by Ann Major
"I'd rather have information." But she came over and took one, nibbling on it absently. "You were down there a long time."
"Yep. I was."
"Well?"
He leaned back, enjoying her impatience. "We struck a compromise."
"This ought to be good," she muttered skeptically.
"Hey, with a man like Kris, I take what I can get. He's promised to let me know when he's going to test, so I'll have time to shut down before he does any more damage. What could be fairer?"
"And in return, what does he get?"
Slade sighed in wry exasperation. "Me."
Chapter Three
The next afternoon Slade leaned back and gazed complacently at the colorful graphics on the monitor. For the first time in two weeks he looked at the image on the screen and knew that it would remain exactly where it was. Serenity, he reflected with a wry grin, was a rare and precious commodity, vastly underrated until it was gone. As if agreeing, the automatic save clicked softly and filed away the work he had done for the past fifteen minutes.
Shrugging his tight shoulders, Slade looked at his watch and realized he'd been working for five hours without a break. He didn't have to do that anymore, he reminded himself, settling deeper in the chair. Marathon sessions to cram in what he could before the aging menace next door zapped the computer were a thing of the past. Kris had promised: no more hijinks with the power. At least, not without a warning. That would do; all he needed was a running start. Even thirty seconds would give him enough time to save what he had done and turn off the machine.
With Pinetree's personal Santa finally under control, Slade reflected, maybe now he had a chance of convincing Carroll that he had more than one mood: rotten. He needed to change his image-at least as far as she was concerned. It probably wouldn't be easy.
But it would be worthwhile. Definitely. Fortunately, her daughter thought he was fine just as he was.
But when courting was a prime concern, a man needed every advantage he could get. Courting? Slade blinked thoughtfully as he mulled over the outdated word. Yes, he decided. Courting. An old-fashioned word for what he suspected was an old-fashioned woman. Home and hearth, family and loved ones, were a priority with her. It was obvious in everything she did. And after one look at her, he'd discovered that he had some very traditional values of his own.
He wanted a wife.
Not just any wife. Carroll. He wanted to be one of her priorities. Carroll. Or to be precise, Christmas Carroll Stilwell. Christy had shared that little known fact on one of her visits, adding that the name had been her grandfather's idea. He hadn't been surprised. He had also assumed that any man who would name his only child after a holiday song would flex a little muscle to carry on the seasonal tradition when his grandchild arrived. But Carroll had presumably decided that enough was enough and dug in her heels when her turn rolled around. As far as he knew, Christy was simply Christy.
Carroll. Carroll Ryan. It had a nice ring, he reflected complacently. He would get to work on it. Use some charm. That was the key. He would charm her right out of her socks. And maybe a few other things. Right. He would definitely work on it. But first… His gaze sharpened, and he leaned closer to the screen, frowning. Nope, the configuration wasn't right. He moved the cursor, his fingers speeding over the keys, modifying, realigning. A few minutes later he leaned back and reached for his calculator.
Slade was vaguely aware that outside a new din had been added to the racket of foraging birds. It began uncertainly, a brass instrument wobbling its way through the first few measures of "Taps," ending in a dissonant squawk somewhere around the ninth note. A kid with a trumpet, he decided. Practicing. He checked the calculator's digital display and groped for a pencil. Go ahead and play, kid. Hang in there. Satchmo didn't make it to the top by quitting when he hit a few sour notes.
Slade double-checked his figures. He had learned to live with noise the same way he lived with other distractions: he ignored them. Actually, he could live with anything as long as- He glanced up from the calculator and swore in a soft, savage monotone. His words were terse and distinctly Anglo-Saxon as he glared at the blank monitor. Damn it, this time the old man had gone too far!
He stalked out of the room, gathering speed as he went. By the time he reached Carroll's front's steps he had forgotten about charm and courting; his thoughts were more homicidal than romantic.
Carroll opened the door. She had something white smeared on her chin. "You thumped?" she inquired, eyeing him in resignation.
"Where is he?"
