"I want you to eat your breakfast." He reached for the silver coffee pot and poured coffee into one of the two bone china cups.
"Did you cook this?" Elizabeth looked at the perfectly fried eggs, crisp bacon and buttered toast. A single red rose in a crystal bud vase stood next to the linen napkin.
"Mrs. Andrews is in the kitchen," he smiled.
"Was she here last night?" Elizabeth dropped her head to glance at the night gown. She wanted to know if he'd taken off her dress and put her in this night gown.
"No," James said, all playfulness gone from his voice. "It's not the first time I've dressed or undressed you." He raised an eyebrow. "I must say undressing you is more fun." He smiled that devastating smile that had first attracted her to him.
Elizabeth lifted her fork, covering her twitching lips. She liked the housekeeper and loved her cooking.
"Aren't you going to eat?"
"I had breakfast an hour ago." James pulled the Queen Anne chair from the antique desk and straddled it, careful of the delicate cup in his large hand. His casual jeans and white ski sweater didn't seem out of place across the century's old chair. "I'm willing to share yours." He reached for a slice of bacon. Elizabeth's fingers instinctively tapped his hand. They'd often done that in the past. The gesture wasn't thought out or conscious, it was just there and both of them knew it. She then picked up the bacon and offered it to him. He took it, carrying it to his mouth. Elizabeth couldn't help her gaze, drawn to his lips. They moved sensually as he chewed. She remembered them being on hers, the way they moved with such intimacy. Swallowing hard she dismissed the image.
Elizabeth poured a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar and drank, using the action to shadow the confusion she felt over her thoughts.
James stared at her. He still loved her. After three years, Elizabeth was the only woman he wanted in his life. She looked beautiful in the large bed. He imagined her in his bed. It was where he'd wanted to put her last night, not in this guest room. This morning would be quite different if she'd wakened to find herself wrapped in his arms. He knew that's where she'd be if he'd carried her to his room.
She finished her breakfast and a second cup of the Irish Cream coffee Mrs. Andrews brewed each time she came. James took the tray and set it on the desk. Coming back he sat on the satin cover next to her. Elizabeth quickly moved away from him. James noticed, but said nothing.
"You asked what I wanted?" he began.
Elizabeth's gaze was level. The question was in her eyes, but she said nothing.
"There are eleven days left before Christmas. On Christmas Eve I'm throwing a party. I want you to come."
"That's what this is about? You want me to come to a party?"
"It's more than that. I want you to come and enjoy yourself. Enjoy Christmas."
Elizabeth dropped her head. The riot of black curls were slightly straighter after sleeping on them, but they still made him want to slip his fingers in them.
"I know what it's been like for the past three years," he paused. "I know you go through the motions as the holidays approach, smile in all the right places, attend all the right affairs, but you're having a miserable time."
James had always been able to read her. She thought she had hidden her real feelings under the act of enjoying herself. She wanted to deny his words, but knew he could see through her lies too.
"In less than two weeks you expect me to learn to enjoy the season again?"
James noted she didn't deny his statement. "I hope so."
"Are you suggesting therapy?"
James stared at the window. "In a manner of speaking."
"Therapy takes years. What could eleven days accomplish, even if I agreed?"
"It could change your entire life." He held his breath, knowing how much he was counting on changing her life.
"Why should this matter to you?" she asked.
"It matters," he said quietly. "I never wanted to hurt you, Elizabeth. And I don't want to be responsible for you disliking this time of year or only remembering the accident and Claire's death whenever Christmas approaches."
"I see," she said. "This therapy is really for you? You feel guilty and you're transferring it to me."
His gaze came back to her. He hadn't thought of it like that, but in a way it was true. If he'd left Claire alone that night, she might still be alive. And he'd be in jail.
"I'm not transferring it to you, Elizabeth, but we're both involved in this and it's only fair that we try to work it out."
"Exactly what are you suggesting?"
James looked directly at her. "In the next eleven days, I want to two of us to do some Christmas things. Remember the holidays we had before Claire died. Let those be the ones that carry us from season to season."
