Читать книгу A Town Called Christmas - Carrie Alexander - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

“NICKY!”

“Mer!”

Meredith York wrapped her younger brother in a bear hug and held on for dear life, having learned what the phrase truly meant over the past few years of their separation, particularly during his most recent deployment at sea. Her heart squeezed itself into a tight knot, then released as a wave of pure relief rolled through her. She let out a deep breath. At last.

She gripped his shoulders. “You’re really here! You made it home for Christmas.”

“A promise is a promise, Merrylegs.” Nicky tilted his head back. He bumped their noses. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” She hadn’t expected to be so sentimental, but Shannon and Mom were watching with red-rimmed eyes and watery smiles. In the background, Nicky’s sons bounced off the couch with excitement.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Mom sent me out for provisions.”

Grace York dabbed the corners of her eyes with her apron, then retrieved the bags of groceries Meredith had dropped when she’d greeted Nicky. “My goodness. What’s this? Goat cheese? Capers? What are we going to do with capers? I hope you didn’t forget the marshmallows.”

Shannon, Nicky’s wife, had joined the siblings’ embrace. She leaned her cheek against her husband’s. “Skip and Georgie have their hearts set on church window cookies.”

Meredith unwound herself. She rubbed her eyes. “Of course I remembered the marshmallows, Mom.”

“Roquefort and goat cheese,” Grace clucked as she rummaged through the groceries.

“I thought I’d make something different for tonight—hors d’oeuvres.”

“Hors d’oeuvres. Fancy! Who are we trying to impress?”

Meredith flushed.

“She’s got city taste now, Grammadear.” Charlie York, the clan patriarch who’d remained fully involved in all activities since his retirement, stepped into the foyer with his sleepy granddaughter draped over his shoulder. At nine months old, Kathlyn Grace was the newest and much-adored addition to the family. “Don’t fuss at the girl.”

Meredith rolled her eyes as she slipped out of her coat and hung it on one of the wall hooks. She was thirty-six. Her hand went to her waist—her disappearing waist—as she bent to knock the snow off her boots. Certainly no longer a girl.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked Nicky. Without considering why, she chose to keep her meeting with Michael Kavanaugh to herself for a while longer.

“At the Cheer. I’m going now to pick him up.” Nick nuzzled his wife’s ear. “Want to come along, honey?”

Shannon glowed. Seeing their happiness brought both thankfulness and a pang of longing to Meredith’s heart. For more than a decade, she’d been satisfied with her thriving career as a human resources director for a large financial services firm, the high-rise condo she’d bought on Chicago’s Gold Coast and her lengthy live-in relationship with Greg Conway, a financial analyst she’d met at work. Then, suddenly in the past year, everything had changed.

“Hurry back,” Grace said. The slender, silver-haired homemaker was as active as her husband, involved in many church and community activities, in addition to her regular book club meetings and t’ai chi classes. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“It’s your favorite,” Shannon said as she and Nicky put on their coats and boots. “Pot roast and mashed potatoes.”

He moaned. “I can’t wait. I’ve been dreaming about Mom’s cooking.”

Shannon paused while wrapping a scarf around her dark brown hair. “What about mine?”

He grinned wolfishly as she preceded him out the door. “You’re in the other dreams.”

Meredith gave Nicky another hug before he left, then stood in the farmhouse doorway, watching the couple drive down the long, dark driveway, until her mother complained that she was letting in the cold air.

I want that. Merry shut the door and absentmindedly straightened the jumble of the kids’ snow boots, hats and insulated mittens. There, Mom, I admitted it. I wish I was married.

She’d lived with Greg for nearly seven years and had sworn up and down that a marriage certificate wasn’t important to her. That had seemed honest, at the time. What she hadn’t understood was how much the present situation would turn her previous perceptions topsy-turvy.

But would she marry Greg now, if he came back to her on bended knee? Definitely not. That ship had sailed. Only her mother still clung to the hope that there’d be a last-second wedding to save the day.

“Auntie Merry, Auntie Merry!” Skip and Georgie, her rambunctious nephews, burst into the foyer. “Grammadear said you’d help us make the church window cookies.”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I have the hors d’oeuvres to do.”

Georgie tilted his face upward. He was six years old, blond and freckled like his older brother. “What’s ‘oardurves’?”

She ruffled his hair. “Nibbly bits before dinner. Dolled up veggies and bread.”

“Like crackers spread with Cheez Whiz,” Skip said with authority. He was three years older than his brother and terribly sure of himself. With his father away on a sea tour, then on shore duty for the past six months, Skip had become serious about his role as man of the family. “And olives.”

