Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (40 page)

And this man—he glanced over with a nod and mouthed
Thanks,
and she nodded back before putting the car in Reverse—after what he'd been through?

Whatever he needed, Claire definitely wasn't it.

* * *

Juliette fell back on her bed, making poor Barney jump, then pick his way across the rumpled Marimekko comforter to slather Juliette's face with sloppy kisses.

“Stop,
stop!
” she squealed, trying to squirm away from the wriggling dog. Sprawled on the extra twin bed a few feet away, Rosie Valencia, her bestie since forever, laughed her not-exactly-small butt off.

“Get her, Barney!” Rosie cheered, which only made the stupid dog lick faster. “Maybe you can wash away that rotten mood.”

“Why does everybody keep
saying
that?” Juliette said, shoving the dog off her chest to haul herself upright in the field of giant red-and-hot-pink flowers. She'd thought this was the coolest bedding ever when she'd been ten and Mom had surprised her with the makeover that banished the cutesy Winnie-the-Pooh stuff of her childhood. And it wasn't that she hated it, exactly. But it was time for a change, maybe.

The dog flopped over, baring his pink belly. Sighing, Juliette obliged, which of course made him crunch forward to madly lick her hand. “I'm not in a bad mood,” she muttered.

“Uh-huh.” Rosie swept her nearly black hair over her shoulder as she shifted on the bed, her math book open on her lap. Pale green eyes, eerie against Rosie's dark skin, met Juliette's. Like her, Rosie was also the eldest. Only she had
six
siblings. All boys. As crazy as it got here, it was ten times worse at Rosie's. “So you gonna tell me why you're pissed, or what?”

Even two days later it still stung that she had to admit Miss Jacobs was right—that whatever was gonna happen, or not, Juliette couldn't influence it one way or the other. Unfortunately, this flew in the face not only of everything Mom had ever said about people being in charge of their own destiny, but of Juliette's naturally impatient nature.

Something she doubted Rosie, who was the most laid-back person ever, would understand. The upside to this was that nine times out of ten Rosie was like “sure, whatever” about pretty much anything Juliette suggested. Theirs was definitely a symbiotic relationship. But being from a family in which everybody apparently lived to some ridiculous age—she had a great-grandmother who was like a hundred and five, yeesh—Rosie couldn't possibly understand the huge honking hole inside Juliette that only seemed to grow larger every day. Instead of closing up, like you'd expect. Like she'd hoped.

“It's just...stuff,” she said, grabbing her own math book and loose-leaf binder from the foot of the bed, smacking both open. “I'll deal. So...what did you think of the cast choices for the holiday play?”

Some Dr. Seuss version of
A Christmas Carol.
Hysterical
.
And it had a gazillion parts, so lots of kids could be in it. Even if for only a few minutes. Like her and Rosie. Because lead roles only went to juniors and seniors.

“They all sounded okay during the read-through, I guess,” Rosie said. “Although I'd like to swat that smarmy smile off whatshername's face.” Juliette smiled, knowing exactly who Rosie meant. Amber Fortunato. Big hair, bigger boobs, Daddy owned a BMW dealership. 'Nuff said. “But her boyfriend? The dude who's playing Scrooge's nephew? What's his name?”

Juliette's cheeks prickled. “Scott Jenkins?” she said, staring really hard at the first problem. She'd paid attention in class, honest to God, but she still didn't get it.

“Yeah, Scott. He is so frickin' cute. I could totally lick ice cream from those dimples. And those blue eyes...
Le
sigh.”

Honestly. Whatever popped into Rosie's head slid right out of her mouth a second later. Juliette might be impatient, but she wasn't impulsive. She did think things through before she said/did them. Mostly.

“He's a junior,” she said, still staring at the book. Still blushing. “Out of our league. Not to mention, hello? Amber?”

“Please. I give that two weeks, tops.” Rosie tilted her head. “And you do know your face is about the same color as those flowers, right?”

“Shut. Up.”

“So you should totally ask him out.”

Juliette's eyes slid to Rosie's.

“Okay, so in two weeks. When my prediction proves true.”

“Right. Because even if Scott didn't laugh in my face, Dad would kill me. And then him, for accepting. Then me again, to make sure I got the point.”

“So what if he asked
you
out? You know, after he and Amber split and he's all looking for someone to heal his wounds and stuff.”

