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  More Than This

  Christmas Key Book Four

  stephanie taylor

  Stephanie Taylor

  Copyright © 2017 by stephanie taylor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For O—

  Red Croc to my blue one.

  One half of the unlikeliest friendship on this pale blue dot.

  It’s an honor and a privilege to know you.

  ~S.

  “Your heart knows the way. Run in that direction.”

  —Rumi

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Also by stephanie taylor

  1

  “We’re fine,” the woman next to Holly chants. “Everything is going to be fine. We’ve got wings and engine power and prayer,” she whispers to herself, rocking forward and back in her small airplane seat.

  “Hey,” Holly says, reaching over and putting a hand on the woman’s forearm. “Nervous flier?”

  The woman breaks her chant long enough to turn her glassy gaze on Holly. “Yeah,” she croaks. “Just a little.”

  “Why are you going to London? Business? Pleasure?”

  “My father lives there—well, not in London, but outside the city—and I need to see him,” the woman says, pieces of her blonde hair falling out of her ponytail. She puts a shaky hand to her forehead and sweeps them back. “He’s turning seventy, and he has Parkinson’s.”

  “So are you British?” Holly probes, watching as the woman clutches the armrests with both hands.

  “No, and neither is my dad. But my stepmom is.” She looks at Holly and smiles.

  “Sounds like a good trip,” Holly says calmly. “What are you guys going to do?” It’s not that she’s overly interested in a stranger’s trip, but the idea of spending the next eight hours sitting beside a basket case who looks like she’s on the verge of hyperventilating is a little daunting.

  The woman takes a deep breath, not letting go of the armrests. “Probably take it easy. I just want to spend time with my dad.” She puts her head back against the seat and closes her eyes briefly before opening them and looking straight at Holly. “Will you tell me about your trip?”

  The seatbelt sign dings and the captain’s voice comes on. Holly points in the general direction of the cockpit to indicate that she wants to listen.

  “Welcome aboard Flight 513 with nonstop service from Miami to London Heathrow,” the female voice says. “I’m Captain Walters, and I’m flying today with Captain Allender and a full flight crew to serve you in all of our cabins. It’s not often that we have a totally female crew on our trans-Atlantic flights, but we’re thrilled to have you on board with us, and we hope you enjoy the eight hour trip. Skies look clear ahead, but just stay buckled up when you’re seated anyway, and let us know what we can do to make your journey more comfortable.”

  “What do you think of that?” the woman asks Holly. “All women. I’m nervous no matter who’s in the cockpit. Sometimes I want to know their names, and sometimes I—”

  “How about if I tell you a story?” Holly offers impulsively, cutting the woman off before she spirals into gibberish and starts to foam at the mouth. “I’m from this beautiful island about fifty miles beyond Key West. It’s called Christmas Key, and it’s decorated all year long with tinsel and lights. We have a bar that looks out onto the beach and live music there on Friday nights, and there are no cars on the entire island—just golf carts.”

  “Oooh,” the lady says. She loosens her grip on the armrests. “I’d drive a pink golf cart.”

  Holly turns to her and smiles. “You know, it’s funny you should say that…”

  2

  “It’s going to be strange around here without her, isn’t it?” Bonnie Lane is standing on Main Street just outside the Christmas Key B&B, making small-talk with Jake Zavaroni as his police cruiser/golf cart hybrid idles at the curb.

  Jake’s jaw clenches almost imperceptibly and he eyes the thick trees at the end of Main Street where it intercepts with Cinnamon Lane. “Yeah, it’ll be strange. But we’ll get used to it. We have to.” Bonnie’s left eyebrow hitches towards her hairline, but she says nothing. “And it’s only for two weeks, right?”

  “She’ll be back on June first, so technically it’s three weeks,” Bonnie says gently. “It’s a long trip for our girl, and a long time for us to get by without her.”

  Jake swats at the key ring that dangles from the ignition of his electric cart. “We’ll survive,” he grumbles, but Bonnie isn’t convinced.

  “How’s Pucci doing?” Bonnie fishes around in her handbag for her sunglasses.

  “He’s fine, but I think he’s still moping around, waiting for Holly to walk through the door. He wouldn’t even eat for the first two days.”

  “Ah,” Bonnie says, sliding her black cat-eye sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “Don’t say ‘ah’ to me, Bonnie Lane,” Jake insists. “I’m not the one dragging around here with my tail between my legs because she’s gone. We needed a break from each other, and if she hadn’t left, then I was going to.”

  “I can’t say I’m glad it was her,” Bonnie says, putting her purse back over her shoulder, “but I sure would’ve missed you if you’d gone, doll.”

