A LONG HOT CHRISTMAS

by Barbara Daly

  "What's that?" Charity said.

  "I hear water running," Faith said.

  "I'm in Niagara Falls," Hope said, then leaned back against the sofa and smiled as she listened to their shrieks and cries of delight.

  When they finally settled down, she said, "Just kidding. That's my new fountain."

  Their cross exclamations made her smile even more vindictively. My, how she did love to push their buttons.

  When the call ended, she examined the pipe star that still sat on the round table. It was quite dry now. She got the kitchen ladder, and stretching herself out to the limit, managed to position the star at the tip of the tree.

  She stood back for a moment to admire it. To be perfectly honest, it looked more like a satellite than a star with its gold-sprayed center and the irregular lengths of pipe poking out of it, but it was stunning nonetheless, a tribute to creative thinking, and it hadn't cost more than five dollars in paint and Styrofoam.

  There was a lot of love in it, though.

  For a moment she let herself remember the time she and Sam had just spent together, feeling the sensations he aroused in her all over again, aching with want for him.

  Could she have been thinking about him hard enough to make him call? Or was it possible he'd already been thinking about her? Whatever the reason, when the phone rang she knew it would be Sam.

  "Hi," he said.

  No more, "Hope? Sam." They knew each other's voices now. Intimately. But one thing hadn't changed. Now all it took was the word, "Hi," to make her blood run hot in her veins, to make her wriggle against the sofa cushions.

  "Hi, Sam."

  "Good day at the office?"

  "It was okay. How about yours?"

  The things unsaid vibrated in the air. His voice was low and husky. Hers, she knew, was different from the voice of Hope the professional woman.

  "Okay here, too." He paused. "I got into the Magnolia Heights case today."

  "How does it look?"

  "Well…"

  He seemed to be settling in somewhere, into something. She wondered where he was. Was he still at his office in his shirtsleeves with his tie loosely knotted, or was he at home, slouching around in a sweater and wool socks? She could hear a voice in the background, then simply a cacophony of noise. A television set? Or had he gone to a bar? With friends? After a flash of admittedly unjustified jealousy, she gave up trying to guess and waited to hear what he had to say.

  "It's not going to be easy," he told her. "Lots of emotion tied up in this case, lots of sentiment, human interest. The media's having a good time with it. It's going to be hard to get a fair trial."

  "But what's happened, however inconvenient for Magnolia Heights, wasn't the fault of Palmer Pipe. That's all you have to show, isn't it? That it wasn't the pipe?"

  "You're thinking like a lawyer." He sounded amused.

  "No," she said, "I'm thinking like a potential vice president of Marketing." She gave him a brief rundown of her conversation with Benton, telling him only the good parts, leaving out the worrisome ones. "I'm thinking selfishly here."

  "Me, too," he said, and sighed. Then, "Are you doing your girl stuff tonight? The masque and the hair gunk?"

  Was she? "Nope," she said, surprising herself. "My face is fine, I can just keep patching up my fingernails and with five inches of snow on the ground, my toenails aren't much of an issue. I'm taking the night off."

  "Good for you."

  "And furthermore," Hope said, getting up to pace the room, "I'm not eating another one of those ghastly TV dinners. I'm going to order—" she paused to let her taste buds kick in "—Indian food!"

  "For one or two?"

  She halted in her pacing. She glanced at the star on top of the tree. She could already feel Sam's arms around her, taste the warm maleness of his skin, feel her fingers in his hair, on his shoulders, clutching him for dear life…

  "Indian food's always more interesting for two," she said. "You can order a bunch of things to share. I, ah, don't suppose you'd like to…"

  "Is that any way to make a sale?" Sam said. He mimicked her. "'I don't suppose you'd like to'?"

  "Damn," Hope said. "I'll start over."

  "Don't bother," Sam said. "I'm an easy mark. See you in—"

  Silently he thrust a bill at the driver and got out of the cab. Smiling, remembering, he glanced through the doorway of Hope's apartment building and shifted the box of Christmas cookies to his other hand. "Two minutes."

