Читать книгу That Maddening Man - Debrah Morris, Debrah Morris - Страница 9

Ellin Bennett was a risk-taker by nature, but not quite reckless enough to drive these hills at the posted speed limit. Her gloved hands tightened on the wheel as she steered the sleek Japanese import along the narrow two-lane highway. There were moments when daring was the way to go, but this was not one of them.

She passed another Watch For Deer sign. Was it a warning? Or an invitation to enjoy the local wildlife? Should she be wary of big-eyed creatures blundering into her path? Or look out for friendly loiterers in the woods? After eleven years in Chicago, living in the Ozarks would take some getting used to.

“But, Mommy, Santa Claus won’t know where to find me.”

“Sure he will, Lizzie.” Ellin glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled. Strapped into a state-of-the-art booster seat, her four-year-old daughter wore a fuzzy pink coat, a gaudy rhinestone tiara and a worried frown.

“I told you, Mommy. I’m not Lizzie today.”

“So sorry, Your Highness. I meant Princess Lizzie, of course.” She atoned for the breach of protocol like a chastened vassal. After all, it was her fourth reminder.

“But how will he find me?” the child persisted. “He doesn’t know we moved in with Grammy.”

“Sure he does, honey. Santa Claus knows everything.” Ellin wasn’t exactly filled with Christmas spirit this year, but she couldn’t let her cynicism spoil her little girl’s illusions.

“But Grammy doesn’t have a chimbly.” Normally sunny and easygoing, Lizzie had developed an alarming number of worries since the move. Most of which involved the coming holiday.

“That won’t stop Santa.”

“He can’t leave presents if there’s no chimbly to come down.”

“Of course he can,” Ellin assured with a sigh. “He’s magic.”

“When are we getting a Christmas tree?” Lizzie twirled her princess wand absently.

“Soon, baby, soon.” Ellin watched the twisting road and the ditch looming close beside it.

“Today?”

“Maybe.” The absence of a propped-up conifer in the living room was a big source of preschool anxiety.

“Don’t say maybe.” Lizzie’s little pink lips puckered into a pout. “Say yes.”

“We’ll see.” The phrase was straight out of Lesson One of the Mommy Handbook and usually had the desired pacification effect. But not today.

“Santa won’t like it if we don’t have a Christmas tree,” Lizzie warned with arch authority. “He’ll be all mad.”

“No, he won’t. Santa can’t get mad at princesses. The tooth fairy won’t allow it.” Hearing a slurping sound, Ellin glanced at the useless pile of hair on the seat beside her. Pudgy, her grandmother’s aptly named Yorkie-Pomeranian was idly gumming the strap of her leather handbag.

“Give me that.” She yanked her Kate Spade original out of harm’s way. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she plucked a clump of fawn-colored fur off the upholstery, hit the window button and flicked it onto the gray winter landscape. Not only was Pudgy missing several important teeth, he was going bald.

Her grandmother actually missed the quivering mass of canine nerves and had requested Pudgy’s presence at the nursing home’s Christmas party today. If neurotic shedding was any indication, Ida Faye’s longtime companion missed her, too. Mrs. Polk, the forward-thinking administrator of Shady Acres Care Center and a vocal proponent of pet therapy, thought the visit might hasten the eighty-year-old’s recovery from hip surgery.

“Do you know where the angel is, Mommy? The one with the shiny dress that goes on top of the tree?”

“She’s safe in a box in Grammy’s garage.”

“The twinkle lights, too? And the sparkly snowmen?”

“Yes, dear. They’re all safe.” Giving up the town house on Lake Michigan had been difficult, but it was especially traumatic for Lizzie. She’d cried when the movers crated their belongings for storage and wouldn’t stop until Ellin agreed to haul a box of favorite holiday decorations all the way to Arkansas. Her daughter had Christmas on the brain and was convinced that moving had somehow upset universal order at the North Pole.

“Can I see ’em when we get home?” she asked suspiciously.

“Sure, no problem.” Despite her reassuring mommy-face, Ellin wasn’t too happy about being uprooted either. Although temporary, her new job was a good example of an old axiom.

Be careful what you wish for.

Journalism dreams born during her stint on the Whitman Junior High Tattler had evolved into a do-or-die goal in college. Determined to be a managing editor before age thirty-five, Ellin had sacrificed. Struggled. Run the fast track in sensible two-inch heels and leaped over the limp bodies of the less dedicated. Along the way, she’d slowed down enough to marry, have a baby and get divorced, never taking her eyes off the prize.

She’d advanced quickly. The past six months she’d worked as an assignment editor at a respected Chicago newspaper. Her career had been right on track—until the whole thing derailed onto an unexpected siding. In a rush to make deadline and Lizzie’s first dance recital, she violated a basic law of journalism. She approved a reporter’s story without verifying it. Any first-year journalism student would have known better.

