'Tis the Season

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  To his surprise, John took Anna’s side and told him his ideas were outdated. Sam responded by asking John to keep his opinions to himself. After that, they didn’t speak to each other except when necessary.

  John’s comments plagued Sam during the days and nights he was forced to live with the results of Anna’s design job on his house. He argued the subject endlessly in his head, and his mood grew fouler still.

  He considered staying home from Estelle’s shindig the Saturday night before Christmas. She owned a large-screen television and was giving a party during the Christmas special. Yet Sam knew that staying home would hurt Estelle’s feelings and he couldn’t do that, either.

  Around noon on Saturday, snow started falling, and by two o’clock, it was heavy enough to discourage any last-minute customers from driving out for a tree. Sam used the rest of the afternoon to balance the books for a Hartford law firm, and by five he was on the road to Estelle’s.

  * * *

  Anna slowed down another five miles an hour. Snow caked the windshield except for two fan-shaped openings cleared by the wiper blades. She’d turned on the van’s headlights miles ago, and she strained to make out the ruby tail lights of the cars creeping down the turnpike ahead of her. The procession of cars followed a snowplow like baby ducks trailing behind their mother.

  She knew she’d be okay on the turnpike, even though a few times she’d felt the tires slip on the ice forming beneath the snow. But the plows couldn’t keep up with all the exit and auxiliary roads, and she’d have to drive on them to reach Sumersbury.

  It would be a picture-postcard Christmas there, she realized. The town had received two good snowfalls — one just in time for filming the special, and now this storm right before Christmas. She might have spent the most romantic holiday of her life in Sumersbury this weekend, if things had worked out differently with Sam. She tried to pull herself away from such thoughts, but the slow pace of the trip gave her too much time to think.

  She was relieved when the first signs for Sumersbury appeared on the turnpike. Her shoulders ached from gripping the steering wheel. The clock on the dash read almost five-twenty. No wonder she was tired. The trip had taken hours longer than usual. She and Sam would have to unload the loom in the dark.

  She took the exit road carefully. The van’s steering indicated that ice was packed up inside the wheel wells. She knew the van had chains – the rental company had pointed them out to her. But she didn’t relish the idea of getting out in this storm to put them on.

  Slowly she ground along the almost deserted roads. Treacherous though the weather was, it had created a holiday fairyland. Against the blanket of snow, multicolored holiday lights on trees and houses looked like gumdrops decorating a frosted gingerbread world. Chimneys smoked and windows glowed a friendly yellow in the darkness. Her heart wrenched. She wanted to be part of this landscape, too. Was she so wrong to want everything?

  At last she reached the lane that led to Sam’s house. She flipped on her turn signal to be safe, although there wasn’t another vehicle in sight. The rock wall bordering the road wore a cap of snow at least a foot high, and the road hadn’t been plowed. The faint tracks left by a vehicle that had driven out of the lane were nearly obliterated by the addition of new snow. For the first time, she had to consider what she’d do if Sam wasn’t home.

  It was past six o’clock, she noticed, glancing at the lighted dashboard before she started the turn into the snowy lane. Well, if he wasn’t home, she’d let herself in and write him a note. She could always drop the loom off early the next morning.

  Halfway into the lane, she realized the van wasn’t responding well enough. The ice caked under the wheels gripped the tires with a terrible crunching sound, and the van skidded sideways. Fear washed over her, but she kept her foot off the brake and tried to steer in the direction of the skid. No good.

  She saw the rock wall looming closer and wrenched at the wheel, but nothing happened. She was going to crash.

  Fourteen

  The van smacked into the rock wall with a sickening thud that jerked her against her seat belt. She sat trembling, unconsciously trying to hold herself up straight although the van tilted crazily to the right. Snowflakes danced in the headlight beams, but the engine had stopped running when she hit the wall.

  She pried one hand loose from the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The starter churned, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. As the headlights began to flicker, she shut them off and eventually clicked the ignition key off, too. Even if she got the van started again, she’d never be able to drive out of the ditch and back onto the road without chains.

  With the wipers shut down, the snow rapidly collected across her windshield and wrapped her in a white cocoon. In the silence, she sat and considered her options. She could see the faint glow from Sam’s porch light through the falling snow, but no other lights glimmered in the darkness, indicating he probably wasn’t home. She could try to reach her house instead, but it would be a much longer trek, and she wasn’t dressed for plowing through snow.

  Besides, she still had a loom to deliver. Unhooking her seat belt, she turned and looked into the back of the van. The loom had shifted ever so slightly, and was pressing against the rope binding it in place, but it still looked secure and unharmed.

  That meant the only thing she needed to be concerned about right now was her own safety. Sam’s house had a fireplace and blankets. Chances were good he hadn’t locked the door, but if he had, she knew where he kept his extra key.

  Making her decision, she grabbed the truck keys out of the ignition, her purse from the seat, and stepped out into the swirling snow. Trudging through the blizzard left her exhausted and wet, but thankfully Sam’s front door was unlocked. She took off her coat, hat, and boots right by the door so she wouldn’t track snow into the rest of the house.

