“I had this silly crush. Well, not silly. You were…are…handsome.” Gracie looked beautiful when she was flustered. “I checked your birthday on your enrollment card when I was working in the principal’s office one day. I wanted to compare Zodiac signs to see if...” Her cheeks flamed.
“We were star-crossed lovers?” He couldn’t resist teasing her a little. “I knew about your crush.”
“How?”
“The way you looked at me was part of it,” he said gruffly. “As if I were ten feet tall.”
“You saved our family from the bleakest Christmas imaginable. No gifts. No…” She took a deep breath. “Nothing.”
He’d suspected they had little or no food in the house. Her mother had been so thin, she looked like death. Her father had been so bent, so beaten. Merett moved slightly away, hoping Gracie hadn’t felt his involuntary shudder.
Turning suddenly, her head grazed his chin. Laughing lightly, she touched it with her fingertips. “How else did you know I had a crush?”
He laced his fingers in her golden mass of hair. Testing an unruly curl, he imagined he could feel the crackle of energy that was so totally her. Eyes glowing, an eagerness in her face, she seemed ready to tackle the world, just as she had back in high school. “You worked longer hours than anyone else on the Clarion, staying to help me with lay-out, clean-up, anything there was to do.”
“You were my Sir Galahad, and I wanted to be near you.” Laughter bubbled from deep in her throat, soft and husky. “The celebration of Jesus’ birth is the real meaning of Christmas. Pop taught us that from the moment we were born. But you taught my sisters and me the other things Christmas can be. You introduced us to turkey with trimmings, store-bought ornaments, and presents wrapped in pretty paper and shiny bows. You gave us our first taste, not only of receiving, but the meaning of generosity and giving.”
Merett ran his finger around inside his collar.
“You changed my life. Not just one holiday, but my outlook, and I’m grateful.”
There were stars in her eyes. Violet stars in a sea of midnight blue. But dammit, he was no hero. For the past year, he’d been little more than a robot. And before that, he’d been a struggling reporter. He wanted to be so much more.
The violinist approached, and Merett was glad when he stopped at their table, even though it attracted other diners’ attention to them. The song was soft and romantic, and Gracie sank in her seat. He reached for the wine bottle, and as he poured the last of the ruby liquid into their glasses, his hand brushed hers. She looked at him, lips parted, and he brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. She touched her tongue to her lips, and he watched. Their eyes met again, and held. An electric current flowed between them, and he broke his gaze to stare into the candlelight. He didn’t deserve a woman like her.
“I’ll bet it’s fun playing Santa to a little girl. Does Kirsten have a long list?”
Merett blinked, surprised by Gracie’s change of subject, and blinked again, realizing he hadn’t thought about Santa duties. He hadn’t thought much about Christmas. Dad and Kirsten nagged him into shopping for a tree so early. “She hasn’t mentioned a list.”
“Perhaps you should ask her for one.” Gracie brushed his hair back off his forehead. “There are only twenty-one shopping days until Christmas, and that’s a fact, because I read it in this morning’s Daily Reporter.”
Merett swallowed hard. He’d expected Gracie to ask him about his work, but she hadn’t, and he hadn’t told her. The Reporter was drivel. Weddings, births, and obituaries. Court news, an occasional ribbon-cutting or human interest piece, and a smattering of news off the wire. Gracie would be disappointed in him when she learned he ran a two-bit newspaper, but perhaps it was time to level.
* * *
Gracie took a sip of her wine and studied Merett. Sweat beaded his forehead, and if he clutched his wine glass any tighter, he was going to break the stem. She sensed she made him uncomfortable expressing her gratitude, but couldn’t imagine why he’d mind a discussion of Christmas shopping.
“Well, look who’s here!” A rasping voice sent Gracie straight in the air. Merett’s knee banged hers as he jerked to attention. Perfume, so heavy and sweet it made Gracie’s stomach turn, settled over their table.