Juliette sighed. Because as much as she hated to admit it, that particular fantasy had crossed her mind a time or twenty. But still... “Slightly different order, same outcome. We'd both be dead. You know I can't date yet, Rosie. Not until I'm sixteen. And in any case...” She glared at the book again. Nope, not making any more sense than it did five minutes ago. “I've got too much else on my mind right now.”

“Like what?”

“Like passing geometry, for one thing.”

“So get a tutor. And for another?”

Juliette blew a slow breath through her nose. Yeah, Miss Jacobs had said she could talk to her anytime, and Juliette knew she meant it. But when, exactly, would that happen? At school? And anyway, their previous conversation hadn't actually solved anything, had it—?

“Jules?” her dad said, knocking at the partly open door. His face looked pinched, like always. “Dinner's ready in ten minutes. You staying, Rosie?”

“If it's okay...?”

“Carmela brought over a tuna casserole. There's enough for half the town.”

Rosie giggled. “I'll ask my mom, but sure. Thanks.”

Dad left the door ajar like before, the floor creaking underneath the carpet as he walked away. Rosie's eyes cut to Juliette's before she leaned forward and whispered, “Is your dad okay? He looks exhausted.”

“So it's not my imagination.”

“No... Oh. You're worried about him, huh?”

Juliette supposed it was normal for a kid who's lost a parent to worry more about the one who's left. So she nodded, then basically repeated what she'd said to Miss Jacobs on Saturday—with a few adjustments to cover her butt—and Rosie got this totally understanding look on her face, a lot like when she'd heard Juliette's mom had died, and she'd come right over and they'd hugged for like ten minutes, crying their eyes out. Rosie might have her shallow moments, but they'd been friends for so long for a reason.

Her friend sighed. “I can't imagine how Papi would cope without Mama. Speaking of which...” She dug her phone out of her purse, texted her mother. “She's, like, his life. And yeah, she says I can stay. But...I have...to help with the dishes.” She rolled her eyes, then texted a two-letter reply, returned her attention to Juliette. “You do know you can't fix this, right? That it's your dad's life?”

“Pretty much what Miss Jacobs said—”

“Omigod—” Rosie sucked in a breath, then lowered her voice. “
Please
don't tell me you tried fixing up them up? God, Jules, Miss Elliot was bad enough, but Miss Jacobs? Seriously?”

“Okay, setting aside that we all agree I shouldn't be trying to fix up Dad with anybody—”

“Ya think?”

“—what's wrong with Miss Jacobs?”

“Her? Not a thing. She's one of the coolest teachers ever. But have you met your father,
chica?
He's a good man, don't get me wrong—and he's a hottie, too—”

“Jeez, Rosie, boundaries.”

“Hey. These eyes, they know what they see. But I can't imagine two people more wrong for each other. Don't forget, I remember your mom. She and Miss Jacobs... Like two different species. Think about it—she's all bubbly and goofy and whatnot, and your dad's...not. And neither was your mom. Get real, Jules—”

“It's okay, I'm over it. My matchmaking days are done.”

“You swear?”

Juliette crossed her heart. “It's just...” She flopped back on the bed again. Barney belly-crawled over to lay his chin on her stomach. “It's Christmas coming, you know? Mom... She loved everything about it, practically turned herself inside out to make sure it was great. The baking, the decorations, the way Christmas carols were always playing...”

“I remember. This was always, like, the coolest house on the block.” Rosie snorted. “My poor mom, she does well to remember to buy those sucky grocery store cookies. Not that the boys care—if it's sugarfied, they'll eat it.”

“Same here,” Juliette said with a tight grin, then blew out a shaky breath. “Even after I figured out Santa wasn't real, Mom still made it magic somehow. Sure, I can make cookies and decorate and put on those old CDs and stuff. Except it's not the same. It's like...” She turned to Rosie. “Like she took the magic with her.”

“I get why you think that, Jules,” Rosie said, her eyes all kind. “I do. But to say the magic died with her?” She shook her head, hard, making her curls shiver. “That's stupid.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It's true. I mean, sure, your mom might've expressed the magic, but it's not like she owned it or anything. Because it's all around us.
In
all of us—”

Dad called them for dinner; her friend pushed her books aside, then hoisted herself to her feet, brushing cookie crumbs off her expansive chest. “My
abuelita
always says, the more you try to tell the universe what you want, the harder it is to see what the universe is already trying to give you. We don't have to make stuff happen. We only have to
let
it.”

