Читать книгу The Complete Christmas Collection - Джанис Мейнард, Rebecca Winters - Страница 78

“SNOWMAN?” Ryder asked Tess.

She did not look up from Bebo, her new best friend. Ryder had given her the much newer lavender soft-stuffed pony the day they arrived here at the cottage. Why wait for Christmas? He had needed the distraction then.

He now saw it had been a ridiculous effort to win back her affection. The pony lay abandoned under the couch with the pink suede shoes.

He’d given the shoes to her five minutes after the pony hadn’t worked, a desperate man. She had kicked them off in a fit of anger and had not looked at them since.

He sighed, watching her. Tess was sitting on the floor, talking soft gibberish to Bebo, sporting monster hair again, refusing to allow him to touch it.

Anyone who thought a baby was willing to forgive and forget didn’t know Tess.

They had been at his lakeside cottage long enough that the accusing look should have left her face by now. He had lost track of days, and counted them now on his fingers.

Tomorrow was going to be Christmas Eve.

“Let’s go outside and build a snowman,” he said again, thinking she might not have heard him the first time. Building snowmen had been her favorite thing at home, before the White Christmas Inn had become part of her reality.

“Tess NOT go.” She slammed on the toy piano to make her point. He had also given her the piano in an effort to distract her from her fury with him. It hadn’t worked any better than the pony or the shoes. She didn’t play with it, but used it as emphatic punctuation to her anger with him. The tone of the piano was awful and reminded him of Emma’s doorbell.

He should have fixed that before he left.

Ryder told himself to stop pleading with the child and take charge.

He could bundle her up into her snowsuit, wrestle her boots onto her feet, put her hat on the right way and take her outside, build the snowman, hope to distract her from his treasonous act of removing her from the Fenshaws, from “Eggie and Boo,” from Emma and from the White Christmas Inn.

It would take an hour or so out of a day that seemed to be stretching out endlessly, despite the fact the cottage had a forty-two-inch plasma television set and a satellite that got four hundred channels. He had not found one single thing to watch that could hold his attention, and Tess was suddenly not interested in her old favorite cartoons.

What had he ever been thinking when he had thought coming to the cottage would be a refuge?

Over the last few days, Ryder was discovering he hated it here. He had bought the cottage last summer, a place his brother had never been, no memories. A pleasant place in the heat of the summer, with water sports, along with the satellite dish, to add to the distraction quotient.

But there seemed to be no escaping the dreariness in the winter.

The decor and furnishings, which had come with the cottage, were modern and masculine. The paint was a neutral frosty white, the furniture ran to sleek black leather, the finishes were stainless steel. The art was large abstract canvases, meaningless brush strokes of red. At the time of purchase, it had all looked sophisticated to him, clean and uncluttered.

Not cold and impersonal, a showroom not actually intended for people to live in. Of course, the cold could be because of the endless damp billowing off that lake.

Or from the way he felt inside.

Like a cold-hearted bastard. Not just selfish, but mean. Ask Tess. Ask those little girls who had sobbed as he was leaving. He couldn’t even look at that rag doll without being filled with self-loathing.

Little Peggy had been able to overcome her own distress enough to think of someone else first, to try and bring comfort.

That final scene filled him with shame.

Looking around the ultra-modern bareness of the cottage, Ryder missed the inn. He missed doorknobs coming off in his hands, and the imperfection of the sloping kitchen floor. He missed the fact that everywhere you looked inside or outside that inn, there was something that needed doing.

Not like here.

Unbelievably, he missed all that Christmas clutter, the hokey cheer of wrapped packages and angels in trees, white poinsettias and red cushions. He missed the way the tree smelled, and he found he especially missed the crackle, the warmth, the coziness of the real fire.

He had a gas version here, throwing up phony-looking blue flames behind a stainless-steel enclosure, not beginning to touch the chill.

He missed getting up in the morning and having that sense of urgency and purpose.

