12 Stocking Stuffers

by Beverly Barton

  “Spare me,” Patsy said. “At least they don’t make Christmas diapers.”

  “They do! They’re disposable, and, yes, they’re against your environmental conscience, but I thought when you travel they might come in handy.”

  “Oh, God,” Patsy said weakly. “Anyway, you probably picked up that candle in one of your insane shopping forays and just forgot where you bought it. And then you had some crazy dream about a shop run by Mrs. Santa Claus on some nonexistent street, and you don’t remember where you really picked it up. Which is a shame, because it sounds cool, and I’d love to have one.”

  “I didn’t dream it.”

  “Suit yourself. Are you staying for dinner? After all, you brought it. If you don’t stay I’ll worry that you don’t trust your own cooking.”

  Angie looked out at the darkening afternoon. “As long as you promise it won’t snow.”

  “Wuss,” Patsy said genially.

  Four hours later she regretted her decision. Channel three had betrayed her, and a few lazy flakes were swirling down under the moonlit sky. Angie crept along the bare pavement, clutching the steering wheel. There’s nothing to fear, she told herself. It can’t turn into a blizzard until you get home—there isn’t time.

  Though of course at the pace she was driving, she might not be home until midnight. She pressed her foot a little harder on the gas pedal, cautiously, and the Jeep moved with a bit more vigor. She had the heat on full blast, and the car still smelled like a bakery. She only slid a bit when she turned into her driveway and came to a solid stop against the snowbank.

  The lights were on, and smoke was pouring out of the chimney. She never left that many lights on, and the fire should have died down by now. For a moment she considered putting the car in reverse and getting the hell out of there.

  And then the snow started again, and she knew perfectly well that home was the safest place to be. Besides, if she’d imagined Mrs. Claus’s Candle Shop, then she might very well have imagined she’d turned off the lights when she left.

  She grabbed an armful of packages from the back of the car, trudged up the front steps onto the porch and opened the door. Then dropped the packages as she saw him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  Brody looked up from his spot on the floor. The perfectly shaped Christmas tree towered over him, albeit at an odd angle, and he’d managed to assemble Uncle Otto’s Christmas tree house, but the actual mechanics of it seemed to be providing more than its share of frustrations.

  “What do you think I’m doing? Repaying my debt. And you might want to close the door before you freeze us both.”

  She kicked the door shut behind her, leaving her packages where they’d fallen. “By breaking and entering?”

  “You don’t lock your house, Angel. And you asked for a tree. I brought you one. Sorry it couldn’t be the one you planted, but I have a certain affection for that one, and besides, it was too big. This, however, is perfect. If I can just get it to stand straight.”

  It was a perfect tree. “It needs two people,” she said, stripping off her down jacket and gloves and kicking off her boots. “You hold it while I tighten the screws.”

  “I’m already down here. You hold it.”

  There was no way to avoid coming close to him—managing the Christmas tree required proximity. She kept as far away as she could, focusing straight ahead as she reached through the thick branches to grasp the tree trunk. The Christmas candle sat where it always did, in the middle of the table, shedding its golden glow, and she felt some of her tension begin to drain.

  “I don’t know why you need so many trees,” he muttered, practically beneath her skirts if she’d been wearing any. Fortunately, she had on jeans, but his head was uncomfortably close. “Most people get by with one, and it’s usually artificial.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “And you should never leave the house with a candle burning,” he said, looking up at her. “I don’t care how safe you think it is, a cat could knock it over. We’ve even been known to have the occasional earthquake.”

  “Highly unlikely. I don’t have a cat at the moment, and for that matter I didn’t leave the candle burning. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  “It was burning when I got here,” he said. “And anyone who marries Jeffrey Hastings qualifies as at least a partial idiot. You can let go now.”

  She released the resiny trunk and stepped back. The tree stayed where it was, straight and true. “What have you got against Jeffrey?”

  He scooted back from the tree, making no effort to rise. “Same thing I’ve always had,” he said. “I would have thought you’d learned your lesson.”

  “Our divorce was very civilized. And just because our marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean he’s a monster.”

  “No, not a monster. Just a total pig’s butt. Always has been, always will be.” He rose, in one fluid movement, reminding her with sudden, disturbing clarity how tall he was. “Don’t tell me you’re still in love with him. You spent half your life thinking he was God’s gift. I would have thought you’d learned better by now.”

  “I’m not still in love with him. Though I don’t know what business it is of yours.”

  “Don’t you?” he said, his face enigmatic. “Where are your lights?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your lights. I’ll put the lights on the tree before I go. I’m taller than you are, and I can reach higher. Unless you want to kick me out.”

  She wasn’t sure what she wanted. Having him there was bringing back all sorts of memories, disturbing ones, confusing ones. But if he left she’d be alone with those thoughts and regrets.

  She swallowed her protest. “That would be very kind of you,” she said. “They’re in the trunk under the table. Can I get you something to drink? Maybe some eggnog?”

  “You don’t have eggnog. I already searched your refrigerator. And why do you have light beer? You don’t need it.”

  She let that pass. “I can make eggnog,” she said.

