Trading Christmas (6 page)

C
harles worked at his laptop computer until late in the after noon. He stopped only when his stomach started to growl. He was making progress and felt good about what he'd managed to accomplish, but he needed a break.

After closing down his computer, he wandered into the kitchen. An inspection of the cupboards and the freezer revealed a wide selection of choices, but he remembered his agreement with Emily. They were to purchase their own food. Emily had been kind enough to prepare yesterday's dinner for him, but he needed to fend for himself from here on out.

There was no help for it; he'd have to venture outside the comfort and security of Emily's house. He'd have to leave this rather agreeable prison and take his chances among the townspeople. The thought sent a chill down his spine.

Peeking through the drapes, Charles rolled his eyes. He was convinced that if he looked hard enough, he'd see Ebenezer Scrooge and the ghost of Marley, not to mention Tiny Tim
hobbling down the sidewalk, complete with his crutch, and crying out, “God bless us everyone.”

Once he'd donned his long wool coat and draped a scarf around his neck, he dashed out the door. He locked it behind him, although he wondered why he bothered. According to the kid next door, the entire town knew where Emily kept the key. Still, Charles wanted it understood that he wasn't receiving company.

Walking to his rental car, he hurriedly unlocked it and climbed inside before anyone could stop him. With a sense of accomplishment, he drove until he discovered a large chain grocery store. The lot was full, and there appeared to be some sort of activity taking place in front of the store.

Ducking his head against the wind, he walked rapidly across the parking lot toward the entrance.

A crowd had gathered, and Charles glanced over, wondering at all the commotion. He blinked several times as the scene unfolded before him. Apparently the local church was putting on a Nativity pageant, complete with livestock—a donkey, a goat and several sheep.

Just as he scurried by, the goat raised its head and grabbed the hem of his overcoat. Charles took two steps and was jerked back.

The goat was eating his coat. Apparently no one noticed because the three wise men had decided to make an appearance at the same time. Charles tried to jerk his hem free, but the goat had taken a liking to it and refused to let go. Not wanting to call attention to himself, he decided to ignore the goat and proceed into the store, tugging at his coat as he walked. Unfortunately the goat walked right along behind him, chewing contentedly.

Charles had hoped to dash in, collect his groceries and get out, all in fifteen minutes or less. Instead, everyone in the
entire store turned to stare at him as he stumbled in, towing the goat.

“Mister, you've got a goat following you.” Some kid, about five or six, was kind enough to point this out, as if Charles hadn't been aware of it.

“Go away.” Charles attempted to shoo the goat, but the creature was clearly more interested in its evening meal than in listening to him.

“Oh, sorry.” A teenage boy raced after him and took hold of the goat by the collar. After several embarrassing seconds, the boy managed to get the goat to release Charles's coat.

Before he drew even more attention, Charles grabbed a cart and galloped down the aisles, throwing in what he needed. He paused to gather up the back of his expensive wool coat, which was damp at the hem and looking decidedly nibbled, then with a sigh dropped it again. As he went on his way, he noticed several shoppers who stopped and stared at him, but he ignored them.

He approached the dairy case. As he reached for a quart of milk a barbershop quartet strolled up to serenade him with Christmas carols. Charles listened politely for all of five seconds, then zoomed into a check-out line.

Was there no escape?

By the time he'd loaded his groceries in the car and returned to Emily's home, he felt as if he'd completed the Boston marathon. Now he had to make it from the car to the house undetected.

He looked around to see if any of the neighborhood kids were in sight. He was out of luck, because he immediately caught sight of six or seven of the little darlings, building a snowman in the yard directly next to his.

They all gaped at him.

Charles figured he had only a fifty-fifty chance of making it to the house minus an entourage.

“Hello, mister.”

They were already greeting him and he didn't even have the car door completely open. He pretended not to hear them.

“Want to build a snowman with us?”

“No.” He scooped up as many of the grocery bags as he could carry and headed toward the house.

