There's Something About Christmas (13 page)

“I just might,” she agreed.

Her words appeared to shock him because Oliver nearly slipped. He grabbed hold of the door; otherwise he would’ve fallen into the icy water a second time.

“
What
did you just say?” he demanded gruffly.

“Never mind,” she said, highly amused. “It was a joke.”

“Very funny.”

As a matter of fact, Emma thought so, too. Even if there was more truth in that remark than she wanted him to know.

Peggy Lucas’s No-Bake Fruitcake
with Marshmallows

1 cup raisins (dark or golden)

2 cups dates

2 cups mixed candied fruit

4 cups chopped nuts ( you can reduce this to 3 cups if desired)

¾ cup evaporated milk

2 cups marshmallows

2 cups very finely crushed graham crackers

E
mma sat at her computer, which she’d set up on the kitchen table, trying to work on her article. When Oliver had finally landed at Lake Union again and they’d started back to Puyallup, it was rush hour. The Seattle traffic inched along Interstate 5; what normally would have been an easy half-hour drive took almost ninety minutes. Emma’s nerves were frayed and she didn’t even attempt to go to the office.

Oliver had dropped her and Boots off at the apartment. “Would you like to come in and have a hot drink?” she’d asked. It was the first time she’d made such an offer and she’d expected him to accept her invitation instantly.

Oliver hesitated. “Some other time.”

His rejection took her by surprise. Not knowing how to respond, she mumbled her thanks for the ride and climbed out of the truck, retrieving Boots and her briefcase. She stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive away. He obviously wasn’t going home.

Oliver was out of sight within seconds. Emma had wanted to demand that he tell her where he was going, but she couldn’t. It was none of her business. Besides, she reminded herself, she had a dozen things to do, all of which were more important than frittering away time with an unresponsive and ungrateful man. “I have an article to write,” she mumbled to no one in particular.

But even now, an hour after he’d left, Emma’s mind continually wandered back to Oliver. Boots seemed unsettled, too. Her dog ran back and forth from the kitchen to the front window, hopping onto the chair and peering out at the street. Boots obviously missed her two companions.

Emma shared the feeling. She didn’t
want
to care about Oliver, but she did. This was too similar to the way her mother had behaved toward her husband, which Emma had hated. Bret had acted as if Pamela should be grateful for whatever crumbs of his life he offered them.

Emma forced herself to think about the interview with Peggy Lucas. She’d enjoyed meeting Peggy and her children, and…

Oliver was up to something. Emma knew it—there, she’d done it again. No matter how hard she tried, her mind was filled with thoughts of Oliver.

She got up and walked over to the window, petting Boots, who’d jumped into the chair to stand guard. This late in the afternoon, there was little activity outside. The streetlights had come on, casting a warm glow that illuminated the Christmas bells that hung from each lamp post.

Emma drew her sweater more tightly around her. She refused to think about Oliver anymore. No—not for another second. She sat down at the kitchen table again with a cup of tea and read over the opening paragraph she’d drafted. With her interview notes propped next to the monitor, she resumed writing.

Emma sighed and saved her draft, then shut down her computer. She couldn’t concentrate on fruitcake anymore, or metaphors for life. Her mind wasn’t on Peggy but on Oliver.

In order to distract herself from memories of the man, she phoned Phoebe.

“Hello, Emma,” Phoebe said, picking up after five rings, just before the answering machine came on.

“What took you so long to get to the phone?” Emma wanted to know.

“Ah…”

Emma could almost hear her friend blush and suddenly understood. “You’re not alone, are you?”

Again the hesitation. “Not at the moment.”

“Is it, by chance, anyone I know?”

“Could be.”

Her friend’s face would be beet-red by now. “Is it…drumroll, please…Walt?”

“Ah…”

“Say no more,” Emma murmured. “Call me when you’re free.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.” Emma replaced the telephone receiver, more depressed than before. Everyone she met was in love. Okay, maybe not everyone; it just felt that way. Ever since the night Phoebe had helped Emma move, she and Walt were practically never apart. They hadn’t made a big announcement, but everyone at the office knew. Emma didn’t understand why Walt had been so concerned. Their romance had barely been a blip on the office gossip monitor. They seemed to suit each other; Phoebe’s sense of adventure balanced Walt’s caution. Their relationship struck her as natural and healthy, now that it was out in the open.

Emma gave another deep sigh. What did
she
know about healthy relationships, anyway? With her parents as an example, she was destined to mess up. Falling for Oliver Hamilton was a prime example of that.

Emma covered her face with her hands, hating this sense of despair.

The doorbell chimed and her heart kicked into overdrive. It had to be Oliver! She hoped it was him. No, she didn’t. Yes, she
did.

If ever Emma understood her mother’s feelings about her father, it was now. She wanted to slam the door in Oliver’s face and yet, at the same time, she wanted to hug and kiss him.

