Return to Christmas

by Anne Stuart

  They collapsed together on the floor, and he wrapped his body around hers, engulfing her, cocooning her, owning her as she owned him. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t think, could scarcely breathe, and none of that mattered as her heart continued to slam inside her, in ragged counterpoint to the heartbeat against her back. She wanted to cry, but just when she needed tears the most, they were denied her, and she simply lay there in the shelter of his arms, trying to find her way back.

  She had no idea how long they lay like that. How long it took her heart to return to a semblance of normalcy, her brain to start functioning once more, and she remembered his words. He told her some garbage about needing someone to marry her and live on Long Island, that he couldn’t give her what she needed.

  What she needed was to make a few things clear. It took her a couple of attempts before she finally found her voice, and it was scratchy, raw, as her body purred in satisfaction. “I don’t expect you to marry me,” she said, and his body started. She didn’t know whether he’d fallen asleep or she’d just startled him, but his hold tightened, and she could feel him growing hard against her once more, and she thought, Good. You’re mine.

  “I don’t want to live on Long Island,” she continued. “I’ll live wherever you want me to, though I think I want a bigger bed. The floor is going to start getting old after a while.”

  He said nothing, and she plowed on, undaunted. He’d made no offers, no promises, he’d done nothing but push her away until he couldn’t any longer, but she knew him, maybe better than he knew himself. At least, she knew how he felt about her, and if he didn’t know, she’d simply have to educate him

  “I love you,” she said, and how many times had she told him that? How many times had he not replied? “I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true.”

  The deep breath he took wasn’t reassuring. “Enough to tell me the truth?” His voice was low, and she couldn’t read any emotion in it, not without seeing his face, but she wasn’t about to move. It felt too good to have him wrapped around her.

  She had to lie. The only way he’d begin to accept her was if she gave him a believable explanation. “My name really is Mollie,” she said, thinking fast. “I ran away from my family in Boston a month ago—they wanted me to marry someone awful, and they were going to force me. If they found me, they’d drag me back—they have a lot of power and a lot of money, and I’d only been in New York a few days before someone stole my purse. I hadn’t eaten or slept in days when I ended up here, and it was no wonder I was confused.”

  It sounded reasonable to her, but he said absolutely nothing, and she remembered her language and sexual history, hardly the stuff of Boston Brahmins. She racked her brains for a reasonable explanation, finally settling on a weak one.

  “When I was fifteen years old, I was kidnapped by my father’s chauffeur and held for ransom, and they kept me a long time before they finally returned me. I don’t remember much of that time, but I’ve been...a little confused since then. They...took advantage of me, I remember that much. And I just haven’t been like other girls my age since.” She almost choked on the word “girl” but she was trying like mad to be believable. She couldn’t come up with a scenario that made her seem completely sane, but this fictionalized version might be enough. Johnny was a rescuer—he wouldn’t reject her because she was just a tiny bit batshit.

  “Yeah?” he said. “Where’d you read that one?”

  Crap. “It’s the truth...”

  “It’s a lie. You ought to start writing books if you’ve got that kind of imagination. Where did you come from?” His thumbs were moving, caressing her arms as he held her, soothing at least some of her tension from her.

  But she couldn’t come up with an even half-way believable alternative. “I told you the truth. I come from the future, from 2020,” she said wearily. “And you won’t believe me, and you won’t believe that I love you, and I don’t know what else I can say.”

  There was a long silence, and while they’d been skin to skin, he somehow managed to move closer still. He nuzzled the side of her neck beneath her tangled hair, as his teeth closed on her earlobe, an exquisite jolt of pleasure washing through her.

  “Time travel’s as good an answer as anything,” he said, and turned her in his arms. “And I love you too.”