“Need help with that?” All the kids raced to his vehicle, eager to offer assistance.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“What I want is to be left alone.” Charles didn't mean to be rude, but all this Christmas stuff had put him on edge.

The children stared up at him, openmouthed, as if no one had ever said that to them in their entire lives. The little girl blinked back tears.

“Oh, all right,” he muttered, surrendering to guilt. He hadn't intended to be unfriendly—it was just that he'd had about as much of this peace and goodwill business as a man could swallow.

The children gleefully tracked through the house, bringing in his groceries and placing them in the kitchen. They looked pleased when they'd finished. Everyone, that is, except the youngest—Sarah, wasn't it?

“I think someone tried to eat your coat,” the little girl said.

“A goat did.”

“Must've been Clara Belle,” her oldest brother put in. “She's Ronny's 4-H project. He said that goat would latch on to anything. I guess he was right.”

Charles grunted agreement and got out his wallet to pay the youngsters.

“You don't have to pay us,” the boy said. “We were just being neighborly.”

That “neighborly” nonsense again. Charles wanted to argue, but they were out the door before he had a chance to object.

Once Charles had a chance to unpack his groceries and eat, he felt almost human again. He opened the curtains and looked out the window, chuckling at the Kennedy kids' anatomically correct snowman. He wondered what his mother would've said had he used the carrot for anything other than the nose.

It was dark now, and the lights were fast appearing, so Charles shut the curtains again. He considered returning to work. Instead he yawned and decided to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom. He thought he heard something when he got under the spray, but when he listened intently, everything was silent.

Then the sound came again. Troubled now, he turned off the water and yanked a towel from the rack. Wrapping it around his waist, he opened the bathroom door and peered out. He was just about to ask if anyone was there when he heard a female voice.

“Emily? Where are you?” the voice shouted.

Charles gasped and quickly closed the door. He dressed as fast as possible, which was difficult because he was still wet. Zipping up his pants, he stepped out of the bathroom, hair dripping, and came face to face with—Santa Claus.

Both men shouted in alarm.

“Who the hell are you?” Santa cried.

“What are you doing in my house?” Charles demanded.

“Faith!” Santa shouted.

A woman rounded the corner and dashed into the hallway—then stopped dead in her tracks. Her mouth fell open. “Who are
you?
” Charles shrieked.

“Faith Kerrigan. What have you done with my friend?”

“If you mean Emily Springer, she's in Boston.”

“What?”
For a moment it looked as if she was about to collapse.

Immediately six elves appeared, all in pointed hats and shoes, crowding the hallway.

Santa and six elves? Charles had taken as much as a Christmas-hating individual could stand. “What the hell is going on here?” he yelled, his patience gone.

“I…I flew in from the Bay area to surprise my friend for Christmas. She didn't say anything about going to Boston.”

“We traded houses for two weeks.”

“Oh…no.” Faith slouched against the wall.

All six of the elves rushed forward to comfort her. Santa looked like he wanted to punch Charles out.

Charles ran his hand down his face. “Apparently there's been…a misunderstanding.”

“Apparently,” Faith cried as if that was the understatement of the century.

The doorbell chimed, and when Charles went to answer it, the Kennedy kids rushed past him and over to Faith. Their arms went around her waist and they all started to chatter at once, telling her about Heather not coming home and Emily going to Boston.

Adding to the mass confusion were the six elves, who seemed to be arguing among themselves about which one of them would have the privilege of bashing in Charles's nose.

Charles's head started to swim. He raised his arms and shouted in his loudest voice, “Everyone out!”

The room instantly went silent. “Out?” Faith cried. “We don't have anywhere to go. There isn't a hotel room between here and Spokane with a vacancy now.”

Charles slumped onto the arm of the sofa and pressed his hand against his forehead.

“Where do you expect us to go?” Faith asked. Her voice was just short of hysterical. “I've only had a few hours' sleep and my friends changed their plans to drive me to Leavenworth and the van broke down and now—this.”

“All right, all right.” Charles decided he could bear it for one night as long as everyone left by morning.

