Christmas Kisses

by Lori Copeland

  She wrestled the box onto the driveway, listening to Russ and Aunt Harry chatting inside the back door.

  Grasping the box in a bear hug, Beth dragged it toward the porch, scooting her feet backward with each jerk of her load.

  Russ appeared in the doorway just as her heels met solid resistance, and she sat down hard on the third step. “You want me to get that?” he called.

  “No, I’ve got it,” Beth turned to eye the steps, wondering how she was ever going to get the table up them. Her rear was numb, and she needed a moment to recover. “Just enjoy your visit!”

  By the time she had the box on the porch, her ponytail was half down, and she’d heard something pop in her lower back. Something serious, something even more serious than a bruised tailbone, she feared. But she’d done it without Russ Foster’s help, a fact that gave her immense satisfaction. He and Aunt Harry had disappeared into the interior of the house and were nowhere to be seen.

  After breaking two nails, she managed to get the packing staples out of the cardboard. She sat back on her heels and slid the tabletop onto the porch. Four legs followed with a packet of hardware. She went inside to get the Handy Dandy Tool Kit Aunt Harry gave her for Christmas two years earlier. Tool kit in hand, she went back onto the porch, and began assembling the table.

  Three of the legs went on without a hitch, but the fourth refused to cooperate. After three tries, she measured and found the holes in the leg didn’t match those on the mounting block.

  “Darn!” She sat back, staring at the uncooperative pieces of wood. No doubt she would have to dismantle the partially constructed table and return it to Roeberry’s for a new one. “I just hate it when this happens!” she muttered aloud.

  Aunt Harry had Russ cornered in the living room now, complaining about being banned from bingo. Russ wore a decidedly panicky look as Beth sailed through to get her purse and coat.

  “I have to take my table back,” she informed Harry as she passed the room.

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? You can return it on your way to work,” Aunt Harry said.

  “No, I want it today.”

  Russ quickly seized the opportunity. “I’ll get that box for you.”

  “No.” Beth smiled, recognizing desperation when she saw it. “Thanks, but I can handle it.” It gave a small bit of satisfaction that he turned to follow her, even if Aunt Harriet clamped a hand on his arm and prevented him from leaving the room.

  She tugged the unwieldy box across the lawn. Why couldn’t she swallow her pride and take his offer? Why must she prove that she didn’t need his help? How long could she carry a grudge? They’d had one measly unsuccessful date ten years ago. It wasn’t as if he’d wronged her, or made a fool of her, or shattered her life. One date, and she never saw him again—not socially.

  What was her problem?

  The problem was, she was still hopelessly, foolishly, irrationally attracted to the man. Even when she had been dating Jerald, she’d never stopped comparing him to Russ and had hated herself for doing it.

  Grunting, she wedged the box back through the narrow space leading to the back seat, ignoring the sharp pain in her lower back. It was times like this, she realized, she should have a key made for the trunk to replace the one she lost years ago. Lifting her foot, she rammed the box, forcing it into the back seat. She bit her lower lip and grimaced at the shaft of pain that shot up her leg.

  Slamming the door shut, she brushed off her hands and glanced toward the front door where Aunt Harry now had Russ trapped against the porch railing.

  There was nothing—absolutely nothing ever—between her and Russ Foster.

  Just ask Russ.

  CHAPTER 2

  RUSS GLANCED out the kitchen window and saw Beth trying to wrestle the oversize box into the back seat of the car. Why did she refuse his help? What was she trying to prove? That she didn’t need anybody? Ten years after the fact, and she still had a chip as big as a shoebox on her shoulder.

  When he’d thought about seeing her again—and he had a time or two over the years—he’d never pictured her still living with her aunt. He’d pictured her living somewhere like New York.

  He blocked out Harriet’s voice as his gaze scanned the confusion in the kitchen. This house—it was filled with “stuff.” Boxes and crates of “stuff” were everywhere. How could Beth stand it?