The doorbell chimed again.

“Who is it?” she asked, stalling for time.

“Look through your peephole.”

It was Oliver’s voice. “Uh, is there something you want?” she asked. Should she let him in or not?

“You didn’t check the peephole, did you?”

She did, then gasped at what she saw. Oliver stood there with the largest, most beautiful Christmas tree she’d ever seen. It was the kind of tree the White House put up every year. Or Rockefeller Center. Definitely not as big, but about as perfect as a tree could get.

“Are you going to let me in?”

She unlatched the lock and swung open the door.

Boots and Oscar raced toward each other as if it’d been years since their last meeting. Emma had wondered if they’d ever get beyond the stage of sniffing each other’s butts. Although she supposed that was like saying “Hello” or “What’s new?” in the dog world.

“Well,” Oliver said proudly, clutching the tree by its trunk. “What do you think?”

Emma stared. “It’s gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.”

She tried to figure out where he planned to put it. In his dining room, perhaps? She recalled catching a glimpse of one in his living room last week, glittering with decorations.

He smiled as he thrust the tree at her. “Merry Christmas.”

She backed away a step. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Where do you want it?”

Emma leaned closer in order to hear him better. “
Want
it? This tree is for
me?
”

He nodded. “Yes. Isn’t it obvious?”

Emma took another step backward.

He blinked, as if he’d been expecting her to throw her arms around him in gratitude. “You don’t like it?”

“Of course I like it. That’s the most beautiful Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s yours.”

Emma froze. He’d been serious about giving her the tree. Her—a woman who didn’t have a stand or ornaments or anything else one needed for a Christmas tree.

“It’s kind of…big, don’t you think?” she asked.

“I might need to take a bit more off the bottom, but no, it’s not too big. I thought you could do with a bit of Christmas cheer, and I decided to make a contribution.”

“But…”

“You’ll thank me later.”

Emma wasn’t sure about that. Not sure at all.

“I’
ve never seen anything so big in my life,” Emma complained to Phoebe. “He didn’t even
ask
me if I wanted a Christmas tree.” Thanks to her unenthusiastic response, Oliver hadn’t spoken to her in two days. Now Emma was miserable and needed to talk with her friend.

Phoebe frowned. “But don’t you think bringing you a Christmas tree was very romantic of Oliver?”

Emma stopped her pacing, deep in The Dungeon, as she considered this. “Oh, my goodness.” That hadn’t even occurred to her. She pressed her hand to her forehead, then flopped down in her chair. “That’s it.” She should’ve realized earlier what had prompted him to buy her a tree. “Oliver thought he was being romantic.” They’d had this ongoing conversation about romantic heroes and she’d failed to recognize what he was doing. The tree was his way of being romantic according to his theory of “show, not tell” romance. Action rather than words.

“Yes! Oliver was being romantic,” Phoebe insisted. “You’ve really fallen for him, haven’t you?” She smiled—a smile that could only be described as smug.

“I think he’s arrogant and dogmatic, opinionated and—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Phoebe’s smile grew even wider. “I thought so.” She returned to work as if there was nothing left to argue about.

Emma felt she couldn’t leave her friend with that impression. Phoebe might say something to Walt, and Oliver and Walt were pals. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge her feelings for Oliver, wasn’t even sure those feelings would last long enough to be worth acknowledging.

“I think Oliver’s a good pilot,” she said, carefully weighing her words. “We’ve each made an effort to make the best of an uncomfortable situation.”

Phoebe ignored her.

“You’re right….” Emma admitted reluctantly, walking over to her friend’s desk. She folded her arms and spoke casually. “There
was
a slight attraction in the beginning. We even joked about it.” Well…Oliver had joked.

Phoebe turned and looked up at Emma. “Did he or did he not kiss you?”

“He…ah, okay, yes, there were a couple of times when I…that happened. So technically, yes, he did kiss me.” This was all she was willing to say on the subject.

“So there was
more
than the one time?” Phoebe probed.

“There might have been.” Emma wanted her friend to stop studying her with that appraising light in her eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“But you said Oliver’s your romantic hero.”

“No. I said it looked like Oliver was just proving a point.” She wished he wouldn’t try so hard, but she didn’t know how to make him stop. The entire conversation about romantic heroes had come about by chance. But now he seemed to be going out of his way to prove that he was every bit as romantic as Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant.

Emma sat at her desk, hardly able to concentrate. She’d be leaving the office in a few minutes to drum up advertisements for the newspaper. During the fruitcake interviews, Walt had excused her from that responsibility. Apparently his arrangement with Oliver had sparked an idea, and Walt was now willing to trade newspaper space for goods and services. Rumor had it that the Subway Express down the street would be catering the company Christmas lunch. Talk around the water cooler was that Walt had worked out some sort of deal with the owner—three weekly ads in exchange for thirty turkey sandwiches, pickles and coleslaw on the side. Thankfully, he hadn’t been negotiating with the Mexican restaurant/sushi bar. Cross-cultural restaurants weren’t so rare in small towns, but this was a combination Emma found a little bizarre.