Elizabeth threw the cover aside, preparing to get out of bed. "No," she said.
James quickly put his hands on either side of her, trapping her in the satin folds. She looked back at him. She was close enough to kiss, close enough for him to smell her unique scent, feel her warmth. His mind suddenly filled with memories of her. He wanted to touch her, pull her into his arms and take her pain away, but if he acted it would shatter any influence he had over getting her to agree to his plan.
Slowly he moved his hands and sat back on the bed. "Is this how you want to live the rest of your life; pretending you're happy and suffering through migraine headaches?"
Elizabeth turned completely away from him. Her shoulders slumped. James wanted to comfort her, but he did nothing. He hardly breathed.
"What did you have in mind?"
Chapter 3
The Stanford Arms Apartments sat on Connecticut Avenue within striking distance of the Washington Hilton Hotel, where Ronald Reagan was shot during his presidency. Elizabeth occupied the corner apartment on the top floor of the pre-World War II building. The sand-colored brick structure looked stately and elegant in a neighborhood of stately and elegant apartment buildings. For all it's old world charm, Elizabeth's apartment had modern overstuffed sofas and carved cherry wood tables. Her kitchen was state of the art. The windows let in light and air and gave the place a feeling of openness. Living here was a far cry from the tiny two rooms she and Claire had occupied after their parents died, leaving them debt-ridden and mortgaged. The book cases were filled with books on handwriting, drawing, stenciling and calligraphy. One of the extra bedrooms had an easel she often used to dabble in painting. Yet not a single Christmas decoration could be found in the two-bedroom suite.
At the offices of Invitation to Love, Elizabeth had a fully decorated tree, complete with wrapped boxes and mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. Here, she only had the memory of Claire and the agony of knowing that James had been part of her death. Here, she could let her pain be seen without the prying eyes of Washington.
Elizabeth lounged on the sofa wearing black stretch pants and a green beaded sweater that fell a couple of inches above her knees. Near her feet lay an open book she hadn't been able to read. Though she stared through the windows, her mind was eight miles away in a house nestled among the trees of Rock Creek Park. She'd agreed to James's plan before leaving this morning. He thought she was doing it to change her life and her view of the holiday season. How wrong he was. She was doing it to make his life miserable.
Three years ago he'd escaped. He'd gone to New York and stayed there, away from the memories, the streets and people who looked at her with pity in their eyes. Even Theresa, Claire's best friend, had left for London. She'd felt alone and wretched, wishing she could somehow make it all different. It seemed ironic that she should spend her life making other people's dreams come true. Maybe she was trying all the time to forget that she had dreams of her own and they would never come true. Either that, or to hide from her own heartache.
Elizabeth jumped suddenly as the doorbell rang. Her foot kicked the book to the floor. Why was she so uptight? Getting up she padded barefoot to the door. James's distorted features stared at her through the peep hole. Elizabet
h took a calming breath and pulled the door open.
"Hi," he smiled as he brushed by her. Behind him he dragged a huge pine tree. The apartment doorman followed him, loaded down with bags and boxes.
"Merry Christmas, Miss Gregory," he said under his strain. "Where do you want these?"
Flustered, Elizabeth said, "Anywhere."
"I'll take them." James grabbed a few of the bags and dropped them on the floor. He took the boxes and made a pile on the end of the sofa. Then tipping the doorman, they were suddenly alone.
"What is all this?" Elizabeth asked, turning around amid the chaos.
"We've only got eleven days." He pulled off his sheepskin jacket, throwing it casually aside. Standing in front of her, he said, "We're going to decorate your tree. I hoped you hadn't gotten one yet."
He meant he knew she hadn't gotten one yet. Elizabeth didn't have a tree and didn't want one.
"While we arrange bulbs and tinsel I'm going to tell you all about the tradition," James ran on as Elizabeth stood unsure of what to say and do. "Where do you want it?"
"James, I don't want a tree. I spend so little time here," she paused. "There's one at the office and--"
"You don't live at the office. Here, this looks like a good spot." He stood in front of the large picture window that faced the Capitol Building and downtown Washington.
