An Enchanted Season

  "Mom. Dad. Noelle. All of them." She gazed around the room again, her eyes damp in the glow of the single dim bulb. "Car accident. Icy roads, it was no one's fault. I almost went with them, but Mom sent me back."

  "In the car?" he asked, thinking she'd narrowly escaped death because her mother hadn't let her go along on that fateful drive.

  "No. I was in the car. I meant, I almost went with them to...well, you know. The other side."

  "But your mom sent you back," he muttered.

  "Yeah." She shrugged. "Aunt Sheila came and took me home from the hospital, to her place in Binghamton. This is my first time back here since." She sighed, and turned to look up at him.

  He was shocked to see a fine sheen in her eyes, and yet, a wobbly little smile on her face. "You know, Ms. Sullivan said there was probably still some of our old furniture up in the attic. And I'm getting sick of having nothing to sit on besides that stone hearth." She turned and marched into the hallway as if she hadn't just revealed her deepest pain. "Come on, Matthew, you might as well see the attic."

  The hat tumbled to the snowy ground when the wind let up, and moments later, a laughing child grabbed it and scooped it up.

  "Look! I found the hat!"

  "Aw, man, where did you get that?"

  "It just came rolling up out of nowhere. Just like on Frosty!" The little girl's eyes grew very big then. "Hey, do you think it's a magic hat?"

  "Yeah, Gracie. The snowman's gonna come to life and say 'happy birthday' the minute we put it on his head." Her older brother shook his head at her. "There's no such thing as a magic hat."

  "I don't believe you!" she huffed. Then she marched over to the snowman they had built together, and tried to put the hat on his head. She couldn't quite reach, though. She was hopping, and swinging the hat uselessly. Then her brother lifted her up high, and she plopped the hat on the snowman.

  And then she waited.

  Her brother was waiting, too, she thought. Even though he said he didn't believe, he must wonder. They stood there, quiet for a long moment, but nothing happened.

  "I guess you were right," the little girl said. "No such thing as magic."

  "Hey, you never know," her brother said. "There could be. I mean, it's almost Christmas, right? Anything could happen."

  He took her little hand in his, and led her home for dinner.

  Six

  HOLLY LED MATTHEW ALONG THE HALLWAY, CARRYING A flashlight she'd dug out of her backpack, which she'd left in one of the bedrooms, until she stood underneath the square in the ceiling that marked the entryway to the attic. It had always seemed a mysterious portal to her as a child. The attic was a whole other world; darker than the rest of the house, cooler in the summer months, hotter in the winter, when the heat gathered there and hung around. It was dusty, not as neat, filled with clutter and cobwebs and dust. It even smelled differently than the rest of the house.

  And getting there was impossible without help. As a little thing, she'd been unable to reach the cord that hung down. Now, though...She stretched out her arm, stood up on tiptoe, and closed her hand around the plastic grip at the end of the cord.

  "Wow," she said. "If that doesn't drive home how long it's been, nothing will." She glanced over her shoulder with a smile, but Matthew was only frowning at her. "I could never reach this before," she explained.

  "Oh."

  He seemed a little tense, was looking at her with a new intensity. Well, she guessed some people didn't deal well with it when you talked about death or loss. They were facts of life, just like the good stuff. There was no point in walling them off in some kind of soundproof room within your head. They were real.

  Shrugging, she said, "Stand aside," and when she felt him move, she tugged the cord. The trapdoor came downward, and the attached ladder extended itself and slid to the floor all on its own. Holly flipped the latches on either side that would keep it that way, then stepped on up, aiming her flashlight beam ahead of her.

  Cobwebs met her halfway, but she'd never been afraid of them, or of spiders for that matter, so she just brushed them aside and kept ascending, until she stood on the attic floor. She stepped to one side to make room for her guest, and shone her light this way and that, looking around the place with wide eyes.

  He came up and stood beside her. "Man, there's a lot of stuff up here."

  "Yeah." No need to elaborate. He'd stated the obvious. "Aunt Sheila and I sold everything that was worth much, just to help us get on our feet. She came back here while I was in the hospital and got most of my things out for me, so I wouldn't have to. And she told me she'd stored everything she couldn't sell in the attic and the shed outside. I just..."

