Wrapped in Red: A Three Rivers Romance Novella

by Meghan M. Gorecki

  “No, it’s a good time. What’s up?”

  “Well, I thought maybe I could take you out. Ah, for the play.”

  Merry rubbed her forehead. "What play?"

  “The church play. I could use some design inspiration and festivity. And you probably could, too.”

  Almost dropping the phone again, Merry cradled it against her head and padded over to the container of pumpkin pie left balancing on her counter where she had tossed it. “Excuse me?” The guy was cute. Clearly did have a servant’s heart—she’d give him that. And good with kids.

  But good grief—presumptuous much?

  She could practically see him shrug through the phone. “You said yourself at dinner the play’s tired. So why don’t we make the most of it, drag the kids downtown with us and see the city at Christmas.”

  Did the man not miss anything? The play had come up at dinner, and Lydia had been fangirling over it. Merry had muttered about it being a little tired and cheesy—and Sam had heard all that?

  She needed to stop talking to herself so much.

  His idea did sound fun. And other than the route to and from the library—she hadn't taken the time to explore her city in ages. Much less at the holidays like she used to. It was too big and noisy all by her lonesome. And annoying what with all the jag-offs on the road and the surplus of obnoxiously PDA-tastic couples that milled around the city's touristy spots.

  “What do you say?”

  Merry snorted and set the phone down next to her Keurig to shake the can of whipped cream up. “Anyone ever tell you you talk like someone from an old movie?”

  "Nope. That's a new one. As is being called a smug snowman. You're a writer aren't you?"

  And down went the can of whipped cream. “Random, much?”

  "You're creative with your words, and you're editing the play. I just put two and two together." Sam's tone lightened and Merry rolled her eyes to her speckled ceiling as she felt the last crust of her annoyance crumbling away.

  If the man knew what was good for him…

  He would never have squeezed her hand during the prayer when she had started to melt. How had he known that was what she needed? Shaking herself back to the present question, Merry decided to keep it short and sweet. Lest she reveal how much he had affected her—no, was affecting her. Tongue-tying her thoughts into even more of a disorganized mess than usual. Don’t you dare start falling for him.

  “I used to write.” Never had those four words been uttered aloud—and they hurt. But she swallowed the bitter taste and forced a bright note into her voice. “What day were you planning this Christmas outing dahn-tahn?” Was the man not dissuaded by anything—even her horrible impression of a Pittsburgh accent?

  “You free Sunday? I'll put the word out to meet at the T and take that down…" Within minutes, Sam's boyish excitement for their city hooked her heart out of its pity party. She jotted notes about where to eat, what to see, a reminder to look up how much the Monongahela incline was—even though the Mt. Washington look-out was five minutes away from her house—and mentally prepared what she would wear.

  The conversation stalled, and Merry glanced at her clock. Ten-thirty. They had been talking for an hour?

  “So we’ll meet under the Kaufmann’s clock Sunday. Hey, thanks for pitching in with all this. For the play, I mean.” A scritch-scratch sound could be heard and Merry bit back a smile. He was weighing his next words by rubbing at his stubble. She could see it. Okay, you're not so bad.

  “Anything for the play." Not that she had a choice. "It's going to be pretty good I think. The kids are excited. It's hard not to be."

  From Sam came a singular laugh huffed on a sigh that left Merry strangely curious. “Yeah. That’s why I love the people at the church. Genuine, God-loving—can’t help but be encouraged.”

  What an odd thing to say. Which slid the conversation into dangerous territory Merry did not want to get into: why she rarely attended church anymore.

  “Alright, well, I’ll let you go. Have a good night…” Thumb poised over the red “End Call” button, Merry dug her fork into pumpkin pie and shoveled in a quick mouthful. Pumpkin pie never lets me down.

  “Yeah, you too. And Merry?”

  Merry worked her mouth around the creamy pumpkin to swallow, only for it to turn into a rock the second it hit her stomach at Sam’s tone of voice. It wasn’t light with laughter at the edges, but instead deeper, more serious and in her experience—that was never good.

