No Christmas Like the Present (9 page)

Chapter 8

Lindsay slapped down the green felt-tip pen with a sigh of disgust. She thought she'd given up on the excuses and apologies, figuring they were just plain tedious to read year after year. Her old friends had to be used to it by now. Just let them think it was dippy Lindsay again.

She didn't feel dippy. She felt jangled into a million pieces.

She should have known she was too keyed up from Fred's abrupt departure to write a cheery Christmas card. But it was too early to go to bed, and she had to pour all this restless energy into
something.

Lindsay pushed away from the TV tray of cards, heaving herself back against the couch cushions with another exasperated huff. Something fell from the back of the couch and brushed her cheek. Lindsay turned and stared at the sleeve of Fred's overcoat.

It figured. He still had a way to reach her even when he wasn't here.

Tempted to swat the coat away, Lindsay fingered the fabric's warm woolen texture instead. It felt real enough, solid enough. The arms around her had felt solid enough, too. But she'd seen Fred do too many inexplicable things to believe he was just an ordinary man. Yet when push came to shove, he behaved like any of the men Jeanne always complained to her about. He'd gotten her to let her guard down, and then boom, he was gone.

How had she let herself get so worked up? Less than a week ago, she hadn't even wanted to believe he existed. Now she dreaded the thought of Fred going away.

Maybe he already had.

 

 

Headquarters looked different.

Then again, it had never
looked
like anything before.

Tonight, Fred arrived to find himself seated in a semblance of an office. It looked a bit like Lindsay's workplace, but it was more—sketchy. He faced a broad, gleaming desk with a single filing cabinet just to the right. Other than that, the room was unfurnished. In fact, it didn't seem to have walls.

The gentleman behind the desk wore a distinguished tweed suit. His dark hair was going gray, but appeared in no hurry to do so. Fred had never seen anyone from Headquarters in physical form before, but still, he would have known his immediate supervisor anywhere.

Fred said the first words that came to mind. “You've redecorated.”

The man behind the desk chuckled. “That's something I've always liked about you. Your sense of humor.” His British accent matched Fred's. “You've been in the physical world for a while, and you seemed to be having some . . . breathing difficulties the last time you were here. We thought this might make things more comfortable for you.”

They'd noticed, then. “Is that unusual?”

An economical shrug. “It happens on occasion. So, what brings you here?” Sitting back cross-legged, the man at the desk appeared relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. From where he sat Fred couldn't tell if they were brown or dark gray.

Fred tried not to squirm in the sumptuous wingback chair. They might decorate on short notice, but they had good taste. “It's about the Lindsay Miller case.”

“Naturally.”

Naturally. “I'm concerned I may not be the best one for the job.”

“And why would that be?” His supervisor spoke with a curious, businesslike empathy.

“I'm afraid I'm getting personally involved.”

“My boy, the very nature of our work is personal. It's your personal connection to Miss Miller that makes you able to reach her.”

But I wasn't supposed to reach
for
her,
he thought. Was it possible his supervisors didn't know about what happened tonight? The graying gentleman in front of him gave no outward indication.

“I'm just not sure I'm up to it,” Fred said lamely.

“On the contrary. You're uniquely qualified for this case.”

“Why? Because I look like someone you conjured up for her?”

“Of course not. You should know better. You were chosen for her before any of that. The film character was only a convenient image. Just like all this.” He gestured at their underfurnished surroundings.

Fred waffled, uncertain how much to say. If they didn't know, he wasn't going to tell them. “I've reached a point where I'm not sure how to proceed.”

“That should be simple. It's your job to do what's in her best interest.”

Fred pinched the bridge of his nose. He was starting to get one of Lindsay's famous headaches. “I'm not sure what that is anymore.”

“You have your instructions.”

“To get her to reconcile with Steven.” Just to make sure he really understood. It felt so wrong.

“Correct.”

His stomach twisted. “Is there any chance her needs have changed?”

“In the past few days? I hardly think so. What could possibly have happened in such a short time?”