“How are things going with you and Walt?” Emma asked, deciding it was her turn to ask personal questions.

Phoebe glowed. “Fabulous.”

“Define fabulous.”

“He asked me to have Christmas dinner with his family.”

This was big, and Emma released a low whistle.

“We’re having two dinners that day,” Phoebe went on to explain. “First with my mom and dad, and then later with his.”

“I hope you like turkey.”

“I do,” Phoebe assured her. “But my mom’s serving prime rib and I don’t know about his mother. What are you doing for Christmas?”

Christmas fell on a Sunday this year, and Emma wouldn’t be doing anything special. She’d probably do what she had the year before—attend a movie and have buttered popcorn for dinner. It would be a day like any other.

“Emma?”

“I have plans.” She hated to lie, so she remained vague. If she mentioned going to a movie, Phoebe would feel sorry for her and then find a way to include her. Emma didn’t want to intrude on Phoebe and her family, or on Walt and his.

“What sort of plans?” Phoebe pressed.

Emma didn’t want to be rude or arouse her suspicions, so she played it coy. “Private plans,” she said, dropping her voice until it was almost a purr.

This was a mistake because Phoebe’s curiosity was certainly piqued now. “They involve Oliver, don’t they?”

“They could.” Emma reached for her coat and purse, anxious to leave.

“You’ll tell me later?”

Emma sighed deeply. “Yes, but only if you torture it out of me.”

“That could be arranged,” a gruff male voice said from behind her.

Both Phoebe and Emma gasped as Walt stepped between their desks. “I should come downstairs more often to see how the two of you spend your time.” He frowned at Emma and handed her a sheet of paper printed with a list of businesses. The highlighted ones were the companies he wanted her to approach. Oh joy, The Taco Stand and California Rock & Roll were on the list, the combination ethnic restaurant so recently in her thoughts.

Emma stared at the paper and squelched a groan. She did not consider ad sales her forte.

Half an hour later, Emma was sitting with Mr. Garcia of The Taco Stand and his wife, Suki, who operated the other half of the restaurant. There weren’t any lunch customers yet, and they’d chosen a booth on the Mexican side of the building with its strings of red chili pepper lights proclaiming Christmas cheer. Emma carefully reviewed the newspaper’s advertising rates. Suki, whose English was poor, looked to her Hispanic husband to explain what Emma had suggested. Emma glanced from one to the other and realized they had a language all their own.

“Is it for newspaper?” Suki wanted to know for the third time.

Emma smiled and nodded. “Yes,” she said. She found herself speaking slowly and deliberately. “Advertise your good food to all the people in Puyallup so they will come in and place many orders.” After five minutes of talking to the young Asian woman, Emma sounded as if she were the one struggling with English. It embarrassed her; she didn’t want to offend the gentle young woman, but in her effort to make herself understood, she was overemphasizing each word.

Carlos, Suki’s husband, nodded. “Very good for business.”

Suki brightened. “We talk,” she said and smiled softly at her husband.

A bell tinkled in the Japanese half of the restaurant, separated by a doorway. “Suki, where are you?”

Emma would recognize that voice anywhere.

Suki’s eyes widened with pleasure. “Mr. Oliver,” she said and immediately scooted out of the booth.

Carlos laughed. “She has a big crush on the pilot. It’s a good thing she met me first.”

Emma didn’t doubt Oliver’s appeal to the opposite sex for a moment. He had that effect on women; she knew from her own experience.

“Leave the information with me,” Carlos said. “I’ll call Mr. Walt later.”

“So you think you’ll buy an ad?” Emma asked hopefully.

Carlos hemmed and hawed. “Maybe. I’ll talk it over with Suki.”

It happened like this every time. She nearly had a commitment, and then the business owner would back off. She had no idea what she needed to do in order to get businesses to advertise in their local paper. Some of the businesspeople she talked to practically gave her the impression that they were afraid of attracting more customers. She didn’t know how else to explain it. Fortunately, she’d had one success—Badda Bing, Badda Boom Pizza. They’d seen an increase in pizza sales and had happily signed a new contract.

She couldn’t resist. After thanking Carlos, Emma walked over to the other half of the restaurant. Sure enough, Oliver sat on a stool with his back to her, while Suki worked behind the counter, assembling his order.

“I would never have taken you for someone who enjoys sushi,” she said, and slid onto the stool beside him.

Oliver didn’t look surprised to see her. “Really? I love it. My guess is you’ve never tried it.”

