by Sandra Hill
Reba handed the binoculars back to Betty, who seemed equally stunned with disbelief as the men landed safely and disengaged themselves from their harnesses and parachutes. They both removed helmets and dropped them to the ground. People from the homeless shelter rushed forward, along with a few cops who had pulled up, sirens screaming. Everyone was talking at once.
The man in uniform, who must be frozen to the bone since he hadn’t worn a jumpsuit like the other fellow had, pushed doggedly toward the bus, ignoring the crowd and shouted questions. His gaze swept the bus area, as if searching for someone . . . then locked on her. He started resolutely to close the short distance between them.
Reba’s heart skipped a beat as she backed away slowly.
“Sam Merrick?” she asked in a voice hardly more than a whisper. Or was it a whimper?
He must have heard because he nodded.
Oh, he looks so good. His dark hair was much shorter than the last time she’d seen him, fourteen years ago. Not the buzz cut normally associated with GI’s, but short on the sides and neck, nonetheless. There were fine lines crinkling the edges of his eyes and mouth, both of which appeared oddly vulnerable as he stared at her. If anything he looked better than he had before, and he’d always been stop-traffic handsome.
How must I look to him? she wondered, realizing suddenly that she still wore the Santa suit with the big belly, though she had removed the hat and beard, which she clutched in trembling fingers? Like a fool, that’s how.
As if in answer, Sam’s scrutiny swept over her in that slow, sensual way he’d perfected with women since practically toddlerhood. His perusal lingered over her midsection, and a smile twitched at his lips. Then he stared directly into her eyes.
“Reba,” he said huskily, “you look just the same as always.”
She gasped, clutching at her big belly. Over the years, she’d practiced many scenarios and scripts in her mind, imagining what he would say or do if she ever met him again. And what does he say? That she hasn’t changed at all. Well, she had. And not just on the outside. He should have noticed, she decided irrationally. He should have come back sooner. The louse! The two-bit jerk! Where is his famous charm?
“What are you doing here?” she blurted out.
He chuckled, and, oh, what a familiar sound that was! Sam had the sexiest chuckle in the world. “I was stuck in the Philadelphia airport, and when George told me that you were here, well, I decided on the spot that I had to come, and . . . ” His voice trailed off, and he just shrugged.
“You came here to see me?”
He hesitated with uncertainty. “Uh-huh. And because I need to hitch a ride to Snowdon with your bus . . . you know, for George’s wedding. I talked to your bus driver on the phone and she gave me directions to—”
Reba’s head swiveled to Betty who leaned against the side of the bus, blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation. “You never mentioned Sam to me,” she accused.
“Ooops!” Betty said. “Guess it slipped my mind.” She wasn’t fooling Reba. The old fool had deliberately withheld that news from her.
Tossing her hat and beard to the ground with disgust, she turned her attention back to the Show-off Jerk before her. She put a fist on each of her padded hips and demanded, “You heard I was here and just had to come all of the sudden . . . by parachute?”
“That’s the short story. Can we go somewhere private? I’ll fill in all the details later.”
Reba had finally come to her senses. Who the hell did he think he was? Who the hell did he think she was . . . some clueless teenager who would be impressed by his romantic gesture?
“You haven’t changed at all, Sam Merrick. What a juvenile prank! Guess you figured I’d just swoon all over the place, like all your other women.”
“Other women?” he sputtered. “What other women?”
She gave him a look that told him exactly what women she was referring to, as if she didn’t read the tabloids, or get reports back from George on occasion. Did he think she was a clueless twit, stuck in the Maine boonies?
Sam put both of his fists on his hips, mirroring her actions, and glared back at her. “What’s got your Santa belly all a-jiggle, Reba?” he asked, a teasing tone to his voice. “I thought you’d be pleased that I . . . ”
Reba was not in the mood for being teased. “Ooooh, you are a real piece of work, Slick.”
Sam had always hated it when she’d called him by that nickname, even though he’d accepted it from everyone else. Apparently, he still didn’t like the appellation coming from her lips because his jaw tensed and his fists got tighter.
