No Christmas Like the Present (12 page)

Fred started to speak again, but bent forward instead under the force of another spate of coughing.

Too big to fit on her sofa, yet he seemed helpless. Lindsay rested a hand lightly on the back of his shoulder, wincing as she felt his body shake. She was discovering she had some alarming latent nurturing instincts. But no idea how to use them. “You're sick,” she said.

“I noticed.” Fred slumped back down onto his pillow with a wry smile. “Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing more serious than the common cold.”

She frowned. “You're not supposed to get those.”

“It's all right.” His voice didn't have its usual resonance.

She went with the basics. “Are you hungry?”

“I think so.” Fred looked as though the idea were new to him. It probably was. She'd seen him eat things like chocolate, chestnuts and hot cocoa, but never a meal. She started to get up, and he blinked. “Lindsay, I can't have you—”

She stood and folded her arms, looking down at him from her new dominant height. She couldn't help cracking a smile. “Try and stop me.”

Scrambled eggs, she decided. Nourishing, but not too challenging to eat. Breaking the eggs into the skillet, Lindsay took comfort in being able to do something useful. How traditional. Just a woman cooking breakfast for—

She looked toward the doorway leading into the living room. If Fred wasn't an angel, what
was
he? And why was he suddenly so very, very human?

Her heart sank at the sound of more coughing from the next room.
I did this.
She brushed the useless thought away and concentrated on making breakfast. Dim gray light filtered in through the kitchen window, reminding her of another reality: it was Monday morning. She was supposed to go to work. Her last day and a half of work before she went on vacation. Calling in wouldn't look good. But she didn't like the thought of leaving Fred in this condition. In fact, something primal inside her felt very uneasy about leaving him alone now.

Fred started awake at a sound next to him, and opened his eyes to see Lindsay setting a plate and glass on the tray he'd been using last night. Good grief, had he been asleep again?

Sitting up, even halfway, was an incredible effort. He felt abominably weak. He picked experimentally at the scrambled eggs. Unless you counted the chicken broth Lindsay foisted on him last night, he'd never eaten food for nourishment before. If it wasn't sweet or otherwise delicious, there hadn't seemed to be any point to it. But he had a feeling he needed to now.

He saw Lindsay glance furtively at the little pendulum clock that hung across the room. “You need to go to work today, don't you?”

“I'm supposed to. But . . .”

Did he really seem that feeble? Getting her off work early for a Christmas excursion was one thing. Keeping her home because he was a helpless heap on her couch was unacceptable. “Don't be ridiculous. You can't stay home on my account. It's not as if I'm going to evaporate without you.”

Her face paled, and Fred realized that was exactly what she was afraid of. He never should have made those jokes about being struck by lightning or vanishing in a puff of smoke.

He tried logic. “Lindsay, if Headquarters was going to be that vicious, I never would have come back up through the ice. They don't
do
things like that. Trust me.”

He was ninety percent certain he was telling the truth.

“Then why are you sick?”

“That, I'm not sure. I still need to sort it out.” He tried for Gruff, Irritable Male. “Maybe if I had some time alone—”

He couldn't tell if Lindsay saw through it or not. She hesitated, one hand clutched through her hair, something he hadn't seen her do in a while. She left the room and returned a moment later with a small white stick. A thermometer, he realized.

“Now, I ask you again, what's that going to tell you? For all you know my normal temperature is—”

She inserted it under his tongue, shutting him up effectively. There didn't seem to be much point in resisting. For all her uncertainties, Lindsay had an undeniable core of determination.

A few minutes later, it beeped. She pulled it out, examined it, and frowned. “A hundred.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's not too bad.” She clicked the thermometer against her thumbnail, obviously still at war with herself. She looked at Fred again. “I'd still feel better—”

“Lindsay,
go.
”

Eventually she did. But not before she gave him a complete rundown on the contents of the refrigerator, cleared his dishes, urged him to drink fluids, and showed him how the remote control on the television set worked. Now that she was leaving him on his own, she'd reverted from firm and in-charge to fretting and fluttering.

What did she think—he wouldn't die if she was watching?

Wisely, this time, he didn't say it out loud.

Lindsay closed the door behind her, and he missed her immediately. Fred rested his head on the pillow, marveling that anyone could be so exasperating and so wonderful at the same time. It all seemed to be tied up in the same feeling, one he didn't dare put a name to.

