Trading Christmas

  “I thought you’d like Florida.” Elijah made it sound like an accusation, as if he’d done everything humanly possible to provide for her happiness.

  “What’s not to like?”

  Elijah nodded. “Exactly—so what’s the problem?”

  “You’re right. I’m not happy.”

  He wrapped his arm around her neck, the cold beer bottle dangling between two fingers. “What is it, babe?”

  Heather cringed at his use of the word babe, but she’d given up trying to convince Elijah to call her anything else. What particularly irritated her was that she suspected it was the term he used with all his girlfriends.

  “If you must know, I’m worried about my mother.”

  Elijah tightened his grip around her neck by taking another healthy swig of beer. “I thought we already talked that out.”

  “We talked.” He seemed to think it was a closed subject. Heather wished it was, but none of this was turning out the way she’d hoped. The motel was a dump, she was sick of fast food, the other women didn’t like her, and…

  “What is it now?”

  She shook her head, letting her long hair swing. “Nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that,” he said again. “You’ve been in a piss-poor mood from the get-go.” He spread his arms and looked out at the rolling waves of the ocean. “Here we are in paradise and you’re whining about your mother.” He made it sound ludicrous.

  Maybe it was, but Heather couldn’t help herself. “I’m just worried about her.”

  “You’re worried about Mommy?” Now he made it seem like one big joke and that infuriated her even more.

  “You don’t have a clue,” Heather cried. Vaulting to her feet, she tore down the beach, kicking up sand. A few minutes later, she was out of breath and started walking, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Wait up,” Elijah shouted.

  She was surprised he’d come after her. Heather waited for him and then fell into his arms, weeping softly. Elijah held her in his muscular embrace.

  “All right, babe, tell me all about it.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  He kissed the side of her neck. “I can’t be happy when you’re miserable, you know.”

  And that made Heather remember why she loved him. Taking a deep breath, she tried to explain.

  “Mom was born and raised in this dinky town in Washing ton State. This is her first trip to the East Coast.”

  “Get out of here! Her first trip?”

  Heather nodded. “I left her all by herself.”

  “She loves you, right?”

  “Of course. She’s my mother.”

  “And you love her?”

  “Of course—why else would I feel so awful?”

  “Don’t you think she’d want you to be happy?” Elijah asked as if following his logic was a simple thing.

  “Yes, I suppose, but…” Heather felt confused and unsure. “I wish it was that easy.”

  “It is,” he argued. “Just don’t think about her.”

  “She’s probably miserable and alone, and I did this to her.”

  “Babe,” he said, more gruffly this time. “You didn’t ask her to fly to Boston, did you?” When she shook her head, he muttered, “Then get a grip. The others are starting to complain.”

  “Who?”

  “Peaches, for one.”

  Heather had tried to make friends with the women but they were impossible. She was a college girl, so they disliked and mistrusted her on sight.

  “Peaches would complain about me no matter what I said or did.”

  “That’s not true,” Elijah asserted.

  “Yes, it is. It’s the same with the others.” She didn’t mention the way the other girls had made fun of her. Heather wasn’t accustomed to riding on a motorcycle for long periods of time and suffered a bad case of TB, better known as tired butt.

  “Walk with me,” Heather suggested, tugging at his arm.

  Elijah hesitated. His only concession to the beach was a sleeveless T-shirt. Even in the Miami sunshine, he wore his leather pants and boots.

  “Just for a little way,” Heather coaxed.

  Elijah glanced over his shoulder and then nodded. “Not far, all right?”

  “Sure.” At the moment Heather would have promised him anything. They hadn’t been alone since they’d left Boston. Even the motel room was shared with another couple. Naturally she was stuck with Peaches, who made no effort to hide her disdain for Heather.

  They walked for a while, until Elijah decided they’d gone far enough, and sat down in the sand. “Tell me about your mother,” Heather said, pressing her head against his shoulder.

  Elijah was silent for a moment. “Not much to tell. She’s a regular mother, or I think she would’ve been if she’d stayed around.”

  “I’m sorry.” Heather felt bad for bringing up unhappy memories.

  “It was a bummer after she left, but I survived.”

  “What was Christmas like for you?”

  Elijah pulled out his pack of cigarettes, lit one up and took a drag before responding. “It wasn’t any Santa down the chimney, if that’s what you mean.”

  “How so?”

  “Did I mention my dad took off a year before my mother?”

  “No.” Heather felt worse than ever.

  “No big deal. We had good foster parents, and the state always made sure we had at least one gift under the tree.”

  Heather slid her arm around his waist.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Sure I do,” he countered.

  Heather wasn’t sure where to start. “I told you about Leavenworth, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s a Bavarian kind of town, you said.”

  “Right. Christmas is a big deal there and with my mother, too. I think she always wanted to make up for the fact that my dad died when I was young, so she really did the Christmas thing up big. We had dozens of traditions.” Heather grew sad again, just thinking about all she was missing.

  “You’re a big girl now,” Elijah told her. “Traditions are for kids.”

