April's eyes scanned my face for a long second before she moved forward, and I could see the questions there.
I was at war with myself. I was angry—she hadn't been honest with me, right? But just seeing her face made it somewhat clear that maybe I’d jumped to conclusions a little bit. I’d been hurt before—by so many people who'd stuck close when they knew I had things to give them, when being close to me meant getting things for themselves, but who had fallen away like ants jumping from a sinking stick when they'd realized I was no longer on the way up. It had been painful, because I’d been too self-absorbed to consider who the people around me were before that. I’d been a star, and even I hadn't been able to see past the trappings of that for a long time.
And when I’d fallen—literally and figuratively, it became apparent that the world I’d built was flimsy and fragile. And in the fallout, I hadn't been able to determine what was real from the construction I’d lived in for so long. I’d fractured any real relationships—like those with my teammates on the Sharks—in the process. And then I’d been alone.
Was I blindly slashing at the real connections in my life again in my anger?
The crew moved in behind her, and April stared down at a clipboard in her hand. "We'll start in the parlor where the big tree is, if that's all right." She looked up at me from beneath her dark lashes, shy around me now. Tentative.
Every cell in my body screamed at me when she looked at me that way. I wanted to simultaneously comfort her and fall on her, pounding her into the wall with my cock until she screamed my name. Instead, I nodded. "Sure."
I stood by as April directed the crew, and I ended up following them around the house as they filmed, wishing April would stop and talk to me, wishing I hadn't been so aggressively short via text the night before. As she directed shots, answering questions from the two guys with cameras, April barely looked at me, and she didn't speak to me at all.
She didn't ask me to be on camera. She didn't mention the new contract. She was professional, efficient, and so beautiful it made my bones ache beneath my skin with the want of touching her.
As they got close to the end, the cameramen trudging out into the light snow covering the lawn out back to shoot some of the yard and the river, I caught her wrist in my hand. "Hey," I said, realizing that when she left my house today it might be the last time I ever saw her if I didn't figure out a way to make things right.
April stared at the place where my fingers circled her arm, and then her eyes slid up to mine, lingering there for a long moment. "Please let me go," she said. And I sensed that she meant more than that I should release her hand.
"April," I said, still holding on. "We need to talk."
"I wanted to talk last night," she said quietly, turning her shoulder so the cameraman on the back lawn couldn't overhear. "You wouldn't speak to me."
"I was angry. I—"
"I know," she said, finally pulling her wrist from my grasp. "I got that."
"April, I jumped to conclusions."
She gave me a look then, long and searching—a look that I thought might have taken inventory of my soul, my heart, everything I was—and then she turned away. "I can't do this," she said simply. And then she walked away from me, meeting with the nearest cameraman and pointing between her clipboard and the house. They moved around to the front of the house just as the sun was beginning its late-afternoon slide into Virginia on the other side of the river.
The lights hung on the big house flickered on with the gathering darkness, and the crew took a few more shots of the place, glowing merrily against the smattering of white covering the ground from the weekend snow. I stood outside with them, watching, shivering in the cold but not really feeling it anywhere except in my ankle, and my heart. My house looked beautiful. And happy. Like the kind of place a family might spend happy mornings by the fire, evenings on the back lawn, Christmases enjoying the glow and glitter of the lights and the warmth of being together.
I knew the place would look great on the show, but it would be much like the rest of my life had turned out to be—a false representation, a hollow shell.
April turned to me as the cameramen went back to the van, and her head nodded once. "We're all done," she said.
"Okay," I managed.
For a long moment we stood there, our eyes locked as we each lingered on the front drive of my house, and I thought maybe she'd drop her wall and we could talk, maybe we could try. But then she said, "Thank you for your cooperation. Goodbye." She turned on her heel, climbed into the van with the men, and moments later, she was gone.
I watched the van make its way down the narrow lane leading away from my house, and when it turned the corner out of sight, I realized I had succeeded. I’d accomplished my goal of driving everyone away and securing complete and total solitude.
