Once Upon a Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  “‘Once’? What about right now? What about cutting your losses and moving on?” Clarissa insisted. “You deserve better than this.”

  “I can’t just give up. Not yet, at least.”

  Clarissa threw both hands in the air. “But it’s not all up to you. Maybe you’ve done all you can already.”

  Holly thought about the lingerie squashed in her bottom bureau drawer, still in its potpourri-scented bag. “Not quite everything. There’s still phase three of the plan.”

  Groaning, Clarissa dragged the shopping bag across the polished oak floorboards.

  “You mean the seduction routine,” she said, her voice muffled as she searched for something in the bag. “I didn’t think it would come to that.”

  That was heartening. It must mean Clarissa thought Holly would have convinced Brad to come back long before this.

  “I didn’t, either. It’s my last resort.”

  “Oh, boy. I need more fortification for this.”

  Clarissa ripped open the spritz cookie box. They both grabbed a few of the delicate, sugary treats.

  “I think it’ll work, though,” Holly said around a mouthful. “The seduction thing.”

  Her friend gave a skeptical snort.

  “Well, aren’t people always saying men think with their….” Holly gestured vaguely, then swallowed hard. “You know.”

  Raised eyebrows from Clarissa. “Their…?”

  “You know.” Holly offered a vague hip swivel in demonstration, got even more embarrassed, and shut up.

  “You can’t even say it, can you?”

  “I just don’t want to.”

  Clamping her lips together, Holly grabbed the Charlie Brown Christmas DVD. She devoted all her attention to opening the case, popping the disc in the player, and searching for the remote.

  “You can’t say it,” Clarissa goaded. “Admit it.”

  “No.”

  Holly found the remote behind her Discoing Santa figurine. She retreated to the couch again, where Clarissa waited to jump on her like a little yappy dog.

  “Geez, are you ever repressed,” she said. “I had no idea. Come on, say it. I won’t tell anybody.” She was smiling now, holding back a laugh. She poked Holly’s shoulder. “It’s okay, you know. You’re a grown woman. You’re supposed to know about this stuff. Didn’t your mother ever talk to you about sex?”

  She bit into a cookie, scattering crumbs while she waited for Holly to speak. Before Holly could get a word out, though, Clarissa held up both hands.

  “No, wait.” She shuddered in mock horror. “I don’t think I want to know what your mother—aka, the ice queen—told you about making whoopie.”

  “Ha, ha. My point was,” Holly said laboriously, “that I think sex appeal would work on most men. Brad included.”

  Clarissa—her friend, her best friend since ninth grade—snorted. Holly threw a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer pillow at her.

  Clarissa ducked. “What about Sam?”

  “He’s a perfect example of my theory,” Holly declared, feeling smug. “Sam practically sweats sex appeal—”

  “Ewww.”

  “Okay, bad word choice.” She thought about it some more. “What I mean is, he’s totally centered in the here and now. The man lives like there’s no tomorrow. He eats what he wants, wears what he wants…. Sam takes what he wants.”

  Shivering, Holly remembered the heat of his body pressed against hers. Remembered what he’d said as he’d all but dared her to savor the experience. Feel. Feel us together. Feel me.

  “Sam’s definitely a man who thinks with his you-know-what,” she concluded. “And I’ll bet he’s pretty typical.” Liar, a part of her whispered. He’s anything but typical.

  Clarissa shook her head. “Sam is in love with you.”

  “Sam only thinks he’s in love with me. That’s infatuation. There’s a big difference. That kind of love can’t last.”

  Looking sober, Clarissa pushed away the spritz cookies and wiped her fingers on a napkin. “It might, Holly. And if it did, it would be the greatest kind of love there is.”

  “That kind of love only happens in the movies.” Holly aimed the remote at the DVD player. The opening credits rolled. “Only in the movies.”

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning dawned bright and sunny and much too early for someone who’d slept as poorly as Holly had. She rolled over in bed, whacked the snooze button on her clock radio, and dragged a too-cheerful Christmas-print pillow over her face. Why in the world had she set the alarm for seven-thirty on a Sunday morning?