  Heather nodded but she wanted to tell him that people didn’t outgrow their need for a Christmas stocking or decorating a tree or hot apple cider on Christmas Eve.

  Elijah sighed. “Are you okay now?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Good.” He stabbed his cigarette into the sand and then stood. Extending his hand to her, Elijah helped Heather to her feet.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, kissing him.

  “That’s much better,” he said. He placed one arm around her waist and drew her close. “Forget about your mother.”

  Heather doubted she could. Despite everything, she knew her mother was all alone in Boston, completely miserable without her.

  SEVENTEEN

  Faith basted the roasting chicken and closed the oven door as quietly as possible. Rather than mash the potatoes with the mixer, she decided to use the hand utensil in an effort to cut down on noise. As far as she could discern, the cranky professor had enjoyed her cooking the night before. The stuffed green peppers had disappeared in short order.

  By six, the house was dark and dreary. Faith went from room to room, drawing the curtains and turning on lights. She played solitaire for an hour. Then she finished the dinner preparations and set the table for one. Before serving herself, she sautéed the green beans with bacon bits and onion, sliced the gelatin salad and carved the roast chicken. Then she lit two candles on the dining-room table and filled her own plate from the dishes in the kitchen. The closed den door discouraged her from letting Charles know dinner was ready. Once she’d eaten, she’d make up a plate for him and leave it on the kitchen counter; he could warm it up in the microwave when he was hungry. That was what she’d done yesterday.

  Faith sat down at the far end of the dining-room table and spread the linen napkin across her lap. Emily always used real cloth napk
ins. Faith admired that about her friend. Living on her own, Faith tended to treat meals as a necessary evil, but when she dined with Emily, meals were an event to be savored and shared. So, in Emily’s house and in Emily’s honor, Faith would keep up this tradition.

  Reaching for the merlot she’d bought that day, she started to pour herself a glass, then stopped, the bottle suspended, when she realized Charles had emerged from the den. He stood in the dining room, looking a bit disoriented. He stared at her as if he’d forgotten she was in the house.

  Faith stood. “Would you like me to get you a plate?”

  Charles frowned at the grandfather clock. “I had no idea it was six-thirty.” The clock marked the half hour with a resounding clang, punctuating his words. “Uh, do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

  Faith was too shocked to reply. “P-please do,” she stuttered after an embarrassingly long pause.

  Charles went into the kitchen for a plate and served himself from the various dishes she’d prepared, then returned to the dining room. He sat at the opposite end of the table.

  They remained awkward with each other. He made a polite comment about the food; she responded with equal politeness.

  Silence! Faith desperately wished she had the nerve to put on a Christmas CD—maybe a Celtic Christmas recording Emily had. Or an instrumental of classic carols.

  She cleared her throat. “Would you like some merlot?” she offered. She preferred red wine to white, which was why she chose to drink a red with chicken. “Thank you.”

  Before she could stand, he got up and retrieved a second wineglass from the kitchen, poured his wine and sat down.

  An uneasy silence settled between them once again. Faith picked up her fork and resumed eating.

  “How did your snow war end yesterday afternoon?” Charles asked in a casual voice.

  “Successfully—for the girls,” Faith told him in cordial tones. “The boys surrendered when they saw they were outwitted and overpowered by us.”

  Charles nodded. “I had a feeling the boy team needed my assistance.”

  This time, Faith managed to hide her shock.

  He glanced at her and grinned—actually grinned. “My aim is excellent, if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t think of a thing to say. What suddenly filled her mind was a vision of Charles Brewster throwing snowballs, surrounded by a swarm of young boys.

  “So you survived the adventure unscathed.”

  “I sure did.” She wasn’t telling him how much her shoulders ached and she’d ended up taking aspirin before retiring last night, nor did she mention that she’d soaked in a hot tub for twenty minutes. Today she’d gone shopping, list in hand, and when she returned, she’d lounged in front of the fireplace with a good book and a cup of warm cocoa, keeping as still as possible.

  “You enjoyed seeing me get plowed, didn’t you?” she asked, again in the most conversational of tones.

  “Dare I admit that I did?” He smiled once more, and it transformed his face, reminding Faith of her reaction to his laughter the day before. Had she been wrong about him?

  “I wish you had joined us,” she told him impulsively.

  “I was tempted.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He shrugged and lifted his wineglass. “Mainly because I’ve got work to do—but that isn’t the only reason I’m here.” He gestured at the window. “Hard as it is to believe, I came here to avoid Christmas.”

  Had her mouth been full, Faith would have choked. “You came to Leavenworth to avoid Christmas?”

  He shrugged again. “I thought it would be a nice quiet prison community.”

  “That’s Leavenworth, Kansas.”

  “I eventually remembered that.”

  Faith couldn’t keep from laughing.

  “I’m delighted you find this so amusing.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to make fun of your situation, but it really is kind of funny.”

  “It’s your situation, too,” he said. “You’re stuck here, just like I am.”