“Can I eat them?” Skip asked.

“You can try one,” Merry agreed. The anchovy-and-pepper mix she’d planned for the bruschetta was sure to be too spicy for the boys. What had she been thinking? Her family was accustomed to plain home cooking, not the five-star cuisine she’d discovered in Chicago’s best restaurants. They’d be baffled by amuse bouche and dumbstruck by dim sum. Her parents shared their insulated community’s general distrust of visitors with sophisticated ways and a taste for change.

But I’m not a visitor. Meredith herded the boys to the kitchen. I’m here to stay.

When heart troubles had prompted her father’s retirement at the same time her relationship with Greg was cracking like an overboiled egg, she’d returned to take over the family business. Thus far, every improvement she’d wanted to implement had been a struggle for control. Her parents had run the York Tree Farm since their wedding forty years ago, with Charlie overseeing the Christmas tree operation and Grace managing Evergreen, the seasonal gift and sandwich shop that served the cut-your-own-tree customers who began showing up in November.

Meredith glanced into the family room, where her father jiggled the baby on his knee while she goggled at the sparkling ornaments and blinking lights of the Christmas tree. In the kitchen, her mother hummed a carol to herself while seasoning a pot of frozen green beans.

They’ll learn to adjust. Meredith smoothed the drape of her oversize cable-knit sweater. So will I.

After the elation of Nicky’s return, her mood had turned into melancholy. Although surrounded by family, there were times that she felt very alone.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the pot roast was out of the oven and the hors d’oeuvres well underway. Meredith heard the stomping of boots in the foyer. She hastily pulled a pan of bread slices from beneath the broiler. “It’s called bruschetta, Mom.”

Grace flapped a pot holder at the wisp of smoke rising from a charred crust as if it were a spark from Mrs. O’Leary’s lantern. “I know what bruschetta is, Miss Meredith. I watch the Food Network. All I’m saying is we don’t need more carbs. I already have the potatoes and the rolls. Your father’s diet…”

“I’ll keep him away from the hors d’oeuvres.” The cream and butter in the mashed potatoes was more of a concern, but Merry held her tongue. She took the pot holder and nudged her mother toward the doorway. “Sounds like Nicky’s back. Go say hi to our guest.”

Grace removed her apron. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Merry added chopped parsley to her anchovy mix. “As soon as I’m finished here.”

Her mother paused significantly. “Nicky’s pilot friend is single.”

“I know, Mom.” He’s also six feet of gorgeous, clean-cut masculinity. Don’t embarrass him. The man’s only on leave for a week. He’s not looking to get involved with…” Merry gestured at herself. No other explanation was necessary.

Grace’s face instantly clouded. She hurried from the kitchen without another word.

“Kryptonite,” Merry muttered. She couldn’t blame the woman for being old school, growing up as she had with strictly religious parents. And the wagons would certainly be circled if criticism came from outside the family. Even so, her mother’s disapproval did make Merry feel self-conscious. She couldn’t help but think of herself as Grace York’s cross to bear.

“Merry,” Nicky called from the family room, where the meeting and greeting was going on. “Come and see Mike. I want to show off my prettiest sister.”

Meredith brushed off her hands and went to join the group. Her nerve endings were jingling and jangling like a triangle chorus, but she folded her arms across her midsection and put on a serene smile. She glanced at Nicky first, ignoring Michael Kavanaugh’s presence. “You say that only because Noelle isn’t home from college yet.”

“Both my girls are lookers. They get it from their mother.” Charlie put his arm around Merry’s shoulders and urged her forward into the crowded room when she’d have rather hovered in the background. “Meredith, hon, this is Lieutenant Commander Michael Kavanaugh, ace pilot of the Blue Knight squadron. He flies a Super-Hornet, an F/A 18E. They call it a Rhino.”

“Yes, sir, but I’m not an ace.”

“Not yet,” Nicky put in.

There was no more delaying it. Merry pulled in a deep breath and looked up at the handsome Navy aviator. Her voice cracked, but she managed a placid, “Hello, Michael. How do you do?”

Then she put out her hand, waiting for the moment when the pleasure that had sprung to Mike’s face at the sight of her would disintegrate into polite withdrawal as he got a second, closer look.

That didn’t happen.

MIKE TOOK THE BLONDE’S hand and used it to pull her closer for a polite kiss on the cheek. “Fool me once,” he whispered in her ear before retreating a few inches. He winked, then stepped away. She seemed defensive, not wanting to be crowded. “Nice to meet you, Meredith York.”