"Didn't we do this yesterday? I thought you two had agreed to a cease-fire."
"We did. He just violated the conditions," Slade told her grimly. "Where is he? "
Sighing, Carroll stepped back and waved him in. "Where else would he be?" She led the way back to the kitchen and down the basement stairs, pointing to the far end of the room where Kris was absorbed in a mass of wires that reminded her of a hoard of skinny brown snakes at feeding time. "I'm the referee and timekeeper. No hitting below the belt, and stop when someone starts bleeding." She sat on the bottom stair and watched Slade weave his way around the center platform to the end of the workbench.
"Damn it, Kris, you promised!"
Kris separated one wire from the rest and handed it to Slade. "Here, hold this." He placed the others on the workbench and studied them with a puzzled frown. "Promised what?" he finally asked.
Slade dropped the wire on the bench. "To let me know when you were going to test again!"
Preoccupied as he was, Slade's undisguised anger got through to Kris. He looked up, placid blue eyes meeting stormy gray ones. "I did. You must not have been listening."
"I have a telephone right on my desk. It didn't ring. Not once."
"Of course not," the older man agreed equably. "I didn't use the telephone."
Slade sighed sharply and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from curling around Kris's neck. "All right, I'll bite. How was I supposed to know?" He scowled at his bright-eyed tormentor. "I'll warn you right now that I'm not into ESP, and I don't believe in mind reading."
Kris smiled. "I couldn't agree with you more." He spun around and trotted to his desk. He turned back to Slade and held something aloft. "Here! This is what I used."
Slade squinted. "What is it?"
"My old cornet." Kris cradled the discolored horn in his arm like a baby. "I found it in the attic yesterday after you left and thought I'd give it a try. Different, huh?"
Slade was speechless.
"Haven't played it in years. Too many years." He shook his head regretfully. "People shouldn't put aside things that give them pleasure. They rush around too much these days-"
Slade took a ragged breath. "Kris-"
"Running here and there, spinning their wheels when they could be-"
"Kris!"
"-doing things like playing their old cornet." He patted the instrument and carefully set it on the workbench.
Slade stared, first at the old man, then at the horn. He had misunderstood. Obviously. Kris couldn't have said… "Are you telling me that you found an old horn, played "Taps" on it and expected me to know that you were going to test the lights?" he demanded.
Kris beamed. "Ha, you recognized it! I must not be as rusty as I thought. Of course that's what I'm saying. But-" he held up a pudgy index finger, then pointed at the opposite wall "-first I opened the window facing your house so you could hear me. In fact, I stood right there and blew out the window,"
Slade glanced over his shoulder at Carroll. When she just shrugged, he turned back to meet Kris's expectant gaze. Yelling at him would be like kicking a cocker spaniel. "Couldn't you have just used the telephone?" he asked with a resigned sigh.
Kris shook his head. "Can't stand the things. All they do is make a lot of noise and interrupt busy people. I never understood what possessed Bell to come up with such a nuisance. With a little more effort, he could have managed something really good."
"I'm n
ot asking you to conduct a lengthy conversation, for God's sake! When I answer, just say you're going to test and hang up. Is that asking too much?"
Kris stared at the ceiling and smoothed his luxuriant beard. "Why don't we compromise?" he finally suggested. "When I get through playing the cornet, you'll have a full minute. From beginning to end, that should give you about two minutes. A little longer when I get to work on 'The Flight of the Bumblebee.' "
A few minutes later, safely upstairs, Slade paced the length of the kitchen. On the return trip he demanded, "Is that what he calls a compromise? I do what he wants?"
Carroll picked up a pastry bag and squeezed gently, leaving a squiggle of frosting on a piece of waxed paper. "Don't fight it," she recommended. "I speak from experience. You're not going to change him. Take your two minutes and be grateful."
He pulled out a chair and straddled it, folding his arms across the back and staring moodily at the table. It was covered with frosted cookies cut in the shapes of bells, wreaths and trees. "Has he always been like that?"
"Like what?" Carroll murmured absently, tracing a ribbon on one of the wreaths, muttering when she smudged it.