The small group looked expectantly at him. “You can spend the night—but just tonight. Tomorrow morning, all of you are out of here. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Faith answered on their behalf.

Not a one of them looked grateful enough. “Count your blessings,” Charles snapped.

Really, he had no other choice—besides kicking them out into the cold.

“Thank you,” Faith whispered, looking pale and shaken.

Charles glared at the mixed ensemble of characters. Santa, elves, kids and a surprisingly attractive woman stared back at him. “Remember, tomorrow morning you're gone. All of you.”

Faith nodded and led Santa and his elves up the stairs.

“Good.” First thing in the morning, all these people would be out of this house and out of his life.

Or so Charles hoped. He didn't have the energy to wonder why the tall guy and the six short ones were all in Christmas costume.

E
arly in the evening, Emily and Ray left the condominium. Although it was dark, Ray insisted on showing her the waterfront area. They walked for what seemed like miles, talking and laughing. Ray was a wonderful tour guide, showing her Paul Revere's house and the site of the Boston Tea Party. Both were favorites of his brother's, he pointed out, telling her proudly of Charles's accomplishments as a historian. From the harbor they strolled through St. Stephen's Church and Copp's Hill Burying Ground, which began in 1659 and was the city's second-oldest graveyard. They strolled from one site to the next. Time flew, and when Emily glanced at her watch, she was astonished to discover it was almost eight-thirty.

On Hanover Street, they stopped for dinner at one of Ray's favorite Italian restaurants. The waiter seated them at a corner table and even before handing them menus, he delivered a large piece of cheese and a crusty loaf of warm bread with olive oil for dipping.

“Have I completely worn you out?” Ray asked, smiling
over at Emily. He started to peruse the wine list, which had been set in front of him.

Yes, she was tired, but it was a nice kind of tired. “No, quite the contrary. Oh, Ray, thank you so much.”

He looked up, obviously surprised.

“A few hours ago, I was feeling utterly sorry for myself. I was staying in one of the most historic cities in our country and all I could think about was how miserable I felt. And right outside my door was all this.” She made a wide sweeping gesture with her arm. “I can't thank you enough for opening my eyes to Boston.”

He smiled again—and again she was struck by what a fine-looking man he was.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he told her softly.

The waiter came with their water glasses and menus. By now, Emily was hungry, and after slicing off pieces of cheese for herself and for Ray, she studied the menu. Ray closed the wine list. After consulting with her, he ordered a bottle of Chianti and an antipasto dish.

As soon as the waiter took their dinner order, Ray leaned back in his seat and reached inside his suit jacket for his cell phone.

“I'd better give my mother a call. I was planning to do it tomorrow, but knowing her, she's waiting anxiously to hear about the strange woman who's corrupted her son.”

“You or Charles?” Emily teased.

Ray grinned and punched out a single digit. He raised the small phone to his ear. “Hello, Mother.”

His smile widened as he listened for a long moment. “I have someone with me I'd like you to meet.”

He had to pause again, listening to his mother's lengthy response.

“Yes, it's the evil woman you feared had ruined your son. She might still do it, too.”

“Stop it,” Emily mouthed and gently kicked his shoe beneath the table.

“Not to worry—Charles is in Washington State. Here, I'll let Emily explain everything.” He handed her the cell phone.

Emily had barely gotten the receiver to her ear when she heard the woman on the other end of the line demand, “To whom am I speaking?”

“Mrs. Brewster, my name is Emily Springer, and Charles and I traded homes for two weeks.”

“You're living in Charles's condo?” She didn't seem to believe Emily.

“Yes, but just until after Christmas.”

“Oh.”

“Charles and I met over the Internet at a site set up for this type of exchange.”

“I see.” The woman went suspiciously silent.

“It's only for two weeks.”

“You're telling me my son let you move into his home sight unseen? And that, furthermore, Charles has ventured all the way to the West Coast?” The question sounded as if it came from a prosecuting attorney who'd found undeniable evidence of perjury.

“Yes… I came to Boston to see my daughter.” For the last few days, Emily had tried not to think about Heather, which was nearly impossible.

