A Snowy Little Christmas

by Fern Michaels

  Frankly, it looks like Christmas Town, also known as my personal nightmare, and judging from Kris’s face—which had mostly been stoic throughout our drive—her personal charm factory. It’s midafternoon, so the lights aren’t on, but through the light snowfall we can see them strung up everywhere—winding around the trees flanking the drive, lining the roofline of a small red and white cottage that’s got a massive mulberry wreath on its door, woven around the columns on a front porch that lines the entirety of the tidy ranch house with smaller red-ribboned wreaths hung on every window, white candles on every sill. There’s an actual Christmas tree in the front yard. Fully fucking decorated.

  This man is not going to go pick up from here and move after the first of the year.

  “Oh!” Kristen says, which, disappointingly, is a much more enthusiastic oh than the one I got for telling her she’d given me the best kiss of my life. When I look over at her she’s got her hands clasped together, leaning forward in her seat so she can see better. I follow her gaze and see a young couple walking around the side of the house, a massive basket swinging between them, full of what looks to me like literal boughs of holly.

  I am in hell.

  “He knows we’re coming, right?” I say, more to myself than to Kristen. Carol had confirmed it all late Thursday afternoon, once Gil was back from his trip, and I’d followed up with a call that evening. He’d warned me there wasn’t much of a point, that he’d made his decision, but I’d insisted. “We’re in town for another meeting,” I’d lied. “We’ll just make a quick stop by.” He’d chuckled and said he and Romina wouldn’t mind the company.

  Before Kris can answer me, the man himself has stepped out onto the porch, wearing a green cable-knit sweater and jeans with a hole in the knee; he’s got one hand holding a mug of something steaming and the other stroking the length of his steel-gray beard. Behind him, a short, dark-haired, bespectacled woman in a red sweatshirt follows, also holding a mug. She raises a hand and waves enthusiastically.

  Kristen says, “They’re like Mr. and Mrs. Claus!” and I shoot her a look. She smiles sheepishly, pink washing her cheeks. She’s always so pretty.

  Out on the porch we shake hands, meet the two holly-gatherers—Tanner and Allison—who turn out to be Gil and Romina’s son and daughter-in-law. Tanner pats Gil’s shoulder and says to me, “You’re the one trying to take my genius old man away from us,” but he’s got a smiling, easy demeanor about him that tells me he knows we’ve got no real shot at this, either.

  “Kristen and I, yes,” I correct him. Beside me, Kris shifts her body slightly so her arm presses lightly, almost imperceptibly against mine. That’s not a thank-you; it’s a warning, or at least a reminder. It’s not the time to be corrective, she’s saying. Touches like this—they’re normal for us on the job, a way we’ve learned to communicate with other people in the room. But I’m feeling them all wrong now, my brain and body scrambled, one sending misguided messages to the other.

  “This is beautiful,” Kristen says, smiling and looking out over the white expanse of land. “Whether we convince you or not, Gil, this is quite a sight. Thanks for letting us drop by.”

  Gil and Romina beam at her, both of them almost tripping over each other’s words to offer information. Gil says he’d give her a tour if it weren’t for “those fancy shoes” she’s wearing, and Romina points out the cottage, a former garage, which they’ve been renovating in case “certain someones”—Tanner and Allison smile—want to spend extended time on the property for “oh, any reason at all!” I’m guessing this means we’re not supposed to talk directly about the grandkid on the way, and my suspicion is confirmed when Kristen only gives a smiling, knowing look to Romina, as if they’re old friends.

  I trust whatever she’s doing, though, and so when we move into the house and Kris completely avoids talking business, I follow her lead. I sit at the small round table in the eat-in kitchen that only has room for four, a relief since I don’t expect Tanner and Allison—who retreat down a narrow hallway—are going to be much help, and I avoid getting out any of the materials Kristen and I brought. I take a mug from Romina and pretend to enjoy what tastes to me like hot apple juice; I fake the sweet tooth I don’t really have and eat a frosted cookie in the shape of a candy cane.

  I feel the distance between me and Kristen like it’s a wall.

