Eight Christmas Eves (3 page)

“I’m not that
cold,” she said, clearly lying since her teeth had started to chatter. She
pulled the book she’d been hugging out from under her coat, and he saw it was
an oversized sketch book. “And you need to warm up too.”

“I intend to
warm up,” he told her, taking off his hat and coat and trying to shake off the
snow.

When the
housekeeper appeared and asked if everything was all right, Cyrus asked her to make
sure Helen changed out of her wet clothes and put on something warm.

Then, his duty
done, he went back to his room to take a hot shower and change clothes, since
his socks, the bottom half of his pant legs, and his collar were all soaked
from the snow.

Fifteen minutes
later, he left his room, feeling much better, and stopped by the library.

Helen was
curled up with a blanket on the rug in front of the fire, looking at a large
book of glossy nature photography and sipping a mug of something hot. Her hair
was still damp, but it was braided into two long braids, and she wore a thick
green sweater with black leggings.

“Are you in a
better mood now?” she asked, grinning at him brightly when he came in.

He frowned. “I
was never in a bad mood.”

“Yes, you were.
You snapped at me. I was very offended.”

Since she
didn’t look offended, he didn’t take her words seriously. “I told you I was
worried about you.”

“Were you?” she
asked, looking almost hopeful. “Are you sure you weren’t just annoyed because I
got trapped in a blizzard?”

He tried to
suppress a smile. “I thought you said you were doing fine getting through the
snow on your own.”

“Oh.” She
looked momentarily taken aback, but then she smiled at him blithely again. “I
was, but thanks for coming after me anyway.”

“How’s the
ankle?” He lowered himself to the floor to sit next to her on the rug.

“It’s not too
bad,” she replied, showing him a wrapped ankle by sticking a foot out from
under the blanket. “Jenny wrapped it up for me. Did you want some cocoa? Jenny
gave me marshmallows and whipped cream since I’d had such a bad time of it.”

Cyrus could
tell from the inflection of the final words that Helen was quoting the
housekeeper directly. It sounded just like the woman. “No, thanks. It won’t be
long until dinner.”

“What does that
have to do with anything?” she asked, frowning at him. “Cocoa isn’t food.”

He couldn’t
keep up with her moods. She was evidently annoyed now because she’d interpreted
his idle remark as implying that she had too big an appetite.

“Why did you
come?” she asked, changing the subject again. “Really.”

Cyrus gave a
half-shrug, feeling momentarily uncomfortable. He searched for an offhand
response but couldn’t find one. “It’s what I always do.”

“But you said
you couldn’t make it.”

“I could make
it after all.”

Helen peered at
him with such scrutiny it felt like she could see into his soul. “Did you come
because of me?”

“Yes,” he
admitted, feeling awkward at the admission but telling her the truth anyway. “I
did.”

Helen’s face
burst into a wide grin. It was a shining thing. “I’m so glad.”

She was just a
child, and she would never be as jaded as he was. But they were alike in one
way at least.

Cyrus was used
to people wanting to be around him, but it was always for what he could offer
them. He spent his days surrounded by people—friends, women, hangers-on—but he
was still mostly alone.

And if
someone—anyone—had driven through a snow storm just to be with him, Cyrus would
have been awed and gratified too.

He was glad
he'd decided to come.

*
* *

“So I’m told you were unwise
this afternoon and ventured out into the snow,” Drake Owen said from over the
crown roast he was carving.

They had all
dressed appropriately for their traditional Christmas Eve dinner—Cyrus and his
father both in jackets and Helen in a dark red dress. They’d just finished the
soup course.

“Yes,” Helen
said, looking unabashed at the cool comment.  “I went to my retreat to
read. I didn’t know it would get so bad. If you were worried, I’m surprised you
didn’t rush to my rescue like Cyrus did.”

Cyrus shifted
slightly in his chair, wishing Helen hadn’t drawn attention to his concern for
her earlier.

His dad slanted
Cyrus a sardonic look but didn’t say anything to him. Instead, he turned back
to Helen. “You’ve heard of the Ligurian tribes?”