He
must
not know what happened tonight, or he'd never ask that question.

Fred took a deep breath. “Is it possible to send a substitute?” The words hurt his throat. But they had to be said. He'd been told who was in Lindsay's best interest, and it wasn't him.

“A substitute?”

“Yes.”

“You think that would be best?”

He wanted to scream,
no.

He wanted more time with Lindsay. For himself—not for any assignment. But that wasn't in her best interest, and time was short. As of tomorrow, Christmas was only four days away.

“Yes,” he choked out. “Send someone else.”
Preferably in female form.

His supervisor placed his palms flat on the desk and stood. He was shorter than Fred expected, but with his dignified, correct posture, an imposing man nonetheless. “We'll try it, Fred. But you have to understand that if it backfires, you accept full responsibility.”

“I understand.” He blinked. “Wait a minute. You just called me Fred.”

His supervisor nodded. “Isn't that the name you've chosen, for the form you've taken?”

The name Lindsay had given him. For a form he would find it extremely difficult to part with.

 

 

Lindsay turned in bed, trying to fight her way back up out of sleep. Why was it that no matter how hard it was to fall asleep, you were always sound asleep when you had to wake up? The night had been a long, restless one, and now she was exhausted. At least it was Saturday. She pulled up the sheets, desperately wanting to keep her eyes shut, but a sound reached her ears through the covers.

A light, but demanding, rapping at her front door.

Didn't Fred know about Saturdays?

A blush washed over her as she remembered last night's kiss and his hasty exit. The same memory that had kept her tossing half the night.

With that thought, the last traces of sleep vanished. She sat up, swung her feet to the floor, and found her robe at the foot of the bed. She wrapped it around herself, wondering if Fred knew about bed-head. She raked her fingers through her hair, trying to straighten the mass of morning knots. She should run a comb through it.

Let him wait,
she thought.

But the gentle rapping persisted, and she needed to know what he had to say for himself after last night. Lindsay slid her feet into the slippers at the foot of her bed and scuffed her way to the front door.

When she opened it, a silvery-haired gentleman stood before her in the cold morning air, dressed in a conservative gray suit. He held a white paper bag and a steaming Styrofoam cup. “Miss Lindsay Miller?”

His British accent brought a sense of déjà vu.
This is where I came in.
Or maybe he was just a deliveryman. A very distinguished deliveryman.

“Yes?” The crisp air made her shiver.

“We haven't met,” he said unnecessarily. “Fred sent me from Headquarters.”

Lindsay's hand tightened on the doorknob. “Where is he?”

“I'll explain in a moment. May I come in?”

She'd accepted a lot of things in the past few days, but she wasn't letting another British stranger into her home so easily. For all she knew, he was a kidnapper. Or an international jewel thief.

But deep down, she knew better.

Still, Lindsay held her ground, folding her arms against the freezing air. “How do I know who you are?”

He sighed with a slight smile. “My. You are a suspicious one, aren't you? I suppose I can't blame you.” His eyes, the same dark gray as his suit, were kindly. Maybe even paternal, in a distant, upper-crust sort of way. “But Fred wanted me to see you, and I'd appreciate it if you could give me a few moments of your time.”

She shouldn't back down. But it was that, or keep standing in the arctic blast coming into her apartment. He was too genteel for her to slam the door in his face. And based on her previous experience, it wouldn't do any good anyway.

Lindsay finally stepped aside and let him in, relieved, at least, to close the door against the cold. She hugged her robe around her. “What's going on?”

Her visitor held the white bag and cup aloft. “I brought breakfast. I believe you're fond of poppy-seed bagels?”

Her stomach lurched.
All
of them knew about her. She never should have let him in.

“I'm not hungry,” she said.

“I'm terribly sorry. Would you mind if I set these down?” He nodded across the apartment toward the kitchen table.

“
Where's Fred?
”

He studied her a moment, then crossed the apartment to set the bagels on the table. He turned back toward her, looking slightly awkward for the first time.