  Because she’d invited her mother, along with Clarissa and her husband David, over for brunch, that’s why.

  Groaning, Holly pulled her matching comforter over her head, too. After her disastrous evening with Brad, hosting a brunch party fell someplace below having a bikini wax on her list of Things to Look Forward To.

  Snap out of it. It’ll probably be fun, she told herself as she crawled out from beneath her comforter cave. She pulled on a pair of old shorts beneath the soft cotton T-shirt she slept in—no sense ruining her nice clothes by cooking brunch in them—and headed for the kitchen to get started.

  Forty-five minutes before everyone was due to arrive, Sam ambled barefoot into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a groggy smile.

  “‘Morning. You look busy,” he remarked as he poured himself a cup of black coffee.

  “You look as though you just got up.” Holly eyeed his rumpled hair and unshaven jaw. The rest of him she tried to ignore, but it wasn’t easy. The man sure looked good wearing mostly skin and a smile. “It’s after ten already.”

  “I know. I was out kinda late last night.” He blew on his coffee, then sipped. “Ahh…that hits the spot.”

  Holly didn’t doubt it. It had been after one o’clock when she’d finally heard Sam come home. Not that she’d been listening specifically for him, or anything. It was probably just a coincidence that she’d still been awake finishing the last of the peppermint stick ice cream when his key had turned in the lock.

  “Did you have a good time?” Wherever you were?

  “Yeah.” He squinted into the distance and didn’t say anything else.

  Poor Sam was a slow starter in the morning. Probably the caffeine hadn’t reached his brain yet.

  He blinked, downed the rest of his coffee, then examined the kitchen. “Quite a production. Are you expecting company, or are you just especially hungry today?”

  “Did I forget to tell you?” Holly maneuvered around him, then picked up the basket of strawberries she’d bought to go with the French toast she was making. “I invited Clarissa and David—and my mother—over for brunch this morning.”

  “I’m not invited?”

  “Sure you are—if you really want to join us.” Holly made a face. “I just thought I’d spare you the ordeal of meeting my mother.”

  Sam remained silent. Holly sliced away the green top of a fat strawberry with surgical precision, not looking at him. He wasn’t buying it, she could tell.

  “My mother can be pretty hard to take sometimes,” she added by way of explanation. You big chicken, her conscience jabbed, but it was already too late. “Clarissa and David are used to her by now, but…”

  “But I’m not.”

  “Right.” Holly stemmed the strawberries faster, weak with cowardly relief when Sam left her to pour another cup of coffee.

  He came back and put his hand around hers, taking the paring knife from her grip. “You’re going to slice more than the strawberries if you keep that up,” he said, gently bumping her aside with his hip so he could reach the green plastic berry basket. “I’ll finish this. It looks as if you’ve got a lot to do.”

  It was worse than she’d thought. Sam was going to be nice about being excluded from the brunch party, despite the lame excuse she’d given him. Nobody’s mother was so difficult to deal with as to be unmeetable. Well, Holly’s probably came close. Still, it would h
ave been easier if Sam had gotten mad instead.

  Holly took a clear glass pitcher from the cupboard and poured in the orange juice she’d defrosted. “This Sunday brunch is kind of a regular thing. My mother’s been out of town the last couple of weeks, so we haven’t been able to get together for a while.”

  Holly had hoped to avoid a meeting between her mother and Sam even longer. Forever would have been nice. If her mother met Sam—her new roommate—then Holly would have to explain what had happened between her and Brad. Her mother would be so disappointed.

  “Business travel or pleasure?” Sam handed her the bowl of sliced strawberries. “Tell me this workaholic thing doesn’t run in the family. Or do all of you work a billion hours a week?”

  He popped a hulled strawberry in her mouth. Surprised, Holly chewed. When she finished, she said, “I don’t work a billion hours a week.”

  Brad had never pestered her about how much she worked—he was exactly the same way. Maybe that was why they were so well-suited for each other. Of course, that might turn into a problem when they had a family together someday, but…but she’d deal with that when it happened.

