by Alys Murray
“Fine. I’ll take it down,” he said.
“And risk breaking everything before you can sell it?” Clark’s expression and stiff arms must have given him away. She adopted an air of false modesty. “Am I wrong? I thought you wanted to make money off of this once you dissolve the company.”
“It belongs to me.” He returned his hands to his pockets. The icicles would have to wait. He didn’t know the first thing about storing all of this holiday garbage, and no one would buy bits of shattered glass. “Why shouldn’t I sell it?”
“Of course you should.” A breeze of sarcasm blew behind her as she stepped down from the staircase and headed straight for the living room. He followed close behind, not wanting her to break or put her Jack Frost spell over anything else in this house. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until Christmas is over. The icicles are here to stay. Besides, you respect a contract, right?”
“A contract?”
“In your uncle’s contract with the city, he stipulates that this home can be used as a muster point for all festival-related activities. I have every legal right to be here.”
Uncle Christopher…why would you do this to me?
“Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
“Let me put it to you this way: The festival was my home. It’s been my home every Christmas since I was seven years old. You took my home away, so I think it’s only fair I get to take yours.” The living room received no less treatment than the rest of the house, only it contained the pièce de résistance. The Christmas tree. Clark seemed to remember the ceilings in this house being fourteen feet high, which meant the undecorated fir was thirteen and a half feet tall. At least. The glistening angel almost brushed the ceiling. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair once the season’s over.”
Clark tightened his jaw to keep it from dropping to the floor. She couldn’t possibly mean what he thought she meant, especially not with the nonchalant way she swanned around the room, adjusting the nutcrackers on the mantle as if she hadn’t just invited herself over for Christmas.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re stuck with me.”
The decorations, he could handle. He’d just sleep in his car the next two nights and wake up to the world returned to normal on Boxing Day. A strange woman with an affinity for decking the halls? He wouldn’t and couldn’t allow it.
“Oh, no. You’re not staying, too.”
“Of course I am. I bought us matching PJ’s and everything.”
He didn’t want to know if that was true. Picking up her jacket and duffle bag, he started to shove all evidence of her inside. The scented candles waiting to be lit, the pile of inventory papers tucked away on an end table… It all had to go.
“I don’t want you here.”
“I’m also non-negotiable. Contract says so. I’m the foreman.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“Why not?” She scoffed, pulling the duffel out of his hands and returning it to its place in the corner of the room. “Don’t you have a guest room or twelve?”
“Because you can’t, all right? You just can’t.”
The last thing Clark was inclined to do was examine her question. Why can’t I stay here? The question was more thorny than she probably gave it credit for, and he wouldn’t prick himself on the brambles just to satisfy her curiosity.
“What? You’re going to kick me out in the snow?”
“It’s not snowing.”
She clucked, leaning back on the couch, as comfortable and at ease as if she were in her own house.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
He didn’t know what possessed him. His rational mind knew it wasn’t snowing. Better still, he knew it couldn’t be snowing. In Texas, even as far north as they were, the worst they usually got was the occasional cold wind, frosty pond, or hypothermic cow. Yet, his raging heart shoved him towards the window, where he threw open the curtains to reveal that, indeed, not only had the entire front yard of his home been covered in a thick layer of snow, but there was a gentle snowdrift passing by the window.
In a small, private humiliation, Clark’s breath caught at the sight. Then, he remembered himself. Snow in Texas wasn’t beautiful. It couldn’t be beautiful because it wasn’t real. He remembered the town square, which had been similarly covered in a layer of snow so thick and so realistic he’d almost reached out to touch it, and his awe dissolved.
“Fake snow?”
“It’s not a Dickens Christmas without snow. Lots of it.”
“I wouldn’t know.” He slammed the curtains shut, a gesture which resulted in little more than an impotent swaying of fabric. “I’ve never read it.”
Back turned, he couldn’t see the shock play on her face, but he did hear the genuine gasp of surprise she let out at this declaration. He shouldn’t have expected any less from this Christmas freak.
“Never read A Christmas Carol? Well, thank goodness you’re letting me stay.” He turned in time to see her rustling about in her bag, determination written on her soft features, but even the softest, sweetest, most determined face in the world couldn’t deter him. “I think I’ve got my copy in here somewhere.”
“I’m not letting you stay. You’re leaving.” He scooped up her jacket and offered it to her. “And now.”
“But think about it: do you really want to be alone in this big house on Christmas?”
“Yes!”
It came out as more of an emotionally charged, beastly roar than he anticipated, but if his own shaking voice shocked him, it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt as Kate’s defensive charm softened into sweet sacrifice. Her smile morphed from practiced composition into something altogether more compassionate, tender.
She no longer armed herself or wielded her warmth as a weapon. She held it up as a peace offering. Peace with this woman scared Clark even more than the thought of battling with her.
“I’m not letting you. No one should be alone during the holidays.”