“Ye-es,” she
replied, stretching the word out as if she were wracking her memory. She didn't
seem startled by the abrupt change of subject. “They’re connected to the Roman
Empire somehow, aren't they? I’m sure you’ve told me about them before.”

“They were
alpine tribes, mostly barbaric. But they were brave and stubborn, and they were
successful for a long time at fighting off Roman rule. In the first century BC,
Donnus, king of the united tribes, managed to make a peace with Julius Caesar
and negotiate autonomy for his people, but the grandson of Donnus failed, and
Nero ended up annexing their province after all.”

“Really?” Helen
asked, her eyes wide and her voice breathless. “How interesting!”

Her voice was
too
breathless and her eyes were
too
wide. Suddenly Cyrus realized her
interest wasn’t genuine. He tried to keep his amusement from reflecting on his
face.

“A small band
of Ligurian warriors refused to submit to Roman authority and vowed vengeance.
So they set out over the Alps to infiltrate the heart of the Empire and
assassinate Nero himself. They were tough, weathered, and experienced, but they
got caught in a freak snow storm as they were passing through the Alps."

“Did they
freeze to death?” She slanted Cyrus a look, and he thought he caught a discreet
wink.

“All but one of
them did, but there was something noteworthy about that one who survived.”

Helen’s
forehead wrinkled, and Cyrus suspected she might really be a little bit
interested in the story now.

“She was a
woman,” Cyrus put in. He didn’t actually know this anecdote, but he thought it
was a good guess.

His father
looked faintly displeased by the interruption, but he recovered quickly and
nodded solemnly. “She was a woman. Why do you suppose she survived when the
rugged male warriors couldn’t?”

Helen thought
about this for a moment. “Can women withstand the cold better than men?”

“Exactly. They
tend to have more fat for insulation,” his father drawled, pausing to check
Helen’s reaction, which was a scowl, “And they have a higher gradient of temperature
from skin to body core, which means they can maintain their core temperature
longer than men.”

“Well, good for
her,” Helen said, “The Ligurian woman, I mean. Obviously, she didn’t succeed in
assassinating Nero, but, still, A for effort.”

His father
almost smiled. “Indeed. She lost several fingers and toes to frostbite, but was
hailed as a hero by all of her fellow tribesman. Her spear was preserved as a
memorial to her valor.”

“I would love
to have that spear. Do you think you could find it? It would be the perfect
Christmas gift for me next year!”

Cyrus stared at
Helen for a long time until he realized she was actually teasing his father.

His dad seemed
to realize it too. His eyebrows went sky high. “Are you humoring me, child?”

She
snickered.  “Of course not. I love it when you tell me about ancient
history, and with that spear and my Renaissance dagger I could have a whole
collection of old weapons.”

Cyrus thought
he caught a flash of amusement in his father’s eyes, but all the man said was,
“Hmm.”

*
* *

Cyrus had gotten
White
Christmas
cued up, and Jenny had brought in cider and sugar cookies, but
Helen still hadn’t arrived.

He had no idea
what she was doing.

After dinner,
Cyrus had found his father and mentioned to him privately that someone really
needed to keep a better eye on Helen when her nanny wasn’t around, since she
could have been seriously hurt out in the blizzard by herself with a twisted
ankle.

He should have
known better than to think such a comment would produce positive results. His
father had just arched his eyebrows. “Despite your white-knight complex, the
child is not in need of rescuing.”

“I don’t have a
white-knight complex,” Cyrus argued, already knowing he’d made a mistake in
bringing the subject up at all. “But she’s your responsibility—both legally and
morally.”

 “Quite
true. And that means she’s not
your
responsibility.”

Cyrus had just
given up.

He was still
brooding over the conversation, though, and it was making him increasingly
bored and impatient in waiting for Helen. He was just about to go looking for
her when she finally came jogging into the room, rather wobbly on her twisted
ankle, with a wrapped box in her hands.

“This is for
you!” she declared, placing the box on Cyrus’s lap and climbing up onto the
couch beside him.

