Glad Tidings: There's Something About ChristmasHere Comes Trouble

by Debbie Macomber

  Courtney and Bailey exchanged glances.

  “Are you fighting?” Bailey asked.

  Nolan chuckled. “No, I was just setting your mother straight.”

  Maryanne raised her eyebrows. “Apparently your father remembers things differently from the way I do.”

  “Start at the beginning,” Bailey urged.

  Excitedly clapping her hands, Courtney added, “Don’t forget to tell us about the time Daddy embarrassed you in front of the whole city.”

  Nolan had worked for the Sun, the rival paper in town. It wasn’t as if Maryanne would ever forget the column he’d written about his evening with her. Even now, after all these years, she bristled at the memory. He’d informed the entire city of Seattle that she was a naive idealist, and worst of all, he’d announced that she was away from home for the first time and lonely.

  “I still don’t get why that column upset your mother so much,” Nolan said, gesturing helplessly toward his daughters. “All I did was thank her for making me dinner.”

  “Did Daddy kiss you that night?” Bailey asked.

  “No, he—”

  “Don’t tell us,” Courtney cried, interrupting Maryanne. “Start at the very beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

  Nolan looked at Maryanne. “Why don’t you tell them, sweetheart?”

  “I’ll tell them everything, then.”

  “Everything?” Nolan repeated.

  Courtney rubbed her hands together. “Oh, boy, this is going to be good.”

  “It all started fifteen years ago...”

  Chapter One

  “Maryanne Simpson of the New York Simpsons, I presume?”

  Maryanne glared at the man standing across from her in the reception area of the radio station. She pointedly ignored his sarcasm, keeping her blue eyes as emotionless as possible.

  Nolan Adams—Seattle’s most popular journalist—looked nothing like the polished professional man in the black-and-white photo that headed his daily column. Instead he resembled a well-known disheveled television detective. He even wore a wrinkled raincoat, one that looked as if he’d slept in it for an entire week.

  “Or should I call you Deb?” he taunted.

  “Ms. Simpson will suffice,” she said in her best finishing-school voice. The rival newspaperman was cocky and arrogant—and the best damn journalist Maryanne had ever read. Maryanne was a good columnist herself, or at least she was desperately striving to become one. Her father, who owned the Seattle Review and twelve other daily newspapers nationwide, had seen to it that she was given this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with the Seattle paper. She was working hard to prove herself. Perhaps too hard. That was when the trouble had begun.

  “So how’s the heart?” Nolan asked, reaching for a magazine and flipping idly through the dog-eared pages. “Is it still bleeding from all those liberal views of yours?”

  Maryanne ignored the question, removed her navy-blue wool coat and neatly folded it over the back of a chair. “My heart’s just fine, thank you.”

  With a sound she could only describe as a snicker, he threw himself down on a nearby chair and indolently brought an ankle up to rest on his knee.

  Maryanne sat across from him, stiff and straight in the high-backed chair, and boldly met his eyes. Everything she needed to know about Nolan Adams could be seen in his face. The strong well-defined lines of his jaw told her how stubborn he could be. His eyes were dark, intelligent and intense. And his mouth...well, that was another story altogether. It seemed to wrestle with itself before ever breaking into a smile, as if a gesture of amusement went against his very nature. Nolan wasn’t smiling now. And Maryanne wasn’t about to let him see how much he intimidated her. But some emotion must have shone in her eyes, because he said abruptly, “You’re the one who started this, you know?”

  Maryanne was well aware of that. But this rivalry between them had begun unintentionally, at least on her part. The very morning that the competition’s paper, the Seattle Sun, published Nolan’s column on solutions to the city’s housing problem, the Review had run Maryanne’s piece on the same subject. Nolan’s article was meant to be satirical, while Maryanne’s was deadly serious. Her mistake was in stating that there were those in the city who apparently found the situation amusing, and she blasted anyone who behaved so irresponsibly. This was not a joking matter, she’d pointed out.

  It looked as if she’d read Nolan’s column and set out to reprimand him personally for his cavalier attitude.

  Two days later, Nolan’s column poked fun at her, asking what Ms. High Society could possibly know about affordable housing. Clearly a debutante had never had to worry about the roof over her head, he’d snarled. But more than that, he’d made her suggestions to alleviate the growing problem sound both frivolous and impractical.

  Her next column came out the same evening and referred to tough pessimistic reporters who took themselves much too seriously. She went so far as to make fun of a fictional Seattle newsman who resembled Nolan Adams to a T.

  Nolan retaliated once more, and Maryanne seethed. Obviously she’d have to be the one to put an end to this silliness. She hoped that not responding to Nolan’s latest attack would terminate their rivalry, but she should’ve known better. An hour after her column on community spirit had hit the newsstands, KJBR, a local radio station, called, asking Maryanne to give a guest editorial. She’d immediately agreed, excited and honored at the invitation. It wasn’t until later that she learned Nolan Adams would also be speaking. The format was actually a celebrity debate, a fact of which she’d been blithely unaware.

  The door opened and a tall dark-haired woman walked into the station’s reception area. “I’m Liz Walters,” she said, two steps into the room. “I produce the news show. I take it you two know each other?”

