by Alys Murray
“You really aren’t into this Christmas stuff, are you?”
Given he’d only known this guy for a few hours, Clark spared him the tragic backstory and instead took the key and let himself in. The building’s exterior appeared humble, befitting a small-town center of business operations, but the inside ruined his every hope of a muted, respectable workplace environment. It was too fancy. Though years of red-clay-covered boots marked and stained the carpet, the wood finishes of the desks and the crown molding belonged in a palace rather than a satellite office building. Christmas decorations, no doubt charged to his family’s accounts, cluttered every available space. Even the coffee machine was top-of-the-line, but something else bothered him more. He made a beeline for the wall beside the receptionist’s desk.
“What are you doing?” Michael asked.
“Turning the heating off,” Clark replied, searching for the temperature gauge instead of asking what in the world he was doing standing around here when Clark had made it clear their little tour had ended at the graveyard gates.
“It’s, like, forty degrees outside.”
“And we all carry coats, don’t we? Heating is expensive.”
The other man’s shocked gaze bore into Clark’s skin. He paid it no mind. He was a practical man in every sense of the word; he didn’t indulge in luxury. He wore fashionable but reasonably priced clothes, even stitching buttons and cuffs himself when they showed signs of wear. He wore his father’s timeless suit jackets, having them tailored to fit perfectly. He wasn’t very well going to heat an entire building, especially when no one worked inside to enjoy it. Besides, chill increased productivity. Hundreds of workplace studies said so. He’d stopped heating the office in Dallas; everyone here would get used to it. His next order of business, while Michael underscored his movements with a warbling whistle version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” was to find the receptionist’s black book. When he finally procured it, he flipped through the pages, holding them close enough to his face to read them. He’d forgotten his glasses back at home.
“What’re you doing now?”
“Calling my staff. I didn’t give them the day off.”
“You really think that’s a good idea?” he asked. His boldness lasted up until Clark shot him a narrowed look over the secretary’s desk. “It’s just… They made plans. Want to see their families, you know.”
“Why are you here? Why aren’t you at work, I mean?”
“The foreman gave us the day off. We were all supposed to be out working on the festival to help with the Christmas Eve crowds. The 24th and 25th are packed. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“You work for Woodward?”
“Yep. On Ranch 13 on the Eastern lot.”
Clark raised an eyebrow and flipped to another page in the contact book. No wonder the company suffered so much during the month of December. All of his employees were getting free passes from his foremen. If he had any say, everyone would be coming in to work this afternoon.
“I’ll have to call him, too.”
Passing pages upon pages of personal numbers and shoved-in food delivery menus, Clark finally reached the work associates section of the records and searched for his Head of Production’s number. Whoever he was, he’d be getting an earful. Anyone who wanted to keep their job would be coming in, and that was final. Everyone in the Dallas office was working; there was no reason anyone else should have the day off. His fingers flew over the expensive black phone—only to receive the dial tone as Michael pressed down on the termination button. His eyes flashed with fear. Fear of what? Of hard work? This guy, with his big, calloused hands, didn’t seem unaccustomed to hard work.
“Listen, I have to tell you something.”
“…Yes?”
Returning the phone to its cradle, Clark waited for his companion to speak. Michael checked his watch, a gesture Clark couldn’t help but note. Their tour had lasted an eternity without Michael checking his watch once; now he read the thing like the gospel. The entire air hummed with nervous panic, though Clark couldn’t for the life of him understand what Michael had to be nervous about. Surely the company’s employees weren’t this afraid of a hard day’s work…right? Or did they really fear losing their precious day off so much?
“You know Kate Buckner?”
It wasn’t the question he’d expected. Perhaps he should have. She’d been hovering in his thoughts like heavy-handed foreshadowing all day. He filtered her in his mind like sea water, never quite seeing her clearly.
“I’ve met a Kate,” Clark offered. The taste in his mouth soured and he offered a silent prayer that Michael’s sudden declaration did not concern the Kate who cornered him outside of Town Hall last night. Dear God, let him be talking about a different Kate. Please. If this strange small town had taught him anything so far, it was this: no one wanted to tangle with her.
“Pretty? Dirty blonde hair? Looks like she always wants to dance or fight?”
Clark wouldn’t have put it that way. She never looked to him like a dancer or a fighter, though she carried herself with the natural grace of either. If he put any amount of real thought into her, he might have described her as a helper. She looked ready to help anyone and anything who needed her, even if helping meant she had to fight. It was an endearing quality; he would have admired it if he didn’t think it was against her best interest.
“Yeah. I’ve met Kate Buckner.”
“She’s up to something.” Michael spoke, gaining momentum with every word like a freight train. “She’s at your family’s house right now. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, and I don’t really know what’s going on, but I think it’s important you go home right now and check it out.”
Truth be told, Clark hated that old place. He’d tried to avoid staying there the night before, but every hotel or bed and breakfast he approached informed him, polite as could be, they had no vacancy, so he’d bitten the bullet and returned to the mansion’s creaking halls, choosing to sleep on a couch in the front living room to avoid diving too deep into the body of the house. He hadn’t been there since he was a kid, and the memories wrapped around him heavier than the musty old blanket he’d slept under.