  “Now, Gil, I know you said you’ve made up your mind,” she says eventually, and I sit forward in my chair, letting her take the lead, both because it’s the best option for this and because I need to get my brain back online.

  She’s good; she’s always good—she makes it a conversation, not a pitch. She doesn’t assume the concerns they have; she asks about them, and each one she’s got an answer for—a contract revision that offers more time off, paid flights back here, more options for working remotely. She asks whether funding for stewardship of this property while they’re away would help—a regular groundskeeper, updated security systems, whatever. But just like I can feel the wall between me and her, I can feel the wall Gil and Romina are putting up between themselves and us.

  I feel tense, slightly desperate, and it’s unlike me. Sure, I’m intense about work, but this—emotion. I feel all inside out, same as I’ve felt since the kiss. Losing this job feels like losing her, especially now that I know how she felt about that kiss.

  Awkward, she’d said.

  “Your grandchild,” I say quietly, in deference to the privacy Tanner and Allison seemed to want. “The two years you spend over there—it would be doing something good for your grandchild.”

  I can feel Kristen’s eyes on me. This is unexpected. I don’t usually do family stuff.

  “How do you figure?” Romina says. She’s got a look on her face like I’m a robber baron, sitting here on a pile of cash I’ve hoarded for myself.

  “It’s not about the money, because of course you know about the money you stand to get here. Private schools, college, whatever you’d want—you know already you could do all that.”

  Gil looks up, eyebrows raised. Maybe it’s not over.

  “It’s about the tech. It could change the world, make it a safer place for your grandchildren, all of them. Fresh, drinkable water for huge numbers of people from water that could otherwise kill them? You know how much this helps the world, Gil. And you’re doing it in a way that doesn’t ruin the—”

  “I know,” Gil says, and Romina purses her lips. He rubs a hand over his beard and under the table, Kristen moves so that her foot touches mine. I strain to get that brain-body synapse working right. That was good, she’s saying, and it makes my heart grow two sizes.

  I let it sit, something I learned from Kris. For the first time I notice there’s holiday music coming from somewhere. I distract myself by wondering if Gil and Romina are in some kind of “torture Jasper” pact with Carol.

  “It’s not just the grandkid,” Gil says after a long minute. He stares into his cup, and I see the doubt written all over his face. Beside him, Romina clasps her hands, and he takes a deep breath. “It’s that I don’t want to miss a second of seeing my son be a father. Can’t wait to see him be great at it.” He smiles, looks over at Romina, chuckles slightly. “Can’t wait to see him mess up at it, either.”

  I blink across the table, struck dumb. Of course I’d miss this part of the equation, this kind of unconditional family affection. Of course I have no answer for it.

  “I know you don’t have kids of your own,” he says. “But you can imagine how I feel.”

  “No, sir,” I say sharply, honestly, and I know as soon as it’s out of my mouth, it’s an error. It’s the wrong tone, too personal. Beside me, Kristen’s gone stiff, but I don’t stop the end of my sentence. “I can’t.”

  There’s a heavy silence. I’ve ruined the mood, the possibility. I’ve ruined the job, if the way Kristen is standing from her seat is any indication.

  “I think it’d be a good idea for Jasper and me to get settled in our hotel.” She’s sai
d this so smoothly, as though there’s some nearby hotel we’ve booked. We haven’t—she’s flying this evening and I’ve got a room in Boston for the next three nights, because why the hell not. But that’s how bad I’ve messed it up—getting out of here for a debrief is necessary. “Would you be up for an early dinner in town?”

  Romina looks at her, seeming grateful. But then she chuckles. “I guess that means you haven’t heard,” she says. “I don’t think we’ll be getting out much this evening.”

  And that’s when the first gust of wind roars outside.

  Chapter Six

  KRISTEN

  A ground blizzard.

  A freak ground blizzard.

  Starting even earlier than Gil and Romina had heard about.

  I’m sitting stiffly on their plaid-upholstered couch, staring at the muted television screen. The fact that there’s barely any reporting from the Boston stations on what’s happening outside says everything about how isolated we are out here. Gil says ground blizzards don’t come around much in this part of the country, but their small town is unusually flat, and there’s not many tree lines surrounding the main roads. If there’s good news, Romina says, it’s that it’ll probably be over by midnight, and so long as there’s no other weather in the area, the roads will probably be clear by tomorrow afternoon.