  “Like family,” Nolan muttered with that cocky grin of his.

  “We introduced ourselves five minutes ago,” Maryanne rebutted stiffly.

  “Good,” Liz said without glancing up from her clipboard. “If you’ll both come this way, we’ll get you set up in the control booth.”

  From her brief conversation with the show’s host, Brian Campbell, Maryanne knew that the show taped on Thursday night wouldn’t air until Sunday evening.

  When they were both seated inside the control booth, Maryanne withdrew two typed pages from her bag. Not to be outdone, Nolan made a show of pulling a small notepad from the huge pocket of his crumpled raincoat.

  Brian Campbell began the show with a brief introduction, presenting the evening’s subject: the growing popularity of the Seattle area. He then turned the microphone over to Maryanne, who was to speak first.

  Forcing herself to relax, she took a deep calming breath, tucked her long auburn hair behind her ears and started speaking. She managed to keep her voice low and as well modulated as her nerves would allow.

  “The word’s out,” she said, quickly checking her notes. “Seattle has been rated one of the top cities in the country for several years running. Is it any wonder Californians are moving up in droves, attracted by the area’s economic growth, the lure of pure fresh air and beautiful clean waters? Seattle has appeal, personality and class.”

  As she warmed to her subject, her voice gained confidence and conviction. She’d fallen in love with Seattle when she’d visited for a two-day stopover before flying to Hawaii. The trip had been a college graduation gift from her parents. She’d returned to New York one week later full of enthusiasm, not for the tourist-cluttered islands, but for the brief glimpse she’d had of the Emerald City.

  From the first, she’d intended to return to the Pacific Northwest. Instead she’d taken a job as a non-fiction editor in one of her father’s New York publishing houses; she’d been so busy that travelling time was limited. That editorial job lasted almost eighteen months, and although Maryanne had thoroughly enjoyed it, she longed to write herself and put her journalism skills to work.

  Samuel Simpson must have sensed her restlessness
because he mentioned an opening at the Seattle Review, a long-established paper, when they met in Nantucket over Labor Day weekend. Maryanne had plied him with questions, mentioning more than once that she’d fallen in love with Seattle. Her father had grinned, chewing vigorously on the end of his cigar, and looked towards his wife of twenty-seven years before he’d casually reached for the telephone. After a single call lasting less than three minutes, Samuel announced that the job was hers. Within two weeks, Maryanne was packed and on her way west.

  “In conclusion I’d like to remind our audience that there’s no turning back now,” Maryanne said. “Seattle sits as a polished jewel in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. Seattle, the Emerald City, awaits even greater prosperity, even more progress.”

  She set her papers aside and smiled in the direction of the host, relieved to be finished. She watched in dismay as Nolan scowled at her, then slipped his notepad back inside his pocket. He apparently planned to wing it.

  Nolan—who needed, Brian declared, no introduction—leaned toward the microphone. He glanced at Maryanne, frowned once more, and slowly shook his head.

  “Give me a break, Ms. Simpson!” he cried. “Doesn’t anyone realize it rains here? Did you know that until recently, if Seattle went an entire week without rain, we sacrificed a virgin? Unfortunately we were running low on those until you moved to town.”

  Maryanne barely managed to restrain a gasp.

  “Why do you think Seattle has remained so beautiful?” Nolan continued. “Why do you think we aren’t suffering from the pollution problems so prevalent in Southern California and elsewhere? You seem to believe Seattle should throw open her arms and invite the world to park on our unspoiled doorstep. My advice to you, and others like you, is to go back where you came from. We don’t want you turning Seattle into another L.A.—or New York.”

  The hair on the back of Maryanne’s neck bristled. Although he spoke in general terms, his words seemed to be directed solely at her. He was telling her, in effect, to pack up her suitcase and head home to Mommy and Daddy where she belonged.

  When Nolan finished, they were each given two minutes for a rebuttal.

  “Some of what you have to say is true,” Maryanne admitted through clenched teeth. “But you can’t turn back progress. Only a fool,” she said pointedly, “would try to keep families from settling in Washington state. You can argue until you’ve lost your voice, but it won’t help. The population in this area is going to explode in the next few years whether you approve or not.”

  “That’s probably true, but it doesn’t mean I have to sit still and let it happen. In fact, I intend to do everything I can to put a stop to it,” he said.“We in Seattle have a way of life to protect and a duty to future generations. If growth continues in this vein, our schools will soon be overcrowded, our homes so overpriced that no one except those from out of state will be able to afford housing—and that’s only if they can find it. If that’s what you want, then fine, bask in your ignorance.”

  “What do you suggest?” Maryanne burst out. “Setting up road blocks?”

  “That’s a start,” Nolan returned sarcastically. “Something’s got to be done before this area becomes another urban disaster.”

  Maryanne rolled her eyes. “Do you honestly think you’re going to single-handedly turn back the tide of progress?”

  “I’m sure as hell going to try.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “And that’s our Celebrity Debate for this evening,” Brian Campbell said quickly, cutting off any further argument. “Join us next week when our guests will be City Council candidates Nick Fraser and Robert Hall.”

