Lakeshore Christmas

by Susan Wiggs

  Eddie burst out laughing. “No wonder you’d rather have a root canal. Philately? Is that even freaking legal?”

  “Some people consider stamp collecting a high art.”

  “Good God.” Tears streamed from his eyes. “And…I’m sorry…Alvin Gourd? Are people constantly asking him if he’s out of his gourd? Who the hell is Alvin Gourd?”

  The kind of guy who would date me, she thought. “You shouldn’t make fun of a person’s name,” she said.

  “True. I’ve got a weird name myself.”

  “Eddie? That’s not weird.”

  “It’s also not my given name. My original name is Doobie.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Swear to God. It’s on my birth certificate.”

  “What kind of people would name their baby Doobie?”

  “People named Willow and Moonbeam.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “Your parents are Willow and Moonbeam?”

  “They went through a psychedelic phase.”

  “Okay, time out.” She made a T with her hands. “There’s no way I can leave you alone to work until you tell me about Willow and Moonbeam and the psychedelic phase.”

  “Gee, Miz Davenport, I didn’t know you cared.”

  She gave his arm a slug, comfortable with this teasing Eddie in a way she wasn’t when he was checking out her…derriere. “Spill.”

  “Now who’s the nosy one?”

  “Me,” she freely admitted, as unapologetic as he’d been earlier.

  “Okay, so my folks raised me on a commune near Woodstock. I was homeschooled, too.”

  “That’s fascinating,” she said. “What a remarkable childhood you had.”

  “You think?”

  “Of course. From the reading I’ve done, an upbringing like that results in children who are nurtured and balanced, deeply connected to their family members and to the others who helped raise them.”

  “I never read about it,” Eddie said. “I just lived it. And honestly, my parents were young and naive, and they’d be the first to tell you, they had no notion of how to raise a child. They brought me up with guesswork and a little faith. They grew their own food and pot, and raised kids and livestock through communal efforts—with mixed results. I was born in a cabin without electricity. Through sheer luck alone, I was born to robust health but an unfortunate name—Doobie.”

  It all sounded bohemian and romantic to Maureen. “So you lived in a commune, and then you became a child star. What was that like?”

  “I don’t have anything to compare it to. Also—what people tend to forget about the child stars is that so few of them grow up to be adult stars. They remember the success stories—Jodie Foster, Shirley Temple, Brooke Shields. And the gossip magazines never let us forget the train wrecks, like Lindsay Lohan, McCauley Culkin. Danny Bona…whatever. And then there are those of us who achieved middling careers in film or TV or theater, and just as many who got out of the business altogether. People are surprised by that.”

  “Sure we are,” she admitted. “I mean, when you create a character like Jimmy, we tend to think we’re seeing a star being born.”

  He chuckled. “When you get into a career at age five, you’re not exactly following your passion. It’s more like you’re following directions. One benefit of doing the movie—I got to change my name. And my folks went back to their given names—Barb and Larry.”

  Maureen could have sat there all night, listening to him talk about himself. He stopped and studied her for a long moment. She couldn’t be sure, but—yes, she was sure of it. He was staring at her mouth.

  “I don’t usually talk about this stuff,” he said.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” she promised.

  “It’s no secret. Just…something in the past. But enough about me,” he said softly.

  “Right,” she hastily agreed. “You’re here to write. I’ll let you get to work.”

  “I need inspiration.” He flicked on the fringed lamp and flipped off the overhead switch, plunging the room into an amber glow.

  “I can’t give you that,” she said.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, cupping his hands around her shoulders, “you can.”

  The touch nearly set her on fire. She tried to offer a casual, dismissive laugh, but what came out was a funny little helpless gasp.

  “Seriously,” he said, “you can.”

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Trying to be a little more interesting than a stamp-collecting exhibit.” Very gently but insistently he walked her back ward, trapping her between himself and the table. “Making out at the library. I could write a song about that.”

  “So you’re just using me for inspiration.”

  “No. I’m dying to make out with you.”

  Fighting the urge to let him, she shoved at his chest. “This isn’t funny, Eddie.” There was a sharpness in her voice. She knew the source, but to Eddie, it probably sounded childish and shrill.

  He took a step back, holding his hands up, palms out. “Fine, whatever,” he said. “I’ll quit.”

  She nodded grimly. “You have work to do.”

  “Work…?”

  “The Christmas song.”

  “I can’t stand Christmas, remember?”

  “So you’ve said—repeatedly. What I don’t understand is why.”

  “And I don’t understand why you like it so much.”

  “It’s the season for miracles,” she explained. “Everyone’s at their best—their most kind and most generous. And here in this town, the season has a special beauty. And for me, a special significance. Being here at Christmas helped me get through a very difficult time in my life.” The moment she said the words, she wished she’d kept them to herself.

  Now he made the time-out sign. “This I gotta hear.”

  “No, you don’t. And why do you care, anyway?”

  “You don’t look like the kind of person who’s ever had a difficult time.”

  “Really? What sort of person do I look like?”

