The Most Wonderful Time

by Fern Michaels

  “Emma?” he prodded, his thumb sliding across her collarbone.

  God!

  She needed to move away.

  Now!

  “At the bottom of the stairs,” she finally responded, and then she did what she should have done the minute he’d stepped out of his room—she ran down the steps as fast as her shaking legs could carry her.

  * * *

  Jack wanted to grab her hand, pull her back into his arms, maybe kiss that soft spot where his hand had been. Right beneath the silky fall of her hair, where her skin was warm and velvety and tempting.

  It would be a mistake.

  Jack knew it, so he followed Emma downstairs, watched as she lifted a small metal object.

  “This is it!” she announced. “The thing I kicked.”

  “Looks like a sleigh bell.”

  “It does.” She frowned, holding it up to the light. “You’re sure it’s not yours?”

  “Positive.” It looked old, though. Like something he’d have found in an antique desk hidden away in a dilapidated barn. It certainly wasn’t new, and he imagined that it had once hung from a horse’s harness. More than likely, it had been repurposed in the years since then. Maybe used as a dinner bell or a Christmas decoration.

  “Then where in the world did it come from?” she asked as if she really thought he would know.

  “A dinner bell?”

  “We’ve never had one.”

  “A Christmas ornament?”

  She snorted at that, lifting the bell up toward the stairway light and eyeing it suspiciously. “The last time we had Christmas decorations out, I was ten, my mother was dying, and I was doing everything I could to make her happy for the holidays. My father was pissed that I walked to town and bought a Christmas tree with my allowance, but I didn’t care. I just wanted Mom to smile.”

  “Your father didn’t like Christmas?” he said as he took the bell from Emma’s hand.

  It was definitely old. Definitely handcrafted. A pretty little piece that had probably been used a century ago.

  “He liked Christmas just fine. As long as he didn’t have to go through any effort to make it a good one. My mother was the one who made it special. We did have a Christmas tree after she died. Stockings. A few presents.” She shrugged. “But all the decorations and ornaments were tossed in boxes and shoved in the attic.”

  “Could this have been in one of the boxes? Maybe it fell out when your father brought everything to the attic.”

  “And lay on the floor undiscovered for nearly twenty years?” she responded.

  “It might have fallen into a crack in the floor. Maybe rolled into a dark corner. This is a big house, Emma.”

  “And, it’s always been meticulously maintained. While my father was here alone, he had a cleaning company come in twice a week to clean. Once I moved in, I did the work. I even have the checklist he made to prove it. I find it hard to believe that I, and every cleaning person who came, missed seeing that bell.”

  She raked a hand through her hair and sighed. She’d changed into pajamas. Nothing revealing about them. Just simple flannel bottoms and a cotton tank that showed off her narrow shoulders and her thin arms. Something about that smooth, creamy expanse of skin made his mind go in directions it shouldn’t. Made him remember cold nights and rainy days, and the intoxicating taste of Emma’s lips, the addictive feel of her satiny skin.

  “Anyway,” Emma continued, apparently completely unaware of what he was thinking, “it doesn’t matter where it came from. I just thought it was strange. Hearing someone at my door and then finding the bell.”

  The words were like ice water in his veins. All thoughts of the past and Emma and the silky feel of her skin were gone, his body humming with a different kind of energy. He’d been awake, and he hadn’t heard anything, but that didn’t mean Emma was mistaken. The house was large and old. It creaked and groaned and made enough noise to mask an intruder’s presence. “There was someone at your door?”

  “Yes. No.” She shrugged. “I heard something thump against it. I”—she blushed—“thought it was you.”

  Interesting, because he’d been lying in bed thinking about just how nice it would be to knock on her door. To take her in his arms. To kiss her until they were both breathless with want and need.

  He shoved the thought away, focusing on the little bell and on the noise Emma had said she’d heard.

  A thump.

  Not a knock or a tap.

  “Did you see anything when you left your room?”

  “It was pitch-black.”

  “There’s a back staircase that leads to the kitchen, right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because it’s a lot better to be safe than sorry.” He walked down the hall and into the kitchen, checked the back door and the windows. All of them were locked. He looked in the pantry closet, opened the door into the old library. Finally, he walked into the narrow stairwell that had once been used by servants. It was dark and cramped, the stairs steep and layered with dust.

  “I don’t think anyone has used these in years,” Emma murmured. “When we were kids, we thought they were too creepy. Unless we were trying to get away from our father. Then, he was a lot creepier than this, and we used any escape route necessary.”

  A little hint into her past, but Jack was too focused on the dark stairs and the little bell that he was still holding to ask questions.

  It could be that the bell was just a leftover decoration from a Christmas long ago, or it could be that it had been dropped and left by someone who had no business being inside the house.

  “Stay in the kitchen. I’m going to check the second floor and the attic.”

  “For what?” she asked, completely ignoring his order to stay put.

  She moved into the stairwell behind him, flicking on a light that barely illuminated the scuffed treads on the stairs. “You don’t really think someone is in the house, do you?”

  “No, but I also don’t believe in taking chances.”

  He started up the stairs, and she was right behind him, so close he could feel the warmth of her chest against his back. So close he could have turned and taken her into his arms.

