Once Upon a Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

“Yes, you are. I see your pinkies lifting. And anyway, you must have heard worse last night.”

  “You don’t remember?” Her voice sounded as hoarse as his—but for different reasons. Funny that grief and Kahlúa would have the same disastrous side effects.

  “After the fourth cup of your demon Kahlúa and coffee, it’s all kind of a blur,” Nick confessed.

  The admission made her heart twist. The most life-changing night of her life, and he couldn’t remember a minute of it.

  She heard the sheets rustle and pretended to button the lab jacket she had on as an excuse not to face him. Why torture herself with ogling what she couldn’t have?

  He mumbled something about missing underwear. Then, “What was I saying?”

  “Hot sex.”

  “Oh, yeah.” The bed creaked again. “I wanted hot sex, and she wanted two-point-four kids and a dog. It just wasn’t meant to be.”

  Not that he seemed too broken-up over it this morning. Chloe guessed the worst had passed.

  Maybe he was getting used to it. Eventually, every relationship Nick had smashed to smithereens over the same issues: setting down, getting married, having kids. With him, his inventions and the work that subsidized them came first. To his credit, he was always perfectly upfront about it.

  Unfortunately, most women he dated didn’t believe him. They took one look at that smile, those shoulders, and the wit behind those baby blues…and decided they’d be the one to reform him.

  Ha.

  “Good thing I have you to pick up the pieces of my mangled love life, Chloe.”

  “What are friends for?” she choked out, giving him an offhanded wave.

  “Drinking beer, watching football, and cruising for chicks.”

  The mattress groaned. The bedcovers rustled. Then came the sound of denim being dragged across the carpet. She pictured Nick naked, stepping into his jeans and snugging them up over his…

  “Not necessarily in that order,” he finished one zip later.

  “Ha, ha. Chicks, huh?” How could he banter with her like this? If she didn’t get away from him soon, she’d be a bawling mess of tears and confessions. “That’s really evolved of you, Nick.”

  The familiar, beloved sound of his laughter made Chloe feel warm all over. No one could turn her to mush faster than Nick could. No one could…stop it! She took a deep breath and steeled her resolve. If he didn’t want what had happened to have happened, then she’d be the last person to break the news. Nick might be a straight shooter at heart, but this was one little white lie she felt sure he’d forgive.

  Besides, it hurt no one but herself. That she could deal with.

  “Thanks for being there last night.” He put his hand to her shoulder, turning her to face him. “You’re a pal, Chloe.”

  He tousled her hair and grinned. Next thing she knew, he’d slug her on the arm and complete their resemblance to Wally and the Beaver. Chloe felt more miserable than ever.

  “I’m the pal who gave you the hangover from hell, remember? You need my patented hangover cure.” She pointed to the coffee and donuts, then edged to the doorway. “I’ll just, umm, go grab the, uh, newspaper.”

  She escaped the bedroom on legs too wobbly to carry her all the way to the kitchen, then flattened against the striped wallpapered hallway. Clutching the ends of Nick’s lab coat with trembling fingers—it was too big on her, but comforting all the same—Chloe peered toward her bedroom. She half expected Nick to follow her. He didn’t.

  Darn it.

  It looked as if she’d pulled it off. She’d convinced him their platonic-ness remained intact as ever. He wouldn’t suspect she loved him, wouldn’t bolt with terror at the thought she might want his kids, his ring, his undying love and a white picket fence to match. Wouldn’t consign her to the ex-girlfriend pile a month from now. Wouldn’t think of her as anything more than his old pal Chloe, keeper of Kahlúa and bolsterer of bruised hearts.

  What was she, crazy?

  No, she answered herself. Just a girl who wants to keep her best friend.

  In the bedroom, Moe issued a feline yowl.

  “Uh, Chloe?” yelled Nick. “Can you call off your psychotic cat, please? I think he’s trying to mate with my shoe.”

  Chapter Two

  Six weeks later

  He was almost there. He could feel it.

  Frowning with concentration, Nick Steadman typed a few more variables in the inventor’s journal he kept on his computer, then rolled his office chair across the pitted oak floor of his spare-bedroom-turned-laboratory. He examined the long table arrayed with precisely arranged test tubes and beakers, computer printouts and heat lamps, wires and solution bottles and the varying plants that were the focus of his current research.

