Mistletoe Cinderella

Chapter Thirteen

“It was such a nice surprise that you called last night and were able to join us for Sunday brunch,” Rose Malcolm said, smiling at Chloe from the sink. “We haven’t seen much of you in the past couple of weeks.”

Chloe carried the last of the plates to the counter and reached for a sponge so that she could help her mother wash the dishes while her father read the Sunday paper in the next room. The Malcolms’ new place included a dishwasher, but Rose never used it since it didn’t get rid of every spot on the glasses and silverware, failing to meet her exacting standards.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around, Mama. I’ve been busy with work, but also some other things.” She cleared her throat. “In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask you…is it all right if I make some changes to the house? Nothing big! I’m not planning to knock down any walls or anything. I just thought maybe I could do some redecorating.” Ferreting out information and studying color groups for Dylan had inspired her.

Rose tilted her head, looking confused. “Your father and I gave you that house permanently, dear. You may do with it as you please. Fix it up, sell it, anything you deem acceptable.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“If you want to pick out some new colors and textures, I’m sure you’ll do a lovely job. June Albright had me over for tea yesterday and showed me that Web site you did for her grandson. I don’t understand any of what you actually do, but you have a good eye.”

Gratitude swelled within her, not just for her mother’s words of praise but for having two loving, healthy parents. In all those moments when she’d longed to be someone other than she was, she’d lost sight of just how many blessings Chloe Ann Malcolm actually had.

“You know,” Rose added with a sidelong glance, “June has another grandson who’s in his early thirties and is still single. Beau, I believe his name is. She said she’d be happy to introduce you sometime.”

Chloe had discovered that this was the biggest drawback to her parents moving into the community at the seniors’ complex-lots of retired people with time on their hands who all wanted grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a matchmaker’s colony. “I know who Beau is. Our paths haven’t crossed directly, but he seems like a nice man.”

He just wasn’t Dylan Echols.

Rose beamed. “Does this mean I should tell June to set something up?”

“Oh, no. I’m flattered she thought of me, but…”

“Is this because you’re too ‘busy’? Or is it just because you’re shy? I know meeting people hasn’t always been easy for you.”

“Actually, Mama, I have met someone. Just recently. We’re not dating, but I care about him.”

Her mother’s expression lit up. “Well, don’t stop there! Tell me more about him, dear.”

“He’s my age, successful, takes good care of his mother. We may never be more than friends,” Chloe warned, “but it probably isn’t fair to go out with Beau until I know more.”

“I see.” Rose dipped a plate in the soapy water. “And if a relationship does develop, you will bring him over so that we can meet this young man, won’t you?”

“Absolutely.” Not that she could ever bring Dylan to meet her parents if she were operating under an assumed name.

She thought of yesterday, how much fun they’d had shopping and pointing out why they liked or disliked certain items, how he’d taken her breath away with his candor over dinner.

With their relationship progressing, what choice did she have other than to tell him the truth? They could never go any further if she didn’t. Three weeks ago, she never would have believed she could have a relationship with Dylan Echols. But now she knew they were far more compatible than she had ever imagined, knew how special he was. She might even be falling in love with the proud, imperfect man he’d become, not the boy she’d hardly known.

She began drying the plates and bowls that were already clean. “Mama? When you married Daddy, how did you know for certain that you loved him?”

“Love?” Rose stopped what she was doing, glancing covertly at the doorway into the den before looking back at Chloe. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, dear, because I definitely love your father and vice versa, but we cultivated those feelings over decades together. It was never in my personality to get married on an impetuous romantic whim. That was Jane’s style, God rest her soul.”

Not wanting to be argumentative, Chloe refrained from pointing out that she didn’t think her aunt had ever regretted her impulsive elopement. Chloe understood that her mother had always been slightly alarmed by the reckless way her younger sister had lived her life. Rose was speaking more out of that habitual fear than criticism.

“Your father and I met through our families. We were both living in Mistletoe with no plans to go anywhere else, eventually joined the same church. He had a steady job at the carpet plant and was on track to go into management there. I married him because he was a decent man and showed every sign of being a stable provider.

“Romantic love can be fleeting, deceptive. People shouldn’t act on that alone as motivation,” Rose cautioned. “It was always a great comfort to me, when you were in high school and other teenage girls were spending their Friday nights doing who-knows-what out at Mistletoe Cove, that you were too practical to get carried away.”

The fact that so few boys had been interested in dating her also had something to do with it. “That’s me, practical Chloe.” Yes, she’d been the smart girl with straight A’s, but on rare occasions, late at night, she’d wondered what it would be like to be the exciting girl with the illicit hickey.

Rose patted her cheek. “Don’t worry about falling in love, dear. Just do what you’ve always done and follow your brain. I rest easier knowing you’re too sensible to make the kind of spur-of-the-moment mistake other people spend so much time regretting.”

Chloe managed a feeble smile but kept her mouth shut. Practical Chloe she may well be, but her mom had evidently never met C.J.

CHLOE’S PARENTS had raised her to fear consequences. As a girl, she’d believed that in life, as in fairy tales, wicked deeds were punished and the true-hearted heroine would always get her happy ending. It was one of the many reasons she had never liked Candy Beemis, who proved a glaring exception to the rule. But now Chloe’s universe had gone topsy-turvy. She’d performed the single most duplicitous act of her life and was being rewarded at every turn.

