There's Something About Christmas

by Debbie Macomber

  He walked out, turned right and went down two doors.

  Emma followed. She didn’t understand, until he inserted the key into the lock, that this was his place—two doors down from hers.

  “You live here?” she asked. “Here?”

  He nodded, opening the front door. It had the biggest Christmas wreath of all, and the front window sparkled with tiny white lights.

  “It didn’t occur to you to maybe mention this before now?” She’d asked him earlier if there were any strings attached and he’d promised her there weren’t. She should’ve known.

  Her tone must have conveyed the fact that she wasn’t happy with this unexpected turn of events. She remained standing in the doorway, resisting the impulse to look inside, although she did catch sight of a gaily decorated Christmas tree.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you want me for a neighbor?”

  She found it hard enough to keep him out of her thoughts as it was. Living two doors down from him would make it impossible. “As a matter of fact, no. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Didn’t enter my mind. You should be grateful I found you an apartment.”

  “Which I wouldn’t have needed if you hadn’t opened your big mouth,” she said, even though that was only partially true.

  “So it’s my fault?” he cried out at the unfairness of her accusation.

  “Yes, yours.”

  Oliver glared at her. “Fine.”

  She crossed her arms and glared right back at him.

  Jason stepped up to his vehicle on the other side of the street and raised his hand. “Merry Christmas,” he shouted.

  “Right,” Oliver muttered back. “And goodwill to all mankind.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Late that afternoon, Oliver joined Walt Berwald at the tavern down the street from the newspaper office. Walt sat at the bar with his shoulders hunched forward, looking as if he’d just received some piece of devastating news. His demeanor was at odds with the cheerful rendition of “Deck the Halls” playing on the tavern’s crackling sound system.

  Oliver shared Walt’s sentiment. He had no idea what he’d done that was so terrible. There was no mistaking Emma’s irritation with him, although he’d expected her to be overjoyed that he’d found her an apartment. Oh, no, that would’ve been far too rational. He should’ve remembered that there was nothing rational about most women. His mother and one of his three sisters were the exception that proved the rule.

  What really got to him was that he hadn’t purposely hidden the fact that he lived in the same complex. It just hadn’t seemed important, and he didn’t understand why it mattered. The ride back to the newspaper office had been silent and uncomfortable. Emma hadn’t been able to get out of the truck fast enough.

  Walt slid his gaze to Oliver when he claimed the stool next to him, nodding morosely. The bartender looked over and Oliver motioned toward the beer in Walt’s hand. “I’ll take one of those. And get another for my friend.”

  “Thanks,” Walt said.

  “My pleasure.”

  Neither spoke again until the beers arrived.

  “What’s got you so down in the dumps?” Walt asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. What about you?”

  Walt shrugged. “Same.”

  Women were beyond Oliver’s comprehension. He had sisters and knew from experience that Emma was probably talking to Phoebe right now, describing every aspect of his many faults. Things had begun to look promising, too. He’d been attracted to Emma from the start and he’d been certain she felt the same way. After this morning, he was no longer sure.

  “How’s it going with that reporter of mine?” Walt asked, reaching for his cold beer.

  “Not bad.” Oliver didn’t elaborate.

  “Emma’s got real potential as a journalist, you know.”

  Oliver believed that, even if he hadn’t read anything she’d written. This was her big shot and despite their differences, he wished her well. “She’s got a few hang-ups.” He didn’t mean to say that aloud and was surprised to hear his own voice.

  “All women do,” Walt said, as if he were an authority on the subject.

  “You know this from your vast research, do you?”

  Walt laughed and shook his head. “Hey, when it comes to women and relationships, I’m a disaster waiting to happen.”

  Oliver gave him a second look. Walt had always seemed secure and confident. He knew his stuff, as befitted a man who was the third generation of his family in the newspaper business. Now, however, Walt seemed to feel downright miserable.

