Our First Christmas

by Lisa Jackson

  “So you dated that Bradley?” She looked up at him as he paused, pizza inches from his mouth.

  She picked a piece of pepperoni off her pizza and then set it aside. “Ours was a fairly classic tale. We dated. We broke up.”

  “Been reading body language for a long time, ma’am. More to that story than meets the eye.”

  “You read body language?”

  “As well, if not better, than you read those dead languages.”

  She shrugged. “People are a mystery to me. Must be why I like my dead languages. They may take years to figure out, but there’s always a pattern, clues to lead you to the message. That’s not so true when it comes to people.”

  “Meaning you didn’t read Bradley well?”

  She straightened. “That doesn’t really matter.”

  “Then there’s no harm answering the question.”

  She nibbled an edge of pepperoni. “I thought he was the one. When I received a grant to travel and study, he asked me not to take the trip though I’d been dreaming of going for years. I refused to give it up. He was angry and annoyed. A week before I left, Kyle told me Bradley was dating Jennifer.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Long story made short, I broke it off.”

  A slight wavering in her voice and wrinkling in her forehead betrayed her feelings. Bradley had hurt her badly. Lucas did not fully understand why this mattered to him, but it did. “He’s a chickenshit.”

  A flicker of amusement fired in her eyes. “Not an exact translation of what I said but the connotation is a match.”

  “Why’s he hanging around?”

  “He wants access to my research material. I think he’s realized that I might soon eclipse him in reputation.”

  “He’ll live.”

  She plucked a pepperoni from the pizza. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Curiosity nudged him to ask, “Big plans for the holidays?”

  “My mother passed away seven years ago, so other than an appearance at my father and stepmother’s house tomorrow, where I deliver my presents to my brothers, no.” She plucked off another pepperoni.

  “You don’t like Christmas.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Ninety-three percent of communication is nonverbal. Your nonverbal cues scream humbug.”

  She laughed. “I’m not quite a Scrooge. I just don’t love all the fuss and the work for one day. Far too much work for so little return.”

  “Little return?”

  “It’s not super fun for me.” She lifted her pizza. “So what about you? I’m sensing you like Christmas.”

  He nodded, no hint of hesitation in his voice. “My folks always made a big deal of the day. They’re gone now, so my sister carries on the tradition. We always do up a big dinner, and she makes a point to work around my crazy schedule. One year we didn’t eat the turkey and trimmings until January 1. But it didn’t matter. Felt like Christmas.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “So why do you hate Christmas, Dr. Scrooge?”

  She laid down her pizza, suddenly not hungry. “My father left my mother on Christmas Eve.” She sighed. “He didn’t mean for it to happen that way. But they’d fought and he blurted out he was leaving. He moved out that night.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It is what it is. He’s done his best to make it up to me over the years. He and his wife go all-out for the holidays.”

  She’d been left twice, and now she did the leaving. “Sorry to hear that.”

  He realized she’d not eaten much. He’d expected talk of Christmas would have been positive neutral territory, but instead it robbed her of her appetite.

  “Don’t be. We all have to deal. That’s life.” She sighed. “Could I take copies of this code home? I’ve got a few days off, and I’ll have better luck with all my books to reference.”

  “Sure. But do me a favor and keep the work a secret. No sense letting anyone know about this.”

  “Sure.”

  He picked up a manila envelope from his desk and handed it to her. “Copies for you.”

  A delicate brow arched. “You were that sure I’d come and help you.”

  “I’m mighty persistent.”

  “You haven’t met stubborn until now.”

  A smile curved the edges of his lips. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  Chapter 3

  Friday, December 19, 11:30 P.M.

  Marisa was far too wired to sleep after Lucas Cooper dropped her off. The toys balanced in her hands, she pushed open the front door to her tiny Hyde Park home with her foot. The house had been built in the twenties and her mother had bought it shortly after her parents’ divorce. What little time her mother spared from her work went to Marisa and so the house remained ignored. Marisa knew she’d soon have to sell the place, fix it up, or risk having it disintegrate around her.

  Renovation, she’d discovered during her sole meeting with an architect last fall, took time and creativity and she had little in reserve after she pushed aside her work at the end of the day.

  And so her home remained a dark and dingy space. She’d sold most of her furniture before leaving for Mexico. Yesterday, she’d bought a clearance lawn chaise at the hardware store as well as a patio table and chair that would serve as a stopgap for dining, work, and general tasks until she figured out what to do with the house.

  She dropped the toy bags and glanced at the boxes stacked in her living room. As luck would have it, the box on top was marked CHRISTMAS. The thick block lettering had been her mother’s, and Marisa guessed after the divorce she’d boxed up what few decorations she chose to keep and put them away forever. Marisa had glanced in the box but closed it immediately. She just didn’t have the courage to see what about the dreaded holiday had been so important to her mother.

  Kicking off her shoes, Marisa moved into the kitchen, where she snagged a carton of takeout rice from the fridge that she’d not finished last night. She popped it in the microwave and set a pot of coffee to brew.

