"Gram, Grandpa, Jim." Tara nodded to them as she rushed past and raced up the stairs to her room.
Jim raised an eyebrow.
Harry scowled. "See what I mean? Never does any good to count chickens."
Margie ignored him and the implications of Tara's sudden arrival and abrupt departure for her room. Margie was tenacious and hopelessly optimistic. She refused to view this apparently unfortunate turn of events as the loss of her dreams for a grandson-in-law—in particular, Ryan. Just a temporary, hopefully very temporary, setback.
Margie leaned down and whispered to Jim. "Just ignore what you just saw. You keep that gift in Santa's pack until you hear different from me. Things are going to work out. This Christmas we're going to have something to celebrate." If she had to make it happen herself.
Margie had had enough sad Christmases to last a lifetime. And since, statistically speaking, she didn't have much lifetime left, she was going to make good and certain her few remaining Christmases were merry ones.
"No matter what Ryan asks or demands, be a good Santa and believe in Christmas miracles. Just keep that gift in your pack. Make yourself unavailable to Ryan for a few days if you have to." She nodded in the direction Tara had disappeared. "Give the two of them some time to cool down and work things out."
"Staying unavailable in this information age is asking the impossible," Jim said.
Margie shrugged. "You'll think of something, Santa. You wouldn't want to let down two of the best young people around, would you?"
Harry had been sitting with his coffee cup poised halfway to his mouth, looking lost in thought. He chimed in, almost off topic. "Guess Tara brought up asking Ryan to manage the lodge." He shook his head. "I told her there was no way that's what the boy wanted. Offering him that job was like putting a match to a powder keg."
Well, Harry had been right on that score.
"Give them time," Margie said. "They'll come around."
Harry sighed and shook his head. "What makes you so sure? They didn't last time."
"This isn't last time. They've had ten years to miss each other and come to terms with what happened to Chad." Margie felt particularly defensive of Tara. She didn't want, couldn't stand, to see her slip into that despair and depression again. Not when they'd finally gotten her back to the lodge. "And we still have the lodge to use as leverage."
In her warm, cozy room, Tara threw open the window and inhaled deeply, feeling as if she was suffocating. The mountain was obscured by cloud cover and the lake was nothing more than a dark gray mass in the dark.
She brushed a tear away. Why was she still crying over Ryan all these years later? How could he just expect her to rush into things?
Is it really too soon? Or are you just scared?
Ryan's words haunted her. You still don't trust me. Not with your heart.
Was this really about them? Was she afraid to trust him with either her heart or her future or even her past?
But things were so new, and their relationship so obviously tenuous—
A tiny light blazed in the distant gloom on the edge of the lake. Ryan's cabin. Tara blinked. She'd been staring at his place like the lovelorn heroine of a tragic romance wishing she could will her hero to her side. Only Ryan had the power to turn her into a moony, emotional mess.
She shut the window and pulled the curtains.
Time, she thought, as her heart ached. I just need some time to think things through.
In less than a week she'd be back in Seattle, where she was safe and her heart in no danger. Why didn't that sound as satisfying as it had when she'd first arrived?
There was another eight inches of snow on the ground when Ryan got up the next morning and pulled his bedroom curtains back to check the weather and get his morning fix of the lake. He'd had a restless night. He could use a little light to raise his spirits. Had it been only yesterday he'd been full of optimism and Christmas cheer?
The sun wasn't even close to up yet. And from the way it was still snowing, it didn't look like it was going to peek through when it did.
Great. Just great.
He was going to have to dig his way out of the driveway again and plow his way into town and hope he could make it without getting stuck in a drift. At that moment, he hated his usually beautiful commute.
Across the way the light of the lodge sparkled brightly, enticingly. His stomach growled. And his mouth watered thinking of Margie's gingerbread pancakes and a steaming cup of coffee—the comfortable breakfast routine he'd established before Tara had arrived in town to break his heart. No way he could stop by now. He wasn't in the mood to face her. Now he'd have to resort to eating a bowl of instant oatmeal alone here at the cabin.
