Lakeshore Christmas (17 page)

She smiled. “You’re getting better every day.” As he carefully wrote, “To the Editor” on the paper, she
got a lump in her throat. “Thank you, Lonnie,” she whispered.

He paused and offered a slightly bashful smile. “No prob.”

Seized by impulse, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re the best.”

Eddie decided to stop by the library to give Maureen the fund-raising report from the station after their interview. He figured she’d be pleased by the numbers. It was a good start. Truth be told, he could have e-mailed the results to her, but he wanted to see her in person. He wanted to see her face when he showed her the results.

It made no sense that he would want to see her. Or that he wanted to be the bearer of good news. She was prickly, cautious and bossy. Not to mention judgmental and obsessed with Christmas. Objectively speaking, she should be his own personal nightmare. Yet there was something about her, something he wasn’t ready to define but definitely wanted to explore.

The girls he worked with at the station, Brandi and Heidi, had noticed right away that Maureen Davenport was not the usual morning chat guest. He’d caught the two of them whispering about it after Maureen left. “You’re totally crushing on that girl,” Brandi had said. “The mighty Eddie Haven, falling so hard you’ve been smashed to smithereens.”

He hadn’t bothered to deny it. “So?” he’d demanded.

“So what’re you going to do about it?” Heidi had demanded.

The suggestion had haunted him all day long, and now it was nearly dinnertime. He needed to leave his van at the mechanic’s to have the brakes done. Maybe Maureen would offer him a lift. Yeah, that might be a way to steal
some time with her. He drove to the library, hoping to catch her before closing time. Her car was one of two in the parking lot; the other was a flatbed truck with Hugo Lonigan Trucking on the door. A moving truck? Were they already starting to vacate the building? Eddie hated the thought more than he’d expected. What the hell kind of town was this, giving up its library?

The front door was locked, but he figured she’d hear him if he pounded on it long enough. He raised his fist, then spotted movement in the main reading room. He could see Maureen sitting beside some guy—a very big guy—at a table. Only a single green-shaded lamp illuminated their silhouettes. They sat together at a table with their shoulders touching, their heads inclined toward one another.

What the…?

She was whispering in the guy’s ear. Eddie couldn’t be sure, but he thought maybe she kissed the guy. Eddie salted the air with a word that would have blistered Maureen’s ears if she could have heard it. He crammed the report into the book return slot and stalked back to his vehicle.

W
ith his van in the shop for repairs, Eddie walked to the Hilltop Tavern, his shoulders hunched against the blowing snow and his acoustic guitar in a weatherproof case on his back. People who knew his story sometimes asked if it was hard, hanging out in a bar as an alcoholic in recovery. He assured them it was not. What used to be hard was hanging out in a bar and drinking himself blind, facing the fear and confusion and shame of not knowing what he’d done during a blackout, how he’d disgraced himself.
That
was hard. Compared to that, staying sober was a walk in the park. He had his moments, of course, but for the most part, meetings and his friends in the fellowship kept him focused on recovery.

The reason for tonight’s visit to the tavern was artistic. Eddie and three other guys were in a band together, calling themselves Inner Child. Whenever he was in town, Eddie played lead guitar and vocals. They had Noah Shepherd on drums, Bo Crutcher on bass and Rayburn Tolley on keyboards. Eddie and Ray had been making music together for a long time. Over the years, a lot of
people had given up on Eddie, but not Ray. Not even when Eddie wanted him to.

Together with Noah and Bo, the foursome enjoyed an extremely low level of success but managed to have plenty of fun, performing for a familiar, friendly bar audience or at local festivals.

Eddie was the last to arrive, stepping into the warm, cave-like bar. “Dudes,” he said, and grabbed a bar towel to dust the snow off his guitar and gig case. The place had a subtle yeasty smell, mingling with woodsmoke from the fireplace.

Maggie Lynn, the owner of the Hilltop, had a fresh pot of coffee on, knowing Eddie’s beverage of choice. He offered her his best smile. “You,” he said, “are an angel.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “Just try convincing my ex of that.”

“I’ll pass,” he said, and went to set up. There were only a few patrons present so far—a couple in a booth, and two guys at the bar, watching a hockey game on TV.

“How are things with Little Miss Sunshine?” Ray asked, unfurling a power cord.

“Maureen Davenport, you mean,” Eddie grumbled.

“I figured by now, you’d be trying to sweet-talk her into the sack.”

“Number one, she’s not my type. And number two, she’s seeing somebody.”

Ray lifted his eyebrows. “Yeah? Who?”

“I don’t know him. I think he might work for Lonigan Trucking.”

“Lonnie?” Ray paused. “She’s not seeing him. Not to date, anyway.”

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I just know.”

“Come on. Don’t go all Officer-Friendly on me. How?”

“Hey, if you don’t believe me, ask
her.
Ask Maureen. Better yet, ask her out and quit bellyaching to us.”