  For some reason her breath caught there, and her throat went real tight.

  "You had no way of knowing what stuff was stored and what stuff was sold?" he asked.

  She swallowed, nodded. "I never asked." Her voice was raspy, the muscles in her throat still clutching hard at her windpipe.

  He cleared his throat. "I owe you an apology, Holly. I uh...misjudged you."

  "People tend to think I'm either an airhead or that I've been living in a charmed little bubble. I promise, neither one is true."

  "I got that. So how do you manage to love the holidays so much?"

  "Not just the holidays. I love life." She shrugged. "Hell, I figure Mom didn't send me back here to be miserable. Mostly I think she sent me back to take care of Aunt Sheila."

  "Your aunt's not well?"

  "MS," Holly said. Then she met his eyes. "Don't look like that. You'd never know, aside from the wheelchair. Hell, I'm pretty sure she's having a fling with the new cook at our diner."

  He tipped his head to one side.

  "She loves life, too. Runs in the family, I guess."

  He just looked at her, as if he didn't quite know what to make of her. She glanced at the TV--a big console model with a knob to turn the channel, and no remote control. "Noelle and I used to lie on the rug watching cartoons on Saturday mornings."

  "I used to do the same thing with my kid sister, Cindy."

  She nodded. "That TV was outdated, even then." Then she shook off the wave of sadness the memory brought. "What was your favorite?"

  "My favorite what?" he asked.

  "Cartoon. Mine was Scooby Doo."

  "Oh. I don't know. I liked the Turtles a lot."

  "The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, you mean." She smiled. "I liked them, too."

  He sighed, turned, and pointed. "There's a sofa. Should we take it downstairs?"

  "You offering to help?"

  He made a face at her in the glow of the flashlight. "No. I'm gonna leave and let a woman who just fell off her own roof try to manhandle a two-hundred-pound sofa down two flights, single-handedly."

  "Don't even think I couldn't do it," she said.

  He smiled, and it was the first relaxed, genuine smile she thought she had seen cross his face. "You know what? I don't doubt it for a minute."

  "Shall we?" she asked.

  He nodded. Holly stuck the flashlight into a back pocket, and they each got on one end of the sofa, picked it up, and began the awkward task of maneuvering it through the opening and down the ladder to the hall below, and then farther, down to the living room.

  They lowered it to the floor, then positioned it just the way Holly wanted it, facing the fireplace, with a view to the windows.

  "Perfect," she said with a satisfied nod.

  "Anything else before I leave?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is."

  "Okay. Shoot."

  She sat down, and patted the sofa until he sat beside her. Then she said, "Tell me why you hate Christmas."

  Matthew lifted his brows and stared at her. "Now what makes you think I hate Christmas?"

  "Are you saying you don't?"

  "No. I'm asking how you knew."

  She nodded, grateful for the honesty. She'd half expected him to deny it. "Your reaction to the decorations, your comments about the season
in general, all that kind of stuff. It's pretty obvious."

  "Well, obvious or not, it's not important."

  She met his eyes, held them. "I think it is."

  "Hell, Holly, don't be ridiculous. In less than a minute, I'm gonna walk out that door, get into my car, and drive back to my hotel, and you'll probably never see me again. So how in the world could my childhood traumas matter in the least to you?"

  "They do." She drew a breath and then blew it out. "I think you're here for a reason. We both are. And I hate to let you leave before I figure out what it is. So it's something from your childhood, then. A trauma?"

  Matthew got to his feet, looked down at her, and extended a hand. "It was nice to meet you, Holly. You're..." He shook his head. "One of a kind, I think. But I really need to get going."

  She took his hand, but instead of shaking it, used it to pull herself to her feet. Then she went to the fireplace to get his boots and coat for him.

  He sat on the sofa putting them on, and the silence was taut. She needed to break it. "So, are you going to put an offer in on the place?"

