Читать книгу Lakeshore Christmas - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 12

Eddie Haven couldn’t stand Christmas. It was his own private hell. His aversion had started at a young age, and had only grown stronger with the passage of years. Which did not explain why he was on his way to help build a nativity scene in front of the Heart of the Mountains Church.

At least he didn’t have to go alone. His passengers were three brothers who had been categorized at the local high school as at-risk teens. Eddie had never been fond of the label, “at-risk.” As far as he could tell, just being a teenager was risky. Tonight, three of them were his unlikely allies, and at the moment they were arguing over nothing, as brothers seemed to do. Tonight was all about keeping the boys occupied. One of the main reasons they were at risk was that they had too much time on their hands. He figured by putting their hands on hammers and hay bales, they’d spend a productive evening and stay out of trouble.

“Hey, Mr. Haven,” said Omar Veltry, his youngest charge. “I bet you five dollars I can tell you where you got them boots you’re wearing.”

“What makes you think I even have five dollars?” Eddie asked.

“Then bet me,” Omar piped up. “Maybe I’ll lose and you’ll get five dollars off me. Five dollars says I can tell you where you got those boots.”

“Hell, I don’t even know where I got them. So go for it.”

“Ha. You got those boots on your feet, man.” Omar nearly bounced himself off the seat. He high-fived each brother in turn and they all giggled like maniacs.

Christ. At a stoplight, Eddie dug in his pocket, found a five. “Man. You are way too smart for me. All three of you are real wiseguys.”

“Ain’t we, though?”

“I bet you’re smart enough to put that fiver in the church collection box,” Eddie added.

“Oh, man.” Omar collapsed against the seat.

Heart of the Mountains Church was situated on a hillside overlooking Willow Lake, its slender steeple rising above the trees. The downhill-sloping road bowed out to the left near the main yard of the church, and a failure to negotiate the curve could mean a swift ride to disaster. Eddie slowed the van. No matter how many times he rounded this curve in the road, he always felt the same shudder of memory. This was where the two halves of his life had collided—the past and the future—one snowy night, ten years ago.

Tonight, the road was bare and dry. The iconic church was the picture of placid serenity, its windows aglow in the twilight, the landscape stark but beautiful, waiting for the snow. This, Eddie figured, was the sort of setting people imagined for weddings and holiday worship, community events—and of course, AA meetings.

He pulled into the church parking lot. “I’m officially broke now. Thanks a lot.”

“I heard you used to be a movie star,” Randy, the older brother, pointed out. “Everybody knows movie stars are rich.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Eddie said. “Rich.”

“Betcha you’re rich from that movie,” the middle brother, Moby, pointed out. “I saw it on TV just the other night. ‘There’s magic in Christmas, if only you believe,’” he quoted. It was a famous line in The Christmas Caper, uttered by a wide-eyed and irresistible little Eddie. The damn thing aired endlessly like a digital virus every holiday season.

“Now you’re officially on my nerves,” said Eddie. “And FYI, I’m not rich from the movie. Not even close.”

“Huh,” Moby said with a snort of disbelief. Moby was his nickname, based not on his size, but on the fact that his given name was Richard. “Your movie’s huge. It’s on TV every Christmas.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t do me a bit of good.”

“You don’t, like, get a cut or anything?”

“Geez, don’t look at me like that. I was a kid, okay? And my parents didn’t do so hot, being in charge of finances.” The Havens had been incredibly naive, in fact. Against all odds and conventional wisdom, they’d managed to fail to make money off one of the most successful films of the year.

Maybe that was why he avoided his folks like poison ivy around the holidays. Oh, please let it not be so, Eddie thought. He didn’t want to be so shallow. But neither did he want to try figuring out the real reason he steered clear of family matters at Christmas.

“Did they, like, take your money and spend it on cars and stuff?” Randy asked. “Or make stupid investments?”

“It’s complicated,” Eddie said. “To make a long story short, they signed some contracts without quite knowing what they were agreeing to, and none of us saw any earnings. It was a long time ago,” he added. “Water under the bridge.”