"Stubborn as a mule. Uncaring. Unaware of what's going on around him."
Carroll looked up and regarded him thoughtfully. "Stubborn, yes. The rest, no. For years he was a political cartoonist for a large newspaper. He knows better than most what reality is like. But when he retired he decided to concentrate on what could be, on the nicer things in life. That's his world now, and I'm not going to yank him out of it."
Slade watched her meticulously add ornaments to one of the trees. "You do this for fun?" he asked with genuine curiosity.
"Good question. It might be fun if I had any of Mom's talent." She made a zigzag design on a bell. "If I had my choice, I'd be curled up on the couch with a good mystery."
"Then why-"
"Because last summer Mom donated ten dozen of these little suckers to the church holiday bazaar, and now she's involved in a painting and can't do them. So I-"
"Naturally. You."
Startled by his dry tone, Carroll looked up, her brows lifting. "You sound disapproving."
His steady gaze held hers. "I think I am."
"I hate to point this out," she said reasonably, "but you don't have the right. What I do is my own business." Oh dear, she thought inadequately. Another man who has the solution to my problems.
"Supposing I say that I want the right?"
"I'd tell you that you can't have it," she said promptly.
"Why?"
"Because I like my life just the way it is. I'm independent. I do what I want. I don't need someone around who disapproves of my family and criticizes everything I do."
"Is that what your husband did?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, and for a second you sounded just like him."
"I hate to see you being taken advantage of."
Carroll concentrated on a wreath. "Offering to do something for the people I love is a far cry from having them take advantage of me. It's my choice. Mine. And I'll never turn control over to another person," she vowed with sudden heat. "Never again."
"Sounds like you got burned."
"I did." Her swift glance dared him to offer sympathy.
He didn't. "How old were you when you married old what's his face?"
"Jeffrey. Nineteen."
"Just a kid."
"I didn't think so at the time, but you're right."
"And now," he gave her face an assessing glance, "you're what? Thirty? Thirty-one?"
Scowling, she snapped, "Twenty-eight."
"And you figure you haven't learned anything in the last nine years?"
"Of course I have. Plenty."
He gave a satisfied nod. "Then you know that you're a strong woman."
Carroll glared. She really did hate arguing with logical people.
"And that marriage wouldn't mean turning control of your life over to anyone else."
"Marriage?" she asked in a startled voice. "Who's talking about marriage?"
"I am."
Carroll eyed him uneasily. Trouble, that was what he was. A big, broad-shouldered bundle of it. She'd seen it all in his speculative glance that first day, and she'd wanted no part of it-or him. Of course, that had been easy to say, but the blasted man was a walking, talking temptation. He had the kind of rugged dark looks that women fantasized about, and when he wasn't sending murderous glances at Kris, he was dangerously appealing. Why, she didn't know, because she wasn't usually drawn to engineering types. Pragmatic, honest to a fault, logical and blunt, he wasn't a man one would consider especially charming. Except, of course, for his smile. It flashed at unexpected moments, totally disarming her.
Now she eyed him suspiciously, wondering what he was up to. He didn't mean anything personal, she told herself firmly. He couldn't. He was probably going to quote some statistics about second marriages. Or something. Just in case, hoping to divert him, she asked brightly, "Are you planning to get married?"
Slade's gaze didn't waver. "I hope so."
Carroll snatched up another bell and absently frosted it. "Be sure to tell us-"
"You'll be the first to know."
He didn't look like a man who had statistics on his mind, she concluded glumly, her heart skipping a beat.
Now what? Take the bull by the horns? "Slade," she began hesitantly, "I hope you're not-"
"I am. Marriage." He grinned at her stunned expression. "You. Me. Us." He picked up a tree and nibbled on it absently. "I knew the day I met you, but I thought you might need a little more time."
Carroll's fingers tightened around the bell. Her gaze slowly rose from a handful of crumbs to his intent gaze. "More time?" she echoed. "Your idea of more time is two weeks? I think you're stark, raving mad!"