  She’d barely eaten with Lucas Cooper. She was too stunned and off-kilter to really think. She’d never been nervous when she’d met Bradley. When he’d first approached her, he’d not come bearing sweet words, flowers, or chocolates. No, he’d known her too well for that. He’d brought her a word puzzle. Granted, she’d solved the puzzle in under thirty seconds, but the gift had shown her that he’d been paying attention to her thirst to unravel mysteries. His schoolboy-ish attempt had charmed her. Later she would figure out his charms had hidden motives.

  Lucas Cooper had come bearing a far more interesting puzzle and a history of their shared night that still made her blush. As she sat at the kitchen table and thumbed through the copies of his documents, she thought back to the person she’d been the night they met. Unguarded and happy, she’d been in her element, still buzzed from a consultation with experts in the local university’s ancient studies department.

  She’d thought she’d almost moved on from Lucas, and then he’d appeared and unsteadied her with a glance and a puzzle that couldn’t be solved in under a minute.

  Despite his controlled manners tonight, his flinty warrior’s gaze suggested a very dangerous man. Born into a different time, the tall, broad-shouldered Ranger could easily have worn a warrior’s mantle, wielded a battle-ax, and sported a shield bearing the likeness of a fierce spirit god.

  The image coupled with this very intriguing puzzle flooded restless energy into her veins. She rose and moved to a drawer to dig out a rubber band and tie back her hair, which suddenly now annoyed her with its weight.

  She changed out of her jeans into sweats and an oversized T-shirt. She moved back into the kitchen, pulled out her steaming bowl of rice, and sat in the chair in front of this new mystery.

  Major drug shipment, Lucas had said. This was no whim on his part but a mission. As she scooped a ladleful of rice, she bent over the first page and studied the symbols. Their origins were clearly rooted in the Mayan culture,
though some symbols reminded her of the Aztec.

  Whoever had strung the symbols into words was clever. To the untrained eye, the Mayan and Aztec symbols were similar and few understood the differences. Much like the United States Army had used the Navajo code talkers during World War II, this cryptographer had drawn upon history to create a modern message. And it made perfect sense. Why invent a new code when a look to the past gave you the perfect solution?

  As she studied the glyphs and the dots and dashes, her heart beat a little faster. Yes, this demanding puzzle was quite intriguing.

  As she allowed the symbols to swirl in her mind, she knew she would decipher this code. It might take a day or two, but she would crack it.

  The shrill tone of her phone had her raising her head and glancing around for her cell, which was always a little lost or misplaced. She found the cell on the fourth ring and by the time she said hello she sounded breathless and a bit annoyed.

  “Marisa?”

  Her father’s voice sounded relaxed and happy. Not the clipped, perpetually angry man who’d shared the house with her mother. No, this man was a man right with the world thanks to her stepmother, who had given him the life, and the sons, he’d always craved.

  “Dad.”

  “Just checking to make sure you’re still coming tomorrow. Susan’s been cooking for days. You know how she loves Christmas.”

  Susan, her stepmother, was eighteen years younger than her father. Blond and lovely, she never stepped outside without donning makeup and designer clothes. To her credit, she was not a bad woman. She’d not been behind her parents’ divorce and had, in fact, not come into her father’s life until four or five years after the final decree. She went out of her way to make Marisa feel welcome whenever she visited. Marisa, out of politeness, had done her best to play her part as the dutiful daughter. But no matter how many presents Susan bought or how many smiles and thank-yous they exchanged, she never felt comfortable in their home. She was the outsider and no time of year made her more attuned to her outlier status than Christmas.

  “I know she loves the day.” She pictured the three Christmas trees that Susan put up, the thousands of white lights that now adorned their front lawn, and the row of pictures featuring her brothers sitting with Santa Claus lined up along the mantle.

  “She’s gone all-out for you this year. Put a lot of thought into your gift. You’re going to be pleased.”

  Marisa felt ungrateful and small when she thought about the bottle of perfume she’d hastily purchased online for Susan. Expensive and nice didn’t trump the lack of thought or love that had gone into the gift. She’d checked the Christmas Gift box, so to speak. “I can’t wait.”

  A silence crackled through the line. “How’s work going?”

  “Great. I’m steeped in ancient cultures.”

  “What about the modern culture? All work and no play . . .”

  He let the words trail. “I love my work. Hard to say no to it.” Her work never disappointed, lied, or left. “The work is so thrilling.”

  In the background she heard the boys’ polite chatter. Her father had set up a special desk for the boys so they could work alongside their dad. The voices grew louder and a door opened. “Well, we look forward to seeing you.”

  “Me, too. Can’t wait.”

  She hung up, sadness fisting a knot in her chest. Pity she couldn’t bond with people as well as she connected with her dead languages.

  Marisa had lost track of time when her phone chimed with a text. She rubbed her eyes and stretched her tight shoulders as she glanced at the clock on her phone. It was just after 2 A.M. The time had slipped away from her again. She picked up her coffee and sipped. Ice-cold. Grimacing, she moved to the sink and poured out the stale coffee before setting another cup to brew. As the machine gurgled and spit, she picked up her phone.

  Sacrifices will be made.

  What sacrifices?