  Chapter 22

  Mollie sat back against the wall, an idiotic grin on her face, her sketchbook in hand, as she watched Nancy struggle with the thick white material. She was sketching out a design for one of the windows. She and Johnny were partners in crime; each window was going to show harassed women burdened by the detritus of housework, and none of the mannequins were happy about it. Since they mostly had vapid smiles on their faces, this was proving a challenge, but Mollie was meeting that challenge, using a variant of storyboards to sketch out a parody of the Labors of Hercules, all the while surrounded by luxury linens, discounted to bring people into the legendary white sale.

  She finally understood the name—apparently no one had yet thought of pattern and color when it came to sheets. The closest she could find was a seashell pink, and she had every intention of having her poor, overworked heroine ending up between them in one of the lingerie department’s most expensive pink negligees. Her mannequin husband already had a window of his own where he wore an apron and attempted to clean a tipped dishpan, full of broken crockery, with Macy’s Irish dishtowels. She would have a lot of fun breaking those plates when the time came.

  She knew how to sell things, and she knew how to tell a story. The Tale of the Beleaguered Housewife would have set Ratchett’s thinning hair on end, if he hadn’t been summarily fired. Mr. Macy could be very efficient when he paid attention.

  She put one last flourish on the page, then looked around her. It was New Year’s Eve, and Johnny had reluctantly left her. He had errands, he said, and he wanted to check in on Rosa, who’d spent the night at the hospital. She knew perfectly well he wanted to check on Benny as well, to make certain he hadn’t killed him, but she said nothing, and he didn’t ask her to go with him. He’d still have things to work out, maybe he always would, but that was just part of Johnny. Much as she hated to, she’d give him the space he needed.

  She didn’t doubt for a minute that he’d be back. Her body, her soul, hummed with satisfaction and sheer, terrifying joy. She wasn’t supposed to be so happy—something would happen, something would take it all away. But she wasn’t going to think about that. Instead, she was going to concentrate on the happiness that filled her, and let the bad things come when they may.

  Because they would come, they always did. Life was never a smooth ride, but the bumps made the good parts better. She had no idea where that optimistic thought came from—she’d always been a wary soul—but maybe love did that. Everything might crash and burn, but deep inside, she knew it wouldn’t. It couldn’t feel so right.

  She remembered the line from Star Wars—“I have a bad feeling about this.” She had a good feeling—no, beyond that. She had the deep, unshakable belief that everything was going to be amazing, and she was going to fight for that belief if something threatened it. But nothing would dare.

  Nothing but Irene Davis striding into the workshop like she belonged there. But the woman was wearing a fur coat that had come from the hides of helpless little animals, and hat and white gloves, and she was carrying a heavy-laden Macy’s shopping bag that clearly wasn’t filled with purchases.

  “Where’s Johnny?” she snapped.

  Mollie was tempted to jump to her feet, but she resisted. The woman couldn’t do a thing to her. “Out,” she said briefly.

  Irene shrugged her padded shoulders. “Just as well. I have a few things to say to you.”

  It should have sounded ominous, but Mollie simply leaned back. Nancy had managed to escape the moment Irene walked in, and Mollie couldn’t blame her. “Do you?” she replied in a dulcet voice. “How nice. And I did want to thank you for that lovely party on Christmas Eve, particularly your kindn
ess in having Benny Morelli keep me company.”

  Irene didn’t have the grace to look ashamed. She simply sneered, an ugly expression that suited her better than her saccharine smile. “He didn’t do his job. If he had, all this would be academic.”

  “All what?” She was no more than curious. Someone like Irene “Bette” Davis would never get her own hands dirty. All Mollie had to do was sit and listen.

  But Irene didn’t answer her question. “You caused a huge fuss, you know,” she said instead. “Mr. Macy doesn’t like that kind of publicity involving the store. I don’t expect you’ll be here much longer.”

  “I’m staying.”

  Irene’s smile was ugly. “Maybe. Tell Johnny if he ends up needing a new job, he can come to me. Any time.”

  Mollie turned to give Irene her full attention. “How’s he going to do that?”

