Christmas In The Country

by Muriel Jensen

  “You came down hard on your ribs,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  It took her a moment to answer—not because her ribs hurt, but because she was just where she’d wanted to be from the moment she’d seen him on television.

  “I think…so,” she said breathlessly. His closeness trapped the air in her lungs. If she moved her head an inch in his direction, her cheek would touch his.

  “Are you sure?” His thumb ran gently over the jut of her ribs. “Take a deep breath. If you’ve broken anything, it’ll hurt like hell.”

  She didn’t think she had a deep breath in her. Or if she did, her body wasn’t bothering to use it. Her entire awareness was filled with the ironlike quality of the muscular arm under her head, the tenderness of the fingertips probing her ribs through the flannel pajamas, the long, strong leg braced over her on a stair to keep both of them from falling.

  “I’m…okay,” she insisted on a whisper.

  “Well, sit up carefully.”

  She complied, his long body still cupping hers protectively. She would have given a year of her life, she thought, to be able to turn her face into his shoulder.

  She’d have given her entire old age to have been able to wrap her arms around him and kiss his lips. Unless, of course, there was any chance she’d be able to spend her old age with him.

  She drew a deep breath, more because she needed it than to judge the condition of her ribs.

  He watched her diagnostically. “Okay?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Okay.”

  And then he did the unheard-of, only-in-romancenovels, fairy-tale thing. He lifted her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way up the stairs.

  She was enjoying it with a blissfulness she was sure few women ever knew when it occurred to her that she was in serious trouble if he walked her into Bill’s room and saw that Bill wasn’t in her bed.

  “I can walk,” she said, pushing against his shoulder.

  They passed Whittier’s room, and Jeff kept walking.

  She kicked her feet. “Jeff, I can…”

  Then Providence intervened and Bill appeared in the doorway in the gray sweat suit he wore to bed. He looked rumpled and perplexed.

  “There you are,” he said to Liza, then looked from her to Jeff. “What happened?”

  Jeff placed her in Bill’s arms. “She fell on the stairs. She says she’s all right, but you…might want to be sure. Good night.”

  “Good…night.” Bill stared after him in wonder, then looked down at Liza in concern.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “You can put me down.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’re trembling.”

  “It’s two-thirty on a December morning in Connecticut, Bill. It’s cold. Will you please put me down?”

  A door down the hall was yanked open and a disheveled blond head peered around it. “What’s going—?” Sherrie’s sleepy voice began. Then the question was interrupted by a gasp of horror and indignation.

  Sherrie stared another moment while Liza and Bill watched her in silent disbelief. Then she put a hand to her mouth, drew back into her room and slammed the door.

  Liza let her head fall backward with the utter impossibility of trying to explain to her sister her compromising position in Bill’s arms. She lay in his embrace like a corpse as he carried her into the room and dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed.

  She sat up instantly. “Bill, you have to go explain it to her, right now.”

  He seemed to consider that course of action then dismiss it. “No. She won’t believe me anyway, so let her stew over it.”

  “Bill!” Liza whispered, remembering the baby. “It’ll be even harder to explain tomorrow!”

  “Then we won’t try,” he returned quietly. He went to the crib, readjusted the baby’s blankets, then went into the confined space behind the louvered doors.

  “Don’t do this,” she pleaded, getting onto her knees so that she could turn and look at him through the open doors. “You know she loves you.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said grimly. “But until she knows it, too, there’s little hope for us.”

  “If you don’t explain, there’s no hope. And it ruins my relationship with her, too.”

  “Last night,” he said wearily, pulling one of the doors closed, “you asked me to trust you. Tonight I’m asking you to trust me. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  She huffed a sigh and punched her pillow. “I’ll kill you if you’re wrong,” she said.

  He smiled grimly. “Good. ‘Cause if I lose her, I’ll want to die anyway. Good night.” And he pulled the second door closed.

  Chapter Six

  Liza hurried down to the kitchen early, braced for combat. She’d done her bit for Bill by letting Sherrie stew overnight, but now she was determined to explain why she’d been in Bill’s arms.

