Page 91 of Deck the Hauls

Emily lowered her voice. “But in order for him to be held accountable people need to speak up and go on the record. And, except for Cat, we’re all too terrified to do that.”

I paused until a woman videoing the light displays on her phone had moved on. I didn’t want any of this conversation recorded. “There is no ‘right’ choice here, but I think you should prioritize what’s best for you. If speaking out would help you, by giving you closure or holding him accountable, then that’s completely understandable, but you don’t owe anyone your story and you shouldn’t feel pressured to speak out just because it might stop Phillip from doing this to other women.” I’d done some research into the best way to support Emily in her decision, and the overwhelming consensus had been that Emily shouldn’t feel obligated to speak out to prevent future harm to others.

Emily bit her lip. “I definitely like the idea of Phillip being punished for his actions and it probably would help me move on. But what if I speak out, further damage my career and weather all the unpleasant media attention, only for nothing to happen to him? He might be able to use his influence to quash the article, defend the allegations on the basis there’s not enough evidence and it was too long ago. And then, he’ll continue to prey on women while Cat and I have ruined our careers for nothing.”

“That’s a legitimate concern. It’s always so hard making a decision where there are so many unknowns.” I stopped to admire a magnolia tree, before continuing to stroll. “It happens all the time in farming. You can’t accurately predict the weather, pests or supply and demand. Sometimes I ask myself...if I turned out to be wrong, which option would I regret the least? It could be a helpful way to frame it, if you haven’t already tried it?”

“Yeah… That’s a good idea. Thank you.”

Emily looked so vulnerable, her brow still slightly furrowed.

How could I cheer her up? My eyes fell on a life-size Santa with a cheeky grin standing at the front of the lawn we were passing. “Hang on a second, I think he wants to tell me something.”

I ran over, tilting my head up so my ear was next to his lips. I raised my eyebrows, opened my mouth and brought my hand up to cover it.

From the sidewalk, Emily giggled.

“I’ve got to take a photo of this, and then you need to tell me what he said.”

After Emily had captured the moment, I rejoined her.

“He said I wasn’t getting any Christmas presents this year, because he couldn’t give me anything that could come close to you.”

My face heated. Had I just come on too strong?

Emily laughed. “Aw, how sweet.”

A couple speaking Spanish walked past. An arm hung out of the window of a large black car crawling past, holding out a phone to capture the scene. Then two women strolled by hand in hand. My eyes locked on them. A small child sat on one of the women’s shoulders, pointing at the lights, their eyes wide with excitement. The other woman had a sleeping baby in a carrier strapped to her front. An ache bloomed in my chest. Would I ever have that?

We kept walking. At the next house, visitors posed for photos next to a huge animatronic Santa. Behind him a merry‑go‑round with horses moved up and down, holding Christmas elves with Santa hats perched on top.

“Oh my god, look at the eyes on that Santa.” Emily pointed at the red glowing eyes. “That’s new this year.”

I shuddered. “That is the stuff of nightmares. I’m definitely not taking any messages from that one. I feel like he’d say something deeply disturbing.”

Emily laughed.

“You can tell the professionally decorated ones,” she said as we stopped in front of a house with nutcrackers lined up on each side, a wooden Nativity scene taking the place of honor in the middle of the lawn. Angels blowing trumpets surrounded it in a semi-circle. Mechanical carolers singing “O Come All Ye Faithful” lined the path. To my surprise, I wasn’t finding the Christmas music as painful as usual, even as it clashed with “Deck the Halls” being blasted over the neighboring house’s speakers. “They’re always a lot more orderly, usually symmetrical and stick to a few themed colors. I may be biased since we don’t use professional decorators, but I like the more chaotic, more‑is‑more style of the DIYers.”

She beamed as we stopped in front of the next house. Every inch of the lawn was covered by inflatable cartoon and superhero figures, most of them seven feet tall.

“See, like this one. It’s ridiculous. It’s not even particularly Christmassy, but it has a certain charm, don’t you think?”

I chuckled. “I think it may be my favorite, in fact—apart from yours, of course.”

We reached the next house, where a Santa clung from the roof with one hand.

I gazed at Emily. “You know what? They should do a sequel: Return to the Christmas Tree Farm. Have Austin’s character die—maybe he could be crushed by a falling tree or a tractor—and your character could find love again.” Ideally with an actor or actress who wasn’t a creep.

Emily laughed. “They don’t usually kill off the love interest in romance movies. Unfortunately, I don’t think that idea has legs.”

“Good point.” I brought my hand to my chin in an exaggerated thinking pose. “Do they do cozy mysteries too? They could have your character turn into an amateur detective, and Austin could be dropped from the movie altogether—just mentioned in passing. That would be even better.”

Emily grinned. “As you may be able to guess from their name, HolLove specializes in romance. I don’t think they’ll jump at cozy mystery series.”

I laughed. “Well, I might pitch it to Charles tomorrow anyway, see what he says.”

Emily turned to me, her face glowing with her gorgeous smile, and the urge to lean over and kiss her almost overwhelmed me. Was she leaning in slightly? Perhaps she felt the same way. My chest squeezed tight as I held strong, letting my hand briefly graze hers as an unsatisfying substitute.