“Mommy, is Rudolph a boy or a girl?”

“I’m sure Rudolph is a girl, princess.” Surely, only a female with a superwoman complex would attempt to zip around the world in one night, dragging an overweight elf and a sleigh full of toys.

“What about Olive?”

“Olive?” Ellin’s brow furrowed.

“You know. Like in the song. Olive the other reindeer.”

Lizzie sang it for emphasis. “Is Olive a girl or boy?”

“All the reindeer are girls.” Had to be. Poor misguided things thought they could have it all.

Ellin had taken responsibility for her mistake, had even tried to point out the irony of the situation to her superiors. A master nitpicker, for once she’d failed to pick enough nit. But they had not been amused. After the public stoning of the overzealous reporter, she’d been called up on the slate-gray Berber and stripped of her parking pass and card key like a court-martialed soldier. Slinking out of the city room in professional disgrace, her first thought was to change her name and move to a third world country.

“Mommy, why doesn’t Mrs. Claus help give out the toys?”

“She doesn’t like to steal Santa’s thunder.” Or she was smart enough to stay home with a cup of hot tea while her old man froze his tail off buzzing around the stratosphere.

She had to stop being so cynical. After all, she’d stepped in a colossal pile of doo-doo and had come out smelling like a nosegay, hadn’t she? Her career had taken a hit, but her life-long dream was coming true. For the next three months she would be acting editor of the Washington Post. And it was still several weeks before her thirty-fifth birthday.

Problem was, it wasn’t The Washington Post, the grand-daddy of all newspapers. Nor was her new home in the nation’s fast-paced capital. It was in Washington, Arkansas, where life moved at the speed of a stroked-out snail. The Washington Post-Ette was a dinky little weekly with a circulation of less than eight thousand that boasted of keeping its fourth estate finger firmly on the pulse of the chicken-raising industry.

According to the owner, its original name was the Post-Gazette, but the “Gaz” had been dropped at some point in its illustrious history. The shortened form was better suited to a toaster snack than to a hard-hitting shaper of public opinion.

For the time being, she could pretty much forget about a Pulitzer.

“Is Christmas really Jesus’ birthday?” Lizzie asked.

“Yes, dear. At least that’s when we celebrate it.”

“So why do I get presents?” Her small forehead wrinkled in confusion. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Remember? It’s one of those tradition things I told you about.” Vague perhaps, but the experts advised against giving children more information than they could handle.

“Oh, yeah.” Keeping the beat with her beribboned princess wand, Lizzie hummed an odd mix of “Jingle Bells” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

Pudgy wheezed. Ellin glanced down in alarm, concerned that he might have begun the bucket-kicking process on her watch.

“Mommy! Stop! Stop!” Lizzie shrieked. “It’s Santa.”

Ellin looked back at the road, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Well, I’ll be a partridge in a pear tree.”

It was Santa. Or his body double. Decked out in full St. Nicholas regalia and looking like a Yuletide figment of her little girl’s imagination.

“Stop, Mommy! Santa needs help!” Lizzie was squirming and swinging her wand and issuing directives, all at once. Pudgy had recovered from his coughing fit and bounced up and down on the seat, adding his yip-yappy opinion to the excitement.

Stop? For some guy waving his arms in the middle of the road? No way. Ellin was a city girl and stuck to a strict “No Hitchhikers” policy. She didn’t brake for strangers, not even the jolly old elf himself.

“I don’t think so, princess.” She wouldn’t stop, but she didn’t want to run the guy down. She slowed to give him a chance to get his velvet-covered butt out of the road and noticed a shiny crimson pickup truck angled off the shoulder.

“Maybe Santa needs our help because Rudolph got hurt.” In view of the Watch For Deer signs, Lizzie’s explanation had a certain preschool logic. “Or maybe the sleigh broke down. Stop, Mommy, stop!”

She had to. He gave no indication of moving out of the way. Suspicious, Ellin punched the door locks and lowered the window an inch. Hmm. Given his elfin-based gene structure, Santa was much taller than one might expect. He stepped up to the car and smiled. At least she thought he smiled. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on under that curling white beard.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am.” His drawl was soft and articulate, a little too down-south for an inhabitant of the polar regions. “But I wonder if you might have a cell phone I could use?”

“No, I don’t.” Then she realized how vulnerable her admission made her. “But I have a black belt in karate and an attack dog trained to kill on command.” Pudgy’s yip would pierce armor-plated eardrums. “Drowning in dog slobber is an unpleasant way to go.”