  God, what he wouldn’t give to see the results of his research put in production. Just once to know that someone believed in him enough to invest cold cash in his ideas.

  Just invent a pet rock, or something, his sisters said. You’ll make millions in no time. They didn’t understand it wasn’t the money that mattered to him.

  Still with the dreaming, Nicky? his mother always asked. You’ve got a good job. Stick with that. But she didn’t understand, either. His engineering work at BrylCorp kept him busy and kept him in supplies for his inventions, but it wasn’t security he was looking for.

  You want to sell that thing? his brothers-in-law said. Finance it yourself! You’ve got the cash. But they didn’t understand that having the money wasn’t the real goal. Interesting a bona fide investor was. Once Nick did that, once he’d set his work into production, then he’d know he’d really done it.

  Somehow, he’d convince his old man that all those years of taking apart every appliance, every clock, every TV in the house had paid off. He’d prove himself, to himself, and finally make his dad proud of his only son.

  Three generations of Steadman men had put their dreams last and their families first. They’d traded their hopes and plans, abandoned their talents, for the sake of mouths to feed and growing kids to clothe and mortgages to pay.

  That particular family tradition was about to crumble. Nick meant to be the first to bring it down.

  With one last glance at his computer screen, Nick picked up the next ingredient in the solution he was preparing and measured it in the nearest beaker. He had to get busy. One of the investors he’d approached for past projects was interested in his current research. He wanted a working prototype to present to his board of directors—in California—at their next meeting in December.

  Just nine months away.

  It wasn’t much time to check the variables, to run tests, to re-formulate if necessary. Especially when Nick’s inventing happened at night and on the weekends, sandwiched between cubicle-cramped stints at BrylCorp and what remained of his social life. But that didn’t matter.

  Come hell or high water, this time he meant to see one of his inventions in production. If he handled it right, this could be a very merry Christmas.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” he muttered, holding the beaker to the light.

  “It’s not even Easter yet, Uncle Nick.”

  “I know, Danny.” He looked up at his houseguest for the day—his seven-year-old, sticky-fingered nephew. “I’m planning ahead.”

  “Oh. Is that how come you’re not gonna hunt Easter eggs with us this year? ‘Cause you’re already starting on Christmas?”

  A pang shot through Nick. He’d missed so many Easter egg hunts, so many birthdays and Halloween pumpkin-carvings and Fourth of July picnics. Danny was just a kid. Commitment was only a word on a second-grade spelling test to him.

  Once this invention is off the ground, Nick promised himself, all that will change.

  “Maybe I can make it this year.” His own father—not to mention numerous Steadman uncles and aunts—had crowded into every track meet, school play, basketball game and science fair Nick had ever taken part in. Now, as an uncle himself, didn’t he owe the same things to his nephew? “I can’t promise any
thing, but I’ll try.”

  “You can do it, Uncle Nick!” Danny grinned, all gap-toothed innocence and enthusiasm. “My mom says you’re always trying to do stuff. Even totally impossible stuff.”

  Impossible stuff—like his inventions, he assumed. Nice job, Naomi. If she wasn’t his sister, he’d invent a way to keep her opinions to herself.

  On the other hand, he did have three other sisters waiting in the wings….

  Nick returned his nephew’s smile. “Somebody’s got to try the impossible stuff, Danny. It might as well be me.”

  “Or me!”

  “When you’re older, hotshot. For now, you probably ought to concentrate on not landing a permanent place on the Timeout Stool.”

  Danny made a face and squirmed atop his stool near the window. It was, his nephew had informed him, Uncle Nick’s Timeout Stool.

  Nick wasn’t quite sure what that was. Until today, he hadn’t even known he owned one. But his sister Naomi had apparently established them all over town, and Danny knew how to use one. He’d sent himself there after nearly singeing off his eyebrows with the Bunsen burner while conducting a melting experiment on one of Nick’s Charlie Parker CDs.

  Danny nodded at the beaker in Nick’s hand. “So, what’s that stuff?”