“Didn’t you, like, grow up in some kind of compound?” Moby asked. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

Eddie laughed. “Commune, not compound. There’s a difference.” His parents had caught the tail end of the radical sixties, and for a time, they’d dropped out of society. They’d spent the seventies on a commune in a remote, rural area of the Catskills, convinced that simple living and self-sufficiency would lead the way to Nirvana. Eddie had been born in a hand-built cabin without electricity or running water, his mother attended by a midwife and surrounded by chanting doulas. He wondered what the Veltry brothers would say if they knew the actual name on his birth certificate. It was a far cry from Eddie. “A commune is based on the idea that the community raises the kids, not just the parents,” he explained to them. “I was homeschooled, too. The group kind of fell apart after a while, but by then, my folks had created a traveling show. We were on the road a lot.”

“Musta sucked for you,” Randy said.

Eddie had thought so, but working with kids like the Veltrys had shown him everything was relative. Compared to the three brothers, Eddie’s problems had been nothing. At least both of his parents had been present. According to Eddie’s friend Ray Tolley, who was with the local PD, the Veltry boys were in foster care more than they were out. Eddie didn’t know the precise reason and he didn’t want to bug them by asking. They’d never known their father, and they had a mother who couldn’t manage to stay out of jail.

When Eddie was their age, his biggest worry had been how to survive his parents and the legacy of the Haven family. He came from a long line of entertainers dating back generations, to Edvard Haszczak, a circus acrobat who stowed away on a freighter from the Baltic Sea. Upon arrival in America, Edvard had changed his unspellable last name and founded a family of performers. Eddie’s great-grandparents had been vaudeville singers; his grandparents were borscht-belt crooners and Eddie’s parents were a semifamous couple who had starred in a cheesy variety show in the 1960s called Meet the Havens when they were just teenagers themselves.

During their counterculture years, they’d dropped out of everything, but trying to bring up a child woke them up to the reality that they couldn’t always depend on the commune for everything. They couldn’t raise money for doctor visits and clothes for a growing child in the communal garden. So at a young age, too young to be consulted about it, the youngest Haven carried on the family tradition of show business. After appearing in a couple of commercials, including one featuring him as a bare-bottomed baby, he scored a box office hit which had become the Christmas movie that would not die. His delivery of an unforgettable line, and his performance of an iconic song—“The Runaway Reindeer”—ensured his fame for decades to follow.

Although he landed a couple more movie roles—a horror flick, a stupid musical, voicing a cartoon—Eddie never cared that much for acting and the projects flopped or never made it to release. Yet no matter how many hats he subsequently tried on—serious music student, edgy grunge rocker, soulful singer/songwriter—the child-star persona stuck to him like melted candy. He grew up in the shadow of a little kid who had no idea what he was saying when he mouthed the lines that defined him for a generation of viewers.

His parents continued to perform, featuring Eddie in an act designed to cash in on his popularity. “Meet the Havens,” as the trio became known, spent every Christmas season on the road. This left Eddie with little more than a blur of unpleasant memories of the holiday season. His parents insisted Christmas was the ideal time of year for a traveling ensemble. People tended to get nostalgic, and in the grip of the holiday spirit, they opened their pockets. From the time he was very small, he’d been obliged to head out with his parents the day after Thanksgiving, playing a different small venue every night, right up to New Year’s Day. They stayed in nondescript motels and ate their meals on the fly, often skipping dinner because it was too close to showtime.

Eddie had hated it, yet every single night when he stepped out in front of an audience, he did so with a smile on his face and a song on his lips. But it left a bad taste in his mouth about Christmas.

He didn’t let on to the three Veltry boys, though. He honestly wanted them to regard Christmas with the benign good spirits that seemed to emanate from those who, this evening, had left their warm homes to help build the church’s nativity scene—an elaborate, detailed and life-size frieze that attracted fans from all over the upper part of the state. This was one of the most popular sights in Avalon this time of year, and the church, in cooperation with the Chamber of Commerce, went all out.

A number of volunteers were there already, organizing the components of the display—structures and figures, heavy-duty cables and lights, lumber and power tools. The boys approached their task with a cocky swagger that was lost on the church people. What was not lost was the boys’ sagging jeans and oversize hoodies with tribal-looking symbols.