  Outside, the wind steadily howls, the windows shaking with it, white swaths of snow whipping by. Inside, it’s almost as tense: on my lap, my phone lights up with texts from Kelly and my mom, who are now, given my quick update, afraid I might not make it to Michigan at all. In the kitchen, Tanner and Allison speak in hushed tones to each other as they make dinner. Gil and Romina disappeared about ten minutes ago, probably because of what’s happening behind me—Jasper, pacing the length of the couch, on his phone, his tone rigidly, falsely controlled.

  The bad weather feels like compounding interest, piling on top of the tension Jasper’s carried with him all day—this morning at the airport, the quiet drive here, his reaction to this house, this family. His frank, almost desolate reply to Gil at the table. If there’s any advantage to what’s happened here, it’s that I’ll have more time to figure out what’s really going on with him. Whatever else is strained between us, we’re friends, and I don’t like seeing him this way.

  “Your website says you’re the best car service in the state of Massachusetts,” he’s saying. “You don’t have a single car in your fleet that could get the job done?”

  “Jasper,” I say quietly, but I don’t think he hears me. I told him not to bother with this, that he’d only need to take one look outside to see all he’d need to know about our chances, but he’d insisted.

  “I’ve got four and a half hours to get my partner on a flight. I will pay you whatever you want. Up front, I’ll pay you. A bonus if you get her there on time. Anything.”

  I move around to the back of the couch, stand at one end so I can intercept him when he makes his inevitable turn. He’s got his head down, so I reach out, set a hand on his forearm. It stops him in his tracks.

  “It’s fine,” I whisper. “Really. I’ll rebook for tomorrow.”

  His jaw clenches and he mutters a grudging “Thank you for your time” into his phone before hanging up. He looks so defeated, and I can’t help it—I move my hand, stroke his arm lightly. He took off his jacket before he made the call, rolled up his shirtsleeves as though he was about to get into a fistfight, so I’m touching his bare, warm skin, the muscles beneath corded and firm. I feel like my swallow could be heard on another planet, and that damned bell is ringing somewhere around my heart.

  “I’m ruining your Christmas,” he says quietly, keeping his voice low and looking briefly over my shoulder to make sure Tanner and Allison aren’t listening.

  “You’re not ruining it.”

  “You’d be with your family right now, if it weren’t for me.”

  He blinks down at where my hand rests on his skin, but he doesn’t move. I don’t either.

  “If it weren’t for the job,” I say, keeping my voice hushed too.

  “Right. The job.”

  “Jasper. What happened in there?”

  He shrugs. “I’m off my game.”

  “Because of me.”

  He looks at me miserably. I think about lifting my hand from his arm, bringing it up to his face. I’d push the brown hair that’s fallen over his brow off his forehead. I’d let myself feel the sandpaper texture of his jaw, like I did last week. It’d feel like Christmas again, and God knows, I’m really missing Christmas right now.

  “Because of me,” he says.

  A fresh, angry gust of wind rattles through the house, and I startle where I stand.

  Immediately Jasper sets his large, warm hand over mine, and it should be friendly, comforting, not unlike casual ways we’ve touched before in the midst of a tense meeting, or a turbulent flight, whatever. But now it feels so intimate—Jasper’s skin beneath and above my hand, a miniature version of the embrace we had a week ago.

  “I’ll fix this,” he says, his features set in a familiar way. This determination—it’s at least more recognizable.

  “Plane tickets are one thing. It’s not like you can control the weather,” I tease.

  His mouth—scar-side, my favorite—lifts slightly in a smile, and my own lips curve in mirrored pleasure. While we stand like that I think of how fervently Jasper has been clinging to control since this morning. As much as he hates that I’m missing my family Christmas, I hate that he’s feeling so lost and out of sorts.