  “The sort who gets along with her family, goes to church every Sunday, never thinks an impure thought. Somebody who likes to stay home at night, in her jammies with her cat and a good book.”

  Two cats, she thought, but refused to admit it. “You think you have me nailed, don’t you?” She motioned at the piano bench. “Write.”

  He laughed. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Then enlighten me. How does it work?”

  “I have to feel the song first.”

  “And how are you going to do it?”

  He paused. Then, before she could stop him, he bent and placed a soft kiss on her mouth. “Like that. Which, by the way, was what I was trying to do earlier.”

  Maureen broke away, shocked beyond speech. She couldn’t believe what he’d just done. It was one thing to imagine kissing Eddie Haven, quite another to actually do it. The real kiss was so much more intense than her imagination could ever allow. Good grief, she was the one who was about to burst into song, and she wasn’t even terribly musical. It was all a bit overwhelming. She hated feeling overwhelmed almost as much as she loved kissing Eddie.

  “That’s the most fun I’ve ever had at the library,” he said with a grin. “I feel smarter, just being here.”

  She stepped back, out of range. “Excuse me,” she said, her face on fire. Was he toying with her? Seeing how far he could push the geeky librarian girl? “I’ll leave you alone so you can get to work. I have some things to do in my office.” She scurried away, wishing she didn’t feel so mortified. There was plenty of work to be done, and she often stayed quite late, savoring the uninterrupted quiet of the library. Tonight, though, she couldn’t concentrate.

  She was so agitated that she reshelved every book from the return bin in record time, and even straightened her desk, parts of which had not seen the light since she’d been hired fresh out of college. She could hear the occasional piano note or guitar
chord drifting from the study room, but she did her best to ignore the fact that not only was Elvis in the building—he had kissed her.

  As of a few moments ago, Maureen had been kissed by a grand total of five guys, counting Eddie. How pathetic was that? She sometimes told herself it was because she was extremely picky—in a good way. The reality, of course, was that she tended to avoid kissing. She’d learned long ago that kissing led to all kinds of things and eventually culminated in heartache.

  Sorting through the mail on her desk, she came across a correspondence she’d recently initiated. She didn’t relish the idea of finding another job, but this was the reality she faced. A few other staff members had already given notice, having found other, more secure places to work. The IT manager was moving on to SUNY New Paltz. The reference librarian got a job at the local bookstore. The support services coordinator had decided to follow a lifelong dream—going to cooking school in Northern California. Maureen didn’t want to be left at loose ends. Even if all the fund-raising efforts succeeded, it probably wouldn’t be enough to keep the facility open. She’d tapped into her network of librarians, asking about job openings. Already, the request had yielded a lead—a corporate firm in Boston had requested her credentials.

  The thought of moving far away was depressing in the extreme, so she finished straightening up her work space. It wasn’t a proper office but a corner in the general staff area. Each year, the board tried to find the wherewithal in the budget to construct an actual office for her, but the money was never there. Now, it seemed, it never would be.

  She closed up her desk and wandered out to the stacks. Maybe it was time to try her usual method of seeking wisdom. With eyes shut, she ran her index finger along the spines of the books, raising and lowering her arm as she progressed. Keeping her eyes closed, she stopped at random, pulled a book from the shelf and let it fall open, a fat, heavy, musty-smelling tome. Wrinkling her nose, she touched her finger to a page and opened her eyes.

  “‘Roman youth dashed in to carry off the maidens, who were the victims of impious perfidy,’” she read aloud. Oh, dear. “‘The Sabine women, whose wrongs had led to war, went boldly into the midst of the flying missiles with dishevelled hair and rent garments…’”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Maureen. “I go looking for advice, and I get the Rape of the Sabines.”

  “Hey, come on, it was a kiss, that’s all” said a voice behind her.

  She was so startled that she dropped the book as she spun around. The heavy tome landed on her foot. “Ow!” she said. “You startled me.”

  “Did you hurt yourself?” asked Eddie, bending to pick up the book. He checked the title. “Livy’s History of Rome. Move over, Da Vinci Code.”

  “Give me that.” She grabbed the book and reshelved it, feeling his stare like a physical touch. “What?” she demanded, turning back to face him.

  “Nothing,” he said. Heavens, but he had a sexy smile. “Just trying to figure you out, Moe.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out. I am what I am.” She wondered if he could tell she was lying. Clearing her throat, she changed the subject. “All right. So did you finish the song?”

  “Yeah.” Indeed, he had his parka on, his guitar zipped into its case.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “When am I going to hear this masterpiece?”

  “I never said it would be a masterpiece. It’s a song, okay? Just something I wrote.”

  “Then let’s hear it.”

  He looked at her for a long time. The look turned to a glower. With slow deliberation, Eddie shrugged off his parka, unzipped the guitar case. “I swear, you are one stubborn woman.”

  She sniffed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  He propped his hip on the edge of a library table, flexed his hands and lightly strummed a few chords, hummed a melody. Even the casual tuning of his guitar and warm-up had a quality that seemed to reach for her. She could imagine his music as a gentle embrace. Oh, Maureen, she thought. You’re in trouble.