Ray Tolley came over to greet them. “Not your usual suspects,” he murmured to Eddie. Ray was one of Eddie’s closest friends, though they couldn’t be more different. Ray came from a solid, stable background. He’d been born and raised right here in Avalon. He was a good keyboard player, mediocre at pool and big on practical jokes.

He was also Eddie’s parole officer.

They’d met as boys at summer camp. They’d met again as adults, the night of the accident. Ray, a rookie back then, had been in charge of taking a statement from Eddie.

In his hospital bed, his injuries relatively minor after the fiery wreck, Eddie had not been able to offer much in the way of explanation. Ray hadn’t wanted to hear about Eddie’s romantic troubles that night or about Eddie’s issues with the Christmas holiday. Looking back on that time, it was surprising that they’d become friends at all, let alone bandmates.

Eddie introduced the Veltry boys to Noah Shepherd, a friend of his who played in the band. Noah was also a veterinarian who had access to large amounts of hay. Noah was with his stepson, Max Bellamy. The kid was growing like a weed, pushing his way awkwardly into adolescence. “These guys will help you with the truckload of hay bales,” Eddie said, introducing Omar, Randy and Moby.

“Great,” Noah replied. “Grab some work gloves out of the cab.”

A dark, polished Maybach glided to a stop in the parking lot, and out stepped the pudgy kid Eddie had encountered the other night. The moment the elegant ride slipped away, some of the other teenagers present circled him like a school of sharks, taunting him, one of them tugging at his hoodie.

“That’s Cecil Byrne,” said Omar, who’d noticed Eddie’s interest. “He just moved here and he’s, like, the richest kid in town. Everybody hates him.”

“Because he’s new? Or rich?”

Omar shrugged. “He’s pretty much of a geek. People can’t stand that.”

“Do me a favor,” Eddie said to Randy, the eldest of the Veltrys. “Go see if he can help with some transformers.”

Randy nodded, clearly grasping his task. He waded through the shark tank. The other kids gave way without hesitation, some of them greeting him and confirming Eddie’s instinct that the Veltry boys were considered cool. Randy, with his Jay-Z-style good looks and attitude, simply said, “Yo, Cecil, we could use some help with some electrical transformers over here.”

Cecil nodded and followed Randy with unconcealed relief. He still had that outcast look, the look of a kid who wasn’t comfortable in his own skin. High school was a bumpy ride for kids like that.

Guys were setting up power tools, plugging them into long orange extension cords. One of the volunteers, a local business owner who’d never liked Eddie for reasons Eddie didn’t quite understand, leaned over to his friend and said, “Look who’s back in town. Mr. Runaway Reindeer.”

Eddie made a kissing sound with his mouth. “Always a pleasure to see you again, Lyall.”

The guy jerked a thumb at the Veltry boys. “Check out the baby outlaws,” he told his buddies. “Better keep track of your tools.”

“Come on, Lyall,” Eddie said, grinning through his temper. “Don’t be an ass.” The two of them went back way too far, all the way back to their summer camp days, when Eddie had stolen a girl from Lyall.

“Then quit bringing your trashy kids around and we won’t have a problem,” Lyall said.

Eddie stared down at the ground. Counted to ten. Silently recited the serenity prayer. Forced his fists to unfurl. “Let’s not do this, Lyall.”

“Fine. We won’t do this. Just keep an eye on those kids.”

Damn, thought Eddie, counting again. Why do I do this to myself? I could be back in the city, playing my guitar, or—

A car door slammed. “Hello,” sang a female voice. “We brought hot chocolate.”

He looked over to see Maureen Davenport with a hugely pregnant woman. They started pouring drinks from a thermos and handing them out. The blond, pregnant woman was pretty enough, but it was Maureen who held his attention. Dour little Maureen, wrapped up like a cannoli in a muffler, peering out at the world from behind her thick glasses.

He sidled over to her. “Didn’t know I’d see you here. I guess you can’t get enough of me.”

She pulled the muffler down and offered a tight little smile. “Right. You are so irresistible. What are you doing here, Mr. I-Can’t-Stand-Christmas?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the other woman. “This is my friend, Olivia Davis.”