He missed Mona’s cooking, and the quiet companionship and wisdom of Tim, he missed the girls fussing over Tess and jostling for position to show him their drawings and tell him their stories.

Who was he kidding? Certainly not the person he wanted to kid the most. He was not even beginning to kid himself.

He missed Emma. He missed her quirky hair and the ever-changing moss-and-mist of her eyes. He missed her laughter and the mulish set of her jaw. He missed her voice, her ability to have fun, the seemingly endless generosity of her heart.

He missed the subtle scent on her skin, and her hand brushing his at unexpected moments, and he could not get the taste of her mouth out of his mind.

He missed how, against all odds, she held onto hope.

Most of all he missed how he had felt. Not alone.

Instead of that he had chosen this. A cottage so dreary and cold that he could not seem to warm it up no matter what he did.

Or maybe it was himself he could not warm up.

That time, the night before she had married his brother, when his sister-in-law had said to him with such honesty and affection, “You and Drew are the rarest of finds. Good men,” now seemed like one of the things he had lost to the fire.

He did not feel like a good man anymore.

A good man would not have left the White Christmas Inn, putting his selfish need to protect himself above the heartbreak of a shrieking baby and two little girls who had the maturity to know that even when you hurt, you still gave, you still tried to make the world better instead of worse.

A good man would not have left Tim to be the sole man to try and get that place ready for the crowds that would be descending on Holiday Happenings.

And Ryder knew there were crowds, because the only call he’d made since he’d got here was to the PR firm that handled all his company’s advertising. He’d had to go and use the pay phone at the Lakeside Grocery and Ice Cream Palace because he’d so stubbornly left his cell phone at home.

Patrick had promised he would call in all his favors to make sure everyone within a day’s drive of the inn knew about what was happening there, and knew what the proceeds were going to.

“Wow,” Patrick had said before he hung up, “what a great way to shake off the blues from the storm and get back in the Christmas spirit. I’m going to take my wife and kids out. And what would you think if I suggested people arrive with an unwrapped gift for the families that will be spending Christmas with her?”

“Perfect,” Ryder had said.

But it didn’t feel perfect at all. It didn’t take away one bit of the guilt he was experiencing.

Because all Emma had wanted was one Christmas that felt good, and he had walked away from her.

It wasn’t him she wanted, precisely, he tried to tell himself. It was that feeling of family. He thought of his parting words, hoping her mother came for Christmas. As if that absolved him in some way.

Absolved? He didn’t owe her anything!

But a good man would have stayed, not protected himself.

“Well, I’m not a good man,” he said out loud.

Tess shot him a look that clearly said You aren’t kidding.

He remembered Tim suddenly not being able to look at him when Emma had said she would be sending the bus ticket that day, that her mother would arrive for Christmas Eve.

He scowled. Tim didn’t think Lynelle White was going to come home for Christmas with her daughter. And, after all Emma had confided in him, could Ryder possibly believe Lynelle would show up?

Ryder could barely stand the thought of one more disappointment for Emma. A phone call. He’d just check. That was all.

He wrestled Tess into her coat after all, but not to go and build a snowman. As soon as he tucked her into the car seat, she started to sing happily. Anticipating a return to the inn.

“I’m not going that far,” he said grouchily. “I’m just going back to the pay phone. And that will teach me to leave my cell phone at home, too!”

At the Lakeside Grocery, while watching Tess in the car talking happy nonsense to Bebo, he inserted his credit card in the phone. And then he had to sweet-talk a very cranky operator to get her to check every directory in two provinces before he found the name he was looking for. Thankfully, Lynelle still had the last name White.

Finally, determined but his fingers numb from the cold, he called the number he had found.

A raspy voice answered.

“May I speak to Lynelle White please?”

No answer at first, but he could hear loud voices in the background.

“And who wants to speak to her?” The voice became cagey, loaded with suspicion. It sounded like there was a party going on. Not the nice kind, with Christmas music and tinkling glasses. The kind where fights broke out and bottles got smashed.