  Oliver did, too. And it was all because of Emma. It was times like these when he felt like sitting in the dark, listening to Harry Connick Jr., bourbon in hand. Either that, or go and visit his mother. Knowing her, she’d pry out of him what was wrong, give him some commonsense advice and then feed him a huge dinner, as if her cabbage rolls would solve all his problems.

  Oliver loved her and her stuffed cabbage, but even his mother wouldn’t be able to help him understand Emma Collins.

  After a second beer, Oliver slid off the stool and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “See you around,” he mumbled at Walt.

  Neither one of them had been very talkative.

  “Yeah, sure,” Walt responded in the same weary tone. “Thanks for the beer. I’ll buy next time.”

  Oliver nodded, and got up to head back to his truck, where Oscar was waiting impatiently inside the cab.

  “You got plans for the evening?” Walt asked unexpectedly.

  “Not necessarily.” It was either his mother’s cabbage rolls or listening to Harry. “What have you got in mind?”

  “You are a friend indeed,” Emma said as she came out of the bedroom dragging a cardboard box filled with books. She and Phoebe had left work early, once Emma had finished the article, skipping lunch to do it. They’d collected boxes on the way to Emma’s place and spent the past two hours packing. Fortunately, Boots was still at the vet’s and therefore not underfoot.

  Phoebe didn’t seem to be listening. “You’d help me move, too, if our circumstances were reversed.”

  “Something on your mind?” Emma asked. Phoebe hadn’t been her usual self since she’d returned from lunch.

  Sighing, her friend straightened. “I met Walt for lunch. We left separately and went five miles out of our way in order not to be seen. It’s ridiculous! I love Walt, but I told him I was through sneaking around.”

  Emma didn’t blame her.

  “I won’t do it again.” Phoebe sounded firm about her decision. “If he wants to wait until after Christmas, then fine, we’ll wait. But I won’t see Walt again until he’s willing to be open and honest about our relationship.”

  “You’re right.” Emma admired her friend’s courage and conviction. “What did Walt say?”

  Phoebe’s shoulders slumped. “He thinks I’m overreacting.”

  “You aren’t!”

  “I know. I’ve been feeling dreadful all afternoon, and when I left, I didn’t let him know I was going to help you move. Instead, I let him assume—” a slow smile formed “—that I had…other plans.”

  “Other plans? Like being with another man?”

  Phoebe gave a careless shrug. “Never mind. It’ll do him good to wonder where I am.”

  “I really do appreciate the help,” Emma said earnestly as they both walked out to the parking lot with loaded boxes.

  “I know. You’d do the same for me,” Phoebe said again. “When’s the next fruitcake interview?” she asked, although Emma wasn’t sure why she’d changed the subject.

  “Next week—Tuesday, I think.”

  Emma didn’t welcome the reminder that Oliver was scheduled to fly her into Friday Harbor. She didn’t want to think about him—or the fact that she’d soon be in the air again.

  “Are you ready to take these over to the new place?”

  Emma asked in an effort to derail her thoughts. She was eager to show off her apartment
. An apartment she wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for Oliver, her conscience pointed out.

  “Sure,” Phoebe said. “Let’s go.” But her enthusiasm seemed forced.

  Emma hesitated. “Do you want to talk some more?” This disagreement with Walt had really depressed her friend.

  “Not especially,” Phoebe murmured, revealing a little more life. “Let’s go,” she said again.

  It was nearly seven and completely dark out. The first thing Emma noticed when she pulled up in front of the complex on Cherry Street was that Oliver’s apartment lights were off; only his Christmas lights flashed a festive message. He was probably out on some hot date, she thought glumly. Despite her best efforts, her spirits sank. It shouldn’t matter where he was or with whom—and yet, it did.

  She stood by her car, fumbling for the door key, as Phoebe’s SUV drove up behind her. Carrying a couple of plants she’d transported on the front seat, she joined Emma. “What’s wrong, Em?”

  Emma looked at her blankly.

  “You just growled.”

