'Tis the Season: A Collection of Mimi's Christmas Books

by Mimi Barbour

  “Sleep deprivation, I suppose. I have been working rather long hours lately.” The dryness of his tone brought a twinkle to his mother’s eye. Abbie could actually see the devil in her lurking, waiting to get out.

  “My educated guess would be that you’ve followed such a hectic routine in order to spend as little time at home as possible. Truly, Marcus. Sometimes I think for a thirty-year-old man you’ve turned into an old fuddy-duddy. Can’t you ever just relax and have fun?”

  “Who, pray, will be minding my business while I’m acting like a lunatic, playing silly games with you?”

  “Silly games? My dear boy, I suggested we have a fun game of Monopoly. Not snakes and ladders or some such nonsense. Since all you think about is money, I’d thought it a rather brilliant suggestion.”

  “Chess is more my style. Maybe one day we could have a game of chess.”

  She threw up her hands in dismay. “Over my dead body. And don’t smirk. It’s unbecoming.”

  He wiped the naughty look off his face by rubbing at his whisker growth. “Look, dear. I’m damp and tired and need a hot bath—”

  “Do not tell me you’re going to bed.” Her shoulders slumped dispiritedly. “Marcus, I’m so bored here alone, I could spit nickels. Please come and have a drink with me. Look, go have your bath, put on your warm pyjamas, and come back down. I’ll make some toast and tea for you, just the way you like it.” It wasn’t the tone of whining in her voice that had him acquiescing, nor the yearning look in her eye. The screeching in his inner ear, on the other hand, played a large part in his agreement.

  Within a few minutes he had run up the winding staircase and entered a large square room that was wholly masculine. The many shades of brown, from his damask drapes to his bed coverings to his furniture and even the carpeting, were depressing but not surprising. One small handworked pillow in brilliant colours, with jewelled flower designs, nestled in the corner of a winged chair and was the one lively item in view. It caught Abbie’s attention immediately.

  “What a lovely pillow. Without that, your room would be a total disaster.”

  “What’s wrong with my room? It’s functional and it’s spacious. The pillow is the only discord to an otherwise perfect color scheme.”

  “Then why keep it?” Sarcasm? He certainly knew how to push her buttons.

  “Because my mother made it for me with her own useless hands. I do believe it’s the only thing she’s ever tried to make and not just buy.” He strode over to the article under discussion and flipped it over to show the brown satin backing.

  “Figures it’s brown on the back. Shows how well she knows you. And don’t try to sound heartless. You’ve kept it because it means a lot to you, and you know it. Now I know it.”

  “Yes, well, I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  Abbie had a sneaking suspicion that this suite would be out-of-bounds to his mother, who would never really know if he exhibited the article or not. But she sensed his discomfort with the subject and, being Abbie, respected his privacy.

  Marcus approached the armoire and stopped when his reflection appeared in the mirrored door. “Hold it! Abbie, you’re able to see through my eyes, right? So, therefore, everything I look at, you can see also. Is that correct?”

  “I suppose that’s how it works, yes. I have all your five senses, from what I’ve been able to determine. If you touch something, I feel it also. I smelled the horse’s breath when we left the vicarage, and the overpowering aroma at the hospital reminded me of when I broke my leg a few years ago. As you already know, I hear whatever you’re hearing, so I guess it works the same way with our sight. I’m not sure about taste, since you haven’t actually eaten anything, but I do hope we have a similar palate in food. I love to eat; it’s one of my favourite pastimes.”

  Maybe it was the eagerness in her voice, or maybe just her words, but whatever she said made him laugh. Up till then, he’d seemed like a stranger looking back at her. Then his smile changed everything. Unfortunately, it didn’t last too long. But she’d seen enough to decide then and there that he had a dear face. Not what one would call handsome. More like interesting. She’d bet the full head of messy hair, cut short and worn close to his head, didn’t normally look so scruffy. That wouldn’t be his style at all.

