The Christmas Cookie Collection Read online

  “Nope. Not me.” Terri grinned and danced around the room in time to “Jingle Bell Rock.”

  “I’ll bite,” Marva said. “Who is going to be on the show?”

  “All of us.” Terri clapped her hands. “The entire town of Twilight.”

  “What do you mean?” Patsy straightened, narrowed her eyes. “All of us?”

  Twilight lived and died by its legends. The town that claimed a resident population of six thousand had been founded on the Brazos River in 1875. To keep a steady influx of cash pouring into the community, a cottage industry had sprung up around the prevailing town legend. According to lore, two teenage sweethearts were separated during the Civil War. Jon Grant had been a soldier for the North; Rebekka Nash, a sweet Southern belle. Circumstances tore them asunder, but they never stopped loving each other. Fifteen years later, they met again at twilight on the banks of the Brazos in the exact same spot where the town now stood.

  In the early 1900s a statue in the lovers’ honor had been erected in the park near the town square. Rumor had it that if you threw a penny into the fountain at Sweetheart Park, you would be forever reunited with your high school sweetheart and live happily-­ever-­after. Whether it was true or not, the legend did indeed bring in the tourists. In 1910, the Fort Worth Star-­Telegram nicknamed Twilight “Sweetheart Town,” and there’d been a steady influx of romance-­related tourism ever since.

  Carrie had grown up with the fairy tale, but she didn’t believe in it. For one thing, she was a cynic. For another, she’d thrown countless pennies into that damned fountain and Mark Leland had never returned. Never wrote. Never called. Never even accepted her friend request on Facebook.

  “Fact or Fantasy is coming to Twilight,” Terri went on.

  “To bust the myth of our town legends?” Marva looked alarmed.

  “That’s just it,” Terri exclaimed, clearly not realizing the implications. If Twilight’s myths were busted; bye-­bye tourism dollars. “They won’t bust us. We know the story of Jon and Rebekka is true.”

  “We do?” Dotty Mae blinked.

  Oh crap. Carrie kneaded her forehead. The town was in deep trouble.

  “That’s not the best part,” Terri said.

  “If this is your idea of exciting news, I’m scared to ask what the best part is.” Even perky Belinda shifted nervously.

  “The host of the show is none other than a former Twilight denizen.” Terri’s smile went smug, and her eyes met Carrie’s.

  For no reason at all, goose bumps blanketed Carrie’s arm, and her skin suddenly felt too tight. Her mouth went bone dry. She took a big swallow of punch and almost choked on it.

  Belinda reached over and patted her on the back. “You okay, sweetie?”

  Carrie nodded, set down the punch.

  “Come on you guys, guess.” Terri held her arms out in a ta-­da gesture and rolled her eyes heavenward. “The host is a very handsome young man.”

  “Who used to live in Twilight?” Patsy’s forehead wrinkled in a quizzical frown.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Could you give us a hint?” Belinda asked.

  “He was once very special to someone in this room.”

  Raylene snorted. “Stop playing coy, Terri, who the hell is it?”

  Terri made a drumroll noise with her tongue. “The new host of Fact or Fiction is none other than our very own Mark Leland.”

  Mark Leland?

  Carrie stopped breathing. Six pairs of inquisitive eyes immediately shifted to stare at her. She felt at once dizzy and sick to her stomach.

  Her Mark Leland? Coming back to Twilight? Not only coming back, but returning with a camera crew to bust the romantic myth that the town’s economy thrived on.

  The myth that said if you threw a penny into the fountain in Sweetheart Park that you would be married to your first love forever. The very same myth that she and Mark had already busted eight years ago when they’d had their impulsive Vegas wedding annulled.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Twilight hadn’t changed one bit in eight years.

  That was a surprising sucker punch, even though Mark should have expected it, because he had changed. He’d changed a whole lot from the provincial farm kid who once sped his pickup truck around these quaint, meandering streets.

