Merry Humbug Christmas (12 page)

“A stocking-making class,” Joss informed him. “You in?”

He looked down at Becky and asked, “Are you going?”

She nodded and grinned. “We’re all making new stockings for

Santa to fill next year. It’s gonna be a new tarnation.”

“Tradition,” Marla corrected.

“That sounds like a good one,” he told her. Looking to Joss,

Patrick grinned. “I’m in.”

“Goody!” Becky bellowed.

Marla counted down her children and nodded. “Good, we’re all

here. Let’s get back to the cabin and tell your brothers and sisters all about the dolphins.”

“They picked the horses,” Becky told Patrick, reluctant to let go of his hand. “They rode horses, I mean.”

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“Well, that would be fun too,” he said. “You can fill me in over

making our stockings.”

“’Kay!”

And with that, four children scurried off with Marla across the

ship’s lobby.

“Sorry to rope you into that,” Joss told him when they’d gone.

“I’m hoping to lay some groundwork with Rodney Jenkins before we

get back.”

“No problem. I don’t have my own stocking anyway. I think it’s

high time, don’t you?”

THE ROOM HAD BEEN arranged with a dozen or more large rect-

angular tables for twelve, and between the entire Jenkins family, Connie Rudolph, and he and Joss, they filled their table to capacity.

“So there you have it,” the proper English instructor told them in a rather shrill voice. “It’s a beautiful Christmas stocking to hang on the mantel for Santa each and every year. Let’s get started, shall we?

And if you have any questions, I’ll be walking around the room to answer them.”

Becky Jenkins led Patrick by the hand toward the front of the

room to choose the trinkets and trims to decorate their stockings.

She picked several glittery felt hearts, some red-and-white gingham bows, and a handful of shiny buttons.

“I think you should use some buttons too,” she suggested. “The

bows aren’t right for a boy.”

Patrick furrowed his brow. “No? Why not?” he asked, and he held

one of the tiny bows up to his temple. “It doesn’t look good on me?”

Becky giggled. “Nooo. You’re a boy.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he conceded. “Perhaps I’ll use one of these glittery paints instead.”

He glanced around the room until his eyes landed on Joss sur-

rounded by several more of the Jenkins clan, including their mother.

Rodney Jenkins had already returned to the table with his youngest sons, one of whom had quite the jagged jawbreaker-induced smile.

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“Are you growing something on your chin?” Becky asked, draw-

ing Patrick’s attention back to her.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re stubbly.”

“Oh,” he replied with a laugh. “Don’t you like it?”

“I like clean chins, like my Daddy’s.”

“Do you?” he asked, rubbing his shadowy beard with the side of

his hand.

“Doesn’t it itch you?”

Patrick laughed. “Not too much. Do you want to feel it?”

Becky’s eyes lit up. “Could I?”

He nodded and leaned down toward her. “Go on then. Give it a

rub.”

The little girl timidly touched his cheek, giggling. “I think that would be itchy.”

“Do you now?” he said, and he darted toward her, rubbing her

face gently with his. “You think I’m itchy, do you?”

Becky’s laughter warmed his heart, and he watched after her as

she rushed back to the table with her trimmings clumped into both hands.

“I’m afraid my daughter has a bit of a crush,” Marla said, and he turned to find her standing beside him.

“Does she? I guess I hadn’t noticed because of the one I have on

her.”

Marla chuckled. “Well, don’t let her break your heart now. She

can be quite fickle. Until she met you, our cabin steward was the object of her affections.”

“The story of my life, fickle women.”

The two of them headed back to the table just as Joss stood up,

her cell phone in hand.

“Where are you off to?” he asked her.

“I noticed I have a connection, so I want to make a quick call

before I lose it again. I’ll be right back.”

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Patrick sat down between Becky and her smile-challenged

brother, paying far more attention to their creations than to working on one of his own.

“I knew it!” Marla exclaimed, shaking her head. “I knew if Rod

saw someone making a call, he’d be on his before you could say,

‘Ho-ho-ho.’”

Patrick caught sight of the back of Marla’s husband just as he

pushed through the door and left the Christmas stockings behind.

“I KNOW! FOR SUCH a colossal disaster, it really couldn’t have

worked out any better,” Joss told Ryan. “I don’t know how much

business talk I can squeeze in between Christmas stockings and noisy kids, but I think I’m forging a relationship anyway. Maybe laying a little groundwork for our meeting in two weeks.”

“Joss, are you having any fun at all?”

“Actually, yes. Get this! I went zip-lining in Puerto Vallarta!”

“By yourself?”

“Well, no. I’ve sort of . . . met someone.”

“You’ve met someone? You sure know how to bury the lead, my

friend. Tell me about him.”

“That can wait until I get back. It’s just a ship thing. You know, something to take my mind off all the merriment.”

