arm muscles under his jacket.

June clears her throat and I cringe at being caught staring.

“Here we are.” She places two menus on the table.

It isn’t an ocean view, but June sits me at a table with a widow. “Thank you.” I place my purse in the empty chair and my small suitcase against the wall.

She glances over her shoulder again, then back at me. “I haven’t seen you in Magnolia before. Are you visiting or passing through?”

“That obvious, huh?”

She shrugs. “The luggage gives you away.”

“Accurate observation.” I laugh. “I’m here for work, actually.”

“Yeah?” She tilts her head. “I didn’t think I’d hear that excuse until January.”

I frown.

She braces her hip against the table. “Magnolia sorta slows for anything that isn’t Christmas this time of year. Folks are either coming to experience the joyous atmosphere, the sounds of laughter and merriment, and the sights of colorful decorations, or to join in the fun, perhaps even leading a parade or singing in traditional caroling.” She shrugs. “It’s nuts, if you ask me.”

“You don’t like the celebrations?”

She shrugs. “What’s there to celebrate?”

I clamp my mouth shut. Some people need a reason to celebrate, while others celebrated even when it’s cheering on someone else’s happiness. I put June in the category of those who need a reason. “Well, newspapers don’t stop printing because of holidays. Sorry to pop your ballon, but I’m here for work.” To appease my boss, anyway.

“You’re a journalist?”

I nod. Although I’m not sure fluff pieces in the weekly column section counts as journalism. Although Daniel’s entry to the team is steep, a front-page article will undeniably elevate my profile as a serious writer, opening doors to new opportunities and attracting the attention of other publications.

“Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but you won’t find your next story here. Trust me, I’ve lived in this town all my life and Magnolia is boring.”

How can she say that, with the cheerful chatter and bright sunlight illuminating the town square, making everything seem so joyful and vibrant?

“Can I get you a drink?”

I relay my drink order, closing the cocktail menu. If June doesn’t think the festivities happening outside are entertaining, then I’ll have to work really hard to dig up a story Daniel will love. I consider asking June for her help. After all, this is her town and who better to tell me about all its secrets? I cringe. Digging up secrets isn’t my cup of tea, but perhaps just a small one will be enough.

June returns with my glass of water and lemonade. I don’t get my chance to ask for her help. “Are you okay?” A dusty pink blush rose on her cheeks, and her lips press together in a thin line of anger. “What happened?”

“I got fired.”

My eyes widen. What could have possibly happened between her serving me and now? I glance toward the men, but they are both gone. “What can I do to help?”

“Want to hear a real story about the secrets hidden beneath all this festive Christmas magic?”

My heart hammers in my chest. Is she giving me my story?

She locks gazes with me. “Only a scrooge fires a broke college student two weeks before Christmas,” she says.

I typed for several hours, my fingers flying across the keyboard, and my sympathy for June growing with each keystroke; I was reluctant to stop until the article was complete. It took a few edits to get the words just right, painting Mr. Lister just as June described him. I lean back into my seat at the coffee shop, my finger lingering over the send button. It isn’t as if I hadn’t given him a chance to tell his side of the story, either. After he didn’t return to the restaurant, I’d called in search of him, but the moment I mentioned June, he declined to comment.

I sigh, rolling my lower lip between my teeth. I really hope writing these sorts of stories doesn’t always feel like a punch in the gut.

I hit send and almost fell out of my chair. This is so different from my baking column that my skin tingles. And there’s a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I mentally go over the piece, on my way to the bed-and-breakfast.

The story really focuses on June and the setbacks losing her job will cause. I only mention the owner’s name at the end to show my failed attempt to get a comment.

I try to shake my nervousness aside as I enter the small bed-and-breakfast and ring the bell. A plump woman in her early seventies hurries to the desk to greet me. She has kind eyes behind her round glasses. And her warm smile reminds me of my grandmother.

“How can I help you, dear?”

“I’m Zeva Dixon, I reserved a room.”

Her smile fades. “Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear?” This doesn’t sound promising.

She collapses in the chair behind the counter and fans her face. Alarmed, I rush to her side. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?” I cover her hand.

She closes her eyes. “No, no, he’ll just make a fuss.” She pats my hand.

Who? I furrow my brows in confusion.

“I’m plum, sorry, honey. I rented your room.”

“What? But…”

“Usually Eleanore takes care of these sorts of things, but I gave her the day off on account it’s her son’s fifth birthday. Lucky guy.” She chuckles. “getting so many presents in one month. I called you dear.” She pats my hand again. “When you didn’t answer?—”

“You rented my room.”

“I’m plum, sorry. You young folks are always changing your minds. I just thought this was one of them times.”

I’m extremely disappointed, but it’s best not to cause her more anguish. “Is there another hotel I can stay at?”

“This time of the year?” She shakes her head. “And with all the festivities approaching, I doubt this town will have a free room available for a week.”

I swallow. This isn’t good at all.

“What about the person who checked in? Can they find another lodging?”

“I can ask, since it’s your room and all. But I’ll be mighty sorry to put a pregnant woman out.” She peeks at me from under her lashes.

I squeeze her hand, understanding the cause of her distress. Even if the couple weren’t expecting a baby, I doubt I have the heart to turn them out. Much less have this sweet old woman do such a horrid deed. “No need to worry Mrs. —“

“Call me Francis.”

“I’ll think of something, Francis.” I reassure her. Straightening, I hesitated before leaving, unsure of my next move.

“Wait!” She hurries around the counter. “My nephew lives in town and he’s got an entire house to himself. If you’ll stay with him, as soon as a room opens up, I’ll send for you.” She presses a sticky note into my hand and marches out the door. I’m treated as if I’d forgotten to run her errands.