An Informal Christmas (Informal Romance Book 1)

by Heather Gray

  Guilt plastered on her face thicker than paste foundation, the teen met Rylie’s gaze. “You know I didn’t mean…”

  Rylie rested a hand on Makayla’s arm. “I know, but I imagine your mom has a thing or two to say about appropriate discourse.” Then she leaned in close and whispered, “If I were you, I’d listen. She wants to raise you to be a magnificent woman.”

  The teen’s woe-is-me sigh said it all. She would listen to the lecture, but she thought it was pointless.

  Rylie nodded to Makayla’s mom on her way out the door. Mrs. Maskey believed that letting her daughter get away with something because of the cancer would mean she either didn’t love her child enough to raise her well… or that she didn’t believe her daughter would live to see adulthood and so the raising well didn’t matter. As a result, Makayla never had an opportunity to get away with much. If a mother’s determination could cure cancer, people would be bottling Mrs. Maskey’s essence to treat kids all over the world. That woman exhibited more fight in one minute than most parents would need to reach for in their entire lives.

  “What took you so long? I paged hours ago.” Suzie’s voice was distracted as she clacked away at her keyboard.

  “I was in the middle of getting my nails painted down in Oncology. I thought Zach wasn’t coming until four.”

  The man in question stepped out from Rylie’s cubicle. “I had another meeting cancel, and traffic was clear. I told her I’d wait and not to page you, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Rylie chuckled. “Suzie has a mind of her own. A thick skull, too.”

  “Uh, hello? I’m right here.” The Jill-of-all-trades department head never paused in her typing. Suzie was a skilled multi-tasker if ever there was one.

  Zach came down the short hallway. “I wanted to talk about Thanksgiving, but I’d rather not be stuck in an office. Want to go sit outside?”

  “Give me a sec.” Rylie scooted past him to her cubicle and collected her notebook.

  “All set?” His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming out a silent rhythm.

  She gave him a nod. “Follow me. I know the perfect place.”

  The hospital grounds included two outdoor courtyards. She led him to the one located by the pediatric wing. How would he react to sitting in clear view of kids coming and going through hallways? She hadn’t given up on figuring him out. A little observation might tell her what his emails had not.

  Within a few short minutes, they were settling onto the benches of a picnic table. Rylie set her notebook down and flipped it open to a blank page. Should she say what was on her mind? “You look tired.”

  “Been working hard.”

  “I thought construction work was scarce during the cold weather.”

  Zach snorted. “Maybe in the rest of the country, but not in Northern Virginia.”

  “You should slow down then. You seem more worn out than usual.”

  If laughter could have fangs, his did. “You’re not a nurse, okay? Leave it alone. Let’s talk about Thanksgiving.”

  The whole conversation was out of character. Zach could get defensive when she probed, but this was different. He was different. And she had no idea how to respond.

  “Fine. Did you have something in mind?”

  He nodded. “I know a guy. He has a restaurant over at National Harbor. They flooded after the last hurricane, and I did some repair work for him. He owns other restaurants, too. I was thinking of asking him to cater a Thanksgiving dinner for the kids.”

  “That’s a big expense. Include the families — which you pretty much have to do for the big holidays — and you’re talking about catering for over five hundred people. Are you sure he’s willing to do it pro bono?”

  Zach shrugged. “Can’t hurt to ask.”

  Rylie chewed on her lower lip.

  “Spit it out. You’ve obviously got something on your mind.”

  Was it her, or was he in a mood? Where was the Zach she’d gotten to know via email?

  This wasn’t the time or place, though. She would let it go. “The cafeteria here does a decent job for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m sure they have deadlines, too. Let me talk to the guy who handles food service to see if they’ve already ordered a kazillion pounds of mashed potatoes.”

  “You do that, and I’ll check with my guy.” He stood to leave, but Rylie couldn’t let him go yet.

  “We’re talking about a meal in less than two weeks. Lollygagging is out of the question.”