  Dave mentioned in his letters that Beth had moved back home during her mother’s illness. Russ supposed at the time the move was temporary. After her mother’s death, he had expected her to place her aunt in a care facility and return to her own life. Now, it seemed a vibrant, incredibly warm, incredibly proud woman was burying herself in familial duty. The idea disturbed him. He valued strong family ties as much as anybody, but Harriet, with her eccentric ways, would suck the life right out of Beth.

  He listened to Harry with half an ear while watching Beth beside her car. She had always been focused in school. Intellectual, in the nicest way. That was one of the things that had attracted him to her…that and her cute nose with its sprinkling of freckles. Her clear green eyes had sparkled with fun in those days, even considering the responsibility she’d shouldered.

  The freckles hadn’t faded, nor, did it seem, had his attraction to her. That thought was more disturbing than all the others put together. He was having a hard enough time resisting the urge to come home. During the years since college, he’d traveled until he had his fill of it. He was tired of the nomadic life. Tired of waking up in a different place every morning.

  He wanted to lay down roots, belong. But he’d worked hard for this new job, and the position required that he live in Washington. Washington D.C. was no Morning Sun.

  His eyes drifted back to Beth. In high school he’d wanted to ask her out a second time, but she’d always seemed involved with her family. Everyone in town knew that Beth and her mother were Harriet’s only family, and it was understood that Harriet would always need a watchdog. Every time he’d approached Beth to try to talk, there’d been some crisis at her home and she’d been in a hurry to leave. Then, he’d graduated and had been headed to an out-of-state college. After that, he started working and hadn’t had much opportunity to visit Morning Sun.

  He glanced at Harriet who was half-buried in the refrigerator now. Now that was one peculiar woman.

  “Here.” Aunt Harry handed him a thermos. “You take this soup home with you. Warm it up in the microwave.”

  Before he could explain that David didn’t have a microwave, he saw Beth finally maneuver the box into the back seat. A moment later, her car started down the drive. His eye caught the skateboard lying in her path. He jerked open the door, but before he could yell a warning, the sound of the crunching board drowned out the sound of hard plastic splintering against the bottom of the car.

  “Holy moley!” Aunt Harry exclaimed. “It’s a train wreck!”

  Handing the soup back to Harriet, Russ opened the screen and limped down the steps, assessing the possible damage to Beth’s car. Beth was still behind the wheel with a stunned look on her face.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Is she all right?” Harry asked, following close on Russ’s heels.

  When he reached the Grand Am, Beth pushed open the door and slowly stepped out. He noted the slow exit. Whiplash from running over a skateboard? She leaned against the fender, staring at the splintered board crushed beneath the fender well, then glanced at him.

  “What was that?”

  “A skateboard. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I didn’t see it.”

  “I’ll check the tire. One of those plastic shards could have punctured it.”

  “Beth needs a cup of herbal tea,” Aunt Harry insisted. “Chamomile to calm her nerves.”

  “I’m all right, Aunt Harry. I just wasn’t sure what I’d hit. Thank goodness, it wasn’t a person. I want to get that little table back to the store.”

  “What’s wrong with the old one?” Harry asked. “You ha
ven’t had it any time.” She shook her head. “Young people today. They don’t know the value of a dollar, always spending money.” She tsked.

  “One leg doesn’t fit,” Beth reminded her.

  “A leg? Doesn’t fit what?”

  “The screw holes are drilled wrong,” Beth explained.

  Russ could see Beth’s patience was running thin. Straightening, he brushed his hands. “The tire isn’t damaged, but the skateboard’s a loss.”

  “Joe’s always leaving that contraption lying around,” Harry told him. “I’ll call his mother and complain again, but it never does any good.”

  Russ opened the car door for Beth. “Why don’t I drive you to the store?”

  He was surprised to see color flood her face. “I can drive myself,” she insisted.

  “I’m sure you can, but I’m not doing anything in particular, and it won’t take thirty minutes.”

  “Beth, now you let David help you,” Aunt Harry said. “It won’t take thirty minutes.”

