A Small Town Thanksgiving

by Marie Ferrarella

  “What’s a few pages when there’re obviously so many?” he asked, gesturing toward the other journals that were piled up on the other end of the desk.

  Sam shook her head. How could he be so cavalier? These pages represented history. Damn it, she didn’t even remember being sleepy and she certainly didn’t remember laying down her head on the journal.

  “But these pages could have been crucial to Marguerite’s story,” she argued, really angry with herself.

  “Highly unlikely,” he speculated. When she looked at him incredulously, he merely pointed to the other journals again. “Two pages out of all those. Just think about the odds.”

  It was hard to think of anything at all when her stomach was all tied up in a nervous, horrified knot the way it was right now. But she forced herself to examine the pages in question closely and that in turn allowed the knot in her stomach to loosen considerably. None of the words appeared to be any more blurred than they had been initially.

  Sam breathed a long sigh of relief. “I didn’t hurt it.”

  Something struck him as funny about that and Mike laughed shortly. “Didn’t hurt it?” he echoed, then said to the contrary, “You probably did it some good. That’s probably the closest those pages’ve come to seeing some sort of life in centuries.”

  “The journal is only a century and a half old,” Sam pointed out. Her eyes skimmed over the two pages in question again—just to be sure they were all right and that fear hadn’t blinded her.

  It hadn’t. She could still make out every word of the small, extremely precise handwriting. For once she was grateful that her skin was in need of moisturizing.

  He shrugged. “Whatever,” he muttered dismissively. “Okay, now that the emergency has been canceled, why don’t you come to dinner?” he suggested. “Dad’s getting concerned about you and he sure as hell isn’t paying you enough to have you sequestering yourself in his study with his dead relative for hours on end every day without any kind of a break.”

  That almost made her sound like a prisoner, she thought. “That’s not exactly the way I see it,” Sam pointed out.

  “Then take another look,” Mike told her, his voice emotionless but firm. Since she still appeared to need further encouragement, he reminded her, “The journals aren’t going anywhere and the old man enjoys the company of a pretty girl. Makes him feel that he’s not as old as his birth certificate tells him he is.”

  “Woman,” Sam said.

  Back at the door, his hand on the doorknob, Mike stopped to look at her, confused. “Excuse me?”

  “Woman,” Sam repeated. “You said ‘girl.’ I’m a woman.”

  He watched her for a long moment, his eyes sweeping over the length of her slowly. She was wearing a pair of slim jeans that accentuated more than hid. The button-down work shirt she had on made her look more like an impish kid than the woman she claimed to be.

  But there was no mistaking the very tempting swell that was causing the top closed button on her shirt to strain as it struggled to remain in place.

  “Yeah, maybe you are one at that,” he said appreciatively.

  His tone made her blush and Sam damned herself for it. She needed a few minutes alone so she could pull herself together. “Why don’t you tell your father I’ll be there in a few minutes?”

  Mike sighed impatiently and strode back into the study, crossing to the desk and lining himself up behind her chair.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he told her, angling the chair so that it was parallel to the doorway. “Why don’t I just deliver you to the old man myself?”

  It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of intent. The next moment, Sam found herself being wheeled toward the doorway and the hallway that was just beyond.

  “Wait,” she pleaded. “Leave the chair,” Sam told him as she jumped off it, giving him no excuse to move the chair any farther from where it had initially been placed.

  But the next moment, to her embarrassment, Sam realized she hadn’t fully cleared the chair and her left heel got caught against the chair’s back wheels. As a result, she stumbled as she tried to stand and lost her balance.

  She would have fallen, most likely flat on her ego as well as her face, had Mike not acted on instinct and made an automatic grab for her.

  Hands on her shoulders, he pulled Sam in the opposite direction, negating her fall.

  Sort of.

  One moment she’d been attempting to clear a chair, the next she was inches from Mike, looking up into his face. Into his eyes specifically—and seeing all sorts of things she hadn’t thought could exist within the man.

  Deep things, timeless things.

  Things that seemed to, just for a moment, rivet her in place and steal her breath away even before he did what he did next.

  Why he did it would remain a mystery to Mike for a very long time to come. As a rule, he wasn’t given to acting on impulse. He always took the high road, accepting the fact that he was above such impulses, such urges, and as far as he knew, he was.

  Except this one time.

  One moment, he was just doing what came instinctively, in this case breaking her fall. The next, he was doing something that came naturally to others.

  He was kissing her.

  He wasn’t even aware of the need for this sensual contact rising up within him. As far as Mike could assess, he was catching her but then she was catching him, at least figuratively.

  There was no other way to explain it. At that particular moment in time, he needed to be doing exactly what he was doing. Pressing his lips against hers, drawing in her essence and making it one with his.

  Samantha Monroe tasted of laughter and sweetness and impossible things he couldn’t begin to understand. And the longer his lips were against hers, the longer he wanted them to be against hers.

  The simple, spontaneous action brought with it a huge surge the likes of which he couldn’t remember ever experiencing before. And, most likely, since he had no intentions of acting impulsively like this for a second time, he never would again.