It occurred to him the words were slurred around the edges.

“Is this Lynelle?” he asked.

“Yup.” There was the distinct sound of a match being struck, followed by the long slow inhale.

He suddenly wasn’t sure what to say. Go spend Christmas with your daughter. Tell her you’re proud of her. Make a fuss over the inn. Make a fuss over her. Help her have that one good Christmas.

“My name’s Ryder Richardson. I—”

He needn’t have worried what to say, because Lynelle didn’t let him finish. “Look, buddy, whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.” And then she said a phrase he’d heard on plenty of construction sites and slammed down the phone.

He took the dead receiver from his ear, stared at it for a moment. Then, slowly, Ryder replaced the receiver in the cradle. He knew there was no sense calling back.

He knew why Tim had looked away when Emma had said she would send the ticket. And he knew why Emma had never had a good Christmas.

From that extremely short encounter, he knew everything about Lynelle, Emma’s mother, that you could know.

And he knew she wasn’t going to anyplace called the White Christmas Inn for the holidays. In all likelihood, a bus ticket cashed in was what the background noise was all about.

A girl from the wrong side of the tracks, Emma had confided in him, telling him about her botched engagement, bowled over by the attentions of a doctor, probably for no more reason than that the doctor wasn’t from the wrong side of the tracks.

Standing there in the cold outside the phone booth, it became very clear to Ryder that he and Emma had something in common.

They both longed for a Christmas that could never happen.

His hopes destroyed by death.

Hers just plain unrealistic.

But at least he’d known what it was to be surrounded by a family’s love at Christmas.

That’s what it was all about for Emma, he realized. All the decorations, all the holiday happenings, all the Christmas Day Dream.

She still hoped.

Despite life giving her all kinds of evidence to the contrary, Emma stubbornly clung to a belief that life was good, people were good, that given enough chances they would eventually do the right thing.

Believe.

And he wondered if he could be the man his sister-in-law had thought he was, a man he had once been. A man who believed, when all was said and done, in himself. It was not the immature belief that he could just use his strength and his will to create the world he wanted, but the deeper belief that when life didn’t go his way and didn’t give him what he wanted, he could count on himself to be strong enough, and to forgive himself when he wasn’t.

If he was such a man, he would go back there, and turn hope into belief, then he would be the man he had once been. Better, maybe. A man worthy of Emma.

But that was one big if.

It was nearly ten o’clock, the night before Christmas Eve. Emma could finally abandon her post by the parking lot where she had been collecting admission and stamping hands.

She hurried to the warming shed, where Mona gave her a frazzled look.

“Emma, could you go to the house and see if there are any more of the chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies in the freezer? I sold out the last of them that we had here. And if you could put a few more of the wreaths out, that would be great.”

Emma hiked up to the house, and looked at the long line of cars parked all the way down the driveway. For hours, people had been walking up from the main road, the closest parking, carrying brand-new toys and teddy bears, paying the admission happily.

“Where did you hear about it?” she asked the first family to arrive, the first night Holiday Happenings had finally opened, after they told her they had driven up from Ontario just for this.

“Oh, it’s on the radio.” And then they’d given her an extra twenty to help with expenses for the Christmas Day Dream. They actually called it by name!

“Lovely idea,” the mother had said. “Exactly what I want my kids to know about Christmas.” And then, “Would you mind if I peeked around inside the house? We’re always looking for these charming little out-of-the-way places to spend a few days in during the summer.”

They heard it on the radio? Emma hadn’t been able to afford a radio ad. She’d put up some posters and run a few ads in the classified sections of a few New Brunswick papers. Her budget had not allowed for more than that, certainly not for Ontario.

And who was telling them to bring an unwrapped gift for the Christmas Day Dream?

How did they even know about the Christmas Day Dream?

