Same Time, Next Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  I started as if I had been slapped. "My God, Fletcher, you can't sell the villa! It would be like selling your soul. Some of the best times of your childhood were spent there. It's part of your history, your past. There are memories there that will never come again."

  "Too many, I think." His gaze bored into mine, and I realized we were no longer taking about childhood memories.

  "It's magic, Fletcher." I stared up at him. "You don't sell magic."

  "I suspect the magic might be gone. I would imagine magic works only for so long. We accept that and move on." His gaze searched mine. "But it was good."

  "Yes." My throat clogged. "It was."

  "I'm returning to Paris in a few days," he said abruptly.

  "Are you?"

  "I have matters I need to resolve. I—" He nodded. "I just wanted you to know. About the villa, that is."

  "And now I do." I summoned all the calm I could manage. I had no idea how. "If that's all, we really should return. We don't want Lord Castleton to be the subject of gossip." I turned to go, then turned back. "Is there anything else you wish to say to me?" The oddest note of desperation sounded in my voice. I didn't care. I didn't know exactly what I wanted him to say, but I held my breath.

  "I shall miss you." He smiled. I wasn’t sure I had ever seen a smile quite so sad before. I swallowed against the lump in my throat. It didn’t help. "Especially at Christmas."

  For a long moment, we stared at each other. It occurred to me that I should be blunt and ask him directly what his feelings were for me. That I should fight for him. But I was the worst sort of coward. I didn't think I could bear him telling me that he didn’t care for me. That he didn't love me.

  It was painfully clear that—beyond a few weeks at Christmas—I was not what he wanted. If I was, surely he would do something more than merely say he would miss me. Obviously, my feelings were not returned. It struck me that this must be how Thomas felt. Poor, dear man.

  I raised my chin and mustered a polite smile. "I shall send you a card." I nodded, turned and left the library before he could say a word. Before what little courage I had failed me completely.

  A lady does not chase after a man who does not want her, a voice whispered in my head. I knew now it wasn't my mother's. It was mine.

  And it was right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It appeared a broken heart was very much like any serious wound. The edges mended slowly, and just when you thought you were fully healed, there would be a twinge or a moment, a sight or a sound or a scent, and the crushing pain would return.

  My life was as full as it had always been. I had my friends and my family and Thomas, although we did not see each other as often as we had. I continued my study of languages and all the other things I had cultivated to fill my empty days. And yet, they were still empty. Or perhaps it was simply my fickle heart that refused to accept that whatever Fletcher and I had shared in that villa overlooking the sea was over. Still, I had the oddest sensation I was waiting for something. I tried to blame Christmas. Wasn't everyone always counting the days until Christmas? But I knew that wasn't it.

  October turned to November, and then it was December. Christmas was mere weeks away, and with every day closer, a horrible sense of dismay grew within me. As if, when Christmas came, what Fletcher and I had found would finally, irrevocably be over.

  As much as I tried to hide it, Veronica and Julia were well aware of my melancholy. I had told them all that had happened with Fletcher. They were appropriately sympathetic and righteously indignant on my behalf. They agreed that I was right not to fight for him, as there was nothing to fight for. And they took it upon themselves to improve my disposition. I believe they saw me as this year's Christmas charity.

  "We have something we want to show you." Julia swept into my parlor, where I was dutifully conjugating Latin verbs.

  Veronica was by her side. "Something you will want to see."

  I cast them an annoyed frown. "Do the two of you realize that I do have a butler whose duties include announcing visitors before they invade my privacy?"

  "We told him you wouldn't mind," Veronica said, "and that we would just come right in."

  "He did not seem inclined to stop us." Julia grinned.

  "He wouldn’t dare." I narrowed my eyes. "I'm not sure what you've done to him, but you have the poor man terrified. Not individually, but when you are together, he quakes like a frightened bunny."

  "Then you need a butler who is made of sterner stuff." Veronica thrust my hat and cloak at me. "Now then, let us be off."