  “It’s my best shot at getting a big pile of moola for inventing stuff.” Nick waved him closer to watch. “Wanna see?”

  Danny took the bait and scuttled down from kiddie Siberia. He edged up to Nick’s elbow and poked him. “You mean somebody’s gonna give you money just for mixing up goop?” he asked, wide-eyed. “Cool!”

  Nick grinned, feeling his uncle stock soar up a few points.

  Danny frowned. “But Uncle Nick, my dad says your inventions never work.”

  His uncle stock plummeted.

  “That’s the nature of inventing.” He swirled the solution and peered inside the beaker. “You keep trying out ideas until one of them works.”

  “Oh.” Danny backed up, eyeballing the solution as though it might blow him out of his Converses any second. “Sure. Whatever you say, Uncle Nick.”

  “That’s what I say.” Nick held up the beaker and got ready to pour. “Cross your fingers, Danny. This is it.”

  Danny covered his ears and closed his eyes instead.

  The element eased into the solution in a swirl of blue. Perfect. Not an explosion in sight.

  “Booorring,” Danny muttered. “I’m going outside.”

  “I’ll be out in a couple of minutes. We can play catch or something.”

  “Cool.”

  After the back door closed behind Danny, Nick pulled a potted ivy closer and held the beaker of finished solution aloft. Time to test his theory.

  Time to…duck! Something squawked and beat its way into the room on a blur of wings and a flash of green. What the hell was that?

  Dodging reflexively, Nick almost spilled his solution. The winged creature shrieked like something straight out of a Hitchcock movie, then arrowed to the top of the fluorescent fixture he’d hung from the ceiling. It perched there, making the light sway and flash over his equipment.

  A bird. A big, ugly, lab-destroying bird.

  He had a pretty good idea which animal-loving, pet-store-managing softie next door it belonged to.

  “Where’s your keeper, Igor?” Nick asked it.

  The bird cocked its head at him and shuffled with tiny click-clicks of its claws across the metal fixture. It looked at him the way it probably eyed a bowl of bird kibble. Great. A bird evil and stupid enough to think it might snack on something twenty times its size.

  At least he’d saved the solution. Trying to ignore the bird, which seemed happy enough cha-cha-ing across his light fixture for the time being, Nick raised the beaker. He checked his calculations again, started to pour…and from the front of the house, his screen door slammed shut. His hand jerked sideways, nearly spilling his morning’s work.

  “Nick? You home?”

  Chloe’s warm, husky voice came toward him, followed by a clunk and slide down his hallway. A second later, her head popped in view around the doorjamb. Her green-gloved hands came next as she grabbed hold and arced into the room without letting go, dressed in short denim overalls, a very Chloe-worthy hot pink tank top, and enough silver bangle bracelets to make his eyes hurt.

  If her pet store customers could see her now, they’d never recognize her as the same no-nonsense woman who dished out kibble and flea spray from nine to five. Nick couldn’t understand having a Chloe-style dichotomy between professional and personal lives. But for her, somehow, it seemed to work.

  “Hi! Sorry I couldn’t get here quicker. I had a little trouble getting over the living room rug in these things.”

  She lifted her foot in explanation, showing him the in-line skates she’d used to zoom into his house and down the hall. His gaze traveled from her purple and turquoise skates to her green protective knee pads, slid upward past her shapely thighs and vibrant clothes, then settled on her head. Among her jumble of artfully cropped blond hair, she’d knotted a twisted headband of purple and turquoise bandana.

  Nick nodded toward it. “Nice bandage. Nobody would ever guess about the lobotomy.”

  She made a face. “Nice try, genius, but I don’t have time to sling insults today. Have you seen—”

  “Igor?” He jerked his chin toward the bird. A mistake, he realized as the bird interpreted the gesture as an invitation to dive toward his head like a miniature hawk on the prowl.

  “That’s not Igor.” Chloe smiled, as though the little beast had done something especially bright and worth about a hundred points on the bird SATs. “It’s Shemp.”

  “Sure.” The bird landed on Nick’s head. He held himself still, trying not to shudder as it dug its claws in his scalp and tromped around through his hair looking for the best spot to take a bite. Or a peck. Or worse.