  Rubbing her tired eyes, she studied the words and phone number. The caller was Unknown. Not Lucas. Who would send her such a text? She had a friend, Doris, who drank too much on occasion and would send Marisa texts. But those were all jokes about the men she met in bars.

  The reference to sacrifices made no sense and did not fit the profile of anyone she knew.

  Sacrifices will be made.

  Assuming the text had arrived in error, she moved to the coffee machine and picked up her cup. With a splash of milk, the fresh coffee tasted good and revived many of her lagging senses. Foolish to drink the brew so late at night, but she knew herself well enough to know she’d work until dawn and then, with no school tomorrow, fall into bed to sleep the day away.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  She picked it up and read: Sacrifices will be made.

  More annoyed than worried, she imagined a drunk in a bar texting a girlfriend or someone’s ex too hammered to make sure the call was sent to the right person.

  As she set the phone aside and settled back in her chair to review the notes she’d written, there was a loud bang on her front door. She jumped, sloshing her coffee. Hissing as the brew scorched her hand, she rose and backed away from the door until she bumped into her kitchen counter.

  The pounding grew louder, and when the handle of her front door rattled as if someone was trying to tear the doorknob out of its setting, she realized the text was no mistake or joke.

  Her phone buzzed a third time and she glanced at the word, Sacrifice.

  Someone was sending her a message. A warning. A threat. She looked toward the scattered, coffee-stained pages on her table and at the door. The rattling and pounding stopped, and a shadowed figure passed in front of her thick sheer-covered front window.

  Her hands trembled as she drew in a breath and catalogued the names of the people she could call. The cops made sense, of course, but that would put her in the position of explaining the documents, and Lucas had asked her to keep the work she was doing for him a secret.

  There was Bradley, but she imagined him nestled next to Jennifer, waking to take the call. He would come, but there’d be some price, no doubt, to her pride. Her father would lecture and demand she stay at his house for the holidays.

  The door handle rattled again, not with the urgency of a madman but of someone trying to calculate its strength. Whoever was out there was stalking, searching for a chance to strike.

  She scrolled through her list of contacts and settled on one. Embarrassment fluttered for just a brief moment and then she dialed.

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, December 20, 3:00 A.M.

  Lucas parked in front of the Hyde Park house within a half hour of receiving Marisa’s call. Lights in all the rooms burned bright and set the house apart on the darkened, quiet street. Out of his SUV, he put on his hat. Hand on his gun, he surveyed the porch that stretched across the front of the house, the tall windows, and the brick façade. It was a fine house, no doubt expensive, but it was in need of work.

  He saw no signs of a threat, but still kept his hand on his gun as he moved to the front steps and knocked. He could easily imagine Marisa meaning to tend to the house just as she’d meant to buy those presents before it was almost too late. Cracked brick and peeling shutters weren’t enough to pull her from work.

  Footsteps inside the house ran to the front door and hesitated. “Marisa, it’s Lucas Cooper.”

  The rattle of chains scraped against locks and the door opened. Light from the interior shined behind Marisa, casting a glow on the long black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Her skin was pale in the light, and the spark of annoyance had vanished, making her look a bit fragile. “You had some trouble.”

  She pushed open the screened door, which squeaked and groaned. “I’m feeling just a little foolish right about now. It’s been quiet since I called you. Not a rattle or a text.”

  He stepped inside the foyer, removing his hat as he surveyed the living room. As worn and neglected as the exterior, it was furnished with just a few brand-new outdoor cha
irs and a table that looked more suited for a picnic. One chair still had the red clearance tag dangling from an arm. He guessed she’d sold her furniture before her Mexico trip, likely still angry over Bradley’s affair, and believing she’d not return to her life in Austin.

  What she couldn’t bring herself to sell had gone into storage. What Marisa valued enough to keep, fit in a half-dozen dusty boxes. One box marked CHRISTMAS had a loose top flap as if she’d pried it open and stopped. He doubted if she’d ever get around to putting up the decorations.

  He closed the door behind him and eased his hand away from the gun. “I’m glad you did call. Can’t be too careful.”

  “I’m not the nervous sort. Not at all.” She scrolled through her phone and showed him the messages. “I’ve camped in the jungle and dealt with unsavory characters and wild animals. But these texts . . . they were creepy. And then someone came to the door and rattled it as if they wanted to get inside. I kind of freaked.” An apology hummed under the words.

  “Like I said, glad you called. There a backyard?”

  “Yes. Not big, but it’s through those double French doors.”

  He strode across the small home, his boots thudding steadily against the rough pine floor. In the backyard, there was a nicely built deck in need of refinishing and no furniture. No potted plants. “Looks clear.”

  She hovered fifteen feet from the door. “I ran around the house checking all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. I also checked under the bed and in the closets.”

  He frowned. “I’d rather you’d have waited for me to do that.”

  She grimaced. “I felt a little foolish after I talked to you. I don’t panic.”

  “No trouble. No trouble at all.”

  She hugged her arms around her. “Can I get you a coffee at least?”

  “Sure. That would be nice.”

  He followed her into the kitchen and noticed the scattered papers he’d given her earlier this evening. Red marks covered each page. He tried to read her comments but found her writing just as elusive as the ancient language. “Looks like you were working.”