“Hey, Lolly.” A big guy in a parka showed up, bending to give her a peck on the cheek. “Connor Davis,” he said. “This is my brother, Julian Gastineaux. He’s a Cornell student, just visiting for the weekend.”

They didn’t look like brothers; Connor resembled a lumberjack while Julian was clearly of mixed race, longlimbed and slender as a marathon runner. He wore a fleece-lined bomber cap but despite the dorky headgear, nearly every teenage girl present seemed to be swooning over him.

“I’m Eddie Haven.” Eddie turned to the blond woman again. “Lolly. Have we met?”

“Lolly Bellamy,” she said. “We both went to Camp Kioga, a hundred years ago.”

“I didn’t know you went to Camp Kioga,” said Maureen.

“Five summers,” Eddie said. “Best summers of my life.”

“Olivia and Connor turned it into a year-round resort,” Maureen said.

“Good to know,” Julian said, aiming a teasing grin at Olivia. “I’m ordering room service breakfast in the morning.”

“Huh,” she said, “that’s for paying guests only.” She held out an insulated paper cup to Eddie. “Hot chocolate?”

He thanked her, and she went off with her husband and brother-in-law. Eddie turned to Maureen. “I’m here for the drinks. What about you?”

“I wanted to help out.”

“Let’s both be honest and say we didn’t want to be alone tonight, and neither of us had a better offer.”

She frowned as though unsure whether she believed him or not. “Who says I didn’t have a better offer?”

“Yeah? What did you turn down in order to build a manger?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re trying to psych me out,” he accused.

“Sure. Of course that’s what I’m doing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go uncrate a sheep.”

The air came alive with the sound of hammering. Eddie worked on the lighting and sound for the display, because these were things he knew. And in spite of himself, he kept an eye on the Veltry brothers—not because he thought they might steal something, but because they had wandering attention spans. He commandeered Max and Omar to aim the floodlights at the display from all angles, with the most powerful beam installed above, streaming down into the middle of the manger. There were also yards of light strings that would outline the structure and the church, as well.

Maureen was hovering nearby. “It’s not coming together,” she said, her head tipped back as she critically surveyed the display.

“People are freezing their asses off,” he pointed out. “Hard to do your best work when you’re freezing your ass off.”

“That’s because it’s twenty degrees out. Let’s try putting on some Christmas music,” she said.

“Oh, please.”

“Not everyone feels the way you do about Christmas,” she said.

“And not everyone feels the way you do about Christmas,” he replied.

“Music,” she said.

“Whatever you say.” He stalked over to his van and fired up the sound system, selecting a mix tape that was sure to annoy her. A moment later, Rick James singing “Superfreak (U Can’t Touch This)” blasted from the speakers.

It was worth the trouble just to witness outrage on Maureen’s face. She didn’t say anything, though, because everyone else had a different reaction. The suggestive thump of rhythm and ridiculous lyrics immediately took hold, as he’d known it would. One thing he was good at was music selection—matching songs to occasions.

“Superfreak” was one of those pieces no one could resist. Even the Veltry brothers, whose taste ran to hip-hop, stepped up their pace.

As she tilted back her head and regarded the night sky, Maureen looked skeptical.

“Now what?” he asked her.

She indicated a guy on a ladder. “Something’s missing,” she said. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Her face changed—softened—as she tilted her gaze at the roof of the main structure. “That’s Jabez,” she said. “Have you met him yet?”

“Briefly,” he said. Something about the kid kept niggling at him. Maybe it was just Jabez himself. He exuded a kind of subtle magnetism. The other high-school kids were drawn to him, handing over light spools and cords as he climbed the ladder. Perched on the roof of the flimsy structure, he appeared to be in a precarious position. Yet he seemed all but weightless as he hoisted the Star of Bethlehem, which was easily as tall as he was, and hung it in place at the peak of the roof.

“Ready for the lights,” someone called.