  First she turned on the Christmas tree lights, which allowed her to see well enough to light the fire he must have laid earlier in the day. The kindling caught immediately. After making herself a cup of tea and taking a box of graham crackers out of the cupboard, she settled on the braided rug in front of the fire.

  But she was still shivering. Unwilling to wrap herself in one of his grandmother’s woven blankets, she went upstairs and brought down the Christmas-themed throw she’d found in Greenwich Village. Swaddled in the throw and fortified with her tea and crackers, she settled down to wait. If she was lucky, the storm would let up before Sam came back. Then she’d leave him a note and walk home.

  Three hours later, the storm seemed to be over. Still wrapped in the throw, she used a corner of it to clear a fogged window so she could see out. The wind had stopped and the porch light reflected on snowflakes falling gently instead of lashing the house the way they had before. The fire needed to die down a bit before she could leave, though.

  Returning to the hearth, she used tongs to rearrange the logs so they would burn faster. She was about to take her mug and the box of crackers back to the kitchen when she heard Sam’s truck. She was caught.

  As his boots crunched through the snow on the porch, she faced the door like a prisoner lining up before a firing squad. This was not how she’d envisioned returning the loom, with a smashed van in a snowstorm, followed by trespassing. She held the blanket tight around her to keep her hands from shaking.

  Sam came through the door and stopped. “Anna!”

  “You’d better close the door,” she said quietly. “It’s very cold out there.”

  “It was you who wrecked that van?” He threw the door shut and crossed the room in three strides. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m not hurt.”

  “Are you sure?” He took her by the shoulders.

  She stepped back, out of his reach. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “What’s with the van? You’re not moving out of your house, are you? Because I—”

  “No, I’m not moving. I drove the van here because I wanted to return t
he loom.”

  He frowned. “Anna, I told you that—”

  “I know what you told me. But the loom isn’t mine. It belongs here.”

  He gazed at her as the fire crackled in the hearth. She swallowed, unsure how to interpret his silence.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  “I’d say that’s quite enough.” She watched the snow melt and glisten in his curly hair. He still had on his coat, and snow from his boots soaked into the braided rug. “I’d planned to deliver it this afternoon, but the snowstorm slowed me down. Then after the accident, I wasn’t sure I could reach my house, so I let myself in here to wait it out. I made tea and ate some of your crackers, but I’ll replace—”

  “To hell with that. I don’t care about tea and crackers. Are you sure you’re not hurt? Your eyes are red, like you’ve been crying.”

  “That’s from sitting by the fire.” She glanced away.

  “Anna?”

  She turned back to him, tears threatening once more. “I didn’t want to stay here until you got back, okay? I wanted to walk on to my house, no matter how cold it was, no matter how snowy, so I could escape the memories. But the storm wouldn’t quit.” She pressed her lips together to stop their trembling.

  “And those memories made you sad.”

  She sniffed and looked away again. She would have preferred harshness to the gentle expression on his face. If he’d be angry, she could be strong. Instead she saw compassion shining in his blue eyes, and that was hard to take. “Now that you know why I’m here and the storm’s over, I should go home.” She took the throw from her shoulders and folded it.

  “Think you’ll follow the path tonight?”

  She glanced up sharply. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

  “No, but you are.” He unbuttoned his coat. “What do you expect me to do, let you walk down a dark, snowy road at ten o’clock at night?”

  She picked up her coat from the floor and put her arm in one sleeve. “No, I suppose that would be stupid now that you’re here. Would you please give me a ride?”

  “Sure.” He tossed his coat over the back of an armchair and nudged off his boots.

  “Then why take off your coat and boots?”

  “Because I’d like to tell you something first, if you’re willing to listen.” He walked over to the red patterned sofa and sat down. “Did you watch the special on TV?”

  “No.” She’d forgotten about it. She could have seen it, too, because she’d let herself into the house well before seven. The accident and being back at Sam’s had wiped thoughts of the special from her mind. “Why?” she finally thought to ask.

  He patted the sofa next to him. “I sure wish you’d take that coat off and sit down. The room’s pretty warm now, don’t you think?”

  She realized that he was right. The room had become warmer since he’d walked through the door. She couldn’t think of any reason not to hear him out, either, so she took off her coat and walked over to the sofa.

  He’d chosen one end. She chose the other. She curled her sock feet under her and faced him. “What about the special? You saw the show?”

  “Estelle had a buffet dinner and invited a bunch of people to watch the special on her big screen TV. I think she recorded it, too, so you’ll be able to see it sometime, if you like.”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “You should take a look. You have a starring role.”

  “Me?”

  “Throwing snow at the camera.”

  “Oh,” She glanced toward the fire. “I figured they’d cut that.”

  “Well, they didn’t. In fact, they showed most of that parade and edited out some of the house footage and some of the tree cutting — the two things they wanted when they planned the special. You know why they did that?”