  "Depends," he said. Both boots were on and he was bending over to tie them. Without looking her in the eye, he said, "Did you want to buy it back yourself?"

  She looked around, felt herself getting misty. "I hadn't even thought about it. It's really not an option right now."

  "I see."

  "Why did you ask?"

  "No reason."

  "Liar."

  He looked up from tying his boots, and met her eyes.

  She went on. "You wouldn't buy it if I had said I wanted it, would you?"

  "Sorry," he said. "You must have me mistaken for that Samaritan guy. Or maybe Santa Claus. I do what's best for me. Period."

  "Oh, really? Then why did you ask?"

  "Curiosity, that's all. Besides, I haven't decided yet if I want the place. It looks like a pretty good investment at first glance, but I never make a decision until I have my contractors inspect a place."

  "Oh. So step two is to send them up here to take a look."

  "That's right." He pulled on his coat, started for the door, paused halfway there, and turned back around. "Listen, are you sure you're going to be okay out here all by yourself overnight?"

  She tipped her head to one side. "You like me."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Why are you all concerned all of the sudden? You like me. Admit it."

  "I have barely met you."

  "Oh, so your concern for my safety here alone is based on you being what--that Samaritan guy, or Santa Claus?"

  He pursed his lips, lowered his head. "Okay. I like you."

  "I like you, too. Now don't worry. I've got plenty of food and water, the wood fire, lots of wood at hand, thanks to you." She gave him a nod as she said that. "And I have my cell phone. I'll be fine."

  "Just thought I'd check."

  "It's considerate of you."

  He met her eyes, and they held for a long moment. For one, incredible second, she thought he was going to kiss her. But then he licked his lips and turned again toward the door. "Good night, Holly."

  "Merry Christmas, Matthew."

  He opened the door and headed through it, pulled it closed behind him. And then she was alone. She turned to face the empty house, and for just an instant, her heart whispered a longing. "Damn," it said, "I sure wish he had stayed a little while longer."

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Her head snapped up, and she spun to face the door, even as it opened. Matthew ducked inside fast, closed it hard, and stomped significant amounts of snow from his feet and his jeans.

  He met her eyes, shook his head. "I hate to impose, kiddo, but I can't go anywhere. Not until it lets up a little."

  Her smile was impossible to contain. She lowered her head to hide her face, and whispered, "Thanks," to the powers that be, for answering her wish. She tried to suppress the grin when she met his eyes again. "You can stay as long as you want," she told him. "Actually, I'll be glad of the company."

  "Yeah. Every Christmas angel wants to spend her holiday with Ebenezer Scrooge."

  "Exactly."

  He looked at her with his brows lifted, but she ignored that and followed her instincts instead. She moved right up to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her body to his. "I'm really glad you came back."

  "Whoa." His arms closed around her waist, and he hugged her right back. When he straightened away, he seemed puzzled and, she thought, pleased.

  And why wouldn't any man be pleased to be warmly, genuinely welcomed. She broke the embrace, and went to the window to peer outside. The snow was falling at a rate that brought back a lot of memories. "I think this is lake effect," she told him.

  "And that's supposed to mean...what exactly?"

  She kept looking out the window. "Depends on what kind of mood it's in, I guess. You up to another trip up to the attic?"

  He peeled off his coat, hung it on the peg, and heeled off his boots. "What do you need?"

  "There's a trunk up there, chock full of blankets and bedding, if memory serves. Maybe you could bring them down? And any oil lamps you see up there. I know there were a few. We might need them. After that, you might want to take a swing at opening that couch up. It's a sleeper sofa. Meanwhile, I'm going to dig through my gear for the portable radio I brought, and just in time so I can listen for a weather report while I cook us dinner."

  "Don't tell me you're making a turkey with all the trimmings."

  "Don't be silly. That's for Christmas Eve. Tonight, it's burgers and fries."

  He sent her a look that registered surprise. "Huh."

  "What?"

  "I don't know. I guess I was expecting you to be a health food nut, if not a full-blown vegetarian."

  "You should not judge people by their appearances," she said.

  "You're right. I apologize." He started for the stairs.

  She said, "Just a sec, Matthew."