If he owned the lodge—
He corrected himself. When he owned the lodge he'd eat all the pancakes or waffles or eggs he wanted and not have to commute again.
He let the curtains fall back into place and headed for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he toweled his hair dry and headed to the kitchen. Blondie met him at his bedroom door, barking happily.
He reached down to scratch her ears. "Why did I ever name you after her, girl? Come on. Let's go get something to eat."
He flipped on the hall light and his Christmas tree came into full view. He froze, staring at it and all the memories it was filled with.
"Dashed hopes," he said aloud.
Blondie barked as if she agreed.
"Good girl. At least you understand." He knew there was a reason he kept the dog around. But he rued putting up the tree. What was he going to do about it now?
He shook his head. He was just going to have to leave the thing up until after Christmas. But the day after, it was coming down first thing.
As he microwaved his oatmeal, he remembered he'd promised to grab a few buddies and shovel the lodge roof. He fully intended to do it. But he couldn't face it tonight. In fact, he decided to cancel his next waxing workshop, too. He just needed a few days to put the armor back around his heart and then he'd be fine. Just a few days so he wouldn't be tempted to act like a jerk around Tara, or a love-struck boy.
Speaking of which...
He grabbed his phone and texted Jim Dickson, telling him to hold onto that present for Tara and not to put it in Santa's bag, and promising to pick it up before Christmas. Ryan supposed he should stop by to pick it up today, but he didn't want to see that ring just now. Maybe the thing was bad luck. It certainly was a symbol of his stupidity and failed dreams.
Tara doesn't want you, buddy, he told himself. Not the way you want her. And what's the use of a lopsided relationship?
He thought about the look on her face when she'd offered him the position of managing the lodge. Maybe he was the problem. Maybe she was right and he was moving too fast. But he knew what he wanted. Had known since he was a teenager. And right now both things were slipping through his grasp.
When Tara came downstairs for breakfast, Gram was worrying over another cancellation with Kathleen. "With so much snow, people are afraid of they won't be able to get here.
"I avoided two more cancellations, assuring guests the roads are well plowed and the skiing not to be missed. Telling them they can't miss the excitement and adventure of our record snows. But if this keeps up much longer..." When she looked up and saw Tara, she trailed off and forced a too-bright smile. "And how's our girl this morning?"
Tara forced a smile back, wishing she'd had more composure when she'd returned last night and thinking again how much her grandparents needed to hand running the lodge off to someone else. "Hanging in."
"Well, good." Gram gave her a one-armed hug. "Sit down and I'll go make you some breakfast."
"Don't bother. I'm not hungry."
"You have to eat."
"I'll grab a bowl of cold cereal—"
Margie shook her head. "I'll make you a nice, hot bowl of our famous oatmeal with cranberries and walnuts. You can help yourself to coffee." She disappeared into the kitchen.
Harry wa
s puttering around worrying about the roof again.
"Ryan canceled his waxing workshop tonight," Harry said to Tara, looking sympathetic and as if he was walking on thin ice. "Made some excuse." Her grandfather patted her awkwardly on the back.
Tara could barely stand all this sympathy, and the way her relationship—or lack of—was affecting everyone and everything, the odds for having her first truly happy Christmas in ten years were slipping away.
"I was hoping he'd come over today to shovel the roof," Harry said. "I don't think that's going to happen, though?" He looked to Tara for confirmation.
"No, I'm sorry, Grandpa. I wouldn't count on Ryan coming over for a while." She paused, trying to keep her emotions out of her voice. "He and I have had a falling out." She cursed herself for tearing up. "In fact, I don't think you'll see him until after I leave. But don't worry. I'm going to get someone over to clear the roof ASAP. I'll get on it right after breakfast."
Breakfast and forty-five minutes later, Tara sat in Harry's office trying to make good on her promise.
"Yes, I understand everyone's snowed under and demanding immediate service," she said into the phone to the twelfth company she'd called. "But my grandpa has a weak heart. He can't do it himself. And the stress of worrying about it is bad for his health.