  “Yep?” Great. She squeaked. She actually squeaked. And got whipped cream on her phone.

  “Thanks for a great Thanksgiving.”

  “You’re welcome?” It hadn’t been that great. She’d snapped his head off, they made their peace—then spent the rest of the evening telling her extended family they were not a couple. Not a typical nor entirely enjoyable holiday—but not one of the worst, either.

  “I never say what I don't mean. And getting to spend a holiday with such great people? It meant a lot. It was just what I needed. And I hope it was for you, too.”

  He never said anything he didn’t mean. That rang an unpleasant bell of comparison. Sam Shepard was not Cole. And she didn’t want him to be. But oh, she couldn’t completely believe him. Sometimes her trust issues smacked her across the back to send her sprawling. This was a day of Thanksgiving—not regretting. And in spite of how she thought her cheeks might permanently be magenta from all the lovable jagging and curiosity over her relationship status—it had been a good day. She had been home. And not so lonely anymore.

  “Merry?”

  Crap. Swiping her bangs away from her eyes, Merry faked a yawn. “Sorry. The turkey must be getting to me. I'm glad you got to come, today.”

  Now her on the other hand? She did say things she didn't completely mean on occasion. This time, though? The more her last six words settled into her heart after they said goodbye and as she stayed up way too late half-watching old holiday reruns…

  The more she knew them to be true. Sam Shepard at her family Thanksgiving had been nothing if not memorable. And felt strangely, wonderfully right.

  Chapter Seven

  The cold breeze whipped around the street corner along with a huge bus, and Sam shoved his shaking hands into his coat pockets. What had he been thinking? He asked her out. For the play. What kind of a lame excuse was that?

  And even better. It had been for the kids. Except all but four kids had prior commitments. And half of those teenagers were her siblings.

  Glancing up, the wind bit at his eyes but he studied the ornate gold clock above him. The building was pre-Victorian era if not older. He'd be lucky if Merry even showed up. His gaze traced impressively detailed etched gray stonework climbing the walls while surrounded by a sea of skyscrapers of glass and steel and sharp angles piercing the impossibly blue sky. She probably would've texted if she was going to bail. Then a less selfish, more merited worry cropped up, yanking his gaze away from the architecture:

  Had Merry been hurt coming down here? Had her car broken down?

  Before he could whip out his phone, the wind seemed to carry a bright figure across the street. Red hair atop a red coat, with four hipster-ish teenagers following along behind her.

  Merry looked adorably peeved.

  “Hey. Are any more kids coming?" Her first question, with arms folded across her chest, all miffed. Probably because her two youngest siblings were making doe eyes at the only other two teens who could come—Lucas and Joy.

  “I don’t think so. They all had plans.” Sam shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but second-guessing was making his head spin. They had talked for over an hour the other night—and now she was back to hating his guts?

  “Are we going to go, or what?” Ricky piped up.

  “Yeah. Mer, don’t be a party-pooper.” Lydia giggled, and Sam didn’t miss the blink of a wince from Merry at her younger sister’s words.

  “I’m no native. So let’s go. Show me Pittsburgh at Christmas.”


  That got a smile from her. One that either said, This guy is nuts or You’re persistent. Merry took the lead, trying and failing to get the girls to walk alongside her—but they were finally headed towards PPG Place. The crystal palace epicenter of professional Pittsburgh. The winter sun winked off the tall panes of glass and blinded them all at intervals—and made Merry’s eyes sparkle when he could catch up long enough to walk alongside her.

  “Can we get coffee before we go in? Puh-lease. I’m dying.” Lydia Grainger needed more caffeine like the sky needed to be bluer and Sam bit back a snort. And her older sister’s eye roll agreed with him.

  “Sure, sure. Let’s go to Nicholas Brothers.’”

  The crowd was teeming around the towering Christmas tree in the center of the ice skating rink, and the two pairs of teenagers forged a path ahead—leaving Sam and Merry to squeeze through and fast to catch up with them. But he didn’t mind the closeness to Merry. And in spite of her telling blush that was either both frustration or the cold—she didn’t pull away when he gripped her elbow to steer her through the other side of the crowd to get to Market Square. As soon as the crowd broke, so did she, and the loss was felt.

