"But he must like it. He said—"
"What'd he tell ye? That he took a dip in the pool o' commerce an' came out pure thirstin' for a lifetime o' it?" Cook asked. "Well it's a lie he's been tellin' himself for nigh on eight years now, an' the weight o' it's crushed him inside until sometimes I don't hardly recognize my boy any longer."
"I don't understand. I know he had dreams once of being an artist. But he can't even look at his artwork anymore."
"Buried it, he did. Would've done better t' bury that wife o' his instead," Cook grumbled.
Alaina's hand strayed guiltily to the weight of the journal in her apron pocket. "What was amiss with his wife?"
"Never saw a more clinging, weak-spined—"
"Mrs. Burrows, that's enough," Burrows warned. "It's not right to speak ill of the dead. Besides, there would still have been his father to tend."
"His father?" Alaina echoed.
"You want the truth o' what happened to Tristan, miss? He'll never tell you. The old master never thought much o' Tristan's love of art, but Tristan was so determined there was naught old Mr. Ramsey could do to dissuade him. I think he even pushed marriage on the boy in hopes that it would settle him down and he'd take to business. But Tristan was determined to go to Italy, to learn from some fancy-man painter who'd seen his work and loved it. Trunks were all packed, an' Miss Charlotte, his bride, had even swallowed up her unease about foreigners and was ready to go, when some o' the men who did business with Ramsey and Ramsey called Master Tristan down for a meetin'."
"To try to convince him to stay? That wasn't fair! Surely he could have gone forward with his plans."
"Only if he was willin' for the rest o' the family to go to ruin." Cook tsked mournfully. "Poor boy. Poor, kind boy."
"Tristan's father had headed the shipping company for years, an' his father before him. It was his pride an' joy. But the years were telling on the old master. Something— something in his mind was just broke, miss. Nothin' could fix it. An' the master, he just couldn't see what everyone else saw so clear. He'd made mistakes—little ones, but they mounted up at a dangerous rate. An' he wouldn't listen to no one—took it as a blow right to his dignity if any dared question him. Had the most horrendous temper-fits. The doctor told Master Tristan he'd seen the condition before. The mind just slippin' away, like the tide from the shore, real slow and easy, year after year until a person could look on the face o' their own mama and not know her at all."
Alaina closed her eyes, remembering the bluff, blustery man who had been Tristan's father—the man who had gotten Tristan the pony and beamed with pride in his son. The man Tristan had watched with such adoration, shored up by the mountainlike strength of his father—the rock of security who had given Tristan the strength to build his own dreams.
What must it have been like to know that he was going to lose that father, one memory at a time?
"Nothin' in the world could have kept Master Tristan away from his painting, Miss Alaina. Nothing except the need to guard his father's dignity."
"But after old Mr. Ramsey died, why didn't he go then?"
"Gabriel was born, and Master Tristan's wife was difficult. Didn't want to take her baby to some foreign land. Didn't want Master Tristan to paint at all."
Cook grimaced. "I always found it odd, don't ye know? The girl was from Germany, for pity's sake, an' she acted like she'd never traveled farther than Hyde Park. Tristan tried for a time to work with his pa in the day, then stay up late, painting when everyone else was asleep. But Miss Charlotte couldn't tolerate that either. She spurted tears like a blasted fountain every minute of the day, hanging on Master Tristan's sleeve, grudging every brushstroke as if he were stealin' the food out o' her mouth.
"They had a terrible row one night, Miss Charlotte crying and Mr. Tristan—well, he wasn't ever a boy given to anger. But that night, he was shouting something fierce. The next night I slipped into his studio, just like I done for fifteen years, to treat him to some chocolate and sweet cakes. He wasn't there: Nothin' was. The paints, the easel, the cunning picture he was painting of the baby. An angel, it was, reaching for a star. Worst of all, he'd gone through the house and stripped down every last painting he'd ever done. I think he couldn't bear to look at 'em because it hurt his heart too much."
Alaina tried to swallow past the knot in her throat. Dear God, it must have destroyed him.
