No Christmas Like the Present (15 page)

Lindsay's eyes stung unexpectedly. She leaned over her soup, and felt Jeanne's suddenly watchful eyes.

“Hey. How about you? Whatever happened with the merry Englishman?”

Lindsay studied floating bits of parsley. “He's gone.”

“The rat.”

“No, it's not like that. He didn't have a choice. He—”

The reality, or the unreality, of it hit her again full force. Lindsay set down her spoon and closed her eyes tight for a moment, then looked at Jeanne desperately. At least Jeanne remembered him too.

“You saw him, didn't you?” Lindsay asked, just to be sure. “You thought he was—”

“Six feet of gorgeous. And nuts about you.”

“Thanks.” Lindsay dabbed at her eyes with a wry smile. “I'm not sure if that helps or not.”

“I'm sorry,” Jeanne said. “I shouldn't have called him a rat. I didn't mean it. Sometimes it's easier to get mad than—”

“I know.” If Fred had done anything wrong, maybe that would help. Instead, she clung to a perfect image of the way he'd looked at her, those last few minutes at her front door.

Lindsay took a deep swig of her tea. When she set her glass down, Jeanne was studying her intently.

“Oh, honey. You're worse off than I am. I didn't know.” Lindsay's eyes blurred. “You feel like
this,
and you come down and take me to lunch because you're worried about
me
getting hurt? We shouldn't be having lunch. We should be out knocking back mai tais, or one of those dumb little drinks with umbrellas.”

Lindsay sputtered out a laugh. “And singing karaoke.”

“Say you'll come tomorrow night. You need it.”

Lindsay nodded. “Okay. I'll tr—”

Jeanne raised an eyebrow in warning.

“I'll be there,” Lindsay amended.

Chapter 15

Lindsay stood near the big plate of cheese and crackers on Jeanne's dining room table, sipping tentatively from her plastic stemware glass. Jeanne took great pride in the fact that she had successfully duplicated Phil and Helen's pineapple punch, and Lindsay didn't want another sugar-induced headache. The volume in the tiny apartment threatened to do that anyway. Lots of voices, competing with the background music, a CD shuffle of Christmas songs having their last hurrah for the year.

Whatever Jeanne's troubles with men, there were certainly enough of them at her party, and they had a definite tendency to swarm around their hostess. Lindsay smiled as she saw Matt try to get a word in edgewise as Jeanne chatted with someone tall, blond and handsome.

I was right,
she thought.
I've got to tell Fred.

And winced inside. She wondered when thoughts like that would stop coming so often.

She'd ventured out tonight, she supposed, mostly for him. It would be tempting, and easy, to curl up into a ball and stay home. But she knew Fred wouldn't have wanted that. He'd talked so often about wanting to leave her with something positive. So she'd worn her red sweater, trying to look festive for one last holiday fling, and she'd come.

At least she could make it better than that
other
New Year's Eve ten years ago.

She looked for someone to talk to. Some of the people, she knew from the office; most, she didn't. Lindsay smiled vacantly and moved back toward the living room, determined not to stay anchored in one spot all night. Maybe she could keep Matt company for a little while, or find someone who wanted to talk about the hors d'oeuvres.

And then she saw him.

Someone else must have let him in, because Jeanne was still surrounded by her clutch of men. Lindsay blinked hard, in case her eyes were playing a trick on her. She bit her tongue hard, in case she was dreaming. Because there, fifteen feet across the room, was Fred Holliday.

And yet it wasn't. No overcoat, no top hat, not even an undersize sweatshirt, just black slacks and a dark green sweater she'd never seen before, the kind you'd see at any present-day department store. He looked ever so slightly out of place, as though he were searching for someone.

He glanced in her direction, and her heart seemed to stop.

He didn't recognize her. For a moment she was sure of it. His face was so utterly still, Lindsay couldn't read any expression there.

Then he started toward her with a smooth, purposeful stride, so purposeful that other people in the room automatically moved aside. As he got closer, she could see just how intently his dark eyes were fixed on her. What she'd mistaken for lack of expression had been intense focus. Lindsay became aware that her heart was, in fact, beating; more than that, it was pounding. And that she should be moving too, instead of standing as if her knees had been replaced by sacks of wet cement.

When she started toward Fred, other people moved out of the way for her too. She couldn't remember that ever happening before.

And they crushed together, arms locked around each other so tightly Lindsay couldn't breathe and didn't care. All she could do was hold on. He was here. He was solid. He was real.

Standing on tiptoe, she hung her chin over his shoulder. “I thought you evaporated,” she whispered.

“I'm not sure you were wrong.”

She pulled back, just enough to give him a questioning stare.

Fred smiled. “Is there a place we can talk alone?”

Lindsay cast her eyes around, and they fell on the sliding glass patio door at the back of the room. Taking Fred's hand, she led him toward it. By the time they reached the door, Jeanne stood there waiting with a knowing smile, and pulled it open for them. They stepped out onto a little concrete balcony, about four feet wide.

Before the glass door finished sliding shut, Fred had her in his arms again, lifting her off her feet as his mouth covered hers. Lindsay dangled in space, pressed against him, feeling a heady, floating sensation as he turned them in a small, slow circle on the tiny balcony. It was Fred, all right, marvelously unchanged, despite the external differences.