Her smile wavered. “Call me Merry.”

“As in Merry Christmas, or Mary and Joseph?” Amusement danced in his eyes. “How could I have forgotten that the Yorks are named by theme? Merry and Nicholas—though he’s no saint—and what was the other sister’s name again?”

“Noelle.”

“Ah.”

“Corny, I know, but blame my parents.” She nodded her head at the beaming couple. “They’re the town’s unofficial Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus, in charge of all things Christmas.”

“Not even unofficial,” Nicky said. His baby daughter was cradled in the nook of one arm. “I must have mentioned that my dad plays Santa at all the town functions.”

Mike looked at Charlie. “Now I see why.” Nicky’s father was five-ten or so, and stockily built. Beneath a crop of gray hair, his face was flushed with good cheer and vigor. He could easily pull off an authentic “Ho, ho, ho.”

Charlie winked as he tugged at his full gray beard, which was liberally streaked with white. “I only grow it for the holidays.”

“But Grampa’s not the real Santa Claus,” said Georgie. “He’s an actor.”

Mike caught the sly look that crossed Skip’s face. He remembered informing his own younger brother of the truth about Santa Claus, after he’d put together hearsay with the hard evidence of the pile of presents they’d found stashed in their parents’ closet. The five-year-old had been inconsolable for days, and Mike had been forced to give up a soccer game and endure a two-hour wait in line to visit Santa at the mall. After that, he’d kept the news about the Tooth Fairy to himself.

He squatted beside the boys. “Skip, it’s been more than a year since I saw you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you now?”

“Nine.”

“That’s pretty grown up. What about your brother?”

“He’s only six.”

“And you’ve been taking good care of him and Kathlyn while your dad’s away?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh.”

“Well done. I know your father’s proud.” Mike leaned a little closer. “I have a younger brother, too. He still remembers every holiday we spent together, but especially the visits from Santa Claus. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

Mike clapped the boy’s shoulder and stood. The other adults were talking about sleeping assignments and where the baby’s pacifier had gone, but Merry had rested her hands on Georgie’s shoulders and nestled him against her front. “You have a brother?” she asked softly.

“Steve. A civil engineer. He was in Mozambique, building a dam, the last I heard.”

“And your parents?”

“My father passed away years ago. My mother is on a holiday cruise with her second husband.” Mike quirked his lips into a smile. Casual, to show he wasn’t as alone and lonely as it seemed…as he was. “Nicky took pity on me and hauled me along to join your family for the holidays.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah?” He wondered what else she’d heard.

Merry’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, shoot, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He laughed. “Never mind. Every Christmas party needs a poor little match boy.”

Georgie had become restless. She gave the boy an extra hug and let him go, then clasped and unclasped her empty hands. “I’m—we’re all very glad you could join us.” She glanced somewhat warily at her mother. “One extra is no trouble, not when we usually have a half-dozen ‘extras.’ You’ll see what a circus it is around here over the next several days. Our Christmas dinner is bedlam.”

Her eyes were bright blue flames that he wanted to stare into until the image burned in his retinas. Instead, he glanced around the room, absorbing the comforting normalcy of the festive scene. A fire crackled in a potbellied woodstove. The furnishings were overstuffed and well-used. Colonial-patterned wallpaper clashed with the rug, while green and red holiday decorations added another layer to the visual chaos. The thick branches of the blinking tree reached to the ceiling. Already a large number of gifts had been placed beneath it.

“I haven’t had a family Christmas in years,” he said.

“You’ll get one now,” Merry replied, having followed his gaze. She was still fiddling with her fingers, holding them laced against her bulky green sweater. Her face was framed by a crisp white collar and the pale gleam of her hair.

The nervousness didn’t suit her. She had a Madonna-like quality—gracious and gentle.

Except for the intense, burning eyes.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, and meant it.

She smiled politely before turning her head aside. He couldn’t figure out her bashfulness. She’d seemed self-conscious since they’d officially met, but she hadn’t been like that at all earlier. What had changed? Being around her family? That was more the reaction of a high school girl.

“Who will show Michael up to his room?” Grace ignored the boys, who jumped to volunteer. “Merry, how about you?”

For an instant, she looked horrified. Then she dropped her lashes and politely refused the invitation. “Let Skip and Georgie do it. I’ll get the hors d’oeuvres.” She took the bottles Mike had brought and slipped from the room.

