Clara looked as though she wanted to slap him. ‘Excuse me, but in what world is seven years not serious?’
‘In the world where seven years is not seven years when you have been on and off.’ Christian dragged Sporty Spice out to the Nativity scene and placed her next to a shepherd in the manger. ‘Ridge Brooks is not exactly good enough for you, is he?’
‘Here we go.’ Clara set Scary Spice up next to Sporty. ‘Just because Ridge has never owned a pony, Thornton, and just because his family doesn’t have a garage full of Bentleys and Jaguars, doesn’t mean Ridge is not good enough for me.’
‘I’ve never owned a pony either,’ Christian said. He adjusted Posh Spice, so now the three Spice Girls were all in place. ‘I’ve owned twelve.’
‘Where are your stupid ponies now?’
‘Ponies are stupid, but roasting chestnuts on an open fire isn’t?’
‘If you had just scored the chestnuts like I asked…’
Christian threw up his hands. ‘Oh, and I suppose Ridge just loves to score chestnuts.’
‘He does, actually.’
‘What do you even do with roasted chestnuts?’
‘Don’t act like you don’t know, Thornton,’ Clara scoffed. ‘Despite your best efforts, you cannot erase the fact you are a Mistletoe boy, born and raised.’
‘Name one roasted chestnut dish.’
‘Chestnut and cauliflower soup.’
‘Fine,’ Christian snapped. He refused to be defeated by chestnuts. Again. ‘Name two chestnut dishes.’
‘Chestnut and cauliflower soup and venison sausage and chestnut casserole.’
Whatever. ‘Show off.’
‘Ridge just loves my chestnut, bacon and cranberry stuffing,’ Clara said.
‘Ridge just loves my chestnut, bacon and cranberry stuffing,’ Christian mimicked her.
‘Very mature.’
Before Christian could reply, Prunella called out hello and walked over to them.
‘How’s the rash?’ Prunella asked Christian.
‘Wonderful, thanks,’ Christian said. She must have been talking about the hives that had sprung up when he returned to Mistletoe and now covered half his body.
‘I’m so glad you two made up,’ Prunella said. She beamed at Clara. ‘How a woman lets herself get to the age of thirty-three unmarried, I’ll never know.’
‘Prunella,’ Christian said. He wasn’t going to give Clara the chance to snap. ‘How is your husband?’
Prunella sniffed. ‘Well, he’s not my husband anymore.’
‘Oh, so you finally discovered he was sleeping with Edith Whatsherface from the library?’
‘What?’ Prunella said stiffly. ‘No, he died.’
This was so thrillingly awkward that Christian couldn’t help but reply, ‘Oh, on the plus side, I guess he’s no longer sleeping with Whatsherface.’
‘Christian, darling,’ the Relic called out from the inn’s porch, ‘Great Aunt Gladys doesn’t want you setting fire to any more little old men. Especially little old men who are bringing presents.’
The Relic sometimes spoke of herself in third person. Christian thought he’d give it a try. ‘Great Nephew Christian didn’t mean to set fire to anyone,’ he called out in reply, and the Relic looked at him as if he were wildly unhinged.
‘Right,’ Prunella said. She left without another word.
‘You’re a disaster,’ Clara said.
‘Thank you,’ Christian replied bitterly.
‘I suppose you do have some commonsense, however.’
This should be good, Christian thought. ‘Oh, yeah? And why is that?’
‘You didn’t pick Ginger to replace one of the wise men,’ Clara said. ‘I mean, she did break up the Spice Girls, and quitting is hardly the right message to send to Baby Jesus.’
Eleven
By six a.m two dozen people had assembled on the porch of Milleridge Inn. They were singing Christmas carols, too mesmerized by the joy of harmonizing on ‘Joy To The World’ to think of the inn’s patrons, sleepy and tense, in the rooms upstairs. The carollers, the daybreak, no one seemed to respect Christian’s need for sleep. He placed a pillow against his face and screamed.
There was an efficient knock. Christian dropped the pillow.
‘What now?’ he growled. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled over to the door.
