A Merry Little Christmas (16 page)

Franny strolled inside and glanced around at the sumptuous room, which was complete with its own flocked Christmas tree. How lovely. She walked over to it and touched one of the snowy boughs. Hundreds of multicolored bubble lights illuminated the tree. It was enthralling to watch the bubbles dance as they moved up the little tubes. She’d seen such newfangled decorations in the stores but had never been able to afford any of it. Seeing the tree, though, brought back sweet memories of holidays on the farm—the laughter around the kitchen table as they made handmade ornaments, the snow melting on her cheeks as she and her father chose that one special tree, the candlelight service on Christmas Eve, and her mother’s never-ending flow of wassail. She sighed, missing it all.

Franny sat on the sofa, which was situated cozily in front of a great stone fireplace. A low fire popped and crackled pleasantly, creating a festive mood…not to mention a romantic air.

“I thought the dinner would never end.” Charlie unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. “I don’t think I could have endured my father badgering you for another minute.”

“It was all right.” Franny rested back on the cushy divan. “I was beginning to get used to it.”

“That is the last thing I want, for you to have to get used to my father’s bullying.” Charlie paced the floor a few times.

Franny patted the seat next to her, and he melted into a smile.

Charlie sat down. “I’m just so glad to have you by myself for a moment to talk. Barkley and Horace were so busy falling in love with you,
I
didn’t get a chance.”

“To talk or fall in love?” Franny grinned.

“Neither.”

Oh, how Charlie could make a girl smile.

Charlie went over to the hearth, threw a few more logs on the sputtering flames, and poked at them until the logs blazed.

“Where did the fire come from?” Franny got up from the sofa and sat down on the floor near the fireplace.

“I told one of the housekeepers we’d need one after dinner.”

Just like that.
“This is such a different way of life than the farm.”

“I know, but I don’t mind the work out there. It’s freeing.” Charlie sat down next to her on the rug and touched her gloved hand. “And I don’t mind building my own fires.”

Franny chuckled. It was obvious he was trying to be amorous, but her mirth from the apparent joke could not be squelched. “Well, you do have a way with fires.”

Charlie appeared puzzled, and then he chuckled. “I dug a hole for myself on that one, didn’t I? The barn. The fire. Right. I am
very
good at building my own fires.”

Franny wilted inside. How could she be so cruel? She needed a harness on her tongue. “That was an unmerciful thing to say. I’m sorry I brought it up, especially—”

Charlie tugged on the sleeve of her taffeta dress. “It’s all right. It really is.” He removed his jacket and laid it on a chair. “By the way, right before dinner I told my father what happened…about the fire.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a word, but I could see his look of disapproval.”

“I’m sorry about your father. And I’m sorry I laughed just now.” Franny reached out and gave his arm a solid squeeze. “I’m way too outspoken. Will you forgive me?”

Charlie looked at her. “There is nothing to forgive, my dear.”

My dear? Oh my. That sweet talk went down like cream on freshly picked mulberries.
No one except her parents had ever called her by such an endearing name. A quiet settled between them—the good kind. Franny could almost imagine a lifetime of Charlie’s nearness. It was getting easier to envision all the time. But she needed to ask him a question—one that had been fermenting like pickle juice all evening, and one that had the potential to be more uncomfortable than the loss of a dilapidated old barn. And much more uncomfortable than the porcelain clock she’d broken. “Charlie, there is another kind of fire we should talk about.”

“Yes?” Charlie scooted closer to her. “I’d love to hear more about this topic.”

Franny covered his hand with hers. “I think Sylvie is still in love with you.”

“Oh, that.” The last thing Charlie wanted to talk about was an old flame. He’d been working steadily to get Franny alone all evening, so chitchat about Sylvie was more than superfluous; it was irksome.

However, the idea that Franny seemed concerned about his earlier dating life was a favorable sign. “Sylvie only thinks she’s in love with me. Her daddy’s trust fund gave her too much freedom, so she’s had more money than purpose. For the last few years she’s been like a mighty ship at sea—a great force of power with very little rudder. But you gave her an idea tonight. Something she could think about, something she could write about. A real purpose.”

“I didn’t do it to distract her from you. It was just an idea.”

Charlie pulled back at the thought of it. “Of course not. You’re not a manipulating kind of woman. And I would know. I’ve seen plenty of them in action over the years, believe me.” He gazed into her smiling eyes.
“
Besides, I don’t love Sylvie. I never did.”

Franny made little circles on the rug with her finger. “But I hope her heart isn’t still hurting.”

“No, I don’t think so. I think she loves whatever man is in the room at the time. Did you notice how she also doted on Barkley at dinner? As well as Harriet’s date?”

“Perhaps Sylvie was trying to make you jealous. I’m not completely ignorant of the wiles of women, you know.” Franny raised her chin, but the gesture only made her look all the more innocent.

Charlie wrapped his arms around his knees. “What you don’t know is that, months ago, Sylvie was the one who dropped me. Not the other way around. Of course it came at the right time, and so I was grateful to her.”

“You don’t think she’s changed her mind?”

“No. She just loves drama in every form. And for her to cling to the notion that there’s still something lingering between us is perfect theater for the heart. She’s a writer, after all. She lives for witty dialogue and intriguing interludes, real or imagined.”

