Читать книгу A Town Called Christmas - Carrie Alexander - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

“ARE YOU CERTAIN we’re not at the North Pole?” Michael surveyed the frigid landscape beyond the ice-encrusted windows of the rental car. After his deployment to the Persian Gulf earlier that year, he was familiar with loneliness and deprivation, but he’d never been to a place as cold and isolated as this before.

The strange new world was nearly colorless. Out of the flannel sky, fat, lazy snowflakes spiraled toward the windshield in random loops and whirls. A frosty two-lane highway stretched away into a frigid forest of bare branches and ragged pines, which were burdened by mantles of heavy snow. Even the sun seemed leached of warmth and color, a tissue-paper disk hidden behind layers of clouds.

Michael shivered inside his Navy-issued topcoat. His bleak mood offered no more warmth than the rental car’s faulty heater.

Christmas in a town called Christmas. The stuff of sugar plum dreams, except he wasn’t buying it. There was no magic remaining in Mike’s world.

“Gotta be the North Pole,” he grumbled.

“Nah.” Nicholas York shoved the heating lever up to full blast, hoping to eke out another degree of warmth. The hearty Yooper—a common slang term for a denizen of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—had been Mike’s closest friend since flight school in Corpus Christi, right on through to their present assignment in the Blue Knight strike fighter squadron. “Not unless our pilot took a wrong turn.”

Michael grunted. “I didn’t like the look of the man.” They’d connected in Detroit, flown north in a rinky-dink prop plane, then disembarked at an airport in the middle of nowhere. From there they’d driven over a hundred miles deeper into nowhere. Maybe they had traveled beyond the North Pole.

“Only because you hate giving up control,” Nicky said cheerfully.

He had good reason to be cheerful. Nicky was going home for the holidays, to his wife and children. While Mike was glad their leave had come through at the last minute, for the Yorks’s sake, he sure wished he had a better plan than extra-wheeling it with someone else’s family for the holidays. If Nicky hadn’t insisted, Mike might have spent the time off hunkered down with a case of Michelob and a sixty-four-inch football telecast, in an effort to forget that he had no homecoming reunion of his own. Not even one that took place in a frozen wasteland.

Mike burrowed deeper into the coat’s raised collar. “I’m here, aren’t I? Seven days of Christmas in a town called Christmas. Seven days of out-of-control holiday celebration.”

Nicky gave him a look. An I-know-what’s-frosting-your-butt look. “Buck up. There are no Scrooges in a Christmas Christmas.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ordinarily, Mike was a doer, not a brooder, but he’d had a lousy year. First he’d been Dear Johned, then stranded for the holidays by a mother and stepfather who’d rather cruise Belize than gather around a faux fireplace in their Florida condo. Adding the recent news that his squadron would soon be sent on another tour of the Gulf had put him in an unusually morose mood.

He looked out at the barren landscape and said, with heavy sarcasm, “Another fine Navy Day.”

“Hey, now.” Nicky peered eagerly through the windshield, as if there was anything out there except more of the same. “Wait’ll you see Shannon and the kids. They’ll get you into the Christmas spirit.”

“Don’t worry,” Mike said. One good, swift kick in the keister would jar him out of his malaise. “I’ll be jolly for them. Ho, ho, ho.”

While more than a year had passed since Mike had seen Nicky’s family, they’d always be tight. There had been many good times, especially during the first years of duty after the men had earned their wings. Mike was the godfather to the Yorks’ first son, Charles, known as Skip. And Shannon had fixed Mike up with Denise, so they’d frequently double-dated with the Yorks.

At that thought, the fond memories might have turned sour, but Mike wouldn’t let them. He focused on Nicky’s kids instead. He was looking forward to being Uncle Mike again. Presents were wrapped and ready in his luggage.

There were also other family members to meet on this visit—parents, two sisters, assorted aunts and uncles. All of them ready to welcome Mike with open arms. Given his less-than-festive mood, the prospect was not entirely heartening.