‘Christian?’ It was Clara.
Christian pulled his bathrobe tight. ‘I thought you were working?’
Looking a little crestfallen, Clara nodded and said, ‘Yeah, I’m always working. That’s the life of a Christmas consigliere, I guess.’
Christian looked down at Clara’s hands. She was holding a pair of ice skates. ‘What do you need?’
‘The Relic is suspicious of us.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘Because the Relic told me she was suspicious of us. Hold these for a second. Thanks.’ She pushed the ice skates into his hands. ‘We need to do something couple-y to get her off our backs.’
‘We’ve already replaced the three wise men with Spice Girls. What more does the woman need?’
‘I know, right?’
‘Where’s Ridge?’ Christian said, but Clara scuttled sideways into his room, like a child pretending she was a crab, and started pulling the clothes out of Christian’s dresser. ‘James. What are you doing?’
‘I’m looking through your stuff. You know I like looking through your stuff.’
Christian was flustered, but he tried to look fine. ‘I know you used to like looking through my stuff, but it’s been fifteen years. You might be different now.’
Clara snorted. ‘I’m not different.’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Christian replied.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
Christian sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘You didn’t ask a question, James.’
‘OK, that’s true. But I was talking about the Relic and you changed the subject.’ Clara discovered something interesting in Christian’s bedside table. ‘Is this Easy Cheese?’
‘Does it say Easy Cheese on the label?’
‘Why is there Easy Cheese in your nightstand?’ Clara shook the can. ‘Hey, doesn’t this stuff need to go in the fridge?’
‘Only after opening.’ Christian dumped the ice skates on his bed.
‘I want to look through your sock drawer next.’
Christian was losing his mind. Clara was here, in his room. The place where he slept. ‘Why?’
‘I’m guessing that’s where you keep the crackers.’
‘Guilty as charged.’ Christian opened his sock drawer, where he did, in fact, keep anywhere between three and seven packets of crackers.
Clara wasn’t a police officer, but she’d studied as a child with all the world’s greatest detectives—Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, and then Miss Marple. She knew how to uncover secrets, is the point. Although she knew how to uncover Christian’s secrets, not thanks to techniques gleaned from her favorite childhood books, but from their friendship.
Clara uncapped the cheese. She loaded up a cracker and shoved it in her mouth, but only after one long inhale. That seemed to Christian like a bad idea. Instead, he pinched his nose while Clara looked at him curiously and then he too shoved a cracker piled with cheese into his mouth. Which meant they were now throwing an impromptu picnic party in Christian’s bedroom. Which was why it maybe felt as though Christian was eighteen again.
‘Remember we used to do this all the time,’ Clara said.
‘You were shorter then,’ he replied. ‘But yeah, this does take me back.’
And yet everything between Christian and Clara felt different now—he’d expected this when he’d first decided to return to Mistletoe, and this expectation had proven true.
Christian couldn’t just plop himself back into Clara’s life and expect to be a part of Clara’s life. Easy Cheese picnics were one thing, a great thing, but where did they go from here? Where could the
y go from here, considering Christian still had every intention of tearing down Milleridge, Clara’s childhood home, to build a luxury hotel—a home for children who were adults, just adults with Peter Pan syndrome?
‘Ice skating,’ Clara said after she finished chewing. ‘I’ve deduced that will put an end to the Relic’s suspicions.’
‘What exactly did she say to you?’
‘All this stuff about how come I didn’t say we were back together and hadn’t I spent a lot of time lately with some man that wasn’t you. She thinks I’m cheating on you with Ridge, basically.’
Christian swallowed hard. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘We’re not together,’ Clara pointed out.
True, but it would make sense if they were together. They both thought eating cheese out of a can on half-stale crackers made for a great picnic, and who else would believe this, as it was clearly a terrible thought? They both thought talking about what kind of animal they were was a great topic of conversation. Christian decided he was something big but also gentle, like a Leonberger, a breed of dog he’d always thought beautiful, while Clara decided she was something small and sweet, maybe a forest animal, like the kind who dress princesses.