“Fred felt someone else might be better qualified for your case,” he said.

“So he sent me—what, an understudy?”

“Miss Miller, I assure you, he's very concerned about your welfare.”

“You can't be serious. He
quit?
And that's all the explanation I get?”

“That's all the explanation he gave me. But he was very concerned about not losing any of the progress you've made.”

“
Progress?
” She couldn't believe her ears. She was a
case,
and he didn't want to lose her
progress.

“Look,” she said, “I was doing fine before you guys showed up.”

In the back of her mind she remembered Fred's pleasant voice saying,
Liar.

She ignored it. “If he—if you—think you can just pick up where he left off—”

Lindsay felt her face heat, remembering exactly where Fred had left off last night. If the older gentleman noticed, he showed no reaction. In fact, he hadn't moved since she started her tirade. He regarded her silently, his hands in the pockets of his slacks, underneath his jacket. The stance reminded her somehow of Fred, and she wondered if they could be related. Did they have relatives in “Headquarters”?

She shook her rambling thoughts aside. “You can tell Fred for me, if he thinks you people can just trot out any old Englishman—”

“If the British accent doesn't suit you, perhaps—”

“
No!
”

Lindsay strode to the front door. “If I'm not worth his time . . .”

She yanked the door open. “Then . . .
bah, humbug!
”

Chapter 9

An hour later, Lindsay whipped the fudge in the pot on the stove, much more vigorously than she needed to. This should be her smoothest batch ever. Her arm would be sore, and she didn't even know whom she was going to give the fudge to this time.

It was nearly noon. She should be shopping. She should be writing cards. But she needed a mindless activity. Any Christmas card she tried to write would probably end up sounding incoherent, anyway. Maybe she should go in for a CAT scan after all. Things like this just didn't happen, not to normal people. Not to sane people.

Her strange visitor started her wondering, all over again, just how much she might have been hallucinating for the past several days. If Jeanne, her bosses and her other co-workers hadn't seen Fred and talked about him afterward, she'd be convinced she needed to have her head examined.

If she
wasn't
crazy, and the older man had told the truth, Fred had sent him. All to avoid facing the woman he'd kissed under the mistletoe last night. She'd heard of men having issues with commitment, but this was ridiculous. By his own account, he'd be gone after Christmas. Couldn't he even deal with her that long?

Lindsay bent her knees, bringing her eyes level with the candy thermometer: 238 degrees. Bingo. She turned off the burner and poured the steaming chocolate mixture into the baking dish on the counter.

It couldn't cool off soon enough to suit her. With a sinking heart, Lindsay knew where most of this fudge would be going. Right onto her hips. In the meantime, she contented herself with licking the spoon. Then scraping out the rest from the edges of the pot.

The doorbell rang. Her heart jumped down into her stomach, then popped back up all the way into her throat.

She shouldn't answer it. She couldn't
not
answer it.

Lindsay crossed the apartment to the front door, half-formed prayers jumbling through her mind, and opened the door. Let it be another kid selling candy bars, or magazine subscriptions. She'd even be glad to see an obnoxious adult, offering her a carpet cleaning demonstration, before she'd be willing to deal with—

Fred stood on her porch with a potted red poinsettia plant in hand and an apologetic look on his face. That expression would have melted the hardest heart, but Lindsay told herself she was numb.

She stood stock still, one hand still firmly gripping the doorknob. “So you couldn't find another errand boy?”

“I'm sorry.” He looked sincere, but then, when didn't he?

“‘Sorry' doesn't cover it.”

“Lindsay.” He held the plant out between them, and like a sucker she automatically reached out and took it. Once her hands were full, Fred took the opportunity to nudge the door open and step inside.

“Wait.” She turned to follow him, another mistake; he closed the door. “I didn't say you could come in.”

“Here, let me take that for you.” Fred set the plant on the end table where the horrible fake tree had stood before Fred brought her the real one.

Stay numb, stay cool.
“Fred, you can't just barge in here. I've had enough.”

