Christmas Duet: A Big City, Small Town Christmas Romance Bundle

by Gina Robinson

  Tara couldn't help smiling, slightly at least, at the memory. "Yeah, well, I was young and naïve. I did a lot of stupid things back then, like trailing after Ryan and Chad like a lovesick puppy. Turns out Grandpa had the right idea trying to keep us apart. Oil and vinegar, that's what we really are."

  Laurel gave her a look that said she didn't believe her. Tara ignored it. She didn't feel like talking about the past anymore. Instead, she changed the subject and circled the room with her hand. "So all of this—the décor, the decorations—this doesn't look like Ryan at all. Please tell me this is you."

  Laurel grinned. "Mine and a talented interior designer."

  Tara arched a brow. "I love the old-world-style Christmas decorations."

  "Good. Those are all my idea."

  "They're gorgeous."

  "And cheap."

  "Cheap?" Tara couldn't believe that. "You have to be kidding. Have you come into a fortune I don't know about? I've seen ornaments like these in catalogues. They start at ten dollars for the small ones and go up from there. You have a mint's worth here."

  Laurel grinned. "Sure. Retail they're pricey. But not at the new factory outlet here in town. Old European Christmas moved their headquarters here last summer. They opened up a factory outlet store after Thanksgiving. It will be open through Christmas Eve and then closed until next Thanksgiving. They're selling the ornaments wholesale to everyone. These ornaments only cost two to three dollars apiece. Everyone in town has them."

  "I want some!" Tara said. "I must have them. They'll look great on the lodge Christmas tree and Gram will love them. Give me directions?"

  "I will, but they aren't open today. They open at noon and close at six three days a week." Laurel's eyes lit up. "Hey, want to make a shopping date? A girl's day before I have this kiddo?"

  "Love to."

  "Good. I'll talk to Donny about getting an afternoon off."

  6

  Twice a week since ski season opened, Ryan had been giving a ski and board-waxing workshop in the lodge gift shop. He not only waxed boards, he made minor repairs to bindings and equipment. Fit people for helmets. Gave advice about snow conditions on the mountain and the best runs. Recommended instructors for those who wanted lessons. Calmed nerves. Just generally talked skiing and snowboarding with anyone who showed up and wanted to talk.

  Since starting the workshops, sales at the lodge's gift shop had increased fifty percent compared to last year at the same time. Harry was the king of fishing and hunting advice, and Ryan was his skiing equivalent. People recognized passion when they saw it, and Ryan had passion in spades. And because he'd practically grown up on the mountain and was on the ski patrol, people trusted him. He never mentioned Chad's accident, but he was adamant in his advice to respect the mountain, never take chances, and to watch the weather. It was his way of doing penance for his part in Chad's death.

  Everyone in Echo Bay and town, all the old-timers at least, knew about Chad's fatal accident on the mountain. But none of them brought it up.

  Ryan's work at the gift shop was partly therapeutic and partly an investment in his future, if he could ever wrest the lodge away from Tara's clutching hands and her stupid property management company. Could this wonderful property management company hire someone to do the workshops and hand-sell the goods as effectively as someone who genuinely loved the place like he did? Why didn't Tara believe that he owning the lodge was his dream and he wasn't living Chad's life, he was trying to live his? That this wasn't a dark obsession, as she seemed to think?

  Somehow, he'd have to make her see the truth.

  Ryan would never work for her property management company. No amount of money could entice him.

  He was still stinging from his interview with Tara earlier and not keen on running into her again, especially so soon. If he hadn't already promised several guests he'd be by to help them, he would have kept driving and headed directly home. But Margie would be waiting for him with a slice of lemon pie—assuming Tara hadn't eaten that, too. And the stubborn, perverse part of him refused to let Tara scare him off from doing something he loved.

  She could choose to hang onto the guilt from the past, but he wasn't going to let it drag him down with her.

  He turned into the lodge parking lot and pulled into a spot. Harry had managed to get the lot plowed, but he hadn't done a great job of it. Every time Harry plowed, the lot got noticeably smaller.