  He'd rather been looking forward to seeing her in the green masque again. It would seem like an anniversary.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  It was too lovely for words, waking up beside Sam. Waking up early this time, in the dark of a winter's morning. She'd mention curtains to Maybelle tonight, though, in case … in case Sam was still in her bed when spring came? Was it too much to hope for?

  "Time is it?" He yawned sleepily.

  "Five."

  "Rise and shine."

  "Rise, anyway."

  He rolled over and took her in his arms, pulling her to him, molding her naked body against his. He stroked her back, buried his face in her neck. "I have risen," he said solemnly, proving it as he tugged her even more tightly against him. "It's time to get up, and I've gotten up. But now I have to go home." With obvious regret, he rolled away.

  "Have some coffee before you go," Hope said.

  "Love some. Mind if I shower here? Saves a step."

  "Make yourself at home." She smiled at him.

  He joined her ten minutes later, wearing yesterday's clothes, while she'd bundled herself into her warm, sexless white robe and slippers. She poured the coffee and put out the cinnamon rolls she hadn't served him on Sunday morning.

  "As long as we're here," he said, sounding less sleepy, "let's coordinate our schedules." He pulled out his Palm Pilot.

  "Um," Hope mumbled through the first bite of cinnamon roll, then retrieved her Palm Pilot from its cradle. She wished she had a camera to capture for posterity the two of them, sitting at the small round table in the living room, each scribbling on the screen of his own personal Palm Pilot. It was such a cozy scene.

  "No parties tonight, right?"

  "No. And I've asked Maybelle to meet me here at seven."

  "The decorator?"

  "Yes. Maybelle Ewing."

  It amused her when he automatically punched the address list icon with his stylus and wrote down the name. "Tell her I like whatever it is she's done to this place."

  "I'll do that."

  "Especially the fountain. I bet you like it, too. It's got pipe in it." He gave her one of his villainous smiles.

  "Enough already," she snapped with an irritation she didn't feel, and he knew it.

  "Okay," he said, "about tomorrow night…"

  "The party one of our customers is giving." She cocked her head to one side. "Please don't tell me you can't go. I've really been counting on you," she said, and added all in a rush, "The CEO's wastrel son works for his father in a position where he can't do much harm." She paused briefly. "He liaisons with me. Anyway, the CEO has all but asked me if I earn enough to support two in the manner to which his son has become accustomed."

  Sam's eyes flashed a little. "It's on my schedule. Nothing will keep me from going."

  "Thank goodness."

  "Thursday. Oh, yeah, that's the party at Cap's house out in New Jersey."

  Hope's ears perked up. "I'm looking forward to that one. I get to meet Mrs. Cap."

  "And I get to sidestep Mrs. Cap's … I mean Muffy's … sister, who will almost certainly be there to look you over."

  Hope quirked an eyebrow. "Is a new outfit called for?"

  "Do you have anything from Fredericks of Hollywood?"

  "No, and it's too late to order. I'll have to discourage her hopes and dreams with the sheer force of my personality." She hesitated. "Unless you might be interested some time in the future."

  "I don't think so," Sam
replied.

  "Friday night. Friday night," she said, answering her own question, "you get to meet the people I call my friends."

  In answer to the curious look he gave her, she said, "We see each other maybe twice a year because nobody has time for more than that. We call it being friends."

  "All you can have for now," Sam murmured.

  "You have some of those, too?"

  "Oh, yes. You'll meet most of them at Cap's party. I don't get out of my own tank much."

  "Okay, then, we're set for now."

  "And a week from today is Christmas."

  "That soon?" Hope said, feeling panicked.

  "When are you going home?"

  "Saturday. You?"

  "Sunday."

  They gazed at each other.

  "I don't suppose…" They spoke together.

  "…you'd like to go home with me, instead," Sam finished for both of them. His smile was wry.

  "Home is where I feel the worst pressure," Hope said. "Taking you with me would keep my mom and sisters quiet on the all-work-and-no-play battlefront."

  "Exactly what went through my mind," Sam said.