  He peered from the door leading into the building to her. His posture was stiff, the lines of his face hard. Shadows had gathered in those rich brown eyes that normally reminded her of steaming coffee. “Lollygagging? I think I heard my great-grandmother say that once.”

  Rylie opted not to defend her vocabulary to a man who was her age or close to it. Besides, the word wasn’t archaic. Not exactly.

  Zach took a step toward the door before glancing down at her. “Why don’t you go check with the cafeteria people, and I’ll call my guy.”

  She rose to her feet. “Sounds good. Meet me up in my office before you leave, though, so we can talk some more to figure out if this is going…?”

  His head was shaking before she finished. “Let me take you out to dinner.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “You win. I don’t want to be here today. I want to be anywhere but at the hospital, okay?” He said the words as though he intended for them to sting, but they somehow lacked venom.

  “We can meet somewhere if you want. I get off around five, give or take.”

  Zach ran a hand over his face. “Montecito’s? Six?”

  She nodded before rising from the table and marching toward the door. Every fiber in her being called at her to stop, to go back to him, to find out what was wrong. The still, small voice, though, told her to let it go.

  So she walked away when it was the last thing she wanted to do.

  Rylie sat in a circular corner booth and played with the drops of moisture forming on the outside of her water glass. The calendar said fall was moving on its way to winter with more speed than a just-fired human cannonball. There shouldn’t be condensation, but the droplets on the smoky glass attested to the high humidity and unseasonably warm weather.

  Zach slid into the booth. “We’re getting more than nachos this time, just so you know.”

  “Abso-total-utely.” She refrained from asking how he was. Her prying days were over, at least until the next time her curiosity got the better of her.

  He was going through something, but it was apparent that he had no intention of sharing what was on his mind. Rylie’s penchant for trying to fix things worked in her favor on the job, but it wasn’t always an asset in her personal life.

  “So what do you recommend here besides the nachos?”

  “The tres leche and the flan. Both are divine.”

  He returned her grin. “So appetizers and dessert, huh? I like a girl who has her priorities, but let’s pretend for a minute that I’m a man who needs actual sustenance. What’s good?” He waved his hand at the menu sitting beside her placemat. “And don’t you dare say the salad.”

  She liked this new and improved mood of his even if it did make her question her I-will-not-pry stance. “The fajitas are out of this world, but if you want all the flavor without the fuss, get the fajita burrito. You’ll think you dived into a fajita lake, and coming up for air will be the last thing on your mind.”

  “Sold.”

  The waitress approached and took their orders. After she brought Zach’s ice tea, she retreated and left them in peace.

  Fighting a case of the fidgets, Rylie continued to toy with the condensation on her glass. “The head of cafeteria meal-planning gave me seventy-two hours to decide. He has to order his food a minimum of ten days in advance for Thanksgiving, and we’re now at two weeks out.”

  Zach took a draw on his tea. “Miguel, the guy I told you about, owns four restaurants including the o
ne at the National Harbor. They’re high-end, the kind I can afford to work on but not eat at. He runs a charitable foundation that all his restaurants feed into. He can handle the catering and use the cost as a tax write-off, but he decided to let his customers dip into their pockets for the sake of philanthropy. People tend to be in more of a giving mood this time of year. At least, that’s what he told me. Starting with this evening’s dinner service, his wait staff will give each customer an opportunity to donate to the cause. He said he’d call me with an update in a day or two to tell me how much money’s been raised, but that his foundation would cover anything the donations don’t.”

  The nachos arrived, and Zach reached with his fork to disentangle a chunk. “He didn’t explain the whole thing to me, but he did say everyone who contributes will get a tax deductible receipt. He’s planning to send two people from each of his restaurants. They’ll bring the food in, set it up, and do the breakdown and cleanup afterward. We’ll have to provide the volunteers to serve.” Before she could interject, he continued. “I’m pretty sure I can round up half a dozen. How many do you think we’ll need?”

