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I laughed. "I just got here myself. I'm not exactly your best bet for finding your way through these circles of death." We turned slowly through yet another traffic circle, Callan turning the car out of one of the exits, seemingly at random, and the main square of town came into view.
"Circle of death?" Callan asked, his mouth turned up in a smile as he glanced at me. This smile was the closest I’d seen yet to those full-blown grins he’d worn in the pictures I’d seen of him playing soccer.
"We don't have these in Los Angeles," I said.
"San Diego either," he said.
We drove slowly down the narrow streets leading into the center of town, where the sidewalks were busy with shoppers and strollers, and the parking around the square was stuffed to the gills. I avoided looking at the enormous tree in the center of the square now that it was decorated, but the girls had no such aversion.
"It's enormous," Taylor said, her vocabulary on full display again.
"Norm-usss," Maddie echoed.
"Uncle Callan," Taylor said, her voice shifting into a pleading tone even before she'd told him what she was hoping for. "Could we stop here a minute? Look at the tree?"
Callan's head turned, first to look at his niece, and then to scan for parking. "Not for long," he said. "That okay, April?"
"Yeah," I said, equal parts eager to get out from under the snowman and dreading the idea of being forced to stand beneath the humongous tree as the girls oohed and aaahed up at it.
Callan pulled into a spot, his brow wrinkling as he looked at me before turning off the engine. "It's just a tree," he said, too quietly for the girls to hear.
I smiled, relaxing a little bit when it appeared he wasn't going to push me for an explanation. "Okay. Yeah."
We stepped out of the car, and I shoved Frosty back into the passenger side. I unbuckled Maddie from the back and helped the little girl up onto the sidewalk. I was sliding my bag securely onto my shoulder when a warm little hand slipped into mine, surprising me. I gripped Maddie's small hand with my own, something in my chest tightening at the gesture.
"We'll do one lap of the tree," Callan said, walking ahead of us, holding Taylor's hand. "But then …" Callan trailed off, and his limping gait slowed.
I let my eyes drift toward the monstrosity, but before we could get there, they landed on something else. Two vans, parked at the edge of the square near my hotel, and a camera crew pulling gear from the back of one to set up on the sidewalk. The side of the van had the logo of my network emblazoned across the side.
Crap. The crew was here. And I still had to get Callan's house locked up plus two more. And here I was, acting like a tourist, chaperoning snowmen and small children around to look at Christmas décor. How had they managed to fly across the country and still get vans that screamed the network name? Uncle Rob was good.
"What the hell?" Callan breathed, his eyes fixed on the cameras as we moved slowly forward again, toward the tree and the crew.
"Oh, them? It's just—"
"Hey!" One of the cameramen had caught sight of us, and I was sure he was going to call me out, ask why I was wandering around and Christmas shopping when I was supposed to be working.
"Oh, hi—" I started.
"Aren't you Callan Whitewood?" The guy went on, ignoring me altogether. "The Sharks, right? Retired?"
Callan was rigid, standing on the sidewalk gripping his niece's hand like he was made from stone. I couldn't see his face, but his shoulders were high and tense. "Yeah," he said.
"Man," the cameraman went on, shaking his head. "That injury, man. Wow. When I saw it happen, I was like, there's no way he's coming back from that. I was like—"
"Yeah," Callan said again, terse and loud, cutting the guy off and practically dragging Taylor around the man.
"Okay, well. Good to meet you, man," the guy called to Callan's back as Maddie and I followed him.
On the other side of the tree, out of view of the crew, Taylor looked up at her uncle. "You're hurting my hand."
I stepped up next to him, and Callan's face, which had reddened and gone expressionless, came back to life as he snapped his gaze to his niece. "Sorry." He let go of her hand, and mopped his face with that same hand.
"You okay?" I asked him, as his bottomless eyes slid up to study my face.
"They with you? Those cameras? Your show?" His words began flat, but by the third question, he was practically spitting them out.
I nodded. "Yeah." Why did he look so angry? Was it that horrible to be recognized? "I guess the cameraman is a fan, huh?"