  "But we can't be two places at once," Hope said.

  "Nope." Sam got up and took his cup and plate to the kitchen, where he put them directly into the dishwasher. "I don't want to, but I've got to get going."

  "Big day?" Hope said, joining him with her dishes.

  "Long day. For you, too, I bet." He took the dishes out of her hands and added them to his. "Bye," he said, tipping her chin up and giving her a light, brushing kiss before springing into action in the way that was quintessentially Sam, coat, scarf, gloves, briefcase—gone.

  For just a moment, Hope sank down into one of the armchairs, letting the full set of conflicting feelings consume her. Then she marched into her office alcove, resolutely connected her laptop to her second phone line, logged into the network—and watched a message to Benton pop up on the screen in the corner.

  The message was from Cap Waldstrum.

  Hope stared at it. Loyalty. Professional behavior.

  Truth. She opened it.

  "Confirming. Same time, same place. Don't be late."

  This time she didn't delete it. If Benton opened it at home, it might appear as a new, unread message. If he downloaded it from the office network, he would see it had been read. Whatever happened would happen.

  * * *

  "You're going out to lunch?"

  "Yes," Hope said, breezing past the administrative assistant's desk.

  "Business, of course."

  "Of course," Hope said, feeling paranoid enough to eye the woman suspiciously for a second. But all she saw was a teasing smile, not unlike the smile Charity would be giving her under the same circumstances.

  All work, no play. Now that she was playing a little bit, she'd discovered they were right. The part of her life where Sam lived felt great.

  For now.

  Get on with it. This is not the time to think about Sam.

  From the building in midtown that housed Palmer Pipe, Hope darted into Saks, made a beeline for the Ladies Lounge and dived into her overstuffed briefcase. She emerged looking less like a Saks customer than she had when she walked in. Unless the observer happened to know how expensive her sneakers were, or that the scarf over her hair was from Hermes.

  Huddled inside her oldest coat, she practically jogged the long block to Sixth Avenue and the D Train. At Columbus Circle she changed to the A train, and soon emerged several blocks from Magnolia Heights, three huge buildings rising out of a snowy plot of land from which a few young, bad-looking trees and shrubs poked up their heads.

  She selected the middle building. Talk about dumb, she scolded herself, she'd expected to find a doorman waiting. Faced instead with a block of names, each with a buzzer beside it, she took a deep breath and pushed the first buzzer her finger landed on.

  There was no answer. She chose another buzzer. No answer. On the fifth try, a woman's voice answered. A baby cried in the background. Hope almost gave up her plan then and there, but not quite.

  "Hello?" she said. "Sorry to bother you, but I'm Sally Sue Sumner? A social worker?" Hearing the uncertainty in her voice, she winced. If she'd descended to disguise and deception to get at the truth, she had to do a better job of it. "I'm on a committee to determine the health hazards of the water damage here. May I have a minute of your time?"

  There was a long silence, except for the baby crying. "Well, I guess so," said the woman. "Come on up."

  A wonderful sound came from the locked front doors—a long, loud buzz and a click, and she'd done it. She was inside the building and on her way up in a Spartan, but new and clean, elevator to Apartment 7H, where, according to the name plate, a family named Hotchkiss lived.

  Mrs. Hotchkiss was young and rather pretty. She bounced an adorable baby on her shoulder, a little girl, Hope thought, who seemed to be abandoning her earlier tears and going for sleep, instead. "Teething," said the woman, nodding at the baby.

  Hope gave her a look of pure womanly understanding. She knew nothing about teething, but understood it was horrible for the parents. Perhaps horrible for the child as well, but so far she'd only heard the parents' side of the story.

  "Thanks for seeing me," Hope said.

  "I should ask you for an identification card or something," Mrs. Hotchkiss said, looking nervous.

  "Of course," Hope said reassuringly, and reached confidently into her handbag. Think of something, think of something. With her hand still groping at the bottom of the bag, she looked up toward the ceiling. "Omi-gosh," she said.