  In his Brioni suit and A. Testoni shoes, his two-­hundred-­dollar haircut unruffled by the November breeze blowing across Lake Twilight, Mark stood on the front lawn of a Bed and Breakfast called The Merry Cherub. Back when Mark had lived in Twilight, the three-­story Victorian had been a private residence. So okay, one thing had changed.

  The bus that Fact or Fantasy had chartered at DFW Airport was parked curbside as his crew unloaded their gear. The show had reserved the entire third floor of The Merry Cherub for the three weeks they would be filming the “Romance of First Love” episode.

  It was the episode he had inadvertently, and regrettably, triggered over dirty martinis at the Emmy Awards, when he’d told Burt Mernit about Twilight’s legendary Jon and Rebekka, the fountain in Sweetheart Park and the enduring folklore of high-­school sweethearts forever entwined.

  Guests had come out of the establishment. Residents from the surrounding homes peeked through the curtains. Their audience stood on wide verandas, or paused on sidewalks, watching the goings-­on with keen-­eyed interest.

  Eight years and he hadn’t once come back. There’d been no need to return since his parents had moved away after he got a scholarship to Columbia University, buying their retirement home on the Texas Gulf Coast. There was nothing here that he’d left behind.

  Except for Carrie.

  At the thought of fiery Carrie MacGregor, who for forty-­eight glorious hours (back when he had just turned nineteen and she was seventeen and a half) had been his wife, Mark’s gut gave a strange squeeze. Blast from the past. He couldn’t help wondering if she still lived in Twilight. If she did, he knew he’d run into her, and that thought tightened the squeeze.

  He could have broken down and looked her up on the Internet, but for some reason he’d been reluctant to confirm her whereabouts. It felt too much like an invasion of her privacy. Too much like picking at an old scar.

  Pasting the television smile on his face that he’d been perfecting over the last five years in his meteoric rise from broadcast journalism intern to local L.A. news reporter to host of his own reality show, Mark turned and started up the sidewalk. He greeted the ­people on the front porch, pressed flesh, winked and charmed his way to the front door.

  The proprietors of the Merry Cherub, a ­couple of married thirty-­somethings named Jenny and Dean, ushered him inside. Jenny looked several months pregnant and kept her hand cradled lovingly around her distended belly.

  The minute he stepped over the threshold, his mouth gaped. Everywhere he looked there were angels—­angels on thick textured wallpaper, angel mobiles dangling from the ceiling, angels carved into the staircase banister and the crown molding. He doubted they had this many angels even in Heaven and every single one of the angels was grinning.

  Hence the Merry Cherub. Now the B&B’s name made total sense.

  The crew, who trooped up the steps behind him, had similar reactions. There were gasps, chortles, and a few polite coughs.

  Mark recovered quickly and dialed his surprise into the stunning dimpled grin that he knew had the power to send women into a swoon. “Beautiful place you’ve got here,” he told Dean and Jenny smoothly.

  Blushing prettily, Jenny led the way upstairs, while Dean helped the crew with their equipment. Mark’s natural impulse was to roll up his sleeves and help with the bags as well, but he’d been coached in the finer points of looking like a star. His mentor was fond of saying, “Talent doesn’t fetch or carry.”

  Mark was considered “the talent” of Fact or Fiction. The main draw. The future of the show rested on his shoul
ders. It was a heavy responsibility. Far better for him to look the part of successful host and ensure the crew members got to keep their jobs than to risk losing his authority by carrying a few bags. Still, it bothered him to ascend the steps empty-­handed. This wasn’t how he’d been raised. Letting others shoulder his burdens.

  You can take the country boy to the city, but you can’t take the country out of the man.

  Jenny showed him to his suite. “The best in the house,” she told him.

  Angels had encroached even here. He resigned himself to an angel-­filled three weeks. He was about to tip her, but when he reached into his pocket, a horrified look crossed her face and she raised her hands. “No tipping allowed at the Merry Cherub.”

  Feeling like a jackass, he stuck the twenty back in his pocket as she scooted out the door, tossing over her shoulder, “Dinner at seven. Homemade chicken pot pie.”