  Sam raised his eyebrows, still waiting for her answer.

  “It was business,” Holly admitted. “A broker’s conference. My mother’s a real-estate broker. A good one, too—she’s a million-dollar producer.”

  He nodded, looking suitably impressed. “What does your dad do?”

  “He’s a plumber—at least he was the last time I talked to him. He’s lived in Montana ever since the divorce. I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  Holly sprinkled sugar on the strawberries and shoved the bowl into the refrigerator. She shut the door, turned around, and ran smack into Sam’s chest.

  He handed her the juice pitcher. “I finished the orange juice.”

  “See, you can cook!”

  “Only under pressure.”

  Holly put both hands around the cold glass pitcher, but he didn’t release it. She had to look up at him.

  “The divorce must have been hard. How old were you?”

  “When they got divorced? About ten, I guess.” Exactly ten. They’d announced it the morning after her birthday slumber party. “Can I have the juice, please?”

  Sam handed it over. “Don’t want to talk about it?”

  “No. Yes. No.” She swung the refrigerator door closed with her hip and hurried past him. “I’ve just got a lot to do, that’s all. I still need to get dressed, and I haven’t even started the French toast yet.”

  “Can I help?”

  His offer barely registered. “You know, I don’t have any hidden traumas over my parents’ divorce, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She just wanted to make that clear. “Lots of people get divorced.”

  She grabbed a sauté pan from the cupboard and plopped in slices of Canadian bacon to warm them. Waggling the empty package at Sam, she added, “In fact, most people get divorced. Did you ever think of that?”

  He took away the bacon wrapper and tossed it into the trash. Holly couldn’t believe she’d actually waved it at him like a shrewish wife on a TV sitcom. She was losing it.

  Sam rubbed her shoulders as if she were a boxer going into the ring. “Tell me what to do and I’ll help you,” he said patiently.

  She didn’t deserve such kind treatment. Not when she was purposely trying to hide him from her mother. Okay, not hide him, exactly—it wasn’t as if Sam embarrassed her. Holly only wanted to…delay all the explanations for a while.

  “It would probably be safe to let me get the stuff out for your French toast,” he offered, still rubbing her shoulders.

  His hands felt really good. Holly hadn’t realized she was so tense. It wasn’t even noon yet. It ought to be illegal to feel tense before noon.

  “It’s nice of you to offer, Sam, but you don’t have to help. Really. I can do it.”

  “I know that. I want to. Where’s the bread? In the cupboard?”

  He headed for the row of cupboards above the sink. Missing the touch of his hands, Holly glanced at the clock again. She felt like a sprinter at the starting line of a race. Everyone would be here soon. Any minute, in fact. She couldn’t resist any longer. If Sam was going to insist on helping her she’d just have to let him, however rotten a person it made her seem.

  “It’s right there in the—”

  “In the…?”

  “In the grocery store!” Holly grabbed him. “Oh, no—I forgot to buy the bread! How am I going to make French toast without bread?”

  The doorbell chimed. Great—somebody was early. Holly would lay odds it was her mother. She stared toward the living room, frozen. So did Sam.

  “Do you want me to get that while you go change?”

  Considering the idea, Holly examined his naked chest, dark cotton boxer shorts, and bare feet. A burble of hysterical laughter stuck in her throat. “My mother would have a heart attack if you answered my front door looking like that.”

  Ding…DING!

  “Okay,” Sam said. “I’ve got a plan. I’ll get dressed, go buy a loaf of bread, and sneak it back in. Nobody will ever know.”

  Feeling desperate, Holly nodded.

  “Cover me.” Grinning, Sam ducked so he wouldn’t be seen from the windows overlooking the front porch and headed toward his bedroom.

  Once he’d vanished down the hallway, Holly decided it was safe to open the door. “Mom!”

  “Hi, sweetie.” Linda Aldridge dropped her cigarette and crushed it beneath the two-inch curved heel of her navy spectator pumps. Smiling, she enveloped her daughter in a Giorgio-scented, bracelet-clinking hug. “I hope I’m not too early.”