He might have smiled again as he peered in at the toy-sized dog. “Thanks for the warning. I ran out of gas. I’ve been meaning to get the gas gauge fixed, but I put it off a little too long.” He shrugged and grinned. Quite disarm-ingly. “Looks like I’m stuck.”

“Sorry. I don’t have any gas, either.”

“Where’s your sleigh, Santa?” Born verbal, Lizzie had no qualms about jumping into adult conversation.

“Can’t drive the sleigh without snow, darlin.’ I had to use the truck today.”

“Does it fly?”

“Nope. That’s why I need gas.” He turned to Ellin. “I’m running behind schedule. I’m due at Shady Acres in a few minutes. Big Christmas party for the residents. The old folks are really looking forward to it, and I’d hate to disappoint them. It’s just up the road. Could you give me a lift?”

Not hardly. A deserted road. Stranger. Unarmed female with small child and wheezy dog. It had all the makings of a late-breaking news story. But, she reminded herself, this was not Chicago. Washington, Arkansas, wasn’t exactly a teeming hotbed of criminal activity. Besides, would the roadside strangler go to the trouble of donning a beautifully made, fur-trimmed, ruby-red crushed velvet Santa suit, complete with shiny black knee boots, wide silver-buckle and jaunty cap?

She thought not.

“Mommy!”

Ellin looked back at Lizzie and wondered if the callous treatment of a childhood icon might someday propel her daughter into therapy. “What, honey?”

“Give Santa a ride so I can tell him where my new house is.”

Like she’d let that happen. “Actually, I’m headed for Shady Acres myself,” she told the man behind the fake beard and pillow-stuffed tummy. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a shoulder-length white wig that curled on unelfishly wide shoulders and a big, droopy mustache that twitched when he smiled.

She lowered the window another inch. “I’ll give you a ride. If you can tell me the administrator’s name.”

“Is this some kind of test?”

He might not be Santa, but his brown eyes definitely twinkled. “Not as in ACT, but I need proof you’re telling the truth.”

“Mommy! Santa Claus wouldn’t fib.” Lizzie was scandalized.

The man in the Santa suit laughed. The rich sound was like aged brandy, and made Ellin feel flushed and warm all over. “I need to be careful.”

“I appreciate your caution. The administrator’s name is Lorella Polk. She’s fifty-eight years old. Married to Henry Polk, mother of Bobby, Tracy and Paul. She has four grandchildren. Allen, Lindsey, Derrick and Ty. She belongs to the First Baptist Church and sings alto in the choir. She’s been running the nursing home for twelve years. Before that, she had a home decor party business and before that, she sold cosmetics door-to-door. She had her gall bladder removed last year and has to watch her cholesterol. Recently, she developed an annoying rash on her—”

“That’ll do,” Ellin said briskly. “What are you? The local operative for the North Pole CIA?”

He leaned down and smiled through the window at Lizzie. “Santa Claus knows everything. Right, princess?”

Lizzie beamed and waved her wand, clearly gratified to meet someone who recognized royalty when he saw it.

“Right.” With a sigh, Ellin unlocked the door. Father Christmas fetched a big canvas bag full of brightly wrapped presents from his truck and placed it in the back seat. Then he slid in beside her and Pudgy, and arranged his long legs.

Wow, she thought as she accelerated. Who would have guessed a guy who hung out with reindeer would smell so nice?

“Do you gots a surprise for me in your sack, Santa?” Lizzie asked hopefully.

He turned and gave the little girl a solemn look. “I just might. But you’ll have to wait until the party to find out.”

“Goody! Mommy says you don’t need a chimbly to get into my house on Christmas Eve. Is that true?” Apparently, even four-year-olds knew to verify questionable data.

“Your mommy’s right about that.”

“Let me hear you go ho, ho, ho,” the princess commanded.

“Okay.” He gathered a deep, dramatic breath, clamped both hands on his sizable tummy, and let loose a rumbling trio of hos.

Ellin frowned, then smiled at her daughter’s obvious delight. Who was this man?

“Hey, Pudgy, how ya doin’ old buddy?” He ruffled the dog’s fur, and the beast crawled into his ample lap.

“How do you know my grandmother’s dog?”

“Santa knows everything, Mommy.” The princess had long since perfected a tone of superiority when dealing with her subjects. “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.”

The man didn’t miss a beat. “He knows when you’ve been bad or good,” he sang in an ingenuous baritone that rumbled through the car’s interior.

“So be good for good’ess sake.” Lizzie finished with a reprimanding shake of her tiny finger. At least all the hours they’d spent on the trip listening to the same two Christmas CDs over and over had paid off.

“I probably don’t need to tell you this,” Ellin said with a sidelong glance at her mysterious passenger. “But my name is Ellin Bennett and that’s Princess Lizzie.”