  “I can’t imagine. I thought the whole idea was nostalgia, an old-fashioned country Christmas, not the circus atmosphere Estelle created.”

  Sam put his arm along the back of the couch, and his fingers rested inches from her shoulder. “That’s what they thought they wanted, but Devlin, the guy who narrated the special, explained on camera that the fantasy didn’t exist, despite everyone’s valiant efforts to pretend that it did. Somewhere he learned that my house was professionally decorated.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Sumersbury is a small town, remember? Why would we imagine Dev wouldn’t hear about your work if he stayed around for forty-eight hours?”

  She couldn’t help a small smile. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Anyway, Dev also learned that we’ve never had Santa pulled through the streets of town by a pet deer dressed up like Rudolph, that the pond was created specifically for this occasion, and that even the town choir is a myth.”

  Anna groaned. “It must have been awful at Estelle’s tonight. What did she say?”

  “She was delighted! Because Dev, who is now her favorite actor of all time, praised the townspeople in general and Estelle in particular for good-naturedly trying to provide the nostalgia the network called for. The residents of Sumersbury became the heroes in the whole thing, and the network sheepishly admitted that what they’d envisioned hadn’t existed for years.”

  “Amazing.”

  “I thought so.”

  She picked up a different, softer note in his words. She looked at him more carefully. “That’s not all, is it?”

  He shook his head. “John hasn’t been too friendly with me lately.”

  “John?”

  “You see, John thinks I’m a lot like the television network, looking for something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

  She sat quietly, but her heart began pounding faster.

  “I told him to get lost with his theories, but I haven’t been able to forget what he said, especially after I watched the special tonight.”

  She was afraid to move, afraid that what was happening wouldn’t be true. And she wanted desperately for it to be true.

  “We all laughed and groaned as the skaters tumbled into each other,” he continued, “and then suddenly there you were, larger than life on that big screen and flinging snow at the camera. I loved you so much at that moment that it hurt. It still does.”

  “Oh, Sam. I love you, too.” Her eyes filled with tears again.

  “I was wrong, Anna. I once thought of you as some modern-day version of my grandmother. But tonight on that screen, I saw just you, the woman I love. If you’ll forgive me, I’d like to start over with that proposal. I’d like to talk about some of those alternatives you mentioned.”

  She left her end of the couch and flung herself into his arms with such force that she partially knocked the breath from him.

  “Is that a yes?” he said, coughing and laughing at the same time.

  “Most definitely.” She cuddled against him and smiled. “Maybe this Christmas can be salvaged, after all.”

  He held her tight and peppered her face with kisses. “I thought I’d have to say all this over the phone or drive to New York and slip notes under your door. Can you stay? Can you spend Christmas with me?”

  “I’ll have to call Vivian, but yes, I can stay. Besides, I don’t have anything drivable to take me back.” Her joy dimmed as she remembered something else. “Sam, I don’t have a present for you.”

  He scooped her up in his arms and stood. “That’s what you think. There’s one old-fashioned idea I never intend to give up.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, guessing by the direction he was headed.

  “Late-night sleigh rides,” he murmured, nestling his cheek against hers as he carried her up the stairs.

  * * *

  Thank you so much for reading my book! Readers and writers go together like PB and J, and if you weren’t reading, I’d have no reason to write. This may be your first VLT story or you may have been with me for years, but either way, I’d love to hear from you! Contact me at VLTAuthor@aol.com, at twitter.com/vickilthompson, and facebook.com/vickilewisthompson

/>   Also by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  * * *

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  * * *

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  the next Vintage VLT release,

  THE FIX-IT MAN

  * * *

  “Mother, I hate to interrupt you in the middle of Harold’s lesson, but—”

  “Mom! The toilet’s running again!” shrieked Allison from the top of the stairs.

  “I’m telling her, bimbo!” shouted Laurie. “Now the whole neighborhood knows about it.”

  Oblivious to anything but the sheet of music in front of him, Harold blew diligently on his tuba. Oompah, oompah, oompah. Diana kept time with one hand and pushed her hair back from her face with the other. “Did you wiggle the handle?” she asked, keeping her focus on Harold’s technique.

  “It flops around. I think it’s really broken this time.”

  “Mom! You’d better get up here!”

  “She’s coming, Allison! Will you be quiet?” Laurie turned and raced up the stairs to enforce her command.

  Diana closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then glanced apologetically at the small boy holding the giant instrument. With a downward wave of her hand she ended his puff-cheeked rendition. “Continue working on measure seven, Harold. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

  “But Mrs. Thatcher, measure seven only has one note, held for four beats.”

  “Then work on measure eight,” Diana advised, one ear tuned to the sound of running water and the other to her daughters’ vehement arguing.

  “You didn’t tell her loud enough,” Allison insisted as Diana mounted the stairs. “How’s she supposed to know it’s an emergency if you say in this little voice, Mother, I hate to interrupt. Sounds like you broke your little toenail, not like the whole house is about to be flooded from—”