  But Sherrie wasn’t there. The bowl of flapjack batter stood on the counter along with a pound of bacon and a dozen eggs, and the griddle was on the stove, but there was no one in the room.

  Liza peered out the window on the back door and saw the back of Sherrie’s brown parka and cords in the middle of a world of white. She seemed to be staring at the leaden horizon.

  Liza felt a terrible pain in the pit of her stomach at Sherrie’s obvious distress. And at the knowledge that she’d caused it, however unwittingly.

  She pulled on her boots and coat and went outside. The cold air slapped her in the face and took her breath away. She gave herself a moment to adjust, then trudged in Sherrie’s direction.

  A strong wind sent the snow flying off the trees in the yard, giving the morning a mystical atmosphere.

  Liza had almost reached Sherrie when her sister spun around, one arm out in a halting gesture, stopping Liza in her tracks. “Don’t even try,” she said, her eyes and her voice as cold as the morning. “I won’t listen.”

  Liza jammed her already frozen hands into her pockets, wishing she’d remembered gloves. “That’s been your problem all your life, hasn’t it? You don’t listen. To anybody. You don’t like your big dreams or your faulty conclusions muddled up with facts!”

  “Don’t you dare dissect my character,” Sherrie ordered with a vicious jab of her index finger in Liza’s direction, “when we’re all in this hellish mess because of your big dreams and faulty little lies!”

  “We’re in this mess,” Liza returned calmly, “so that Edie and I can keep our jobs, and so that you can buy the inn.”

  “Oh, fertilizer!” Sherrie shouted.

  To anyone else, that insipid word for the real thing might have been amusing, considering Sherrie’s passion at the moment. But Liza knew she used it to prevent the boys from picking up bad language, and had just fallen into the habit. Liza felt relatively sure a smile wouldn’t be appreciated at the moment, anyway.

  “We’re in this mess,” Sherrie shouted, “because you’ve enjoyed being the big Gouda, and you don’t want to give it up. That’s all.”

  “Sherrie,” Liza said reasonably, “if I give it up, you give up a third of your income and your shot at the inn. Do you want to do that?”

  “No!”

  “Good. That’s settled. Then do you want to hear about last night?”

  “No, thank you.” Sherrie pushed past her, headed back to the house. “I think the facts spoke for themselves on that issue.”

  Liza caught her arm and spun her around. “You misinterpreted what you saw!”

  “Tons of fertilizer! I was willing to let the two of you sleep in the same room because your plan required it. You just didn’t make it clear what lengths you’d go to to make it convincing!”

  “Sherrie, Bill is sleeping in the closet!”

  “Maybe, but apparently he carries you in there with him.”

  Sherrie tried to pull away from her, but Liza took hold of her with her other hand, too. “You nit! I got up with Betsy, then when she w
ent back to sleep, I couldn’t, so I went downstairs for a cup of tea, had a brief talk with Jeff, who was also up, and which totally tortured me because I know he’s attracted to me but thinks I’m married and is too noble to do anything about it and neither can I or we all lose everything, but why should that bother you because you’re in a jealous rage over a man you’ve claimed all along not to love!” Liza paused for a much-needed breath. Sherrie still glowered at her, but guiltily now. “Then we were both coming back upstairs when I tripped over Bill’s robe—I forgot to bring mine, okay?—and Jeff caught me and carried me the rest of the way up the stairs. Bill apparently heard the commotion and came to investigate, at which point Jeff—thinking Bill is my husband—put me into his arms.”

  Sherrie looked down at the snowy ground for a long time, then up into Liza’s eyes. “Really?” she asked in a small voice.

  Liza rolled her eyes. “No. I made that all up on the spur of the moment.”

  “I’ve heard you tell some very convincing lies since this all started.”

  “Yeah,” Liza admitted gravely, “but never to you. Never in our lives to you.”

  Sherrie looked at her a moment and her mouth began to quiver. “All right. I’m sorry. I’m just…”

  “Jealous.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” Sherrie sniffed back tears, then asked grumpily, “Well, why didn’t you come and explain this to me last night?”