“I know.” His voice was composed. “I owe you an apology.”

She'd expected him to protest his innocence. “So you know about the man who was here this morning?”

“Yes.”

“And you really sent him?”

“Yes.” His eyes fixed on hers, unflinching. “I can explain.”

“Explain?” Okay, she wasn't numb anymore. She was furious. “How can I trust you? What is this, a game?”

“No.”

She drew in a deep breath to steel herself. To bring all her anger and frustration into focus. “You sent someone else to do your dirty work. One kiss and you run for the hills.
Why?
It's not like you'll even be around a week from now. Of all the cowardly—”

Cowardly.
Lindsay stopped short. She had no right to use the word. She'd played it over and over again in her mind, after Steven. Except that, back then, she'd been the coward. Fred didn't know that. Or did he? Was this whole setup his clever little way of getting her to admit what she'd done?

He stood, holding her gaze steadily, waiting for her to go on. If this was a trap, she wouldn't take the bait. Lindsay steered back to the real point at hand. “You
left
me.”

“I'm sorry.” The gentleness in his eyes, in his voice, was maddening. “Have you been left before?”

“You ought to know.”

“No, I don't. I told you, need-to-know basis.”

“I'm not buying this need-to-know stuff anymore.”

“It's the truth.”

How could one single, soft-spoken statement make her want to believe him so completely? Lindsay tightened her jaw. “If this is all some way to get me to tell you about Steven—”

“Lindsay, believe me. Steven is the last person I want to talk about right now.”

There was something so utterly convincing in his voice, this time Lindsay didn't doubt him for a moment.

Fred reached up toward her cheek, eyes suddenly filled with quiet purpose, and Lindsay realized he'd been waiting for her to finish. Waiting his turn. He'd seemed so collected. Now, looking up into his eyes, she felt face-to-face with something fathomless, and she couldn't imagine why she hadn't seen it before. No one had ever, in all her life, looked at her that way. Not Steven. Certainly no one in her family. As if she were something incredibly valuable.

Lindsay stepped back before his hand reached her cheek. Because if he touched her, she'd had it. She'd give in.

She whispered, with what little air she could find in her lungs: “What's going on?”

Fred didn't advance toward her. But that heady look didn't diminish. “Are you ready to listen? I know you're upset. But we don't have much time.”

Lindsay swallowed hard and took another step back, then realized she'd centered herself almost perfectly under the mistletoe. She shifted slightly, unwilling to back up again.

When she didn't answer him, Fred spoke. “Lindsay, I wouldn't hurt you for the world. Not intentionally. But I was afraid I might be doing you more harm than good. That's why I asked them to send someone else. Last night, before I left”—he glanced up at the mistletoe, still dangling near her head—“you must admit, that wasn't exactly in the script.”

“Script?” She tried to dredge up what remained of her anger, but could only manage bewilderment. “You have a
script
on me?”

He sighed, for the first time looking faintly exasperated himself. “Only a figure of speech. Don't you Americans know what a figure of speech is?”

“I thought you weren't British. Or American or anything else.”

“I'm not.” He shook his head. “I think I've been in this body too long. I'm going native. I'm even starting to get your blasted headaches.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No wonder Dickens had his spirits do it all in one night.”

“
A Christmas Carol
. . . isn't that just—”

“A story. Written by an Englishman, I might add. A very insightful Englishman. But just a story.”

She shook her head. Amazing that, for once, he had a headache and she didn't. “I don't know what's real anymore. How can I ever be sure you're telling me the truth?”

“You only have my word, Lindsay.” He glanced up at the mistletoe. “Of course, I know of one way to give you more definitive proof.”

He stepped closer, within easy reach of her again. “Do you want me to tell you what's real?”

Her heart pounded. “I don't know.”

“Lindsay.” Would he stop saying her name, or at least stop making it sound like music? “It's December twenty-first. How it got to be December twenty-first, I'll never know.”

“Welcome to my world. That's how I feel every year.”