Mike straightened. “What’s that? That big, white thing?”

“What?” Nicky followed Mike’s nod. “You mean the snowman?” He leaned over the steering wheel. “We’re home.”

The plywood snowman was fifteen feet tall, erected on the side of the road beside a placard that read Welcome to Christmas, Michigan. Mike stared as they drove by. The snowman’s painted details were faded by time and a dusting of snow, but the message was clear. He was in for it.

“There’s a Santa sign on the western end of town,” Nicky said, almost apologetically.

Celebrate or bust. Mike geared himself up as they drove toward a cluster of buildings that signified the outskirts of the town. Here was color at last. Every structure was strung with lights and decorated to the max. Bulbous, blow-up cartoon figures perched atop piles of snow. Plastic reindeer ran a roof line. Metallic man-made trees sat side by side with the real thing, all of them circled with blinking lights. The holiday banners that had been strung from the electric poles flapped in the wind.

“I ought to bring something,” he said suddenly. “Like a…what do you call it—a hostess gift?”

“Don’t bother. We Yorks are an informal bunch.”

“No.” Mike seized on a plan that would give Nicky and his family some private time. And himself, too. “When we reach the downtown area, drop me off. I’ll nip into a gift store, then get a taxi—” He stopped abruptly, supposing that there were no taxis. “I’ll hitch a ride, or whatever. If your family’s place is close enough, I can walk.”

“In this storm?” Nicky shook his head. The snowfall had thickened. Clumps of the white stuff had accumulated at the edges of the windshield wipers that swept the glass. “Mom would never forgive me. She’s expecting you.”

“Right—for dinner.” Mike tucked a wool scarf into his coat collar and removed a pair of gloves from one pocket. “You want me to look bad, showing up empty-handed?”

“All right.” Nicky braked. “I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up.” He pulled off the highway beside a mound of waist-deep snow. A couple of people bundled like penguins emerged from one of the lit-up buildings and waddled toward a stop sign that crowned another of the snowbanks. The street corner, presumably.

Mike glanced around. The smattering of buildings was still a smattering. “Where’s the shopping district?”

“This is it.”

“What about the downtown?”

“This is it.”

“This is it?” This was nothing. The way Nicky had talked about his hometown’s Christmas celebrations, Mike had expected a mini-Times Square, not a hodgepodge of humble businesses and homes half buried in snow. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Christmas is small.” Nicky grinned. “But it’s got a big heart.” He pointed past the steering wheel. “There’s the grocery, that’s the post office and beside it is a gift store. The brick building across the street is a tavern called The Christmas Cheer. You can get warmed up there.”

Michael stepped from the car and straightened. He took a gulp of the chilly air, smelling wood smoke as he looked from building to building. The tavern seemed to be the center of town—surrounded by vehicles, bursting jukebox music and activity. Three doors away, a white steepled church stood silent and closed, save for the tree sparkling with lights beside a signboard that listed service times beneath the spattered snowfall.

“See you in an hour, man.” Mike shut the door, feeling road weary and run dry. Whether he was plunked in a Michigan snow pile or stranded on the arid mesas of Arizona where he’d grown up, small towns were all the same. Even when they came dressed in garish decoration.

“One hour, then,” Nicky said with a nod. He gave a wave and put the car into gear.

Mike straightened his shoulders as he surveyed the town again. Travelers must have barely slowed down when they reached Christmas. A heavy foot on the gas, one blink of the eyes and they’d be out the other side.

A rush of wind sent snowflakes whirling. Mike tasted them on his lips. They clung to his lashes. He blinked and the swinging strings of lights that festooned the town turned to multicolored stars, blurry at the edges.

A second hard blink restored his vision. He was particularly glad of that when he saw the woman.

She was crossing the road, swept along by the wind. Her long, heavy coat flapped open. The tails of a red scarf whipped free, dancing like semaphore flags. Between the scarf and a matching knit hat pulled snugly past her ears was a fringe of golden-blond hair, molded to her pinkened cheeks.