“Let me speak to Rayburn,” his mother said next.

Emily handed the cell phone back to Ray.

Ray and his mother chatted for another few minutes before he closed the phone and stuck it inside his pocket.

By then the wine had been delivered and poured. Emily reached for her glass and sipped. She enjoyed wine on
occasion, but this was a much finer quality than she normally drank.

“Rayburn?” she said, teasing him by using the same tone his mother had used.

He groaned. “If you think that's bad, my little brother's given name is actually Hadley.”

“Hadley?”

“Hadley Charles. The minute he was old enough to speak, he refused to let anyone call him Hadley.”

Emily smiled. “I can't say I blame him.”

“Rayburn isn't much of an improvement.”

“No, but it's better than Hadley.”

“That depends.” Ray sipped his wine and sat up straighter when the waiter brought the antipasto plate. It was a meal unto itself, with several varieties of sliced meats, cheese, olives and roasted peppers.

That course was followed by soup and then pasta. Emily was convinced she couldn't swallow another bite when the main course, a cheese-stuffed chicken dish, was brought out.

When they'd finished, they lingered over another bottle of wine. Ray leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and they talked, moving from one subject to the next. Emily had hardly ever met a man who was so easy to talk to. He seemed knowledgeable about any number of subjects.

“You're divorced?” he asked, as they turned to more personal matters.

“Widowed. Eleven years ago. Peter was killed when Heather was just a little girl.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Thank you.” She could speak of Peter now without pain, but that had taken years. She was a different woman than she'd been back then, as a young wife and mother. “Peter was a good husband and a wonderful father. I still miss him.”

“Is there a reason you've never remarried?”

“Not really. I got caught up in Heather's life and my job. Over the years I've dated now and then, but there was never any spark. What about you?”

He shrugged. “I've been consumed by my job for so long, I don't know what it is to have an ordinary life.”

This interested Emily. “I've always wondered what an ordinary life would be like. Does anyone really have one?”

“Good point.”

“Did you have any important relationships?”

“I dated quite a bit when I was in my twenties and early thirties. I became seriously involved twice, but both times I realized, almost from the first, that it wouldn't last.”

“Sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy to me.”

He grinned as he picked up his wineglass. “My mother said almost those identical words to me. The thing is, I admired both women and, to some extent loved them, but deep down I suspect they knew it wouldn't last, either.”

“And it didn't.”

“Right. I put long hours into my job and I have a lot of responsibilities. I love publishing. No one's more excited than I am when one of our authors does well.”

Emily had plenty of questions about the publishing world, but she knew Ray must have been asked these same questions dozens of times. They had this one evening together, and Emily didn't want to bore him with idle curiosity.

When they'd finished the second bottle of wine, Emily felt mellow and sleepy. Most of the other tables were vacant, and the crew of waiters had started changing tablecloths and refilling the salt and pepper shakers.

Ray noticed the activity going on around them, too. “What time is it?” he asked, sitting up and glancing at his watch with an unbelieving expression.

“It's ten to eleven.”

“You're kidding!” He looked shocked.

“Well, you know what they say about time flying, etc.”

He chuckled softly. “Tonight certainly was an enjoyable evening—but there's a problem.”

“Oh?”

He downed the last of his wine and announced, “I'm afraid the next train doesn't leave for New York until tomorrow morning.”

“Oh…right.” Emily had entirely forgotten that Ray would have to catch the train.

He relaxed visibly, apparently finding a solution to his problem. “Not to worry, I'll get a hotel room. That shouldn't be too difficult.”

Without a reservation, she wondered if that was true. Furthermore, she hated the thought of him spending that extra money on her account. “You don't need to do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your brother's condo has two bedrooms.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I'm sleeping in the guest room, and I'm sure your brother wouldn't object to your taking his room.”

Ray hesitated and looked uncertain. “Are you sure you're comfortable with that arrangement?”

“Of course.”

That was easy to say after two bottles of wine. Had Emily been completely sober, she might not have—but really, what could it hurt?

She decided that question was best left unanswered.