Glad Tidings: There's Something About ChristmasHere Comes Trouble

by Debbie Macomber

  “Wrong. I felt a bit under the weather earlier, but I’m fine now.” The last thing she wanted Nolan motivated by was guilt. He’d succeeded in keeping his distance up to now; if he decided to see her, she wanted to be sure his visit wasn’t prompted by an overactive sense of responsibility.

  “You look...”

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  His gaze skimmed her, from slightly damp hair to large fuzzy feet. “Fine,” he answered softly.

  “As you can see I’m really not sick, so you needn’t concern yourself.”

  Her words were followed by a lengthy silence. Nolan turned as though to leave. Maryanne should have felt relieved to see him go, instead, she experienced the strangest sensation of loss. She longed to reach out a hand, ask him to stay, but she didn’t have the courage.

  She brushed the hair from her face and smiled, even though it was difficult to put on a carefree facade.

  “I’ll stop by in the morning and see how you’re doing,” Nolan said, hovering by the threshold.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He frowned. “When did you get so prickly?”

  “When did you get so caring?” The words nearly caught in her throat and escaped on a whisper.

  “I do care about you,” he said.

  “Oh, sure, the same way you’d care about an annoying younger sister. Believe me, Nolan, your message came through loud and clear. I’m not your type. Fine, I can accept that, because you’re not my type, either.” She didn’t really think she had a type, but it sounded philosophical and went a long way toward salving her badly bruised ego. Nolan couldn’t have made his views toward her any plainer had he rented a billboard. He’d even said he’d taken one look at her and immediately thought, “Here comes trouble.”

  She’d never been more attracted to a man in her life, and here she was, standing in front of him lying through her teeth rather than admit how she truly felt.

  “So I’m not your type, either?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

  Maryanne’s heartbeat quickened. He studied her as intently as she studied him. He gazed at her mouth, then slipped his hand behind her neck and slowly, so very slowly, lowered his lips to hers.

  He paused, their mouths a scant inch apart. He seemed to be waiting for her to pull away, withdraw from him. Everything inside her told her to do exactly that. He was only trying to humiliate her, wasn’t he? Trying to prove how powerful her attraction to him was, how easily he could bend her will to his own.

  And she was letting him.

  Her heart was beating so furiously her body seemed to rock with the sheer force of it. Every throb seemed to drive her directly into his arms, right where she longed to be. She placed her palms against his chest and sighed as his mouth met hers. The touch of his lips felt warm and soft. And right.

  His hand cradled her neck while his lips continued to move over hers in the gentlest explorations, as though he feared she was too delicate to kiss the way he wanted.

  Gradually his hands slipped to her shoulders. He drew a ragged breath, then put his head back as he stared up at the ceiling. He exhaled slowly, deliberately.

  It took all the restraint Maryanne possessed not to ask him why he was stopping. She wanted these incredible sensations to continue. She longed to explore the feelings his kiss produced and the complex responses she experienced deep within her body. Her pulse hammered erratically as she tried to control her breathing.

  “Okay, now we’ve got that settled, I’ll leave.” He backed away from her.

  “Got what settled?” she asked swiftly, then realized she was only making a bigger fool of herself. Naturally he was talking about the reason for this impromptu visit, which had been her health. Hadn’t it? “Oh, I see.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Nolan said enigmatically. He turned and walked away.

  Chapter Eight

  “Whose turn next?” Maryanne asked. She and her two friends were sitting in the middle of her living room floor, having a “pity party.”

  “I will,” Carol Riverside volunteered eagerly. She ceremonially plucked a tissue from the box that rested in the centre of their small circle, next to the lit candle. Their second large bottle of cheap wine was nearly empty, and the three of them were feeling no pain.

  “For years I’ve wanted to write a newspaper column of my own,” Carol said, squaring her shoulders and hauling in a huge breath. “But it’s not what I thought it’d be like. I ran out of ideas for things to write about after the first week.”

  “Ah,” Maryanne sighed sympathetically.