  His piercing green eyes didn’t have the same sparkle as his mother’s. They were ruthless and compelling, slightly haughty and intense—the shrewdest stare she’d ever come across. She felt as if he were trying to find her inside him by staring intensely into his own eyes.

  “Can you see me?” she teased.

  “I do believe I can. I went slightly cross-eyed for a moment, and I have no doubt that was you sneaking a peek.” When he grinned, dimples appeared on both sides of his mouth and created a whole different impression. This man devastated her with his looks, his charisma.

  Unequivocally Abbie knew, at that moment, not only had her spirit joined with his, but also her heart now faced a challenge. She’d never believed in love at first sight, more fool her.

  She shut down her corridor to him and curled up into a small ball lodged inside his body. This needed a great deal of thought. She had to talk herself out of this nonsense, and quickly.

  ****

  Marcus anticipated her reply and had to give up waiting once he felt her shutting down. How strange. She was gone. He knew it, like one knew when a pain released its hold and the torment eased. He grinned again at the analogy and wished she had stuck around to hear that witticism. Somehow she’d loosened up his tight control, and all the pithy comments he usually thought, but blocked, could be shared with someone who appreciated his cleverness.

  He supposed it would be safe to shower, of course being careful not to look into any mirrors in the process. Then he’d return to his mother and keep her company for a short time.

  Losing her first husband had been very difficult for her at such a young age—his father had died from a brain aneurysm in his forties—but having her second husband recently leave her a widow once again was a tragedy he knew she struggled every day to overcome.

  Most times she wore a cheerful demeanour, but he knew. She suffered. And he mustn’t let that happen without trying his hardest to salve the pain. On the other hand, the woman provoked him to the point where he could cheerfully throttle her—either that or become an alcoholic. He swore if she had her way all the time she’d drive him to drink.

  Maybe, if he insisted she keep her promise to make him tea and toast, she’d give him a break tonight. Couldn’t hurt to try it on, anyway. He tied the sash of his velour robe and ran down the stairs to join her in the sitting room. As soon as he appeared, he knew his plans were to be sabotaged.

  “Have a drink with me, Marcus. You know I hate to drink alone. Just a small nightcap before turning in.” She was at it again.

  “Mother, you know I don’t like the taste of alcohol. That’s why I don’t drink.”

  “How do you know you don’t like the taste when it’s never crossed your virgin lips?”

  “For your information, I am not a virgin—”

  “I should certainly hope not.” Her fake shock and slight shudder did not amuse him, and he hoped his expression relayed how absurd he thought her teasing.

  “And, I certainly don’t need alcohol to change my single status. For the time being I am without a close female friend—”

  “You mean a girlfriend?”

  “You know very well what I meant.” Her raised eyebrows made him back off. “Yes, a girlfriend. For the time being, I’ve got enough on my plate without having to worry about keeping a female acquaintance satisfied.”

  She giggled like a young girl and handed him a crystal shot glass full of a golden liqueur. “Quit changing the subject. Just take a sip.”

  He held the small goblet as if acid bubbled from the rim. Then he lifted it to his nose and sniffed.

  “Oh, that smells lovely. Sweet like honey, and rather spicy. Why don’t we take a sip? Go ahead, then,
be a good boy.” Obviously, when the aroma of the drink caught at her senses, it prompted Abbie to ease back the perceptual curtain she’d drawn between them.

  “So you’re back? Look here, I don’t drink because I don’t like the taste.” He reached over as if to put the glass down on the wide coffee table in front of the sofa where he sat, his favourite chair being occupied by his mother, who perched on it cross-legged in a supple yoga position.

  Her glare didn’t become her, and he thought about telling her so. Before he could, his hand had fetched the glass, upped it to his lips, and poured some of the thick liquid into his mouth. Choking wasn’t an option because the lurker inside had taken over his motor skills, and she savoured the drink as if it were her last. Which it might well be. That thought stopped him from dominating. He knew he could, but…he just couldn’t. Let her enjoy.