  I stood and reluctantly accepted the garments. "Dare I ask where?"

  "No," Julia said firmly. "It's, well, it’s a surprise."

  Veronica snorted.

  "Am I going to like this surprise?" I asked slowly.

  My friends exchanged cautious glances.

  "We don't know." Veronica shrugged. "We thought it was rather impressive."

  "Extremely impressive." Julia nodded.

  I looked at the two of them and understood there was no escape. "Very well, then. Let's go see this impressive surprise."

  Some twenty minutes later, they ushered me into the Rossier Gallery.

  "Art?" I glared at them. "I am in no mood to view an exhibit."

  "Oh, you might like this one." Julia steered me around false walls arranged so as to display more paintings.

  "Or you might not," Veronica said in a determined voice. "But you do need to see it."

  The gallery was busy but not overly crowded. Indeed, at another time, I might have enjoyed wandering through the room. If my relationship with Fletcher had done nothing else, it had awakened me to the world of contemporary artists. We turned a corner, and my friends stopped.

  "This is what you need to see," Veronica said quietly.

  I sucked in a sharp breath.

  There, displayed for all the world to see, were a dozen or so paintings, all obviously by the same artist. They were quite impressive, with colors that were at once vivid and yet muted, as if the scenes depicted on canvas were illusions or fantasies and had nothing to do with the reality of life. And fully half of them featured a dark-haired woman in various states of dress and undress. There was little flesh exposed, but the suggestion of nudity, together with the dream-like essence of the works, combined for an eroticism that fairly pulsed with desire.

  I knew without question these were Fletcher's works. And I was the woman.

  "Bloody hell," I murmured.

  "That was our reaction," Julia said in a low voice.

  I glanced around. "Do you think anyone—"

  "Would know it's you?" Veronica shook her head. "I doubt it. We wouldn’t have known if it hadn’t been for the setting and, of course, the volcano."

  "He's done a remarkable job of disguising and yet revealing you at the same time." Julia studied a painting of me with a book in my hand. At once I was back in the villa on the day Fletcher said I was leaving. My heart shifted in my chest.

  I drew a breath to steady myself and glanced at the signature. "James Florian. Interesting choice."

  "His grandmother's maiden name," Veronica said. Yet another reminder of how much I didn't know about this man.

  My gaze slid from one painting to the next. Some of them I had posed for, others came from observations or his own imagination. No, I didn't think anyone who didn’t know about our Christmases together would ever imagine the woman in these works was me. She looked so ethereal and serene and . . . happy.

  "This is my favorite." Veronica pointed out a painting of me clad in nothing but a long scarf draped seductively from my shoulder to my feet. One had the impression that the scarf would slither to the stone floor with no more than a breath of air. I leaned against an archway, gazing out at the sea and the volcano beyond. I remembered the day I posed for this and how happy we had been.

  "The collection is called Shadows of Paradise." Julia sighed. "I've never seen anything like them."

  "They just reek of .
. . passion." Veronica blew a long breath. "And love."

  "Love?" I jerked my gaze to hers.

  "Without doubt." She nodded

  I turned my attention back to Fletcher's work, and Veronica continued. "The ones without you are very good." She studied them closely. "But the ones with you are remarkable."

  She was right. It was apparent in very brushstroke, obvious in every swath of color and light. It was clear as well that not only was the artist in love with his subject, but he had captured the love she felt for him.

  The man had never told me of his feelings. He'd never said he loved me. Yet here, on the walls of this fashionable gallery in London, here he said all he'd never said with words.

  I was quiet in the carriage on the way home. Julia and Veronica knew me well enough to know I did not wish to engage in conversation. They followed me into my parlor.

  I pulled off my glove. "I'm going to Italy."

  "What?" Julia stared.

  "Why?" Veronica asked at the same time.