“The Woodward House?”
“Yeah.”
He dreaded returning in the daylight, but he knew he had no choice. He didn’t know her plan, but he couldn’t let any harm come to the estate. The sham castle built on a hill still held the spirits of his family, and they required protection.
It was all he had left of his parents.
Collecting his coat, he tossed Michael the keys to his rental car, which he’d rescued from the tow yard this morning.
“Drive me there.”
Chapter Four
“This all looks amazing! Can we move those candlesticks to the end of the hall? Oh, be careful with those ornaments! Just put the boxes down in the living room. We’ll decorate the tree later.”
Kate wasn’t one to toot her own horn, but even she had to admit it: the Woodward House looked amazing. It wasn’t all her doing, of course. She merely lugged a few boxes and used her copy of the house keys to let everyone inside. When she called Miss Carolyn to tell her of her plan, The Christmas Company phone tree went into full effect, and within an hour, most of the town’s decorations were torn down from their places off of the square and almost one hundred people showed up at the Woodward House to ready it for Christmas. Thankfully, this place wasn’t unfamiliar to the people of Miller’s Point. Mr. Woodward had let them use it as a muster point for the festival for years, so once inside, everyone had a good idea of which archways and bannisters needed the most Christmas-ification.
It was a painfully simple plan, really, and everyone hopped on board quicker than she anticipated. All she had to do was teach Clark Woodward to love Christmas. The process of that began with a Christmas makeover of his house. After seeing his pitiful slump at Me
l’s diner, she took to imagining quiet, lonely Decembers passing by him in a dark apartment in Dallas, complete with Hungry Man dinners and falling asleep on the couch. The sort of Christmas she only imagined in her nightmares. It was clear he’d fallen out of love with Christmas—Kate didn’t believe anyone naturally disliked the holiday—because it’d been too long since he’d had a wonderful one. She was going to reintroduce magic into his life, and by tomorrow morning when she was done with him, he’d have to agree to putting the festival back on.
It would be difficult, but she had an ace up her sleeve. Some people claimed it was impossible to change someone’s heart overnight, but Kate knew better. After all, she’d read Dickens.
“I think we’re all done inside. They’re finishing outside, but do you want to light ’er up in here?”
“Yes! Just one second…”
Kate sprinted for the top of the grand staircase, her muscles tingling. Everything had to be perfect, and this was the moment of truth. She nodded to Billy Golden, the load-in specialist for the festival, who’d been running point for her since his arrival this morning. He stood at the foot of the stairs with an electrical dial in hand, waiting for her signal. She held up her hands, as if preparing to conduct a symphony. “Okay. Now.”
Kate blinked, fully expecting that in the split second of her eyes being closed, she would open them to find herself completely immersed in the winter wonderland of her own creation.
“What have you done?!”
Oh, no. The voice of her target echoed through the grand foyer of the Eastlake Victorian-style manor, shaking the paintings on the walls and knocking crystals of the chandelier. All movement—including Kate’s heart—halted. Her eyes lowered, step-by-step down the carpeted, garland-strewn staircase, until she reached the tips of his mirror-shined shoes. She recognized his voice even without peeking at his face.
There was no noise but the driving, tinkling melody of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” It wafted through the house like the smell of fresh-from-the-oven gingerbread cookies.
Apparently, Clark Woodward didn’t appreciate music or delicious gingerbread because he let out another yawp of displeasure:
“And turn that music off!”
Without so much as peeking up from his shoes, Kate touched the pause button on the phone in her pocket, effectively silencing her Bluetooth playlist.
Once, when she was a kid, Kate had gotten caught trying on the Ebenezer Scrooge costume, fake beard and all. The man playing the miser that year had a lisp and a bit of a limp, so she was dragging her left foot around the dressing room saying, “Merry Chrithhhmathh.” To her everlasting shame and regret, he’d walked in on her mid-private performance.
She felt nearly as captured now.
Michael. She cursed his name. He was supposed to keep him busy until noon at least! Everyone was supposed to be safely back home so there would be no way of restoring the house to normal order. That was the entire point of the distraction. If Clark demanded his house be emptied of all Christmas cheer, the plan would be ruined.
You’ve got to do something, Kate’s rational brain told her petrified tongue. You can’t just stand here like an idiot. It’s starting to get awkward. Hands shaking in her pockets, she wondered if she hadn’t made a poor decision or two this morning. Not about the choice of an angel as a tree topper instead of a star—she stood by that. She wondered if she’d made a mistake in coming here at all. Was she beaten before she’d even started? Was she even strong enough to save her town? Why did she think she, the town’s resident hem-stitcher and pie-placer, would be good or strong enough to defend them against disaster?
Kate straightened. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t strong enough. He didn’t know she wasn’t strong enough, and she could use that to her advantage. Besides, she had every right to be here. She picked her head up, adopting an impenetrable armor of optimism. This was Christmas Eve. These people were her family and friends. She had to save them all.