  Releasing a sigh, Beth slid behind the wheel. “You’re welcome to ride along, if you want.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “No—”

  Leaning closer, he pressed his mouth against her ear. The unexpected warmth touched off a firestorm in his lower half. “You’re being stubborn, and you’re moving a little strangely. What’d you do? Strain your back hauling the box back and forth? I’m going to tell Harry you’re hurt if you say anything more. You wouldn’t let me help you with it before, but I’m going to help now, so stop arguing.”

  She shrank back, her gaze locked with his.

  “I’ll give you a hundred dollars to let me go,” he mouthed, hoping to woo her with humor.

  She stared at him blankly, then slowly nodded. “Okay.”

  He was relieved she got the message. Besides, she was his only hope to escape Harry. She gingerly slid across the seat, and snapped her seat belt into place.

  Relieved to have won the skirmish, Russ swung behind the wheel. “Miss Morris, thanks for the enchiladas.”

  “Call me Aunt Harry, Phillip. And come back for supper.” The old lady beamed. “We’re having eggs.”

  Russ backed around the splintered skateboard, and slipped the transmission into drive.

  “My back is perfectly fine,” Beth said softly.

  “Sure it is.” He adjusted the rearview mirror, squinting. “That’s why you crawled into the car. You’ve strained your back. Why don’t you want to admit it?”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  When he glanced over at her, she was looking out the window, focused on the scenery. Still stubborn as ever. He flipped on the radio, and found a country music station. “Like the song says, that’s your story, and you’re sticking to it?”

  A smiled played at the corners of her mouth. “Something like that.”

  They made the ten-minute trip in silence. Russ considered himself lucky to find a parking space in front of Roeberry’s Furniture and Appliances. The downtown store was always busy. When Beth eased out of the car, and reached for the box, he gently moved her aside.

  “Does old man Roeberry still terrorize his customers?”

  “I’m afraid he still tries.”

  “Why do people continue to trade with him?”

  “I don’t know—habit, I guess. He beats the mall prices.”

  Russ effortlessly lifted the box out of the back seat. Swinging the table onto his shoulder, he motioned her to walk ahead. Roeberry’s hadn’t changed an iota. The long aisles were still packed with sofas, recliners and end tables. Toward the back, bedroom suites and kitchen tables and chairs lined the walls.

  The brick building had been a department store when he was in high school; the ornate front built in the 1930s. The exterior was painted a dull armygreen now. Intricate carvings were etched in the window frames and doors that ran the length of the drafty two-story monstrosity. Near the back, on the right, a lift elevator stood waiting to grind customers to the second floor.

  As Beth hobbled into the store, a man, nearly as wide as he was tall, got up from behind a scarred desk. Bald, wearing an ill-fitting tobacco-brown suit, the florid-faced proprietor planted himself directly in front of the doorway.

  “Don’t you try bringin’ that table back in here, Beth Davis. You bought it, it’s yours.”

  Beth didn’t appear to cave in at the threat. “Walter, the leg doesn’t fit. I want a new one.”

  Walter’s face flamed. “Sorry, the table is a one of a kind, special purchase. It cannot be returned.”

  Beth nudged the box with her foot. “The leg doesn’t fit. I want another one.”

  “The leg won’t fit? Nonsense.” Walter spared Russ a brief eye acknowledgement. “Perhaps whoever tried to assemble it—”

  “I assembled it, Walter. It’s faulty.”

  “You assembled it?” The storeowner shot Russ a patronizing look, which, Russ suspected, was a mistake judging by Beth’s raised eyebrows.

  A few people stopped to listen to the disagreement. Russ was uncomfortable with the public confrontation. The old Beth would never back down. He had a hunch the new Beth wouldn’t, either, and there was going to be a scene. He cringed when he saw her plant her feet and assume a battle stance.

  Crossing her arms, she fired the first volley. “Mr. Roeberry, do you know the differences between tongue-and-groove pliers, electrician’s pliers, and locking pliers?”

  “Do I what—?”

  “A combination wrench and a monkey wrench?”

  “Well—”

  “A ball-peen hammer and a regular hammer?”