  “Ah,” Barbara echoed.

  “That’s not all,” Carol said sadly. “I never knew the world was so full of critics. No one seems to agree with me. I—I didn’t know Seattle had so many cantankerous readers. I try, but it’s impossible to make everyone happy. What happens is that some of the people like me some of the time and all the rest hate everything I write.” She glanced up. “Except the two of you, of course.”

  Maryanne nodded her head so hard she nearly toppled over. She spread her hands out at either side in an effort to maintain her balance. The wine made her yawn loudly.

  Apparently in real distress, Carol dabbed at her eyes. “Being a columnist is hard work and nothing like I’d always dreamed.” The edges of her mouth turned downward. “I don’t even like writing anymore,” she sobbed.

  “Isn’t that a pity!” Maryanne cried, ritually tossing her tissue into the centre of the circle. Barbara followed suit, and then they both patted Carol gently on the back.

  Carol brightened once she’d finished. “I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you. You and Betty are my very best friends in the whole world,” she announced.

  “Barbara,” Maryanne corrected. “Your very best friend’s name is Barbara.”

  The three of them looked at each other and burst into gales of laughter. Maryanne hushed them by waving her hands. “Stop! We can’t allow ourselves to become giddy. A pity party doesn’t work if all we do is laugh. We’ve got to remember this is sad and serious business.”

  “Sad and serious,” Barbara agreed, sobering. She grabbed a fresh tissue and clutched it in her hand, waiting for the others to share their sorrows and give her a reason to cry.

  “Whose idea was the wine?” Maryanne wanted to know, taking a quick sip.

  Carol blushed. “I thought it would be less fattening than the chocolate ice-cream bars you planned to serve.”

  “Hey,” Barbara said, narrowing her eyes at Maryanne. “You haven’t said anything about your problem.”

  Maryanne suddenly found it necessary to remove lint from her jeans. Sharing what disturbed her most was a little more complicated than being disappointed in her job or complaining about fingernails that cracked all too easily, as Barbara had done. She hadn’t sold a single article since she’d quit the paper, or even received a positive response to one of her queries. But worst of all she was falling in love with Nolan. He felt something for her, too—she knew that—but he was fighting her every step of the way. Fighting her and fighting himself.

  He was attracted to her, he couldn’t deny it, although he’d tried to, more than once. When they were alone together, the tension seemed to throb between them.

  He was battling the attraction so hard he’d gone as far as arranging a date for her with another man. Since the evening they’d met, Nolan had insulted her, harangued her and lectured her. He’d made it plain that he didn’t want her around. And yet there were times he sought out her company. He argued with her at every opportunity, took it upon himself to be her guardian, and yet...

  “Maryanne?” Carol said, studying her with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nolan Adams,” she whispered. Lifting her wineglass, she took a small swallow, hoping that would give her the courage to continue.

  “I should have guessed,” Carol muttered, frowning. “From the moment you moved in here, next door to that madman, I just knew he’d cause you nothing but problems.�
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  Her friend’s opinion of Nolan had never been high and Maryanne had to bite back the urge to defend him.

  “Tell us everything,” Barbara said, drawing up her knees and leaning against the sofa.

  “There isn’t much to tell.”

  “He’s the one who got you into this craziness in the first place, remember?” Carol pointed out righteously—as if Maryanne needed reminding. Carol then turned to Barbara and began to explain to the older woman how it had all started. “Nolan wrote a derogatory piece about Maryanne in his column a while back, implying she was a spoiled debutante, and she took it to heart and decided to prove him wrong.”

  “He didn’t mean it. In fact, he’s regretted every word of that article.” This time Maryanne did feel obliged to defend him. As far as she was concerned, all of that was old business, already resolved. It was the unfinished business, the things happening between them now, that bothered her the most.

  The denial. The refusal on both their parts to accept the feelings they shared. Only a few days earlier, Maryanne had tried to convince Nolan he wasn’t her type, that nothing about them was compatible. He’d been only too eager to agree.