“Wow. Deep.”

“Hey, I've been listening to this crap my entire life. It was bound to come out of my mouth eventually.”

Juliette laughed. Rosie could make her as mad as all get-out, but she could always make her feel better, too. And deep down, she knew Rosie—or her grandmother—was right: she was going to have to be patient. To trust. And okay, to maybe dig a little deeper to find the magic inside herself, or at least to look harder for it. But as they went down to the kitchen, and she saw the strain tugging at her dad's mouth, heard the flatness in his voice, it occurred to her that, if she were still little enough to believe in Santa, she knew exactly what she'd ask him for.

Chapter Three

S
eated at the dinged metal desk taking up nearly half the tiny office near the locker rooms, Ethan propped his hands behind his head, yawning so widely his ears popped. The overhead fluorescent light flickered, then settled back into the mesmeric one-note hum that inevitably lulled Ethan to sleep. Practice had ended a half hour ago, right before the sun whisked away its last feeble rays, leaving a bleak, damp cold in its wake. Possibility of light snow, they said. Ethan's knee protested, offering an unwelcome second opinion.

The silence this time of day... He hated it. Mainly because he could hear his own thoughts much too clearly. He glanced at the PE tests he was grading, blowing out a breath before shuffling the papers into a neat pile and stuffing them into his leather briefcase—Merri's present that first Christmas after he'd started teaching. Since he'd made a promise—to himself, to the kids, to Merri on the day of her funeral—to let nothing interfere with family time, he wasn't a fan of taking schoolwork home. But Jules, whose rehearsal would have ended two hours ago, was probably more than ready to be relieved by this point. As capable as she was at handling the boys and Bella, that wasn't her job. So—he yawned again—he'd finish up the grading after the younger ones went to bed, while Jules was doing her own homework.

The movement sent another paper on the end of the desk fluttering to the linoleum floor below. Ethan bent to retrieve it, puffing out another breath. A notice from the office that two of his best players' grades were jeopardizing their positions on the team. Ethan rubbed his eyes, then squinted at the names. Roland White and Zach Baker, both juniors, both in imminent danger of failing English III.

With Claire Jacobs.

Ethan almost laughed. Didn't that figure? The good news was, it was still early enough to turn things around, at least for next year. The bad news was, they had to bring up their grades, fast, or be cut from the team for the rest of the season. And that would not be good. For a boatload of reasons.

But not a damned thing he could do about it right now.

He zipped up his Hoover Hawks jacket against the icy cold as the heavy metal door clanged shut behind him, trapping the silence inside...if not the memories. Despite the facelift the school had gotten since his own student days, every time he set foot in this place he imagined a grinning Merri sashaying down the tiled hallway in her blue-and-white cheerleading uniform, her blond hair pulled into bouncing, twin ponytails. Hell, yes, he thought as he trudged to his Explorer on the far side of the faculty lot, they'd been the stereotype “perfect” couple, the cheerleader and the star quarterback...except there'd been nothing typical about the girl who'd knocked the wind clean out of him from the moment he saw her—

Footsteps crunching behind him made him whip around, immediately on guard—a permanently ingrained habit from his time in Afghanistan.

“Sorry,” Claire said, appearing like an apparition in front of him. “Didn't mean to spook you.” She nodded toward her car, parked in the one spot the halogen lights didn't reach. “I'm right over there.”

He remembered White and Baker, that he needed to discuss their grades with her. Except it was cold, and late, and he not only needed to get home but to line up his ducks before broaching the subject. He'd had these conversations before, with other teachers about other players, and they didn't always go so well. So he needed a minute or two to gather his thoughts, plan a strategy. Tomorrow would be soon enough. So he waved, expecting her to continue on to the sedate, middle-aged white sedan he was guessing she had not picked out herself.