  “Would you have listened last night, or would I have just wasted my energy and awakened the whole household pounding on your door?”

  Sherrie closed her eyes and sighed. “I can’t believe Bill didn’t even try to explain.”

  “You told him you don’t want anything to do with him.”

  “But we’ve meant a lot to each other.”

  Liza tried to score one for his side. “Well, you’ll have to square that with him, but I think as the rules go, if you claim you don’t care, then he’s entitled to do what he wants to do without having to explain.”

  “Fine. Then let him do that. I have flapjacks to prepare.” Sherrie stomped off toward the house, her boots biting into the snow.

  Liza followed, thinking that not only did she have to somehow arbitrate this misunderstanding between Bill and her sister, she had to flip a flapjack while Mr. Whittier watched.

  How could anyone, she wondered, have so much against them before seven in the morning?

  BILL, JEFF, WHITTIER and the boys ate bowls of blueberries and bananas while Dora fed Betsy and Sherrie made flapjacks and placed them in the warming oven.

  “Hurry up and use all the batter,” Liza said to Sherrie under her breath as she placed a cup of coffee at her elbow. “We can claim you forgot to save one for me to flip.”

  “Sherrie!” Whittier called from the table. “Don’t forget to save the last one so that Liza can demonstrate that skill she brags about in her column.”

  Liza groaned.

  “You were saying?” Sherrie whispered with an amused glance.

  “You could have spared me this,” Liza accused dispiritedly, “if you’d worked a little faster.”

  Sherrie’s smile was innocent. “The incentive just wasn’t there.” She removed a finished flapjack and put it in the oven. Then she sprayed the pan with oil, dropped in the last bit of batter and said’ softly, quickly, “I’ll give it one turn, then you’re on. The pan’s well oiled, so it should go smoothly. Give it some Zen. Concentrate on where you want it to land.” Sherrie turned the beautifully browned flapjack, then called over her shoulder, “Okay! Gather ‘round. Liza’s ready.”

  Hoping that prayer and Zen were compatible, Liza employed both as she planted her feet squarely and held the handle of the pan in both hands.

  The boys and Dora watched expectantly, Bill and Jeff stood with plates in hand, obviously watching simply to get seconds, but Whittier was in the spirit of the thing, clearly eager to see her pull off what she boasted about in his magazine.

  Praying for and concentrating on a miracle, Liza flipped. She knew instantly she was off. The flapjack was high and outside. It turned beautifully in the air as though in slow motion.

  She heard the collective gasp of her audience, Sherrie’s whispered groan, and watched it begin to come down far beyond the reach of her pan.

  Then Jeff reached up with his plate and caught it. It landed with a little slap and there was a moment’s • surprised silence.

  “Right on target,” Jeff said with a smile for Liza. “Thank you. Are there a couple more to go with it?”

  Whittier laughed, and everyone joined him. Bill and the boys asked for more, and the nerve-racking moment was over. No one seemed to have noticed that she hadn’t accomplished what she’d claimed to do so expertly, only that Jeff had made a remarkable catch.

  She sent him a grateful look, which he returned with a subtle nod.

  Half an hour later Whittier looked almost comatose in his chair. Sherrie patted his shoulder as she topped up his coffee. “You don’t look like you’re going to be up to cutting holly and pine boughs this morning, Mr. Whittier.”

  Whittier leaned his head on his hand, the victim of too much breakfast. “It was the ninth flapjack that did it,” he said. “Curse you women for being such brilliant cooks.” He smiled weakly across the table at Jeff. “You and Bill and the boys will have to accompany Liza without me.”

  Bill shook his head. “Sorry. I have to run into the hospital for an hour or so.”

  “But you’re on vacation!” Liza said. She voiced the complaint because she wasn’t anxious to go off alone with Jeff now that she knew what it was like to be touched by him. Oh, the boys would be along, but they’d be running ahead, or lagging behind to explore, and she and Jeff would be alone and she’d want to stroke his cheek, touch his arm. And—even more dangerous—she’d be tempted to explain.

