by Imani King
“Okay.”
Instead of turning onto the road, Jackson cuts a path across the pasture.
“I’ll bet your ancestors took a sleigh when they got a tree. They probably sang too.”
His lip curl. “I’m not singing.”
I sigh loudly and lean forward to fiddle with the radio. Soon, a jazzy rendition of White Christmas wafts through the cab of the truck. I tap my toe along with the beat, and can’t resist joining in.
Jackson looks up when I begin to sing. “You have a clear, charming voice, Shawna.” He grins. “I envy your ability to blend perfectly with the musician, hitting each note correctly. My singing is usually compared to a tortured cat.”
I break off mid-lyric suddenly my cheeks feel warm. “Are you tone deaf?” I make a girlish sound and my face gets hotter.
He shakes his head. “Your voice is beautiful.” His eyes fasten on my heart-shaped face. “Just like the rest of you.”
I turn my head but am soon singing along with Silver Bells. I am determined to ignore his flirtations. If only I could successfully ignore my own temptations, I would have nothing to worry about.
32
Shawna
He hadn’t been exactly kidding when he said the trees were in hell and yonder. We drive for over an hour before reaching a stand of eight and nine-foot trees. Jackson parks the truck and shuts off the engine, abruptly ending Jingle Bells Rock. Still as eager as ever, I get out of the truck and walk around to the back. I take the ax and rope without asking, leaving him to tote the chainsaw.
“This way.” He points in the general direction of North.
As we enter the heavy growth, I ask, “What are we looking for?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
“But, how?”
He shrugs. “Women’s intuition? I don’t know.”
“But—”
“Why are you whispering?”
I giggle when I realize I have been whispering. “I don’t know. This place feels holy, like being in a church.”
Jackson shakes his head and waits for me to catch up with his longer stride. When I am by his side, he takes my hand. “If you don’t see perfect, I’ll settle for straight and balanced.”
“I want to pick it,” I insist, with a slight pout.
“Fine.” He nods his head. “There are several to choose from.” He uses our clasped hands to point at one nearby. “How about that one?”
I tilt my head and study the nine-and-a-half-foot Douglas fir. It is straight, with a nice shape, but it doesn’t feel like the right tree. I shake my head, and we continue walking.
He points out other trees, but none feel right to her. We walk over a mile before I suddenly stop. A ray of sunlight falls across a tree sitting on a hill about two hundred yards from us. It seems to give the tree a halo effect. The tree is straight and full, with a clear line of branches forming its triangular shape. Even the bark is perfect—a nice gray-green shade, without many holes and scrapes to mar its perfection. “That’s the one.”
He doesn’t seem to share my enthusiasm. All he does is pull me along a little faster, straight toward the tree. As soon as we arrive, Jackson takes goggles from his coat pocket. “Stand back over there.”
I look at the ax. “What’s this for?”
“To trim the branches.”
I shake my head. “You can’t. It’s perfect.”
“Relax. It will look just fine.”
I sigh and walk to the place he indicated. He starts the chainsaw and cuts through the base of the tree within two minutes. It falls gently with a whoosh. I approach, handing him the ax.
“I don’t think we’ll need it.” He takes the rope from me. “I’ll need your help with this part though.”
After we tie some of the larger branches down and form a handle for pulling with the rope, Jackson sits on the tree stump.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a break.”
“We need to get the tree in water—” The breath hisses from me when he pulled me down onto his lap and cradles me against him.
“We can spare a few minutes. The tree won’t die yet.” He laughs. “You do realize it’s already on its way to dying?”
I turn in his arms to frown at him. “I don’t want to think about that.”
Jackson leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose. “You are much too sweet at times, Shawna.”
I wrinkle my brow. “Only at times?”
He laughs again. “Sometimes, you’re a royal pain in the—”
“So are you, mister.”
He shrugs. “You like it.”
I giggle. “Maybe.”
“I know what else you like.” His tone has turned seductive.
I tense, anticipating the feel of his lips on mine. Yearning for it, even. “Yes?”
“Snowballs,” he says as he grinds a handful of snow into my face.
I draw in a shocked breath, gasping as snow falls into my mouth. The next thing I know, I am sprawled on the ground, using my arms to block my head from a barrage of snowballs. “Jackson,” I gasp. “Quit. I’m going to—” I sputter on a mouthful of snow, then grab a handful of snow and stand up. With all my might, I toss the wet mass at him, and it disintegrates against his jacket. I giggle and strike again. When I see the size of the snowball he is compacting, I turn to flee.
“No fair hiding,” he calls out after me.
I stifle a giggle and duck behind a large tree. I can hear his footsteps crunching in the snow as he gets closer, and I decide to be on the offensive. As he is about to discover my hiding place, I jump out and lunge at him, knocking him onto the snow-covered ground. His snowball drops and breaks apart. I laugh. “I win.”
“I don’t think so.” He flips me over, pinning me beneath him. “Now I have you right where I want you.”
My voice turns sultry. “What will you do with me?”
Jackson lifts a strand of hair escaping from the stocking cap. “Your hair’s soaked with snow, and tiny ice crystals are forming. I’ll have to take you home and warm you up.” The way his lips curve at the corners of his mouth ruins his woeful expression.
