Damn if Gram’s T-Bird wouldn’t start. He’d taken it instead of his SUV because its battery needed the workout, but now it heh-heh-hehed like a barking seal instead of catching with its usual powerful vroom. Rather than sticking around to coax it to life, he decided to leave it in case Bailey struck out with Tanner and went for Finn again.
And if she didn’t, if she found her knight in Santa’s clothing within Hart’s bar, then Finn wouldn’t have to know anything about it.
There wasn’t a reason in the world he couldn’t make the less-than-a-mile home on foot. Lucky him, he was wearing his running shoes.
He took off at an easy jog. A turn or two and there weren’t a lot of streetlights to go by, but he continued at a decent pace. At the hospital, he’d been taught to move his head slightly from side to side to compensate for the loss of peripheral vision on his left. The first attempts at walking briskly or running outdoors had freaked him—in the same way as weird vibes could creep up on him while snorkeling. In the ocean, there was that foreboding awareness of great depth and darkness lurking somewhere ahead. Without one eye he would perceive a similar shadowy looming well to his left.
Picking up speed, he shoved the uneasiness away by congratulating himself on his escape from Bailey. Then a slow-cruising car approached him from the rear. It wouldn’t be…it couldn’t be…
He glanced over his right shoulder, groaned.
She must have spotted him. He increased his pace, but she accelerated to get even with him. Then her window rolled down. He kept his gaze focused ahead.
“Hey, Finn,” she called out.
He pretended deafness.
She tooted her horn.
And scared something out of the darkness on his left. He heard its rustle, but he didn’t see it—cat—until its path bisected the visual field of his remaining eye. Too late to avoid the tangle.
Too late to avoid the tumble.
He went down on his knees, hands, and elbows, hard. He kept the position for a few minutes, to catch his breath and to curse black cats, black shadows, blindness, Bailey.
“Finn!” Her high heels clattered on the sidewalk. “Are you okay?”
Yeah, but of course he had to accept her apologetic offer of a ride back to Gram’s—unless he wanted to look even more like a graceless idiot. Then he let her talk him into allowing her to play nurse.
Trailing him through Gram’s house toward the kitchen, she spared a single glance for the set of medieval armor with the wide gold bow tied around its chest that he’d propped up against a wall in the living room. There really was no sane way to explain it, so he didn’t bother.
First aid supplies had always resided in the narrow cupboard to the right of the sink. He settled into a kitchen chair, holding a paper towel against the worst wound on his left elbow to staunch the bleeding. When Bailey approached, a box of bandages in one hand and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the other, he drew back in his chair.
“I just remembered,” he said, eyeing the brown bottle with distaste. “You used to enjoy this kind of thing.”
She laughed. “I’m not the one into self-tattooing.”
“They’re all gone now.” The ring on his left hand squeezed his finger. “And that was a long time ago.”
Her citrusy-flowery smell filled his head as she neared. He watched her saturate a cotton ball with the peroxide, and then she pushed his palm toward his shoulder and pulled the paper towel away from his elbow.
Finn focused on the kitchen faucet and waited for the first sting.
It didn’t come.
He glanced up at pseudo-Nurse Sullivan. She was staring at the wound on his arm, sticky with blood. A single tear ran down her cheek.
“Bailey?”
She blinked, then rubbed her face with the heel of her hand. “I’m okay.” Another tear spilled over.
“GND? What’s the matter?”
Shaking her head, she swiped at her cheek again, then under her nose. “Lost…” With a little cough, she cleared her throat. “Lost my clinical detachment for a moment, I guess.”
Finn frowned. “It’s not that bad. Really.”
Nodding, she sank to her dominatrix heels and made quick work of cleaning, then bandaging his elbow. Without looking at his face, she moved on to his hand, then his other elbow. His right palm, the least injured, she saved for last, dabbing it with peroxide on a clean cotton ball.
He stared at her bent head, bemused by her odd mood and uncharacteristic silence. She threw the used cotton onto the table but kept hold of his hand, studying it as if she was reading his fortune.
Weird, he thought, frowning again. “Bailey?”
She made a choked sound and pressed her face to his fingers. More tears.
“God, Bailey.” His pulse jacked up and he touched her hair with his free hand. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”
Her voice was thick. “Something happened to you.”
Now he felt even more like a graceless ass. “It’s just a little case of road rash.”
“You could have died, Finn.”
“Not even cl—”
“Not t-tonight. Then.”
Oh. She was crying about, thinking about, talking about, the assassination attempt.
Sometimes he wondered if maybe he should have died. Maybe it would have been easier than to live with the screwed-up mess the assassination attempt had made of his life and his future. At least it would have saved him from the damn agony of feeling Bailey’s hot tears and not knowing what the hell to do about them.
“But I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”
Tears continued to drip between his fingers. Hating this helpless feeling, he pulled her up and onto his lap. She buried her face against his neck, whether for comfort or out of embarrassment, he didn’t know.
“Shhh,” he said, stroking her soft hair again. “I’m right here.”
Her shoulders continued to shake, and a sick sense of panic rose inside him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her cry. She’d never been that kind of girl.