It hurt more than my ankle as I turned and went back into my big empty house.
21
Another Crappy Christmas
April
Filming Callan's house all day was potentially the hardest thing I had ever done. He'd been there, practically at my shoulder, the entire time, as we’d moved from one spot to another over the course of five long hours. He'd been right there the whole time.
When he'd touched me and asked if we could talk, I’d nearly broken down and said yes, and my heart was asking me now why I hadn't as I sat in the quiet of my room staring at Chip and Joanna on television but not really seeing anything.
I’d done the right thing—on all counts. So why did I feel so empty?
I was going to lose my job, there was no doubt about that. I’d ignored my uncle's demands and moved forward on the first contract as if we’d never spoken about Callan appearing on camera. I’d thought hard about it, and despite the way I was feeling about Callan right now, I didn't think he deserved the treatment my uncle had in mind. I wasn't going to be part of parading him out in front of the cameras so curious fans and gossipmongers could speculate about why he'd moved here, why he was alone, or how severe his limp still was. I knew him well enough to know he would hate all of that, and he certainly didn't deserve it, so I had decided not to even mention it to him.
Of course, my uncle's lawyers hadn't had the same thoughts. And evidently Callan had seen the contract even though I’d never intended to even tell him about it.
What hurt was that Callan assumed I’d been hatching some kind of plot all along, that my entire motivation was to get him on camera. I poured myself a small glass from the flask Annabelle had delivered to my room earlier with a plate of Christmas fudge. Moonshine and fudge didn't actually go well together, I learned. But sugar and alcohol were my vices, and tonight I needed them.
My heart twinged again, as my mind wandered back over Callan's reaction to the contract. He wasn't even going to talk to me about it, wasn't going to let me explain. After getting to know me better than most people in my life ever did, he still didn't see that I wouldn't have done that to him.
"What a selfish, arrogant jerk," I muttered, not really believing the words as they slid from my lips. I lay back on the pillows covering the head of my bed and tried to focus on Jo's latest shiplap project on television, but all I could think about was Callan.
And my future. I was absolutely out of a job. Again. And my uncle was going to be angry, too. Besides firing me, he might actually disinherit me and tell me I was officially out of the family. Not that we had much family. Rob, my mom and me. No wonder holidays sucked.
I had buried my phone in my purse, too focused on dousing my sorrows in alcohol and fudge when I’d first arrived back to think about calling anyone. But now, as my stomach protested my choice of evening meal and my loneliness threatened to overcome me, I dug it out.
I’d missed a call from Lynn, and two from Callan.
I called Lynn, feeling like my friend might be the only person left in the world who cared about me, who understood me. "Hey," I said miserably when Lynn picked up.
"Hey yourself," Lynn said
cheerfully. "How are things? How's your soccer star?"
He was beautiful. He was angry. He wasn’t the man I thought he was. He was gone. "He's an arrogant jerk. We're done."
"What? Why?"
I explained everything to Lynn as briefly as I could.
"And he tried to talk to you today when you were there?"
"Yeah, but it's too late, right?"
"Why?" Lynn asked. "Why is it too late?"
I sighed in exasperation. "Because he's already decided what kind of person I am. And if he thinks I'd do that to him—spend two weeks pretending to be in love with him just so I could get him to do the show—then he doesn't know me at all."
Lynn didn't say anything for a long minute. Then she said, "Don't get mad at me, okay?"
"For what?" I didn't think I had the capacity to generate yet another emotion today. I was spent.
"For telling you you're being an idiot."
I pressed my lips together, waiting to feel angry. I’d been right though, I didn't have the energy for anger—I only felt empty. "What?" I whispered.
"Do you love him?"
"I thought maybe I did."
"And your plan now is what? Come home, get a new job, forget all about him?"
It sounded awful. And impossible. "Yeah."
