“Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”
With her hand on the door, though, he halted her, his fingers over hers. “Tell the tall brunette at the front of the store where to find me, will you? The one with the twins? We’re going out for coffee.”
She stared at him over her shoulder. “You made a date with a mother while you were wearing a Santa suit?”
He smiled, that ol’ bad-boy smile she was so familiar with. “What can I say, sweetheart? I’m good. And for your information, she’s a nanny. She’s off at noon and doesn’t have to watch the rug-rats again until tomorrow morning.”
Just another good reason to keep her mind off him and on business.
Fifteen minutes later, Bailey realized she’d been doing such a good job at that—all her attention on the customers lined up at the cash register—that she’d forgotten to tell the beanpole brunette nanny where she could find Finn. Oh darn.
Thirty minutes after that, from her perch on a stepladder in a small room on the second floor, she caught sight of the couple strolling down the Coronado street. The beanpole carried an iced latte with two straws. Bailey dropped the vintage heart-shaped glass ornament she was in the process of hanging. It broke into five sharp pieces.
Figured. There went $32.50. See, self? Finn was bad for business.
Tracy sat perched on the bed in Harry’s dark room, trying to figure out her future and what to do about Dan. Instead, though, her gaze kept returning to her son’s empty chair and the open space on the desk where his laptop used to sit. In her mind’s eye she could see his wide but bony shoulders, his shaggy hair, the arpeggio of his fingers flying over the keys. She and Dan used to shake their heads, Tracy wondering if their straight-A son was really plotting to take over the world from that computer since he would always switch the screen to something else when they walked by the open door.
Dan would elbow her and whisper “Porn,” the rat, because that would set her to worrying. She’d pause about fifteen times in the making of sloppy joes, or tacos, or tuna-noodle casserole—all favorites of the starving teenager-slash-global dictator upstairs—to look at Dan and say, “Do you think?”
And he’d laugh and say, “Of course I think,” and she’d throw a dishtowel at him and he’d duck, then grab her around the waist and whisper they’d be looking at naked bodies together later too. When the starving teenager-slash-global dictator-slash-possible deviant came downstairs for dinner, the three of them would sit around the table and she’d have to avoid Dan’s eyes so that she wouldn’t laugh or blush or both.
After dinner, Tracy would have to run out to a meeting or type up some meeting minutes, or be making phone calls regarding some upcoming meeting and then it would be late. She would be tired and Harry would still be up, fingers tap-tap-tapping on that keyboard, so that when Dan turned off his computer or CSI: Akron or Tucson or whatever the latest iteration was and turned to her in their bedroom for that naked-body viewing—her naked body and his—she would be too tired and feel too constrained by the idea of their son awake and alert across the hall. “Not tonight,” she would say.
And Dan would turn away and she would turn away and somewhere between then and the teeth whitening her husband was gone.
“Mom!” Downstairs, the front door slammed and Bailey stomped into the house. “Just answer me this,” she yelled out. “Whose nifty idea was it to subsidize the electric company this season?”
Tracy’s knees creaked as she pushed off Harry’s bed and moved to the top of the stairs to look down at her daughter. “What are you talking about?”
Bailey’s annoyed expression was a duplicate of the one she’d worn as a child, when she couldn’t get her little brother or her best friend, Trin, to listen to “reason”—Bailey’s version, that is. “The corner house has a helicopter hovering with an inflatable Santa inside holding an American flag. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”
“We live in a military town? It’s Christmas?”
Bailey shook her head, then her eyes narrowed. “You know what’s wrong?”
“I’ve no doubt you’re going to tell me.”
“We both look pasty,” her daughter declared. “We need roses in our cheeks and highlights in our hair.”
“What?”
“We’re not making the most out of our natural coloring. Brunettes won’t stand a chance against us after a little foil and peroxide.”
“Didn’t you mention ‘natural’?”
Bailey waved an impatient hand. “Don’t get technical on me. Let’s go.”
Tracy didn’t want to go anywhere, but her daughter had been stubborn since babyhood. After making a research phone call to Trin, Bailey dragged Tracy through the front door.
She glanced over her shoulder as she was pulled toward Bailey’s car. “Is that a wreath on the front door?” It was fresh, with a pretty gold ribbon threaded through it and a tiny glass hummingbird sitting right on top.
“Mmm,” Bailey said, pushing her into the passenger seat. Once she was behind the wheel, she handed over a pair of sunglasses, even though it was full dark. “Sorry, but I don’t have earplugs.”
The decorations on the block were outrageous. Bailey shielded her eyes with her hand and muttered in complaint as they crawled behind other cars cruising the scene.
Tracy smiled, not only at her daughter’s typical Christmas-curmudgeon-ness, but because the ostentation lifted her heart a little. There were so many sad times, so many tragedies in a year and in a life, why shouldn’t people feel free to go over the top on occasion? There should be no shame or sin in lighting up their lives with every bright bauble that the season offered, not because there weren’t dark times, but because there were.
It was the spirit with which The Perfect Christmas was built.