  He’d been rummaging through the trunk of Christmas lights, but he raised his head up at that, his dark hair falling into his face, and she found she wanted to push that hair away from his eyes. What the hell was wrong with her?

  “How do you make eggnog? I thought it came from the grocery store.”

  “You use milk and whipping cream and raw eggs and brandy.”

  “Raw eggs? You’re trying to kill me.”

  “I get the eggs from the Gebbie farm. They aren’t carrying any disease.”

  “I think I’d prefer to go straight to the brandy.”

  “I can do that. I don’t suppose you’re hungry. I could probably make you something.”

  He grinned. “Don’t sound so pained. If you really don’t want me here just tell me.”

  She wanted him there. That was the danger. The Christmas candle cast a warm, romantic glow to the room, and he was reminding her of things better left in the past. At least she had the dubious relief of knowing he’d forgotten that night entirely.

  “I want you here.” She could have bit her tongue. It was his fault; he’d backed her into saying it, and it had come out all wrong. “That is, I don’t mind.”

  “Don’t spoil it, Angel. No one’s wanted me around for a long time.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she said, managing to put a touch of asperity into her voice.

  His smile was almost devilish. “Why, Angel. I do believe you don’t hate me after all.”

  “Of course I don’t hate you. I never have.”

  “Not according to your former husband.”

  “You discussed me with Jeffrey? When?”

  “Relax. It was a long time ago. He didn’t like the idea of anyone sniffing around you, particularly me. He was just warning me off.”

  “Don’t be silly. I know that the two of you never got along for some reason, but it had absolutely nothing to do with me.”

&
nbsp; There was real amusement in his laugh. “Believe that if you want to.”

  “And no one was ‘sniffing around’ me, as you so elegantly put it. I was hardly a bitch in heat.”

  “More’s the pity,” he murmured. “What do you put on the top of the tree? A star or an angel?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Bring me the angel,” he said.

  The tree really was beautiful. And for some odd reason, she felt totally comfortable to be decorating it with Brody Jackson. He handled the antique glass balls with exquisite care, the ones that her mother would never let Jeffrey touch. He laughed at the string of nun lights, and he didn’t laugh at one of her kindergarten attempts that her mother had refused to part with—a string of spools painted gold. The Christmas candle shone brightly, and she found herself loosening up, like a cat after a long nap. She sighed, a tired, happy sound, feeling better than she had for some time.

  He turned to look at her. The tree was finished, the brandy was drunk, the candle light sparkled off the glass ornaments. “I suppose I’d better be going.”

  “Yes,” she said, because she couldn’t say anything else.

  He reached for his old barn jacket and shrugged into it. He seemed a million miles away from the elegant executive who’d supposedly swindled thousands, he seemed a million miles away from the golden boy of summer she’d had a secret crush on. He seemed like a stranger, and the other part of herself.

  And she must have had too much brandy. “Do you have a flashlight?”

  “It’s a full moon. I can find my way home.” He had started toward the door, when suddenly she spoke.

  “Would you tell me something, Brody?”

  He stopped, turning. “Anything,” he said simply, and she believed him.

  “Do you even remember the Founder’s Day dance?”

  “The one I took Ariel Bartlett to? I thought we already talked about that.”

  “No. The last one. Ten years ago.”

  She examined his blank gaze and knew, as she’d expected, that he didn’t remember a thing about it. A few short minutes out on the deck at the Harbor Club that had shaken her to her core, and he’d been too drunk to even recall them.

  “Not in particular,” he said. “Should I?”

  He seemed so innocent that she had to believe him. “No,” she said. “It was just the last time we saw each other before this winter. Jeffrey had left early for college and we danced. I think it was the only time.”

  “Did we?” He shook his head. “Sorry. Did anything interesting happen?”

  “No,” she said. “We danced, you were drunk, you made a pass and I fended you off. I just wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings.” It was sort of the truth. If one had a very broad definition where truth was concerned.

  “Really? Funny that I wouldn’t remember. What did we dance to?”

  “I have no idea. It was some old-fogey dance band the club had hired, and I don’t think they played anything written before nineteen-fifty. It must have been some old standard.”

  “I suppose so. You still haven’t told me why you’re asking.”

  She gave herself a tiny shake. “Just curious, I guess.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly, sounding doubtful. “Lock the door behind me, Angel.”

  “Why? We’re perfectly safe out here.”

  “Do it for my peace of mind.”

  “All right.” She followed him to the door, holding it as he stepped out into the wintery night. He went down the front steps, then stopped.

  “Lock the door,” he said again.

  “Yes, sir.” She started to close it.

  “And Angel…”

  “Yes?”

  “It was ‘Night and Day.’”

  He was gone before she could say another word.

  SHE STILL DIDN’T know how she’d happened to find herself in his arms. She’d gotten along with almost everyone, but there’d always been tension between Jeffrey and Brody. For the first time in years she was there alone—Jeffrey had left early for college. She’d known Brody for most of her life, been to dozens of the same parties, yet she couldn’t recall ever dancing with him. And suddenly she was in his arms.