"'Spected the impossible o' himself, that he could give away every dream he'd had an' not feel the loss, not feel resentful or angry or hurt. And above all, he'd never ask anyone else for help t' deal with all that had fallen on his shoulders. He just took on responsibility for all of it, silent as a stone, an' no one ever asked him if the load were too heavy." The old woman peered at Alaina. "I know he can seem hard and cold, but he's a good man, miss. Just tired and sad. Lost his way, that's all. If ever a man was deservin' of a guardian angel, miss, it's Tristan Ramsey."
Alaina swallowed a lump in her throat, her eyes burning. "I know."
"You made Gabriel laugh today," old Burrows said. "If you could do the same for my Tristan, I vow, I'd claim you was an angel myself."
Here was another person, wanting so desperately for Tristan to find joy. How many Christmas wishes had drifted up to heaven carrying that plea? Alaina wondered. Surely such prayers must be answered.
She scooped up the bowl of dried fruits Cook had prepared, the plums all covered with brandy, ready for the touch of a spark to turn the bowl into a snapping dragon so that Gabriel could attempt to snatch treats from the blue flames.
She knew now how Tristan had lost himself—once again trying to be kind and giving—the wonderful boy she had fallen in love with on a winter-white Christmas day so long ago.
Surely if she tried hard enough, she could find him again.
Six
FLAMES LEAPT AND WRITHED, BLUE-SILVER, BRIGHT ORANGE, in the darkened room, dancing above the plump bits of fruit that lay in tempting disarray beneath. Gabriel popped one in his mouth, smacking his lips in delight. "It's your turn now, Alaina!" the child chirruped. "Just concentrate real hard and grab!"
Yet Alaina couldn't concentrate on anything except the man sequestered in his study down the hall.
"Alaina, is there something the matter?"
She looked down to see Gabriel's babe-soft brow furrow, his mouth turn down in a frown of concern. How good had the boy gotten at reading the shifting moods of his elders? His mother's disappointment, his father's hidden pain? How often had Gabriel struggled to mend the tears in his family with hands too small for such a daunting task?
She forced a smile and plunged her hand into the bowl, scooping out a handful of the slippery fruit, but the flame nipped at her sleeve, a tiny tongue catching hold of the cloth.
"Alaina! You're on fire!" Gabriel cried in alarm, but the flames had barely licked at her skin before Alaina extinguished them. "I'm fine," she said, nursing the reddening patch on her finger and wrist.
She heard heavy footsteps rushing into the room and was stunned as Tristan grabbed her arm, dousing it in a pail of water Cook had set nearby.
"How did you get here so quickly?" Alaina demanded. "One would think you were right outside the door!"
A dull flush crept up his cheekbones. "I happened to be passing by on my way to—to get a drink."
Alaina's heart stopped, and she smiled at him, hope fluttering inside her. He must have been watching them, wanting to join them, though he'd never admit it.
"I burned my finger," she said, displaying it to him in the light spilling from the corridor.
"That's what happens when you get too greedy, madam. Gabriel, go outside for a cupful of clean snow. That will cool Miss MacShane's finger."
"I always pop my finger right in my mouth," Gabriel suggested.
"Do as I asked, please."
The boy skipped out, leaving Alaina with Tristan, one of his strong hands enveloping her burned one. But the fire she felt inside was far more disturbing than the nip of the tiny flame.
Heat shimmered out from where those long fingers cupped hers. It swirled along the delicate skin of her arm and flowed in hot, pulsing waves into her breasts.
"Isn't greed one of the Seven Deadly Sins, Miss MacShane? You'd best be careful or you'll not be allowed back through heaven's gates."
"The plums just looked so good, I couldn't help myself."
Tristan smiled and scooped a bit of fruit from the flaming bowl without so much as singeing his knuckles. "Open your mouth," he said in a low, husky voice. Her lips parted, and he slipped his prize inside, his fingertip lingering on the bottom swell of her lip, stroking the moist curve.
"Odd, sometimes I'm not even certain you are real," Tristan said.
Alaina's gaze flashed up to his, and he caught a spark of mischief, then her teeth caught his finger.
He laughed. "So angels bite, do they? Most uncharitable."
