Trading Christmas (10 page)

F
aith basted the roasting chicken and closed the oven door as quietly as possible. Rather than mash the potatoes with the mixer, she decided to use the hand utensil in an effort to cut down on noise. As far as she could discern, the cranky professor had enjoyed her cooking the night before. The stuffed green peppers had disappeared in short order.

By six, the house was dark and dreary. Faith went from room to room, drawing the curtains and turning on lights. She played solitaire for an hour. Then she finished the dinner preparations and set the table for one. Before serving herself, she sautéed the green beans with bacon bits and onion, sliced the gelatin salad and carved the roast chicken. Then she lit two candles on the dining-room table and filled her own plate from the dishes in the kitchen. The closed den door discouraged her from letting Charles know dinner was ready. Once she'd eaten, she'd make up a plate for him and leave it on the kitchen counter; he could warm it up in the microwave when he was hungry. That was what she'd done yesterday.

Faith sat down at the far end of the dining-room table and spread the linen napkin across her lap. Emily always used real cloth napkins. Faith admired that about her friend. Living on her own, Faith tended to treat meals as a necessary evil, but when she dined with Emily, meals were an event to be savored and shared. So, in Emily's house and in Emily's honor, Faith would keep up this tradition.

Reaching for the merlot she'd bought that day, she started to pour herself a glass, then stopped, the bottle suspended, when she realized Charles had emerged from the den. He stood in the dining room, looking a bit disoriented. He stared at her as if he'd forgotten she was in the house.

Faith stood. “Would you like me to get you a plate?”

Charles frowned at the grandfather clock. “I had no idea it was six-thirty.” The clock marked the half hour with a resounding clang, punctuating his words. “Uh, do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

Faith was too shocked to reply. “P-please do,” she stuttered after an embarrassingly long pause.

Charles went into the kitchen for a plate and served himself from the various dishes she'd prepared, then returned to the dining room. He sat at the opposite end of the table.

They remained awkward with each other. He made a polite comment about the food; she responded with equal politeness.

Silence! Faith desperately wished she had the nerve to put on a Christmas CD—maybe a Celtic Christmas recording Emily had. Or an instrumental of classic carols.

She cleared her throat. “Would you like some merlot?” she offered. She preferred red wine to white, which was why she chose to drink a red with chicken. “Thank you.”

Before she could stand, he got up and retrieved a second wineglass from the kitchen, poured his wine and sat down.

An uneasy silence settled between them once again. Faith picked up her fork and resumed eating.

“How did your snow war end yesterday afternoon?” Charles asked in a casual voice.

“Successfully—for the girls,” Faith told him in cordial tones. “The boys surrendered when they saw they were outwitted and overpowered by us.”

Charles nodded. “I had a feeling the boy team needed my assistance.”

This time, Faith managed to hide her shock.

He glanced at her and grinned—actually grinned. “My aim is excellent, if I do say so myself.”

“Oh.” She couldn't think of a thing to say. What suddenly filled her mind was a vision of Charles Brewster throwing snowballs, surrounded by a swarm of young boys.

“So you survived the adventure unscathed.”

“I sure did.” She wasn't telling him how much her shoulders ached and she'd ended up taking aspirin before retiring last night, nor did she mention that she'd soaked in a hot tub for twenty minutes. Today she'd gone shopping, list in hand, and when she returned, she'd lounged in front of the fireplace with a good book and a cup of warm cocoa, keeping as still as possible.

“You enjoyed seeing me get plowed, didn't you?” she asked, again in the most conversational of tones.

“Dare I admit that I did?” He smiled once more, and it transformed his face, reminding Faith of her reaction to his laughter the day before.
Had
she been wrong about him?

“I wish you had joined us,” she told him impulsively.

“I was tempted.”

“Why didn't you?”

He shrugged and lifted his wineglass. “Mainly because I've got work to do—but that isn't the only reason I'm here.” He
gestured at the window. “Hard as it is to believe, I came here to avoid Christmas.”

Had her mouth been full, Faith would have choked. “You came to
Leavenworth
to avoid Christmas?”

He shrugged again. “I thought it would be a nice quiet prison community.”

“That's Leavenworth, Kansas.”

“I eventually remembered that.”

Faith couldn't keep from laughing.