"It blocks the view," she said weakly. Elizabeth loved that view. It was why she'd agreed to the exorbitant rent several years ago when she'd first seen it.
James leaned the tree against the wall and came toward her. Involuntarily she stepped back. He stopped. "You want this to work, don't you?" His eyes were serious, probing into hers as if he could look into her soul. "Don't you believe in Christmas, anymore?"
Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her dry throat to speak. His approach told her he was going to touch her. Aching need revved inside her. She knew if she felt his touch she'd lose all reason.
"Then let's try to have some fun with it. It's what Christmas is all about," James said.
He reached up and his finger tapped the dangling earring on her left ear. Sensation ran through Elizabeth. The brush of the gold against her skin was as warm as James's fingers. Her hand came up and stopped the movement.
"I'll try," she agreed.
"Good. Now where do you want the tree?"
Elizabeth told him to stand it in front of the window. While he positioned it for her approval, she watched him. She was still holding her ear. He'd always like to dangle the earrings she wore. There were times when she'd wait for him and he'd come up behind her and touch the earring or kiss her there. Heat would warm her ear and spread through her body, just as it was doing now.
James pulled a tree stand from one of the boxes. Bending down he quickly assembled it, humming O Tannenbaum while he worked.
"Why don't you put on some Christmas music?" James glanced over his shoulder.
"I don't have any."
He stopped his task and stood up. Elizabeth wished she were wearing shoes. She felt small next to his big frame. Stepping back she tripped on the book and nearly lost her balance. She bent down, picked up the romance novel and dropped it on the sofa.
"What happened to them?" James asked.
"I never...unpacked them after...when I moved here."
"Why are you lying," James accused. "You lived her before Claire died."
"All right, I packed them after she died. I didn't want to be reminded of Christmas. I hate it! I hate it!"
She turned away, her arms crossed in front of her in an effort to prevent herself from shaking. Elizabeth stood there for several moments. Finally, her breathing returned to normal. Taking a deep breath, she turned back. James had not moved.
"Elizabeth, I'm sorry Claire's dead," he said, softly. "I'm sorry I had any part in her death. I wish to God she'd never come into..." he stopped, leaving the thought incomplete. "In the past three years, Elizabeth, we've both been plagued by bad memories at Christmas. I want this year to be different."
Elizabeth suddenly felt guilty. Her goal had been to make him feel bad, yet she was the one who felt small, as if her actions were childish and petty. Giving her a cue he smiled.
Elizabeth tried but failed.
James stepped forward with a grin. "Smile," he said, then he took her waist. "You'd better smile," he warned. Seconds later his fingers squeezed inward, tickling her. "Come on," he warned.
Clamping her teeth together, Elizabeth tried to hold it in. She couldn't stop herself. Finally, the flood gates opened and she burst into uncontrollable laughter.
"Sto--opp," he cried, as she grabbed his hands and bent her knees, slipping to the floor. James followed her, laughing with her.
He stopped tickling her but she continued laughing. Only when she had no more breath left, could she get control on her near-hysteria.
"Feel better?"
She nodded wiping her eyes with the tips of her fingers.
He pulled her up, immediately releasing contact. From one of the bags on the floor he pulled a CD and offered it to her. "Put this on."
Elizabeth took the cellophane wrapped package and went to the rack system in the corner. The disc contained a medley of Motown artist and a variety of Christmas songs. Gladys Knights's soulful rendition of O Holy Night filled the room.
"What's in the other bags?" she asked, returning to the center of the room.
"Open them," James told her absently. He'd finished the assembly and stood the tree in it. The room smelled pleasantly of pine.
Elizabeth loved surprises. The feeling of finding presents under the tree on Christmas morning gave her a rush. She found tinsel, tree lights, colored bulbs and garlands. Soon her living room was draped in colorful disarray.
When James was ready for the lights, Elizabeth found herself passing them back and forth as they draped the tree.
"I thought you were going to tell me all about Martin Luther and the tradition of decorating trees."
"Ah-ha," he said as if he were verbally flexing his muscles. "Many people attribute the tradition to Martin Luther. But long before the birth of Christ, people brought evergreens into their homes and decorated them. They held winter festivals and celebrated the winter solstice."