The woman shot a clenched smile at Mike as she hurried past him and into one of the modest shops. She clutched a large leather purse and a paper gift bag with mitten-clad hands.

Pretty lady. A needle-sharp shot of interest made Mike’s sluggish blood quicken.

He huddled in the cold, considering his shopping options. Severely limited. So why not follow her? The store she’d entered looked promising. Icicle lights danced from the eaves. A giant candy cane stood sentry at the door, twined in ribbon and evergreen garland.

A bell went off as Mike pushed inside. He stamped his feet on the welcome mat. The blond woman was at the cash register, chatting to the clerk while she shook snow off her hat and mittens. “My mother went and invited Oliver for Christmas dinner, since he’ll be alone. I need to find him a last-minute gift.”

The salesclerk, a rounded woman in her middle years, leaned over the counter and made a whispered comment. Both of them glanced at Mike, who was peeling off his gloves. “Merry Christmas, sir,” said the clerk. Her smile was big and toothy. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

The blonde turned away before he got a good look at her face. “No rush,” he said. “I’ll look around.”

The store was small. He prowled the rows of gift items, mainly Christmas-themed ornaments and such. He eyed the blonde over a rack of greeting cards. Something about her was arresting—her color, her brisk energy, the effervescent cheer that bubbled in her voice as she chatted about holiday preparations while fingering a display of fountain pens near the register.

“Finding anything?” the clerk called.

Mike nodded and pulled out a card at random. A cardinal in the snow.

He advanced along the aisle. Wrapping paper, twig reindeer, needlepoint Christmas stockings. Porcelain plates painted with winter scenes. Matching coffee mugs. What did a man without the proper Christmas spirit get to thank his best friend’s parents for welcoming him into their home and holiday?

“Is it a fix-up?” the clerk asked her other customer. “You and Oliver?”

“Good grief, no.” The blonde seemed alarmed by the idea. Her hands flashed over her hair before tucking a lock of it behind one pink-rimmed ear. A small gold hoop pierced the lobe. “In my situation? No.”

Mike glanced away so he wouldn’t be caught staring. Situation?

“Not even my mother, desperate as she is to marry me off, could think I’d possibly be interested in…” The woman shook her head in the emphatic negative.

Desperate?

The sales clerk clucked. “Then she’s still on your case?”

“In her own way.” A shrug. “You know my mom—she’s so proper. This is hard for her.”

“Well, she probably knows that Oliver’s always had a crush on you. Just about everyone knows.”

“Maybe he used to, but he must be over that. I was gone for years.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The clerk’s lips pursed. “Haven’t you read any of his books?”

“The science fiction? Not in a long time.”

“And the romances. He writes them under the name Olivia Devaine. You’ve been missing out.”

The blonde’s gaze skipped sideways toward Mike. He bent his head over the plate display. “Oh, dear,” she said quietly. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

The clerk beamed. She was enjoying herself. “I’ve gotta tell ya. Every single one of his heroines bears a striking resemblance to you.”

The woman groaned. “Are you certain you’re not reading too much between the lines?”

“The latest one’s titled Marianne’s Homecoming. See for yourself.” The clerk pulled a well-worn paperback from beneath the counter and tossed it onto the glass. “You can have it, if you want. I’ve finished. It’s all about a lady executive named Marianne who returns to her hometown to stop an evil developer from bulldozing her family homestead. The hero is an investigative reporter.”

With some hesitation, the blonde picked up the book. “That’s not so very much like—”

“His name is Tolliver. Rand Tolliver.”

“Please. Stop.” She laughed. “Are there love scenes? I won’t be able to look Oliver in the eye if there are steamy love scenes.”

Colored lights winked off the lenses of the clerk’s oversize glasses as she wagged her head. “There are a few kisses, but nothing explicit, darn it. Oliver’s books never get too sexy. He closes the bedroom door, as they say.” She hunkered down, her elbows on the counter. “If it wasn’t for Dolly getting him liquored up at the Kiwanis picnic and taking him out to her van, he’d probably still be a virgin.”