“I'm delighted you find this so amusing.”

“Sorry, I don't mean to make fun of your situation, but it really is kind of funny.”

“It's your situation, too,” he said. “You're stuck here, just like I am.”

Faith didn't need any reminders. “What are you working on?” she asked in an effort to change the subject.

“I'm a history professor at Harvard, specializing in the early-American era.”

It made sense that he taught at Harvard, Faith supposed; he lived in Boston, after all.

“I'm contracted to write a textbook, which is due at my publisher's early in the new year.”

“How far are you with it?”

“Actually it's finished. I was almost done when I arrived, and my goal is to polish the rough draft in the remaining time I'm here.”

“Will you be able to do that?”

“I'm astonished at all the writing I've accomplished since I got here. I finished the rough draft about fifteen minutes ago.” He couldn't quite suppress a proud smile.

“Then congratulations are in order,” she said, raising her wineglass to salute him.

Charles raised his glass, too, and they simultaneously sipped the merlot.

“Actually, early American history is a favorite subject of mine,” Faith told him. “I teach English literature at the junior-high level but I include some background in American history whenever I can. Like when I teach Washington Irving. The kids love ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.'”

“Don't we all?”

After that, they launched into a lively discussion, touching on the Boston Tea Party, Longfellow's poetry, writings of the Revolutionary War period and the War of 1812.

“You know your history,” he said. “And your American literature.”

“Thank you.” She heard the admiration in his voice and it warmed her from the inside out. “I like to think I can hold my own in snowball fights and battles of wits and words.”

“No doubt you can.” Charles stood and carried both plates into the kitchen. “Shall we finish our wine in the living room?” he surprised her by asking.

“That would be lovely.”

The fire had died down to embers, so Charles added another log. He sat in the big overstuffed chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. Faith sat on the rug by the fireplace, bringing her knees up to her chin as she reveled in the warmth.

“I've always loved this town,” she said.

“Thus far, I haven't been very impressed,” Charles said, a little sardonically. “But my predicament hasn't turned out to be nearly as disastrous as I feared.”

Faith couldn't have held back a smile if she tried. “I don't think I'll ever forget the look on your face when I showed up with Santa and the elves.”

“I don't think I'll ever forget the look on yours when I walked out of that bathroom.”

“I was expecting Emily.”

“I wasn't expecting anyone.”

They both laughed.

“You're not nearly so intimidating when you laugh.”

“Me, intimidating?” Charles asked as if she were joking.

“You can be, you know.”

He seemed puzzled by that, shaking his head.

“I suspect you don't get angry often,” she went on, “but when you do…”

“When I do,” he said, completing her thought, “people know it.”

He'd certainly made his feelings known shortly after her arrival. “I really appreciate your letting me stay,” she told him.

“Actually, after a meal like that and last night's too, I think I'm the fortunate one.”

“I've enjoyed cooking the last couple of days. I don't do much of it anymore. Usually I grab something on my way home from school.”

“Me, too,” he said. “You live alone?”

Faith nodded. “I've been divorced for more than five years.” She was too embarrassed to admit how short-lived her marriage had been. “What about you?”

“I've never been married.”

“Are you involved with anyone?” Faith asked the question before she had time to think about what it might reveal.

Charles shook his head. “No, my work's always been my life.”

Suddenly the room seemed to grow very warm. Faith looked up and found Charles studying her as if seeing her for the first time.

Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Faith came gracefully to her feet. “I'd better do the dishes,” she said.

“Wait.” Charles stood, too. “I'll help.”

“No, really, that isn't necessary.” Faith didn't understand
why
it was so important to put distance between them, but it was. She knew that instinctively. They'd shared a wonderful meal, found common ground, discussed history and even exchanged a few personal facts. They were attracted to each other. She felt it; he felt it, too, Faith was sure, and it unnerved her.

“Okay,” Charles said. He stood no more than a foot away from her.

The tension between them seemed to throb like a living thing. It took Faith a moment to realize that Charles was responding to her statement about not needing help with the dishes.

She started to walk away, abandoning her wine, when he caught her hand. She stood frozen, half-facing the kitchen, her fingers lightly held in his. She sensed that if she turned back, he'd probably kiss her. He'd given her the choice.