  “I’m very drunk,” he’d told her with great deliberateness as they moved through the music.

  “Maybe we should sit this out.”

  He shook his head. “This is my only chance. While the cat’s away the mice will play.”

  She didn’t bother arguing with him. He might be very drunk, but he could still manage to keep upright on the dance floor, holding her against him, not too tight, not too loose. “I hope you’re not planning to drive home,” she said severely.

  “I’m hoping you’ll take me home with you.”

  “You really are drunk, aren’t you, Brody?”

  “Very,” he said. He’d managed to steer her over toward the French doors.

  “Maybe you should get some fresh air,” she suggested. He had a strong body, warm, lean, and he was taller than Jeffrey. And there was nothing wrong with a harmless little crush—everyone in Crescent Cove went through one sooner or later. It didn’t mean that she didn’t consider Jeffrey her soul mate and her future. It just meant she was human, and Brody Jackson had the most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen. And always had.

  “Good idea,” he said, steering her out onto the deck that hung out over the lake. They were alone out there—the night was cool, and a light mist was falling, and if anything would sober him up that would. But he didn’t let go of her, and she didn’t try to move away. He pulled her a little closer, so that she fit perfectly against his body, and she felt a huge knot of tension begin to dissolve in a pool of heat that the cool mist had no effect on.

  Her face was tucked against his shoulder, her arms were around his waist and they were barely moving. She was suddenly, unaccountably happy. “You’re not really going to marry that pig’s butt, are you?” he whispered in her ear.

  “Marry who?” she asked, moving her head to look up at him, smiling.

  Big mistake. He kissed her then. He had to be drunk to kiss her like that, but she’d already known that he was, and she’d been playing with fire, coming out there with him. It was a shock of a kiss—openmouthed, hungry, and the biggest shock of all was that she kissed him back. And kept kissing him, as he pushed her into a dark corner where no one could see them. His hands touched her, his mouth promised her, and all she wanted to do was shut out the voices and the guilt and lose herself in Brody Jackson.

  But they weren’t inner voices; they were real ones, moving closer, and reality came rushing back. She pushed away from him, stumbling in her high heels, and she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. She’d run, down the steps to the street, and kept going until she reached her car.

  It had taken her ten minutes to stop shaking. Fifteen minutes to pull herself together and start the car. Twenty minutes to realize he wasn’t chasing after her.

  “You okay?” It was Patsy’s boyfriend, Ethan, peering into the car with a worried expression on his face. “Patsy sent me to check on you.”

  “I’m fine,” she said briskly. “I’m just going home. I’m driving to Chicago tomorrow and I need to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “He was drunk, Angie. He didn’t know what he was doing. I doubt he even realized it was you, and he sure as hell isn’t going to remember anything tomorrow. Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?”

  It had been too much to hope that no one had noticed. At least Ethan was trustworthy. “Of course not. I was just…surprised. Where is he now?”

  “Passed out. I’m taking him back home and dumping him there, let him sleep it off. As long as I’m certain you’re okay.”

  “Fine. I’m sure he had no idea what he was doing.”

  “None at all. You positive you don’t want me to drive you home? He’ll be out for hours.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine, Ethan. Thank you.” And she drove off before he could see the tears
on her face.

  “IS SHE OKAY?” Brody had been waiting, just out of sight.

  Ethan looked at him severely. “All you did was kiss her, right? It’s not likely to destroy her life. Just how did you manage to get that drunk that fast? If Jeff had been here you wouldn’t have gotten within ten feet of her.”

  “Exactly,” Brody said, turning his face up to the cooling mist. “What did she say?”

  “She’s leaving first thing in the morning. With any luck she’ll forget this ever happened.”

  “Most likely,” he said in an even voice. “Thanks, Ethan.”

  “Just how much have you been drinking?”

  Brody gave him a calm, clear-eyed smile. “I’m just about to start.”

  ANGIE PUSHED the door shut and locked it in a daze. Everything she had believed to be true had just shifted, and she was on very shaky ground. He remembered. He knew. Those hurried, hungry kisses in the rain weren’t some forgotten fantasy, fueled by drunkenness on his part and sheer insanity on hers. He remembered, he knew, just as she did.

  She still wasn’t quite sure what that meant. For him, or for her.

  It was after eleven. The living room was lit only with the glow from the angel candle and the lights from the Christmas tree, and it was much too late to call anyone. Except that it was three hours earlier in L.A., and even if it had been three hours later she would have still made the phone call.

  Jeffrey sounded the same—slightly self-important, oozing charm. How she ever could have believed in him so completely was still a source of embarrassment, but she’d had two years to come to her senses, and regret was a waste of time.

  “What went on between you and Brody Jackson?” she said abruptly.

  “And Merry Christmas to you, too, darling,” Jeff said. “How lovely to hear your voice.”

  Angie sighed. Jeffrey would answer her questions in his own time, and the sooner she got through the formalities the sooner he’d be willing to talk. “Lovely to hear your voice, too. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, how’s Margaret, how’s the baby, how’s work, what went on between you and Brody Jackson?”