  “Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m leaving. There’s a bright new job at Gimbels as marketing director that’s all set for me. I start next week.”

  “Fired, were you?” It was a stab in the dark, but Irene’s face reddened with anger, and Mollie knew she’d hit it dead on.

  “They’re very happy to have me,” she snapped. “I bring a great deal of expertise—”

  “And trade secrets,” Mollie broke in. “Is that why they fired you? Were you...” God knew if the term corporate espionage was used nowadays. Back then? Back now? “Were you feeding information to Macy’s biggest competitor?”

  A direct hit. “I win,” Irene said haughtily. “Everything’s falling together—my salary is doubled, I’ve got a corner office, power and prestige—”

  “I’ve got Johnny.” It was simple, and effective. Irene shut up for a moment.

  “Well, maybe you’ve won after all,” she said in a bitter voice. “Orvis Ratchett’s been fired, I’m leaving—”

  “You’ve been fired,” Mollie broke in.

  Irene glared at her but didn’t correct the statement. “And you’re living in the back rooms of a department store with a crazy man. Enjoy your life!”

  The woman stalked to the door with magnificent disdain, and Mollie felt a faint appreciation for the theatrics. “More than you will, I expect.”

  An hour later, she set her sketchbook down, rising and stretching her aching body, every unexpected twinge making her grin, making her skin heat. She wanted to run her hands down her body, revel in the remembered sensations. Maybe the old women were right—it was better to wait for the right man. Before Johnny, sex had been messy, tedious, occasionally enjoyable. Such a tepid word. Johnny was everything, messy and glorious, and where the hell was he when she needed him?

  Right there, in fact. “That’s a particularly smug expression on your face,” he observed, coming through the door with a large bundle in his arms. It had to be at least five feet long, wrapped in brown paper and string, and he was making no effort to put it down.

  “I was thinking about you,” she said indulging herself. Lord, he was glorious!

  He glanced over at the pile of white fabric she had yet to touch, then at Nancy’s abandoned pile. “Where are the other ladies?”

  “Ladies? I thought they were angels,” she protested.

  “What do angels have to do with white sales?” he said.

  “Saintly housewives?” she suggested, and Johnny snorted.

  “I hope you’re not planning to be saintly,” he said.

  “I’m not planning on being a housewife.” She waited for his eyebrow to lift, but he simply shrugged.

  “I know how to clean,” he said.

  Her mouth dropped open in shock, but she quickly closed it again. Maybe he was the one who was time-travelling. “You can cook, too,” she said carefully.

  “Yup,” he said, clearly thinking it was a non-issue, and Mollie sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving. “Stay put. I’ve got something to do.” He was heading past her, not touching her, and she gave him a pout.

  “What’s that?” she said, nodding toward the object in his arms.

  “You’ll see.” He was almost through the door.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me how Rosa’s doing?” she demanded, starting after him.

  He turned in the doorway, blocking her. “I said ‘stay put,’” he said with mock severity. “Rosa’s fine, if a little beat up. I told her to take the week off, but knowing Rosa, I don’t think she will. They were just releasing her when I got there, and she went off with more family than I’ve ever had in my entire life, put together, and Scandinavians have big families.”

  Mollie laughed as a small trace of anxiety left her. “And Benny?”

  Johnny no longer smiled, but it was all right, she knew it instinctively. “He’ll live. He’ll be fine; that is, if you can be fine living in a four by six cell. He’ll be going away this time for certain.”

  She didn’t want to be the voice of reason, but she couldn’t help it. “In the courts, nothing is for certain. What kind of evidence do they have that they can put him in jail?”

  “The best money can buy and a cop can manufacture,” he said simply.

  Different times, Mollie reminded herself. In the end, it seemed to be the result that mattered. “Okay,” she said. “Maybe Rosa and I can dance at his sentencing.”

  He grinned. “That I would love to see. Are you going to stay put?”

  “Maybe.” She doubted she’d ever be particularly obedient.