I bite my lip as my desire wars with caution. “Couldn’t you warm me up right here?”
His expression grows more serious, and he leans forward to kiss me. The warmth of his mouth is a shocking contrast to the icy cold snow she lies on. I open my mouth and thread my gloved hands through his hair. I arch against him, and shiver. I don’t know whether it is the snow or his touch that makes me tremble.
He lifts his head with a sigh. “It’s too cold.” He stands up and holds out a hand for me.
I stand up beside him. “I suppose.”
“On the bright side, you won’t be cold when we lug that tree back to the truck.” Hand in hand, we walk back to the tree, each taking a length of the rope and beginning to drag.
Halfway to the truck, breathless and flushed, I ask, “Why didn’t you park closer?”
“Why didn’t you pick any of the close trees I suggested?”
“I wanted everything to be perfect.” And, strangely enough, between our exertions in the snow, with the sweat dripping down my back, the moment is perfect.
Our tree is a big hit with Lillian. Tamara loves it too, or so Lillian claims. “You can see it in her eyes,” she insists when we tease her about the baby’s pleasure. It is only when she threatens to forbid them from decorating that they stop teasing her.
I begin to see why Jackson isn’t as thrilled with the tradition as I am. He must go into the attic to retrieve the ornaments, lights, and other decorations, a task that requires three trips. Then he gets the thankless job of trimming the base of the tree until it fits in the stand while Lillian and I are supportive spectators.
When the hard work is finally finished, the bare tree stands in all its glory in the seldom-used “entertaining parlor”, as Lillian calls it. She said it was the only room large enough to accommodate our tree and was also where they woul
d entertain guests for the Christmas party.
“I’ll make the cocoa and bake the cookies while you kids get started,” Lillian says. “Don’t forget to include Tamara,” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves the room, leaning heavily on her cane.
“She’ll be back soon,” Jackson says as he begins to disentangle the various lines of lights. “She’ll make instant cocoa and bake those sugar cookies you cut off the roll. She doesn’t have the strength or stamina to do it the old-fashioned way anymore.”
I kneel beside him, trying to find the other end of the lights so we can work toward each other. “How long has she been like this?”
“Since I can remember. She has a rare form of arthritis that strikes when a person’s young and gets progressively worse. It’s called Ankylosing Spondylitis.”
I come to a stubborn knot and bite my lip, trying to work through the mess. “Is that why she couldn’t have more children after you?”
His eyes widen. “She told you about that?”
“A few days after you told me when we went to the zoo.”
He grimaces and shakes his head. “I’d forgotten. I’m getting old.” Jackson winks at her.
I roll my eyes, but let his comment pass. “She also told me a bit about your family.”
“Including my half-brother, Brad?”
I force my hands to remain steady when he says his brother’s name. “A little.” I dare to look at him and am disconcerted to find him carefully watching me.
He returns to my question. “Yeah, that’s why. It was a miracle when she had me. She really wasn’t strong enough.”
“I’m glad she did.” I blush when the words flew from her mouth. “Without you, who would be taking care of Tami?”
“Anyone but Brad,” Jackson says fervently.
I lick my lips. “Do you think her mother was a better choice than Brad?”
He hesitates before nodding. “I’m sure she was.”
“Why did you change your mind? When I first came here, you thought she was a terrible mother.”
He shrugs. “I’ve had time to reevaluate my opinion. Maybe she lost the baby through circumstances beyond her control.”
My heart flutters with hope when I meet his eyes. “Maybe,” I whisper and turn my attention back to the lights. “Why in the world didn’t you put these back in their boxes last year?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He grins. “This is all part of the joy of Christmas.”
Three hours later, our work is finished. The beautifully decorated Christmas tree is the center of attention in the spacious room. Tamara coos when Jackson holds her up and walks around the tree so she can see every angle. She reaches for several ornaments and quickly grows less enchanted when she realizes the pretty baubles are not for her to play with.
“You did a marvelous job,” Lillian says from her seat on the plush sofa. “You’ll have to pick the tree every year, Shawna.”
“I may not be here next year,” I say with a catch in my throat, looking down at the mauve carpet.
Jackson takes my hand and pulls me into a hug. “Yes, you will.”
Standing there with him, in the presence of the Reeves family, I believe his solemn declaration. Somehow, I will find a way to stay. For the first time ever, I feel like I am home.
33
Shawna
Tuesday, all four of us drive downtown to do our shopping. We each go separate ways, agreeing to meet at the Santa display in two hours. Jackson takes Tamara, Lillian and I meet up in the toy store almost an hour later.
My cart is already half-filled. I’ve picked out a soft teddy larger than Tami, a couple of educational toys, and a doll. Lillian’s cart is in much the same shape. “She’s going to be spoiled rotten,” I say as we walk down the baby toys aisle.
“It’s her first Christmas.” Lillian reaches for a Glow Worm wearing a pink outfit. “One time won’t hurt.”
I sigh. “That’s what I keep telling myself every time I reach for something else.”
Lillian laughs. “I believe I’m finished.”