"April, it sounds like he wanted to talk about it. Don't you owe him that much?"
"He thinks I'm a manipulative bitch," I pointed out. "If he thinks I would do all that—go to that length just to set him up, there's no point."
"It was a misunderstanding. At least talk to him. Don't just leave. You'll be miserable forever if you don't at least talk it out."
I sank into the pillows again—Annabelle had added about thirteen extra while I had been out filming today, along with the alcohol and fudge, and a little card telling me she hoped everything was okay. "Maybe."
"Call him."
"I don't know if I can."
"Do it for me," Lynn said.
"For you?"
"If you come home, and you didn't even talk to him to find out if there might be a way to get past all this, you'll be a miserable pain in the ass for months. And I'll have to deal with you. So do it for me. Just talk to him. Just see if maybe there's really something there."
My heart twisted, writhing in pain or maybe pulsing in hope. Either way, I knew it would be next to impossible to talk to Callan, knowing he thought the worst of me already. I also knew I couldn't be anywhere near those deep dark eyes again without melting. It had been near impossible to keep my resolve while we’d filmed all day. Holding myself steady was part of why I was so exhausted now. I didn't answer, but I let out a long tired sigh.
"When's your flight home?"
"Tomorrow," I told her. "I got the red-eye."
"I hope you're not on it."
"That's not very nice," I said.
"I hope you find a reason to stay in Pine Tree."
"Christmas Tree. I mean, Singletree."
"Right," Lynn said.
I sighed, the breath coming from somewhere deep inside my soul where all the disappointments in my life swirled in a dark eddy that threatened sometimes to suck me down. "Good night."
"Good night," Lynn said.
And just like that, I was all alone again.
I woke in a haze, a pillow half-stuffed in my open mouth and about twelve others wedged uncomfortably into various body parts. The television still droned from across the room, where House Hunters was in the midst of a pre-holiday marathon. The light in the room was soft and diffuse, and it took me a few moments to realize I’d passed out after hanging up with Lynn, and that it was morning. I needed to get packed and clear out of Christmas Tree. I was on a red eye back to my real life tonight.
The thought made me feel sick.
Or perhaps that was the fudge and moonshine swirling in my stomach.
When I was able to move my limbs, I checked my phone for the time. Seven o'clock. I didn't technically need to be leaving until almost twelve hours later, and I’d gotten a late checkout. Not that I had anything to do except feel hollow and alone all day. It might make more sense to just head to the airport, I figured.
The crew should have already left—they were both on flights the previous night, having bought refundable tickets just in case something went wrong with filming. They both had families to get back to, and it was Christmastime, after all.
I stumbled to the bathroom and ran water into the tub, deciding I could put off actually accomplishing anything for at least another hour.
When I emerged, my skin pruned and my hair hanging in wet ribbons down my back, I felt slightly better, if not more hopeful. At least I wasn't hung over. Desolate, hopeless, and completely alone? Yes, but not hung over. So I had that going for me, at least.
I packed up my things, dried my hair and took a deep breath before leaving my room. I needed to say some goodbyes—mostly one. And then, after a quick bite, I’d be on my way. No point lingering around here.
Downstairs, I found Annabelle at the front desk as usual, cheerfully handing keys to an older couple who must have been visiting someone for the holidays. They had that grandparental air, I thought—optimistic and proud.
"Hello," they said in unison, turning away from the desk to head to the elevator. "Merry Christmas."
"Right," I said, unable to manage anything much more appropriate.
Annabelle's wide blue eyes were sympathetic when I turned back to her. "Hey," she said softly.
"Hi. Thanks for all the stuff. The fudge, especially. And the moonshine."
Annabelle smiled. "I hoped it might help. I mean, I know it can't … that's not to say …" She shook her head, a blush rising in her cheeks.
"It's okay," I told her. "Callan hates me because he thinks I tried to manipulate him to take advantage of his fame for the show. I don't think there's help for that."