  Miss Merry Grainger hadn’t a clue that, as hard as she was trying to get to coffee—he was trying to get to her.

  ***

  “How’s your coffee?”

  The warm voice was too close, and hot coffee burned her mouth as she slurped it down too fast. Trying not to grimace, she inhaled sharply and wiped her lips. Fantastic—her lipstick was officially ruined and her glove was stained. "Great. Still scalding. How's your wimpy little hot chocolate?"

  Sam pressed a hand to his heart as they strolled back through Market Square after visiting all the Christmas village booths. “I had coffee already today! And I happen to love hot chocolate. So lay off, will you?”

  Merry just smiled. And tried to forget about how it felt when he had guided her through the crowds to get to Market Square and Nicholas Brothers’ coffee an hour ago. Never had she felt so…cherished. If just for a moment.

  “What’re you smiling about?”

  Well, she wasn’t answering that. “All these questions, Sam. Yeesh.”

  An adorkable snort and the man's cheeks visibly reddened. Darn it. She should not be finding the person keeping her from a day off increasingly likable. His persistence was flustering. She needed a filter. Merry craned her neck to find her siblings and their friends and found Lydia mouthing to her, "Be nice!"

  She loved her siblings, but being the oldest and constantly under a microscope was hard some days. Merry took a swig of her latte and just settled on smiling back at Lydia. She who stood so close to Lucas that you couldn’t fit a piece of paper in between them. No purpling, you guys. This felt like she was chaperoning a double date. But Sam was just being friendly and here she had snapped back. Again. Why did he want to spend time with her?

  "Sorry. So what's in this Winter Garden? A bunch of plants or flower arrangements?"

  Deciding to let that question slide, Merry lengthened her stride and took another gulp of her cooling caffeine. "Well, there are the Santas around the World, for starters. And you'll probably get a kick out of the gingerbread houses. They're impressive, even from a non-architect's perspective."

  Sam’s eyes took on a faraway look as they shuffled along with the lines into the entrance of 3 PPG Place. “I haven’t made a gingerbread house in years.”

  “That was one tradition we never really did. Made a few graham cracker nativity scenes every few years, but that was it.” Merry shrugged and spun her cup around in her hands to warm them through. “Did you grow up making them?”

  Sam's hand holding the door open slipped and he half-fell through it, then caught himself. Merry bit back a giggle at his clumsiness—which was more than she could say for the four teenagers ahead of them who were all-out cackling—but just as quick the urge died when she took a good look at his face. Had he grown pale? She pushed the glass door open to meet him on the other side. "Did I say something wrong?"

  Sam took a swig of his hot chocolate and shook his head, his smile strained. "Nope. And, yeah, I did grow up making gingerbread houses." But based on how he fell silent, she had definitely said something to bring him some pain.

  And she hated herself for making the laughing smile fade from his handsome face.

  Halfway through the gingerbread houses set on tiered, white-fluff covered shelves in between the Santas Around the World display, Sam warmed up again. He compared baking architecture to actual architecture in such a hilarious way that Merry forgot her previous panic. She had to keep reminding herself this was not a date. Definitely not a date. No matter how comfortable it felt walking beside him, brushing against his puffy coat every long while, the light teasing, and laughingly enjoying each other's mutual awkwardness. The man may be the most highly prized bachelor at her family's church—but did anyone have a clue as to how adorably funny and awkward he was?

  “Aw, look how cool—turrets and gingerbread on this one. Both whimsical and ironic, it being built out of gingerbread." Sam leaned over the velvet rope hemming in the displays to more carefully examine the work, and Merry finally let the laughter out that had been swelling in her chest.

  Sam begged pardon from an elderly couple trying to pass before turning to her. “Are you laughing at me again, Merry Grace?” His brown eyes glowed amber in the sunlight pouring through the glass room, and the hope in them took her breath away. Merry bit her lip and shook her head. “Not at you. With you. And how do you know my middle name?”