  “I did? I was thinking what a bother moving is,” she said, inventing an explanation that was also the truth.

  “I’ll work as long as you want tonight.”

  Emma nodded her thanks. She wanted out of the old place as quickly as possible. Because she didn’t own much, it hadn’t taken long to pack. Books, bedding and towels, clothes, kitchen stuff. Her TV and CD player. Odds and ends. Only a few pieces of furniture remained.

  They made two trips, with both her car and Phoebe’s loaded, rooftop and all. Back at the old apartment, they surveyed the things that still had to be moved.

  “We should take the bed over tonight,” Phoebe suggested, hands on her hips as she stood in the almost-empty bedroom. “That way you’ll be able to sleep at the new place.”

  The idea appealed to Emma. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  Phoebe nodded.

  Oliver’s lights were on when they arrived with the bed and nightstand. So he was home. Not that she cared.

  The mattress was the most difficult to handle. With Phoebe on one end and Emma on the other, they wrestled it out of the SUV.

  “I’m starved,” Emma said as she paused to take a breath. She hadn’t eaten lunch; her only sustenance had come from a vending-machine pack of peanuts. “When we finish, I’m treating you to dinner. What time is it, anyway?”

  Phoebe didn’t answer. When Emma looked around the protruding mattress, she saw why.

  Oliver’s apartment door was open, and Walt Berwald and Oliver stood just outside the doorway, watching them struggle.

  Phoebe dropped her end of the mattress. “Walt,” she said in a choked voice.

  “Oh, could you use some help?” Oliver asked coolly as he stepped forward.

  “Phoebe?” Walt sounded nervous.

  Even in the dark, Emma swore her friend’s cheeks blossomed brighter than the cherry trees across the street ever would. She looked directly at Walt and then—reluctantly—at Oliver. She realized she owed him an apology. Her ungracious and ungrateful behavior toward him had worried her all day, and she needed to make it right.

  “I’ll take that,” he said, hurrying toward her end of the mattress.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and moved aside so he could grab the mattress. “For everything.”

  Oliver nearly stumbled. He dropped his corner of the mattress. “What did you just say?”

  “I, ah, was attempting to apologize.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “It felt good to hear that. Would you mind saying it again?”

  Emma considered refusing, since he just wanted to rub it in. Oh, well, she supposed he deserved to hear her apology twice. Not that she intended to use the word sorry even once. She cleared her throat. “I wanted to thank you for all your help,” she said more loudly.

  He seemed gratified. Nodding his head, he said, “You’re welcome.” He lifted his end of the mattress again and grappled with it for a moment until he noticed that Walt hadn’t taken hold of the other side. He propped the mattress against the back of the vehicle.

  Emma saw that Walt and Phoebe were staring at each other. He’d come to stand beside her, ignoring the mattress, Emma, everything.

  “When you said you had ‘other plans,’ you let me think they were with someone else,” Walt murmured, frowning.

  “It was what you deserved to think.”

  “What’s going on with those two?” Oliver whispered, moving closer to Emma.

  “They had a disagreement.”

  “They’re seeing each other?” This seemed news to him. “They’re a couple?”

  Emma nodded, watching her friend and their boss.

  “I wasn’t joking, Walt.” Phoebe held her ground. She crossed her arms.

  Walt exhaled and looked at Oliver. “Did I just hear you ask if Phoebe and I are a couple?”

  “That’s your business, man.”

  “No,” Walt countered, “I want you to know. I love Phoebe and she loves me.” He turned to face her. “There, does that satisfy you?”

  Phoebe grinned. “It’s a start.”

  With that, Walt opened his arms and Phoebe walked into his embrace. A second later, they had their arms around each other and were locked in a passionate kiss.

  “Hey, about this mattress?” Oliver whispered to Emma.

  “Shh,” she whispered back. This was a scene normally reserved for the movies; all it lacked was a soundtrack. Emma didn’t think she’d seen anything more romantic in her life. “Isn’t this just so…so perfect?”