“I’m not—”

“Dude,” said Ray, mimicking Eddie. “You totally are. Now, shut up and sing.”

It bugged him that people thought he had a thing for the librarian. It ought to be obvious to anyone with half a brain that she wasn’t his type at all. The earnest, smart, well-adjusted type didn’t usually find much in common with Eddie Haven. “Let’s get started, okay?”

They played for a while, warming up with some old standards, then playing around with newer material. Eddie had a written a song called “Ax to Grind” with some of his students recently, and this was the first time to try it in public. The applause from Maggie Lynn and her patrons was enthusiastic. A couple of women, standing around a bar-height table with their friends, tried to catch his eye. Ordinarily he’d go for it, but tonight he was preoccupied.

“That’s a good tune,” Ray said. “You ought to do this professionally.”

“Ha ha,” said Eddie.

They finished the set early, since the crowd was so light. Bo and Noah—both relative newlyweds—were in a hurry to leave. Eddie and Ray were shooting pool when Ray prodded him with a cue. “Don’t look now, loverboy, but you got company.”

Eddie turned toward the door. There, looking like she’d caught a whiff of something bad, was Maureen Davenport, bundled against the cold. In his head he heard a babble of voices, friends and coworkers:
You’re
totally crushing on her. You’re into her…
And against all odds he was. She was vulnerable and sincere, and a little prickly. In every way, she was the antithesis of his kind of girl. But he couldn’t help liking her. He motioned her over. “You’re out late,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

As she unwound her muffler and peeled off her coat, her gaze swept the bar as though it were an opium den. She glanced at the group of women in their tight jeans, and unconsciously tugged down the hem of her sweater. Clearly she didn’t come here often. “It’s not late. I’m a night owl,” she said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

Eddie started to feel flattered that she would step so far out of her comfort zone just to see him. It must mean she had a crush on him. She probably couldn’t stop thinking about him. Ray had been right about the trucker guy, Lonigan, then.

“You just missed a set,” Eddie told her. “You should get here earlier next time.”

“I’m not here to be entertained. I’ve been thinking about the program,” Maureen said. “I wanted to know how your song is coming along.”

“You came here to see if I’ve been doing my homework?” Eddie laughed, though he wasn’t amused. She hadn’t come to hear him after all, which bugged him more than he wanted to admit.

“Is the song ready?” She turned to Ray. “He’s going to perform an original song in this year’s program.”

“That’s our Eddie. He’s such a sweetie,” Ray said.

“Piss off,” Eddie grumbled.

“Hey, just because you have the red ass for Christmas doesn’t mean the rest of the world feels the same way,” Ray said.

“I don’t have the red ass for Christmas,” Eddie said.

“Just be careful around this guy,” Ray warned Maureen. “He’s got issues with Christmas.”

“Bullshit,” Eddie said. “It’s like any other day.”

Ray aimed a meaningful nod at Maureen. “See?”

“Christmas denial,” she said.

“Exactly,” Ray agreed.

“I thought you were my friend,” Eddie complained.

“Didn’t I just call you a sweetie?” He checked the clock. “Gotta bounce. I’m pulling a late shift at the station. Keeping the world safe from Christmas haters.”

“Hey,” said Eddie, “I need a ride, remember? My van is in the shop.”

“I can give you a ride,” Maureen offered. “You go on ahead, Ray.”

Tolley was out of there before Eddie could say bah, humbug. He turned to Maureen. “I need to grab my guitar.”

She was quiet as they walked outside together. He was her prisoner.

“What’s bothering you now?” Eddie asked as he placed his guitar on the backseat of her car. Her little Prius was cluttered with language CDs, knitting stuff, canned goods packed in a food bank box and sacks of birdseed.

“Why do you assume something is bothering me?” Maureen waved a hand. “Never mind, don’t answer that. I’d only be insulted by your answer.”

“Ha, I knew it. Something
is
bothering you. I mean, something more than the usual stuff.”

Maureen turned on the ignition, adjusting the heater to a high setting. Although they both buckled their seat belts, she didn’t put the car in gear. Instead, she turned to him. “How are you going to write a tender, loving Christmas song if you hate Christmas?”

He had to laugh. So
that
was what was on her mind. “Same way I write any song, one note at a time. I don’t need to buy into what I’m writing.”

“You don’t?”

“It’s a song, okay? Music and lyrics. With a very specific topic.”

She pulled out of the parking lot and started down the hill.

He gave her the address and wondered if he should invite her in once they got to his place. Ask her if she’d like to hang out, maybe fight with him some more. Yeah, that would be fun. “So
have
you written it?” she asked him.

“No.”

“We need it now, Eddie. Why haven’t you written it?”

“Dammit, Maureen, I’ve been busy, okay? I need a little white space to throw something together.”

“How much white space?”

She was the most annoying female he’d ever met.

“What, you want a number?”

“Yes. What do you need? Thirty minutes? An hour? A day?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how long it takes to write a song?”