  As Ryan walked toward the lodge, he was hoping for a small Christmas miracle—that Tara would be locked away in her room doing whatever it was she did there.

  Tara stood in the lodge's great room by the river-rock fireplace staring at the gaping hole where the Christmas tree should have been. Weeks ago. And by gaping hole, she actually meant sofas and chessboard table that had to be moved to make way for the traditional Christmas tree in its traditional spot. Where it had been every year since Tara's birth.

  And should have been now, not only for festive, family holiday reasons, but for business purposes. Guests came to the lodge to enjoy the winter holiday atmosphere. Without the tree, where was the atmosphere?

  Gram and Grandpa were slipping, really slipping. A property management company would have had the tree up the day after Thanksgiving. Tara herself would have taken care of it immediately if Ryan and his antics hadn't distracted her.

  She stood studying the spot with Harry, Gram, Stormy, and Kathleen looking on with her.

  "You should have ordered one months ago, Grandpa," Tara said. "Ordered exactly to your specifications and had it delivered and ready to go. It's too late now. And the tree you need is too big to just pick up at a local lot. Maybe the tree farm—"

  "Too expensive," Harry said. "Way too expensive. You know that, Tara. Have you forgotten your childhood? We go out in the forest and cut one ourselves."

  Tara stared at her grandfather and sighed. In his younger days he was strong and fit enough to carry a tree the size of Canada on his back if he needed. These days with his arthritis acting up and his bad back, he'd be lucky to carry a sapling. She opened her mouth to say something, but Gram cut her off with a look.

  "We were waiting for you this year, Tara," Gram said so sweetly maple sugar wouldn't melt in her mouth.

  Yeah, Tara bet they were. They needed her brawn, such as it was.

  She looked at Gram. "Have you at least gotten the forest service permit?" Permits were cheap and sold out quickly. The forest service only issued so many. They didn't want the forests clear cut.

  Before either Harry or Margie could answer, the front door swung open and a cold burst of air washed in. Standing just inside the doorway, looking very much as he had the night before, and even more like he had when Tara had been in love with him, stood Ryan.

  Tara glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the fireplace mantel. Ryan was right on time. He had just enough time to grab a quick burger before that board-waxing workshop of his.

  Ryan took off his hat and shook the snow off it. "Hey, all. Are you having a convention without me?" Ryan came over to join them and stare at the sofa and other furniture as if he knew what was going on.

  "We're discussing the plans for getting the tree," Harry yelled to him, even though by then Ryan was within easy hearing distance. "Have you gotten the permit yet?"

  Tara went cold, and it wasn't because the door was still open letting a cold December wind in, either.

  "Picked it up before Thanksgiving." Ryan pulled off his gloves, stuffed them into his pocket, turned his back to the nearby fire that was roaring in the fireplace, and put his hands behind him to warm them. "Wouldn't have mattered anyway. Rick promised to hold one out for us. Pays to have old baseball buddies in the forest service."

  "Rick Dempsey?" Tara asked, wondering what excuse Gram and her grandpa had used to put off getting the tree for so long.

  "The very one," Ryan said.

  "Good, good." Harry nodded.

  "But, Grandpa," Tara protested, "how are we going to haul a tree from the forest to the
lodge?"

  "We'll use the Bobcat." Harry smiled at Ryan. "You're still coming with us Saturday to help us cut it?"

  What! Tara clenched her teeth so hard she thought she might crack a tooth.

  Gram clasped her hands in front of her in a gesture that meant she was pleased. "Oh, good. It'll be like old times when you and Chad and Tara were kids and Harry took you into the forest to get our tree."

  Yeah, old times. Great. Isn't that what kept me away at Christmas all these years?

  "And you'll help us get the ornaments down from the attic, too?" Gram said.

  Tara couldn't stand it any longer. "We don't need his help." She didn't want to relive old times, certainly not with Ryan. Just his presence was pushing her to places she didn't want to go.

  Everyone in the semicircle gaped at her.