A pencil-thin woman with black hair angled sharply from earlobes to shoulders tapped heavily-ringed fingers on their table. Her exquisitely tailored red suit screamed ‘money,’ and the disdain on her face looked familiar. She touched the fingers of one hand to a cheekbone, accented with a deep stain of blush. “Merett Bradmoore.” Batting a dark fringe of lashes, she gazed into his face and slowly, seductively smiled.
“Hello, Beryl.”
Beryl Marcum, Holly’s best friend. Feeling Merett’s dismay, Gracie longed to squeeze his knee under the table in a gesture of comfort, but could only sit frozen against the leather booth.
“And who is this you’re with?” Beryl’s words dripped vinegared honey. She tapped a silver-tipped nail delicately against perfectly capped teeth. “Gracie Singleton? My, my.”
The witch, Gracie thought, in unaccustomed fury. Those two “mys” might as well have been stones cast. Merett firmed his thigh against hers. His voice when he spoke was cold. “My what?”
Beryl slid into the seat across from him, and smiled. Merett touched Gracie’s elbow. “We were just about to leave.”
“Oh, stay a moment.” Beryl fluttered her hand to touch his sleeve. “I’m not going to scold you for going out with another woman.”
“We’re not out. And it’s not like I’m cheating. Holly is...has been...”
“I know.” Beryl dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “So why haven’t you called? I didn’t even know you were in town.”
He motioned the waiter to bring their check. “I’ve been busy.”
“So I see.” Beryl’s eyes traveled up and down Grace. The waiter approached, and Merett handed him his credit card. Beryl ordered a gin and tonic. “Gracie Singleton. So what have you been up to?”
“I…uh…moved back from Chicago and started a special occasion decorating business.”
“Real-ly? How quaint of you.”
“Sorry, Beryl, but we have to go.” Merett threw down a five dollar bill for her drink.
Gracie, looking over her shoulder, saw Beryl’s glare still narrowed on them when Merett let the door to Savino’s slam.
* * *
Stars glittered like ice crystals in the sky. The moon shone brightly. Cold air filled the Jeep with the smell and feel of winter. Gracie’s stockinged legs met the leather seat, and she shivered.
Merett turned on the heater and eased the Jeep away from the curb. Blocks later, he spoke. “Beryl lives right behind you. She married and divorced Charles Cosgrove. She took back her maiden name, but kept the Victorian house where they lived.”
Gracie shivered again, although the Jeep was warm and cozy now. She’d invited her other neighbors to her open house, but she couldn’t possibly invite that woman.
A Christmas carol came on the radio, and Merett switched stations. The romantic ballad was hauntingly beautiful. Leaning back into the leather seat, Gracie pushed away all conscious thought, determined to seize the moment.
At her house, he took her hand in his and walked her to the door. The rich-smelling cologne he wore tantalized her. Just standing near him was ecstasy. Tonight, she’d seen glimpses of the guy he’d been many years ago. His wife’s death, and all that went with it, had justifiably thrown him off kilter for a while. But he had such buoyancy, such optimism, he had to get it back. “Would you like to come in?”
He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “I should go.”
Disappointed, she inserted the key slowly in the lock. Their time together had passed too quickly.
“Not that I want to leave.”
Turning, her face hit his chest, the top of her head cracked his chin. “I’m sorry. I keep bumping into you.”
He laced his arms loosely aroun
d her waist, standing so close his breath warmed her face, fanning fires of desire. “I’m glad we bumped into one another again.” He spoke huskily. “And again. And again.”
“Me too,” she whispered, her pulse racing out of control as he drew her close.
Resting her hands on his muscled biceps, firm and hard beneath the soft leather of his jacket, she laid her head against his chest. He massaged the muscles at the back of her neck. She slid her arms around him, and a breeze, or perhaps it was his closeness, drew a shiver from her.
“Cold?” he whispered.
“Not at all,” she said, raising her face to his.
“You smell sweet. You smelled like that in high school. I liked it even then.”
“My grandma sent me honeysuckle bubble bath and cologne every year for Christmas. It’s hard to find nowadays but I still love it.”