  He turned, and she lowered her eyes and shrugged. "I...um...the burgers?"

  "Yes?"

  "They're veggie burgers."

  He was quiet for a second, but then he laughed. It was a deep, slow building chuckle, but it grew, and by the time she managed to lift her gaze to meet his, his head was tipped back and he was laughing loudly.

  She laughed, too, and it grew, each of them feeding off the other's silliness, until their laughter died and they stood there, grinning foolishly.

  And then his smile faded and he said, "So what about the turkey? Don't tell me it's tofu."

  "Turkey, once a year, for Christmas dinner, is the only meat I eat. It's tradition."

  "I guess that makes some kind of sense."

  "Traditions meant a lot to my mom. Especially Christmas ones."

  He nodded, holding her gaze, a smile still gleaming in his eyes. "You know, I honestly can't remember the last time I laughed like that."

  "Then you definitely need to do it more often," she said.

  "You might just be right about that."

  Their gazes locked for a long moment, and then Holly dragged hers away and turned toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna start dinner and find that radio."

  She hurried into the kitchen, where she had deposited boxes, bags, and two giant ice chests full of food. She fully intended to give herself, and her mom, dad, baby sis, and their former happy home, a full-blown, traditional, all-out Christmas Eve dinner. And she had brought all the trimmings. There was a new tank of LP gas outside, courtesy of Ms. Sullivan. Plenty enough for her to cook for a few days. The range was old, coppertone, and dated. But it was clean and it worked fine. She lit the oven to let it heat up, and then returned to her boxes and bags to dig for the little radio she'd brought along.

  Once she had it working, broadcasting the station with the clearest signal, she took a package of frozen French fries from one of the ice chests. She lined a cookie sheet with aluminum foil, sprayed it with organic olive oil cooking spray, and spread the fries on it
. Then she gave them another spray, sprinkled them in sea salt, and popped them into the oven. On a second tray she spread the veggie burgers, topped each of them with a slice of green pepper, a slice of onion, and a large thin slice of portabella mushroom. Then she added some tomato sauce and grated cheese blend to each, and slid them into the oven as well.

  Finally the music stopped and the weather report came on. She went still, her full attention on the weatherman. Then she blinked, and looked skyward.

  "I said I wished he would stay a little while longer."

  The hat blew off the snowman's head, and tumbled to the ground. It rolled along until it hit the sidewalk, and then skittered on its brim, a few feet at at time, until it came to rest exactly in Bernie's path.

  Bernie was cold. Way colder than he used to get in the wintertime. But then again, he was getting on in years. He was probably way too old to be sleeping in doorways and whatnot. He was on his way to his favorite diner--the one with the cute waitress who always managed to find something hot for him to eat, and gave it to him without making him feel like a charity case.

  She was a rare gem, that waitress.

  His stomach was growling in anticipation and he walked a little faster as he got closer to the diner. He tried not to show up there too often. Didn'twant to wear out his welcome or take advantage of a kind heart. But there was just no help for it this morning. It had been a cold night, and he needed a warm meal in his belly more than he needed air.

  His foot hit something in his path--and he looked down to see a black felt hat, just sitting there. Bernie looked up and down the sidewalk. He looked left and he looked right, wondering if the brisk, freezing wind had driven it off someone's head--someone who was, even now, running along the sidewalk to retrieve it.

  But no. There was no one.

  So Bernie hunkered down and he picked up that hat. He put it on his head, and it felt good. Warmed his ears a little. Moreover, he thought it looked pretty good, too.

  He smiled, and stood a little straighter as he continued on his way to the diner.

  Seven

  MATTHEW WAS THINKING THAT IT WASN'T SUCH A HARDSHIP to be forced to spend another couple of hours with a pretty woman. She had that happy-go-lucky, little Mary Sunshine thing going on, yeah. And normally, people like that got on his nerves like nothing else in creation. But she was different. She wasn't one of those morons who were just too dumb to realize how shitty the world was. She wasn't one of those lucky idiots who'd never had any hardships and so thought the world was a bowl of freaking ice cream.