“Do you know my Mom?”
I shake my head, although my answer isn’t entirely true. I believe I have met her mother, just not on this plane. “No. I wish I did.”
“Me too.”
I exchange a glance with Estelle, and it’s clear her blatant honesty is breaking both our hearts. “Anyway, it’s a crazy story of how I wound up in Yuletide. You’ll have me committed if I tell you.”
“Try me,” Estelle grins.
“I kept having dreams, and this woman visited me almost every night. I didn’t know her, but she insisted I needed to move to Yuletide Acres. I’d never heard of the place, so you can imagine my surprise when I looked it up and saw that it existed. Even stranger was how identical the town appeared to my dream.”
“Does the woman have a name? In your dream, I mean.”
I stir my coffee, eyes downcast. “She said her name was Merry.”
“Red curly hair, bossy as hell?”
My head shoots up. “Yes. You know her?”
Estelle nods toward Marissa. “That’s their Merry.” She leans back against her seat, a smile crossing her face. “That is just like her, too.”
“I’m not sure why she brought me here, though.”
“Yes, you are, dear.”
The server brings our food, and I’m thankful for the end to that conversation path. Granted, I now have confirmation that Merry is indeed the woman visiting my dreams. My only question for her at this point? Where did she get such a sadistic sense of humor?
“It’s odd,” I continue, taking a new tact, “because a woman I know in Eugene claims that she grew up in Yuletide Acres.”
“What’s her name?”
“We call her Old Mother Jane, but I don’t know if that’s real or a pseudonym.”
Estelle’s eyes mist as she sips her coffee. “I’m glad she’s still alive and well.”
“You know everyone, don’t you?”
“It’s not hard in a town the size of Yuletide Acres. But I wasn’t raised here. I hail from New York City. You can imagine the culture shock when I arrived. But this place grows on you.”
“Unless you’re escorted to the city limits by the mayor.”
“That won’t happen. I’ll see to it. However, now I know how you knew about Yuletide Acre’s pagan roots.”
I nod, laughing. “Yes. Old Mother Jane filled me in. Claimed that the history”—I make air quotes—“was just propaganda by some fundamentalist groups who believed that heathen founding fathers—”
“Mothers,” Estelle corrects.
“Mothers were not the reputation they should strive for. Personally, I think it makes the town even more fascinating.”
“I agree. Look,” Estelle leans across the table, grasping my forearm, “I’m not saying it will be a cakewalk, but I hope you don’t leave here without one hell of a fight.”
“Language, Grandma,” Marissa pipes in.
“So right. Sorry. A dollar for the curse jar.”
Marissa looks up at me, reaching for my other hand. “Don’t leave. You aren’t the only one who dreams about Mom. She told me you would come. I’m glad you’re finally here.”
Chapter 4
Dylan
“You did what?” I bellow, my jaw open in a gape.
“Marissa and I spent the day with Poppy.” My mother’s eyes flash at me, warning me to cease and desist. “It was lovely. She’s lovely. You’re a shit.”
“Why am I a shit?”
“Does it feel good, knowing you made a woman cry?”
My heart sinks. No, it feels awful. Every tear running down Poppy’s face hits like a bullet, along with her admission that she carried—and lost—our baby. She was pregnant when I left her, and I can’t shake the guilt that the stress over my sudden disappearance helped bring about the miscarriage.
Our child would be ten years old now.
No, I can’t think like that. It’s painful enough knowing he existed; conjuring up what might have been is agony.
“Well, does it?” my mother presses. She isn’t about to let this situation lie.
“No.”
“I don’t understand, Dylan. This isn’t you. You’re never cruel. You’re the man who stops to move a turtle out of the road. The man who helps the old lady across the street in the pouring rain. You’re not the man who drives an innocent woman to tears as you march her out of town. Or are you?”
My anger flashes. If my mother knew the entire story, she wouldn’t be so keen on Poppy Mills remaining in Yuletide Acres. “Before you go all high and mighty about how perfect Poppy is, I’ll let you in on a secret. She was a stripper. Mrs. Withers found incriminating photos of her—scantily dressed, wrapped around a pole.”
My mother shrugs. Apparently, this is not news. Either the gossip mill is working overtime or Poppy admitted her sordid past. “Mrs. Withers is a detestable human being. You and I both know that. Poppy is the complete opposite.”
“She let men touch her,” I seethe. “I can’t even imagine how many men screwed her when she was a stripper.” Hell, even the thought makes me cringe.
“Is this about her former occupation or your insatiable jealousy?”
“This has nothing to do with me,” I bellow, even though I know the green-eyed monster is the major player in my emotions right now.
Instead of agreeing, my mother’s eyes darken in anger. “Did you even get Poppy’s side of the story?”
“What side might that be?” I shudder at the image of Poppy, wearing only a thong as she shakes her ass in front of countless strangers. It’s sickening. Somehow, strippers never bothered me before. Then again, I didn’t have a romantic past with any of them, either.
“Did you bother to inquire if any men touched her? You’re assuming the worst without any facts to back it up.” She holds up her hand when I open my mouth to retort. “Hold on, I’m not done, Dylan. Did you ask why she did it?”
“The strippers I’ve known didn’t make their money on the stage. They made it in the VIP rooms. I know firsthand how hands-on they are in those areas. So, does it matter why Poppy chose to be a stripper?”
“Yes, it does. If she did it to survive, there’s no shame there.” My mother paces the kitchen, wringing her hands. “Here’s a little-known fact about your mother. I was a go-go dancer in New York. That’s how I met your father.”
I couldn’t be more shocked if she told me I was the offspring of aliens. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. I was broke, and dancing earned me a damn good living. I don’t regret one day of it, because it brought your father and I together. Never mind the fact that he was also the only man I let touch me. I was more than happy to leave that life when I was offered another choice. You fail to realize, dear boy, that not everyone is blessed with a successful family. Many have to scrape by, doing whatever they can to survive. There’s a good possibility that Poppy Mills didn’t have the same upbringing as you. Her options may have been severely limited.”