  She shut the door, leaving him all alone with the angels.

  They wouldn’t start shooting until tomorrow when the director, Iris Tobin, arrived. Until then, Mark was at loose ends. He walked to the French doors, threw them open and stepped out onto the balcony.

  A bloom of autumn flowers decorated the wrought iron patio table. He stepped to the edge of the stone balustrade. To his right stretched Lake Twilight, simmering green-­blue in the November afternoon. To his left lay the public street leading to a main thoroughfare that circled the town square. The street was framed with old-­fashioned sidewalks and tall, elegant elms.

  And that’s when he saw her.

  The tempestuous, gorgeous Carrie MacGregor, the woman who’d first stolen his heart way back in high school. She strode purposefully down the sidewalk, shoulders back, chin up, looking ready to tackle the world. She’d always been fearless like that—­undaunted by obstacles, plowing straight ahead, letting nothing get in her way. Except for when his parents and her older sister conspired to break them apart.

  The day was burned into his memory when they’d walked into his parents’ home two days after Christmas, simple gold matching wedding bands on their ring fingers. Already the reality of what they’d done was starting to sink in. He didn’t regret marrying Carrie, but facing his parents wasn’t easy. They’d walked into the house, hand-­in-­hand, to find his parents and Flynn huddled around the kitchen table, the letter from Columbia lying open on the middle of the snowflake tablecloth and weighted down by a round Santa Claus salt shaker.

  Don’t blame it on Mom and Dad and Flynn. You were young, but plenty old enough to fight for her.

  Yeah. There was the rub. He hadn’t fought for her. Carrie had taken one look at the letter and quickly sized up the situation. The first words out of her mouth were, “We made a big mistake.”

  What she blurted had shocked him because he’d been trying to figure out how he could be a freshman and provide for his young bride who had yet to finish high school. Everyone had discussed it. And Carrie had calmly suggested they should have the marriage annulled.

  Mark had just sat there, letting it all unfold around him, feeling mournful, but also secretly a bit relieved and then guilty for that relief. He loved Carrie, but they were in over their heads. They’d allowed their hearts to overcome reason. He had graduated in December. Off-­schedule, because when he’d been in seventh grade he’d contracted hepatitis A, missed three months of school and had to be held back a year. To compensate, he’d doubled up on classes in his senior year to finish at the Christmas holidays instead of the following May. With college looming and the thought of leaving Carrie behind weighing heavily on his mind, he’d hatched the idea of a Vegas wedding.

  And so the wedding had been annulled.

  He’d packed up for college. He’d promised to email. Promised he’d come back for her once he’d graduated.

  He had not.

  Carrie stopped on the corner, waiting for the light to change. She was dressed in blue jeans, comfortable sneakers and a bright yellow sweater that accentuated the auburn streaks in her soft brown hair.

  The light changed and she took a step off the curb just as a zippy black Camaro darted through a red light at the intersection.

  Mark’s heart vaulted into his throat and he cried out a warning. “Carrie!”

  She halted just in the nick of time as the car sped past her.

  Relief pushed out fear, leaving his knees weak, shaky. If he hadn’t called to her . . . He didn’t even want to think about what could have happened.

  She stepped back onto the curb, tossed her head, and glanced up over her shoulder.

  Their eyes met.

  He saw instant recognition dawn on her face. Her eyes were bluer than ever, her silky hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup on her face. But she didn’t need makeup. Carrie was a natural beauty.

  “Hold it,” he called, suddenly freaked out that she would disappear on him. “Stay right there. I’m coming down.”

  He tore from his room and scrambled down the stairs. Several guests, including members of his crew were in the parlor. They stared at him as he flew out the front door. His heart was a piston, slamming hard and quick.

  In six ground-­eating strides he cut catty-­corner across the Merry Cherub’s lawn to find her still standing on the corner, a sardonic arch to one eyebrow, arms folded over her chest. Once he was there, he felt tongue-­tied and stupid.