  “Now see here—”

  “A regular screwdriver and a spiral ratchet screwdriver?”

  Walter glanced at Russ. He shrugged. He was sure about the pliers and hammers, but he’d have to think about the screwdriver and spiral ratchet.

  Beth uncrossed her arms. “Well, Mr. Roeberry, I do. So I suggest you forget the bunk and get me a new table.”

  Her tirade was met by scattered applause. Russ glanced over his shoulder to see more than a half dozen people stopped to observe the spirited exchange. Meeting Beth’s gaze, he lifted his hands and silently applauded her. She blushed, continuing.

  “The screw holes for one table leg are drilled wrong. I don’t know what that means in your book, Mr. Roeberry, but in mine that means poor craftsmanship. And that means, Mr. Roeberry, that the attention to detail in your “handcrafted” furniture line is lacking.”

  Walter’s eyes shifted to the left, then to the right as others gathered to listen.

  “Now, Walter. We can settle this amicably, or I can leave here and tell everyone I meet that Walter Roeberry doesn’t value his customers and refuses to stand behind his furniture.”

  “Oh, now, Bethany. That would be a little extreme,” Walter chided.

  Beth’s eyebrows lifted curiously. “Do you think?”

  “Well, now—”

  “What’ll it be, Walter?” Beth met the owner’s eyes. “All I want is a table with four matching legs that will properly attach to the top.”

  Roeberry appeared to weigh her argument against the swelling crowd.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get you another table. Good grief.”

  Beth straightened, dropping her arms to her sides. “Thank you, Mr. Roeberry.”

  Russ stepped closer to her as Walter waddled back to the storeroom for another table mumbling all the way.

  “You’re one tough cookie.”

  Beth met his gaze stoically then turned to inspect the table Walter set before her.

  * * *

  Russ BRAKED the Grand Am in front of Aunt Harry’s, slipping the transmission into Park. He sat for a moment, studying Beth.

  “What?” she asked, blushing under his close perusal. He hadn’t met a woman who blushed in fifteen years.

  “How come you stayed in Morning Sun?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re here now.”

  “I didn’t stay.
I went to college, worked a couple of years, Mom got sick and I came back to take care of Harry and her. End of story.” She shrugged. “Simple as that.”

  There was no need to explain why someone had to be with Aunt Harry.

  “Isn’t there anyone, but you, to assume her care?”

  “No. Greg lives in Los Angeles. You probably haven’t met my brother. He’s older than I—graduated the year before you and David moved to town. Greg is an investment counselor. He’s about to be married for the fourth time. He isn’t the most stable Davis,” she admitted. “It’s up to me to look after Aunt Harry.”

  Greg was unstable, too? Russ shuddered.

  He studied Beth’s profile. The upturned nose, stubbornly rounded chin, soft lips, wisps of curling hair that had come loose from the ponytail. Desire flooded him. He was stunned by the intensity. How long had it been since a woman affected him this way? Long enough to make him realize he stayed to himself too much.

  “Have you thought of putting your aunt in a residential care facility?”

  Beth frowned. “Of course I’ve considered iL But I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Harriet lives in a world of her own. She entertains herself. You could find a place where she’d be happy.”

  “I can’t ask her to leave the only home she’s ever known. We have talked about it…sometimes she likes the idea, then at other times… Well, you never know what Harry’s thinking.” She pushed open the car door, and it was obvious she wasn’t comfortable discussing the situation. He had no right to pry.

  “Look, I appreciate your help—”

  “And you really hate to admit that.” He smiled. “Forget it. Call it repayment for the enchilada breakfast.”

  “Deal.” She extended her hand, and they shook on it. He held her hand until she gently pulled away.

  He got out of the car, unloaded the awkward box, and carried it up the steps.

  “Just leave it on the porch.”

  Russ leaned the box against the house, and rubbed his knee. The joint was beginning to ache. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his running suit and glanced around the porch. A glider and several metal lawn chairs occupied the cramped space. Assorted sizes of bird feeders and wind chimes lined the peeling eaves. Every tiny breeze brought on a cacophony of sound.