“So do I.” He slanted his mouth over hers, hot and seeking, his lips soft and at the same time crushing. Heaven must be like this. Hot and golden. His topcoat was unbuttoned, and she melted against him. Her breasts peaked and hardened against his soft cashmere sweater. She gasped, and he pulled her closer. His tongue sought hers, and she responded, smothering a moan. He pushed her up against the door. Reaching behind her, she groped for the knob. “Let’s go inside.”
He straightened, and like a man waking from a dream, shook his head. “I...we can’t. I can’t. I shouldn’t have.”
Shouldn’t have? Gracie froze, all the old fears flooding back. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of being rejected. But he wanted her the other night in the snow, and she thought he wanted her tonight. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.”
“I would have...” Breaking away, he paced the length of the porch and jerked the chain of the porch swing. “You should take this damn thing inside before the finish gets ruined.”
Gracie gaped at him. “I—I...”
He ran his fingers through his hair, and paced back to her, then to the swing again. “It’s not okay.” His voice broke, and she clutched her handbag to her chest. “We’re not teenagers. I’m a mature man, and you’re a self-respecting woman.” He strode toward her and pulled her close. “You are just so damn irresistible.” Planting a quick, fierce kiss on her lips, he rushed from the porch.
“Thank you,” she whispered, too softly for him to hear. For the compliment or the evening? Or the surging feeling of joy and power he’d given her? If he was running hot and cold, she knew now that he was running from himself.
* * *
Smiling, Gracie climbed the steps to the bedroom, humming into the darkness. Opening her door, she saw a shadow lying across her bed that looked like a woman, arms spread wide. It could be a tree with outspread limbs, shadowed in the moonlight, or maybe it was Mirabelle waiting for her lover’s embrace.
Was Mirabelle looking for Jonathon because she thought he could still save her from spinsterhood with some sort of celestial marriage? Or because she loved him so very, very much? Spreading her arms, Gracie whispered to the imaginary ghost. “Don’t give up. Dreams can come true. One of mine did tonight.”
* * *
Gracie’s lunch appointment with Harland Hamilton, president of the Ferndale Country Club, came off pleasantly after a nervous start. She’d tucked combs into her unruly curls, to hold the sides back, but looking at smooth bobs and French twists of the patrons in the lobby, felt unkempt. Harland arrived late, but a tall gentleman with silver hair and the picture of casual elegance in his navy jacket and gray pants, he’d quickly put her at ease. He knew what he considered appropriate, but allowed her creative license.
“I want the job done as soon as possible, and I’m sure your price will be fair, your plans good. Harry Bradmoore recommended you, and I trust his judgment.”
Having escaped without making a fool of herself, and without running into Beryl and her cronies as she’d feared, Gracie was in high-spirits until she entered the Reporter’s dreary office that evening. Looking at wooden floors marred with cigarette burns, tan walls, and a sagging counter with yellowing philodendrons, she was glad her arm was back to normal. It would take two good arms, and possibly a miracle, to make the place cheery.
Squaring her shoulders, she asked the custodian to carry in the bushy tree she’d bought at Heber’s. A young man with dark curly hair, he looked familiar. As he rose from setting the tree in the stand, she took a long look at him. “Charlie Bosso, is that you all grown-up?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He cocked his head to study her. “And you would be?”
“Gracie Saylor, the Singleton’s daughter. You wouldn’t remember me, but your parents would.”
“I remember you sent us a card when our twins were born. My wife put it in their scrapbook.” He whipped out his wallet to show her the twins’ pictures. “Jess and Josephine are the reason I’m working this extra job at night. In the daytime, I work for my dad at Bosso and Son, Plumbing.” Charlie handed her a business card. “Mr. Bradmoore was nice enough to print these here without charging me.”
Gracie stared at Charlie. “Do you mean Merett Bradmoore?”
“Yes’m. He’s the owner and editor, so he has the say.”