"You're right. Perhaps I should do penance by kissing it better." Hardly believing her own daring, Alaina caught his hand and kissed the tip of his finger, wishing she could heal the wounds that cut him far deeper.
Ever so gently, she let her kiss whisper to him things she could never say—love secrets and fragments of dreams, encouragement and gratitude.
He stared at her, transfixed, the other fingers of his hand uncurling, then easing up to caress her cheek. His own lips parted. Hunger—it flared in his gaze, stripping the wariness from the ebony depths of his eyes.
"If angels can bite," he rasped, "then is it possible that they can ... kiss? Mouth to mouth?"
"I don't know. I've never tried." Alaina felt her heart beating its way out of her chest, her lips burning with the need to taste Tristan's.
He leaned forward, and she could feel the brush of his breath, the sibilant throb of need.
At that instant, a golden-curled, snow-spangled Gabriel rushed in. "Alaina, I brought the snow to cool you off!" he cried.
Alaina knew if the child buried her in a glacier, it wouldn't extinguish the fires Tristan had lit inside them both.
She leapt up, flustered. "I think I've had enough of this game."
"Then it's time for the dancing, isn't it, Papa?" Gabriel insisted. "We all go out and dance and dance under the kissing bough."
"I don't know how to dance," Alaina protested.
"I'll show you! Aunt Beth says I am 'most dashing.' But we'll need music. Papa, please will you work the music box, 'cause I'm not allowed to touch it?"
Tristan's brows lowered, his voice gruff. "I suppose I could. But just for a little while."
In a heartbeat, Alaina was in the drawing room where she'd first tumbled into Tristan's arms, her whole body thrumming with the memory of how he had felt against her—hard and strong, ridges of muscle, rasping breath, the weight of him pressed into her soft, woman curves, fitting with the perfect harmony of stars against the heavens,
Tristan crossed to a small table on which a music box sat and tinkered with it for a moment. Light, ethereal, the music wafted through the chamber, filling it with an aura of magic. The song was familiar, plaintive, an airy tapestry of words and melody that captured the poignancy, the pain and pleasure, of first love.
Alaina took the child's small hands and capered about with him, Gabriel stumbling and laughing, swaying and turning. Yet with every movement, she was excruciatingly aware of the man standing silent by the table. His melting gaze seemed to reach out and touch her with every step she took.
After Gabriel collapsed in a fit of giggles on a chair, Alaina looked up to see Tristan crossing the room, as she'd dreamed a hundred times, the harsh planes of his face devastatingly handsome, his eyes dark with intent. She stood, breathless, hoping for something she couldn't even name. Something she'd craved forever.
His lips curved in a shadow of the smile she'd loved so well. "May I have this dance?" he asked with an elegant bow. If he had asked her for her soul, she would have given it to him gladly.
She couldn't speak. She only nodded, her heart stopping as he closed the space between them. He took her left hand in his strong right one, then curved his other arm about her waist, splaying his fingers in the hollow of her back. She barely reached his chin, and she could see the throb of his pulse in his throat, hear the uneven rasp of his breath.
"Look at me, Alaina," he said, ever so softly. She did. Her bones melted, every fiber of her being seeming to catch the rhythm of his heartbeat. The music whirled about them, and then, suddenly, Alaina felt herself floating, swirling, to a music all their own—one that seemed to sing from her heart to his.
Never had she felt so vulnerable—as if every secret were his for the taking, every corner of her soul revealed to this man who held her so tenderly, imprisoning her heart with no more than a smile.
It was more beautiful than any dream to be in his arms, to feel the power in him, the promise, as well as the pain that she would have given her own soul to heal.
After a moment, his booted feet faltered. He fell still, his eyes on hers—dark and hot as coals.
"Papa, you danced her under the kissing bough!" Gabriel cried, clapping his hands.
"I know," Tristan admitted low in his throat. Alaina trembled as his eyes narrowed, thick dark lashes drooping down to obscure confusion and need, passion and pain. . His lips closed on hers for a heartbeat—slick silk, tasting of all the dreams she'd never dared to have. Hot and moist and seeking. Suppliant and yet demanding. Promising, yet tinged with the slightest tang of fear.