Now, the day before Christmas Eve, they had gone through all four thousand hot dogs and run out to buy more twice. When she checked the freezer, she found there were no chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies left, and there were no wreaths stored on the back porch.

Emma delivered the bad news to the warming shed, where Mona was being rushed off her feet selling a dwindling supply of crafts and cookies. She had long since given up on selling hot dogs. All the supplies were out with a cup beside them and a sign that said By Donation. The donation cup was overflowing.

My cup is overflowing, Emma said to herself, watching the skaters skim across the pond, hearing the jingle of the horse bells as they pulled the big sled around the torch-lit trail that circled the pond.

But, looking at her pond, it was as if all the skaters disappeared and she could just see two, herself and Ryder.

If her cup was overflowing, why did she feel so empty? This was her dream come true. The fortunes of the White Christmas Inn had been turned around. Her bills were paid. The storeroom off the front hall was filled to bursting with toys and gifts.

The chartered bus to bring people for the Christmas Day Dream was paid for, Emma had enough money to get each family a supermarket certificate for a month’s worth of groceries after Christmas was over. Three huge turkeys were thawing for the feast, Mona had volunteers making pies.

Holiday Happenings had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Tonight a news crew had come from Fredericton, which meant tomorrow, Christmas Eve, could be the inn’s biggest night so far.

Her success didn’t feel the way she thought it would at all. She felt oddly hollow, empty despite the fact Holiday Happenings had succeeded beyond what she had ever dared to dream for it.

Maybe the truth about all her ruined Christmases was that no matter what happened, they could never meet her expectations.

What she really wanted was not Christmas. Not skaters on ponds and perfect gifts piled high under the tree, not turkey and stuffing and carols sung around a crackling fire.

Maybe what she really wanted was what Christmas had stood for a long time ago, before trees and packages and music and trinkets had all cluttered the message.

Love.

And that was what had eluded her again and again.

After everyone had gone home, Emma wearily climbed the stairs, and went down the hall to her room, feeling so alone.

She hesitated and opened the door to the green room, ready for her mother’s arrival tomorrow night on the eight o’clock bus.

Emma went in and sat down on the bed. The little ghost of the girl she used to be came and sat down beside her.

“We’re going to have a good Christmas,” she promised her. “Finally.”

And in the quiet of that moment, without the crush of skaters and the gallons of hot chocolate, she was amazed that she believed it.

Suddenly, she knew that’s what it was all about, Holiday Happenings, the Christmas Day Dream—it hadn’t been about giving to others, though that’s what it looked like from the outside.

Inside herself, Emma knew the truth. It was really all about her. Every single thing she had done, including insisting her mother come, had been about her, about her trying to be good enough, trying to shore up that terribly shaky self-esteem.

She had been trying desperately to create something that never was with all the Christmas hoopla, with taking on the house, with creating that perfect room for her mother. She had been looking to repair what was inside herself by making a perfect picture outside herself.

The only time she had ever felt the magic she wanted from Christmas was on the pond skating with Ryder. It had not been the wild-child who had skated with him. Not the woman-scorned. Not the independent-woman-innkeeper.

It had been Emma. Just Emma. And with that had come a feeling of freedom, of finally being seen and appreciated for who she really was.

And Ryder had still walked away from that. From who she really was. It was devastating. So much worse than Peter’s abandonment, because Peter had walked away from a role she played, not who she was. In retrospect, he had done them both a favor, released her from pretense.

That first night Ryder had come, she had told him bravely, proudly even, “Christmas transforms everything. It makes all things magic.”

And now she realized something magic had happened. It didn’t have to do with Christmas, but with love. Falling for Ryder, she had put away the masks and found out who she really was, become who she really was, and even if Ryder had walked away from that, she wasn’t going to.

She was going to give herself the gift she had looked for from everyone else. Love. Surprised, for it had come when she least expected it, Emma felt the exquisite sense of peace that she had looked for her entire life.