A pang of longing took aim at Tracy’s heart. For a moment she wanted to be back in the store—dusting the Victorian villages, adjusting the positions of the Santa figurines in the front window, straightening the pinafores of the angelic Christmas dolls. Then she thought of Dan and the longing dried to dust.
She’d told Bailey she couldn’t go into The Perfect Christmas because she didn’t want to see her husband there. But the fact was, worse than facing him within the confines of the store would be facing the truth that he wasn’t in the store at all.
If Dan wasn’t busy in the back room making coffee, if he wasn’t inspecting the track of the North Pole Express that ran along the ceiling of the bottom floor, if he wasn’t greeting the children who came into the store with wondering eyes as big as lollipops, then the place would only feel lonely and bitter.
Oh no, that was she.
Tracy and Bailey finally made it to the hair salon that Trin had recommended. The windows were painted with a colorful winter theme. A surfing snowman in red and green boardshorts held a sign that proclaimed they stayed open late and welcomed walk-ins. When Tracy demurred as they entered, concerned about submitting to an unknown stylist, Bailey just issued orders.
“Sit.”
“Stay.”
To the first available hairdresser. “Dump my mom’s gray. Brighten the blond.”
Half an hour later, they were in side-by-side chairs, their hair in leaflike layers of tinfoil. It created a sort of silvery, sci-fi Afro effect.
“Do you do this often?” Tracy asked. Frankly, she thought the look more than a little scary. “If men saw women like this, maybe they wouldn’t cause us so much trouble.”
Bailey made a snorting sound that communicated something between “Fat chance” and “Men are dogs.”
Oh no, that was Tracy’s thought.
She tried distancing herself from it. “So, uh, how did it go at the store today?” she asked.
Bailey’s eyes were closed. “Byron was off on another of his searches for endless summer. Finn played Santa.”
“Finn?”
Bailey tensed but didn’t open her eyes. “I told you he was living next door for the holidays. I told you that I’d run into
him.”
You didn’t tell me you were letting him get close to you again. Interesting.
Bailey’s eyes popped open. Scowling, she skewered Tracy with her gaze. “You knew what kind of boy he was, Mom. You couldn’t miss that crazy hair, the earrings, those tattoos all over his hands. Why the heck did you let me start dating him?”
Tracy stared at her beautiful daughter. She’d made many mistakes with her, particularly during the ugly divorce. Some of that experience, she supposed, was responsible for creating the determined, you-won’t-knock-me-down attitude of her older child. But there were other parts of Bailey she’d been born with.
Things she’d been born to. From the moment that dangerous, sullen-looking teenage boy had shown up next door, her stubborn perfectionist was determined to bring him to heel. Perhaps, though, all the moves between Bailey and Finn had yet to be played out.
“Mom?” Bailey looked impatient for her answer.
Tracy thought about trying to explain it to her. But then she shrugged. Sometimes it was better to just get out of the way.
Her firstborn, naturally, wasn’t going to let it go. “Mom? Come on. Why did you let me date him?”
“Oh, sweetie.” Tracy sighed. “I didn’t think I had a choice.”
Bailey stayed silent for a moment. Then she closed her eyes again. “Funny, I said something like that to Finn.”
Definitely some moves left between them, Tracy decided. But then another thought congealed like a cold lump in her stomach. Maybe, maybe when it came to her and Dan, the moves were over.
The game all played out.
* * *
Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas
Facts & Fun Calendar
December 9
In 1939, Robert L. May created Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer for a storybook given away by the Montgomery Ward department store. As a boy, May had been teased about his small size, so he developed a character with a physical quirk. May’s boss was concerned the shiny red nose might be associated with drunkenness, but after seeing sketches of the reindeer, the company was won over.
* * *
Chapter 9
Perhaps it was the highlights in her hair that brightened Tracy’s outlook. The new cut that fluffed around her face to end in soft wisps at her jawline. Or maybe it was the sunshine streaming through the downstairs window and the promise of another seventy-something-degree day. For whatever reason, she found herself with her hand on the front door. For the first time in weeks, she walked out into the sunlight. She even dressed up for the occasion, dumping the sweats and taking a pair of Bailey’s jeans from the pile of clean clothes on the dryer.
She was wearing a lot less gray hair and a dozen fewer pounds. The “divorce diet,” she supposed, recalling a phrase coined by one of her friends.
Outside, warmth bathed her face. She sucked in a deep breath and smelled heated green—the combination of the grass and the hibiscus hedge and the leaves from the jacaranda tree growing in the front corner of the yard. Her mother and father had been late-in-life parents, and she’d lived here since birth. It had always given her a sense of comfort and security, until Dan had left.
Last night she’d decided they were probably done, but maybe she could find peace again. Alone, in the house built by her parents, she could become one of those women who found contentment in work and a safety net in a caring circle of other single females.
Who needed a man? What were they good for?
Still savoring the warm air, she strolled to the mailbox nailed to a post at the bottom of the front walk, noticing someone had decorated it with a lush bow of red ribbon. Tracy ran her forefinger over its velvety surface. Even though the season was always hectic because of the store, she’d still managed little holiday touches like this once she and Dan married and the children were young.
