Deck the Palms

FROM THE AUTHOR

"One thing I love about the holiday season is the change in weather. There’s nothing like a white Christmas (so rare but so lovely). The mood, the ambience, the extra excitement.

Why, then, I wrote a holiday book set in a Florida beachtown… your guess is as good as mine.

Deck the Palms brings together a bit of an odd couple: Allison, a wandering soul, and Drew, a stable fortress. Are they both looking for love? Kind of. Are they both certain they’ll never find it? Yes. Do they have an instant attraction that they both try to ignore? Oh yeah, absolutely.

Helping them along the way is a sweet and debaucherous cast of characters from the local assisted living facility, delivering saucy humor and elderly antics at every turn of the page.

PS: Readers may remember Allison from my debut novel, Begin Again. Yes, I give her the HEA she has always deserved."

—Kat Jackson

Chapter One

Sand had never felt so soft. It was strange, unnerving, and delicious all at once. For someone accustomed to the gritty, pebbly, sometimes stabby sand of the upper east coast, the nearly white expanse covering the beach that butted against the Gulf of Mexico felt wrong—and criminally right. It didn’t feel like sand at all. More like flour. No, confectioner’s sugar.

Whatever the proper comparison, oh, it was decadent, and the tension in Allison’s shoulders began to unknot as she continued digging her bare toes into the piles she’d shoved together with her heels. She shifted her gaze from her feet—toes recently painted the bright pink of her childhood dreams—to the elderly couple walking slowly in the gentle lap of the surf. One man kept his hand steady on the other’s lower back. Their heads were bent close together, each covered in a faded baseball hat, and every few steps, one man would throw his head back in laughter while the other looked on, clearly pleased he still had that effect on his partner.

A dying ember of hope flickered deep within Allison. She smiled, caught herself, and scowled. Within the space of a breath, the ember was extinguished.

It was nearing 5:15 p.m. and the sun was beginning to sink lower in the cloud-streaked sky. By instinct, Allison rubbed her bare arms, then laughed. Shaking off the habits of “real” winters would take time. Colliding thoughts of time and habits tied a quick ribbon around her lungs, its bow punctuating her breath with a stinging gasp.

So many habits to break, and all the time in the world to create new ones.

She pushed her feet deeper into the sand and locked her gaze on the horizon, now glowing gold. She’d prefer not to create new habits—well, scratch that. New good habits were fine. New bad habits, ones she would need to strike out, scrub away, scour off: those she could do without. It seemed to Allison, however, that she was an expert at forming new bad habits. She’d made a list of them, a slightly mad, bulleted rundown of all her failings from the age of twenty. She was in her mid-thirties when she’d created that list, fully in the embrace of a terrible breakup alongside the reappearance of an ex she had no business even speaking to. (Naturally, they’d done more than speak, which had summoned six new bolded items to the list.) Now that she was nearing forty-two, The List required several pages.

It was so long and so horrible that she’d been tempted to leave it in Portland when she’d packed up to move across the country. She’d held it with the tips of her fingers, even dangled it over a half-full industrial-strength black trash bag. The moment her fingertips released the sheets of poison, her heart had done one of those weird trip-hop-skip things and she’d gasped, dug deep to pull up coordination she’d never known she had, and managed to grab The List before it plopped into the sea of trash it, frankly, belonged in.

But mistakes, for Allison, were not trash. They were points of reference, reminders of What Not To Do Ever Again.

Did she follow her own rules? Of course not; she was a Libra. But still. She wanted the proof, the full measure of everything she’d done wrong, in hopes she would never (or at least infrequently) do it again.

A shriek from the water’s edge pulled Allison from her mental prison. She squinted at the water, her vision blocky and dark around the edges from gazing a bit too long at a point near the sun. A handful of children had arrived, breaking the relative calm and quiet of the beach. A frown tugged the edges of her lips—once a curmudgeon, always a curmudgeon, it seemed.

Kids were fine! Plenty of her friends back in Portland had kids, and she’d been a more-than-decent Aunt Alli. But right now? Their presence was not…preferable. She’d just wanted a chill sunset moment at the beach before—

As another playful scream erupted from the incredibly healthy lungs of a toddling child, Allison rolled her head back and shook it. Her hair fell back into place as she righted her neck and avoided looking at the army of kids now littering the water’s edge. She tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear, then tugged the bill of her baseball hat lower. Probably not her best move, shoving a hat onto her head before meeting her not-quite-girlfriend for dinner at a restaurant with a dress code.

Allison stood, brushing the fine sand from the back of her jeans. Her fingers grazed the spot where her back pocket was slowly ripping itself away. She’d have to go home before dinner anyway; this outfit would be frowned upon not only by the host, but also by Holly. She could fix her hair, or at least try to.

“You need to make an effort,” she muttered as she walked toward the water, pausing to roll her jeans an extra time—another ritual from summers spent at Jersey beaches where the ocean was unpredictably splashy. Here, there didn’t seem to be any rogue waves at all.