Eddie hit a master switch and the scene came to life. A few moments later, the music changed to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Bathed in the glow of the lights, Jabez looked even more striking. Maureen’s face changed. Softened, as though overcome by some kind of magic. He’d never known anyone quite like her. There was something about her that moved him; not just her earnest devotion to Christmas, but her air of…he wasn’t quite sure. Optimism, maybe. And earnestness. There was a deep appeal in Maureen that made no sense to Eddie, yet he couldn’t deny it. When he was a kid, he used to dream about a kind of Christmas that simply didn’t exist. Maybe that was the thing about Maureen. She reminded him of the kind of girl who didn’t really exist—not for him, anyway.

Then the lights flickered out. She shaded her eyes and looked around. Volunteers were putting away the tools and crates. “Where’d Jabez go?”

“Don’t know. Do you need him for something?”

“I was going to give him a flyer about auditions. Maybe he’d like to join in.”

“Hate to break it to you, but being in the Christmas pageant is not exactly a hot ticket for kids his age.”

“That’s why I made the flyer.” She handed him a few. “Feel free to give these out.”

He glanced at the sheet, angling it toward the false starlight. “‘Featuring an original composition by Eddie Haven’?” he read aloud. “Since when?”

“Since you said the music I picked was stale, I thought a piece by you would freshen things up.”

“And it never occurred to you to ask?”

“I’m asking. Will you?”

“I mean before you advertise my services.”

“If you turn me down now, you’ll feel like a heel.”

“Christ, and here I was, starting to like you,” he said. “Turning you down is not going to make me feel like a heel.”

“I know. It’s the kids and everyone counting on an amazing pageant this year,” she said. “They’re the ones who will make you feel like a heel.” She went around collecting empty cups, moving through the crowd with brisk efficiency.

“I just got screwed,” Eddie said to Ray. “But I don’t remember getting kissed.”

“By Maureen? Don’t be sore. She does that to everybody.”

“Does what?”

“Gets her way. I’ve known her for years, and that’s just the way she operates. No biggie.” Ray headed toward his truck.

“She’s into you,” Randy Veltry remarked as they reeled in the stereo speakers.

“What?”

“That woman. The one you were talking to. Totally into you.”

“Right.” Eddie gave a derisive laugh. He tried to dismiss the notion. Into him? Maureen Davenport? No way. She made it clear she couldn’t stand him. Her being into him—that was the last thing he wanted or needed.

And yet…he liked her, bossy attitude, librarian bun and all. It was crazy.

“You ought to ask her out,” Moby suggested.

“Nope. No way. We have to work together on this Christmas production so I can’t be getting personal with her.”

“Chicken.” Omar flapped his wings.

“I’m not. It’s just…I don’t have such good luck with women around this time of year. You know what I call Christmas? Ex-mas. With an E-X. I’ve been dumped three times at the holidays.” It was true; he hadn’t learned his lesson with Natalie. He’d never tried proposing again, but his next two girlfriends both dropped him at Christmastime, too.

“Oh, let me get out my tiny finger-violin.” Randy pantomimed the action.

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re looking for excuses.”

Eddie regarded the three brothers. Thinking about their background and current troubles, he was amazed they even spared a thought for his love life. “Yeah, you’re a bunch of wiseguys,” he said. “That’s what you are.”

“Hear that?” Omar said. “We’re wiseguys, all three of us.”

“Which reminds me, you’re going to try out for the pageant.”

“Ha. That’s a good one.”

“You think I’m kidding? I wouldn’t kid about something that’s going to get you released from school an hour early, three times a week.”

That clinched the deal for them. The Veltry boys caught a ride home with Noah and Max, leaving Eddie to finish up with the other volunteers. People trickled away, heading home, nagging their kids about weekend chores, checking their e-mail and seeing what was on TV. Eddie didn’t have to worry about any of those things, so he lingered to finish up with the lighting. After a while, he realized only he and Maureen Davenport remained.

“Pretty cold tonight,” he said, just to fill the silence.

“I hope the snow comes soon,” she said. “It’s always so lovely to have snow at Christmas. It never officially feels like the season has started until it snows.”

“Not a fan. But don’t worry. You’ll get your snow any minute now.”

“No, the weather report earlier said there’s no snow in the forecast.”

“Maybe not, but it’s still going to snow. Tonight,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’ve been checking the weather report regularly. There’s not a hint of snow.”