And she didn’t know how to walk away from someone with eyes as cold as his. She’d just have to save him, too.
“Clark! How are you?”
Her smile sent him back a step. He must have expected her to whimper and scrape at his booming shouts. Good. She’d caught him off guard already. Once he’d recovered, he walked deeper into the foyer.
“What have you done to my house?”
“Your house? Does it have your name on it?”
Michael helpfully stepped forward.
“It does, actually. It’s on the sign right out front.”
“Don’t you have a clock to check somewhere?” she snarked, sending him scurrying out of the front door, right behind Billy Golden.
With Kate at the top of the stairs and Clark at the bottom, she reveled in the literal high ground. All she had to do was hold onto it. She glanced out of the house’s wide front windows. Though the decorations on the inside of the house were almost entirely complete, a near army of workers on ladders were still hard at work hanging lights outside.
“So.” She placed a steadying hand on the top of the staircase banister, hoping it looked more like a power move than something necessary to keep her upright. “What do you think?”
“What have you done?”
“Is there an echo in here?” The quip, in her opinion, was brilliant, but he either didn’t get the joke or purposefully withheld his laughter. Rude. She gripped the banister tighter and gave a sweep of the grand atrium with her free hand. The chandelier hanging in the high, vaulted ceiling had been dotted with poinsettia plants and evergreens, giving the room a sweet, rich smell. Kate was glad for their perfume; it meant she couldn’t smell the smoke coming out of Clark’s ears. She would’ve been lying, though, if she didn’t secretly derive pleasure from his displeasure. He’d made everyone she knew uncomfortable when he ended their employment yesterday. Maybe he deserved to be uncomfortable, too, even if she was trying to heal what she suspected was his broken, used-up heart. “We decorated for Christmas. Do you like it?”
Don’t shout. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t even let her know this is bothering you. Just be clear, direct, and get the job done. Clark’s internal pep talk was strong, but not strong enough to hold his bewildered frustration at bay. He flexed his right hand, a nervous habit he’d spent almost his entire life unsuccessfully struggling to break, and tried to answer her question. Did he like it?
“I’d like it to be taken down.”
“I’m sorry. No can do.”
She stood at the top of the staircase like some silent film star, taking control of the garish scenery. He didn’t need to look around him to see the marks of her handiwork everywhere. His family’s house—that cold monument to excess and emptiness—had been transformed. In his memory, this place was always closer to Wayne Manor than Hogwarts—a shadowy prison for cobwebs and abandoned family photos.
When he’d driven up with Michael this morning, however, he’d almost turned around, convinced they’d made a wrong turn somewhere. Woodward today looked nothing like it did in his dark memories. With every turn of his car’s wheels, they moved closer and closer to a postcard of a Victorian Christmas, not the palace of pity he’d always known the place to be. Though men and women still busied themselves on high ladders arranging wreaths upon third-story windows and hanging lights along the roof, the picture was clear.
Matters only worsened when he arrived inside to see a house overflowing with decorations and frippery. (Yeah, frippery. He was so enraged he’d had to dip into his grandfather’s vocabulary for a word to describe it.) Fresh, fragrant greenery and cardinal-red ribbons brightened the sallow walls. Fake icicles hanging from the doorways danced in the heated breeze and caught the abundant light. A train—an honest-to-goodness train set—ran circles around the fir standing sentry in the open living room, sending out real puffs of steam from its working engine. And, if he wasn’t going crazy—wh
ich, to be fair, wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility—he could’ve sworn he smelled gingerbread baking somewhere.
The whole thing was enough to make him puke chestnuts.
“Take it down,” he growled.
He could only hope the backdrop of tinsel and baubles didn’t undercut the weight of his infuriated stare. This was his house. His family’s house. And she had absolutely no business being in here, much less taking the whole place over for her personal art project.
“I can’t.” She shrugged and began a descent down the stairs, her high-heeled boots making authoritative thuds with her every step. “Not by myself, anyway.”
Beyond the closed front door, a series of engines turned over and sputtered to life. Clark’s stomach sunk.
“Let me guess…”
“Everyone’s already leaving. They’ve got to go home for Christmas Eve. There’s no way I could take all of this down by myself. It’ll just have to stay up.”
She landed on the step above him, and their body language echoed their last encounter. Back then, she was below him, asking for something she had to know he couldn’t possibly give. Now, he was the one at a disadvantage.
Taking stock of himself, Clark tried to catalogue his feelings. In business, these sorts of exercises kept him from flying off the handle during negotiations. He treated his emotions like items on an inventory list. They first needed to be counted, weighed, measured, and then neatly put away to keep from overwhelming him. It would have been easy enough if her caramel-candy eyes weren’t so distracting. The color was extraordinary, but it wasn’t their beauty he kept tripping over. It was her unguarded warmth he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. What gave her the right to treat him like an old friend, welcome to open the doors of her heart and make himself at home inside? Hadn’t she ever been hurt before? Clark managed to put those thoughts away before he asked any of those questions out loud, opting to reach for the glass icicles over his head.