  But they’d been drawn together, virtually against their wills, by an attraction so overwhelming, so inevitable, they were powerless against it. Their sensual and emotional awareness of each other seemed more intense every time they met. This feeling couldn’t be anything except love.

  “You’re among friends, so tell us everything,” Barbara pressed, handing Maryanne the entire box of tissues. “Remember, I’ve known Nolan for years, so nothing you say is going to shock me.”

  “For one thing, he’s impossible,” Maryanne whispered, finding it difficult to express her thoughts.

  “He deserves to be hanged from the closest tree,” Carol said scornfully.

  “And at the same time he’s wonderful,” Maryanne concluded, ignoring Carol’s comment.

  “You’re not...” Carol paused, her face tightening as if she was having trouble forming the words. “You don’t mean to suggest you’re falling in—” she swallowed

  “—love with him, are you?”

  “I don’t know.” Maryanne crumpled the soggy tissue. “But I think I might be.”

  “Oh, no,” Carol cried, covering her mouth with both hands, “you’ve got to do something quick. A man like Nolan Adams eats little girls like you for breakfast. He’s cynical and sarcastic and—”

  “Talented and generous,” Maryanne finished for her.

  “You’re not thinking clearly. It probably has something to do with that fever you had. You’ve got to remember the facts. Nolan insulted you in print, seriously insulted you, and then tried to make up for it. You’re mistaking that small attack of conscience for something more—which could be dangerous.” Awkwardly, Carol rose to her feet and started pacing.

  “He’s probably one of the most talented writers I’ve ever read,” Maryanne continued, undaunted by her friend’s concerns. “Every time I read his work, I can’t help being awed.”

  “All right,” Carol said, “I’ll concede he does possess a certain amount of creative talent, but that doesn’t change who or what he is. Nolan Adams is a bad-tempered egotistical self-centred...grouch.”

  “I hate to say this,” Barbara said softly, shaking her head, “but Carol’s right. Nolan’s been eating at Mom’s Place for as long as I’ve worked there, and that’s three years. I feel I know him better than you do, and he’s everything Carol says. But,” she said thoughtfully, “underneath it all, there’s more to him. Oh, he’d like everyone to believe he’s this macho guy. He plays that role to the hilt, but after you’ve been around him awhile, you can tell it’s all a game to him.”

  “I told you he’s wonderful!” Maryanne exclaimed.

  “The man’s a constant,” Carol insisted. “Constantly in a bad mood, constantly making trouble, constantly getting involved in matters that are none of his business. Maryanne here is the perfect example. He should never have written that column about her.” Carol plopped back down and jerked half a dozen tissues from the box in quick succession. She handed them to Maryanne. “You’ve got blinders on where he’s concerned. Take it from me, a woman can’t allow herself to become emotionally involved with a man she plans to change.”

  “I don’t want to change Nolan.”

  “You don’t?” Carol echoed, her voice low and disbelieving. “You mean to say you like him as he is?”

  “You just don’t know him the way I do,” Maryanne said. “Nolan’s truly generous. Did either of you know he’s become sort of a father figure to the teenagers in this neighborhood? He’s their friend in the very best sense. He keeps tabs on them and makes sure no one gets involved in drugs or is lured into gang activities. The kids around here idolize him.”

  “Nolan Adams does that?” Carol sounded skeptical. She arched her brows as though she couldn’t completely trust Maryanne’s observations.

  “When Barbara told him I was coming down with a virus, he came over to check on me and—”

  “As well he should!” Barbara declared. “He was the one who gave you that germ in the first place.”

  “I’m not entirely sure I caught it from him.”

  Carol and Barbara exchanged a look. Slowly each shook her head, and then all three shared a warm smile.

  “I think we might be too late,” Barbara said theatrically, speaking from the side of her mouth.

  “She’s showing all the signs,” Carol agreed solemnly.

  “You’re right, I fear,” Barbara responded in kind. “She’s already in love with him.”