  “We’ll make the best of it,” I say, squeezing his arm slightly, and he nods. Between us, a small shift has taken place: we feel more on the same team, more like the Jasper and Kristen who order late-night food and watch baseball. “We’ll have fun.”

  “Well, we’ve found some things!” calls Romina’s chipper voice, interrupting our hushed conversation. She’s emerging from the basement door down the hall, Gil coming up behind her, his hands full. “We’ve got boots here that should work for you both, and we’ve just put some extra linens in the wash, so once those are ready we’ll take them out to the cottage, and—”

  “Oh, fun!” chimes Allison, wiping her hands on a towel. “It’ll be nice for you two to stay out there.”

  “The—?”

  Gil speaks up, cutting off my question. “We’d have you in here, of course, but we’ve only got two bedrooms, and it seems silly for Tanner and Alli to pack up all their things—”

  “No, no,” I say. “This is very generous of you.”

  “It’s a bit rough-and-ready out there,” says Romina. “But the heat works, and you’ve got a small galley kitchen, and the bed is brand-new. . . .”

  Jasper coughs. “The bed.” He repeats it rather than asks it. His hand is still warm over mine, warmer than before.

  Romina’s eyes drop to where we’ve been holding on to each other, then she looks back up. “Oh,” she says, her face flushing. “Are you not—”

  “You’re not?” says Gil. “I thought you were married.”

  “Married?” I squeak. Jasper and I practically yank our hands away from each other. We stand like two teenagers who’ve been caught right in the middle of the most awkward game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. Seven Minutes in Tense Conversation With a Coworker You’re in Love With.

  “We’re not married,” Jasper says.

  “Huh,” Gil says, his expression pleasantly confused. “Not sure where I got the idea, I guess.”

  I feel, rather than see, Tanner and Allison watching this sideshow. But I’m focused on the way Romina’s face falls. She looks around the living space, her brow furrowed. It’s a lovely, well-maintained home, but it’s clear it was built long ago, before it seemed like everyone wanted houses big enough where they’d never really have to see one another. In this front area of the house, everything overlooks something else—kitchen to living room, living room to small dining room—and I’m sure the back, down that narrow hallway, is little more th
an two bedrooms and a single bathroom between them. It’s not all that different from the house I grew up in, the house I’d be crammed into with my parents and my sister and her family, had everything gone to plan.

  “But it’s fine!” I say, my voice overly cheerful. “It’s totally fine. The cottage sounds amazing! Like a special Christmas treat.” I am as good at this farce as I am because of all the holiday movies I watch, obviously. Kelly would be very proud.

  I don’t know if my answer means Romina assumes Jasper and I are together, or if she’s just so relieved to have a solution that she doesn’t press the point any further. Gil’s holding the two pairs of boots and looking back and forth between Jasper and me like he’s trying to solve an equation.

  “How about some dinner while we wait?” Romina says, clapping her hands together and smiling, already shuffling into the kitchen.

  And it seems me and Jasper, we’re in sync again, at least on the outside, because neither of us seems to be able to do anything but stand mutely and nod, half smiles on our faces while we try to act unruffled by this change of plan.

  I only wish I knew if we’re in sync on the inside. If he’s thinking as much about that Christmas cottage bed as I am.

  Chapter Seven

  JASPER

  You can’t really avoid the bed in a place this small.

  It’s one room, the cottage—not unlike the hotel room I’d have been staying in tonight, had things gone to plan—and while it’s true that there’s some unfinished details about it, mostly Gil and Romina had been underselling it. It’s warm and obviously freshly painted; the line of cabinets that form the small galley kitchen are bright white and brand-new; the love seat and coffee table only look gently used.

  And the bed—yeah, it’s also brand-new, not even made up, which is why I’ve got an armful of snow-dusted sheets and blankets when I step farther into the room behind Kristen. We’d insisted on coming out here alone after the meal, assuring the Dreyers we didn’t want them facing the wind unnecessarily. It’d been a good decision—not just because the wind was, in fact, worryingly powerful, Kristen’s body leaning into mine as we’d walked, both of us trying to shield her face from the whipping snow, but because it’s better that none of them see the way Kristen and I seem newly frozen in place by that bed.