  Rylie debated her next question. “And you’re sure he’s aboveboard?”

  Zach shook his head dismissively. “I was already aware of the foundation, which is why I thought of him. I did my due diligence, though, and checked it out before making the suggestion. I couldn’t find any bad reviews or watchdog alerts.”

  “Watchdog?”

  “Yep. There are places that keep an eye on nonprofits and report any malfeasance, that sort of thing.”

  Huh. She hadn’t seen that coming. She’d thought it more of a whim on his part when he first suggested it, and then he’d avoided addressing the legitimacy of the offer the first time she’d asked. Yet one more thing to put in the he’s-a-mystery column.

  Rylie pulled her mind back to the issue and ran through the figures in her head. “Between the restaurant people and your volunteers, that should be enough. Parents will pitch in if we end up shorthanded. They’re good about that. So, uh, do I want to know how much this would cost if he weren’t raising the money himself?”

  A smile split Zach’s face. “We need to get as close to an exact count as we can so he can plan the food preparation accordingly, but I told him to expect around five hundred. He said an event of this size would normally run over twenty thousand dollars.”

  Her sudden inhalation of breath lodged a chip in Rylie’s throat.

  Zach chuckled. “Don’t worry. That price includes all the bells and whistles. Linens, wait staff, et cetera. Besides, he’s not charging us, so it’s a moot point.”

  If she ever got married, the reception would be pot-luck. No way would she pay for catering.

  Two days later, Rylie received a brief email.

  Miguel says we’re good to go. Over $2000 raised in first day & a half. The headcount you gave me helped.

  She sent a message back.

  What if he doesn’t raise all the money? Child Life can’t afford to pay for this. Maybe I should call and talk to Miguel myself. Or you could ask again just to be sure?

  Three deep cleansing breaths later a reply came. She hadn’t even finished worrying about the problem yet.

  The $20K was retail. At cost, it’s a lot less. And I already double-checked. (I knew you’d ask.) No worries. Child Life won’t owe anything.

  Now stop worrying about it and tell me about your day.

  Rylie exhaled.

  Okay.

  This was good.

  And she knew how to delegate.

  It wasn’t like she had to run the event for all departments on Thanksgiving Day. Each of the Child Life Specialists could pitch in and get their areas organized so all she’d be required to do was direct the workers to their designated locations.

  The PICU couldn’t allow the caterers in because of their infection protocols, so their meal would be set up in the waiting room. The NICU decided they wanted in, too. Even though the babies couldn’t eat, their families would need food. They would be sent to the PICU waiting room, as well, since the numbers for both those areas were relatively small.

  This time, when she reached for the reply button, it was with a smile.

  One of my kids threw up in the CT room. It wasn’t a big deal, but the tech running the CT had a really strong gag reflex. Her job’s on the line if she leaves the room with other people in there, so she had to stay while we cleaned everything up. It was too much for her. She ended up huddled in the corner with a garbage can. Poor woman. She’s only been on the job two months. This was her first day flying solo without a trainer.

  His reply came almost instantly.

  I know I shouldn’t have, but I laughed. Poor woman, sure, but poor kid, too. Throwing up’s never fun.

  My sister has a strong gag reflex. So does my mom. When I was growing up, anytime the dog made a mess — out of either end — one of them would throw a towel over it and wait until my dad or I came to the rescue to clean it up. We could handle it, but they sure couldn’t.

  Her picture of Zach York continued to develop like film in a tray of solution. More color and depth showed up with each passing second. Her fingers flew as she typed her response.

  So, basically, you’re the rescuer of damsels in stinky messy distress? I don’t know whether to respect you for it or to take two steps away… After all, I don’t want to be nearby the next time you’re called on to clean something up. Maybe I’ll just stand over here. By the window, so I can open it in case I need fresh air.

  She must be tired. It had sounded funny in her head, but once she clicked send, she wasn’t so sure anymore. Oh well. It wasn’t like she could call the email back. Or could she?