He reached for his cell.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Great idea. You can tell Chief Stan and Officer Harris I said Merry Christmas. I think they’re on duty until midnight, then the Fitts siblings take over.”
This woman was just crazy enough about Christmas to wish anyone a happy day, even the men he called to arrest her, but this wasn’t a genuine request. She was reminding him where the loyalties of this town actually lay, and it certainly wasn’t with the man who was going to end the town’s most important festival. The police probably weren’t going to be on his side, especially not if they saw Kate as their champion.
Besides, his uncle had signed that contract.
“You’re not going to leave, are you?”
“I’m not a monster. I’m not trying to steal your house or anything. I’ll leave after I have my perfect Christmas.” Kate pointed to the kitchen, which was connected to the living room by a swinging servant’s door. Clark was sure now he smelled fresh gingerbread cookies. “Can I get you some eggnog?”
“I don’t want eggnog. I want you to put everything back to normal.”
Clark examined his options—the few he had. The decorations and the woman were fixtures here, at least for another few days. So, he saw only two courses of action. He could leave. Or he could stay.
“You’re in Miller’s Point for Christmas, Clark,” she said, not unkindly. “This is normal.”
He’d have to stay. He didn’t have to stay in this room, but he would have to stay. Cutting his losses, Clark walked for the door. He’d just go upstairs and find an office to work in. Normal in Miller’s Point… What, all smiles and well-wishes and cartoon red-nosed reindeer?
“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter Five
Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid
of. He left her with that declaration, and all she could think was: Well, at least I know you can feel something.
No. The thought put him in an unfair light. He’d shown tiny flashes of emotions over the course of their two conversations. Rage. Annoyance. Frustration. Fear.
But the deep, aching loneliness she saw in him when she suggested he didn’t have to spend Christmas alone resonated inside of her. Until now, this entire…spectacle was little more than a means to an end. She assumed he had to be, at least on some level, a lonely man. Does a content, happy, and fulfilled person hate Christmas? No. But she now realized her actions here could serve more than one purpose. She could help him and save the town. She could teach him the true meaning of Christmas while also restoring Christmas for the people she loved most in the entire world.
Despite what countless TV shows and movies had taught her, she really could have it all.
First, she needed to get him to come back into the living room with her. She knew that wouldn’t happen just on its own. Shouting at him from the living room to come back and hang out with her so she could show him the beauty of the season probably wasn’t her best bet.
“Think, Kate,” she muttered to herself, pacing the living room. “Think.”
Pacing the Persian rug, she surveyed the room. It was, in every sense of the word, rich. The house was built in a faux-Victorian style, an American collection of half-British angles and ornamentation, and the inside reflected Mr. Woodward’s inclination to show off his wealth. He presented himself as a gaudy man, to say the least, and he never shied away from spending money or talking about spending money—a trait he clearly didn’t share with his nephew. Kate’s pacing only halted when she heard the movement of a loose tile in the kitchen.
“He’s gone,” she called. “You can come out now.”
No sooner had she spoken than Michael burst from behind the swinging door, which smacked against the nearest wall. He huffed and puffed with the dramatics of an amateur opera singer, as if he’d been shoved into a tiny, airless closet instead of the well-stocked kitchen for the last ten minutes.
“What was that?” he spluttered, pointing at a random place in the room. Kate could only assume he meant to point at somewhere Clark stood, but she had no way of knowing for sure. It was obvious he’d been eavesdropping. She returned to her pacing, rolling over everything she’d learned about the man from their last encounter.
He was so cold. Not just in the way he spoke to her or saw the world, but in his eyes. He was frozen down to his heart. She just hoped a good Christmas fire could be lit and melt the ice and frost away, not just for their sake, but for his.
“That,” she answered, a bit too smug for her own good, “was the first stage of my plan.”
“And you just let him go?”
“Yeah.” She ran a hand through her hair and checked her wrist for a ponytail holder she already knew wasn’t there. Her dirty blonde hair was so long and thick it often broke the thin elastics, leaving her to fuss and fiddle with her locks whenever she got too nervous to think straight. Tugging on one strand of hair, as if to pull some wisdom from her own brain, she tried to lay down her plan. “He needs time to cool off. Nothing was going to get done by needling him.”
“What’s your genius plan now, huh?”
Genius. That was it. When she was seven years old, Miss Cartwright—owner of the music and dance studio near the center of town—told her she could be a genius piano player if she ever put her mind to it. When The Christmas Company said it would pay for her lessons if she used her skills for the festival every year, she’d readily accepted.
And as it happened, the Woodward House’s living room housed the town’s most beautiful and most expensive piano, which sat in the corner across from the Christmas tree, waiting to be played.
Kate wandered over to the ancient Steinway. Her fingers only just brushed the ebony cover. It shot a thrill through her, like touching a holy relic; she needed to approach with reverence.
“We’re going to smoke him out of his room.”