"Oh, I see," Annabelle said, folding her hands on the desk in front of her.
"It's hard to take you seriously with that …" I waved at Annabelle's head, which was sporting a hat and fake hair combination meant to look like one of the Whos from Dr. Seuss's Whoville. The pigtails stuck straight out to the sides before angling sharply upward to the ceiling. She wore a strange prosthetic under her nose that made her whole face look a little bit rodent like, and I found it hard to look right at her.
"Sorry," Annabelle said, peeling the prosthetic off. "Better?"
"Yes," I said. "Anyway, I guess I'll be checking out this afternoon. I just wanted to let you know I probably don’t need that late checkout."
"Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ve got the room as long as you need. Just keep it. Just in case.”
I shrugged. "Thank you. I think I'm going to go get something to eat over at Lottie's."
Annabelle nodded. "Of course." Her face was sympathetic and all the nodding she was doing was making her hair bounce dangerously. "Please don't leave without saying goodbye."
"I wouldn't!" I took Annabelle's hand on a whim, squeezing it firmly. I felt a rush of warmth for the other woman, and realized it was going to be hard to say goodbye to her. Harder than it should be, given how long I’d know her. But I hadn't made a lot of close connections in my life, and I’d found more in Singletree in the short time I’d been here than I had in Los Angeles in a lifetime.
That was something to think about. Something I would definitely not be thinking about, I told myself as I crossed the town square to Lottie Tanner's bakery and cafe. It would only make it harder to leave. I put that into a little locked chest along with any and all thoughts of hot ex-soccer stars. Locked up tight.
Sure, that would work.
"April!" Lottie called as I pushed through the door, fighting a stiff and very cold wind on the sidewalk outside. "You're still here! I'm so glad!"
"Why are you glad, Lott? She doesn't have her cameras with her. You and the chinches had your fifteen minutes. It's over." The ever-cheerful Helen sat at the counter in front of Lottie, sporting a red and g
reen velour track suit and a Santa hat.
"Hello Mrs. Tanner, Mrs. Manchester," I said politely. "It's nice to see you again." I ignored Helen's eye roll at this pleasantry. I turned to Lottie. "I'm leaving this afternoon, but was hoping for some breakfast before I get on the road."
"Of course! Sit down anywhere. Don't mind Helen. She's going through withdrawal. Makes her mean."
I eyed the old woman skeptically and smiled back at Lottie. "Withdrawal?"
"Her granddaughter Tess says she spends too much time playing video games and made her commit to leaving the house every day."
"Sounds reasonable," I said, wary of the evil look Helen was giving me.
"I'm right here," the old woman said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I can hear you, you know."
"Sorry, dear," Lottie said. "But it's true. You've been very grumpy. Not at all in the holiday spirit."
"Well, I'll join you in that," I said to Helen, earning me a thumbs-up. I took off my coat and gloves as I turned to scan the small space, which was homey and comfortable, decorated with a few plush chairs near low tables, and a few more traditional restaurant tables with hard chairs. In one of these sat a familiar figure I hadn't noticed when I came in. I cringed, wondering how much he knew. "Hello, Cormac."
The man looked up from the laptop screen in front of him and gave me a warm smile. "Hey April, how are you?"
I didn't answer this, figuring there was no point. He surely knew what had happened between me and Callan, though the fact he didn’t scowl or throw anything did reassure me.
"About as well as my brother then, huh?" He waved at the chair across from him, watching me with his head tilted as I hung up my coat and took the seat. "He's pretty upset, you know."
I didn't want to hear any more about how Callan felt betrayed, about how I’d used him. "I know. But he didn't bother to listen to my side of things. I'm upset too," I said, almost accusingly. "And I'm going to lose my job because of it."
Cormac's eyebrows went up, but he didn't comment on this. "He knows he screwed up." This was delivered quietly, as if Cormac was waiting to see how I would react before telling me more.
Shaking the Sleigh Page 21
