Previously…
– Natalie was there for Spencer during a low moment, and her comfort turned physical. The pair slept together for the first time in several years.
– Travis awaited trial for Loretta’s murder. He insisted upon his innocence, despite having been present at the crime scene and having had the poisonous compound that killed her found in his gym bag.
– Rosie discovered that she was pregnant but was unsure how to proceed, given her estrangement from Travis.

Rain drizzles over the pier, creating a soft gray wash over King’s Bay. Puddles form in the crevices of the wooden slats, reflecting the strings of Christmas lights that glow even at this early hour. Steam rises from a coffee cart and mingles with the mist.

Travis Fisher walks down the pier, his coat pulled tight and his baseball cap low over his eyes. His sandy blond hair sticks out from beneath it, as yet untamed from a restless night of sleep. He moves toward Bill’s on the Pier to retrieve a few trays of prepped food from the quiet restaurant’s industrial refrigerator. Looking out toward the water, a haze of fog and light rain obscuring its surface, he pauses.

A mournful voice emerges from the radio on the coffee cart: Through the years, we all will be together… if the fates allow…

Then Travis continues, his boots splashing lightly in the shallow puddles, and each step leaves a single set of wet footprints that glint in the dim light.

—–

The Jimenez kitchen is already warm. Steam curls up from a stockpot on the stove, and corn husks soak in the sink, pale and pliant. A small Bluetooth speaker sits on the counter, Tracey Thorn’s voice low and aching as she sings “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Juanita Jimenez ties tamales with quick, efficient fingers, trained through years of tradition. Sebastian stands at the table, his sleeves rolled to mid-forearm as he attempts to keep up. Juanita offers a correction without even looking:

“Not so tight. They have to breathe.”

Rosie sits on the other side of the round table, folding husks more slowly than usual. She is highly focused, though it seems she is concentrating most on fading into the background.

Sebastian glances at her and frowns. “You okay?”

She nods too quickly. “Fine. Yeah.”

The song continues playing on the radio. In the midst of folding another husk, Rosie pauses. Her jaw tightens. Abruptly, she pushes her chair back from the table.

“I–” That’s all she gets out before she is on her feet, one hand already over her mouth as she rushes out of the kitchen. Moments later, the bathroom door slams closed down the hall.

Sebastian freezes, a half-tied tamale in his hands. He throws his mother a puzzled look, but she simply wipes her hands on a nearby towel and then starts down the hallway. Sebastian remains in the kitchen, listening. The retching sounds from the bathroom strike him a few seconds later.

Juanita waits outside the bathroom door for another beat. When the most violent of the noises has ceased, she knocks gently.

“Rocio,” she says through the door. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Rosie replies, the agony in her voice clear even though it is muffled.

“Mija. Open the door.”

When Rosie finally does, her eyes are bloodshot. “I must’ve had some bad…” But she trails off, exhausted.

“How far along?” Juanita asks gently. “Do you know?”

The fight goes out of Rosie’s shoulders. “Eleven weeks.”

Juanita sighs. The diminutive woman reaches out and cups her daughter’s cheek. “Then you sit. Relax. Sebastian, bring your sister some water.”

In the kitchen, Sebastian springs to his feet. Juanita opens her arms wide, and Rosie falls into her embrace.

—–

Christmas tree lights shine through the front window of the Taylor home as Elly Vanderbilt approaches the house with a shopping bag full of presents in each hand, doing her best to shield herself from the light rain. Before she even reaches the door, it flies open, revealing Molly Taylor in a cranberry-colored sweatshirt and black yoga pants.

“You’re just in time for some breakfast,” Molly tells her. “Christian is making French toast. Gabrielle is trying to help.”

Elly laughs. “I guess I have excellent timing. Merry Christmas, Aunt Molly.”

“Merry Christmas, honey.” Molly greets the redhead with a hug and ushers her inside the house. The wreckage of Christmas morning — bags full of crumpled wrapping paper, boxes opened but not yet broken down — fills the living room. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to give you, Uncle Brent, and the kids your presents in person. Although I guess the twins aren’t such ‘kids’ anymore…”

Molly responds with a half-joking groan. “Don’t remind me.” Then she turns toward Elly and asks, in a more serious tone, “How are you? Your uncle’s been worried ever since–“

“Since I got hauled in on suspicion of being involved in a murder? Yeah, I don’t blame him.” Elly sets down the pair of bags and sighs before brushing a few raindrops off her sleeves. “I’m okay. I just hope everyone understands that I was doing my best. On one hand, I didn’t want to point any fingers at Travis — on the other, I had to tell the truth once that driver ID’d me…”

“I understand,” Molly says. “I’m sure Travis will, eventually, too.”