Fear of what? That he was making yet another mistake? That love was impossible, like the dream he'd once had of painting masterpieces in his garret?
The kiss was over in mere seconds, but Alaina knew it had changed her forever.
"Papa?" Gabriel's worried query broke in. "Papa, I'm not certain it's all right to be kissing angels. Maybe it's against the rules. You might get struck down with lightning or something."
"I was," Tristan murmured, staring at her with astonishment, and a dark, unquenchable thirst for her shimmered in his gaze. She had dreamed a million times of seeing just such an expression on his face, yet seeing it now only made her pulse race with alarm.
She had to remember that nothing could ever come of her love for Tristan. She had known that from the beginning. Now he was reaching out to her, ever so tentatively. But even angels couldn't afford to keep their heads in the clouds. Soon she would have to leave him.
"Laney, what are the rules up in heaven?" Gratitude flooded through her as Gabriel's voice shook her from her troubled thoughts. "If I threw my ball way up in the sky, all the way to the stars, would God throw it back?"
"I think He would," Alaina managed shakily. "Have you ever thrown a ball up and not had it come down?"
Gabriel smiled as if she'd just unlocked the secrets to the universe, then suddenly he sobered. "I wish I could throw something up and have it stay there forever. I wish my mama could catch it."
Alaina saw Tristan wince, but he asked gently, "What do you wish you could give her, son?"
"A letter to wish her happy Christmas. They must have Christmas in heaven, since that's where it all began. But I think she might be lonely there, even with all the angels."
Alaina's throat constricted, and she remembered a solemn-eyed little Gabriel leaning out the window, wishing on the stars.
"Maybe there is a way," Alaina offered. "Tristan, do you remember when you would send your wishes up to Father Christmas? Perhaps if Gabriel wrote his letter, we could send it to heaven the same way."
A slow smile spread across Tristan's features; the sensitivity that had graced the features of the boy she'd loved was even more beautiful in the strong features of this man. "I remember," he said softly.
Gabriel looked up at him, an angel child and a hurting father, a boy fragile with dreams and a man who had abandoned them. "Will you show me what to do, Papa?"
Alaina's heart wrenched as the child slipped his small fingers into the engulfing warmth of his father's.
Tristan led the boy into his study. Alaina tr
ailed behind. The desktop was stacked with a mountain of ledgers, neat rows of numbers on creamy sheaves of paper. Tristan shoved them aside and drew out fresh paper.
"I want you to write down everything you want to say to your mother—just as if you were sitting on the stool beside her chair. Remember how you used to do that?"
Gabriel nodded. He took up a pen, dipped its tip in the ink, and started to write. A horrible scratching sound broke the silence, a blot of ink spreading in a stain. Gabriel stared at it, horrified. "Papa, I ruined it!"
"Inkblots don't matter at all in heaven," Tristan said softly. "They melt away."
The boy gave him an uncertain smile. "Aren't you going to write to Mama, too?"
Tristan looked away, and Alaina could see the bleakness in his face—sensed that Tristan and his wife hadn't really spoken in the years after he had walled himself off with work, long before sweet-faced Charlotte had died.
After a moment, Tristan nodded. "Yes. There is something I've needed to say for a long, long time."
Gabriel worked industriously while Tristan scribed his own letter—one line, Alaina could tell, came straight from his heart. Then Tristan folded up the scrap of paper into a neat square.
Gabriel followed his father's lead, his own square lopsided, blotted, and crumpled—the kind of notes mamas had tucked away in treasure boxes since time began.
"What do we do now, Alaina?" Gabriel looked up at her expectantly.
"Let your papa show you."
Tristan guided his son to the hearth, where flames crackled and danced. "We put the messages into the flames. If the smoke goes up the chimney, then the messages float all the way to heaven. Your wish will be granted."
"But what if it isn't?"
"Then we'll have to wish again later."
Gabriel scrunched up his face and thrust his note into the flames. The edges curled and glowed as the three of them watched it burn. Alaina couldn't breathe as she willed the smoke to curl up into the chimney. The thin tendrils wound straight up as if drawn by an angel's hand.