But now with Bailey only an occasional visitor to her life and Harry’s hectic presence off to college, there was no reason to put forth the effort. She wasn’t someone’s mother anymore, she realized with a wrench.
Worse, she wasn’t sure who she was without that.
The metal mailbox was almost hot to touch, so she pried the door open with a fingernail, then pulled out the pile of envelopes stacked inside. She scanned the names on them.
Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Willis.
Mrs. Daniel Willis.
The couple was dissolved. That woman didn’t exist anymore.
A burn rose from her suddenly clenched stomach. Damn Dan! How could he take this away from her! How could he take herself away?
No, no. She slammed the mailbox shut, and the violent clang shut off the anger rising inside her. The new woman she wanted to be wasn’t going to feel like this. The new Tracy would choose her emotions just as she chose her identity.
She was going to be a serene person, she decided. One of those types who floated over the highs and lows of life.
As she turned back to the house, a car coming down the street caught her eye. Her hand tightened on the mail, creasing the cable bill. Serene, she told herself. Tranquil. Peaceful.
It was her footsteps that rushed in a panic up the front walk. Inside, she was a calm sea.
The calm sea didn’t make it through the entry before Dan was out of his car. “Tracy?”
She shut the door when he was on the sidewalk. Locked it as he mounted the porch steps.
Then, her heart clattering in her chest, she slid down against the painted wood, her legs no longer able to hold her steady. She rested her forehead on her upraised knees, fighting for breath.
It was still a struggle when she heard the scratch of a key in the lock. Her head jerked up, and she scrambled to her feet. She just managed to move away before the door hit her in the butt.
Then he was framed in the doorway. Her husband.
Her estranged husband.
“What the hell are you doing?” Her heart jumped again, astonished by the curse—she never cursed—and The Exorcist rasp of her voice.
“I have a key. My name’s on the deed. Why wouldn’t I enter my own home?” His dark hair was longer than she’d ever seen it. It swung over his brow like a boy’s—like Harry’s—and she could see the faint whiteness of the crows’ feet at the corners of his watchful eyes.
He was tan, damn him. No hiding out in dark rooms for the SOB who’d walked out on her.
Anger rose like bile again, but Tracy managed to swallow it down as she turned her back and strode off toward the kitchen. “Get what you came for, and then leave,” she said over her shoulder.
God, she was good. That had sounded somewhat sane. Poised, even. As if she were in control of her emotions and not the other way around.
She could carry off this serenity thing. Be it, even. She could.
Until she felt Dan’s hand on her elbow. “Tracy—”
She whirled with a screech, as if he’d burned her. “Get your hands off me.”
He lifted them, surrender style. “I just want to talk.”
“No.” She backed away.
He stalked forward.
Her heart hammered against her breastbone as she retreated down the hall. “Come back some other time.”
“Now is the time.” His voice was hard, his gaze intent on her face. It had been years since she was aware of how strong he was. Though he wasn’t a particularly tall man, his build was powerful, thanks to solid shoulders, lean hips, sturdy legs. He’d been working out, that was obvious.
Bastard. Probably bench pressing bunnies at that Sodom and Gomorrah he called home.
No, he’d just called here home. Anger shot through her bloodstream like a drug. She started to tremble under its all-consuming influence.
“Tracy.” Her gaze dropped from his face to the sinews in his arm as he held out a hand to her. “Now.”
“No.”
He took a step forward, and she whirled again. Ran.
Get away. Get free. Panting already, she sprinted down the hall, hearing his heavy footsteps behind her.
No. Damn him. Damn him for making her miserable. Angry. Alone.
Catching the baluster at the bottom of the stairs in her hand, she swung herself around and took off up the steps. Yesterday her knees had been creaking. Today she felt supple, strong. A gazelle. A lioness.
A woman running from heartache and all the other emotions that were trying to catch up with her.
Her pulse was pounding in her ears as she gained the upper hall. Dan was still behind her, determined.
To bow her. Break her. Make her cry.
Never. Never never never.
Her first husband had torn her skin off her bones on his way to shattering her heart. She wouldn’t be so vulnerable again.
The master bedroom doorway was in sight. The double doors locked and there wasn’t a key to open them. Dan was too civilized, surely, to break them down.
Just three…more…steps.
She flew through the doorway even as Dan’s big hand clamped down on her shoulder. With a wrench she yanked away from his touch.
But it was too late to lock him out of the bedroom.
Her gaze trained on his face, she backed off again, putting the king-sized mattress between them while he stood, unmoving, at the entrance to the room.
Her chest heaved, her breath stuttered in and out of her lungs.
The tension in the room stretched like taffy between them, but it was nothing so sweet. Tracy licked her suddenly dry lips.
And Dan’s gaze shifted from her face to focus on her mouth.
Heat skittered up her spine. Tracy’s glance darted to the right, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror over her dresser.
We need roses in our cheeks and highlights in our hair.
Her face was flushed from her race, and it had disheveled the wispy ends of her new haircut. The way her breasts were moving against the T-shirt she wore—tight, another item borrowed from Bailey—made her look like a woman who was less angry than…wanting.
From somewhere, a thought burst in her brain. She looked like a woman ready for sex.
Must Love Mistletoe Page 11