  Faith didn’t need any reminders. “What are you working on?” she asked in an effort to change the subject.

  “I’m a history professor at Harvard, specializing in the early-American era.”

  It made sense that he taught at Harvard, Faith supposed; he lived in Boston, after all.

  “I’m contracted to write a textbook, which is due at my publisher’s early in the new year.”

  “How far are you with it?”

  “Actually it’s finished. I was almost done when I arrived, and my goal is to polish the rough draft in the remaining time I’m here.”

  “Will you be able to do that?”

  “I’m astonished at all the writing I’ve accomplished since I got here. I finished the rough draft about fifteen minutes ago.” He couldn’t quite suppress a proud smile.

  “Then congratulations are in order,” she said, raising her wineglass to salute him.

  Charles raised his glass, too, and they simultaneously sipped the merlot.

  “Actually, early American history is a favorite subject of mine,” Faith told him. “I teach English literature at the junior-high level but I include some background in American history whenever I can. Like when I teach Washington Irving. The kids love ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’”

  “Don’t we all?”

  After that, they launched into a lively discussion, touching on the Boston Tea Party, Longfellow’s poetry, writings of the Revolutionary War period and the War of 1812.

  “You know your history,” he said. “And your American literature.”

  “Thank you.” She heard the admiration in his voice and it warmed her from the inside out. “I like to think I can hold my own in snowball fights and battles of wits and words.”

  “No doubt you can.” Charles stood and carried both plates into the kitchen. “Shall we finish our wine in the living room?” he surprised her by asking.

  “That would be lovely.”

  The fire had died down to embers, so Charles added another log. He sat in the big overstuffed chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. Faith sat on the rug by the fireplace, bringing her knees up to her chin as she reveled in the warmth.

  “I’ve always loved this town,” she said.

  “Thus far, I haven’t been very impressed,” Charles said, a little sardonically. “But my predicament hasn’t turned out to be nearly as disastrous as I feared.”

  Faith couldn’t have held back a smile if she tried. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on your face when I showed up with Santa and the elves.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on yours when I walked out of that bathroom.”

  “I was expecting Emily.”

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  They both laughed.

  “You’re not nearly so intimidating when you laugh.”

  “Me, intimidating?” Charles asked as if she were joking.

  “You can be, you know.”

  He seemed puzzled by that, shaking his head.

  “I suspect you don’t get angry often,” she went on, “but when you do…”

  “When I do,” he said, completing her thought, “people know it.”

  He’d certainly made his feelings known shortly after her arrival. “I really appreciate your letting me stay,” she told him.

  “Actually, after a meal like that and last night’s too, I think I’m the fortunate one.”

  “I’ve enjoyed cooking the last couple of days. I don’t do much of it anymore. Usually I grab something on my way home from school.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “You live alone?”

  Faith nodded. “I’ve been divorced for more than five years.” She was too embarrassed to admit how short-lived her marriage had been. “What about you?”

  “I’ve never been married.”

  “Are you involved with anyone?” Faith asked the question before she had time to
think about what it might reveal.

  Charles shook his head. “No, my work’s always been my life.”

  Suddenly the room seemed to grow very warm. Faith looked up and found Charles studying her as if seeing her for the first time.

  Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Faith came gracefully to her feet. “I’d better do the dishes,” she said.

  “Wait.” Charles stood, too. “I’ll help.”

  “No, really, that isn’t necessary.” Faith didn’t understand why it was so important to put distance between them, but it was. She knew that instinctively. They’d shared a wonderful meal, found common ground, discussed history and even exchanged a few personal facts. They were attracted to each other. She felt it; he felt it, too, Faith was sure, and it unnerved her.

  “Okay,” Charles said. He stood no more than a foot away from her.

  The tension between them seemed to throb like a living thing. It took Faith a moment to realize that Charles was responding to her statement about not needing help with the dishes.

  She started to walk away, abandoning her wine, when he caught her hand. She stood frozen, half-facing the kitchen, her fingers lightly held in his. She sensed that if she turned back, he’d probably kiss her. He’d given her the choice.

  Slowly, almost against her will, Faith turned. Charles drew her into the circle of his arms and brought his mouth down on hers.

  The kiss was wonderful. They strained against each other, wanting, needing to give more, receive more, feel more.

  When it was over, they stared at each other as if equally perplexed.

  “Wow,” Faith mumbled.

  “You’re telling me!”

  Charles pulled her back into his embrace and held her tightly. “I’m ready to be wowed again. How about you?”

  Faith’s heart fluttered with excitement. This was the best surprise yet, she mused, as she closed her eyes and tilted her mouth toward his.

  EIGHTEEN

  Emily had the bacon sizzling and muffins baking by the time Ray came out of his brother’s bedroom. His hair was still wet from the shower, and he wore a fresh set of clothes. Emily assumed they’d come out of Charles’s closet, because Ray hadn’t brought a suitcase. Apparently the two brothers were close enough in size for Ray to wear his brother’s clothes.