  In the meantime, he warmed to the flavour—until it arrived at his stomach and exploded. “What the hell is this poison?”

  “Poison? My son, I’ll have you know, this is a very costly bottle of Drambuie I’m so kindly sharing with you. They produce this drink in Scotland. Your father and I visited their plant on our honeymoon.” Dreamy-eyed, her tone softened. “They make it with cloves, saffron, and a special heather honey. Your father loved this taste, and so do I. And if you were any kind of son, you’d share a drink with me and try to enjoy my company instead of making excuses to leave me alone.” The wobbling lip did it as much as the teary eyes. So did the yelling in his head. “Drink the damn stuff already.”

  Before he knew it, he’d again upped the glass and this time downed the works. Despite the blast when it landed in his stomach, he held his glass out for more.

  “You’re right, dear one. I’m being a silly chap, aren’t I? A couple of drinks and we’ll both sleep better.” He looked down at the table in front of him. “And thank you for the toast. It’s cooked to perfection. Just the way I like it. Sort of burnt, and soggy with butter. Yum!”

  “Oh, you are a dear.” His mother unwound her body, bounced over to retrieve the decanter that rested on a tray with other matching glasses, and poured him another shot. Then she nestled near him on his seat and took his hand. She rubbed her fingers gently over his knuckles and held on.

  “Marcus, I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Aww, she’s just lovely. You’re so lucky to have a mum.”

  “Everyone has a mother. Now be quiet so I can concentrate on her shenanigans, or she’ll have me promising to do something I have no intention of doing.”

  “Not everyone. Sorry. I’ll be quiet.” There was something in her sad reply that he knew he should lodge in his memory, something important, but his hand was being yanked, and his attention demanded.

  “Marcus, stop trying to impale me with that silly glassy-eyed stare and answer me. You do know how much I love being here with you? Please tell me I’m not such a nuisance that you wish me elsewhere.”

  He saw her plea for what it was. A way to soften him for the coming blow. The sigh erupted before he could stop it, and he knew she’d taken offence.

  Throwing his hand from her, she started to rise. “Forget it.”

  He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back down, leaving one arm around her shoulder while he used the other to pick up his glass and sip, playing for time to get himself out of the trap she’d so skilfully set.

  “You know I worship you, old girl. Especially when you aren’t manipulating me to do things I don’t want to do. What is it this time? You want to go to London to see a show, or maybe the horse races so you can lose more money, or—?”

  “I want to be a grandmother. That’s what I want most from you.”

  His astonishment wasn’t faked whatsoever, and neither was his choking on his newly favourite drink. Once the awkward spasms stopped and he could speak again, he looked her way. “I don’t believe I heard you clearly. You want what?”

  She gathered his waving hand and patted it soothingly. “Of course, I realize you need to have a wife first, or even a girlfriend. I’m not a complete ninny. But my son, you are not co-operating, not at all.”

  “I think it’s a smashing idea!”

  “I’ll thank you to stay out of this.” She hesitated, and he strongly reiterated, “Not—one more word.”

  His glass clanked on the table, and then he gathered his mother’s flapping hands and held them down. “Mother. Dearest. I’m not married because I haven’t found anyone I like enough, never mind love.”

  “You haven’t found anyone because you won’t open your eyes and look. I’ve tried to accept dinner invitations for you at my friends’ homes, and your refusal to co-operate has been most exasperating. They all have marriageable daughters, lovely girls every one of them.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather like to choose my own wife. Look, I know I’ve left you to your own devices a bit more than I’d planned, but really, Mother, it’s taken a huge amount of work and a great many hours to set up a new office in this town. Must I remind you, this is the place where you’ve chosen to live.”

  “I was born here, and your father and I lived here together very happily until he died. We have a lot of friends in this area. Son, I know I left to go to New York after his funeral, but I couldn’t face the memories then. I suppose I acted in a cowardly fashion, but you were at Oxford, and I hated the loneliness.”