  Another time.

  When Emma wasn’t so tired and overwhelmed. When they’d worked through her plans, figured out exactly how she was going to move forward.

  That’s when other things could happen.

  Other plans could be made.

  Plans that might include more than either of them had bargained for when they’d walked into the cemetery yesterday morning.

  Chapter Five

  The second floor was as empty as the first floor. Just like Emma had expected it to be. There was no way anyone from town had wandered all the way out here in the middle of a snowstorm. Even if someone had, they’d have rung the doorbell rather than thumping against her bedroom door. Sure, it was possible some drifter had come upon the house and decided to bunk there for the night, but it would have been easier to get to the town than to walk down the country road that led to the Baily property.

  No. She didn’t think anyone had been in the house.

  She also didn’t think the sleigh bell had been lying on the floor for years. She’d have seen it. Right?

  She eyed the corners of the upstairs landing. No holes that she could see. No place for a shiny bell to hide.

  “Does this lead to the attic?” Jack asked, touching the door at the end of the hall. A skeleton key stuck out of the lock, the glass doorknob glistening in overhead light.

  “Yes, but we’d have heard—” someone if they’d walked up the stairs.

  Too late. He’d already opened the door and was heading up. She followed, the uneven steps icy under her feet.

  “Any lights up here?” Jack asked as he reached the top.

  “Hold on. I’ll get it.” Her arm brushed his shoulder.

  His bare shoulder.

  She’d kind of sort of almost forgotten about that.

 
Only now, she remembered.

  God! Did she ever remember!

  Heat swept up her arm and flooded through her blood. Her knees turned to jelly, a dozen butterflies came to life in her stomach, and she remembered every minute of every hour that she’d spent with Jack. She remembered all the reasons why he’d been the guy she’d almost spent a lifetime with.

  She found the chord, yanked it so hard she was surprised it didn’t break, and then she stepped around Jack. Tried to pretend that she hadn’t felt anything. She probably would have been successful except that he was watching her, his eyes dark and simmering.

  She wanted to say something.

  She probably should have said something, but what could she say? I’ve missed you? You’re the only guy that I’ve never been able to forget?

  Wind whistled beneath the eaves, the mournful sound just enough to cut through the tension, and the moment was gone just as quickly as it had been there.

  The heat died from Jack’s eyes, and he glanced around the attic.

  “There’s a lot of stuff here,” he said, and she nodded.

  “Three generations’ worth of stuff. Probably more. My great-great-great-grandmother’s mother lived here at the end of her life. I’m sure some of her things are still here.”

  “That’s a lot of greats,” he muttered, glancing around the cavernous room.

  “My father made sure we were aware of each and every one of them.”

  “What’s this lead to?” He’d reached the door that led into the pretty little room that Annabelle Baily had once used as a personal retreat. Emma had found her diaries there along with photos and letters, a few half-finished sewing projects, some beautiful needlepoint.

  “My great-great-great-grandmother’s sewing room. Annabelle was ahead of her time. She understood the value of a woman cave.”

  “Isn’t the term man cave?” he asked with a grin that made her heart flutter.

  Fickle heart.

  Fickle mind that kept thinking of how nice it would be to step into Jack’s arms.

  She walked into the small space. Unlike the rest of the attic, it was heated, a small radiator set against the wall. She’d been in the room less than a week ago, and she’d left a cup sitting on the edge of the sewing table. Her cardigan lay on the back of the chair, and a few photos were spread across a small sideboard that stood against one wall. She’d been organizing them, planning to sneak them out of the house and to the historic society.

  She wouldn’t have to sneak now.

  The thought made her sadder than it should have.

  Jack lifted the cup. “Looks like someone has been in here recently.”

  “That’s mine.”

  “Spent a lot of time in here, did you?”

  “There are journals and photos. Lots of historically significant things that I’ve been organizing.” She pointed to three boxes that sat against the wall.

  “And no way for your father to get to you?”

  “That too.” She grabbed the cardigan and tried to put it on, but her hands were clumsy, her eyes burning from the tears that she seemed to keep wanting to shed.

  “Let me.” He took it from her hand, helped her into it, his fingers sliding under her hair as he pulled it out from the collar, and then she was looking into his eyes, seeing all the compassion and kindness and strength that she’d seen the first time she’d met him.

  She didn’t know how it happened.

  Whether she leaned forward or he did. Maybe they moved at the same time, Emma levering up on her toes as he bent down, his hand cupping her nape, his lips brushing hers and hers brushing his. Heat and fire and beautiful gentleness that was nothing that Emma expected and everything that she needed.

  She moved closer, her hands sliding along his firm waist and up his muscular back. She could feel the ridges of the scars that he’d gotten all those years ago, and she let her fingers trace the edges, let herself lean into the kiss just a little more.

  Something dropped to the floor, clattering along the old pine boards. Jingling like a sleigh bell at Christmas.

  “Damn bell,” Jack murmured against her lips, and she backed away, because of what they’d just shared? It was dangerous. Especially with the way she’d been feeling all day. A little sad. A little lonely. A lot upset.