"Winter festivals?" Elizabeth glanced up from the box she'd opened. "Today we call them parties." She smiled at him. Her first unconscious action since he'd arrived. James smiled back as he stopped hanging glass icicles on the tree for the unguarded moment. Elizabeth unwrapped several Victorian bulbs and placed them on the tree.
"The festivals were thanks for a bountiful harvest and prayer that the next season would be plentiful." James returned to his story. "When Christianity became accepted, many people retained their winter rites, gradually changing them to honor Christ."
As James continued telling her about the tradition of Christmas trees, Elizabeth was mesmerized by the sound of his voice. A deep bass if he sang, the sound seemed to originate in low in his body and flow forward. She had forgotten how much she loved hearing him talk. Opening another box of decorations, they filled the open spaces with bulbs, icicles, and hallmark figures. When they got to the garland, the tree looked good enough for the cover of House Beautiful and James had reached the part of his story where the tradition came to the United States.
"The Hessians, German soldiers hired by the British to fight in the American Revolution, decorated trees during the holiday season and it caught on with the settlers."
"James," Elizabeth interrupted his story. "I know this part. I also know that President Franklin Pierce put up the first Christmas tree in the White House, that Calvin Coolidge lit the first outdoor tree and Eisenhower established the pageant of peace they hold on the Mall behind the White House."
"Good," James said. "That's the end of my story." He picked up the final unopened box. "How about putting the last decoration on?"
Elizabeth stared at the box. She knew it held an angel opening it. They always topped the tree with an angel. "That was Claire
's job. She said the angel had been sent by our parent's to watch over us."
"I'm sure she'd want you to do it."
Elizabeth lifted the lid. She gasped when she saw the delicate Black doll, dressed in a white gown as sheer as gossamer. The box dropped to Elizabeth's feet as she lifted the angel, holding it as carefully as she would fine glass. Feathered wings extended from her back arching up like summer clouds. Black eyes looked deep into Elizabeth's.
James touched the tree top ornament, his hand brushing Elizabeth's. "Put it on," he whispered.
"I can't reach it," she said, her head slowly rising to look at him.
"I'll help you."
Before she could stop him, James lifted her from the carpeted floor and hoisted her to his shoulder. Vertigo claimed her momentarily. The floor looked miles away from where she sat.
"Put me down!" She grabbed his shoulder, nearly dropping the doll.
"In a minute. Put the angel on the tree."
James stepped forward, his hands holding her firmly. Elizabeth reached for the top branch unsure of her position. She felt as if she were going to fall. Quickly she stuck the angel on the extended branch.
"Put me down," she said when she'd secured the ornament.
James's hands slid up her torso to grasp her arms. He slid her down his body. Elizabeth pointed her toes as if she were a ballet dancer and he was practicing a lift. Heat scorched her bottom as it rolled over James's chest. Elizabeth bit her bottom lip. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her brain told her to get to the floor fast, yet another part of her body savored the hard strength of him, remembered the hours of love-making, his arms wrapped around her, filling her with warmth and security.
Elizabeth mentally shook herself, trying to get control of her rampaging emotions. An eon passed before her toes felt the thick carpet pile. James turned her in his arms. She faced him, her voice caught below the lump in her throat.
"What do we do next?" he asked.
Chapter 4
Mrs. Andrews would have his head if she could see what he'd done to her kitchen. Bags of sugar lay strewn on the counter. An opened one had spilled onto the floor. There were enough grains under his feet to perform a soft shoe routine. The flour sack flopped over the moment he opened it, clouding the room and settling a powdery dust over everything. Chocolate sprinkles and rainbow toppers waited with red and green sugar crystals, bowls, spoons, a sifter, and half the spices from the supermarket shelf. James's previous excursions through the kitchen were to get to the barbecue pit in the backyard or to raid the refrigerator for fried chicken and cold milk in the middle of the night. He couldn't imagine baking Christmas cookies here. And why cookies?
One Christmas Night (Capitol Chronicles Book 6) Page 3