  “Good grief, no,” Carol wailed, pressing her hands to her mouth. “Say it isn’t so. She’s too young and vulnerable.”

  “It’s a pity, such a pity.”

  “I can’t help but agree. Maryanne is much too sweet for Nolan Adams. I just hope he appreciates her.”

  “He won’t,” Carol muttered, reverting to her normal voice, “but then no man ever fully appreciates a woman.”

  “It’s such a pity men act the way they do.” Barbara said in a sad voice.

  “Some men,” Maryanne added.

  Carol and Barbara dabbed their eyes and solemnly tossed the used tissues into the growing heap in the middle of their circle.

  The plan had been to gather all the used tissues and ceremonially dump them in the toilet, flush their “pity pot”, and then celebrate all the good things in their lives.

  The idea for this little party had been an impromptu one of Maryanne’s on a lonely Friday night. She’d been feeling blue and friendless and decided to look for a little innocent fun. She’d phoned Carol and learned she was a weekend widow; her husband had gone fishing with some cronies. Barbara had thought the idea was a good one herself, since she’d just broken her longest fingernail and was in the mood for a shoulder to cry on.

  A pity party seemed just the thing to help three lonely women make it through a bleak Friday night.

  * * *

  Maryanne awoke Saturday morning with a humdinger of a headache. Wine and the ice cream they’d had at the end of the evening definitely didn’t mix.

  If her head hadn’t been throbbing so painfully, she might have recognized sooner that her apartment had no heat. Her cantankerous radiator was acting up again. It did that some mornings, but she’d always managed to coax it back to life with a few well-placed whacks. The past few days had been unusually cold for early November—well below freezing at night.

  She reached for her robe and slippers, bundling herself up like a December baby out in her first snowstorm. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she blew until a frosty mist formed.

  A quickly produced cup of coffee with two extra-strength aspirin took the edge off her headache. Maryanne shivered while she slipped into jeans, sweatshirt and a thick winter coat. She suspected she resembled someone preparing to join an Arctic expedition.

  She fiddled with the radiator, twisting the knobs and slamming her hand against
the side, but the only results were a couple of rattles and a hollow clanking.

  Not knowing what else to try, she got out her heavy cast-iron skillet and banged it against the top of the rad in hopes of reviving the ageing pipes.

  The noise was deafening, vibrating through the room like a jet aircraft crashing through the sound barrier. If that wasn’t enough, Maryanne’s entire body began to quiver, starting at her arm and spreading outward in a rippling effect that caused her arms and legs to tremble.

  “What the hell’s going on over there?” Nolan shouted from the other side of the wall. He didn’t wait for her to answer and a couple of seconds later came barreling through her front door, wild-eyed and dishevelled.

  “What... Where?” He was carrying a baseball bat, and stalked to the middle of her apartment, scanning the interior for what Maryanne could only assume were invaders.

  “I don’t have any heat,” she announced, tucking the thin scarf more tightly around her ears.

  Nolan blinked. She’d apparently woken him from a sound sleep. He was barefoot and dressed in pyjama bottoms, and although he wore a shirt, it was unbuttoned, revealing a broad muscular chest dusted with curly black hair.

  “What’s with you? Are you going to a costume party?”

  “Believe me, this is no party. I’m simply trying to keep warm.”

  His gaze lowered to the heavy skillet in her hand. “Do you plan to cook on that radiator?”

  “I might if I could get it to work. In case you hadn’t noticed, there isn’t any heat in this place.”

  Nolan set the baseball bat aside and moved to the far wall to look at the radiator. “What’s wrong with it?”

  How like a man to ask stupid questions! If Maryanne had known what was wrong with it, she wouldn’t be standing there shivering, with a scarf swaddling her face like an old-time remedy for toothache.

  “How in heaven’s name am I supposed to know?” she answered testily.

  “What went on here last night, anyway? A wake?”

  She glanced at the mound of tissues and shrugged. He was scanning the area as if it were a crime scene and he should take caution not to stumble over a dead body.