  “I guess we kind of lost sight of what we were up here for,” she managed to say as he scooped the bell up again.

  “I wouldn’t mind forgetting for a while longer,” he replied, and she laughed. A real laugh. The kind that she’d forgotten she knew how to do.

  “You’re still funny, Jack.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m being honest.” He stepped out of the room, eyeing the huge attic. “Where do you keep all the Christmas stuff? I want to see if the boxes have been disturbed. It doesn’t seem like anyone is up here, but something could be.”

  “Something?”

  “Mice. Rats. Raccoon. Lots of critters need places to keep warm during the winter, and they can do a lot of damage if they’re allowed to stay.”

  “I’m not all that worried about damage to the Christmas ornaments. Christmas is for people who like to spend money on stuff that’s going to be forgotten in a closet somewhere. It’s for people who—”

  “Can it, Scrooge,” he cut her off. “I’m trying to listen.”

  “I’m not a Scrooge.”

  “You hate Christmas,” he pointed out. And, he’d known, because she’d mentioned it to him more than once when they were dating.

  “Of all the things you could remember about me, that’s one of the ones you choose?”

  “Sweetheart, I remember everything about you.” His gaze raked her from head to toe, and her cheeks went about ten shades of red. “But, for the record, it’s not Christmas decorations that I’m worried about. Rats and mice are notorious for chewing wires. You could lose the whole house to a fire.”

  A few years ago, she’d have probably told him that she’d happily add kindling to the flames, but she’d spent a lot of time researching the old house, learning its history. Its real history. Not the stories her father liked to tell. The thought of all the hard work and craftsmanship being destroyed made her stomach hurt. “The Christmas stuff is over here.”

  She led him to a dark corner, eyed a pile of dust-covered boxes labeled CHRISTMAS.

  He knelt beside them, studying the box tops, the floor beside them, brushing his hand through spiderwebs that clung to the beams in the wall. “Nothing,” he finally said. “No sign of any animals anyway, but . . .” He pulled a box away from the wall. “It looks like this box is crumbling.”

  It did. The edge of the box had collapsed, and bits of glinting tinsel hung out of it. “Maybe the bell rolled out and fell through a crack in the floor?”

  She knelt near the boxes, shivering as cold seeped through her pajama pants and speared through her cardigan.

  The attic was freezing. She’d forgotten that.

  Because of the kiss.

  The kiss that she was absolutely not going to spend another second thinking about.

  “It’s too cold to figure it out now,” Jack said, pulling her to her feet, his big hand dwarfing hers. “Go on downstairs. I’ll bring the box.”

  “There’s no nee—”

  “You know what I do for a living, right?” he asked, one dark eyebrow raised. “I can’t leave a crumbling box filled with old ornaments in an attic that isn’t temperature controlled. They need to be stored properly.”

  “They’ve been up here for a long time.”

  “Hopefully, that hasn’t ruined them,” he replied. “A lot of craftsmanship went into the old bell, and I’m sure the same is true of everything in these boxes. They’re meant to be used and enjoyed.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking that I’m going to decorate this house for the holidays,” she muttered. “Because, that isn’t going to happen in this lifetime.”

  Jack figured she meant what she was saying, but her words gave him an idea. On
e that he thought might just be the key to getting the house out of Emma’s hands and her life back to whatever she wanted it to be.

  “You know,” he said, lifting the box and following Emma out of the attic. “You might not like Christmas, but most people do.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” She threw a scowl in his direction, her cheeks pink from cold, her lips red from their kiss. He could have kissed her again. He didn’t think she’d protest, and he sure as hell wouldn’t mind it.

  But she was more vulnerable than she probably thought.

  Sure, she’d despised her father. Sure, she hated the house she’d grown up in, but everything that had been her life for the past few years was over, and it had to be strange to say good-bye to all of it.

  “And who doesn’t love a Christmas Eve party?” he continued, and she sighed.

  “Me.”

  “But you do love getting things done, Emma. And what better way to get people interested in this property than to open it up to the public?”

  “What public? Do you know how small Apple Valley is?”

  “I’ve done this kind of thing in smaller towns. We don’t just pull guests locally, we contact businesses in other towns. Invite people who own antique shops, decorating companies. Even building contractors.”

  “Building contractors? For what?”

  “Sometimes these old places get torn down to make room for other things. Doors. Windows. Old knobs. Fireplace mantels. They all can be sold and reused.”

  “I’m not letting the place be torn down.” She touched the old newel post at the top of the stairs. “Too much went into it.”

  “I know, but that’s not what the party is about. We won’t be selling things. We’ll just be giving people a look. Whet their appetites for an auction.”

  “You’re ten steps ahead of me.” She frowned. “I’m not even sure what I’m going to be doing in five minutes. I can’t plan an auction.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. Remember?” He moved past her and started down the stairs.

  He expected her to protest.

  When she didn’t, he glanced over his shoulder, saw that she was running her hand along the banister.

  He couldn’t read her expression, had no idea what she was thinking, but he had a feeling she was remembering. Good times. Bad times. There were lifetimes of memories in the house. It was possible that Emma was finally realizing that. Maybe she was also realizing that she couldn’t let all of that go.