  “Carrie,” he mumbled, jamming his hands in his pants pockets. He realized he was breathing only from the top part of his lungs, short and tight, yet he couldn’t seem to make himself haul in a deep breath.

  She raked a sharp gaze over him, from the top of his head, down the length of his suit, to the tips of his shoes polished to a high sheen. He was very aware of how different he looked from the last time she’d seen him. Back then he’d dressed just as she dressed now—­comfortable, homey, authentic.

  Authentic? What did that mean?

  “I suppose I should thank you,” she said, cool as an ice water shower. “I was almost Camaro road kill.”

  He tried out his grin, hoping to win a smile from her in return, but no dice. Her blue eyes drilled through him like a spike. His smile stumbled, faltered.

  “Thanks for the save.” She turned her back and started walking away, but in the opposite direction of where she’d been headed before. Was she that rattled? Or had she simply changed her mind about where she was going?

  He took off after her. “That’s all I get after eight years?”

  She stopped, her shoulders stiffening, and she sliced him with that razor gaze of hers. “That’s all you deserve,” she sassed.

  Okay, he asked for that, but his blood was racing through his veins. He kept smiling.

  She never budged, her mouth pulled in a taut, disapproving line. Ah, Carrie. How could she be even more beautiful now than she’d been before?

  “You can go on about your rat killing.” She waved a hand.

  He hadn’t heard that colloquial term since he’d left Texas. He’d done his best to scrub his accent and vocabulary of Texasisms. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Fine. Perfect. Hale and hearty. Gotta get back to work. See ya.” She stalked off, ponytail swishing.

  He sprinted after her, knowing he looked pretty damn silly in his fancy suit and shoes, chasing after her as autumn leaves swirled around them. “Can’t you just stop and talk to me a minute?”

  She chuffed out a sigh, sank her hands on her hips and turned to him. “What? What do you want from me?”

  It was a legitimate question. What did he want from her?

  She looked ferocious. Like she could rip his head off at the neck. Was she mad at him? Still? After all this time? Why should she still be mad, especially when she was the one who was the first to say they’d made a big mistake?

  Why hadn’t he called her?

  Yeah, well, and say what? Sorry I bailed o
n you when opportunity knocked? Sorry I’ve changed and I’m not the country boy you once loved?

  “We have nothing to discuss. We knew each other a long time ago.”

  “Can we at least be civil?” he asked.

  She eyed him suspiciously.

  “How’s your folks?” he asked, trying for polite conversation.

  “Mom died five years ago on Christmas Eve,” she said dispassionately.

  Immediately, he felt like a giant shitheel. He had not known. “Carrie. I’m so sorry.”

  “Appreciate the condolence card you sent.” Her sarcasm was a knife to his heart.

  He toed the ground, getting his shoes dusty. This was a mistake, trying to talk to her, but he didn’t turn away. “How’s your dad?” he asked softly.

  “Clean and sober, thanks for asking.” More sarcasm.

  “What about the twins?”

  “My brothers are in their senior years at Texas Tech.”

  “I can’t believe it. Little Noah and Joel about to graduate college?”

  “It has been eight years.”

  “And Flynn?”

  “Happily married and expecting a baby.”

  “That’s great news.” He paused. “What about you, Carrie? Did you ever get married again?” He was stricken by the idea that he was too late, that she was already married. His gaze darted to her ring finger. Bare.

  “Did you?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “No.”

  “Me either. Once bitten, twice shy.”

  He swallowed, tried to think of the right thing to say.

  “Listen, I’ve got things to do.” She shifted her weight but did not meet his gaze.

  “I’m going to be in town for three weeks, filming a show. Maybe we could get—­”

  “I know all about your show. Yay for you. In the future, if I see you coming, I’ll be sure to head in the opposite direction. Like now.” She turned and started walking again.

  “You didn’t used to hold grudges,” he called out, feeling unexpectedly desperate to keep her engaged in conversation. What was that all about? Why did he care?