  I looked at Julia. "I'm going in hopes Fletcher will be there. Besides, I made a pact." I shrugged. "As for the why . . ." I met Veronica's gaze. "If indeed he sells the villa, I know he will want to spend one final Christmas there. Which means this is the last Christmas. And, more than likely, our last chance. I can't live the rest of my life wondering what I might have missed—what I might have lost—by not going to the villa. And I won't."

  My friends exchanged worried looks.

  "The man broke your heart," Veronica said slowly. "How can you go after him?"

  "Because he loves me." I pulled off my other glove. "You said it yourself. The paintings that were landscapes or still lifes were quite nice, but the ones of me were remarkable, awash with emotion and love. His heart and soul are in those paintings, and his passion. I am not an expert in art, but those works were painted by a man in love. The man I love." I clenched my jaw. "And I am not going to let him out of my life without so much as a strongly worded protest."

  "You said you weren't going to fight for him," Veronica pointed out.

  "Actually, I believe I said I didn’t have the courage to fight for him. And I didn’t when I didn’t think there was anything worth fighting for. Now, it's obvious that there is."

  "Do you think this is wise?" Julia asked. "It doesn’t seem like a very good idea to me."

  "To us." Veronica nodded.

  "You're right, both of you. It’s not a good idea." I scoffed. "It's a dreadful idea. And if either one of you were considering something so absurd, I wouldn't hesitate to tell you what a bad idea it was."

  "Then we don't have to tell you how much can go wrong," Veronica said slowly.

  "No, you certainly don't." I shook my head. "I'm fairly sure all the possibilities for utter disaster have filled my head since I realized what I need to do. I have been so angry at him, and so hurt, that I forgot that I never truly gave him any indication as to my feelings. The fault here is as much mine as it is his." I thought for a moment. "I followed all those rules about how women are and are not expected to behave. Our role has always been to wait. I am tired of following rules I had no say in making. That first Christmas, when I decided to go on to Italy without my aunt, was my first step toward being an independent woman. Toward making my own decisions. But when it came to Fletcher, I fell back into the habits of a lifetime.

  "For good or ill, I can make my own decisions. I can direct my own life. And I will not let this man walk out of my life without knowing I did everything I could to stop him."

  "Even so," Veronica said in a cautious manner, "you might want to reconsider—"

  "Come now, Veronica, you are on your second husband, but you are still the most independent woman I know. And Julia was forced into independence, but she took to it nicely. It's past time I tried it. Nothing else seems to have worked all that well."

  "But what if—" Veronica began.

  "It doesn’t matter," I said firmly. "My mind is made up."

  "We can see that, but . . ." Julia met my gaze directly. "Didn’t he say the magic was gone?"

  I chose my words with care. "Isn’t it possible that magic, like very nearly everything worthwhile in life, requires effort? And work? And faith?" I straightened my shoulders. "This may well be a mistake, but I refuse to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been if I had had the courage to . . . to ignore the restrictions of the box that is my life. To follow my heart."

  "It might well be broken again." A warning sounded in Veronica's voice. And sympathy.

  "Indeed it might, but at least I will have no regrets."

  "What will you do about Thomas?" Julia asked.

  "I don't think Thomas will be surprised by this."

  Thomas knew nothing of what had transpired between Fletcher and me. It had added to the distance between us. That and the nagging suspicion I had that he would always try to control my life. David had done that, and not only had I allowed it, I hadn't noticed. But I had changed since David's death. And as much as I considered Thomas a dear friend and as much as I enjoyed his companionship, I could not go back. I didn't love Thomas, and that was a sacrifice I could not make.

  "I will write him a note. I should write to Aunt Helena as well. If one of you will be so good as to have them delivered for me." I paused. "Tomorrow is soon enough, I think."

  Veronica grinned. "Excellent plan."

  Without thinking, I reached out and took Julia's and Veronica's hands and smiled at these women, my closest friends. The sisters of my soul. No matter what I did, I knew without question or doubt that they would stand behind me. As would my family. Aunt Helena was right. There was nothing in the world greater than the courage one derived from love.