But then he softened, and the look Sam gave her spoke volumes, caressing her soul. He told her, without speaking, that he wanted her . . . only her.
For that moment, anyway.
The man is smooth . . . I’ll give him that. Good thing I caught myself in time. I’ll be damned if I allow him to turn that famous charm on me. “Do you expect me to be jumping with joy when you finally show up after fourteen years?”
“I heard . . . I heard that you got married. In fact, until today, I thought . . . well, I thought . . . you still were . . . and, after all, how was I to know that . . . ” The usually cool Sam stammered as he spoke.
“Give me a break! I was married ten years ago. Where were you thirteen years ago? Or twelve? Or eleven? You know, those first three loooong years after you left?”
“I can explain,” he said and tried to reach for her.
She stepped aside . . . not an easy task for a hefty Santa . . . and put up a halting hand. With tears welling in her eyes, Reba realized that her long-buried dream had come true . . . Sam had finally come back. But it wasn’t like her dreams at all. In fact, this was her worst nightmare.
“I’ve never forgotten about you. Never.”
Reba could have wept at the sweetness of those words. If only they were true! But it was undoubtedly a phoney sentiment meant to achieve some ulterior motive . . . as always. A Slick-ism. “Cut the crap, Slick. That doesn’t even pass the giggle test.”
“Reeebbbaaa,” he cajoled huskily.
Really, it was untenable. The jerk still thought he could charm the pants off her. Well, darn it, he probably could, if she wasn’t careful. Inhaling deeply to calm herself, Reba looked at Sam. Then she looked at the snow bank behind him where city crews must have plowed the parking lot during a previous storm. Then she looked back at Sam again. Finally, she did the only thing a once-jilted female could do . . . she shoved a world-famous Blue Angel in the chest, knocking him flat on his back.
“Charm that, Slick,” she said and stomped off toward the bus.
Nine Santas clapped in appreciation of her long-overdue spunk. And a television camera filmed what would be heralded in the evening news programs as, “Blue Angel Gets Wings Clipped.”
Reba should have felt silly, or regretful, but she felt damn good.
Sam was feeling good . . . damn good.
It didn’t matter that he was lying flat on his back in a pile of snow. It didn’t matter that Reba was so pissed at him that smoke practically steamed from her ears. It didn’t matter that a whole bunch of people were gaping at him. It didn’t matter that the TV camera was rolling, and geriatric Santas were voicing their opinions right and left. It didn’t even matter that a blinking police light nearby indicated some serious questioning on his horizon. He was exactly where he wanted to be . . . within radar range of Reba. Now, the real work began. If there was one thing Samuel H. Merrick, Commander, U.S. Navy, knew how to handle, it was a challenge.
In one fluid motion, he rose to his feet, dusted off his butt, and took off after Reba, whose fat Santa ass had the cutest wobble to it. Later he might inform her of that anatomical fact, but not right now . . . unless he wanted to land in the snow again.
She was about to board the bus when he grabbed her by the upper arm. Before she could say, “Buzz off, bozo!” or something equally appropriate, he pulled her—feet dragging, free arm flailing, mouth sputt
ering—toward the church annex. Once inside what appeared to be the vestibule of a chapel, attached to a church homeless shelter, he drew her into an alcove.
Privacy, at last.
Reba, at last.
“Let . . . me . . . go,” Reba said through gritted teeth, struggling vehemently, but to no avail. He had her backed up against the wall, his flat stomach pressed against her pillowed stomach, her two hands held above her head, locked in place by his fingers entwined with hers.
Sweet mother! She is the sexiest Santa in the world.
“Let . . . me . . . go,” she repeated.
“Never! Never again!” He basked in his first close-up examination of the girl he had loved . . . who was now the woman he . . . loved? He wasn’t sure about that, but, before this Christmas was over, he was going to find out, for damn sure.