“It takes whatever it takes. I can’t be any more specific than that.”

At a stoplight, she turned to study him briefly. Then she clicked on her turn signal and headed away from Willow Street.

“Hey,” he said, “I thought you were giving me a lift to my place.”

“I changed my mind,” she said evenly. “We’re going to
my
place.”

Maureen knew she was taking a huge risk, bringing Eddie here, the two of them all alone, at this hour. But she was desperate. She needed that song from him. She needed it to be wonderful.

“This is the library,” Eddie said.

“I’m aware of that.” She took his guitar from the backseat and handed it to him. Then she fished out a set of keys, led the way around to the side of the building and unlocked the staff entrance.

“It’s eleven o’clock at night.”

“I can tell time, too.”

“I thought we were going to your place,” he said.

“This is my place.”

“And we’re here because…”

“Because you need white space. The library is perfect for that.” She disabled the alarm, then led the way through a darkened work area filled with littered desks and shelves of books, into the library proper.

“Me and my big mouth,” muttered Eddie.

She stopped at a smallish room with a single high window, a table and a few chairs, an old upright piano and nothing else.

“We call this the piano room,” she explained. “With the door shut, it’s nearly soundproof. It’s mostly used for study groups, and sometimes tutorials. And now song-writing. You’ll be our first songwriter.”

“It looks like the plasma center.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a place where people sell their blood for money. Did you know your plasma is worth thirty bucks a pint?”

She shuddered. “I had no idea people could sell their blood. I thought you
gave
blood.”

“You’ve led a sheltered life, clearly. Selling plasma is the kind of thing people do when they have nothing left.”

“Hmm. I might be out of a job soon—” She gave a laugh. “Kidding. I suppose the overhead lights are a little harsh. Hang on a second.” She went to the children’s reading corner and returned with a floor lamp with an old-fashioned fringed shade. As she bent to plug it in, Eddie was very quiet. She straightened up, confused by the stricken expression on his face. “Is something the matter?” she asked.

“Not at all.”

Suspicion slid through her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Let’s just say I’ve become quite a fan of yours.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I was checking out your ass,” he admitted.

If dying were an option, Maureen might choose it right about now. “That’s obnoxious.”

“Any woman who’s going to get down on all fours in front of a guy is going to get checked out, simple as that. And in case you need to know, you have an amazing butt. Like, world class, seriously. I never noticed that about you before.”

She glared at him. “You weren’t meant to.”

“You’re a sexy woman, Maureen. Why are you trying to hide that?”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

He took his time inspecting her thick cable-knit sweater and oversize jacket. “Right. So what about that guy I saw you with—are you hiding him?”

She frowned. “What guy?”

“Drives a truck?”

Oh, for Pete’s sake,
thought Maureen. “That’s Lonnie. And I’m not going to talk to you about him.”

“Damn. Ray said I should ask.”

“You talked to Ray about me? About Lonnie?”

“Is that a crime?”

“It’s nosy.”

“So sue me. Are you dating him?”

“No.”

“Are you dating anyone?” Eddie asked.

This was the last conversation she had expected to be having with him, and it caught her off guard. “I try not to date at all,” she blurted out.

“Why? It’s fun.”

“Some people think so. Not me. To me, dating is less fun than…” She paused to think.

“Than what?”

Anything, she thought pathetically, but she didn’t want to admit that to him. “Jury duty,” she said. “I would rather serve jury duty than go on a date.”

“Okay, what else? Church. Is church better than going on a date?”

“I like going to church.”

“Then how about a root canal? Would you rather go on a date or have a root canal?”

She tried to stay serious. “At least they numb you up before a root canal, right? On a date, every nerve is exposed.”

“You are one crazy girl, you know that? Who’ve you been dating, Attila the Hun?”

“I told you, I haven’t been dating because I don’t care for it. The last date I had was—” she thought for a moment, then remembered “—with a guy named Walter. A bad concert. And before that, Alvin Gourd took me to a philately exhibit.”

Eddie burst out laughing. “No wonder you’d rather have a root canal.
Philately?
Is that even freaking legal?”

“Some people consider stamp collecting a high art.”

“Good God.” Tears streamed from his eyes. “And…I’m sorry…Alvin
Gourd?
Are people constantly asking him if he’s out of his gourd? Who the hell is Alvin Gourd?”

The kind of guy who would date me, she thought. “You shouldn’t make fun of a person’s name,” she said.

“True. I’ve got a weird name myself.”

“Eddie? That’s not weird.”

“It’s also not my given name. My original name is Doobie.”

“Give me a break.”

“Swear to God. It’s on my birth certificate.”

“What kind of people would name their baby Doobie?”

“People named Willow and Moonbeam.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“Your parents are Willow and Moonbeam?”

“They went through a psychedelic phase.”

“Okay, time out.” She made a
T
with her hands. “There’s no way I can leave you alone to work until you tell me about Willow and Moonbeam and the psychedelic phase.”