“How?” Michael asked, as she lifted the cover and took her place on the bench. Shaking his head, he immediately began a muttered stream of vain prayers. “Don’t say with song. Please don’t say with song.”
Her fingers touched the keys. Out of tune. She winced, but pressed forward.
“With song,” she confirmed.
It was perfect, really. So much had already been written and spoken about the power of music, Kate didn’t think twice about this stage of her plan. Music spoke to the soul in a language unwhispered by any other tongue. Her screaming after him about the magic of the season wouldn’t work, but her joyful voice raised in song might be enough to coax him out of his hiding place, wherever that might have been.
Michael didn’t share her optimism.
“We’re doomed. We’re totally doomed. This isn’t a song and dance kind of guy, Kate.”
“I know.” She cracked her knuckles. It was going to take a lot of singing to cover the flaws of this piano’s lack of tuning, but she never backed away from a challenge. Besides, she listed “singing Christmas Carols” as one of the Special Skills on her resumé. Without knowing it, she’d trained for this exact moment her entire life. “That’s why this is going to work.”
“And what’s your plan after this, hmm? Make him fall in love with you and the town like one of those movies you love so much?”
“I’m not going to fall in love with Clark.”
“Right. Because you’re going to be an old maid and Miller’s Point and the festival will be your family and your children. I’ve heard this speech before. Besides, I didn’t say anything about you falling in love with him. I said he would fall in love with you.”
“Love doesn’t factor into this plan at all,” she rushed out, eager to be done with this particular conversation. Whenever she and Michael broached the topic of her love life, they played out the same old song and dance. She reminded him that romantic, all-consuming, life-changing love never entered her mind as a possibility for herself. The pickings in town were slim and most of the people they went to high school with were paired off by the summer after senior year. And even if some handsome stranger did ride into town and she did want to fall in love with him, she wasn’t even sure she knew how to go about doing it.
And then, he’d remind her that anyone could fall in love—no one knew how to fall in love; it just happened—and they’d go around and around in circles. She didn’t have time for circles and talk of romance today, especially not in the context of Clark Woodward. “We’re going to do Christmas our way. And…” Her fingers ran along the keys, testing them out one by one in no particular order. She struggled to articulate what about Clark she struggled with or how she planned to get the best of him. “He’s got this thing about him. He’s lonely. I can tell.”
“He’s inherited a corporation worth millions of dollars, at least. I think he cuddles a body pillow stuffed with hundred-dollar bills every night.”
“The money doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean, the money doesn’t matter?”
Before this morning, Kate never would have made such a bold claim. She lived in a two-and-a-half-room apartment above the town’s only bookshop. A broken lock barely kept her door closed and she existed on a steady diet of diner food and gas station salad bowls. If anyone knew the importance of money and the detriment of not having it, it was Kate. But when faced with Clark, she didn’t see a rich man or a happy one. He was someone desperate to hide his own crippling solitary confinement. He believed himself above Christmas because he believed himself above people in general, a fact Kate was out to prove completely false.
“It doesn’t. I mean, I thought it did, but there’s something there. Or, something isn’t there. And if we can give it to him…”
Michael nodded and helped himself to the opposite end of the pi
ano bench as Kate continued to noodle some random melodies. She operated on muscle memory, barely pressing the keys for noise.
“He may just want to give us the festival.”
“And he’ll be a better man for it.”
Michael huffed a noise under his breath. Clearly, transforming Clark into a better man ranked low on his list of priorities. For a while, nothing passed between them but the music pouring from her fingers. Kate recalled Clark’s enraged voice when he heard the music upon first entering the house. Once he heard the live thing, it would only be a matter of time before he sprinted down here to stop her. Then, she’d have him right where she wanted him. Michael gave her an unreadable look, creeping into the corners of her vision like rolling fog.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you like him.”
Kate choked on her own laughter. Clark Woodward was arrogant. Prideful. A complete miser with no regard for the happiness or safety of others. He was a tyrannical boss and a rude host. And he’d never read Dickens. Who graduated with an MBA without reading Charles Dickens at least once? She couldn’t ever see herself liking someone who hadn’t read the greatest in the English canon, even if he did light a fire of excitement in her every time they began one of their verbal sparring matches.
“I don’t like him.”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t dislike him either!” She covered for herself, resisting the urge to hold up her hands in a pose of joking surrender. “I feel—”
Michael cut her off.
“You feel for him.”
“I feel bad for him,” she corrected, even though it wasn’t remotely true. Or, rather, it was true, but it wasn’t the entire truth. She did feel bad for him. It just wasn’t the end of her feelings. Horror of horrors, she actually related to him. “Haven’t you ever felt lonely?”
“Well, besides sharing a house with two brothers, I’ve had to deal with you basically my entire life. You never stop talking. No, I’ve never felt lonely.”
“I have,” Kate said, her head dipping down towards the piano keys.