Soon, though, that strange, drifting sensation started to claim him. It was odd, this need for rest. Usually either he was awake, or he simply—
wasn't.
Being where he wanted to be was a simple matter of thinking it, and it was so. In between, there was nothing. Instead of all this meaningless time, drifting in and out of awareness, while the hours slowly crept.

Apparently this body, in its current condition, needed sleep to fight whatever illness this was. His head ached, and his chest felt cramped and heavy. All right, Headquarters was giving him a little taste of mortality. Very amusing. He wondered if they realized mortality wouldn't be so bad, if Lindsay came along with it. But that wasn't the plan they'd set before him. They were reminding him of that now, in no uncertain terms.

What they hadn't done, as of now, was allow him to contact them. After the first few hours, he got tired of trying to will himself there to report in. Obviously, they'd left him to sort it out on his own.

He reached for the remote control. Fred fixed his eyes on the colored screen, trying to distract himself with the images. He couldn't be sure, but it seemed part of the purpose of television was
not
to think. He paused at a channel showing something in black, white and gray. It was a welcome respite, more soothing to his eyes than all that garish color.

In a moment he recognized the show. It was Lindsay's movie,
A Christmas Carol.
He knew the story backward and forward because Lindsay loved it, but he wasn't really familiar with the film. He'd barely given it a second glance the first night he came to Lindsay's apartment. Now, he saw himself walk into Ebeneezer Scrooge's little office.

Oh, this was strange.

Thanks to his inherent, need-to-know familiarity with the story, he could practically recite the dialogue by heart. But he was transfixed by the image of himself, this cheery Fred who knew all the answers.

Had that really been him, a week ago? Or had that certainty started to falter from the very first time he set eyes on a vulnerable, fair-haired girl?

He drifted again, and when he opened his eyes, the television was in color again, blaring out an obnoxious commercial for last-minute holiday savings.

Chapter 12

Lindsay hurried home as quickly as she could, half-convinced Fred wouldn't be there by the time she got back. The words
I killed an angel
kept running through her head all day. This never would have happened to him if it hadn't been for her.

He denied being an angel. But he'd never been anything but kind to her, and for the life of her, Lindsay couldn't think of any good she'd ever done him. If he wasn't an angel, what was he?

The front doorstep was dark when she put her key in the lock. December twenty-third, one of the shortest days of the year. No lights from her tree glowed through the curtains of the front window; she should have turned the tree on for Fred. If he'd been able-bodied at all, surely he would have turned the tree lights on himself.

If he was still there.

With that last thought, she shouldered her way into the apartment, afraid of what she'd find.

She entered quickly enough to see Fred's head jerk as he started awake. He still lay slumped on the couch, very similar to the position she'd left him in this morning, his head raised slightly from propping the pillow on the arm of the couch.

He blinked at her sudden entrance. “Yes? The fire is in the apartment two doors down.”

Alive, awake, and a joke. She couldn't have hoped for better. Lindsay leaned against the doorjamb, smiling as relief flooded her limbs. Then she thought of all the cold air she was letting in, and shut the door. “I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“Don't apologize. You're a breath of fresh air. Literally.”

He still didn't sound like himself. Lindsay crossed the room to him, trying to assess whether he seemed any better. He looked pale under the single overhead living-room light. Had he eaten? She wondered if he'd made it off the couch at all today.

She put a hand to Fred's forehead. To her surprise, he moved it away, then held on to it and studied it as if he wasn't sure what to do with it. “Sorry,” he said, to her hand. “I'm still not used to that.”

“To what?”

“Being the one someone else takes care of. I like it and I don't.”

“Well, you'd better learn to like it. Because you don't have a choice.”

He smiled, as though admitting defeat, and finally met her eyes again. Something was missing, in his eyes or in his smile, and Lindsay wondered fleetingly if they'd sent her a different Fred again. But no, she didn't think so. This felt like her Fred—just with something subtracted. Was it the illness, or something else? She put her hand to his forehead, and this time he let her. Still warm. But probably no warmer than this morning, and she hadn't heard him cough since she walked in.

She tried to put her unease aside, and heated up some soup. Then ate some herself, when Fred insisted. She sat at the far end of the couch, doing her best not to crowd his legs, or to notice the growing silence between them as they ate. The silence lasted while Lindsay cleared away their bowls and trays.

When she returned, Fred still sat upright on the couch, although his limbs hung more loosely than usual. Maybe the fraction of a bowl of soup he'd finished had done him some good. He spoke before she reached him. “We need to talk.”