  "If I leave tonight, I can be at the villa for Christmas Eve."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I sent a silent prayer heavenward and reached for the door knocker. The ornate design was that of a woman's face. Her expression had always struck me as tentative, as if she didn't know if you were friend or foe. I let the knocker fall and waited for the door of the villa to open. And hoped I wasn't too late. The sense of dread that had settled as a heavy weight in my stomach three days ago had only increased. Weather had delayed my ship and put it two days behind schedule.

  Christmas was yesterday.

  Still, I had come this far, and I was not willing to give up. Not now and not ever. I had made the decision to pursue what—or, rather, who I wanted. I still wasn't sure as to the wisdom of it, but I was certain I had no real choice. I would not live the rest of my days regretting that when life demanded I do something, I didn’t. Even something wrong was better than nothing at all.

  Silvestro rarely took longer than a minute or two to open the door. I waited for at least five before I tried the door. The villa was never locked. I grasped the handle and pushed the door open.

  It was the middle of the day, yet shadows hung over the room. I stepped inside, the ever-faithful Margaret preferring to stay behind in our hired carriage. It wasn't until I made my way to the parlor that I noticed that much of the furniture was missing and sheets covered most of the rest.

  My heart twisted.

  I was indeed too late. The house was empty and, apparently, in the midst of being sold. I walked slowly to the doors leading out to the loggia. The view was as beautiful as it had always been. The bay as deeply blue. Vesuvius as threatening. I believed I was too stunned to do more than stare unseeing, although I should have been prepared. With every hour my ship had been delayed, my hope that I would be here for Christmas dimmed.

  I heard a footstep behind me. I didn't dare to turn around.

  "Portia?" Thomas said.

  I swallowed against the lump in my throat and forced a calm note to my voice. "I believe, in the note I sent you, I specifically asked you not to follow me."

  He paused. "I must have forgotten to read that part."

  I turned toward him. "Why did you come?"

  "For a number of reasons. One is that I h
ave been giving this—giving us—a great deal of thought in recent months. Apparently"—he looked me straight in the eye—"we are not meant to be. At least, not at this time." He shrugged. "Do not take this to mean I am giving up. One never knows how all might turn out in the end." He cast me a wicked smile.

  I did so wish I loved him.

  "But most importantly, I came because I have vowed to be your friend."

  "And you are here to support me in my time of need?" I attempted a lighthearted laugh that—even to me—sounded forced.

  "I am. And I hope you'll allow me to do so." He moved toward me. "I don't know the details of your Christmases. I only know that two months ago, you were determined to come here, and then abruptly you changed your mind. You have not been your usual self since."

  "You are perceptive, I'll give you that."

  "It's a gift." He grinned.

  I almost laughed. "Did you think I would crumple to the floor in despair?"

  "No, of course not. You're made of sterner stuff than that. I was simply being prepared." He paused. "I was prepared as well to intrude upon a joyous reunion, which would have been most awkward for all of us."

  "Well, then, we should be fortunate it did not happen." I turned around and directed my gaze back toward the bay. As much as I was grateful for his thoughtfulness, I would have preferred to be alone. If I was going to say farewell to the Villa Mari Incantati, I would rather do it by myself. Thomas was out of place here.

  Here was magic. Here was Fletcher.

  I shook my head. "You really shouldn't have come, Thomas."

  "She's right, Thomas," a familiar voice said behind me. "You shouldn't have come."

  My breath caught and I turned on my heel.

  "Fletcher?" I said softly, unable to believe my eyes.

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Portia."

  "Lord Castleton?" Thomas's eyes widened.

  "Lord Lindsey." Fletcher nodded, his gaze still locked with mine.

  He looked haggard, as if he hadn't slept well, or at all. As if he were miserable. I'd never seen anything quite so wonderful. "You look dreadful."