Elly brushes a strand of her straight, red hair back behind one ear. “I don’t know about that. And Spencer is acting like I’m the devil incarnate.”

Molly bites her lower lip as she chooses her words. “Spencer can… let his emotions get the best of him from time to time.”

“That’s an understatement. I don’t even know why I–” She cuts herself off with a shake of the head. “Never mind.”

Something about the way that Elly interrupts herself gives Molly pause, and she regards the younger woman with a sideways glance but decides not to press.

“How about we go see how those pancakes are coming?” she suggests instead. “Here, let me help you with those gifts.”

She picks up one of the bags, and Elly carries the other into the kitchen. Molly trails a few steps behind her, wondering just how hurt Elly is by Spencer’s rejection — and why.

—–

From now on, all troubles will be out of sight…

Christmas music plays softly through the Sonos speaker system inside Spencer Ragan and Natalie Bishop‘s home. The house is alive with holiday cheer: damp coats draped over chairs, mimosas being consumed, and the enticing scents of bacon, eggs, and more wafting out of the kitchen.

Samantha Fisher and Tempest Banks stand near the lit-up tree with Bree Halston, who is perched on the arm of the couch, animated as she recounts a story.

“So this professor full-on accuses 75% of the class of using A.I. on our essays,” she says, “and when we go to meet with the dean, guess what her proof was?”

Tempest cocks her head to one side. “Did she use one of those A.I. detector things?”

“No!” Bree exclaims. “She said we had all used those long dashes. You know–“

“Em-dashes,” Samantha fills in.

“Right. She said our essays all had at least one of those in them, so it had to be A.I.”

“The em-dash is a completely legitimate form of punctuation,” Samantha says. “It wasn’t invented by A.I. generators.”

Bree exhales loudly. “Right!”

Tempest grins as she glances over at her fiancée. “That is the most Samantha Fisher thing you’ve ever said.”

The three women laugh. Across the room, Natalie watches the three of them with interest as Spencer sidles up next to her.

“Fresh mimosa?” he offers, handing her a full champagne flute.

“You know me so well. I need that.”

“At least it’s a brunch. By mid-afternoon, we’ll have our house to ourselves again. Mostly.”

“Yeah. Thank you for hosting my mom while she’s in town.”

He shrugs. “I mean, you handled Loretta living with us for years, so…”

“Are you missing her?” Natalie asks.

“I don’t know about missing, exactly. It’s just weird. Different.”

Natalie nods, doing her best to understand. She shifts just slightly closer to him, in hopes that the gesture will provide the reassurance for which she cannot find the proper words.

From inside the kitchen, Diane notices the moment between her sister and brother-in-law with curiosity. A minute later, when Spencer moves off, Diane goes to Natalie’s side.

“So… you and Spencer seem… cozier than normal.”

Natalie turns toward her with a start. “What are you talking about?”

“Jeez.” Diane holds up a palm. “Don’t bite my head off. It’s just hard not to notice that your not-exactly-real marriage is seeming a little more… real this Christmas.”

“Spencer and I get each other,” Natalie says, though her cheeks flush with crimson. “Sometimes.”

“I suppose that’s better than actively trying to kill one another.” Then Diane gasps and clasps a hand to her mouth. “Are you two…?”

“What? No, that’s crazy!” But Natalie’s denial is a little too weak, a little too thin.

“You are.” Diane points a finger at her sister. “Is this some secret?”

Natalie sighs and then responds, in a more conspiratorial tone, “It’s not something we need to broadcast. We’re not suddenly, like, all in love. But life gets lonely. I’m sure you know how that can be.”

“Excuse me. I have a very attractive, very successful doctor here as my companion.”

“Where is Isaac?” Natalie asks, glancing around.

“I think your mother has him cornered in the family room. I should go rescue him. But I’d prefer to limit my interactions with her if possible.”

Natalie rolls her eyes. “She’s your mother, too.”

“She certainly never acted like it. I didn’t need a DNA test to tell me something was off there.”

“Well, I appreciate you being cordial with her, for my sake.”

“I’m doing it for the kids. Samantha, Bree, and Peter don’t need to be subjected to the same toxic bullshit that woman put me through.”

“You know what? I can at least cheers to that.”

Natalie raises her mimosa, and Diane clinks her glass against it.

“Look at us, getting along,” Diane comments as she finishes a sip of her drink. “Talk about a Christmas miracle.”