“So am I. I did most of my shopping for you and Jackson the other day.” Aside from shopping for the baby, I’d found a small gift for Destiny which I planned to send along with the money. I just needed to go to a bank to purchase a countercheck.
We move to the registers, where a sizeable line waits to pay. “Did you buy an outfit for the Christmas party?” Lillian asked.
“I bought a pair of slacks and a red sweater the other day.”
Lillian shakes her head. “It’s formal, dear. We’ll stop at the end of this section. That shop had a darling outfit in the window.”
“But—”
“No buts. If you don’t like the dress, we’ll find something else.”
I sigh as we reach the register. I recognize the determined glint in Lillian’s eyes. It is the same one Jackson has when he wants to get his way.
After paying for the toys, we tote our purchases to the shop window where Lillian saw the outfit. My mouth drops open when I see the red satin dress with the white velvet collar and sleeves.
I needed no convincing to try on the outfit. The sales clerk brings me the dress in my size.
I go into the dressing room and disrobe. The satin material slides across my skin in cool waves. The bodice hugs my figure at the waist before flaring out in a skirt that comes to my ankles. White velvet piping trims the lacy cuffs and collar as well as lines the hem of the dress.
I step out to the sitting area to get Lillian’s reaction. “What do you think?”
Lillian nods with approval.
I return to the dressing room and slip out of the dress. I jump when there is a knock at my dressing room door. “Yes?”
“Do you have a long slip, Shawna?”
“Uh, no.”
Lillian hands a black slip over the door. I put it on and blush. The cut of the slip is daring, with plunging padded cups made of lace that removed the need to wear a bra beneath the slip. The straps are thin and adjustable. The silk clings to my skin, and the hem falls to mid-calf. It is a wicked contrast to the severe Victorian-style dress.
I slip it off and hang it up before dressing and take my purchases to the front. I am nervous and excited as the sales lady wraps the dress and slip. I have never been to a formal party, and I can’t wait.
Wednesday begins badly and stays that way. I know something is wrong the minute I enter the kitchen for breakfast. Jackson and Lillian sit in grim silence. Three magazines and two papers are scattered across the table, where food should be by now.
I fasten Tamara in the high chair. Neither of them greet me or Tamara. “What’s wrong?” I ask as I go to the cupboard.
Lillian makes an unintelligible sound and waves to the pile of periodicals spread before her.
I return with a jar of peaches, but don’t take time to mix a bottle. I reach for a magazine and frown when I realized it is a gossip publication. I look at Jackson when he takes hold of my wrist.
“Brace yourself,” he says. His eyes reflect a mixture of outrage and anger. “Those bastards, coming onto my land,” he snarls.
I am completely confused but pick up the magazine. I gasp to see a picture of Jackson and Anastasia standing together. A picture of me had been squeezed into the corner, accompanying the headline “The Playboy and the Nanny”. My hands shake as I flip to the centerfold and find the story.
I drop into a chair after scanning the first paragraph. The article covered Jackson and Anastasia’s long-standing relationship and engagement, before proceeding to tear me to shreds for being the other woman. To back up their claim, there were pictures of Jackson and me in various compromising positions—all taken within the last few days.
My stomach drops when my eyes fall on a picture of the two of us outside near the hot tub. The next photo is of us lying together in the snow, with Jackson on top of me. There was even an expanded version of that shot taking up a quarter of the page in that slick tabloid. I close the
magazine with a small cry. “The rest?”
“More of the same,” he says grimly. He picks up a copy of a more reputable celebrity magazine that squeezed in a story. It is less trashy, but no less critical of our relationship and me. I am the scarlet woman in this little melodrama.
My head spins as I realize my face has been plastered all over three international magazines. The two newspapers also have worldwide distribution. What if the wrong person—like Mrs. Whitney or the judge who gave custody to Brad—picked up a copy? Even worse, what if Brad read it? He wouldn’t sit by and let her enjoy her new life with his family.
He would tell Jackson. Once Jackson knew, that would be the end of my charade and my presence on the ranch. Jackson would send me packing, and I would lose Tamara again. This time, I would also lose people I now consider family. Lillian won’t be able to help me. Jackson will hate me for finding out that way.
I look up from the magazine. “We need to talk, Jackson.” I shoot a look at Lillian and Tamara. “In your study.”
He nods and pushes away from the table. I bound from my seat and follow him after receiving an encouraging nod from Lillian. When I enter the study behind him, I close the door.
“Don’t panic,” he says. “It will blow over.”
I shake my head. “Are you kidding? We’re the story of the year.”
A small smile curves across his face. “No, we aren’t. Anastasia used her contacts to get more coverage than this deserved. Someone will replace us by the next issue.”
“They made me into a whore.” I pace around the office in a state of agitation. “I get all the blame for breaking up the two of you.”
Jackson reaches out to stop my pacing. “We know that isn’t true. Anastasia and I had ended things before we ever...” He trails off. “Come to think of it, we haven’t really done anything.”
“Tell that to the people who saw those photos.”
He frowns, and his eyes darken. “Are you ashamed to be seen in poses like that with me?”