Instead, she came closer. He frowned, still cautious, his heart thumping a little harder than usual. Okay, it'd be a lie to say she hadn't occasionally popped into his head in the past week and a half, especially after Juliette had told him about her and Claire's little chat. It would also be a lie to say he didn't sometimes catch himself half hoping their paths would cross, if only to get a glimpse of that smile. Those glittering brown eyes. Like a spark of warmth in a cold, barren landscape. And lie
número tres
would be that, caution aside, he wasn't completely unhappy about her appearance now, even if only because right now he'd welcome almost any excuse to escape from his own head.

Although, since Claire
was
inside his head—taking up way more real estate than was prudent...

Hell.

“What are
you
doing here so late?” Ethan said, aiming for friendly but detached. Instead of, you know, slightly deranged. “Juliette said rehearsal was over at four.”

“It was. Then I had lesson planning,” Claire said in that voice he now realized reminded him of a very dry martini. Something else he hadn't had in a long while. “If I don't do it here, it doesn't get done. And I suck at improv.” Her hands jammed into the pockets of her big puffy purple coat—she wore a backpack, like one of the kids—she quietly laughed, her loose curls dancing around her face. “Both onstage and in the classroom. You seriously drive the four blocks from your house?”

“When it's twenty degrees at six forty-five in the morning, yes.” He wasn't about to tell her the real reason, that the cold was brutal on his bum knee, even with the brace. Because whining was for losers.

“Gotcha,” Claire said, removing her hands to wrap the coat—she looked like a cross between the Michelin Man and the Fruit of the Loom grapes—more tightly around herself. “So you haven't seen Juliette, I take it? In the past hour, I mean?”

“No. She always goes right home so her grandmother can get back to
her
home.” His mouth pulled to one side. “We have a system. A complicated one, but it works.”

“I can imagine. Well, I won't keep you,” she said, smiling, and Ethan almost felt something thaw inside him. Almost. Until she said, “But Juliette is probably going to be very excited when you get there.”

“Oh? About what?”

“I'll let her tell you,” she said, then started toward her car, taking the warmth with her, and suddenly he didn't want her to leave. Not yet.

“She told me about your conversation,” he called after her. Already at her car, she turned.

“What conver— Oh. You mean from the morning I took the little one to dance class?”

He nodded, feeling the rims of his ears start to burn from the cold. And maybe something more. “Yeah. I should have said something before. To thank you, I mean. She promised... She said she was out of the matchmaking business. For me, anyway.”

Claire walked back a few steps, clearly trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Good. Considering I did everything short of making her sign an affidavit. In blood.”

Ethan's cheeks hurt when he tried to smile. Because it was so cold. “You have the magic touch.”

She humphed. “Hardly. But I do remember what fifteen felt like, when my entire life could be summed up in one word—
yearning.
”

“For what?”

A short, choked sound pushed through her lips. “Oh, God. Everything. Or at least, everything I felt was being unfairly kept out of my reach. Cool clothes. A boyfriend. Straight hair,” she added with a smirk, and Ethan's cheeks ached again. “The difference is, though, that I never had the chutzpah to actually do something about my discontent. Well, except for the hair, but we won't go there. Juliette... Yeah, she might overreach, but at least she's reaching. And the thing is...she's not reaching for herself. Not about this, anyway.”

“What...what do you mean?”

Claire stuffed her hands into her pockets again, her skin sallow in the ugly bright light. Despite her height—or lack thereof—there was nothing even remotely delicate about her, Ethan realized. Good thing, since many of her students were a lot taller than she was.

“I don't know Juliette that well, of course,” she said. Cautiously, he thought. “And I certainly don't know you, what's going on in your head. But I do know what it's like, to lose a parent. The empty feeling that leaves in your heart. And how much you wish...” Briefly, she glanced away, then back at him. “All you want is to plug up that emptiness. But what struck me about Juliette is that it's not only
her
heart she wants to plug up. It's yours. The matchmaking... She only wants you to be happy again.”

Ethan started. “She thinks I'm not happy?”

“Apparently so. And for a teenager in the throes of adolescent self-involvement? That kind of empathy is pretty remarkable. Which says to me she's got a remarkable dad. And criminy, it's getting late, I'm so sorry—”

She hustled back to her car before Ethan could even begin to figure out what to say, only to turn around again. “Oh! I almost forgot—I got a notice from the office about those two players of yours in my sixth period class? We need to talk.”

“Uh, yeah. We do. When's your prep period?”

“First.”

“Mine, too.”

“So.” She grinned. “Your place or mine?”