He patted the dog with his white-gloved hand. “I know who you are. I’m—”

“Santa Claus, of course.” Ellin cocked her head in Lizzie’s direction, warning him with a look not to destroy the little girl’s illusions.

“That’s right. Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho.”

Jack Madden knew exactly who Ellin Bennett was, but the dark-eyed brunette was not the hard-driving piranha he’d expected. He’d heard all about the big city journalist in town to take over the paper while Jig Baker was in Peru living his dream of participating in a full-scale university-sponsored archaeological dig.

Jig had said she was a career-minded divorcée with a young daughter. He warned Jack she was used to doing things differently in Chicago and might make some changes during her tenure. So be prepared.

But nothing could have prepared him for these two. Even Mrs. Boswell had failed to mention that the granddaughter she’d recommended for the job was a striking beauty. She’d bragged about her great-granddaughter, but never said she was such a precocious little angel.

Jack moonlighted as the paper’s sports editor and roving reporter, so he was curious about the new boss. He satisfied that curiosity by watching her openly as she maneuvered the winding road. Word around town, she was a hard-nosed newspaperwoman. But from where he sat, her nose looked anything but hard.

In fact, everything about the big city hotshot looked enticingly soft. Touch-me-and-see-for-yourself-soft. She had peachy pale skin and thick-lashed golden brown eyes. Full lips the color of his mother’s coral tea roses. Her long brown hair was twisted into a gravity-defying arrangement skewered by two ebony chopsticks.

Jack was thrown off balance by the sudden urge to reach over and slip out those silly sticks, just to watch the whiskey-colored mass tumble down. He managed to resist temptation but had an unbidden image of classy Ellin Bennett wearing her little girl’s endearingly fake tiara. And nothing else.

The Santa suit suddenly became too warm for comfort. A master of restraint, he didn’t usually have such inappropriate thoughts about a woman he’d just met. But this one was having a profound effect on him…a very pleasant effect.

He couldn’t take his gaze off her. She looked more like a delicate old-fashioned cameo than the competitive workaholic Jig had described. Maybe the softness was part of her ensemble, to be shrugged on and off as occasion demanded. Like the creamy angora turtleneck and brown woolen slacks, the camel coat and expensive boots. He noted the delicate gold watch on her wrist and the little diamond studs in her earlobes. Tasteful, understated. And utterly feminine.

Jack smiled. They were definitely in for some changes. Watching this urbane beauty adapt to small-town living might very well be the most entertaining thing to happen in Washington for years. The thought of getting to know her better filled him with a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt since he was a kid waiting for Christmas himself.

“So, how’s Ida Faye doing?” Ellin’s feisty old grandmother was one of his favorite people. He’d visited her several times since her discharge from the hospital and knew she wasn’t happy being “incarcerated” in the nursing home. His Aunt Lorella made sure she received the best of care.

“You know my grandmother?” Ellin’s puzzled look was replaced by a smug knowing one. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. Santa knows—”

“Everything!” Jack and Lizzie called out in unison.

“Right.” Ellin flipped on the turn signal and pulled into the nursing home drive.

“I warned her not to shovel snow at her age.” Jack hoped he would be as spry as Mrs. Boswell in his eightieth winter. “But you know Ida. Always helping everyone.”

Ellin parked near the door and switched off the engine. “Well, this time she helped herself to a broken hip and a doctor-ordered stay at Shady Acres.”

She dropped the car keys in her coat pocket, opened the back door, unsnapped the child restraint and lifted the little girl out. Pudgy bounced around their feet.

Jack hoisted the big sack of presents over his shoulder in true Santa style. He looked down when he felt a small mittened hand clutch his fingers. Lizzie held on tightly, her mouth curved in an impish grin, the phony crown askew atop her long blond curls. Those blue eyes could melt the frostiest snowman’s heart.

Jack squeezed her hand. Reaching into his pack, he produced a large brass schoolhouse bell and knelt to her level. “Can you help me, Lizzie?”

“You need my help?” she asked, surprised.

“Yes, I do. Can you ring this special bell to let everyone know Santa Claus is coming?”

Her face lit up at the prospect. “I sure can.”

Holding the bell reverently in one small hand, she clutched his fingers with the other. Jack suspected this would be a day little Lizzie Bennett would remember forever.

Maybe he would, too.

Together, they walked up the sidewalk to Shady Acres Care Center. Ellin held the door open by leaning against it, her arms folded across her chest.

He winked at her as he passed, enjoying her startled response. But she played it cool. Clearly not a woman who backed down from a challenge, she didn’t blush or glance away or look flustered. He liked the idea that she would give as good as she got. Staring boldly back at him, she wore the bemused expression of a smart, savvy woman who has been there, done everything, but had finally encountered something she simply could not understand.

Jack Madden had never been so intrigued.