The adrenaline rush he got when making a rifle-shot pass down a runway before streaking toward a clear blue sky was nothing compared to this. The beauty of a four-plane diamond formation, wing tip to wing tip, at five hundred miles per hour was nothing compared to this.
Pilots had an expression called “flying too close to the flame.” Well, he’d thought he’d done just that on a hundred different maneuvers, but it was nothing compared to this. With sudden insightfulness, he realized that Reba was his flame, and always had been. And that’s why he’d stayed away.
In many ways, she looked the same, just as he’d told her, though more mature, of course. He was so very glad she hadn’t changed much. In his convoluted logic, he figured she’d stayed in place for him.
Long, honey blonde hair fell to her shoulders and beyond in a thick swath that he’d always loved and she’d always hated. He wanted to take a strand between his fingers and rub sensuously, but he wasn’t taking a chance on releasing her . . . yet.
Her eyes were the same caramel brown, but different; they’d seen pain. That saddened him a bit. He’d always told Reba she had smiling eyes; a person could tell she was smiling without ever seeing her mouth. He would make her eyes smile again. Yes, he would.
And speaking of her mouth . . . Blessed Lord, what a mouth! That hadn’t changed, thanks be to God and genetics. Her upper lip was fuller and puffier than the lower. A supremely kissable mouth.
What would she do if I grazed the pad of my thumb across her bottom lip?
Bite it off, no doubt, he answered himself with an inner chuckle. “Reba,” he said in a husky whisper, his head lowering. “I’m going to kiss you, honey.”
“No.”
“Shhhh, don’t resist. I know we have lots to discuss. Please, just give me a chance.”
“No.”
“I’ve made mistakes. I owe you a million apologies.”
“No.”
“You married another man, for chrissake! All these years I thought . . . I was picturing you with . . . ” His voice choked up so he couldn’t continue. “Later. We’ll talk about this later. But, first, God help me, I want . . . I need . . . to kiss you. Just one kiss, babe. Just one.”
In that flutter of a second before his lips met hers, she moaned. That’s all. A moan. But he recognized the moan for what it was. Despite her “No, no, no’s,” she wanted this kiss as much as he did. Where he and Reba were concerned, there was magic when they touched . . . always had been.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The scent of holiday evergreens, beeswax candles and incense permeated the air. In a closed room upstairs, he could hear children’s voices raised in a screechy version of “Silent Night,” probably preparing for a Christmas recital. Were they homeless children, or students from a religious school affiliated with the church? Or angels that God had sent to serenade his reunion with Reba?
Above all the Christmas ambience was peppermint. He smelled it on Reba’s breath before he tasted it on her lips. She must have candy canes in her Santa sack, he surmised with an irrelevance that surely bordered on madness.
“Sam,” she breathed.
“Reba,” he breathed back.
At first, he just settled his lips against hers, and, miracle of miracles, they still fit together perfectly.
Then he set about the serious business of kissing. And, yes, he took his kissing seriously . . . especially with Reba.
Slanting and molding, parting her lips with his. Deeper. Harder. Then softer again. Pleading and demanding. Once, when he came up for breath, he whispered, “I love kissing you.”
Smiling against his mouth, she said, “You always say that.” She was right. He had always said that before . . . during and after their hours and hours of kissing . . . the kind of hormone-heavy torture only teenagers could inflict on each other, and enjoy the process.
“You’re trembling,” he informed her with male satisfaction.
She laughed. “You’re gloating.” And she didn’t even seem annoyed over that. He must be making progress.
“I love kissing you,” he said again, because it felt so right. Time spiraled backwards then. It could have been now, or fourteen years ago. Some things never changed.
He kissed her and kissed her, with all the expertise he could gather and with all the yearnings he could not bank. One long, never-ending, forever kiss. If he stopped the kiss, the dream might end. The magic might disappear. He kissed her soft and coaxing ’til her lips went pliant. Then, blood thickening and senses inflaming, he kissed her deep and wet ’til her knees buckled, and he had to release their interlaced fingers so that he could put his hands on her pillowed behind to hold her up.