What there was, however, was a group of twenty-somethings setting up camp a few yards away. As Allison neared them, she groaned in tune with the jarringly loud music. She fought the urge to shoot the group her—if she must say so herself—rather refined eye daggers as she passed. She did glance at them, as surreptitiously as possible beneath the cover of her hat, feeling both strings of rage for their thoughtless disruption of the chill beach atmosphere and jealousy for the laughing, easy camaraderie among them.

With the water lapping at her ankles, Allison walked down the beach, away from the little children and the older children. She pulled off her hat, wanting to feel what was left of the sun on her face. All she’d wanted was to watch the sunset in peace. To regroup and steady her jangling nerves. To, maybe, come to a decision that would feel right instead of just make sense.

But no! The universe clearly was not interested in giving her space to commune with nature, to settle her racing mind. It was, instead, rife with disruptions and agitations. Just like—

“No. No, no, no.” Allison stopped in her tracks. It couldn’t be. There was no way.

Slowly, with trepidation and certainty that she wished was a little less certain, she raised her arm and touched the crown of her head. Her hand yanked away upon contact and she shut her eyes briefly, not wanting to see what she already knew was smeared on the tip of her middle finger.

Had she had tears left to cry, they would have spilled out upon sight of the bird shit coating her fingertip. Alas, she’d cried herself dry before leaving Portland and all she had left in her was a feral scream that was pushing the limits of social acceptability. She squelched it, leaving it spiking in her throat, but just barely.

Miserably, Allison looked at her other hand. The very one, yes, holding the baseball hat an ex had given her years and years ago. It was old, faded, perfectly broken in, and the ultimate protector from a runny pile of bird excrement landing atop her freshly washed hair.

Perhaps this shit show was another sign from the universe, but its meaning was lost on her. With a final glance at the sinking sun, she turned to walk up the beach. Now she had no choice but to shower again, and if she was going to be on time for this date, she had to head home before the sun took its bow.

Just as well, Allison thought as she trudged toward the sidewalk. She considered putting the hat back on but didn’t want the memory of the poop stuck to the inside of the hat. Besides, she knew close to no one around here, so if she fostered a reputation as Bird Shit Lady, so be it.

As she waited to cross the street, her eyes landed on something foreign yet beautiful. She blinked, trying to right the image in her head. Christmas lights? Methodically and artistically wrapped around the trunk of a palm tree? She tilted her head as though that would bring clarity. Sure, it was November, and the holiday season was rapidly approaching. But shouldn’t there be fake Christmas trees lining the streets? Something more traditionally festive?

She was jostled from her confusion by an older woman trying to cross the now carless street. Allison fell in step behind her, still gazing at the cheery trunk of the palm tree.

“When in Florida,” she mumbled, shaking her head and cringing at the feeling of dried aviary crap clinging to her scalp.

Palm trees decked with Christmas lights, fine. Feces flung from flying feathered creatures? That she could do without.

Women Using Words
Deck the Palms is a true delight—heartfelt and beautifully written, it leaves readers smiling long after the final page. Through themes of healing, friendship, and love, Jackson crafts Allison and Drew’s journey with patience and sensitivity, allowing the emotional intimacy and romantic tension to build organically. More than just a love story, Deck the Palms is a poignant reminder that love requires patience, courage, and a sense of humor. I highly recommended picking up this novel; it’s sure to charm both longtime fans and new readers alike.

NetGalley
Lily M. - Deck the Palms by Kat Jackson is a funny, romantic, and swoon-worthy novel that showcases the author's remarkable range. Known for her emotionally intense and often somber narratives, Jackson outdoes herself in this delightful departure from her usual fare—No Academia and No sadness! Not only are the main characters, Allison Bradley and Drew Kingsley, irresistibly charming and witty, but the ensemble cast surrounding them amplifies the humor and sizzle of the story.

The Lesbian Review
This is a funny book with a very slow burn and a lot of memorable characters. Drew and Allison have serious issues to work through individually, personally and professionally. The author puts them through a lot, and still made me laugh often while rooting for two women who on paper shouldn’t be a match.

NetGalley
Stephanie G. - This is a slow burn story where both characters have their reasons for taking things slow and thinking through their actions, which I found very refreshing and much more relatable than many holiday themed romance stories. I loved both characters and both together, and wish we got to see more of them once they were officially together! Would definitely recommend this book!

NetGalley
Leane - This is an adorably cute, romantic, and lovely read that doesn't overdo Christmas as a theme. Instead, this is more about the sentiments of the festive season and the love that abounds at this time of year.

NetGalley
Natalie T. - Deck the Palms is a well-written, mature romance featuring women in their forties—a refreshing change that brings age diversity to the genre. It’s a cozy, heartfelt read, perfect for those who love a slow-build love story with sharp humour and emotional depth. Definitely one of my faves from Kat Jackson.