‘And they’d be best friends,’ Clara said. ‘The dog and the bird. We should write a book about that, but one with lots of pictures. Can you draw?’
‘You know I can’t draw.’
‘You said yourself it’s been fifteen years.’
‘And yet you still found my cheese and cracker stash.’
Christian stood.
‘Oh, are we off?’ Clara replied.
‘We have some ice skating to do,’ Christian replied.
In the kitchen, he took a gigantic handful of candy canes and shoved them into his pockets until maybe his pockets refused to close—until maybe Christian needed to pack them in something else. In the picnic basket there was an apple pie which he’d packed for Clara, a tray of cherries, and enough room left for his candy canes.
But he’d get to the candy canes later. First, he needed to navigate this ice skating thing. He had the theory down. Lace knife boots to feet, try not to fall on bottom in front of girl who broke his heart. It was the technicalities of ice skating that perplexed him. Mainly, how to ice skate.
Holly met them at the rink. She had changed out of her usual ugly Christmas sweater and into her figure skating gear.
‘I can’t wait to see you skate,’ Holly told Christian.
‘Shut up, Holly. I’m great on the ice.’
‘Sure.’
‘No, seriously.’
‘Uh-huh.’
The ice was where Holly felt the most at peace—even when a dozen scattered families crowded her personal space, even when her children trailed behind her like ducklings. Holly skated competitively as a young girl, dreaming of winning gold for America.
But then she’d had a bad fall, and her career had ended then, just like that, no goodbye, no that’s a bummer, no we’ll catch you in three to six months when you’re back on the ice. The sport simply got up while Holly stayed down. The sport left her behind, right there, crumpled on the ice.
Holly still skated every winter. Not like she used to skate, but she did have the kids now, and a husband who did little to no emotional labor in their marriage, which meant she spent most of her time keeping them together. And anyway, she felt silly squishing herself into those tiny costumes at her age.
‘You talk like you’re a million years old,’ Clara scolded her. Clara loved seeing Holly on the ice. In fact, it was thanks to Clara that Holly even laced on her skates again. ‘You’re never too old to do anything.’
‘Right,’ Christian backed Clara up. ‘I used to love seeing you skate.’
Holly laughed. ’You used to hate seeing me skate.’
‘True, but I’m trying to do the supportive little brother thing here.’
‘Since when?’
‘Ouch,’ Clara said before Christian could reply. ‘Thornton, why are you so afraid of skating?’
‘I’m not afraid of ice skating.’ Christian and Clara locked eyes, and for a moment he thought they were going to kiss.
‘Thornton, you’re clinging to my arm and we haven’t even stepped onto the ice yet.’
‘I’m not clinging because I’m afraid. I’ve never been afraid of anything in my whole entire life.’ Christian let go of her arm.
‘Except for Mr. McGregor’s cat.’
‘That wasn’t a cat.’
‘His name was Mr. Mittens.’ She looked determined to make Christian admit his fear.
‘He was a small lion and nobody can tell me otherwise.’
‘You didn’t have to come ice skating.’
Now she told him. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘I think it’s nice you want to save the inn. It’s the place where we had our first kiss,’ Clara said suddenly, without a hint of embarrassment, but then she seemed to realize what she said, because her cheeks turned pink. ‘Or maybe that was at school.’
‘It was at the inn,’ Christian said a little too quickly. ‘In the kitchen.’
Before Christian and Clara could walk any further down memory lane, Holly nudged Clara in the ribs. ‘Hey, are you really dating Ridge Brooks again?’
‘Yes.’ Clara shot Christian a sideways glance. ‘I mean I guess so, yeah.’
‘Wow,’ Holly replied. ‘Massive upgrade from my brother.’
‘Thanks, Holly,’ Christian muttered. He sat down and laced up a boot.
Holly ignored him. ‘There’s no shame in dating someone for his six pack and his traditionally handsome face. Does Ridge do CrossFit?’
‘Yeah. I think so.’
‘Definite upgrade.’ Holly frowned. ‘Although, he seems kinda mad.’
Clara craned her neck to look around for Ridge. ‘He does?’