  She swallowed hard. "I can get the boxes of ornaments down by myself." She bit her lip. "I'd like the time alone." She paused, trying to maintain control of her emotions. "I haven't seen them since…"

  Gram looked at her sadly and exchanged a quick, worried look with Harry. Ryan remained silent, but his Adam's apple bobbed.

  "Now that I've come back, I'd like to start fresh with new traditions, too. I'd like to buy some new ornaments for the tree at Old European."

  "You've been talking to Laurel." Ryan's tone was surprisingly sympathetic.

  Harry cleared his throat and looked like he didn't know what to say.

  "They're my treat, Grandpa. Part of my Christmas gift to you." Tara never knew what to get them anyway. Facing the old decorations, the ones she and Chad used to put on the tree, in the attic on her own was one thing. The silly old school crafts they'd made over the years. The old favorite wooden and felt ornaments. The ornament Ryan had given her that final year. Seeing them on the tree throughout the season was another.

  "Laurel promised to go ornament shopping with me." The fact that Ryan so easily read her and figured out she'd had a chat with Laurel only made Tara shakier.

  Tara put her hands on her hips, as if defying anyone to challenge her plan.

  "Now that that's settled," Gram said, "Ryan, have you eaten? I saved you a piece of lemon pie."

  Ryan shot Tara a quick glance as if to confirm the pie still existed—in someplace other than her stomach. She rolled her eyes. Just because she'd eaten his pie once didn't make her a pie thief for life.

  "Your usual?" Kathleen asked as she turned toward the kitchen.

  As Ryan nodded, Stormy took his arm and led him to his usual booth. Tara was really worried. Ryan had seamlessly inserted himself into a time-honored family tradition.

  Tara shot Ryan's retreating back another look. What else had he done? What else was he up to? She felt a stab of jealousy and pushed back the thought that he was trying to take Chad's place. That he was acting like a better grandchild than she was.

  She bit her lip and turned toward the stairs to disappear into her room. She didn't want to be part of the Ryan-fest. Halfway there, she stopped short. Maybe it was better to face the enemy head on in his own camp.

  She was going to go to that workshop of his and rattle his cage in the way he was rattling hers.

  The ski and board-waxing workshop had been Ryan's idea from the beginning. He'd convinced Harry to give him space in the shop building behind the lodge. Too many guests arrived at the lodge with their boards and skis unprepared for the unique and changing snow conditions at the Basin.

  Some were once a year skiers and boarders. Some newbies and beginners. And diehards. All seemed to be busy living fast-paced, modern lives. So busy they rushed out of town without a thought toward general equipment maintenance. Yes, there were ski and board shops in town, but an eager skier or boarder ready to hit the slopes would hate to have to stop and wait for his equipment to be waxed. So Ryan suggested the workshop. He inspected, waxed, and cleaned a few boards and skis, put edges on, recommended repairs, talked about the conditions on the mountain, answered questions, and just generally enjoyed himself.

  He'd set up his equipment in the back of the unheated shop. Harry had come in earlier and turned on the space heaters so the place was cozy. In spots, at least. And well lit. Margie had decorated the place for Christmas with fir bows, Christmas balls, and a large wreath on the door.

  Ryan set up an iPod and speakers and turned on a selection of Christmas music for atmosphere. The workshop smelled of fir, tools, wax, cleaner, outdoors, and irons—Christmas and the slopes. What could better? And what could be worse?

  He inhaled deeply and unzipped the snowboard bag he'd brought with him. As he pulled an old, never-used snowboard from its case, he wondered why he tormented himself with it. What possessed him to keep the girlie thing with its bright pink, purple, blue, and green stripes? The Ghost of Christmas Past, he thought.

  He set the board on his vises, ready to use for demonstration purposes.

  I really should give this to some girl who can't afford one. Donate it to the Santa Ski. Let them find a good home for it.

  And yet he knew he wouldn't. It was Tara's. Or, rather, it had been intended to be. He still remembered her eyeing it at the ski shop in town, hinting that was what she wanted for Christmas.

  Hell, he'd had no money. He was a broke college kid. So he'd made a deal to work at the shop waxing and repairing boards over Thanksgiving and Christmas break to pay for the thing. He'd worked his ass off, too. Long hours, so many that the payment of the board hadn't even amounted to minimum wage. But that was where he'd learned his waxing technique. So maybe he should be grateful.

