Merry Humbug Christmas (13 page)

“Sweet dreams.”

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Joss wondered if she’d be sleeping long enough to conjure up any

of those.

PATRICK ARRIVED AT HIS mother’s cabin to find her sitting safely on the edge of her bed with Lilibeth.

“Oh, Patrick, there you are, dear. How was your evening?”

“It was fine, Mother. How about the two of you?”

“Caroline, Lilibeth, and I went to the salon and played a rousing game of Reindeer Bingo,” she said, beaming. “Look what I won.”

A large red basket wrapped in clear cellophane and tied with

curled ribbons filled most of the table angled into the corner on the other side of the bed. He walked over to inspect it more carefully.

“There are Christmas ornaments and beautiful little hand tow-

els,” she told him. “Oh, and some lovely chocolates I’m thinking of sampling.”

“Kathleen was the belle of the ball,” Lilibeth said with a smile.

“She had a line of gentlemen vying for the honor of pushing her

wheelchair.”

“I missed you though, dear,” she added. “Tell us. Did you enjoy

your time with Miss Snow?”

“Very much.”

“I’m so glad. She’s a lovely young woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

After an hour or so of hearing about all of the ins and outs of

Reindeer Bingo, Patrick left his mother in Lilibeth’s capable hands to help her get ready for bed. With the memory of that just-missed slice of cheesecake to spur him, he decided to pass his cabin door and head downstairs to see if anything similar could be had.

The enormous geared clock in the atrium read 10:14, and he’d

just begun to wonder if it might be too late for such things. However, a familiar steward directed him to one of the smaller salons where snacks and sweets could be found at just about any time of the day or night.

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A stunning, middle-aged African-American woman in a red

sequin dress with white fur trim stood at a microphone in front of the piano in the corner of the room, crooning a pretty fair imitation of Etta James. After lingering in the doorway for a moment, Patrick navigated the occupied tables and headed for the buffet. He poured a cup of decaf and gave himself a self-congratulatory smile when he spotted the cheesecake, and he placed a slice on a small plate, along with several gargantuan strawberries.

As he scanned the room for an ideal spot to enjoy the music, he

spotted Rodney and Marla Jenkins sitting alone at a small table. He made his way to the empty one beside them and sat down.

“Evening,” he said with a nod when Marla noticed him.

“Patrick. Join us?”

Her husband stiffened before courtesy got the better of him.

“Please do.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

He scraped a chair toward them and sat down next to Rodney. “I

had a near-miss earlier tonight with dessert,” Patrick told him softly.

“I couldn’t sleep until we reconnected.”

Jenkins snickered and nodded. “We’re trying out one of the

cruise line’s sitters to see how the children do.”

“I don’t imagine you two get much alone time away from the

brood,” he said. “I don’t mind moving to another table if you’d like to make the most of your escape.”

“As long as you don’t tug on my coat or whine at me to get you

something, I think we’re ahead of the game here.”

Patrick took a swig of coffee and returned the cup to the table-

top before speaking. “Actually, I would like to tug on your coat sleeve for just a quick second.”

Jenkins kept his eyes on the singer as he responded. “I had a

feeling.”

“Joss is pretty torn up about your encounter earlier.”

He waited for a reply, but none came.

“She’s a pistol, that one,” he continued. “Talks a pretty tough

game.”

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“Does she?” It came as more of a statement than a question.

“You and I,” Patrick said, “we have the ties to make Christmas a

family affair. Joss doesn’t have that. So she’s developed a fairly robust defense against it all that can come off as pretty . . .”

“False?” he asked, still without turning toward Patrick.

“Harsh,” he corrected. “But that’s all it is . . . a defense. And what you overheard was a bit of bravado for the sake of her business partner who, I might add, was speaking to her from some idyllic location with his own family gathered around him.”

Marla leaned forward and looked at Patrick across the forward

stare of her husband. “Are you two talking about Joss? She doesn’t have any family?”

Patrick shook his head and casually sliced off a chunk of cheese-

cake and poked it into his mouth. “Family non grata.”

“That’s so sad.”

“Yes,” Rodney remarked. “But it does make her the logical choice

then to . . . how did she put it? . . .
take one for the team
.”

“As I said,” Patrick reiterated, “just a hard outer shell. I’ve found Joss’s inner workings to be surprisingly quite tender.” He took a moment to wonder which side of Joss might face off with him over

the interference. “I think she and her business partner have spent a good bit of time preparing to meet with you after the holidays. It would be a shame to miss out on what they can offer your company

simply because you overheard a misstep about something so personal to her as spending Christmas alone.”

“What’s she doing on a Christmas-centric cruise then?” Jenkins

asked him coolly, and then he turned toward Patrick to await his

reply.

“That’s a funny story, really,” he said, leaning in to include Marla.

“She normally spends Christmas with a friend, and they make it a

point to avoid the holiday altogether. She’d actually signed them up for a sort of anti-Christmas cruise called a Bah Humbug journey.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Marla told him, and she squeezed her hus-

band’s arm.

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“They apparently didn’t get enough interest, and Murphy’s Law

came into play. She was booked on this ship instead.”

“And where’s her friend?” he asked.

“Turns out the girl recently became engaged to be married. She’s

spending the holidays with her future in-laws.”

“Oh. Poor Joss,” Marla cringed.

“Anyway, it’s none of my affair. I just thought you should know

that she feels awful about the way things went.”

“What things?” Marla asked, and she angled toward her husband.

“Rod? Did something happen between you and Joss?”

“I think I’ll let you two have your date night,” Patrick said, and he drained the last of his coffee. Placing a hand on Rodney’s shoulder, he added, “Thanks for the company. G’night then.”

“Good night.”