  “My mother.”

  “Your mother.”

  As if summoned by their unison, Merry's cell began vibrating—and it was Mum. Stepping away from the display and pressing a hand to her opposite ear, Merry took the call. "Hi, Mum. What's up?"

  “Is the script finished? We’re going to be doing callbacks this week and we need everyone to have an up to date script.”

  Merry set a hand on her hip and rolled her eyes to the high glass ceiling. It was almost done being edited. Something was missing, though. And she didn't know what. It had been niggling in the back of her mind all weekend, only aiding in her procrastination to get the edits done and the script to her mother to be done with the whole play.

  Sam came into her line of vision then, cell pressed to his ear now, and Merry’s eagerness to be well rid of helping with the Christmas play faded. “Almost done. Can I bring it over tomorrow night?”

  "Perfect! Oh, let's have a movie night. I'll make homemade, on the stove hot chocolate!" The elation in her mother's voice sent a pang to Merry's heart, and she made a mental note to make more regular appearances to home. And the church, too. Even if memories of Cole—the old pastor's son—and a funeral service still set her heart on edge every time she walked through the doors. Something her dear family did not entirely understand.

  The call ended shortly, and Sam waved her over from the grand piano in the corner where some talent was playing a jazzy Jingle Bell Rock while Ricky, Lydia, and their friends sang along in almost perfect four-part harmony.

  “Everything okay?” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets casually, but something about his stance was off. And he had his back turned completely away from the piano.

  “Yep. Just Mum asking if I could bring the script tomorrow.”

  Sam guffawed, then coughed around the loud sound, sheepish. "My call was Mrs. Daniels about the set. Hey, you hungry?"

  Merry glanced at her watch. Was it already pushing five o'clock? And she had gotten nothing done—work or editing the script.

  But she was hungry. And strangely in no hurry for the day to be over.

  She stomped down on the fear that wanted to send her running back to the Smithfield Street parking garage and summoned a smile.

  What was it about Sam Shepard that was throwing her way out of her comfort zone? She still clung to it with white-fisted knuckles. The desire to let go and just see what would happen was there, though. And it was tempti
ng. But to give into such an indulgent temptation such as hope?

  Would it be a mistake?

  “I’m starved.”

  What was the worst that could happen?

  A thrill of hope to the tune of Burl Ives' Holly Jolly Christmas and the promise of a favorite restaurant spun Merry’s feet to keep up with Sam and the kids.

  And outrun her worst fears.

  Chapter Eight

  “After you, Merry.”

  A memory of his parents’ old favorite, It’s a Wonderful Life danced through his brain when he spoke her name, but back to his long-term memory it went. Many a casual date had gone south and ended quickly when his over-eager hopeless romantic tendencies came out. Just friends. Not a date. Perhaps this would be the start of a beautiful friendship. Casablanca. Dude, you need to get out more. The four teenagers spilled in behind them and Sam was reminded that he and Merry were only chaperoning an incidental double date.

  They were seated by a harried waitress under the light of the red and green neon sign at a long table. To which Ricky reconfigured with a cheesily suggested, “Boy girl, girl boy.”

  Which meant Sam was sitting smack next to Merry. And he couldn't complain—but she could based on the scathing daggers she threw her siblings' way. "What's good here, anyway?" Sam picked up the menu after they ordered their drinks, and suddenly a smile bloomed across Merry's face when she took his menu—and turned it right side up. His heart hadn't caught up yet and it still was flopping around ridiculously at the close proximity to Merry. Who smelled like oranges and vanilla. Good Lord, get a hold of yourself.

  “It’s Primanti’s. Everything is good. Wait—you’ve never been here?”

  “Dude!”

  “Seriously?”

  And so a round of food recommendations mixed with good-natured ribbing—what the Graingers called “jagging”—ensued. Merry snort-laughed behind her hand, storm-blue eyes appearing more turquoise all of a sudden as she shook her head, giggling.

  He could hardly believe a week ago it had been work to get her to talk—much less laugh.