“Mine,” he said, wanting to be on his own turf. “Room 110, right behind the gym.”

“Got it,” she said, then climbed in her car and took off, leaving Ethan to realize his aching knee was the least of his problems.

* * *

As usual, all four kids accosted him the instant he set foot inside the house, yammering about their days. Also as usual, he swept Bella into his arms to get a hug and kiss, and as usual, she made a face about his pokey end-of-day beard. And the twins were doing their speaking-in-tandem thing about something that had happened at school, and Juliette was telling them all to go wash their hands, dinner was almost ready, and he thought that while this obviously wasn't the life he'd envisioned, it was the life he had, and he was determined to keep that life on as even a keel as humanly possible.

Then Claire's words about his being remarkable—there was a laugh—smacked him upside the head, and for a moment everything tilted again.

“Dad?” Juliette said, setting a huge bowl of spaghetti and meatballs in the middle of the table as the others scampered off to wash up. “You okay?”

Finally he looked at his oldest child, noticed how much she was beaming. “Yeah, baby, I'm fine. Wow, this looks great. Did you make this, or your grandmother?”

“Baba brought over the meatballs, I made the sauce. There's salad and garlic bread, too—”

“So I ran into Miss Jacobs in the parking lot, and she said you had some big news to tell me?”

The kid's smile punched him right in the gut, like it always did. “The girl playing the Ghost of Christmas Past had to drop out of the play, so Miss Jacobs had a bunch of us read for it. Then the rest of the cast voted on who should get the part, and...I won!”

“Way to go, you!” he said, giving her a high five...even if his enthusiasm didn't match hers. And yes, he felt bad about that, that he couldn't get completely behind something that clearly meant so much to his daughter.

Whose eyes were sparkling more than he'd ever seen them. “I mean, I know it's only a high school play, but I so wanted this—I even prayed about it.”

Ethan felt his mouth flatten. “Jules...”

“Oh, I didn't ask God to give me the part! But I didn't think it'd hurt to ask Him to help me do my best when I read. That's okay, right? I mean, isn't that how the guys pray before the game? To play their best?”

She had him there. Granted, the prayers were unofficial and unsanctioned—and completely voluntary—but the pregame ritual had been an open secret for years. Maple River was a town of many faiths, and a surprising number of the kids walked the walk. And if praying fired the guys up, made them more focused, Ethan was all for it. So he turned a blind eye, even if his own faith had been a little tattered around the edges for some time.

“Not that I'm any expert,” he said, “but seeing as it worked, I guess you got it right.”

“I am so excited,” she said on a blissful sigh, turning away to collect bowls from the cupboard. “Because it's, like, another step, right?”

“Toward?”

The bowls clunked onto the table. “My acting career, what else?”

“And like you said...it's only a high school play.”

“Dad,” she said, giving him the side eye as she clunked the bowls on the table. “Have you not been listening to anything I've been saying for the past three months? I
love
acting. It's like...it's like I've finally figured out who I am. What I'm supposed to do with my life. And yes, I know I've done like a million other things before now, and given up on all of them, but...but this is different.”

Ethan's forehead knotted. “I thought your eBay business...?”

“That's part of my plan, yeah. To help pay my way through college. But I already know I want to major in drama. And not at some Podunk local school, either. At Yale. Or Carnegie Mellon. Maybe even Julliard.”

At that, a tremor traipsed up his spine, the same tremor—or one of its many, many cousins—that had assailed him with relentless regularity ever since Merri's death, the realization that he couldn't protect the kids from making mistakes, from disappointment.

It wasn't that he didn't want Jules to be happy—of course he did. Hell, he'd sell his own soul—presuming the market value on it hadn't tanked—to ensure all of his kids' happiness. That was a given. But worry niggled, too, that she was only setting herself up for a fall. Not only about being one of the few stagestruck kids to actually make it as an actor, but even getting into those schools...

Then reality clunked him on the noggin, reminding him again that Jules was only fifteen, that her only brush with acting was this class, which she'd only been in for a few months. With that, the fear backed off and went looking for someone else to torment. At least for the moment. Yeah, there was stuff he still wanted to say, warnings he wanted to give. But at this point, he'd only be wasting his breath, since what was the likelihood of a strong-willed teenage girl actually heeding her father's warnings?