Franny grinned. “I know it’s silly for me to bring it up. It’s just, there we were, kissing and all, and then there she was, watching us in the doorway as if she wanted to be the woman on the bench kissing you instead of me.”

“I promise, Sylvie will be fine. It’s very thoughtful of you to worry about her, though.”

“But it’s more than that. I’m glad she’ll be all right, but I was asking for selfish reasons too.”

“Selfishness in Franny. I can’t believe it.” Charlie pretended mock horror.

Franny looked at her gloved hands, which were folded on her lap. “At supper I’m sure it was easy to make a comparison between Sylvie and me. She’s so glamorous, and I’m so…well, not nearly as stylish or dazzling. At the table tonight, Sylvie must have looked like a peacock sitting across from a chicken.”

Charlie tipped his head back, laughing.

“Hey, it wasn’t
that
funny.”

“I’m sorry, but…” Charlie had to catch his breath from the laughter. Franny had no idea how pretty she was, and that made her even more attractive. “May I say, you are no chicken, not in mind, body, or spirit. And even though you are beautiful, you are no peacock. I have no use for them anymore. They know how to strut around, but that’s about it. All their flouncing gets tiresome. And besides, Sylvie has a mustache.”

“She does not.” Franny laughed and gave him a little shove.

“Can we talk about something besides Sylvie now? Please?”

“Well, what do you want to talk about?” Franny’s eyes seemed to drift just behind him to an end table. He looked where she was staring and noticed the crystal bowl of truffles. “Would you like one?”

Franny nodded. “Yes, please.”

“You have quite the sweet tooth, don’t you?”

She grinned. “You noticed.”

“Well, I’ve never seen anyone dig into a slice of red-velvet cake the way you did this evening.”

“Sorry, that wasn’t very ladylike.”

“Times are changing. Who’s to say what is ladylike? Some people would say that farming isn’t ladylike, but then they’d have to argue with me.” Charlie handed her the bowl and Franny took one of the wrapped truffles. She set the candy in her lap and fiddled with the buttons on her gloves. “I don’t want to get chocolate on these lovely gloves. Although I hate to take them off.”

“Why?”

“They hide my awful hands. In case you haven’t noticed I have farm hands. My fingernails aren’t manicured, and they don’t have pretty red polish like I saw on the other women tonight. They’re—”

“Here, allow me.” Charlie turned Franny’s hand over, unbuttoned the three tiny buttons at her wrist, and then with excruciating slowness eased the black lace glove off her hand. Charlie gave the same attention to her other hand, all the while leaning closer to her, so by the time the other glove slid off, Franny seemed to have forgotten all about her lack of polish and the chocolate truffle.

“You might find it interesting to know that some women never allow their hands to be seen uncovered. They even wear sleeping gloves made of silk,” Charlie whispered into her ear. “And I want you to know, it’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

Franny giggled. “But I wonder…”

“Yes?” He brushed her cheek with his lips.

Her mouth parted, but her usual resolve to verbalize her opinion faltered.

Just to make certain his prelude to a kiss had the desired effect, Charlie retrieved the truffle from her lap, slowly unwrapped it, and fed it to her in bites. “These truffles come from Belgium, by the way. They’re dark chocolate filled with rose cream. What do you think?”

Franny swallowed the last bite. “Aromatic. Luscious.” She licked her lips. “Extraordinary.”

“Hmm.” Charlie nodded. “Good evocative adjectives.” Then he tilted her head with his finger and brushed his lips over hers. “I wonder if that’s where the idea for a chocolate kiss came from.”

She laced her fingers around his neck and pulled him down for a serious kiss. When they later disengaged—impossible to tell how much later—from their mystical enchantment, Franny found her voice. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered back.

“I think I’ve waited my whole life for that kiss.”

“Me too.” Charlie eased away. “Your face has a rosy glow from being so close to the fire.”

“The glow isn’t from the fire. At least not
that
one.” She gestured to the fireplace in front of them.

Charlie chuckled. “You know, sometimes you see a thing far away. You don’t know what it is, but you feel drawn to it, because you know this thing will change your life. And the closer you get…”

“The closer you get?”

“I’m not saying this very well.” Charlie gently took her face into his hands. “All I know is, well, those three weeks on the farm with you were the best three weeks of my life. And the day you were gone, well, it was the worst day of my life. And that’s not even including the barn burning down.”

Franny laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“For somebody who doesn’t think he can say it right, you really said it right.”

“I did?”

“You did. You could be a poet.”

“A sad and sorry poet.”

Franny kissed his hand before he released her. “But what are we going to do when we go back to the farm tomorrow? Things have changed between us. If the boss is dating the hired help, it could get messy.”

Charlie kissed the tip of her nose. “I don’t think the cows will be filing a complaint against us.”

“No. They wouldn’t dare. They love me too much.”

“I guess we’ll have to take it one day at a time. But know this: you’re changing my life, Franny girl.”

“And you’ve changed mine.” She paused. “So tell me, is there any improvement in your leg?”

“Your kisses have cured me. Better than medicine. Look, no limp.”

“That’s because you’re sitting down.”

Charlie chuckled. “So I am.”

They sat there by the fire, drinking each other in for a moment, when Charlie felt a pang of guilt, knowing that if Franny were to someday become a member of the Landau family, then he could no longer hide certain secrets from her. “You know, you were so fortunate to have had parents who were loving and generous and full of virtue. The way you talk about them moves me. It makes me wish…”