  “What?” Oliver demanded, leaning against the mattress.

  She scowled up at him, then understood that he really didn’t get it.

  “Hey, anyone interested in Chinese?” Oliver asked.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fruitcake—love it or hate it—is about the ritual of a family recipe. The longer the ritual is repeated, the more it becomes part of what is “done” at the holidays. With that in mind, there are only two fruitcakes that matter to me, and I eat them over the Christmas holidays every year. One is the recipe of my Grandma Prendergast, which my dad now makes at Christmas. It never turns out exactly the same as Grandma’s did, but it tastes good because it reminds me of her at the best time of year—when I’m with family. I eat it spread with butter, just the way Grandma served it. The other belongs to my mother-in-law, who labors over her versions for weeks on end. In addition to the obvious fact that everyone should eat what their mother-in-law serves, hers are actually moist.

  —Kevin Prendergast, executive chef,

  New York Marriott Marquis

  Bright and early the next Tuesday morning, Oliver pounded on Emma’s apartment door. When she didn’t immediately answer, he peered inside her front window. He saw her run into the living room and stare back. Smiling, he raised a small white bag and a large cup of coffee.

  If she needed any inducement to unlock her door, that was it. She was dying for a latte.

  “You sweetheart,” she said, letting him into her apartment. Boots was at her feet, the ready protector. She’d been pronounced healthy and was scheduled to be spayed right after Christmas.

  Oliver smiled and handed her the take-out latte. “I have another surprise for you.”

  “Another surprise?”

  “More of a Christmas surprise.”

  “All right.” Emma didn’t trust that gleam in his eyes, and adding Christmas wasn’t a bonus. “Tell me.”

  “I got us a float plane for the trip to Friday Harbor.” He smiled again, as if this was something that should excite her.

  “A float plane,” she repeated slowly. It’d been difficult enough to deal with an aircraft that landed on the ground. “As in a plane that lands on water?”

  “Yup.” He positively glowed with the news. “You’ll love it.”

  The one small sip of latte she’d taken curdled in her stomach. “I don’t think so.”

  “Sure you do. We’re flying out of
Lake Union. A friend of mine is letting me use his plane and—”

  She felt the sudden urge to sit down, but didn’t.

  “Now, listen,” Oliver said, steering her into the kitchen and placing the white sack on the counter. It contained a large cranberry muffin, but Emma couldn’t eat, nauseated as she was by the thought of flying—and worse, landing—in a float plane. “Everything’ll be fine,” he said soothingly. “Just one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You should wear sensible shoes because those docks can get slippery.”

  “In other words, there’s a chance I could fall in the water?”

  “It’s not likely, but it’s been known to happen, so be extra-cautious when you’re climbing into the plane, okay?”

  “Is this a trick?”

  “Of course not.” He marched out of the kitchen, and Emma followed. Boots hung behind, gazing eagerly at the white sack.

  “You can bring Boots,” Oliver said before she could even ask.

  Emma threw on her coat, scooped up Boots and grabbed her briefcase for this last interview, which would be in the San Juan Islands. Emma had spoken to Peggy Lucas by phone, and she sounded like a woman in her thirties, much younger than the other finalists. Emma was looking forward to chatting with her about her No-Bake Fruitcake recipe.

  Oliver opened the truck door for her and Boots, and Emma thanked him politely.

  “It’s all part of being a romantic hero,” he reminded her with what she thought was a smirk.

  Both dogs were in the truck, and the cab was crowded. “If I slip off the dock, I’m going to blame you,” she said as she fastened the seat belt around her and Boots. Before they left, Emma had changed her shoes twice. In the end, she’d decided on tennis shoes with rubber soles, although they didn’t do much for her dark-gray pantsuit.

  “Why would you blame me?” Oliver asked as they merged into the traffic on Interstate 5.

  She tapped her finger against her temple. “You’re the one who put the idea in my head.” He’d added a brand-new element to her fears, as if she needed more to worry about.