  “I’ve never blamed you for moving. In fact, I’ve wondered if you wouldn’t be happier still living in the big city.”

  “Finding Jack and falling in love for a second time made me a very fortunate woman, even if we had only seven years together. Without him, though, life in New York soon became flat and empty.”

  Her gimlet-eyed stare had him backing down, quickly. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m delighted that you chose to return.”

  “Liar, Liar, pants on—”

  “Truly, Mother, you’ve managed to get me away from head office in London and a probable heart attack from all the accompanying stress. For that I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  Somewhat mollified, she relaxed her tense posture and continued. “After Jack’s accident, the thought of coming home and living near my only child kept me sane. I want to be close to you and my future grandchildren.” The pout worked and had him swallowing his sarcastic retort as it hovered, craving to get out.

  Instead he settled on a mild scold. “I’d like to have a family one day, and I surely will. If I promise to start searching for the perfect candidate, shall we let nature take its course?” His winning smile worked, as it always had. Mollified, she smiled back.

  She reached over to the whiskey and poured them each another drink and then handed him his glass. “I can’t imagine I’ll make you change your mind, even if I don’t want to agree. Fine, let’s drink to nature taking its own course. As long as nature doesn’t forget the course he’s on.” Her piercing look prodded him into nodding, and her gesture of knocking her glass to his, then raising it and waiting for him to do the same, forced him to down yet another drink.

  “I almost forgot. The hospital called, our first with the new phone. They need more information about some patient you took in. Seems you forgot to leave them her address. Precisely who is she, and what’s wrong with her? You didn’t mention anything to me about this when you first arrived home. You told me you were at the vicarage.”

  “Yes, well. A very strange thing happened before I went inside. A young woman fell near me and knocked herself out. Since the vicar is her boss, she wanted me to carry her—”

  “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “No. Never saw her before in my life. Why do you ask?”

  “You said she wanted you to take her to the vicar because he was her boss.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “How did you know she wanted you to take her to the vicar, and that he was her boss, if she was unconscious?”

  “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “Come again?” Marcus stalled fo
r time, trying to figure out how he’d ended up with his head buried so far up his arse.

  “I asked how you knew—”

  “Hmm, yes. Well, the vicar told me. Stop grilling me, dear. It’s been a hectic day, and I really do need to sleep. I’m glad they’ve finally hooked up our lines so the telephone is working. I hope they installed the one I asked to be put in my bedroom. If so, I’ll call them back now, and, weather permitting, I’ll stop by and see if Abbie’s better tomorrow.”

  “Abbie? Right. The young woman you don’t know.” Before he could say another word, she carried on. “That’s very nice of you, love. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the gesture—if she’s awake, that is.” She added the last part when his steely glare caught her smiling.

  Normally, Marcus strode everywhere he went, his bearing tall and straight, but tonight his natural gait seemed to have deserted him. Expletives echoed against her chuckles as he knocked his knee against the coffee table’s sharp edge, wavered to the stairs, and stumbled on a couple of the steps, missing one completely during his cowardly retreat.

  ****

  Abbie couldn’t rest. Marcus, drunk as a sailor at port, had passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow, but she had trouble shutting down. How much more exciting could life get than to find oneself trapped inside the body of another person, and that person a male? She had a million questions to ask, and her landlord lay incommunicado.

  She lifted his hand and held it in front of his face. Then she opened his eyes so she could inspect the difference between a strong male hand and the dainty one she usually saw.

  “Would you stop that?” He sounded annoyed.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would disturb you, considering your state.”

  “And what, may I ask, is my state?”

  “You do sarcasm very well, don’t you?”

  “Only when people drive me to it.”

  “I thought you’d passed out and wouldn’t even be aware of me.”

  “I’m knackered, but not out cold, if that’s what you’re implying, and I’ll thank you to let me get some well-deserved sleep.”