“Have a little faith, Miss Davenport.”

“I have plenty of faith,” she retorted.

“Right.”

She studied him for a few minutes, her gaze both probing and compassionate. “What is it with you and Christmas? Did it start that night?”

Eddie studied her keen-eyed expression. So she’d heard the story. Maybe she’d been at the church when his van had gone flying into the nativity scene. He wondered how much she knew. “Wasn’t my best night.”

“People said it was a miracle you survived the wreck,” she said.

“That’s me. A Christmas miracle. Yeah, people can believe whatever they want,” said Eddie.

He was found lying in a snowbank some twenty feet from the van. Panicked worshipers exiting the church found him that way—dazed, reeking of alcohol.

“Maybe it wasn’t a miracle, but incredibly good luck,” she suggested. “I heard you weren’t wearing a seat belt, and that was what saved you.”

“That’s what you heard, eh?”

“Am I wrong?”

The accident report had been exhaustive because there was an entire congregation to draw from. Witnesses reported seeing the van careen around the bend in the road and, “at a high rate of speed,” it left the icy pavement, plowed down a slope, mowed over the nativity scene and burst into flames, all in a matter of seconds.

There could be no disputing these facts. Too many unrelated witnesses reported seeing the same thing. What no one had witnessed—what no one could explain—was how Eddie had survived. Without serious injuries.

Investigators theorized that the impact of the vehicle hitting the building had caused him to be thrown clear of the van and that the deep snow had cushioned his fall. Experts on such things said that this was one of those rare occasions when the victim had benefited from not wearing a seat belt.

The report went on for pages, recounting the statements of witnesses, police and investigators. It was very thorough in presenting the facts.

One key fact had been neglected, however.

Eddie had been wearing his seat belt that night. A lap belt with a shoulder harness.

He had explained as much to the investigators, and they instantly dismissed that part of his statement. For some crazy reason, he decided to test his theory out on Maureen. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re wrong. I had my seat belt on.”

A soft gasp escaped her, and she pressed a mitten-clad hand to her mouth. “The paper said the only reason you survived was that you were flung from the vehicle before it exploded.”

“I know what I know,” he insisted. “And don’t look at me like that—I read what the reports said. And I know I was in shock from a dislocated shoulder. I also read what the paper said about my blood alcohol level. It’s not so unique for someone on Christmas Eve. Haven’t you ever knocked back a few on Christmas Eve?”

“No,” she said bluntly.

“Well, you might, if you’d had the kind of evening I’d had. My memory is not impaired. I wish it was, because there are things about that night I’d like to forget.”

“What kind of things?”

“It’d take all night to explain. I don’t want us to turn into a couple of Popsicles. Doesn’t matter, because I do remember, and one thing I remember was clipping on my seat belt.”

“Why would you remember that so specifically?”

“Because just like everybody else, it’s a habit ingrained in me from a young age. I spent half my childhood being schlepped around in cars. The reason I remember the situation that night specifically is that I sat in the car for a few minutes, and I considered not fastening it. This was something I deliberated.”

“Why would you deliberate?” she asked.

“Long story short, a girl broke up with me that night. I was still young enough to think it was the end of the world. I felt like shit and I kind of did want to die, but if I did, I’d miss out on the rest of my life, you know?”

Her lips twitched a little at the corners. “Funny how that works.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of a career decision. One you can’t take back. So I buckled up.” He could still feel the cold metal of the buckle in his hand. He could still feel and hear the decisive click as he latched it home. There was no way, no possible way he was mistaken.

Except the accident report contradicted him entirely.

“Have you ever felt that way?” he asked Maureen. “Have you ever been that hurt by another person, so hurt you didn’t care if you lived or died?” That was how he’d felt that night, with Natalie. Later, with the clarity of hindsight, he realized the act of proposing had been more important than the woman herself.

He expected Maureen to say something utterly practical, like what nonsense it was to give a person that much power over you. Instead, she surprised him. She nodded slowly and said, “I have.”

“You have.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“When?”

“It’s private.” She looked away, busied herself picking up a stray spool of speaker wire. “No wonder you’re jaded on love,” she commented in a clear attempt to deflect his next obvious question.