  “Maybe just a few minutes,” Holly replied, smiling apologetically. Somehow she never felt quite ready for her mother. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam’s head peek around the hallway corner. Frantically, Holly waved him back.

  Her mother glanced at Holly’s shorts and T-shirt. “It must be so liberating not to feel as if you have to get all fixed up for company. You girls all look so wonderfully casual these days.”

  Loosely translated, whatever possessed you to put on that pile of rags?

  Holly glanced down, too. “I haven’t had a chance to change yet. I’ll just be a minute. Why don’t you help yourself to a cup of coffee while you wait?”

  “Nonsense. I’ll help with brunch.”

  Her mother headed for the kitchen, leaving Holly staring at her impeccably dressed back. There was a series of thumps—her briefcase, cigarette case, and cell phone hitting the countertop.

  “You’re lucky I got here before the rest of your guests,” she called. “It looks as though you still have a lot to do.”

  Holly hurried to the hallway. “The coast’s clear,” she whispered to Sam, grabbing a handful of his sleeve to urge him into the living room. They got partway to the front door before the click-click of her mother’s heels on the kitchen linoleum stopped them. Holly shoved Sam back into the hallway just as her mother appeared beneath the kitchen archway.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I was wondering what you want me to do with this?” She held out a sauté pan filled with shrunken, black, inedible-looking disks. They were still sizzling.

  Holly leaned against the hallway arch, blocking it with her body. “Err…throw it out, I guess. It used to be the Canadian bacon.”

  Sam whispered, “I’ll get bacon, too.”

  “Shhh,” she hissed under her breath. She smiled at her mother, spreading her arms wider in case Sam was peeking around the corner again. “I think I’ve got more someplace. I’ll, umm…be right there to help, okay?”

  Wrinkling her nose, Linda returned to the kitchen.

  Holly ducked into the hall and grabbed Sam’s sleeve. “Hurry. Now’s your chance.”

  He leaned against the wall for a minute, arms crossed, seeming almost as if he was enjoying himself.

  “You look wonderfully casual to me, too,” he mimicked, grinning down at her shorts and T-shirt.
/>   Holly remembered she wasn’t even wearing a bra, never mind nice clothes. She clapped her hands over her chest.

  Sam pulled her to him and gave her a fast kiss. “Back in a minute,” he said, and was gone before she could say a word.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam hadn’t returned, and Holly was on the verge of strangling her mother with a length of sparkly garland. So far, her mother had offered advice on how to best scramble eggs, brew coffee, wrap gifts, and choose a car insurance company. She was in the middle of writing the name of a good hairdresser on the back of one of her business cards when the doorbell rang.

  “Sorry, got to get that.” With relief, Holly bolted to the doorway to let Clarissa and David in.

  It was Sam.

  “What are you doing ringing the doorbell?” Frantically, Holly looked toward the kitchen.

  Her mother, thankfully oblivious to them, was humming and rearranging the place settings on the banquette table. Holly went outside and closed the door behind her. She stood nose-to-chest with Sam on the porch’s candy-cane-print doormat.

  “Would you believe I’m the grocery delivery boy? You can just tip me whatever you think my services are worth.” Sam winked, lifting the brown paper sack in his arms.

  Holly didn’t feel much like kidding around. “What if my mother had answered the door and seen all those groceries?”

  “What if she had?”

  “She’d have known I can’t even manage brunch for four people, that’s what.” She grabbed for the sack.

  Sam held onto it. “So? She’s your mom, not an entertainment critic. She’s not going to care if you forgot the bread.”

  “You don’t know my mother.” Holly sucked in a deep, calming breath. “Thanks for getting this.”

  “You’re welcome. Need anything else?”

  “Yes. Just once I need to have my mother not criticize everything I do. Kidding,” she added upon seeing the look on Sam’s face. “She’s not that bad. What I really need is to get this stuff inside without being seen.”

  Pausing, Holly thought about it for a second. “I’ll go inside and get my mom away from the kitchen somehow. Just give me a minute or two, then bring everything inside, okay?”