He cupped the back of her head, trying to curb his anxiety. “What can I do to make it better?”
“Nothing.” Her mouth moved against his wet skin. “I’m sorry, and I f-feel so d-dumb. I’m not usually sloppy. I’m tired, I g-guess. J-just really tired.”
“You’ve been working too hard,” he said, relief calming his heartbeat. He could fix tired! Anything to stop this emotion leaking all over his shirt. “Tell you what, I’ll do that Santa gig for you.”
When she didn’t immediately respond, he promised more. “I’ll do that Santa gig and anything else you want from me at The Perfect Christmas.”
“What?” Her voice was still muffled against his shirt.
“I’ll help you out at the store. Whatever you need.”
Her head lifted. His nose touched her pink one. Her lashes were wet and spiky, and he thought he could execute an Acapulco cliff dive into the drenched blue of her eyes.
Her forefinger reached out to trace the outline of his eye patch. Her pretty mouth turned down. “You don’t want to do that.”
He wanted her to stop looking at him with something that looked suspiciously like pity. He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger and adjusted her head so she was looking at him, and not at the stupid patch. “I offered, didn’t I? I’ll help you with The Perfect Christmas.”
It was as if the sun had come out. A smile broke over her face. “Oh Finn. Oh Finn.”
Oh fuck.
Too late, he realized he’d held out a noose and offered to tie it around his own stupid neck. It was crazy to tangle himself up with Bailey again! He thought of that damn knight suit in the next room and wondered if he could blame it for his rescuer impulse. Or…had she planned this herself?
Damn it.
In years past, she’d had plenty of practice getting him right where she wanted him.
“Finn?” Her nose wrinkled. Smelling the renege in the air.
But g
oing back on his promise would be stupid too. That would show weakness. To both of them. There was another way to handle this.
“Yeah, I’ll do it,” he decided, pushing her off his lap so they were both standing. But he’d do it for a price. His price. “In return, you’ll go on a date with me Tuesday night and you’ll tell me exactly why you ran out on me ten years ago.”
* * *
Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas
Facts & Fun Calendar
December 11
The original “White Christmas” had an opening verse about a shining sun and swaying palm trees, as writer Irving Berlin was in Southern California when he wrote the immortal song that became a holiday standard.
* * *
Chapter 11
Dan found the woman of his dreams standing in the afternoon sunlight on a sidewalk corner diagonal from The Perfect Christmas. She looked like his Tracy, in khaki pants that hung low on her hips, a thin white shirt that was rolled to the elbows, bare feet shoved into two-tone loafers. Dark glasses and a baseball cap almost hiding her short blond hair lent her a celebrity-on-the-lam air.
He watched a passing couple give her a second glance. The silver-haired husband half gave her a third. Checking out her ass.
It was enough to make him hurry forward to stake his claim. “Hey.”
The woman turned dark lenses his way. He couldn’t tell what the hell she was thinking.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Same as you, I suppose.” He nodded toward the store across the street. “Making sure it’s still standing.”
Tracy returned her gaze to the two-story Victorian that had been her parents’ livelihood, her livelihood, and then theirs. In silence, they watched the steady stream of traffic going in and out of the white-on-blue front door. Eight out of ten people leaving carried the store’s signature bag—Christmas stripes around a centered watercolor version of the storefront.
“Bailey’s holding her own,” his wife finally said.
It had been Dan’s biggest gamble—walking away from the store as well as the house. He’d thought it would wake up Tracy that much quicker, shock her into seeing him, seeing them, when she tried managing the place on her own. Instead, she’d let the cavalry take over.
He’d considered returning to work at that point, but that would have been caving in. If they were going to make their marriage work, they had to forge something independent of The Perfect Christmas. He had to find a way for her to know him again, as a man outside of father and business partner.
“Bailey’s persuaded Finn to play Santa Claus for Story Hour and Christmas Movie Nights.”
Dan’s gaze jolted toward Tracy again. “What?”
A smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. “Alice has been ill and he’s living with her for a while. Didn’t take long for magnet Bailey and magnet Finn to find each other all over again.”
That sidetracked Dan for a moment. Finn had been a father’s—albeit stepfather’s—worst nightmare from the look of him. Sullen at thirteen, dangerous at sixteen, obviously head-over-motorcycle boots in love with Tracy’s daughter, who looked too perfect for one of the delinquent rebel’s tattooed fingers to touch.
But now he could feel almost sorry for the other man. Dan had spoken with Finn on occasion, and noted that he’d grown up into someone with a different kind of hard edge. Bailey, on the other hand, pretended she didn’t have a soft bone in her body. He could imagine all the sparks that were going to fly if—when—they clashed.
Dan shook his head. “I always thought…”
Tracy had been reading his mind for almost two decades. “…she threw what they had away too easily.”
Like her mother?
“I heard that,” she murmured.
It almost made him grin. “Trace—”
“Harry said he’s getting two Bs and an A. He thinks he can bring up at least one of the Bs with the final exam.”
Dan shrugged. “He’s always been an optimist.”
“Like you used to be.”