Slowly, almost against her will, Faith turned. Charles drew her into the circle of his arms and brought his mouth down on hers.

The kiss was wonderful. They strained against each other, wanting, needing to give more, receive more,
feel
more.

When it was over, they stared at each other as if equally perplexed.

“Wow,” Faith mumbled.

“You're telling me!”

Charles pulled her back into his embrace and held her tightly. “I'm ready to be wowed again. How about you?”

Faith's heart fluttered with excitement. This was the best surprise yet, she mused, as she closed her eyes and tilted her mouth toward his.

E
mily had the bacon sizzling and muffins baking by the time Ray came out of his brother's bedroom. His hair was still wet from the shower, and he wore a fresh set of clothes. Emily assumed they'd come out of Charles's closet, because Ray hadn't brought a suitcase. Apparently the two brothers were close enough in size for Ray to wear his brother's clothes.

“Good morning,” she greeted him cheerfully.

Ray muttered something indistinguishable and stumbled over to the coffeepot. He poured himself a mug. “Are you always this happy in the morning?” he asked, after his first restorative sip.

“Always,” Emily said, just as cheerfully as before.

Ray stared at her. “I've heard there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who wake up and say ‘Good Morning, God' and those who say ‘Good God, Morning.'”

Emily laughed. “You don't need to tell me which one you are.”

“Or you.” He settled on the stool by the counter, propped
up his elbows and slowly sipped his coffee. When he'd finished his first cup, he was smiling again and eager for breakfast.

Emily set their plates on the counter and joined him, bringing the coffeepot for refills.

“Are you still interested in getting a Christmas tree?” she asked, as Ray dug into his bacon and eggs.

“Definitely, but first I think I'd better call my mother.”

They'd listened to the messages the night before. Bernice Brewster made it sound imperative that she speak to her oldest son
immediately.

After breakfast, Ray went to retrieve the portable phone.

“It's barely six in Arizona,” she warned.

“Mom's an early riser and trust me—she's waiting with bated breath to hear from me.”

He knew his mother well, because almost as soon as he'd dialed, Bernice was on the line. While they exchanged greetings, Emily scraped off the plates and set them in the dishwasher. She could only hear one end of the conversation, but Ray seemed to have trouble getting a word in edgewise. After a while, he placed the receiver carefully on the counter and walked away. He leaned against one of the stools, arms crossed, and waited patiently for his mother to finish her tirade. Even from the other side of the kitchen, Emily could hear the woman ranting.

“Ray,” she whispered, half amused and half shocked at what he'd done.

He poured himself a third mug of coffee and shrugged elaborately.

After a few minutes, he lifted the receiver and pretended to be outraged. “Yes, Mother. Yes, of course, it's
dreadful.
” He rolled his eyes. “What do I plan to do about it? Frankly, nothing. Charles is over twenty-one and for that matter, so am I. Have a wonderful Christmas—your gift should arrive
by the 24th. I'll be in touch. Bye now.” He listened a few seconds more and then turned off the phone.

“Did you, uh, reassure your mother?” Emily asked.

“I doubt it.” Ray chuckled. “She wanted to know what's going on with Charles. I didn't tell her, because basically I don't know. Besides, hard though it is for my mother to grasp, it's none of her business who Charles is with.”

Still, Emily understood the other woman's concerns. “She's worried that both her sons are with strange women.” She gave a short laugh. “Not
strange,
but strangers.”

He smiled, too. “You know, frankly I think she'd be overjoyed if she met you. You're exactly the kind of woman she's wanted to introduce me to all these years.”

Emily wasn't sure what to make of his comment. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good,” he assured her and briefly touched her cheek. “Very good.”

As soon as they'd cleaned up the kitchen, they put on their winter coats and ventured outside. The sky was dull gray, threatening snow. Arms linked, they walked several blocks until they found a Christmas-tree lot.

“Merry Christmas.” The lot attendant, a college student from the look of him, wandered over when they entered. He didn't seem especially busy, Emily noticed, but with only three days until Christmas most people had their trees up and decorated.

“Hello,” Emily said, distracted by Ray who was straightening a scraggly fir that leaned against the makeshift wire fence. She shook her head at the pathetic little tree with its broken limbs and one bald side.

“Do you want your tree tall or small?” the young man asked. His breath made foggy wisps in the air.