"Is the roof flat? No. Well, yes, I understand that flat roofs have the greatest chance of collapsing and have to have top priority but—
"What's the pitch of our roof?" She peered out the window, trying to guess. How was she supposed to know? "It's just a normal roof." Pause. "No, not steeply pitched like an alpine roof. Just your average slope." That should have given the lodge some priority.
"The twenty-seventh? That's the earliest you can do?"
She'd called every company from here to the Canadian border and back again. This was the earliest anyone had even offered to come out.
"Fine. Yes, I'll take it. Put us on the schedule." She crossed her fingers, hoping that blasted snow would stop and the old roof would hold up.
Tara's cell phone buzzed as she was heading back to her room. "Laurel. What's up?"
"A pile of guilt," Laurel said. "I just realized how close it is to Christmas and we still haven't had our shopping trip to Old European." There was a tease in her voice and she was clearly digging for information.
If Laurel was plugged in to the town's gossip, which she clearly had to be, she already knew Tara had been to Old European with Ryan. And practically bought out the store.
Ah, two days ago—the good old days.
"My bad," Tara said, trying to sound cheery and upbeat. "I'm sure you heard about my trip there with Ryan. I pretty much own stock in that place now."
"Yeah, I heard. And I kept hoping you'd call and dish. And, you know, apologize profusely for standing me up, or whatever you call doing our thing with someone else. And arrange some other get together before you disappear into the black hole of Seattle again after Christmas."
Yeah, Tara was screwing up on all fronts. In the background of Laurel's call, Tara heard Christmas music playing and the happy clatter of the café. Laurel must have been on her break.
"I'll be out of here the twenty-eighth," Tara said. There was no way, particularly now, that she was sticking around to be dateless on New Year's Eve. "What's your schedule like between then and now?"
"Hideously busy, except for Christmas Eve. At least the early part of it. Donny's on ski patrol and has to be at the Santa Ski. I'd go with him if I weren't eight months preggo. But as it is, I'll be stuck at my mom's cabin in Echo Bay watching old Christmas classics with her and waiting for him to get home."
"You're spending Christmas with your mom?" Tara asked.
"Oh, yeah. It's her year."
"Well then, why don't you pop over to the lodge and spend early Christmas Eve until Donny gets back with me here?"
"You're not going to the Santa Ski?" Laurel hesitated. "But I thought... I mean, I heard a rumor..."
Oh, darn. Small towns.
"At one point, I was going. But since then Ryan and I have had a falling out. Which, given us, was probably inevitable. Same old issues," Tara said, trying to keep her voice from wavering and hoping Laurel wouldn't press for details. Really, "same old issues" said it all, and Laurel knew their history as well as anyone.
"I'm sorry, Tara. I'd hoped—"
"Yeah, we all did." A bitter laugh escaped before Tara could stop it. Apparently she wasn't the only naïve Pollyanna ninny in the area. "And so, no, I have no plans to go the Santa Ski and I'd love to see you and spend Christmas Eve here instead. Like old times.
"It'll be cheery and festive. Gram's going to make her Christmas pie. Carter has been collecting the best and most Christmassy fragranced kindling and logs for the blaze that night. We can't compete with the prizes and skiing, but I can promise good food and good company."
"You know what, you're on," Laurel said.
17
It snowed another day and ten inches. On the second morning, two days before Christmas, Tara woke up and padded into the bathroom to take a shower. There was one small problem—the floor was wet. So was her towel. And water dripped from the ceiling and walls.
Shoot, shoot, shoot! If only the roof clearers had come.
She gazed up at the ceiling, half expecting to see she'd acquired a new skylight overnight. But aside from the water running where it shouldn't be, the roof was still intact. She was really going to be in deep trouble with Harry now. And she had to stop him before he did something crazy.
For half a manic second, she considered calling Ryan and begging him to come over and help. Texting him, at least.
As she grabbed her robe and raced out of the bathroom, the sound of prancing and pawing on her roof stopped her cold. Actually, more accurately it was the sound of a ladder being hefted onto the roof as it scraped along the eves.