Mike found himself herded upstairs by Charlie and his grandsons. They gave him a small, simply furnished room under the eaves on the spacious farmhouse’s third floor. There was a bathroom next door, and also another guest room that Charlie said Noelle would use when she arrived, since the boys had taken over her old room on the second floor.

Mike set down his sea bag, the large green Navy issued duffel. Although he’d shared many tight quarters aboard ship, close family living arrangements were something different.

The Yorks’s house was filled to bursting. When Nicky had been shipped out, his wife and children had gone to live with his parents for the duration so Shannon wouldn’t be alone with the boys during her pregnancy. Kathlyn had been born while Nicky was deployed, so this was only the second time he’d been able to spend a significant amount of time with her.

While Mike was no family man, he recognized that nothing was tougher than missing the first months of your child’s life. A Dear John letter couldn’t touch that loss.

“Where does Merry stay?” he asked the boys while unzipping his duffel. Charlie had excused himself to follow his nose to the kitchen and check on dinner.

“She has her own house,” Skip said.

“It’s by the tree farm.” Anticipation glistened in Georgie’s eyes when Mike pulled out three wrapped boxes.

He wanted to ask more about Merry, wanted to know everything, but he stopped himself. He had six more days.

“Why don’t you two take these presents and put them beneath the tree?” The boys seized the gifts and Mike called, “Don’t shake them too hard,” as they galloped down the stairs.

He sat on the edge of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair. A day ago, he’d been stationed in San Diego, the aircraft carrier’s home port, prepping for the next deployment. Sunshine and beaches contrasting with the heat of the tarmac and the blast of afterburn. Now this, a cold, white world pocketed with bursts of color and warmth.

His system was in shock.

He held his head in his hands, resisting the unexpected pull to take out Denise’s goodbye letter. Hell, he’d read the thing a hundred times over the past months. Maybe more. He no longer missed his fiancée. He was way past that.

There was something else that tortured him, that wouldn’t let him throw the letter away.

He took the frayed envelope from a pocket in his shaving kit and withdrew the letter. One measly sheet of paper. The end of a serious commitment should need more words.

Or not, when the engagement had already withered away to nothing.

Dear Michael…

Music from down below stopped him from continuing. He went to the door to listen. “Deck the Halls.” Of course. The Yorks would play holiday tunes. They probably sang carols, too.

In fact, as he listened, a woman’s voice joined the recorded music. Pure as a bell. He wondered if the singer was Merry.

The letter was crumpled in his hand. Throw it away, said his inner voice. What good’s it doing you?

But he couldn’t let go, not yet. He smoothed the crinkles and returned it to the envelope, then the envelope to its slot in his shaving kit. Moving faster, he undid a couple of buttons and yanked his shirt off over his head. Suddenly he wanted to be downstairs with Nicky’s family, instead of alone and moping over promises broken long ago.

He took the kit and went into the tiny bathroom, having to duck to use the facilities that were fitted beneath the slanted ceiling. He washed and quickly ran an electric shaver over his jaw. Deodorant. A touch of cologne. The pit of his stomach hollow, his senses on point.

Like getting ready for a date.

He left the shaving kit on the ledge of the sink and turned to go.

The staircase off the hallway creaked. He heard a footfall on the landing. “Um, Mike?” said a female voice.

After a moment’s hesitation, he went back and grabbed the leather kit bag. The damn letter. He didn’t want Merry to find it, even though one word from her, one meaningful smile, and he expected that he’d gladly forget it ever existed.

Outside, he almost bumped into Merry. She was bent at the waist, canted sideways, peering in through the partly open door to the guest room.

She jumped at his touch. “Oh! I’m sorry.” Color rose in her cheeks. “I wasn’t spying. That is, Mom sent me up to get you.” Her gaze dropped to his bare chest, then shot upward like an elevator, right up to the ceiling. “But take your time.” She turned away before he could respond, hastily removing herself from his half-naked presence, her boot heels clip-clopping on the wood steps. “We’re having hors d’oeuvres.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

He tossed the kit into his sea bag and pulled on a fresh shirt, smiling to himself as he tucked in the tails. He knew a little about Merry. She was older than Nicky by a year or two, and had been living in Chicago away from her family for years. An intelligent, successful woman, not lacking in experience. She wasn’t likely to be thrown by the sight of a man’s bare chest unless she had a particular interest in the man, and even then, he’d surprised her into the fumbling reaction.

Mike ducked to gaze into the mirror over the bureau, donned in gay apparel and suddenly bubbling with good cheer and a rousing interest that went quite a bit beyond the gentlemanly anticipation he should be feeling.

He touched his smooth jaw. Fa la la la la.