  The computer dinged with an incoming message before she had a chance to figure out whether or not she could call her last one back.

  Hey, tell me something. When you’re having a hard time with God, do you still pray? You know, like when you feel He’s disappointed you or something?

  Their conversation had just taken a sharp turn from clowning to serious. Rylie sent a quick prayer heavenward before typing out her answer, an answer that would require her to share her heart on the subject.

  Promise not to laugh? Yeah, I still pray, but sometimes it’s to tell God I’m not speaking to Him. Silly, right? I know He can see what’s in my heart, so He already knows when I’m hurt or angry, but I still tell Him. When I stop talking, that’s when those dark feelings fester. Keeping the communication open — even if it’s to rant or tell Him I think He messed up —helps me to heal.

  It’s the same as with family, or even in marriage. Things happen, and people get upset. If nobody talks it through, those feelings grow until they become ugly and all-consuming. Talking helps keep the emotions in perspective.

  Okay, it’s not exactly the same. In marriage, it’s two people, and people mess up. With me and God, I’m the only one who messes up. Still, you get the idea.

  So, yeah, I still talk to Him, and sometimes I sound like a tantrum-throwing teenager, but I’m a work in progress, so I don’t sweat it too much. As long as I’m trying to grow and do better, I figure that’s the most important thing.

  No reply came, but she didn’t really expect one. Whenever Zach asked a serious question, that was usually the end of their back-and-forth email exchange for the day. She wasn’t sure yet if it was because he wanted to mull over her answer or because he didn’t like what she’d said. Either way, they were done.

  Rylie shut down her computer and headed toward her small kitchen.

  The leftover meatloaf in the fridge was calling her name.

  Help him find his way, Lord, and protect my heart from getting more involved than is wise.

  She had a feeling it was already too late for the latter…

  A prolonged blast of frigid wind welcomed Thanksgiving Day. Leaves tumbled from nearby trees as Rylie’s fingers, gloved against the biting cold, fumbled with her keys while struggling to hold a stack of file folder
s.

  She made her way up to the Child Life office and through the handprint-turkey decorated door to drop everything onto her desk. The hollow thud echoed in her cubicle. What had she been thinking? She shouldn’t have brought those files home the night before.

  Whenever one of her kids was out of the hospital for a year, she did a follow-up check on them at home to see how they were doing. Not part of her job description, it was nonetheless encouraged. That was bureaucratic talk for use your own time.

  Taking files home each month and making the handful of calls wasn’t a bother. Oncology patients returned so frequently for additional treatment that whenever somebody went a whole year without coming in, it tended to mean good news. There wasn’t much of a positive spin she could put on this month’s calls, though. Thirty-two kids from her unit hadn’t been admitted since the previous November. Half a dozen of them had stopped in to say hi at some point when they’d been in the hospital for one thing or another, so she already knew their status. Of the remaining twenty-six, she had attended two funerals.

  Seeing the names again and knowing those children hadn’t survived was always hard, but it came with the job. She could deal with it, as long as she remembered to turn to God for strength. This month, however, as she’d phoned the families, she’d been informed of four additional deaths.

  Idiocy. Making those calls on the eve of Thanksgiving had been pure idiocy on her part. Either her brain cells had vacated the premises, or she was a masochist. She preferred to think it was the former, not the latter. Regardless, she wouldn’t make that mistake again. Which, now that she thought about it, plainly meant she wasn’t a masochist. It didn’t, however, make up for the fact that she’d given each of those families a vivid reminder of what — and who — they’d lost.

  As somber as the day would be for her in light of the sad news absorbed the night before, she personally knew several families who would all be experiencing their first Thanksgiving without a beloved child. She shoved the thought down deep inside and did her best to seal off the weeping emotions. People expected a celebration today, and she would give them one. The gloomy weight of grief would still be lurking around later if she decided to spend some time with it.