  But while he was here, wrapped up in this kiss, he told himself he might as well drink it in, absorbing it the way he had just teased her about absorbing the page her face had been pressed against when she’d fallen asleep on it.

  Except that in his case, he wanted to absorb her, to taste and feel her essence, her soul with his.

  * * *

  IF SHE DIDN’T know any better, Sam would have sworn that she was still dreaming. Except that now, she wasn’t being pursued by a marauding band of renegades bent on her destruction but had fallen headlong into a place she had only read about because it resembled no kiss she’d experienced before.

  Her first instinct was to pull away, but it was quickly superseded by a desire to remain just where she was, lost in the moment.

  The boys and men who had kissed her in her lifetime—especially Daniel—had caused her heart to flutter mainly before the act. Actually, it was the anticipation of the kiss that had always caused her heart and pulse to react the way it did, to speed up.

  But once flesh touched flesh and the thought became a reality, it was almost always anchored by disappointment. She’d found that the actual deed never lived up to the dream, even when love was involved—because she had loved her late husband. Loved him for the good man he was, not for the way he had made her blood surge in her veins—because, she admitted in the deepest chamber of her heart, he hadn’t.

  She’d accepted that, learned to live with it and taught herself to tone down her expectations. That allowed her to be content with what she had. And when cruel circumstances had dictated that she no longer had it, Sam hadn’t gone looking for a replacement because there was no crying physical need to reclaim paradise since she’d never been to paradise in the first place.

  Not until now. />
  Now she’d glimpsed it, and been made aware of its existence. Her suddenly rediscovered anticipation whispered in her ear that there was now something very real to dream about.

  * * *

  WHAT THE HELL had gotten into him? a voice inside Mike’s head demanded incredulously as well as angrily.

  Had he lost his mind?

  He’d come to fetch Sam for dinner, not jump on her like some polecat trying to scale a tree to get a better view of his surroundings. Where had this sudden urge, this need to taste her lips, her very soul, come from? He had more control over himself than that, Mike silently insisted.

  So, just as abruptly as he’d begun kissing her, he stopped, pulling his head back and stepping away from her. The very last thing he did was drop his hands from her shoulders, as if somehow sensing on some level that she’d sink unsteadily to her knees if his hands were no longer there to hold her up.

  Sorry.

  “Sorry,” he said louder, unsure if he’d already said the word out loud or if he’d only thought it and it hadn’t made it past his lips.

  “Nothing to apologize for,” she told him, her voice scarcely above a shaky whisper. “Especially not two times.”

  Okay, he thought, he had said it twice. Just showed him how shaken up his brain really was at the moment. Guilt scraped across his conscience like a jagged, rusty nail. “I’d hate to think that I—”

  Sam squared her shoulders, no longer dazed, no longer mesmerized. And she didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  “You apologize again and I won’t be held responsible for my reaction,” she informed him tersely.

  She didn’t want to hear him denounce what had to be the singular most spectacular kiss she’d ever experienced, bar none. Not to mention that for the first time since Danny’s death, she’d actually felt alive on more than the putting-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other level that had, thus far, been seeing her through this enormously dark period of her life.

  As a matter of fact, despite his clumsy attempts at both an apology and obvious denial, her heart was still racing.

  Sam savored the sensation for a moment longer, fully aware that it was even now beginning to fade, drawing away from her grasp.

  Clearing her throat as she raised her eyes to his, she made a valiant stab at normalcy.

  “You said something about dinner,” she reminded him. “What about it?” Because, for the life of her, other than knowing he’d said the word, she couldn’t remember anything beyond that.

  Mike did his best to strip away the last of the effects of what had just happened here between them. “It’s waiting.”

  Now it came back to her. He’d been trying to literally roll her out of the room when she’d jumped out of the chair and somehow into his arms.

  “Oh, right. Well, let’s not keep it waiting any longer,” she murmured, walking by him to the door.

  Mike turned on his heel and followed her and the tantalizing scent that seemed to cling to her, wondering if he was coming down with something and should have himself checked out. More than anything, he needed an answer, an excuse to cling to that he could live with.

  And the sooner, the better.

  Chapter Ten

  The moment Sam walked into the dining room Miguel was on his feet and headed straight for her.

  “Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you had gotten lost,” the patriarch said to her, warmly taking her hand between his as he uttered the greeting. Then, releasing it, he took her elbow and gently guided her to the table, which was set for four. “You cannot neglect yourself this way time and again,” Miguel chided kindly. “You must eat, otherwise how can you keep up your strength to do all this work?”

  Sam laughed as she took her chair, then expressed a twinge of surprise when Mike pulled it out for her. When she was seated, he pushed the chair in for her, as well. This wave of politeness was new. Obviously this was due to his father’s prompting, she thought.

  Their eyes met for a brief instant as Mike went to take his own seat.