Chapter Four
"God bless us, every one.'" Christy leaned companionably against Slade's shoulder as he sat at his desk, her arm tucked through his. "What do you think? Do you like it that way? Or is this better? 'God bless us, every one'?"
Slade grinned. He couldn't help it. He should have been working, had been working, but she was collecting opinions and apparently needed his. She was so earnest. Her straight bangs framed anxious blue eyes, vividly reminding him of another pair of blue eyes that were equally concerned these days-for a far different reason.
"There're only two more," she told him. "'God bless us, every one,' and 'God bless us, every one.'"
"Why the rush to decide right now?" He ran his hand through her cornsilk hair, ending with a teasing tug. "You still have three weeks until the show, don't you?"
Christy nodded. "But we're rehearsing, and it's the very last line of the play, and since everyone in town is coming, it's gotta be a… a smasheroo."
"Smasheroo?"
She nodded again. "That's what Kris said. So which one do you like best?"
"What does your director say?"
Christy wrinkled her nose and heaved a gusty sigh. "She told me to experiment. So I have been, and now I'm collecting votes. Which one do you choose?"
Carroll had been right about one thing, he reflected. Christy was as tenacious as Kris. "They're all pretty good," he hedged, "but you missed one. How about, 'God bless us, every one'? Would that work?"
She repeated the words in a whisper, her face brightening. "Yeah!" Leaning closer, she kissed him noisily on the cheek. "Thanks. You're terrific!"
He gave her a quick, one-armed hug. "Any time. The door's always open."
Sudden doubt clouded her face. "I just remembered, Mom said I shouldn't come over here so much-that I probably bother you."
"It's nice of her to be so concerned," he said slowly, realizing with a shock just how much he would miss her unannounced visits. "You don't bother me, but she doesn't have any way of knowing that, does she? Do you suppose it would help if I told her I enjoy having you drop in?"
"I don't know. I already told her," she added in a burst of honesty, giving the floor an em
barrassed poke with the tip of her crutch. "She said that Kris has already messed up your work schedule, and maybe you're too polite to tell me when you're busy."
And maybe she's running just a little scared, he concluded, narrowing his eyes. Or maybe a lot scared. Maybe what she really wanted to do was ease him out of their lives. Totally. He tugged gently at Christy's hair again, bringing her gaze back to his. "Do you think she'll feel better if I promise to tell you when I'm too busy to visit?"
She nodded, then shrugged. "I don't know."
"We'll give it a try and see how it works. If I'm in the middle of something and can't stop, I'll let you know. Agreed?" When she nodded, he held out his hand. "Let's shake on it." Once they had completed the solemn little ceremony, he smiled and said, "Be sure and tell your mother."
"Okay, but I think I'll wait a little while. She's making a gingerbread house for the bazaar, and she always gets nervous when she does that," she confided in a rush. "I'm going to stay out of the kitchen till she's done."
Outside, a cornet burst into a series of staccato squawks. Slade tilted his head, automatically reaching out to punch the save key, wondering if the agitated toots meant that Kris was beginning work on the bumblebee tune. Well, he was entitled. The day before, he had rendered a shaky but recognizable version of "Taps."
Slipping the disk into its protective sleeve, Slade grinned in anticipation. Since he couldn't work, he had an overwhelming urge to see Ms. Christmas Carroll when she was rattled. Turning to Christy, he said, "What do you say we go visit your mom?"
"The gingerbread house," she reminded him.
"Maybe I can help."
She looked doubtful, but grabbed her jacket, tucked her crutches under her arms and hopped along beside him. "I think she's worried about something," she blurted.
He glanced down at her troubled expression and slowed his pace even more. "What makes you say that?"
"Maybe it's money. That's about the only thing she gets upset about."
"Why do you think she's worried?" he repeated patiently.
"Because she's real quiet, and kinda stares at things but she doesn't really see them. She only acts like that when something's bothering her." She slanted a glance up at him. "Do you think maybe if she was married she wouldn't be upset?"