The blonde blinked. “That’s old gossip. And private. You don’t know what happened.”

“I know that Dolly was hoping she’d get preggie so Oliver would marry her. She was certain he was rich, being a famous author, you know.”

The blonde’s head snapped back. Her cheeks had turned hot pink, but her expression was glacial. She yanked a fountain pen set from the display and set the case on the glass with a distinct click. “I’ll take this. I’m sure a writer can always use a new pen.”

“Oh. Um, hey, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” The blonde reached for her purse. “It’s fine. Really. I’m not much in the mood for gossip these days, if you know what I mean.”

Mike gripped one of the plates. He didn’t know what she meant, but his curiosity was certainly roused. Suddenly he found himself hoping that the blonde wasn’t secretly pining for that Oliver guy. Shouldn’t matter to him when he was here for only seven days…except that seven days seemed a much shorter stay than it had fifteen minutes ago.

Christmas in Christmas might not be so bleak after all.

He walked toward the register with the plate and the card. The blonde’s head dipped forward while she dropped coins into a zippered compartment of her wallet. She took her bagged item from the clerk and tucked that, the paperback book and the wallet inside her leather bag, not looking up until Mike stood right beside her.

“Thanks,” she said to the clerk. Finally she glanced at Mike. He was six-one, but she was only an inch or two shorter in her stacked boot heels. A lovely smile flitted across her face as she nodded at him. Her nose was aquiline, with bold cheekbones set high in well-rounded cheeks. Her eyes were a dazzling blue that took his breath away. “Merry Christmas.”

He made a raspy sound. “Merry Christmas.”

She turned with a hitch of her purse strap and a swirl of the nubby coat, yanking her red hat over her head as she departed. The bell chimed when she opened the door. A snow flurry swept inside, accompanying the blast of cold air.

Mike stared after her, even when she was gone. His pulse ticked like the ignition of a gas burner. Heat crawled up his throat. There’s something about her. Something very merry.

“Didja find what you were looking for?”

“Uh, yes.” He handed his selections to the clerk. “I’ll take this and the card. Gift-wrapped, please.”

“Sure thing. Let me get you a box.”

Mike waited impatiently while the clerk boxed the plate and carefully wrapped the purchase in paper covered with candy canes. She chatted him up, managing to establish that he was only visiting and that the TV6 weatherman was forecasting a blizzard for Christmas Eve, three days hence.

“You mean this isn’t a blizzard?” Mike asked absentmindedly while he fingered a couple of twenties. He’d pulled out his billfold to have payment ready even before the clerk had totaled the charges. He was being ridiculous. The blonde would be long gone by the time he reached the street.

But it was a small town. He could run in to her again.

The clerk chuckled while she rang him up. “You’re not from around here, are you? This is a flurry.”

“The only snow I’ve experienced was on a ski holiday in the mountains.” His family had once been big on skiing vacations, but that had stopped when he was seventeen. He hadn’t been back to the mountains since.

“Merry Christmas to you,” the clerk called after him as he strode toward the door with his coat hanging open.

“And you,” he returned.

The street was empty. Michael buttoned up, put on his gloves and checked his watch. Only five-thirty and the wan sun had completely disappeared. The streetlights had come on, illuminating the flakes that filtered out of the vast charcoal darkness above. He was stuck in a snow globe.

He tilted back his head. More of the snowflakes melted on his face and lips, but this time he didn’t mind.

Let it snow.

A car pulled out of a small parking lot adjacent to the grocery store. Headlights cut across Mike’s face, blinding him for an instant. Laughter rang out from the tavern as its door opened and closed. She might be there, toasting the holidays.

He was about to step over the snowdrift at the curb when he thought of the grocery store instead. I should get wine. And chocolates for the sisters. There’ll still be time to look for the blonde.