  What she saw in his eyes made her change her mind. Maybe Mike’s father hadn’t had anything to do with Mike’s change in behavior. Maybe that kiss, coming out of nowhere, was responsible for the difference.

  Did this mean that he intended to repeat that encounter?

  God, she hoped so.

  Belatedly, Sam realized that she hadn’t responded to what her host had just said to her. “It’s not as if I’m doing some kind of heavy physical labor, Miguel,” she reminded him tactfully. “It’s just reading.”

  They both knew it wasn’t “just” anything. He looked at her knowingly. “Using the mind for all those hours can be very tiring.”

  “Yeah, just look at Mike. He almost never tires himself out thinking about anything,” Ray offered, laughing at his own joke.

  “Mike keeps the books, doesn’t he?” Sam asked casually.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the surprised expression on Mike’s face. That was when she realized that she had to sound as if she was coming to his defense. What had prompted her to do that? It wasn’t as if the man couldn’t defend himself. But then, maybe he wasn’t inclined to offer any justification that wasn’t already duly recognized and noted.

  “Well, it sounds like Samantha put you in your place, Ramon,” Miguel observed, a deep, appreciative chuckle accompanying his words.

  In response, Ray shrugged somewhat self-consciously, doing his best not to appear that way.

  “Doesn’t take much to work on the books,” he protested, then complained, “I don’t do it because you won’t let me.”

  “And there’s a good reason for that,” Mike deadpanned, joining in. “You don’t let someone who thinks one plus one equals eleven work on the accounts, unless you think that risking bankruptcy is a good idea.”

  Ray bristled. “Don’t listen to him,” he told Sam. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  She realized that Ray was embarrassed and she was quick to try to remedy the situation. Smiling at him, Sam said, “That’s all right, not everyone is good with numbers. I’m sure you’re not as bad as he thinks—and possibly not as good as you think,” she added.

  “Ah, she has you there, son,” Miguel told his youngest with a laugh, delighted with Sam’s breezy assessment.

  Taking up his carving knife and fork, Miguel paused to slice an extra thick portion of the prime rib he’d had Rosa prepare. Carefully placing the piece on Sam’s plate, he went on to cut several slices, one each for his sons and himself.

  Reseating himself, Miguel focused his attention on his houseguest again. “So, tell me, Samantha, how is the work on the journals going?”

  “Very well,” she answered with genuine enthusiasm. “I’m even further along reading the diaries than I thought I would be.” At this rate, she could very well be finished under her projected six-week schedule.

  “Good,” Miguel proclaimed, extremely pleased. “That means you will not object when I ask you to take a little break.”

  “I thought that was what I was doing,” she said, indicating the meal she was having.

  “I think what Dad means is an actual break, not just dinner,” Mike interjected, although he kept his eyes on his plate.

  An actual break. I thought that was what happened back in the study, Sam couldn’t help thinking. Because what happened back there was certainly not business as usual.

  A shiver danced down her back even as she thought of the kiss. She forced herself to focus on the conversation and not on her reaction to the unexpected, pulse-stirring event.

  “Miguel is right,” the older man agreed. “I mean an actual break. People like Miss Joan,” he cited the diner owner specifically because Miss Joan asked the most questions, “are asking me if I am keeping you trapped in the stu
dy, working.”

  “I’m not trapped,” Sam protested. “The door’s not locked. Besides, I’m enjoying reading these diaries immensely. Your great-great-great-grandmother was a very brave young woman,” she told Miguel. “That she found a way to write down some of these details, even while they kept her as pretty much a slave, is just absolutely amazing to me.”

  “Strong women are amazing,” Miguel agreed. “But as I am sure you know, work, while important, is not everything. There are other things, such as friends, family,” he enumerated, his eyes watching her carefully. “Speaking of family,” he segued just a little too innocently. “Where is yours?”

  Seeing Sam’s discomfort at the question, although she was quick to cover it up, Mike interceded for her and told his father, “She doesn’t have any family around here. She doesn’t have any brothers or sisters and when her mother remarried, she and her new husband moved away to another state. She and Sam lost contact.”

  A number of emotions crossed the older man’s face, not the least of which was sympathy. “Is this true, Samantha?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She really hadn’t thought that Mike remembered. She’d told him about her lack of family on the first day. She was sure it had gone in one ear and out the other. To find out it didn’t rather intrigued her. There was a great deal more to this man than she thought. He actually did listen. On occasion.

  “Then am I correct to think that you have no plans for the holiday?” Miguel asked her.

  “Holiday?” she echoed. The question threw her. “Do you mean Christmas?”

  Why was he asking about that? With any luck, she would be finished and gone before Christmas arrived.

  As a rule, Sam didn’t look forward to the Christmas holiday. It always reminded her how alone she was. Oh, she knew she could always ignore the holiday—which was difficult in light of the endless commercials and the decorated department stores. Or she could thrust herself into someone’s party—her publisher always threw one—and hope the noise would blot out her thoughts. But she really didn’t want to intrude on anyone she knew, especially since she really wasn’t close enough to the people she did know to inject herself into their celebrations.