  Jake glances to his left and waves as one of the triplets drives by in her own golf cart. “Thanks, Bon,” he says in a low voice. “But we both know that if it came down to a vote over who gets to stay and who has to go, I’d be on the next boat to Key West.” It will never come to that, of course, but Jake isn’t entirely wrong: as the mayor and owner of the majority of the island, Holly Baxter’s popularity with the locals is firmly entrenched. She’d grown up on Christmas Key right under the noses of most of the island’s residents, and is truly the backbone of pretty much everything that happens on the island.

  “Oh, come on now,” Bonnie scoffs. “We love you, too. In a perfect world the two of you would get your heads and your hearts straight and be back together, but…”

  “But it’s not a perfect world,” Jake finishes, putting both hands on the steering wheel like he’s ready to move on. “Listen, I’d better get back to policing these mean streets.”

  “Of course you should,” Bonnie says, taking a step away from the curb. “And if that dog of Holly’s wants to come hang out in the B&B office with me, well, you just run him on over here. He’s used to sitting there while she works, and it might make him feel less lonely for her if he sticks with his usual routine.”

  “Got it,” Jake says. He gives Bonnie a wink and a two-fingered salute as he pulls away from the curb. Main Street is paved, but the sand and shells that cover ninety percent of the island a
lways manage to migrate to the road somehow, and Jake’s tires crunch over the gritty surface as he drives west and hangs a left onto Holly Lane.

  Holly Lane, he thinks, leaning back in his seat and driving with one hand. Of course it’s named after her. Everything on the island reminds Jake of her. He drives by the chapel and slows for a moment, staring at the small, rustic church at the bend in the road. Just a month or so earlier, Jake and Holly had shared a moment behind the chapel that raises goosebumps on his arms now just to think of it. Sure, they’d been back there under weird circumstances, searching for the misplaced cremains of Sadie Pillory that her husband had buried after a storm, but Holly’s gentle, caring nature had touched him then, and he can’t stop himself from picturing her there now, bent over the headstone her grandfather had placed there years before.

  Jake punches the accelerator of his golf cart and moves on. Thinking back on all of Holly’s good qualities isn’t going to help him move on. And imagining her in Europe with a former pro-baseball player holding her hand as they stroll the romantic streets of Paris isn’t helping either. In just a year, Jake’s been through a lot: he’d proposed to Holly, but instead of getting married, they broke up; River O’Leary—the baseball player—showed up on the island for a vacation and swept Holly away almost instantly; and a reality show blew into town over the holidays and turned the island upside down. But the real significance of the reality show had been Bridget, the actress/contestant who had wooed Jake for the cameras, but then burrowed her way into his heart for real. He’d asked her to stay. They’d been living together. They’d almost had a baby…

  Jake steers his cart into the sandy lot of the Jingle Bell Bistro and pushes the image of Bridget and all thoughts of the painful miscarriage and their eventual break-up out of his mind. It was for the best—he knows this now—but being the one who always gets left behind is getting old.

  With a firm jab of his foot, Jake sets the park brake and jumps out, taking the steps up to the beachside bistro two at a time. It’s lunch time and he’s hungry. And when all else fails, he can always count on Iris and Jimmy Cafferkey’s clam chowder to put him in a good mood.

  3

  By the time they land at London’s Heathrow airport, Megan, the woman next to Holly, has long been breathing normally, and she’s completely convinced that Christmas Key should be her new home.

  “It sounds so amazing,” the woman says for the umpteenth time as they make their way towards the baggage claim area. “I can picture everyone: Cap, Bonnie, Pucci, Jake.” She jabs Holly with an elbow. “I can’t wait to see it all.”

  “Well, we’d love to have you,” Holly says. “And you have all of our contact info on that card I gave you, right?”

  “Got it,” the woman says, patting her purse to indicate that she’s got the card with Christmas Key’s social media links and email address tucked safely inside. “Okay, I guess this is good-bye—I need to freshen up and then find my dad and stepmom.”

  “Have a great time!” Holly calls after her, watching Megan as she ducks into the first ladies’ room they see. Megan throws her an excited wave back and disappears into the restroom with a crowd of short women in dark hijabs. The exotic mix of travelers at Heathrow is already dazzling Holly, and as she looks around at the variety of humans surrounding her, she feels a thrill of excitement at being off the island.

  Holly didn’t sleep much on the flight, and the unfamiliar sights and smells around her make her stomach twist and turn with anticipation. She’s somewhere totally new, in a city and a country that are so much more metropolitan than Christmas Key that it’s almost like the two places don’t even share the same planet. Two men speaking French close in on her from behind and Holly pulls her shoulder bag to her body more tightly, remembering the lectures she’d gotten from her neighbors about being aware of her surroundings no matter where she is.

  At the baggage claim she waits patiently for the carousel to start spitting out suitcases and boxes. A woman next to Holly in chic knee-high suede boots takes her in from head-to-toe, no doubt pegging her as a country bumpkin on a backpacking trip through Europe. Holly stares at the laces of her own Converse sneakers and wonders if she should have chosen something more attractive for her travels than her olive green cargo pants, a gray t-shirt, and her blue Yankees baseball hat. But it doesn’t matter now; she’s on her way to the rental apartment that River’s picked out, and she’ll have time to shower and change before he gets there.