“Who says I’m jaded on love?” he asked.

“You nearly lost your life. That must have been the last time you trusted your heart to anyone.”

“Maybe I’m a slow learner. Getting dumped at Christmas kind of became a thing with me.”

“You know what I think?” she asked, then went on without waiting for his answer. “I think you keep trying to sabotage Christmas for yourself.”

“Hey—”

“And guess what? This year, you’re not going to get away with it. This year, you’re going to have a great Christmas.”

“Because I get to spend it with you?” Oops, he thought, watching her face go stiff with humiliation. Wrong thing to say. “I’m teasing,” he said.

“No, you’re being mean. There’s a difference.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

The frames of her glasses were probably made of titanium; they looked tough as armor. “All right,” she said.

He wasn’t sure what she meant by all right. “Listen, I promise—”

“What?” she asked, every pore of her body exuding skepticism.

Good question, he thought. It had been so long since he’d promised anything to anyone. “That it’ll snow,” he said, noticing the barely detectable early flurries. “Now, there’s something I can promise.”

“The weather report said—”

“Forget the weather report. Look up, Maureen. Look at the sky.”

Maureen was about to march off to her car, eager to escape him, when she felt a shimmer of magic in the air. No, not magic. Snow. Contrary to the weather reports, the first snow of the year arrived when Eddie Haven said it would. It started with tiny, sparse crystals that thickened fast. Soon the night was filled with flakes as big as flower petals.

“Glad the snow held off until we finished,” said Eddie.

“No ‘I told you so’?” she asked him.

“Nah, you’re already annoyed at me.”

She scowled at him. “I’m not annoyed.”

“Right. Hand me that package of zip ties, will you?” He was still tweaking the light display. For someone who couldn’t stand Christmas, he sure had worked hard on the display. She wondered if he considered it a kind of redemption.

She gave him a hand, in no hurry to get home. Franklin and Eloise, her cats, had each other for company. She wondered if Eddie had any pets. Or a roommate, back in New York. She also wondered if he’d really gone dashing off for a date the other night, or if that was just her overactive imagination. She warned herself that she was far too inquisitive about this man, but couldn’t manage to stop herself from speculating about him.

As the minutes passed, the snowstorm kicked into higher gear. Thick flakes bombarded them. It was a classic lake effect storm, a sudden unleashing of pent-up pre-cipitation. The church parking lot, empty now except for their cars, was soon completely covered. The landscape became a sculpture of soft ridges, sparkling in the amber glow of the parking lot lights.

They walked toward their cars, sounds now muffled by the snow. She slowed her steps, then stopped. “I love the first snow of the year,” she said. “Everything is so quiet and clean.” Taking off her glasses, she tilted back her head to feel the weightless flakes on her face. Snow always reminded her of fun and exhilaration, safety and laughter. When she and her brother and sisters were little, their father used to be very quick to urge the school district to declare a snow day when the first big snow of the season came. The whole family would go to Oak Hill Cemetery, where they would make snow angels, engage in snowball fights or go sledding if there was enough of a base on the ground. No one ever remarked that celebrating the first snow in a graveyard might not be appropriate. It was Stan Davenport’s way of bringing his five kids closer to their late mother. People tended not to argue with him.

Having lost her mother at age five, Maureen was considered too young to remember, but she did. Sometimes, like when the snow was coming down in a thick and silent fury, a perfect moment would come over her. In a flash of clarity, she could remember everything—the warmth of her mother’s hands, and the way they smelled of flowery soap, the sound of her laughter, the way she liked to collapse like a rag doll in the middle of the bed Maureen shared with Renée, where she would lie with them reading Horton Hatches the Egg and The Poky Little Puppy and Each Peach Pear Plum, always letting them beg for one more story before snuggling them under the covers and kissing them softly.

Maureen shook off the memory to find Eddie staring at her. And although it was entirely possible that she was mistaken, she sensed a new interest in the way he was looking at her, through half-lidded eyes, with what appeared to be desire. It was the way a man regarded a woman just before he kissed her. Which either meant she was a wildly poor reader of facial expressions, or he had unexpected taste in women.