He sounded better, more like himself, but something still felt wrong. Lindsay hovered halfway across the living room, suddenly reluctant to take a seat.

Fred rested a hand on the sofa cushion next to him. “Come sit down.”

The brown velour cushion looked as inviting as an electric chair. Lindsay approached it warily and sat, growing more alarmed when Fred took her hand in both of his. She would have thought he was about to tell her her cat had died, if he hadn't already died two years ago.

He didn't speak until she met his eyes, dark and searching. Lindsay's fingers curled inward until the gentle pressure of Fred's hands stilled them. “I had a chance to do some thinking today.” He nodded toward the television set. “When the only alternative is looking at that bloody thing, you find you have a lot of time to think.”

She didn't laugh.

“Lindsay, I've tried walking around and around it. It's amazing how long you can ignore the obvious if you really want to. I've been terribly selfish. I've been told what's best for you, and I've willfully shut my eyes to it.”

He'd
been selfish? Angel or not, the man was insane.

“It's pretty obvious neither of us have been in any hurry to get you back to Steven. I think we both know why. At least I know my reasons. Why don't you tell me yours?” Fred squeezed her hand gently, holding it between both of his as surely as his eyes held hers. Eyes that only seemed to see the good in her. They'd always looked at her with such warmth, warmth she'd come to depend on, without even knowing when it happened.

“Help me do my job,” he said. “Tell me about Steven.”

“I can't.” She couldn't pull away from that steady gaze, but she tried to pull her hand back.

Fred held it, with more firmness than he could have managed this morning. “Why?”

Because if I do you'll never look at me that way again.
“I just can't.”

“Lindsay, it's one step. It doesn't obligate you to take any others. But if we don't move forward, we can't hope to change things.” A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. “And you'll be stuck here with a sickly Englishman on your couch.”

She could think of worse things. Like exposing the weakest, ugliest part of herself. But she knew there was more at stake than her petty personal issues. This Headquarters wasn't going to let Fred exist on her couch forever. For all she knew, he'd wither away.

His dark brown eyes stayed on hers. Lindsay felt the urge to draw something up around her for protection, like one of the blankets twisted at the far end of the couch. But preferably something stronger. Steel, perhaps.

She took a deep breath. “It's not a nice story.”

“Try me.”

Lindsay wrenched her eyes away from his, concentrating instead on the large, blank eye of the television screen straight ahead. “It's like I told you. We dated all through high school. I think everyone always figured we'd end up together. Maybe I did too, I don't know. But when I finished high school, I went to college in Denver. Four hours away. Steven stayed home and went to the community college. We didn't make any plans. . . .” Lindsay squirmed out of her shoes and drew her feet up onto the couch, hugging her knees. “I think I kind of liked the fact that Denver was four hours away. I wasn't half of a couple there. People didn't look at me and see Steven's girlfriend. We'd been together so long, I guess I wanted to find out who I was on my own.”

She stared at the darkened gray screen. Her reflection looked small and huddled. Cowardly. Beside her, Fred didn't make a sound. She didn't risk a glance in his direction. If she was lucky maybe he'd fallen asleep again.

“We didn't see each other again until I came home for Christmas break.” Even the sight of her reflection on the gray glass was too much to bear. She switched her gaze to the fabric of her slacks, trying to lose herself in the individual threads. “On Christmas, he gave me a present. A diamond ring.”

She tightened her arms around her knees. The urge to curl into a ball was nearly insurmountable.
Why are you making me do this?
“I couldn't say anything. So I didn't. I couldn't even look at him. I just hugged him. And we were engaged.” She rested her head on her knees and closed her eyes. “For about a week.”

She felt a light hand at her back—Fred's—and flinched, shaking it off. “I've always wondered if he thought something was wrong with me that week. I spent a lot of time holed up at home. I said I had a big term paper due when I got back to school.”

Lindsay forced her voice past the ache in her throat. “I was already packed to go back the day before New Year's. Steven gave me a call, said he was having a little New Year's Eve party at his house. . . .” She took a deep breath. “When I got there, it was a big surprise party. For me. For us. Balloons, streamers. Everybody jumped out and yelled when I walked in—I just stood there with my mouth open. He must have worked so hard on it.”