  The microphone was abruptly switched off. “That was excellent,” the host said, flashing them a wide enthusiastic smile. “Thank you both.”

  “You’ve got your head buried in the sand,” Maryanne felt obliged to inform Nolan, although she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She dropped her notes back in her bag and snapped it firmly shut, as if to say the subject was now closed.

  “You may be right,” Nolan said with a grin. “But at least the sand is on a pollution-free beach. If you have your way, it’ll soon be cluttered with—”

  “If I have my way?” she cried. “You make it sound as though I’m solely responsible for the Puget Sound growth rate.”

  “You are responsible, and those like you.”

  “Well, excuse me,” she muttered sarcastically. She nodded politely to Brian Campbell, then hurried back to the reception room where she’d left her coat. To her annoyance Nolan followed her.

  “I don’t excuse you, Deb.”

  “I asked you to use my name,” she said furiously, “and it isn’t Deb.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Nolan leaned lazily against the doorjamb while she retrieved her wool coat.

  Maryanne crammed her arms into the sleeves and nearly tore off the buttons in her rush to leave. The way he stood there studying her did little to cool her temper.

  “And another thing...” she muttered.

  “You mean there’s more?”

  “You’re darn right there is. That crack about virgins was intolerably rude! I...I expected better of you.”

  “Hell, it’s true.”

  “How would you know?”

  He grinned that insufferable grin of his, infuriating her even more.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around?” she demanded, stalking out of the room.

  “Not particularly. Fact is, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  Once she’d recovered from the shock of learning that he’d be her opponent in this radio debate, Maryanne had eagerly anticipated this evening, too. Long before she’d arrived at the radio station, she’d planned to tell Nolan how much she admired his work. This silly rivalry between them was exactly that: silly. She hadn’t meant to step on his toes and would’ve called and cleared the air if he hadn’t attacked her in print at the earliest opportunity.

  “Sure you wanted to meet me. Hurling insults to my face must be far more fun.”

  He laughed at that and Maryanne was astonished at how rich and friendly his amusement sounded.

  “Come on, Simpson, don’t take everything so personally. Admit it. We’ve been having a good time poking fun at each other.”

  Maryanne didn’t say anything for a moment. Actually he was partially right. She had enjoyed their exchanges, although she wouldn’t have admitted that earlier. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to now.

  “Admit it,” he coaxed, again with a grin.

  That uneven smile of his was her undoing. “It hasn’t exactly been fun,” she answered reluctantly, “but it’s been...interesting.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, looking pleased with himself.

  She glanced at him appraisingly. The man’s appeal was definitely of the rugged variety: his outrageous charm—Maryanne wasn’t sure charm was really the right word—his craggy face and solid compact build. She’d been surprised to discover he wasn’t as tall as she’d imagined. In fact, he was probably under six feet.

  “Word has it Daddy was the one responsible for landing you this cushy job,” he commented, interrupting her assessment.

  “Cushy?” she repeated angrily. “You’ve got to be kidding!” She often put in twelve-hour days, trying to come up with a column that was both relevant and entertaining. In the four weeks since she’d joined the Seattle Review, she’d worked damn hard. She had something to prove, not only to herself but to her peers.

  “So being a journalist isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she returned. To be perfectly honest, Maryanne had never tried harder at anything. Her pride and a whole lot more was riding on the outcome of the next few months. Samuel Simpson’s daughter or not, she was on probation, after which her performance would be reviewed by the managing editor.

  “I wonder if you’ve ever done anything without
Daddy’s approval.”

  “I wonder if you’ve always been this rude.”

  He chuckled at that. “Almost always. As I said, don’t take it personally.”

  With her leather purse tucked securely under her arm, she marched to the exit, which Nolan was effectively blocking. “Excuse me, please.”

  “Always so polite,” he murmured before he straightened, allowing her to pass.

  Nolan followed her to the elevator, annoying her even more. Maryanne felt his scrutiny, and it flustered her. She knew she was reasonably attractive, but she also knew that no one was going to rush forward with a banner and a tiara. Her mouth was just a little too full, her eyes a little too round. Her hair had been fire-engine red the entire time she was growing up, but it had darkened to a deep auburn in her early twenties, a fact for which she remained truly grateful. Maryanne had always hated her red hair and the wealth of freckles that accompanied it. No one else in her family had been cursed with red hair, let alone freckles. Her mother’s hair was a beautiful blonde and her father’s a rich chestnut. Even her younger brothers had escaped her fate. If it weren’t for the distinctive high Simpson forehead and deep blue eyes, Maryanne might have suspected she’d been adopted. But that wasn’t the case. Instead she’d been forced to discover early in life how unfair heredity could be.

  The elevator arrived, and both Maryanne and Nolan stepped inside. Nolan leaned against the side—he always seemed to be leaning, Maryanne noticed. Leaning and staring. He was studying her again; she could feel his eyes as profoundly as a caress.

  “Would you kindly stop?” she snapped.

  “Stop what?”

  “Staring at me!”

  “I’m curious.”

  “About what?” She was curious about him, too, but far too civilized to make an issue of it.

  “I just wanted to see if all that blue blood showed.”