The store was named Ed’s Fine Foods and it was chockablock with overstocked shelves. The aisles were only wide enough for one cart at a time to pass among paths narrowed further by freestanding displays holding mismatched assortments of goods. Mike brushed the snow off his shoulders and stepped over a dirty puddle just inside the glass doors. He passed up the cart to take a handbasket and began to wend his way through the aisles in search of the liquor department.

A flash of red caught his attention. He made an abrupt turn, nearly smashing into a cardboard stand of chocolate syrup in squeeze bottles. By the time he reached the next aisle, she was wheeling her cart around the other end. He saw the nubby coat and the red scarf, both of them hanging loose, and dark blue jeans tucked into her stylish leather boots. She had long legs.

The wheels of her cart squeaked. He listened, sidling along the aisle until he was opposite her. The shelves were quite short. When he reached up and took down a box of bran flakes, he could peer over the top into the next aisle. She was reading the label of a bottle of champagne. With a sigh, she put it back and selected a different bottle for her cart before glancing over her shoulder.

Mike slid the bran flakes into their slot.

She looked up when he strolled into the aisle. He smiled. “We meet again.”

“That happens often here. It’s a small town.” She pulled her coat closed, put both hands on her cart and nudged it over a couple of inches.

“I’m looking for a bottle of wine. What would you suggest?”

“There’s not much choice. If you wanted beer—” She waved at the vast array. Towers of twenty-four-packs extended the section into the corner of the store.

“No, I need a good bottle of wine.”

Her eyebrows made two precise golden-brown arches. “Trying to impress somebody?”

“An entire family.”

“Then you should go top shelf.”

He scanned the stickers and took down the highest priced bottle. Twenty bucks. Not that impressive. “I’ll get champagne, too.”

Reaching for the bottle she’d returned to the shelf, he grazed her arm. She inched away, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes. Her expression was thoughtful. “Big spender,” she said with a gently teasing grin, before turning away and rolling her cart toward the opposite end of the aisle.

Mike’s tongue felt unusually thick and slow. He still hadn’t introduced himself, but he couldn’t continue following her. Too obvious, even in a small store. He wandered the aisles, bypassing a sale on mixed nuts and waxed baking cups as he looked for the candy section.

A red mitten lay abandoned on the floor. The bottles in his basket clinked as he set it down to pick up the mitten. Smiling to himself, he turned it over in his hand. Soft and fuzzy, slightly damp.

He caught himself before he caressed the soft wool between his fingers. Sap. Embarrassed for himself, he thrust the mitten into his pocket. After the debacle with Denise, he wasn’t planning to be in the market for a good, long while.

Except, technically, he was.

He loosened the scarf around his throat. The store felt too warm and close. Steamy. At least he’d found the sweets. He examined rows of chocolate bars and bagged candy that sold two for a dollar, looking for something, well, impressive. A small decorative gold tin of Whitman’s Samplers was the best he could do, so he dropped several into his cart and headed for the checkout.

Wheels squeaked nearby. He sped up, making certain their paths intersected at the checkout lane. There was only one lane, and a woman with a cart filled with the makings for a holiday dinner—including a frozen turkey—had arrived first.

Mike lifted the turkey and a ten-pound sack of potatoes onto the conveyor belt, then turned and gestured at the blonde. Her cart stood between them. “Ladies first.”

“No, you go. I have more items.”

“I’m in no rush.”

She nodded and moved past him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He stood directly behind her, looking at the straight, silky hair that brushed her collar. He closed his eyes and inhaled. How long had it been since he’d held a woman? Since he’d known the comfort of a soft, warm, curved body, a sweet voice and gentle presence?

He shook his head, dismayed that he could be seduced so easily, even after almost a year of virtual monkhood. First had come the long deployment, then the Dear John letter that had left him certain he’d never get serious with a woman again, let alone romanticize over a complete stranger.

One failed attempt was enough for him. At first marrying Denise had seemed like a good idea. She had all the qualities he hadn’t known he was looking for in a wife, until she and Shannon had kindly pointed that out and convinced him to propose. Unfortunately, after they’d been together for more than a year with the wedding still on hold, his former fiancée had nagged and griped more often than not. The deployment to the Gulf had been the death knell to an engagement already on life support.