—–

The Fisher family kitchen is loud in a comfortable way: pots clanging, boiling water hissing, timers beeping. Paula Fisher stands at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, as Travis works beside her, effortlessly chopping, seasoning, and tasting. Paula glances over to watch him work, smiling at the normalcy of it all.

“What?” he asks when he catches her observing him.

“Nothing. It’s just so nice to be in here with you, preparing dinner for the family. It feels like Christmas.”

“Yeah. It does.” He resumes chopping, an unspoken “Even if…” dangling in the air.

She reaches over and straightens the neck of his apron. “I know you’re feeling a lot of stress and uncertainty right now. That won’t last forever.”

“No,” he says glumly. “Next Christmas I could be doing 25 to life.”

“We are not going to let that happen.”

Travis shrugs. “I appreciate that, Grandma, but I’m not sure any of us have that much control over the criminal justice system.”

“No, but we do have faith. And that counts for a lot.”

“Everything is such a mess,” Travis says. “The trial coming up, Rosie not wanting to be around me…”

“Faith,” she reminds him. “You can’t lose sight of it.”

He goes quiet, then looks to the stove. “How are the potatoes coming?”

“Do you want to taste?”

Travis nods, and Paula lifts a spoon to his mouth. He tastes the potatoes and murmurs his approval as the nodding intensifies.

“Oh, that’s good. Really good,” he says. “Grandpa would be proud.”

“Yes,” Paula replies with an encouraging smile. “He really would.”

—–

Lids rattle softly on the pots as the tamales steam. Juanita hums along with the Christmas music as she works, deliberately giving her children some space — a rare occurrence that tells Rosie her mother knows how serious this situation is.

Rosie and Sebastian sit on the back steps that lead down to the modest yard, wrapped in coats against the cold. They both have their hoods pulled up, but the rain has relented, leaving a wet Christmas in its wake. Their breath fogs slightly in the air as they speak.

“You don’t have to tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, “but you do have to stop pretending you’re fine.”

She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t even know what ‘fine’ would look like right now.”

“Fair.”

“I dreamed about this,” she finally says. “After we had to give up Gabrielle, I would think: what if we had one ourselves? And then I’d feel guilty for wanting to, I don’t know, replace her.”

“You’re a good mom. You want to be a mom. That’s not, like, a betrayal.”

“It feels like one.”

Sebastian pats her knee. “It’s not. And this current… thing, that won’t last forever.”

“What if Travis goes to prison?” she asks, a sharp edge to her voice that challenges him to figure out a way to untangle this impossible knot.

“Do you want that to happen?”

“No!”

“Aren’t you some amazing cop?”

She stares at the damp ground gloomily. “Was. Now I’m a… what? Private security guard?”

“No shame in that game, either,” he says. “My point is, you know how to investigate. How to hone in on the important facts. You could help clear Travis’s name.” The rest lingers unsaid for several seconds before he adds: “If you think it can be cleared.”

Rosie picks up a thin twig and snaps it in half.

“Do you really think Travis killed that woman?” Sebastian asks.

“Normally I’d say no way,” Rosie says. “It’s Travis. He has a good soul. But the things Loretta did to us — she pushed us to act like people we weren’t. I tried to flee the country with Gabrielle, for god’s sake!”

He sucks in his lips, thinking.

“And you don’t want Travis to know about the baby because he could’ve actually poisoned Loretta?”

“No, I don’t want the father of my child to be a murderer,” Rosie retorts. “But it almost hurts more that he didn’t tell me he went to her house that night. Is that crazy?”

Sebastian lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “The entire situation is crazy.”

“You can say that again.” She cuts a warning, half-joking look at him. “But don’t.”

He smirks, then lets it settle before continuing: “You said losing Gabrielle pushed you both to do stuff you normally wouldn’t. You almost jumped the border to keep Gabrielle. Travis forgave you for that. Then he kept quiet about going to, uh, confront Loretta. Can’t you see it as kind of the same thing? Him doing something out-of-character because he was desperate?”

Rosie blinks a few times. “I hate you for this.”

“What?”

“Having a point.”

They share an uneasy laugh, the much-needed levity drifting off into the air in plumes of white.

—–

As Elly steers her Kia Niro through the gray landscapes, her Spotify playlist switches from Dean Martin’s “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” to a somber rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” She thinks about skipping the song, but something compels her to let it play, despite her already-solemn mood. Soon enough, she is passing a familiar intersection; although she does not need to, she swings a right.

Within a block, she is passing by a cul-de-sac she knows well, one that has — for better or worse — had a major impact upon the last several months of her life. She eases her foot off the accelerator and peers up the street, noticing a number of cars parked outside Spencer and Natalie’s home.