“I’m a fool,” she whimpered on a sigh. “Like always, I’m a fool where you’re concerned.”
“My fool!” he agreed. “Be a fool for me, baby. Only me. That’s right. That’s the way.”
To his surprise and delight, Reba put her arms around his neck and drew him closer.
He was the one who whimpered then, especially when she opened her mouth wider and touched his tongue with hers.
“You taste like peppermint,” she said against his mouth, not breaking contact.
“I taste like you,” he answered with a growl. “And you taste like . . . home.”
That seemed to snag Reba’s attention because her body went still. Taking his face in both her hands, she broke their kiss and held his head away. “Home?” she asked, her voice grainy with arousal, and something else . . . something much more dangerous . . . hope. “Are you really coming home, Sam? For good?” The expectant expression on her face about broke his heart.
No, no, no! Now is not the time for somber questions. “Later, honey,” he murmured, and tried to resume the kiss.
She would have none of that and averted her face. “Sam, are you coming home?”
He could feel his face flush. “Of course. I’m coming home for George’s wedding. JD and Stan will be there, too. It’ll be great.” Even he recognized how lame that sounded.
She shook her head at his evasiveness. “Are you coming home for good?”
How the hell do I know? Man, my blood turns cold just thinking about living in that town again. But Reba would be there. And I’m a grown-up now. A Blue Angels pilot, to be precise. Well, golly, Merrick, there’s a big call for pilots in Podunk, Maine. Oh, shit! Oh, damn! Oh, God, let me say the right thing.
He hesitated a moment too long, and Reba pushed her hands against his chest and ducked out of his embrace. She put several feet between them before he had a chance to gather his testosterone-foggy senses. “Reba, this is all happening too fast. I need time.”
“Time!” she spat out. “You’ve had fourteen years to make up your mind, Sam. If you don’t know now, you never will.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Yes, I do, Sam. I understand more than you can imagine. Perhaps it’s best that we met like this again. I needed the closure.” She regarded him with soul-wrenching disappointment.
“Closure?” A tight vise was squeezing his chest walls, and he could barely breathe.
“It’s over. Finally, and forever.” There were tears in
her eyes, but Sam could tell that she meant every word.
“But the kiss. You can’t deny the kiss, Reba. The magic is still there between us, no matter what you say.”
She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity through misty brown eyes. Then she declared flatly, “That, my friend, was a goodbye kiss.”
With that, she was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
KEVIN
Tuesday, three days ’til Christmas Eve
“You’re where?” Kevin Wilder asked into his cell phone.
“You heard me,” his childhood friend, Sam Merrick, growled. “I hitched a ride with this Santa Brigade bus thing.”
“Santa Brigade?” Kevin turned and captured a glimpse of himself in a mirror hanging on the wall, right below the train schedule. Man, he needed a haircut. Bad. Between his shaggy head, two day beard-growth, his bomber jacket and beat-up jeans, he had the feeling he looked one step above a thug. Or possibly one step below. He turned from his image, recognizing why the girl at the information desk had appeared petrified when he’d stalked over to her earlier. “The Santa Brigade? The traveling seniors from Winter Haven?”
“You’ve heard of them?” Sam asked in an undertone.
“Everyone in the Western Hemisphere has heard of them.”
“Not me. Until yesterday, that is.”
“Doesn’t surprise me, Slick. Your head’s been up in the clouds, literally, for years.” Kevin stifled a grin at the mental picture of his buddy stuck on a bus with a truckload of Snowdon’s finest. “Exactly how in hell did this happen?”
“Long story,” Sam breathed. “Suffice it to say the alternatives were none and none. Think Philadelphia airport, cancelled flights, the works.”
Kevin pulled his cell phone from his ear and stared at it for a moment. Finally he asked, “Why are you whispering?”
“Naptime,” Sam whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“Forget it. So, where are you? Already make it to George’s?”
“Hardly.” Kevin scowled at the sign above the arched entranceway of the train station. “I’m in Schenectady.”