Many times since the breakup, he’d wondered why he’d done nothing, even though he’d recognized Denise’s gradual withdrawal. And why, after the first sting of receiving her letter, he’d been more relieved than sad. More regretful than wounded.

Reminded of all that, he deliberately looked away from the woman standing in front of him. He told himself that his interest in her was only a pleasant distraction.

After a minute, he yanked the mitten from his pocket. “I almost forgot. You dropped this.”

She turned halfway. “Yes, that’s mine.” She took the mitten, matching it with the mate. She smoothed them between long, elegant fingers with polished nails. “Thank you again.”

“I’m Mike, by the way. Mike Kavanaugh.”

Her mouth opened, then closed with a little huh of a smile. She glanced into his basket. “I thought you might be.”

She recognized his name? Mike was going to ask how that could be, even in a small town, but she’d turned and begun placing her grocery items on the belt.

He studied her selections. Fancy stuff, fit for a more sophisticated holiday than he’d have expected, now that he’d seen the down-home, humble nature of the town. She had a loaf of Italian bread. Bunches of herbs. Fresh strawberries that must have been flown in. Jars of pistachios and almonds. Anchovies. Capers. Olives, radishes and two kinds of specialty cheese. Plus a bag of minimarshmallows and the bottle, which turned out to be sparkling ginger ale.

Marshmallows, anchovies and ginger ale? She had eclectic tastes.

She noticed his interest and paused with a jar of maraschino cherries in her hand. “My name is Mary.”

He crinkled his eyes at her, despite the previous decision to keep his interest detached. “As in Mary and Joseph? That’s appropriate for a town called Christmas.”

“The villagers do take the name seriously,” she said with a wry look.

“Maybe I’ll catch the mood.”

Her head cocked. “You’re not imbued with the holiday spirit?”

The question made him recognize the loneliness of being out of step, particularly during the holidays. He was sorry for it, much more than when Nicky had pointed out the same. “Not lately, I’m afraid.”

“Stick around. Christmas will work its magic on you.”

“The town or the holiday?”

She smiled. “They go hand in hand.”

She wrote a check for her groceries, then paused to put on her hat and mittens and button up her coat. She lifted one of her bags and reached for the other.

“Hold on,” he said, liberating another couple of twenties from his wallet. “I’ll help you carry those to your car.”

She cradled one of the paper bags to her front while he took the second and accompanied her to the door. The wind blew viciously, tearing the handle from her grip. The door banged against the wall. He pushed up close behind her and caught the door before it swung back into her face.

She sidestepped. “Do you need a ride? My car’s around the corner.”

“Thanks, but I’m being picked up.”

They moved carefully along a sidewalk that was bumpy with packed ice and snow, then loaded the grocery bags into the backseat of her car, a red Mazda with a plump Santa suction-cupped to a side window. The license plate read FALALA.

Mary’s eyes were slitted against the wind. She scraped hair out of her mouth and made a spitting sound. “I’ll see you around then, Lieutenant Commander Kavanaugh.”

He wanted to ask where and when, but stopped himself. “Maybe that can be arranged. I’m here for a week.”

She hesitated, looking at him with puckered lips. Her eyes held a secret—something fanciful, as if she were playing with him. She seemed about to speak, but changed her mind and got in to the car instead, easing herself behind the wheel. She tugged at the coat, which kept her bundled as furry as a bear.

He briefly imagined what her body might be like beneath it. Long-limbed but curvy. For all the willowy, athletic elegance, there was a solidness about her, too. He sensed they would match up well.

Snow swirled. Wind whistled. He could delay no longer. With reluctance, he said goodbye and closed the door.

She smiled at him through the frosty glass and started the engine. He stepped back, oddly forlorn as the car pulled away, until he realized what she’d said.

Lieutenant Commander Kavanaugh.

After an instant of revelation, he gave a short shout of a laugh. Some secret!