“Trace—”
“He also says he has a girlfriend.”
“Shelley. I heard about her.” Dan wanted to make clear that he kept in contact with their son too. “Harry’s a fast worker, wouldn’t you say?”
“Like you?”
An insult? A rebuke? “Trace—”
“I have to go.”
His hand caught hers.
In a blink, his mind flashed back to the scene in their house two days ago. To the incredible, hot sex. His first glimpse of her as he drove up to the house had clawed at his heart. She’d looked so great, so familiar, so his. He’d hated that she’d run from him.
They were both angry once he’d caught up with her, and then that anger transmuted into something else entirely—lust. The bedroom had been smoky with it.
He hadn’t thought about what he was saying or doing. He was compelled to act…taking off his clothes, telling her to take off hers. The only pause…protection! What the hell?! he’d thought. But at that point he hadn’t wanted to go into long explanations or even short recriminations.
He’d wanted Tracy. So he’d dashed for the damn things and then struggled some putting one on—condom coverage was not like riding a bike—and then it had been over and he was over her and they’d had that mind-blowing sex. Fingers entangled, bodies driving, pleasure so good.
It hadn’t fixed anything between them, they’d both known that right away, no words necessary. Then, as now, he could read her mind and she could read his. He hadn’t cared.
He cared now.
He needed to find a way to fix things between them.
Losing, losing Tracy, was no longer an option.
She tugged at his hand and he clutched it harder. Glancing down at her, he could see nothing but his reflection in those sunglass lenses and the expressionless set to her face. She was shut away from him now, he realized. Before, he’d been invisible to her. Now, she looked as if she was trying to keep herself invisible to him.
He swallowed, then gambled again. “So, come here often?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Coronado. I haven’t been here long. I could use a local guide.”
Tracy stilled. “I seem to have heard this before.”
It was close to the first thing he’d said to her at the party where they’d been introduced. Somehow he’d wangled it into an invitation to meet her on the beach the next day. Seven-year-old Bailey as chaperone. Sandcastle building as activity.
If he could get Tracy’s feet on that sand again, she’d open that door she was hiding behind. He was sure of it. Hopeful, anyway.
“C’mon,” he urged, giving her hand another small squeeze and then letting go so as not to spook her. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. We’re still playing hooky. Go for a walk on the beach with me?”
The bill of her cap ducked toward her chest, completely obscuring her face. “I’m not—”
“It’s just a walk, Trace.”
“I’m not interested in it being anything else.” There was that door again, slamming right in his face.
He’d been patient before, though, and he could be patient again. Once she got the feel of the sand between her toes, she’d let go. A little. Please.
They strolled the short blocks toward Central Beach, crossing Ocean Boulevard, which was lined with extravagant homes and mansions to reach more than a mile’s length of a wide swathe of sugary sand. He offered his hand to Tracy to climb over the tumbled boulders and rubbery ice plant that was the last barrier to the beach itself. She ignored it to scramble over them on her own.
They weren’t alone. Though the beach was wide enough—and the water cool enough in December—to prevent it from looking like a remake of an Annette and Frankie Beach Blanket Bingo movie, there were still plenty of people taking advantage of the postcard-come-to-life day.
Little kids braved the winter-chilled water, their white chubby tummies and plasti
c blow-up rafts screaming “tourist” even louder than a four-door sedan with Enterprise stickers. Local preteens in wetsuits, flippers, and boogie boards showed off their gymnastic skill, SoCal-style. Others with skim boards scattered the pipers and gulls as they threw the thin pieces of wood down on the wet sand and rode the retreating white water.
Young men played football. Girls in bikini bottoms and sweatshirts wiggled their toes to the beat of their iPods. Young moms toted toddlers on one hip and mesh bags of sand toys on the other. Retired couples in L. L. Bean windbreakers lifted binoculars, training them toward the Pacific’s commuter lanes, where migrating whales could be spotted heading to Mexico for the winter.
Something odd struck him. He looked over at Tracy. “There’s no one our age.”
“What?”
“Out here.” He gestured toward the clean sweep of sand around them. “Our age group is missing.”
“No…” But Tracy’s voice trailed off as she scanned the beach. Then she shrugged. “All at work, I guess.”
“Busy putting kids through college, I suppose.”
“Or busy making money for those cutesy new wives and the new families they plan to make with them.” There was a hot, bitter snap to her words. She shoved her hands in her front pockets. “Now the old wives, they’re off looking for their decimated pride and shattered expectations while scrambling to figure out how they’re going to support themselves and their children on a single income.”
He blinked, startled into stopping. “Tracy—”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cooled as quick as it had snapped. “That was uncalled for.”
She drew her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms over her chest, closing up again like a sea anemone touched by a painful finger. Pivoting south, she started trudging down the beach in the direction of the red-peaked roofs of the Hotel del Coronado, the wind blowing the tails of her shirt around her hips.
Dan hurried to catch up. “Is that—”
“By the way, I was thinking about Christmas gifts. Bailey’s taken care of and I’ve ordered a few for Harry off the Internet. A college sweatshirt, some gift cards, but if you—”
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