Ryan. At least she hoped he'd come to the rescue.
She rushed to the window and threw open the sash. There was no moon, and no rising sun, either, to give the luster of midday to objects below. And all that appeared to her wondering eyes was more snow and a little old man in a red stocking hat who was not so lively and quick—her grandfather carrying a shovel as he climbed up the ladder and hoisted himself onto the roof. Not a miniature sleigh or eight tiny reindeer in sight. Definitely no Ryan. No whistling and calling his coursers by name. Just a bit of benign cursing beneath his breath.
Harry waved when he saw her. "Tara."
At least she hadn't startled him off the roof. "Grandpa, what are you doing up here? I hope you're not planning to shovel the roof by yourself."
He shook his head. "This danged snow. Dang, dang stuff. It's piled up higher than the steam vents that stick out of the roof. The warm air from the vents is melting the snow ledge that sticks up above the vents and it's dripping into the lodge. I'm going to clear out around the vents is all."
That explained the new fountain feature in her bathroom.
"I'll put some jeans on and help you."
He shook his head. "No need. I don't want you on the roof. You stay inside and make sure your gram doesn't worry too much. As soon as Carter arrives, send him up."
Gram would be terribly worried. Harry's balance had been off for years. Tara nodded. "You be careful."
"That goes without saying."
Tara closed her window and got dressed. By the time she got downstairs, a cluster of guests was discussing the situation.
A little boy, no more than three or four, kept grabbing his mom's hand and pointing to the ceiling. "Santa's on the roof and he's going to come down the chimney."
Oh, boy. Tara hoped not. If Harry came down the chimney, it wasn't going to be magical like Santa. It was going to be time to call 911.
"Your fool of a grandfather is up on that roof," Gram said the minute she spotted Tara. "I told him not to go up there, but would he listen?"
"Has anyone called Ryan?" Tara said. "I'm sure he'd come—"
Gram shook
her head. "Harry has too much pride to ask him."
Tara knew the reason for that. Harry had always been fiercely protective of her. If some young man had hurt her, Grandpa was going to shelter her from him. Right now, Ryan was that man. As long as she was hurt and on the outs with Ryan, no one would be calling him. She was the same as giving Gram permission now to defy Harry and just call Ryan for heaven's sake.
"If you won't, I'll call him." Tara reached for her cell phone in her pocket.
Gram grabbed her arm. "Don't. We can't string Ryan along and prey on his good graces any more. We'll handle this ourselves."
Gram was usually sweet and amiable. But when her tone was hard and serious like it was now, there was no use arguing with her. She made a good point about stringing Ryan along. Tara was guilty enough of that as it was. She'd wanted to come back and make things better for her grandparents. Instead, she'd messed things up for them and Ryan.
"What can I do to help?" Tara asked.
"Round up as many buckets as you can find and go door to door distributing them," Gram said. "I think there are a couple, at least, in the shed. Then grab anything else you can find—empty bowls, wastebaskets, and cans. We can try to minimize the damage. Get all the clean towels you can find, too, and hand them out. And some mops to wipe up."
Gram shook her head. "There might be an old one in the shed, too. We don't use mops for much any more with all these fancy new cleaning devices. I'll need help with the extra laundry later. And call the laundry and see if they can send more out."
Tara had just opened her mouth to agree when they heard a heavy thud on the roof.
Tara froze. Gram stilled beside her. The buzz of guests having breakfast and getting ready to head for the slopes died into pin-drop silence.
The sound of rolling and skidding was followed by scream.
Gram gasped. "Harry, you old fool!"
Tara ran for the door and out into the cold and dark, skidding in her tennis shoes across the ice beneath the new blanket of snow, oblivious to the cold. Harry's ladder leaned against the building were he'd left it. Harry, white and pale and clutching his chest, lay in a five-foot high pile of snow next to it, made visible by the beam of the camping lantern he was still carrying.
Christmas Duet: A Big City, Small Town Christmas Romance Bundle Page 32