He was beginning to know her. Then again, he seemed to have that ability from the moment they met. “You’re right, I haven’t.”

“California rolls for the lady,” Oliver told Suki.

“Oh, I’m not hungry,” she said, which wasn’t true.

Oliver didn’t allow her to protest. “At least give it a try.”

She’d been saying the same thing all afternoon. The least she could do was follow her own advice. “All right, I will.”

Oliver gave her a warm smile, and she couldn’t help basking in his approval. “See?” he said. “You didn’t like fruitcake but you were willing to try it. And look how well that worked out.” Emma could have stared into this man’s eyes forever; instead, she quickly glanced away.

“I wondered where the name California Rock and Roll came from,” she said casually. “Now I know.”

Suki placed both orders on the counter and Emma examined hers. On a rectangular plate, Suki had arranged four California rolls. They seemed to be rolled logs of rice around a thin sheet of processed seaweed, with strips of avocado and various vegetables tucked in the center. On the same plate were two small bowls. One held soy sauce and the other was filled with a thin guacamole. Apparently Carlos and Suki had found a way to cross their foods culturally. Emma was intrigued. While Oliver reached for his chopsticks, she spread a liberal portion of the guacamole across the top of one California roll.

Oliver watched her with raised eyebrows.

Emma was about to take her first bite when he stopped her.

“You might want to scrape off some of the wasabi.”

“The what?”

“Wasabi.”

She must have looked confused, because he dipped the end of his chopstick in her guacamole and offered her a taste. The minute her lips touched it, her mouth was on fire. She grabbed her cup of tea and swallowed the entire contents. Waving her hand in front of her mouth, all she could do was feel grateful for Oliver’s intervention.

“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped.

“You thought that was guacamole?”

She nodded. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

His eyes crinkled with a smile as he returned to his sushi.

Once Emma had tasted her first real bite, sans wasabi, she was surprised by how delicious the California roll was. “Hey, this is good.”

“Told you.”

She merely smiled.

They sat in companionable silence, and Emma had to admit she was thrilled to see him. She wanted to explain why she’d reacted the way she had to his gift of a Christmas tree, but was afraid any attempt would destroy this fragile peace.

“You came here for an early lunch?” Oliver asked.

“No, I was on another of my advertising treks for Walt.”

“How’s it going?”

She hated to admit how unsuccessful she was at this selling business. It was so much harder than she would’ve expected. Oliver listened and nodded. Then he told her, “You’re doing it all wrong.”

“What do you mean, I’m doing it wrong?”
He
wasn’t the one hoofing it from business to business, putting on a smile and talking his heart out, only to be shown the door.

“Emma, listen to me. You’re an attractive, charming young woman and it should be difficult for people to tell you no.”

She scoffed, although she took note of the “attractive” and “charming.” “That hasn’t been a problem today.”

“You’ve gotten nothing but
no?
” He seemed astonished by that.

She wasn’t proud of it, but that was exactly what had happened. If she didn’t get a flat rejection, it was “we’ll think it over” or “later, maybe.”

“Like I said, you must be doing it wrong.”

That annoyed her. “
You
turned me down,” she reminded him, allowing her temper to flare just a bit.

“I most certainly did not. I couldn’t afford you, but I wanted you.”

“It was the advertising you wanted, not me,” she told him, stiffening at the implication.

“Whatever. I got you in my plane, didn’t I?
And
I got advertising in the paper.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll concede the point.” She reached for the teapot and refilled her cup. “If you think it’s so easy, you try.”

“All right. I’ll bet I can prove to you that people can be talked into anything. What do you want me to do?”

Another man had entered the restaurant and sat at a table by the window. Emma pointed at him. “Ask that man to pay for your meal and watch how fast he tells you no.”

“Okay, you’re on.” Oliver slid off the stool and walked toward the gentleman dining alone. He looked like a midlevel bank employee. Possibly a loan officer, judging by the fact that he was smartly but conservatively dressed.

Oliver didn’t hesitate. He strolled over to the other man and when he spoke, he made sure it was just loud enough for Emma to overhear the conversation.

“Excuse me,” he said in a friendly way.

The other man glanced up from his menu. “Yes?”

“I just ordered lunch for my girlfriend and me, and I’ve discovered I left my wallet at home. Would you mind paying for our meal? I’ll repay you, of course.”

The other man didn’t say anything for a long moment. “How much is it?”

Emma was shocked he hadn’t immediately laughed in Oliver’s face and told him to get lost.

In a display of false humility, Oliver shook his head. “I haven’t got the bill yet, but I’d guess around ten dollars.” He shrugged. “I just assumed I had my wallet.”

“You didn’t think of that before you ordered?” the man asked.

Oliver gave him a look that said he was absolutely right. “I know I should’ve but…I didn’t.”

“You seem like a decent sort,” the other man said slowly.