“The point is, our time is limited. We lost a morning. A whole morning. Now we can spend our time arguing, or make the most of the time we've got left.”

Lindsay's breath caught in her throat as the full meaning of what he was saying reached her. In a few days, he'd be gone. Gone for good.

Fred's tone lightened. “And if I'm not mistaken, you've been cooking fudge again. Maybe you'll even share some with me this time.”

That was pure Fred. But—“Why did you come back?”

“I have you to thank for that. You sent my substitute packing. I'm so glad you did.”

He took her hands in his, and Lindsay felt literally caught, as though that warm, light hold could keep her from getting away. But this was no spell from the outside. She didn't
want
to move.

“They keep insisting I'm the best one for the job,” Fred said. “I'm tired of arguing about it. Especially when being with you is the only thing I want.”

“Do they know about—” Lindsay flicked a glance up at the mistletoe.

“They must not, or they never would have let me come back here. I know
I
wouldn't trust me alone with you.”

Something new glinted behind his eyes. Lindsay tried to decipher it. He looked both as lighthearted and as serious as she'd ever seen him.

“If they're foolish enough to trust me anywhere near you,” he said, “they deserve whatever they get.” It sounded almost like a vow. “All I know is that I'm where I want to be, for as long as it lasts. And there are only four days left until Christmas.”

Her voice quavered. “Four days is nothing.”

“No, Lindsay.” The lighthearted look fled from his eyes. “It's everything.”

He laid the outside of one finger against her cheek, just beside her lips. Lindsay held absolutely still.

“Now,” he said, “if you don't mind, I'd like to give you some of that proof.”

“But what about—”

His mouth captured hers, silencing the name neither of them wanted to hear.

 

 

When Fred finally brought himself to raise his lips from Lindsay's, he cupped her face in his hands and looked down into her eyes.

What a fool he'd been to even think about handing her over to someone else. This beautiful, fragile, radiant mass of contradictions. Thank heavens she'd sent his supervisor packing, and that they'd allowed him to return. He realized that must have been the outcome he'd hoped for, deep down, all along.

Fred caressed the corner of her mouth with his thumb. Even if he could only have four more days with her, how could he ever have walked away from that? He'd nearly let a treasure slip through his fingers.

Surely no one else could know her the way he did. They'd just met a few days ago, and he felt as if he'd known her forever. Yet there was so much still to learn. The information he'd been given by Headquarters suddenly seemed like nothing, the vaguest pencil sketch, a dull gray list of facts and figures. To know Lindsay was to spend time with her, experience moments with her, to hear her thoughts, memories and wishes from her own lips. If he could manage to refrain from spending all of that time kissing them.

Four more days. How could there ever be time enough? How should he even begin?

The same way he'd gone about everything in his life up to now, Fred decided.

One minute at a time.

Twenty-four hours later, Lindsay's apartment practically exploded with Christmas cheer, to Fred's great personal satisfaction.

The shopping was done, the presents wrapped and under the tree, waiting to be delivered to co-workers and family. It had snowed overnight, and Fred had drawn back the curtains on the window behind the tree to take advantage of the brilliant white scene outside. Carols sang from the stereo. He'd prodded Lindsay into getting more holiday decorations out of the closet, and lengths of holly garland draped across the top of the television set, the kitchen cabinets, and the mantel above the little fireplace. From the garland on the mantel, they'd hung some of the stray ornaments they hadn't been able to fit on the tree.

Best of all, she remembered a nativity scene in a box on the top closet shelf. Fred promptly evicted the poinsettia plant from the end table next to the sofa and helped her set up the age-old scene.

“Much better.” He stepped back and viewed the nativity scene with approval. “What happened to the little electric tree, by the way?”

“I put it in the bedroom. It's not the greatest Christmas tree, but it makes a nice night-light.”

He nodded. “There should be a little Christmas in every room in the house. Of course, there's always room for more.”

A funny sort of half-smile stole across Lindsay's face. Smug? Sheepish? He should know by now, but he couldn't tell.