Gracie was floored. Why hadn’t he told her he was in newspaper work here? Was he embarrassed about working at the Reporter because it was a small daily? Setting the tree in front of the plate glass window, she thought about Merett and his work as she lavished the pine with brightly colored ornaments and an abundance of tinsel and icicles. If that didn’t draw more people into the office, it would give them the Christmas spirit as they passed.
To cheer the office workers, she placed candy-striped mugs filled with holly on their desks. Deciding it would take more than that, she covered a gray room divider near the back of the office with sky-blue paper, and painted deep white snow banked around a small church. Enthralled with her task, she added people to the scene, then a wreath to the church door.
“You should have been an artist.”
She looked up into the awed face of Charlie Bosso.
“Thank you,” she said, touched. That had been her dream once, but as she matured and began hearing stories of starving artists, she knew it wasn’t for her.
Charlie left and asked her to lock up, and she was putting away her paint jars when a lid rolled under the free-standing divider she’d decorated. Walking around to retrieve it, she knew at once that she’d happened upon Merett’s desk. The desks out front were littered with papers, pictures, and knickknacks, but his desk top held nothing but a brass letter opener, rosewood pen, and leather-bound desk calendar. Nothing personal marked it as his, not even a picture of Kirsten, offering silent testimony that he considered the job as temporary, she supposed.
Gracie ran her hand over the back of his chair, and the rich scent of his cologne rose to tickle her nose. He was set on going back east to prove himself, but a small town editor could make a bigger difference in people’s lives than a city reporter. In New York, he might ripple the stream of humanity, but here, he had the power to uplift the town.
After adding a special decoration to the boss’s desk, hoping it would remind him of his special place in the office and in Ferndale, Gracie smiled.
Ebenezer Scrooge would sing Jingle Bells if he saw the Daily Reporter office now.
Chapter Six
Merett’s day started off badly when he overslept. Pulling into a parking place behind the Reporter, he thought he’d slip in the back door, but discovered he’d forgotten his key. So, he walked around front. “What in blazes?”
A bright golden star winked from the corner of the front window, shining like an all night diner’s beacon in the early morning gloom. A fat wreath with multicolored baubles hung on the door, and inside, stood the most-decorated tree he’d ever seen. Ornaments, tinsel, lights.
Gracie did this. He shoved through the door. On the counter stood a rustic-looking mailbox with Daily Reporter painted on it. Simple, that was fine. But he could see beyond that to Christmas mugs �
��blooming” on every desk. Cold air rushed in around him, carrying with it a soft rift of snow. Closing the door, Merett stomped his feet and finger-raked his hair.
“Nice going, boss.” The sports editor rushed up to pump his hand.
“It’s beautiful.” Henri, the society editor, gave him a hug.
“Special Effects are certainly special,” Emma said, with an approving nod.
The other office workers joined in a round of applause.
Scowling, Merett folded his arms. “If you ask me, it’s overdone.”
“Oh, no.” A young copyeditor, blushing to the roots of her carrot-colored hair spoke up. “You can’t overdo Christmas, Mr. Bradmoore.”
“I’d like some coffee, please,” Merett growled, looking at Emma. “And a donut if there’s one around.”
“Yes, Mr. Brad...er, uh Merett.”
Hightailing it to his desk, he dropped into his chair and scrubbed his fingers across his eyes. He’d never asked Emma to bring him coffee before. “I’m sorry,” he said, as she set a steaming mug and a donut on a paper plate in front of him. “I missed breakfast and…uh…the decorations overwhelmed me.”
“Shall I hold your mail and calls?”
“Ten minutes should be about right.”
Merett sank his teeth into the plump donut with rich chocolate frosting, and washed it down with a sip of strong black coffee. Five minutes of saturated fat chased with caffeine later, he leaned back in his chair and saw the tree on his desk.
It looked like a tiny specimen brought in fresh from the woods, its bows tipped with snow, and a cardinal sitting on a branch in quiet repose. A sense of calm settled over him, and his eyes misted. There was a feeder outside the kitchen window where Mama used to watch the cardinals on a snowy day.
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