Monday morning, she woke up to a brief but entertaining e-mail from Dylan. He recounted an anecdote about a run-in with Grady, exaggerated for comedic effect, and how much he was dreading a PR event with the man later in the week. He also mentioned that he would be having lunch in Atlanta with Coach Todd Burton and that he’d been thinking about her. Then he left a message on her answering machine Tuesday to say that he’d scheduled a pickup for some of the furniture they’d decided he should replace, that he was looking forward to seeing the “new and improved” apartment when the pieces they’d ordered started to arrive later in the week, that he’d had a really inspiring lunch with Coach B…and he was still thinking about her. A lot.

On Wednesday evening, she hit the treadmill, showered and put on her pajamas early. She grabbed her laptop and decided to spend the rest of the night working from the comfort of her bed-one of the major perks of her job. First she checked her e-mail, experiencing an irrational twinge of disappointment when there was no further correspondence from Dylan. Get a grip. Was she so needy that she had to hear from him every day? Of course not! She was a modern independent woman.

She was working on a dummy sample home page for Rachel Waide’s photography business when the phone rang. Tearing her attention away from an annoying spacing error, she reached for the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey.” His voice came through the line, putting him right there in the room with her. “It’s Dylan.”

A wide smile had spread across her face as soon as he’d said the first word, the kind of grin that was so big it threatened to make her face hurt. “This is a nice surprise.”

He laughed, a touch self-consciously. “Is it? I don’t see how it could be all that surprising since I feel like I’ve been stalking you.”

“It’s not officially stalking until you’ve started keeping a journal of details about the other person. And, of course, the all-important collection of candid photos and/or news clippings,” she teased.

“Ah, good to know.” He paused, his tone less flippant when he spoke again. “I have to go to work soon, but I wondered if you had a few minutes to talk?”

“Absolutely.” She set the laptop to hibernate and put it aside, wiggling around until she was more comfortable against the pillows.

“Great. Because I’d value your opinion on something.”

“Decorating issue?” She eyed the stack of feng shui books on her nightstand.

“Career advice,” he corrected. “I told you that I had a very informative lunch with the coach yesterday. I keep tossing it over in my mind. He wants me to interview for the coaching position at the high school. I have my bachelor’s degree, but to work at a public school, there are some extra courses I’d need to take. If they were interested in hiring me, I’d probably start as an assistant to Asbury while I worked on rounding out my teaching qualifications, then I’d take over when he retires.”

“Sounds like you and Coach B. have given this substantial thought,” she said.

“That’s a nice way to describe my obsessing over it. I have to tell you, going back to school in any way, shape or form does not fill me with joy.”

“I can see where that would be one of the cons for you,” she empathized. “On the pro side, you should see yourself when you talk about what baseball meant to you as a teen. I know most of the kids who play ball here in Mistletoe are never going to get a shot at it professionally, but it can still make a major difference in their lives while they’re part of the program. You could make a major difference.”

“You sound so sure of that.” He, on the other hand, did not. “I worry about my father’s legacy. I still hear his voice in my head. I don’t want to pass that on to some other poor kid, lashing out at him because he can’t even hit a meatball pitch or because he went for the glory of tagging out a runner instead of tossing it to a closer teammate. Everyone makes mistakes, and I’m not sure I have Coach Burton’s tolerance and patience. He always made you want to try again and do better, to prove he was right to believe in you, but there are bad coaches out there, too, who can really sap your will to play.”

She hesitated. Giving the pat assurance that he’d do a great job would be easy for her to say, but it wouldn’t really address his fears. “I understand why you’re worried, but I think you’re overlooking an important factor. You’re not fully taking into account Coach B.’s legacy. You have so much respect and affection for him that you’re far more likely to follow in his footsteps than your father’s. And because you’re already hyperaware of the importance of being firm without being cruel, I suspect you’ll be extra vigilant, weighing all your words and actions more than most do.”

“Thank you.” He exhaled, relief clear in his voice. “That was exactly what I needed to hear.”

Her heart thumped with excitement. “So you think there’s a chance you might really do it?”

“I’m going to set up an interview with the school board,” he decided. “What happens after that, we’ll just have to see.”

Dylan might be moving back to Mistletoe! She could conceivably see him every day. Chloe hung up the phone and tucked her knees to her chest, grinning in the lamplight as she hugged herself. She was euphoric.

For all of two seconds.

If he lived here, he’d know who she was. The only reason she’d been able to keep her secret was because it had been a long-distance fib. She’d worried about hurting him, but at this point, it was inescapable. All that she could control was whether he found out because she herself took deliberate action, rather than his finding out from someone else. She had to tell him. The sooner, the better.

So how was she going to do it?

She’d been aware for years that she was a nervous babbler around people she didn’t know well-it was one of the reasons she tried to keep her mouth shut whenever possible. Better a stranger judge her aloof than think of her as the Crazy Woman Who Can’t Shut Up. Could she make Dylan understand that, when she’d seen him that first night, her mouth and brain had disconnected from each other and stuff had just started spilling out?

Yeah, that was going to make up for lying to the man for weeks on end. She’d just tell him her mouth had gone on autopilot, and he’d tell her he understood completely. People invented new identities all the time. In the witness protection program!

Disgusted with herself, she whipped back the covers, unbuttoning her pajama top as she crossed the room. Whatever she told him, he deserved to hear it face-to-face. And the drive to Atlanta would give her time to figure out what to say.