“Careful, Ebenezer. I happen to be enjoying the merriment.”

“You do that, Ry. Get your fill of sugarplums and eggnog and

jingle bell rocking while I represent our company here with Santa Jenkins and his band of merry little elves.”

“And the someone you’ve met.”

“Believe me, there isn’t an Irish brogue
brogue-y
enough . . .”

“Oh. He’s Irish?”

“. . . to make up for what I’m taking for the team. So if you’ll

excuse me, I need to get back to my stocking-making class.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish. Give my love to the fam, and I’ll see you soon.”

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Joss disconnected the call and dropped her phone into the pocket

of her jeans. But as she turned back toward the door, she screeched to a stop to keep from running straight into Rodney Jenkins where he stood behind her.

Everything she’d just said to Ryan squealed at fast-forward in her ears, and she could hardly catch her breath as she wondered how

much of it Jenkins had heard.

“Oh. Mr. Jenkins, I . . . uh . . .”

“Better get back to the torture chamber, Miss Snow. Your friend

with the Irish brogue is saving you a seat.”

“Oh. No. I—”

“Now excuse me while I make a call.”

And with that, Rodney Jenkins stalked away—taking his six-mil-

lion-dollar account with him, no doubt.

Joss clutched her chest as she inched toward the door, her breath caught somewhere beneath her throat. She felt as if she might hyperventilate, but she walked into the room anyway. Somehow.

Her eyesight descended into a sort of tunnel vision between her-

self and Patrick. As if on instinct, he glanced up at her almost immediately. She nodded over her shoulder one time, and then she turned and walked out the door again. She hadn’t even made it to the end of the corridor before he reached her.

“Hey. What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Me.”

“You. Are you sick?”

“Yes.”

“It might be time to change that seasickness patch then. Why

don’t you—”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, that’s not it,” she managed.

“Then what is it? Can I walk you back to your cabin?”

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“No need. I’m just going to . . . to . . .” She didn’t know what she was going to do, truth be told. But then the inspiration came to her in a flash. “. . . throw myself overboard.”

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On the eighth day of Christmas,

Murphy’s Law gave to me . . .

eight careers crashing,

seven songs a-shrieking,

six teeth a-breaking,

five cold sardiiiines!

four dirty words,

three French friends,

two hearty shoves,

and a Partridge with the first name Keith.

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8

“You’ll just wait until tomorrow, and you’ll talk to him. Rod

seems like a very reasonable bloke, Joss. Tell him what

you’ve just told me. . . . Well, maybe not
everything
you just said, . . .

but I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right, Patrick,” she said, still clutching her heart. “I’ll just say, ‘Look, Mr. Jenkins, I’m a Christmas hater from way, way back. It’s nothing personal, but I only pretended to have the kind of holiday spirit of someone who, say, brings their twenty-seven children on a Christmas cruise and spends their time singing carols and decorating stockings, all so I could get closer to you and snag your business.’”

Tossing herself hard against the leather booth, she clamped her

eyes shut and groaned.

“Perhaps if he knows why you’re inclined to avoid Christmas—”

“Stop!” she growled without opening her eyes. “Please just stop.”

A clamor drew her attention as a server set down two cups of

coffee and an enormous slice of cheesecake she didn’t remember

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ordering. Joss inspected the cheesecake for a moment, and it morphed into the shape of a life preserver—drizzled with caramel. She

scraped the plate toward her, seized a fork, and stabbed it. As it hit her tongue, she sighed loudly.

“Should I get her a fork, after all?” the server asked Patrick. “Or can I bring you a second piece?”

“No. We’re fine.”

In a flash, she remembered. Joss had told the waitress all she

wanted was coffee. Patrick was the one who’d asked for the

cheesecake.

“I’m sorry,” she told him as she sliced off another hunk. “I have no self-control.”

“It’s fine,” he said with a grin. “Enjoy.”

Joss didn’t speak again until the last morsel of cheesecake had

been devoured. Before setting down her fork again, she mimed stabbing herself in the neck with it.

“Ah, Patrick, what have I done? I just keep going over it in my

head, imagining what Jenkins must have thought when he overheard

that conversation.” She sighed and sank into the booth, looking across the table at Patrick. “I’m defective. You should really know that about me. I’m unfit for human interaction, I really am.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” he replied softly. “Look, I need to check in on my mother. Can I walk you back to your cabin?”

“Go ahead. I’m just going to hang here with the memory of the

six thousand calories I’ve just consumed.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She nodded and tried to smile at him, but her lips refused to

curve upward. “I may stay clear of the main dining room though.”

“I’ll sneak you some food.”

“And a life raft so I can head for home?”

“You’ve got it.”

He slipped out of the booth and stopped to press a kiss on the

top of her head before departing.