  “Did you study music in college?” she asked, hoping he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

  He nodded. “Majored in theory and composition.”

  “And where was that?”

  He didn’t look up from his strumming. “Juilliard.”

  “Wow. I had no idea.”

  “I figured you knew all about me,” he said. “Figured you looked it up on Google or Wikipedia or something.”

  She regarded him, appalled. “Why would you assume that?”

  “You being a librarian at all.”

  “I would never. That’s intrusive. And unprofessional. I would never use my skills as a librarian to intrude upon some one’s private life.”

  “I wish more people felt that way.”

  She indicated his guitar, willing his fingers to pick out the notes. “The song.”

  He heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Fine.” His hands gently drew a chord from the strings of the guitar, the sound burgeoning with rhythm and melody. He sang with a sense of sweet resignation, misted by emotion. The lyrics—a metaphor about trees in winter—were unassuming, telling a story of a journey from loneliness to connection. He picked the guitar with a clean precision that showcased his training. The music wove through the empty library, the melody circling around like swirls of warmth.

  Maureen couldn’t help herself. She was always moved by true talent, particularly at the moment of the muse taking over. Sometimes, like now, it was an identifiable event. One minute, he was a guy playing the guitar. The next, he was…gently, softly possessed. He didn’t move, yet he seemed to shift into another realm or dimension. He was still here, yet gone away somewhere, and she felt herself following.

  The lyrics of the musical bridge gave her chills. “You look like an angel to me…”

  Maureen wasn’t certain she’d heard right. The words transported her back in time to that night when she’d found him flung into a snowbank, dazed and wounded, yet able to speak. She would never forget the words he’d said to her that night: Sorry. For a second, you looked like an angel to me.

  “Stop,” she said sharply, interrupting the song. “Cut it out.”

  “Hey, you were the one who wanted to hear the song.”

  “Not that song.”

  “Oh, sorry. You should have been more specific.”

  “It’s hard to specify something as yet unwritten,” she said. “But you’re a professional. You promised to write a Christmas song.”

  “This is a Christmas song.” He glared at her. “What the hell did you think it was?”

  “Sounded like a love song to me.”

  “Every Christmas song is a love song,” he said.

  She couldn’t argue with his reasoning, but he was twisting her logic. “There are different kinds of love,” she stated.

  “Just what I need. A lecture on love from a woman who won’t even go on a date.”

  “With you,” she clarified. “I won’t go on a date with you.”

  “Fine, who will you date?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Why won’t you go on a date with me?” he asked.

  Because it will hurt too much when you walk away, she thought, but didn’t say aloud. There was no doubt in her mind that if she went out with him, she would fall head over heels for him. But the outcome of anything between the two of them was inevitable. He would leave. It was what guys like Eddie Haven did. It was what happened to girls like Maureen Davenport.

  “The song,” she reminded him, trying to bring the conversation back on track. “It’s not working for me.”

  “Because it’s about love? Well, excuse the hell out of me.”

  “It’s about romantic love,” she said.

  “That’s your opinion. People bring their own meaning to a song. ‘You look like an angel to me’ is not inherently romantic.”

  Then why did the sound of him singing the words set her heart on fire?
>
  “It’s something a parent might say to a child,” he explained. “Or a friend to a friend. It depends on the context you bring to it.”

  “I just don’t think it’s a good fit for the program.”

  “Nothing I write is ever going to make you happy,” he said. “Maybe the key with you is that you don’t want to be happy.”

  “Now you’re being absurd,” she said. “Of course I want to be happy. That’s what everyone wants.” She frowned, offended by what she thought he was saying about her.

  “Fine, prove it,” he said.

  “What do you mean, prove it?”

  “Prove to me that you want to be happy instead of stuck in the past somewhere, mired in something that happened a long time ago.”

  She studied his face. Good grief, did he know? Or was he guessing? “And just how do you propose I prove this to you, assuming I decide I should?”

  He did it again—gave her that special smile. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and mocked her reserve. “Go out with me. Let me show you a good time. Loosen up a little, for Chrissake.”

  “I’m loose,” she protested. “I know how to have a good time.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Excellent,” he said. “Then this is going to be easier than I thought. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “I’m busy.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

  “Afternoon, then,” he said, picking up his guitar. “Tomorrow after rehearsal? Yeah, that’ll work. And if you argue with me, I’ll invite the camera crew along.”

  Fourteen

  Damn, thought Eddie as the kids filed out of the church after Saturday morning practice, that sucked.

  “Was the practice really that bad?” asked Jabez, pausing at the door.

  Eddie frowned. He didn’t remember speaking aloud. “Pretty bad,” he said. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. The program’s in rough shape.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You rocked it out, though,” Eddie told the boy. Jabez’s singing was a bright spot in the program. His technique was effortless and straightforward, completely engaging. “Have you had formal training? Outside of school, I mean.”