  “He’s a lovebird.”

  “Literally?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.” She gave the bird a fond look. “They make good pets, because they’re very smart. Affectionate, too.”

  “Super.” Nick put down his beaker for safekeeping and pointed toward Shemp. “Would you, uh, lasso him or something? I’ve got work to do.”

  “Spoilsport. When in this millennium don’t you have work to do?” Grinning, Chloe raised her slender be-bangled arm and made kiss noises toward Shemp. Obediently, the bird flew to her forearm and walked placidly up to her shoulder.

  “Nice work, Snow White.”

  “Thanks. You really ought to get over your fear of birds, Nick. They won’t hurt any—”

  “Fear?” He raised his eyebrows and gave her his best incredulous glance. “What’s to be afraid of? I could squash the little bugger like a—”

  Chloe sucked in a strangled breath. “You wouldn’t!” she cried, cuddling Shemp to her cheek.

  He thought he heard the damn thing actually coo at her.

  She cooed back. “He’s had a hard life already.”

  Nick examined Shemp more closely. “He looks okay to me,” he said dubiously. “A little raggedy around the feathers, maybe. Sort of down in the beak—”

  “Be serious. You’d be raggedy, too, if you’d been through what he has. Luckily, I was there to rescue him.”

  “Just what you need. Some other poor, defenseless creature depending on you.”

  With a smooth whoosh of her skate wheels, she rolled closer. She turned her hazel-eyed gaze on him. “Something you want to tell me, Nick? Feeling especially defenseless today? Or did one of your creations just go kaput on you?”

  “My inventions never go kaput.” What was she getting at, anyway? “And I’m not one of your…projects.”

  She shrugged. “Have it your way.”

  “Now wait a min—”

  “Friends depend on each other, that’s all.” She petted the bird. “Anyhow, somebody brought Shemp in to work last night. They were moving away and couldn’t keep him.”

  “Somebody brought a bird to R
ed’s pet shop last night? I didn’t know you took that kind of—”

  “We don’t. Especially now that Red’s looking to sell the place and retire to Sun City with her husband. That’s why I had to rescue him.”

  “You had to rescue Red’s husband? From what?”

  “Kibble overload, actually. Red thought a little Gravy Train might up Jerry’s fiber intake, like the doctor suggested.”

  Nick grinned. Chloe rolled her eyes. “Be serious! I rescued Shemp, here, of course.”

  She raised her finger for a new perch and smiled like an approving mama as she watched Shemp walk onto it. She lifted him chest-high and petted him with her other hand. He cooed some more, giving Nick a beady stare that suggested some birds had all the luck.

  And some human guys didn’t know what they were missing.

  Nick blinked and adjusted his eyeglasses at his temples, frowning at the wayward thought. Chloe smiled up at him, still smoothing her fingers over Shemp’s feathers, and suddenly he imagined her fingers stroking over him. He could actually see her caress in his mind, gentle and crazymaking and accented with nails painted one of those wild nail polish colors she favored, like metallic blue or tangerine.

  Dizziness walloped him. This guy doesn’t know what he’s missing, he thought.

  She gazed over his array of test tubes and beakers. “So whatcha working on?”

  Magically, she morphed into his old pal Chloe again. Good old late-late-movie watching, Kahlúa-brewing, pour-out-your-troubles-to-me Chloe.

  Whew. The last thing he needed was a distraction like dating the girl next door. Not after all this time, and not when he had his best chance in three years of licensing one of his inventions. Especially, particularly, definitely not when the clock was ticking on putting together the prototype and proposal he needed.

  “I saw Danny outside, and he says you’re not even blowing things up today,” she went on with an air of mock disappointment. “What gives?”

  “What gives? What gives is that four-foot, one-kid wrecking crew out there.” Nick glanced through the window at his nephew. “I’m surprised he’s not blowing things up.”

  “Come on.” Rolling closer, Chloe looked out the window, too. “I’m sure you were the same way as a kid.” Her shoulders straightened as she pinned him with a give-me-a-break expression. “Admit it. You weren’t always Dudley Do-Right in disguise.”