  Fortunately, her complaint to Bill came off sounding like wifely concern rather than reluctance to go alone with Jeff.

  “I know,” he said with a husbandly pat on her shoulder, “and I won’t be long, I promise. But the radiologist wants me to look at an ultrasound and I promised I’d come in. You can do this without me. Just let Jeff handle the clippers.” He smiled at Jeff, clearly into his role this morning. “She ends up with a blood blister on the pad of her hand every time she uses them.” He turned to the boys. “You be good for Mom. And no running off. You stay in sight.”

  “Sure, Pop,” Travis said. “You know us.”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m warning you. Davey?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Good.” He ruffled the boys’ hair and left the table. “Oh.” He turned on his way out of the room, then came back, working a key off his key ring. “You’ll need the truck.” He handed her the key with a grin. “And be careful with it. It’s dilapidated, but it’s precious to me. And remember the rule. The boys will beg to ride in the bed, but they have to ride in the cab. Too many bumps.”

  Liza knew that was an issue every time Bill took Sherrie and the boys out in the truck.

  “Of course,” she said. “Don’t worry. Be sure you’re home for lunch. Sherrie’s preparing my famous white chile.”

  He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I wouldn’t miss it. Have fun.”

  As he left the room, Liza reached for her mug to have another sip of coffee and discovered that Sherrie had taken it.

  “I wasn’t fin—” she began, but Sherrie either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her.

  Whatever hope Liza might have had that Bill’s warning to the boys guaranteed their good behavior was shot the moment she and Jeff went out to Bill’s rusty old blue Chevy truck.

  The boys were sitting in the bed.

  “Come on,” she said, walking around to the driver’s side. “You heard your father.” She caught Travis’s eye and winked. “Out of there and into the cab.”

  She opened the door and experienced a moment of panic when she spotted the gearshift. Oh, no. She couldn’t drive a stick. Wouldn’t Jeff find it strange t
hat she couldn’t drive her own truck?

  “Do you mind if I drive?” Jeff asked, opening the passenger side door. He looked at her through the interior. “I haven’t driven a vehicle since I was taken. I’ve traveled in planes, jeeps and limos, but I haven’t gotten to drive.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, relief making her voice light. She tossed the key at him and grinned. “Just remember all Bill’s cautions. I’d hate to have you survive kidnap and captivity only to die at the hands of an angry pediatrician.”

  He laughed, then reached up to lift Davey out of the back of the truck. “Out of there, you two. We’re not going anywhere until you’re in the cab.”

  Davey scrambled in next to the driver’s seat as Jeff hauled Travis down.

  When they were all in the cab, Liza pointed to the road beyond the stone wall that surrounded the yard. “Just follow that to the stream. It isn’t far at all. We could walk it easily, but we’ll need the truck to haul the greens back.”

  “Right.”

  Liza concluded that the boys were determined to make her look bad. Or their mother had instructed them to be as difficult as possible in revenge for the scene she’d misunderstood early that morning. While she and Jeff walked among the cedars looking for healthy, low-hanging branches, the boys took the long clippers and a pruning hook and parried with them.

  Liza took them away.

  A little later she pointed out some likely branches to Jeff, then turned to find Davey chasing Travis with a broom Bill kept in the bed of the truck. Travis ran from him, carrying a hand saw.

  “Travis! Davey!” she shouted. “Stop it!”

  She chased them down and wrestled the tools from them. They were in a mood she’d seen only a few times before, too intent on their freedom to obey the rules. When Sherrie was in charge, the mood usually earned a well-placed swat and an evening without television, or an early bedtime.

  She relieved each boy of his weapon and held the front of each jacket. “Don’t you think for one minute,” she warned firmly but quietly, “that I won’t act like a mother and pound both of you if you don’t settle down! I don’t want you touching one of these tools unless you’re asked, much less running with it. Now come back with me and do exactly what I tell you, or you will be grounded so long your grandchildren won’t be able to go out! Do you understand me?”