“Medium-sized,” Emily said.

He stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Would you mind telling me where you got that scarf?”

Emily turned away from the Christmas trees to look at the young man. “I knit it. Why?”

He shrugged. “I had a friend who had a similar one. That's all.”

A chill raced down Emily's spine. “Your friend wouldn't happen to be Heather Springer, would she?”

“Yeah,” he said excitedly. “How'd you know?”

“She's my daughter.”

“You're Heather's mother?” He whipped off his glove and thrust out his hand. “I'm Ben Miller,” he told her. “Heather and I were in art history together.”

Ben Miller…Ben Miller… She had it! “Didn't you and Heather date for a while?”

“Yeah.” He replaced his glove and rubbed his hands together. “I apparently wasn't…dangerous enough for her.”

“Dangerous?”

“Never mind,” Ben shook his head. “She's seeing Elijah now. Elijah with no last name.” He spit out the words. “From what I hear, she's headed down to Florida with him and a bunch of his no-account friends.”

The urge to defend Heather rose quickly, but died within the space of a single heartbeat. Emily could tell that he'd been hurt by Heather's actions—just as she herself had been. “Heather'll be back soon, I'm sure,” she murmured. It was the best she could do.

“You came out to spend Christmas with her and she left anyway?” Ben sounded thoroughly disgusted. “Yes…”

“You know, when Heather told me her plans for Christmas, I assumed it wouldn't take her long to see that she's making a mistake.”

Emily'd hoped so, too.

“But if she could turn her back on her own mother at Christmas, then she isn't the person I thought she was.” Ben's eyes hardened. “To tell you the truth, I don't care if I ever see her again.” He walked over to another section of the lot. “There are a couple of nice trees over here,” he said, all business now.

Emily and Ray followed him.

“Give her time,” Emily said, squeezing his forearm with one mittened hand.

Ben glanced at her. “She isn't interested in me anymore.”

Emily hung her head, fearing her daughter hadn't given her a single thought, either.

Sensing her mood, Ray placed his hand on Emily's shoulder. “You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Nothing she said or did now would make a difference to what Heather had done or how Emily felt about it. But Ben seemed like a decent, hardworking young man and she felt bad that her daughter had so obviously hurt him.

“With Christmas this close, we don't have much to choose from,” Ben apologized. He picked through several trees, then chose a tall, full one. “This is probably a little bigger than you wanted, but it's the best I've got.”

Ray looked skeptical and circled the tree. “What do you think?” he asked Emily.

“It's perfect.” She winked at Ben.

“We'll take it,” Ray said and reached for his wallet.

Without a car they were forced to carry the tree back to the condominium. They walked in single file, Ray holding the trunk in one hand and a stand in the other, and Emily behind him, supporting the treetop. They must've been something of a spectacle, because they got lots of stares along the way.

Once inside the condo, they saw the message light blinking again. Ray checked the caller ID and groaned. “It's my mother. Again.”

“Are you going to call her back?”

“Of course, but not anytime soon.”

Emily smiled. While Ray fit the tree in the stand, she took out the decorations she'd brought from Seattle.

“You got all that in a single suitcase?” Ray marveled when she spread everything out.

“Two very large suitcases if you must know. Don't forget the stuff already on the mantel.”

He shook his head, but Emily could tell he was enjoying this.

The living room was compact, and after a long debate, they decided the best place for the tree was by the window, although that entailed moving the furniture around.

“It's beautiful,” Emily told him. She handed him the first decoration—a felt snowman complete with knitted scarf. “I made that for Heather the year she was in kindergarten,” Emily explained.

Ray placed it on a tree limb and picked up a second ornament. “Does every one of these have some significance?”

Emily nodded. “Each and every one.”

“That's wonderful.”

She was surprised he'd appreciate her sentimentality. “You don't think I'm silly to treasure these ornaments?”

“Not at all. You've given your daughter a lovely tradition.”

At the mention of Heather, Emily bit her lip, overwhelmed by sadness.

Ray wrapped his arms around her. “My guess is she's got just enough freedom to be miserable,” he said softly.

Emily doubted it, but she was grateful for his encouragement.

“Everything's going to work out for the best,” he assured her. “Just wait and see.”

Emily hoped he was right.