‘He’s over there yelling at an elf.’
‘We’re in a strange place right now,’ Clara conceded. ‘I’m pretending to date my ex-boyfriend so he can inherit an inn—that’s wild, right?’
‘Depends on the inn.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Depends on the ex-boyfriend. I mean, Christian did practically ruin Christmas for you when he proposed on Christmas Eve.’
‘Geez, Holly,’ Christian said. ‘This big sister thing may not be for you.’
‘I figured that out the day you were born.’ Holly paused for a moment. ‘It’s sort of touching, really, how you two have come together to defraud my Great Aunt Gladys.’
‘Thank you,’ Christian and Clara said at once.
‘Should we get going?’ Clara added.
Holly nodded. ’Let’s go.’
‘We’re going to have a guest for dinner,’ Christian muttered as he rubbed his bottom. He’d fallen over while ice skating no less than seventeen times.
The Relic frowned as she shined a silver fork. ‘Who?’
‘His name is Ridge Brooks.’ Christian couldn’t believe Clara had roped him into scoring her boyfriend an invitation to dinner with the Relic. It was a terrible idea, of course—Christian and Clara were still pretending to be engaged after all.
But Ridge was getting annoyed. He didn’t mind Christian, but the lie was too much for him. He’d arranged for a spiritual healer to smudge Clara with sage when she arrived home from ice skating, and afterward she’d called Christian in tears.
‘He thinks I’m a bad person,’ she said.
‘Of course he doesn’t,’ Christian replied.
She sniffed. ‘I need him to have dinner with us tonight.’
‘James—’
‘I know, Thornton.’
‘Look, are you okay?’ He wanted to go over to Clara’s apartment. He wanted to throttle Ridge for making her cry.
‘Absolutely.’ Her voice was pinched and shaky—she wasn’t okay.
‘I’ll talk to the Relic about dinner,’ Christian said. He’d kept his word.
‘Ridge Brooks,’ the Relic said. ‘Wait—the Australian?
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t care for Australians.’ The Relic turned up her nose. ‘They have words that shouldn’t be words.’
‘Well, he’s here now,’ Christian said as he glanced out the kitchen window. ‘I can ask him to leave.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘I thought you didn’t care for Australians?’
‘Make him a drink,’ the Relic ordered.
‘I don’t know if he drinks, Great Aunt Gladys.’
‘You just told me he was Australian?’
Christian sighed. He went to fetch a beer from the fridge, but then—‘Uh, where’s the fridge?’
‘Why do I want that big ugly thing cluttering up my kitchen?’
Christian couldn’t believe what he was seeing or hearing. ‘You got rid of the fridge?’
‘You got rid of the wise men.’
‘I replaced the wise men.’
‘Who cares about the fridge?’ the Relic snapped. ‘It was a useless old thing.’
‘It was a fridge.’
‘Look how much space we have in the kitchen now,’ the Relic replied, pleased. ‘There’s room for so many things now.’
‘Yes, like a fridge.’
‘Or a baby grand piano. Speaking of pianos, Christian, I’ve been thinking it would be nice for you to go home.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘To the manor, Christian. Thornton Manor. You haven’t been since the accident.’
Christian pulled out his phone. ‘I’m getting the fridge back.’
‘Mr. Miller will never sell it back.’
‘Let me handle Mr. Miller.’
Clara had to order food, since the Relic had sold the fridge. She didn’t know how she would feed the inn’s guests breakfast, but she said that worry was for tomorrow.
Dinner, thankfully, went by without drama. It wasn’t until after dinner, when Ridge stood and announced he wanted to show off his favorite magic trick, that the night took a turn for the disastrous.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Christian said as Ridge took hold of the tablecloth.
Ridge snorted. ‘Yeah, mate. Every Aussie is taught magic from a really young age.’
Christian glanced at Clara, uneasy. Her tight, slightly down-turned mouth telegraphed anger, but since Ridge hadn’t looked at Clara once after drinks were served, his magic trick continued unabated by his girlfriend’s dismay.
Rebel Without a Claus Page 9