Cyrus stared
down at the present. Helen must have wrapped it herself, since the bow was
off-center, the seams weren’t perfectly straight, and the tape was applied with
extraordinary abundance. “Shouldn’t I wait until tomorrow morning?”

“I’ve got other
presents for you tomorrow. This one is for tonight. It’s for you to wear
tomorrow!” She grinned at him brightly.

Cyrus swallowed
hard and felt a clench of dread in his gut. He could only imagine what Helen
had picked out for him to wear.

“I got one for
your dad too,” she said.

Well, that
helped a little. He carefully unwrapped the box, instinctively avoiding ripping
the paper. It was a sweater box, and his imaginings were realized when he lifted
the lid to reveal a gaudy red, green, and gold sweater with a giant appliqué of
Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer on the front, complete with jingle bells hanging
off the antlers.

Helen clapped
her hands in delight.

“Uh, wow,”
Cyrus said. He darted a look over at Helen and saw that she was holding back
hilarity, so he relaxed and shared his true thoughts. “You can’t really think
this is my kind of sweater.”

“Of course it’s
not. That’s why you need it. You and your dad both need to get into the
Christmas spirit more, so I got you these sweaters. His is sort of like this
one, but his Rudolph has a nose that lights up instead of jingle bells on the
antlers.”

Cyrus almost
choked at the vision of his father in such a sweater.

“And I have to
wear this tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“All day?”

“All day.”

“I thought you
liked me.”

She giggled
helplessly. “I do like you. That’s why I got you a pretty sweater to wear.”

Cyrus sighed
and smiled at her, mentally calculating how little time he could manage to wear
the sweater without hurting her feelings.

“I guess that
means you like my dad too.”

Her expression
changed a little. “I like him most of the time. He’s okay. He’s not as bad as
he pretends to be.”

Cyrus didn’t
believe that for a minute, but he was happy that Helen was able to hold onto
the delusion. “He seems to like you too,” he said, realizing as he said the
words that they were true. His father would never openly show affection, but
there had been genuine amusement in his eyes when he’d interacted with the
girl.

“He does. Most
of the time he forgets about me, but when he remembers he likes me.”

The words were
strangely poignant because they were so matter-of-fact and good-natured. Helen
had grown out of the unnatural composure of the ten-year-old he’d first encountered
on the side of the road two years ago, but she was still too isolated. Too
self-sufficient. She was fearless and interacted well with other people, but
she always held the deepest parts of herself back, as if she couldn’t trust
anyone to really love and care for her.

Realizing that
she was expecting a response, Cyrus said quickly, “Well, that’s something,
since he doesn’t like very many people.”

She peered at
him strangely. Finally, she said, “You think he doesn’t like you?”

Cyrus was taken
aback by her insight. That had been precisely what he'd been ironically
reflecting on. He didn’t answer, but Helen didn’t seem to need him to.

“He can
like
me because he doesn’t
love
me,” she said.

His chest hurt
for a moment as he thought about her words, but he shaped his mouth into a wry
smile. “I suppose you think there’s some sense in that remark.”

“You know what
I mean. That’s the way he is. He can’t like the people he loves.”

Cyrus took a
deep breath. Couldn’t speak for a minute. Wondered—hoped—it was true, that his
father loved him despite all evidence to the contrary.

After a long
stretch of silence, Helen said in a small voice, “My dad used to love me.”

He turned to
look at her, feeling a sharp stab of pity. “Do you remember him?”

She nodded. “He
loved me. So did my mom.” She stared at the blank television with something
deep and aching in her eyes. “At least I know someone did once.”

He wanted to
say something comforting, something to reassure her, but all the words he could
think of seemed empty.

So he didn’t
say anything. He just sat with her on the couch. After a minute or two, he gave
her a little punch on the arm and said lightly, “Thanks for the sweater. I’ve
never had one quite so incredibly garish.”

She stuck out
her tongue at him, her sober mood lifting like a fog. “I know that’s not a
compliment. Now you’ll have to wear your sweater next year too.”

Cyrus laughed,
feeling strangely lighter, as if talking to someone honestly—even if it was
just a little girl—had helped somehow. “As long as you make my dad wear his
too.”