  The baggage carousel beeps loudly and grinds into action. Men and women of various sizes, shapes, and colors step forward and pull dinged and well-worn suitcases from the conveyor belt as Holly stares at the mouth of the machine, waiting to spot the hardshell suitcase Bonnie has loaned her. It’s hot pink with white polkadots, and as it makes its slow trek around the belt, Holly flushes at the sight of it. The suitcase is fun and cheerful, but it’s also loud and American. She suddenly wishes she’d borrowed something in black.

  “Darling,” the woman in the suede boots says, touching Holly’s elbow as she heaves the oversized suitcase off the conveyor, “what agency are you with?” The wheels of the pink suitcase land on the floor loudly.

  “Huh?” Holly squints at the woman, whose face is clean and unlined. Her black hair is long and straight, and everything about her smells like money.

  “Agency, love. Which agency are you with?” The woman is watching Holly intently, making mental calculations and tabulations of the width of Holly’s eyes, the length of her nose, the smoothness of her skin, and the broadness of her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry…” The lack of sleep on the flight is catching up to Holly while she stands there, sweating in her gray t-shirt as a multitude of languages flow around her. A voice comes over the loudspeaker and says something unintelligible in a British accent. All Holly wants to do is blink her eyes and magically be in the apartment, ready to take a hot shower.

  “You are a model, yes?” the woman asks, sweeping one manicured hand through the air in front of Holly.

  “A model?” Holly parrots. “Oh, good lord, no!”

  A tiny frown creases the woman’s forehead. “But why not?” she asks, as if this is the most obvious next question in the world.

  “Why not? Because I’m thirty. And I’m the mayor of an island. And, and…I don’t know—I’m just not.”

  “Huh,” the woman says, still appraising Holly. “But your structure is fabulous. I bet you look amazing in a bikini.” She reaches out and touches Holly’s upper arm as she tilts her head back and laughs. “Don’t take that the wrong way—that isn’t a pick-up line!”

  Holly looks around at the people still waiting for baggage; none of them are listening to this odd exchange.

  “I basically live in a bikini at home,” Holly says, relaxing a little when she realizes that this woman isn’t joking.

  “That sounds like paradise. I should visit in August.”

  “August is pretty humid. Lots of bugs,” Holly adds.

  “Well, August is our slow month in Europe. Most places close down almost entirely, and we all vacation.”

  “That sounds like paradise.” Holly folds her arms over her chest and bumps the pink and white suitcase with one knee. “Listen, I need to get to the Heathrow Express and then to Paddington Station. Any idea where I catch the train?”

  “I’m headed that way, darling. Let’s walk and talk.” The woman pulls up the handle of a clean, unmarked suitcase and drags it behind her like it weighs five pounds. Holly grabs the handle of her own case and it nearly knocks her over as she buckles under seventy pounds of shoes, summer dresses, jeans, t-shirts, and bathing suits. She has no choice but to follow the woman through a tangle of people all fighting to squeeze onto one escalator.

  “Follow, please,” the woman says crisply over her shoulder.

  Holly falls into a single-file line as the crowd merges and people step onto the escalator with their baggage. She panics as she sees the narrow space and the small step that she’ll
have to fit her suitcase onto.

  “I don’t think I’ll—” She’s about to step out of line and find an elevator when the man behind her touches her lower back, shoving her forward.

  “Coming?” the woman asks casually, not glancing back at Holly. The people who’ve wedged her in place on the escalator spread out at the bottom as they go in different directions, and Holly trips over the grate, dragging the suitcase with her as she’s freed from the tightly packed group of travelers.

  “Coming,” Holly says breathlessly. The woman’s flat heels click on the hard floor as she leads the way, shoulders back, head straight. Holly double-steps to keep up.

  “We can catch the express train here,” the woman says, wheeling her suitcase through an archway and onto a platform, “and I can have a better look at your bone structure while we wait.” She comes to a stop and turns to Holly.

  “Oh.” Holly takes an involuntary step back as the woman leans in and puts one hand on Holly’s chin, turning her face from side to side.

  “Thirty is definitely at the upper end of the range I’d be looking for,” she says. “But I do think there’s an earthy, natural quality to you that could really translate in photos. How long are you in London?”

  It takes everything in Holly not to pull her head away and out of the woman’s hand. Being assessed this way is a totally foreign feeling to her. Even in college she’d never been one to feel comfortable under the scrutiny of others, and her life on Christmas Key has never been about glamour and beauty. Being described as “earthy and natural” by this woman who sees extreme beauty on a daily basis doesn’t bother her at all, whereas some women might prefer to be considered chic and polished.