Not until he set her down, raining kisses over her face, did she begin to feel the cold. They'd had no snow in the past week, but the night was brittle and still. Only the lack of any wind made it bearable to stand out here without a jacket.

“Well, we'll have privacy for certain.” Fred clasped his arms loosely around her waist, holding her securely to him. “It's freezing out here.”

Fred, cold? She looked up at him. “Freezing?”

“Yes, I assure you, I'm very mortal. Now.”

“H-how? Is that good or bad?”

“I suppose that depends on you.” His eyes searched her face. “I woke up in a hospital. Amnesia victim.”

“Amnesia?”

“Think about it. How else would you describe a thirty-year-old man with no memory before the last two weeks or so?” He caressed her hair. “I never forgot about you, or about us. But I couldn't tell them that. I didn't know if you should be involved. I didn't know what the outcome would be with Steven.”

“He's married. Happily. With a little girl.”

“Good for him.” He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you for going. You made this possible.”

“How?”

“Well, they found me unconscious, not far from the hospital, on December twenty-eighth. Does that date mean anything to you?”

It was burned into her memory. “It's the day I went to see Steven.”

“It's also the birth date on my passport. They found it in my coat pocket. Fred Holliday, Camden Way, London.”

Lindsay frowned. “But I made that up.”

“And someone else made it so. My supervisors are a very decent lot, really.”

Until just now, she'd almost decided they were a bunch of sadists. Lindsay smoothed her hand over the shoulder of his sweater, making sure yet again that he was really there. She ran her finger along the bottom of his jaw. Rough.

“So,” he went on, “I made as if I didn't know how I'd gotten here, which is very nearly the truth. For a while I was afraid they were going to ship me off to live out my days in some little flat in Camden that I'd never seen before. Then, yesterday, a gray-haired gentleman showed up. Him, I recognized.”

“From Headquarters?”

He nodded. “One of my supervisors. Only he told them he was my uncle, and they released me to his custody. A very nice man. You've met him, by the way. Threw him out of your apartment, in fact.”

Lindsay gasped. “That was your boss?”

“
Was
is the operative word. His last official act was to bring me here to you tonight.”

“You're really here for good?”

“Completely earthbound, my dear. And I'm hoping you think it's a good thing.”

“Of course it is.” It was too wonderful to be true. Maybe that was why she had so much trouble believing it. There had to be a catch. “But
why?
”

He brushed the side of her cheek lightly with cool fingers, and Lindsay reached up and held them. For once, her hands were warmer than his. “Each of us had a job to do,” he said. “Mine was to guide you to be reconciled with Steven, and yours was to follow through. To see Steven and free yourself of this idea that you'd done some irreparable damage. That you didn't deserve to be loved. Or even enjoy Christmas.”

“So why didn't they
tell
you that?” Lindsay felt a bewildering mixture of joy and exasperation.

“Because, if I was meant for you, I had to want what was best for you. Even if it wasn't what I wanted. They couldn't very well say, ‘Do the unselfish thing, and the girl is yours.' That would defeat the purpose. We had to act for the right reasons.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you understand it now? Think about it, Lindsay.” He took both of her hands in his and gazed into her eyes. “Something like this doesn't happen every day. I was truly made for you.”

Dark eyes shone into hers.

“My Christmas present,” she whispered.

“Exactly. But first we had to earn it.”

“But I don't deserve . . . you . . .”

He placed a finger over her lips. “Don't talk like that. Do you want me to vanish in a puff of smoke?”

Her eyes widened in horror. He laughed.

“Don't worry, darling. I love you and I'm here to stay. Unless you prove me wrong, by breaking my heart and sending me away.”

“Never.” Finally she could say it. What she hadn't had a chance to say on that last night, when she thought she'd never see him again. “I love you.”

She moved toward him again, but with all his resolve, Fred held her back.

It was so hard for him to hold any distance from her at all. He felt beset by warring urges—to look at her, to talk to her, to all but devour her. And the fear that she'd get tired of this, despite the fact that she practically glowed before him. He couldn't believe she was his, and that uncertainty was a new feeling. He seemed to have picked up just a niggling of insecurity. He supposed it came with this mortal body, along with hunger, thirst, and the ability to feel truly cold.

There were so many things to consider. Where he would find gainful employment. How they would live. The practical implications of this were staggering, and he knew he couldn't have thought of even half of them. But that could wait. Now that he'd answered all of her questions, he had only one of his own.

He took a deep breath and asked it. “Lindsay Miller, will you marry me?”

She flung her arms around his neck. “Yes.”

From inside the apartment came the distant sound of whoops and horns, welcoming in the new year. Their first holiday season together was complete.

He kissed her, arms closing around her, until both of them forgot the cold. Afterward, Fred drew her closer, and chuckled.

He said, “You'll regret this, you know. And you've got no one to blame but yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You've just agreed to spend the rest of your life with a man named Fred.”

Epilogue

Fred and Lindsay Holliday run a bakery in Lakeside, Colorado, which is renowned for its fudge, especially the recipe with almonds. Their friends, who see them often, say they know how to celebrate the Christmas season better than anyone else they know, a spirit that seems to linger in their household throughout the year.

For Christmas, every year, they send postcards.

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Copyright © 2014 by Sierra Donovan

 

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ISBN: 978-1-4201-3420-9

First Electronic Edition: October 2014
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3421-6
ISBN-10: 1-4201-3421-3