DESPITE THE FACT THAT their guide had been meticulous in

instructing them how to use torso rotation and upper body stance for purposes of navigation, Joss’s shoulders burned when she and Patrick finally stopped for a rest. The blue-green Pacific waters seemed far less choppy as they steered their bright yellow kayak toward the exquisite coastline rock formations.

“Mazatlan was founded in 1531,” their nearby guide called out,

and the seven other two-person kayaks in their tour paddled into a semicircle around him. “Settlers were Spaniards and Indians, and the seaport mostly dealt in equipment for mining silver and gold.”

Joss loosened the strap of her life vest and stretched out the muscles of her neck as several ospreys squawked overhead. Despite the gorgeous scenery and the great company on the tour, she struggled to stay focused on the experience. Instead, the butterflies swarming in her stomach continually called her attention back to the look on Rodney Jenkins’s face when she’d turned around to find him standing there.

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“C’mon,” Patrick had persuaded. “Let’s just go with the tour

into Mazatlan as planned, and I’m willing to bet you feel like a new person.”

But she didn’t feel new. She felt weighted down with guilt . . .

and regret. If she thought she could pull it off, she’d strap that life vest a little tighter and swim her way home. Anything to avoid getting back on that ship and risk running into Rodney Jenkins and his family.

“Hey, you two!” Brett Wiley called out. He and Corinne, the

thirty-something newlyweds they’d sat with on the skiff, paddled

toward them, and their kayaks nearly collided. “What are you up to when we get back?”

“What’d you have in mind?” Patrick asked.

“We were thinking about sticking around after lunch,” Corinne

told them, “and maybe going horseback riding on the beach, or taking one of the tours around the area. Are you interested in joining us?”

Joss wasn’t particularly intrigued by the idea, but it would be

an effective way to stay away from the ship a little while longer. She leaned back and craned her neck, gazing into Patrick’s eyes.

“What do you think?” he asked her.

“Sounds good.”

He smiled, nodding at Brett. “I was reading about the older sec-

tion of the city, and I’d be interested in checking out some of the architecture.”

“There’s a two-hour tour that starts at the town square,” Corinne told them. “It’s called Plaza Revolución.”

“Let’s talk about it over lunch,” Brett suggested.

The large group dined on warm empanadas, chips and salsa,

and an array of fresh fruit. While Corinne and Joss changed out of their swimsuits and into clothes they’d brought along in tote bags, Patrick and Brett worked with their kayaking instructor to set up half a dozen members of their group with a Latina friend of his who arranged to shuttle them into town for a couple of hours before taking them back to the ship in plenty of time.

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An hour later Joss and Patrick climbed off the bus in an old sec-

tion of the city.

“These structures date back to the nineteenth century,” Patrick

told her as they strolled through the main square, surrounded by

palm trees and colonial-style buildings.

In the center of Plaza Revolución sat a strange sort of gazebo

with a wrought-iron bandstand on the top. Joss reached for the small digital camera zipped into the pocket of her tote bag and snapped photographs of a large Moorish church with twin blue and gold

spires.

Corinne stepped up next to her, a guidebook in her hands. “It’s

called the Basilica de la Immaculada Concepción,” she told them. “It took fifteen years to build in the 1800s.”

“Corinne,” Brett called to his wife, and she smiled at Joss.

“We’ll meet you back here in a while?”

“See you then,” she replied as her new friend jogged toward her

husband.

Patrick reached for her hand and led Joss toward the Gothic

cathedral. Inside, polished wooden pews faced an ornate gilded altar, and a massive Parisian organ inspired Joss to start snapping photos again.

When she rejoined Patrick, he sat in the back with his arms

draped over the pew as he took in the beauty surrounding them. She sat down next to him, and he tugged her close to him and smiled.

“It’s just unbelievable, isn’t it?” she whispered.

“This is the kind of Christmas holiday I enjoy,” he replied. “Sitting quietly in front of such beauty, where millions before us have paid homage to the Savior.”

Joss turned and looked at him for a moment, taken completely

off guard by his words.

“Do you mind if I just sit here and pray for a few minutes?”

She tossed her hair over one shoulder and cleared her throat.

“N-no. Of course not. I’ll just leave you to—”

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“You don’t have to go,” he said, and he cupped her hand between

both of his and raised it to his lips. “I’d like it if you stayed.” And he kissed her knuckles lightly.

A moment later Patrick bowed his head, closed his eyes, and

began to pray silently . . . leaving Joss to sit staunchly beside him.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever known a man who openly
prayed
, and she wondered what it must be like to have such a cemented foundation

of faith and reverence for something so clearly . . . unclear.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” Patrick asked, breaking the

silence just above a whisper, yet shattering it to shards in Joss’s ears.

“What? No. Of course not,” she lied.

“Sure,” he said with a smile. “Of course not. Because you’re not

the least bit tense. I can tell by the way you’re sitting there, erect and shell-shocked.”

Joss chuckled. “Okay. I was a little taken by surprise.”

“By prayer in general?” he asked. “Or by me praying here and

now?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe both. I guess I thought that, if you were so eager to help me avoid all things Christmas, maybe it didn’t mean so much to you either. But what you said just then . . . it

. . . surprised me, I guess.”

Patrick leaned forward, angling toward Joss as he took her hand

between both of his. “You know, Joss,” he said in that appealing Irish brogue of his, “the thing about Christmas—for me—is this whole

commercialization that we’ve done to it. That’s the part I don’t take seriously. But my faith is a different matter entirely. There were no wreaths on the stable door and no elves waiting to greet the visitors there. And I feel pretty certain not one of the three wise men was wearing a sweater bearing a reindeer whose nose blinked at five-second intervals. It’s not that there’s anything inherently wrong with all the rest of it, but forgetting why we celebrate Christmas in the first place is a terrible fate this one holiday doesn’t deserve.”