  “If you’re good, I’ll take you out to watch the ball drop in Times Square tonight. It’s going to be relatively warm tonight, and we can kiss at midnight like total strangers, and then I’ll bring you back here and we’ll take over the big bed upstairs and I’ll do all sorts of utterly depraved things to you. Things no one has even thought of.”

  “Promises, promises. And trust me, everything has been thought of and tried—there’s nothing new under the sun.”

  He grinned. “I’m a very creative man, baby.”

  A delicious shiver of anticipation ran through her. “Don’t call me baby,” she said automatically.

  “Baby,” he taunted, and the door closed behind him.

  It took everything she had not to go after him, particularly when he started hammering, but she’d been slowly learning that trusting Johnny tended to work out.

  Finally, the door opened again. Johnny had shed his coat and gloves, and there was something very close to a smirk on his gorgeous face. She usually wanted to slap people who smirked. All she wanted to do was kiss him.

  “You want to see your present?” he said.

  She wrinkled her brow. “You built me something?”

  “Not exactly. I promised Rosa.”

  “Promised her what?”

  “Come and see.”

  She went, pushing past him into the break room. She’d had the forlorn hope that he might have traded the couch for something more comfortable, but it sat there in its lumpy glory. Everything else seemed the same, and she looked at him questioningly.

  “Behind you.”

  She turned and saw it. Up on the wall, mounted on a piece of bird’s eye maple, was a slightly battered black parasol, and underneath, on a bronze plaque, it read Sisterhood of the Umbrella.

  At eleven thirty-five that night, Johnny pulled a coat around her, deftly buttoning it. “It’s not very cold tonight,” he said as he wrapped her up. “Not like most of this damned winter, but I don’t want you catching cold.”

  She reached up and tugged his overcoat around him. “Back atcha,” she said cheerfully, and he blinked for a moment at the unfamiliar term, then laughed.

  “I’m not sure I know what to do with you when you’re not fighting me,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

  “And it’s a challenge when you’re not constantly biting my head off,” she replied, snuggling close. “We’ll figure it out.”

  They’d spent the evening among the gourmet food, eating tins of caviar and drinking warm, sinfully expensive champagne, all of which went on his account, he assured her, and making
love on the divan in one of the sybaritic marble bathrooms. Then, in the service of fairness, they went into one of the men’s elegant restrooms and he went down on her, distracting her so badly she was ready to miss her first New Year’s Eve in this new life, and just keep moving through the store, room by room. They’d be ninety by the time they’d christened every one.

  The streets were already busy, though not as jammed as the New Year’s Eves she remembered. He was right, the night was much warmer than it had been a week ago, and she looked up at the moon, so close to full, and then she stopped, astonished.

  She could see the stars, lots of them in the velvet night sky. How long had it been since anyone could see stars in New York city? They were beautiful, like a necklace of diamonds spread across the darkness, and the memory of her childhood in Vermont hit her, the cool, clean air, the stars.

  “Something wrong?” Johnny said.

  “Just looking at the stars.”

  He followed her gaze, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her back against him. “They’re beautiful,” he agreed. “You can’t always see them in the city.”

  That answered her question—light pollution had already begun to take its toll. Turning in his arms, she smiled up at him. “We’d better hurry. It’s after eleven-thirty, and we’re going to have a hard time fitting into Times Square.”

  “Says who? Times Square is a big place.”

  And this is a small world, she thought as they headed north, joining other people as they spilled out of the restaurants and cafés and followed the same route. It seemed as if everyone was smoking, but it was dissipating in the night air, and, holding tightly onto Johnny’s strong arm, she was unbothered.

  They turned the corner onto Forty-First Street, where the crowds were denser but nowhere near what she was used to. “I was looking at apartments,” Johnny said in an unhurried voice. “I found one in Greenwich Village, with access to a small, private park. It’s cheap, and a little out of the way, but I thought...”