She closed her eyes. “Then Steven came up and gave me a kiss, and he announced our engagement. I'm sure everybody knew, but—well, he wanted to celebrate. I smiled as big as I could, and I felt like the heel of the universe. I kept thinking,
This isn't how I'm supposed to feel.
I just wanted to run away.

“So, later on, when no one was looking—I did.”

Lindsay willed herself to breathe slowly. “I went into Steven's room and left the ring on his dresser. And I sneaked out.” She pressed her forehead hard against her knees and kept her eyes shut tight. “I didn't even leave a note. I didn't know what to say. When I went home, my parents were already in bed, so I grabbed my bags and drove back to Denver that night.”

She still couldn't look at Fred. He'd seen something special in her, or at least thought he had. Now he knew better.

“That's it,” she said.

Silence stretched out. Lindsay finally opened her eyes. A tear fell on her slacks, but they were black. It didn't show.

“So,” he said softly, “you're the one who did the hurting. It never crossed my mind. I didn't think you could hurt anybody.”

Another silence, and Fred's fingers brushed her temple. He tucked a section of hair behind her ear, as though searching for a better look at her face. She turned away.

“Lindsay,” he said, “it's not the end of the world.”

His tone was gentle. Lindsay blinked hard and turned around to look at him. Fred studied her, his features contemplative, but not quite as if a singularly ugly worm had just crawled out from under a rock.

“You don't think I'm horrible?” It seemed like such a childish thing to say, but she couldn't help it.

He gave her a wry grin. “Well, for one thing, you didn't do it to
me.
For another, you were eighteen years old.”

“Nineteen.”

“Oh. You're a monster, then.”

Lindsay let out a laugh that was half a sob. “You're not helping.” She leaned her elbows on her knees and rested her forehead against her palms. “It's the worst thing I ever did.”

Fred rested a hand lightly on the nape of her neck. “Why
did
you do it?”

“I didn't want to face him.”

“That goes without saying. But why didn't you want to marry him?”

All those years ago, she hadn't known how to explain it to Steven. Now, it had been so long since she thought about it, Lindsay wasn't sure she could explain it to herself, or to Fred. “I didn't know what I wanted,” she said slowly. “I'd never even dated anyone else. Not since I was fourteen. I guess I didn't expect him to . . .” She shrugged helplessly.

“And you never heard from him again?”

Lindsay shook her head.

“Interesting,” he said. Interesting?

His fingers curled loosely in the hair at the nape of her neck, lingering for a moment before he took his hand away. The back of her neck felt colder.

“All right,” he said. “Let's take a look at this. My guess is, you've spent so much time just feeling guilty, it's been a long time since you thought about how you really felt about Steven. Am I right?”

“I guess so.”

“And maybe, when you were nineteen, your expectations just weren't realistic. You weren't ready. And maybe now you are.”

Lindsay turned to stare at Fred, in his slightly undersize sweatshirt, his features so calm and composed. Her insides clenched. Why? What was he saying that was different from what he'd said all along? She'd been shrinking back from it, avoiding it, since the day he'd first told her she was supposed to be reconciled with Steven. Why should she be surprised to hear it now?

Still, she shook her head. “You can't be serious.”

“Of course I am. Don't you see? It's all starting to make sense now. You made a mistake ten years ago. And I'm trying to tell you it's not such a terrible thing.”

So helpful, so supportive, so neutral, so objective. Just a man doing his job. Was this the same man who'd kissed her? It couldn't be. Where had he gone?

“The incredible thing is,” Fred said, “you're being given the chance to put it right.”

Incredible?
Lindsay stared into the calm dark eyes and felt something fall out from under her. A hurt started up that felt like ground glass in her stomach. It hurt worse than telling him about Steven, though she wouldn't have thought that was possible.

She whispered, “You really want me to do this? Go back to him?”

Fred's expression didn't change. “I want what's best for you. That's the only reason I'm here.”

The only reason.
It was true. He was here to do his job. Everything else had been a lie.

“Did you love him?” He asked the question with the same implacable expression.

“Yes.” It was true. But it wasn't the whole truth.

And she saw it. Or thought she saw it. A sharp flicker of pain in Fred's eyes, and Lindsay realized with shame that she'd wanted to put it there.

The flicker vanished. “Then that's where you belong.”

“No.” The word came out without her meaning it to, and Lindsay gave up the one weapon she might have had. “It was nothing like—”
. . . the way I feel about you.
She couldn't even say it. It was too humiliating. And she knew Fred didn't want to hear it.