“Hang a shining star upon the highest bough…”

She knows that she shouldn’t have even made that turn. It’s stupid. But she cannot help but give the house a closer glance, noticing the lights flickering warmly in the large, black-framed window and the silhouettes moving behind the curtains.

As she watches, the front door opens, and Samantha and Tempest step out, bundled in coats. They hurry to Samantha’s car.

Elly exhales, long and slow, and then casts one final glance at the house. She cannot even discern which, if any, of the figures might be Spencer, but the urge to ring the doorbell and wish him a merry Christmas is almost overwhelming.

Instead, she drives on, not wanting Samantha and Tempest to spot her.

“And have yourself… a merry little Christmas now…”

—–

The Fishers’ holiday gathering is now underway. Delectable scents waft out of the kitchen to fill the dining and living rooms, where family members and friends share conversation and laughter over snacks and drinks. Claire Fisher finds her son in the small entry room, peeking out the blinds at the front of the house.

“Everything okay?” she asks softly.

Travis turns, a little surprised at the intrusion. “Oh. Um. Yeah. Just checking…”

Claire waits, clutching a glass of red wine in one hand.

“I want to see Gabrielle when she gets here,” he admits, a little sheepishly.

Claire offers a warm smile. “That will be nice. I’m sure she’ll be excited to see you, too.” She takes a sip of her wine and glances back toward the living room, where Paula is laughing with Molly and passing appetizers on one of Bill’s old Christmas platters.

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” she reassures Travis.

Just then, the doorbell rings, cutting cleanly through the hum of conversation. Being nearest to the door, Claire sets down her glass on the narrow table and reaches for the handle. As she eases the door open, a cool breath of damp air slips into the house.

Rosie stands on the front porch, her tan coat darkened slightly by the on-and-off drizzle. For a moment, she and Claire simply stare at one another.

“Merry Christmas, Rosie,” Claire says, a little stiffly.

Rosie’s voice is steady, but only barely: “Merry Christmas.”

“Come in. It’s cold out.”

“Actually… is Travis here? I was hoping to talk to him. Outside.”

Claire follows Rosie’s gaze into the house, where Travis is frozen at the threshold to the living room.

“I’ll leave that up to him,” Claire says, and she deftly steps way to retreat into the party. Rather than answer verbally, Travis simply moves to the doorway where his wife is standing.

“I don’t want to argue today,” he says wearily.

“Neither do I.” She motions for him to join her on the front porch. Somewhat hesitantly, he does so; the closing door seals the warmth and noise of the gathering inside. Christmas lights, some white, some colorful, some dangling, some fixed in straight lines, glow along the eaves of many houses on the street, and their reflections shimmer faintly on the wet pavement.

“You could’ve come in,” he says, his heart racing already.

“I didn’t want to make a scene or whatever.”

“It wouldn’t be making a scene.”

She levels a dubious stare upon him.

Travis’s stomach sinks. “Did you come to, what? Argue? Or… oh my god, do you have divorce papers in your purse?”

“No! I’m pregnant!” she blurts out.

The whole world seems to stop turning. The colorful lights on the house across the street begin to blur. Travis gawks at her, his mouth and mind frozen.

“Eleven weeks,” Rosie finally says.

“You’re pregnant. You’re pregnant?” He tries out the word and the very idea, uncertain how this can be reality. “Really?”

“Based on the morning sickness — and the blood test I had done — I can definitely say yes.”

“And what are you — do you think–” He doesn’t know how to finish the question without sounding accusatory.

“I needed to tell you,” she says. “I knew I needed to, but I’ve been scared, and… I want to figure this out.” With both hands, she gestures back and forth between their bodies. “This. Us.”

“I did not kill Loretta,” he says.

“I know. And I’m gonna help prove that. Someone planted that poison in your bag.”

“Yeah. I don’t know where it came from…” He trails off, too consumed by her news to think about the murder trial. “You’re really pregnant. We’re gonna be…”

“Parents.” Finally, her stress relaxes into a smile. “You’re happy?”

“I am so happy about this. About you being here.” He tips his head in the direction of the house. “Do you want to come in?”

She clutches his hand. “Yeah. I do.”

Together they turn back toward the Fisher home, alive with voices, music, and holiday cheer. They walk up the steps, hands entwined, moving toward this uncertain but exciting future together. The rain begins to fall again, just a light mist, and on the steps behind them, there are the wet marks of two sets of footprints, moving in tandem, as the Christmas lights glint off them.

END OF EPISODE 1286

Can Travis and Rosie make their marriage work?
Do Elly and Spencer stand a chance at a future?
What does the new year hold for King’s Bay?
Discuss it all in the comments below!

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