  Her reaction was genuine, although she'd only looked skyward to pray for a miracle. She'd gotten her miracle. Mrs. Hotchkiss forgot all about her need for Hope's identification. "Pretty, isn't it?" she said.

  Hope was sure she'd meant to sound sarcastic instead of sad. The ceiling they both gazed at bore a large, dark spot. Over the spot, paint made bubbles, then cracked. The ceiling itself seemed to sag a little, which explained the rather odd placement of the furniture. Although the room was small, everything in it was crammed into the side away from the ominous-looking spot. The floor was bare.

  "It's better now that it stopped dripping," said Mrs. Hotchkiss.

  "I'm sure it is," Hope said weakly. "So, Mrs. Hotchkiss, how long has this situation been going on?"

  Having already wormed her way in, Hope let the woman talk as long as she wanted to. When her tale of woe finally ran down, Hope said, "Do you know any of your neighbors?"

  "Some of them," Mrs. Hotchkiss said. "Mainly the ones with little kids. We walk our babies together, and baby-sit for each other."

  "Would you be willing to introduce me to a few of them?"

  "Sure," said Mrs. Hotchkiss, and reached for her phone.

  Hope left the building shaken. She'd seen everything she'd imagined the night before when she'd walked into her apartment to hear the tinkling of her own lovely little fountain—the mold, the mildew, the warped floors, the buckled asphalt tiles, the soaked rugs these people couldn't afford to throw away.

  Mushrooms were growing in the corner of one of the apartments. When the women asked Hope what she thought they should do about their living conditions, the answer that popped out of her mouth was, "Don't eat the mushrooms."

  She'd left promising to do something to help them. What an empty promise. What could she possibly do?

  Because it simply wasn't the pipe. On that one point she could not, would not, back down.

  She went out through the front door, wrapping her old coat tightly around her when the cold wind hit, and came to an abrupt standstill, staring at the big plate of names and buzzers. The name that caught her eye was Hchiridski.

  There couldn't be that many Hchiridskis in the world, not in this part of the world, anyway. Slidell's family? Slidell's mom? Did people like Slidell have moms?

  If the Hchiridskis who lived at Magnolia Heights were in fact Slidell's family, a lot of things came c
lear. Shaking her head, feeling a headache start up at her temples, she looked out toward the street and froze. Getting out of a taxi at the curb was Sam, and with him, Cap Waldstrum.

  Hope spun, huddled under her Hermes scarf, slumped her shoulders and hurried off toward the building to the north.

  While Cap paid the cab fare, collecting, of course, the receipt to submit for reimbursement, Sam watched the figure scuttling away in the opposite direction.

  It was amazing what a little work could do for a woman. Now that woman—if she'd do something about her posture, she'd remind him a lot of Hope.

  He was afraid the time was quickly coming when he'd have to live with mere memories of Hope. Because the more he got into the data, the surer he was that the problem at Magnolia Heights was directly related to Palmer Pipe, and attacking Palmer Pipe was one and the same as attacking Hope.

  He might also be living with mere memories of having once been that close to a partnership at Brinkley Meyers. No way would he get it if he upset the carefully constructed case against Stockwell Plumbing Contractors by discovering that his client had been lying.

  He was meeting an engineer at Magnolia Heights today because he had to know the truth, even if he made a decision not to act on it.

  He cast a glance at Cap. Cap, who was carefully tucking the receipt into a special pocket of his briefcase, couldn't possibly know what was going through his mind Sam had accepted Cap's offer and put him on the litigation team. It was the best way to keep an eye on him.

  Because something was wrong about Cap, too, and Sam wanted to be there, swimming just beneath the surface, when Cap dangled his legs once too often.

  They didn't call him The Shark for nothing.

  But Sam wasn't an eating machine. He hated what he was doing. What hurt worst was that he couldn't talk any of this over with Hope. And, God help him, how he wanted to.

  * * *

  "Benton, I'm so glad I caught you," Hope said at five-thirty that evening. "Do you have a minute?" With the receiver to her ear, she directed her gaze toward the sheet of paper on her desk.