  He'd planned to give it to her that night, the Christmas Eve Chad died. For obvious reasons, he never had. He should have traded it for something else all those years ago. But he'd had too much pride. Old Man Wilkes had ribbed him about it at the shop so often, Ryan couldn't face returning it. And he'd been a fool. He'd held out hope...

  Now it was just old technology. Good for demos. And a laugh at his naïve younger self. True love never dies. Right.

  Like him, it had no bindings. It was perfect for demonstrations.

  He set his waxing iron out and turned it on. He was arranging his assortment of waxes and cleaners as the first guests arrived with a cold gust as they opened the door. He looked up and smiled at the newcomers, a young teenage boy, thirteen or fourteen, came in with his parents. He was carrying a snowboard.

  Ryan smiled at him and waved him in. "Welcome, welcome. Come on in. You brought a board to work on—excellent! Bring it on up."

  Two more young men came in with a young woman. They were eighteen, nineteen, twenty maybe. One of the guys carried a board. The three laughed and teased and jostled each other. The trio reminded him of Chad, Tara, and him in younger, happier days.

  A few more attendees straggled in as it approached six. He chatted with them, one eye on the door. A few minutes after, when it appeared no one else was coming, Ryan decided to start.

  He hadn't realized how tense he was, worrying against the odds that Tara would show up. As if that would happen. He was pretty sure Tara considered this place a little shop of horrors. Besides, she knew how to wax and edge and make general repairs. He'd taught her himself.

  But you never knew. She was unpredictable. She might get up the nerve to come in just to torment him.

  "Let's get started," he said and rubbed his hands together. He patted the board in front of him. "I'm going to be demonstrating the process and technique on this board. It's never been used, just waxed and re-waxed dozens of times. Maybe one day, if it gets lucky, it will get a shot at the slopes."

  Just then the door to the shop opened and Tara stepped in. She glanced at the board before locking eyes with him. His mouth went dry. He couldn't read the exact emotion in her eyes, but he was pretty sure it wasn't joy. More like shock. She had to recognize the board. She carried a tray with a coffee pot and cups that suddenly rattled in her hands.

  Margie's fingerprints were all over Tara's sudden arrival bearing hot beverages. Bringing the coffee was Mar
gie's job.

  Ryan cleared his throat and tried to ignore Tara as she set the tray on a nearby table, took a seat at the back of the class, and crossed her legs and arms. Could she be any more closed to him? Why didn't she just drop off the coffee and run?

  She might have been trying to rattle him, as she had the coffee, to scare him off. But what she'd really succeeded in doing was issuing a challenge. There was no way he was backing down or bumbling his workshop.

  And since she was here, he may as well seize this opportunity to get his message across—he was here to stay. She could like it or lump it. Or she could believe him when he said this was his dream and cooperate. And come back to him.

  He hated to admit it, but he'd take her back, even with all their sad past between them.

  He picked up a spray bottle and showed it to his audience. "I use this citric acid cleaner. It's eco-friendly and biodegradable. Gentle on the board. Back in the bad old days, we used to use a caustic cleaner. Harmful on the skin, the health, and the environment. These days, we've moved on." He stared right at Tara, issuing his challenge: It's time we move on, too.

  He sprayed Tara's board. "It's important to completely cover the surface of the board with the cleaner. This will get all the old wax off. As well as diesel from the snowcats that groom the slopes. Sap, it gets that out, too. This stuff gets out pretty much everything but old grudges."

  Tara stared back at him. Good, message received.

  "Impurities. Everything. We want this board stripped bare." Like his soul. He kept his gaze aimed at Tara.

  Her cool returning stare matched the temperature in the already cool room. At least, that was the way it felt to Ryan.

  "At this point we're not trying to make the board look pretty. We're trying to make a clean surface so the new wax will hold."

  Tara barely blinked. Couldn't she tell he was apologizing? Or trying to? Or at least pleading a case to let bygones be bygones and start fresh?