Christmas Spirit

by Amy Garvey

  “Really? I wonder how Mrs. Claus would feel about that.”

  “After being married for a thousand years, probably grateful. Anyway, I know you enjoy treats, unlike the stupid carb-fearing masses. People will drink all the coffee in the world, but baked goods are apparently the devil’s work.”

  Charlie grinned and peeked into the bag, giving the contents an appreciative look. “Well, they may be, but I’m willing to sin a little now and again.”

  Lillian laughed out loud and patted Charlie’s shoulder. “That’s my girl.” She paused and tilted her head, considering the high color on Charlie’s face. Leaning closer, she sniffed—her friend was wearing perfume, too, if she wasn’t mistaken, which was unusual. In the two months Lillian had known Charlie, she’d never seen her in anything other than jeans and sweaters, the occasional plain cotton blouse. She didn’t wear makeup, not that Lillian thought she needed it, but here she was in some kind of light floral perfume and a pair of silver hoop earrings. Hmmm.

  “So what’s new,” she said casually, dragging a chair away from the table and sitting down as if they had all the time in the world to catch up. Charlie was busy putting the goodies in a plastic container, but she’d glanced at the clock twice since Lillian had arrived.

  “Not much.” Charlie aimed a careful smile at her and crouched down to pet Gloria, whose skinny dachshund tail wagged furiously. “How was business today?”

  “Aside from caffeine addicts, not great,” Lillian admitted. She traced a groove in the old tabletop with one fingernail. “No one’s buying books in this economy, even before Christmas, so I left Jamie to close up.” She looked up and caught Charlie’s eye. “Now tell me, what’s with the Shalimar?”

  “The ... ?” Charlie blinked in confusion, and when Lillian lifted an eyebrow and mimed spritzing herself with perfume, she gave a startled laugh. “Oh. The perfume. I ... well, I just felt like ... smelling pretty,” she finished weakly. Then she frowned. “Is it too much? It’s too much, isn’t it?”

  Lillian rolled her eyes. “Of course not. And the earrings are lovely, by the way. But what’s the occasion? Come on, you need to give your friendly neighborhood crone some juicy gossip to cackle over.”

  Charlie glanced at the clock again and bit her bottom lip before schooling her expression into disapproval. “Gah. I hate that word and when did it crawl into the language?”

  “It was a Wicca thing,” Lillian said. “You know, books on that were hot sellers for a while. Now we can’t give them away. Hoo hah. On to the next trend.”

  “Well, you’re far from being a crone, so stop being silly. Anyway, it’s nothing juicy. It’s ... well, it’s sort of a long story, actually.”

  Lillian sat back easily, folding her arms over her chest. “I have all the time in the world.”

  Charlie groaned, but just then the doorbell rang. Gloria raced toward the front of the house, barking happily. Charlie followed, Lillian close behind her, hushing the dog.

  She grabbed Gloria up into her arms as Charlie opened the door, and when she saw who was on the other side, she was a little surprised her friend hadn’t gone farther than perfume and silver hoops.

  “Hi, Sam. Come on in,” Charlie said, holding the door open for a tall sandy-haired man in faded jeans with the sexiest blue eyes Lillian had seen in a very long time. “This is my friend and neighbor Lillian Bing.”

  Sam looked surprised to find Charlie had company, which possibly explained the way he was trying to pretend the paper-bagged bottle of wine in his hand didn’t exist. Lillian bit back a grin as he offered his hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, and she was glad to find his grip firm and strong. None of that fake delicacy men tended to use when they shook a woman’s hand. “Sam Landry.”

  “Likewise. I’m dazzled,” Lillian said, and set the wriggling dog down to sniff at his ankles. “This is Gloria, by the way.”

  An eyebrow lifted in surprise. “Gloria?” he said as he bent down to offer the dog his hand.

  “As in Steinem,” she told him evenly, and waited. Men generally responded one of two ways on that—who’s that? Or, you’re kidding, right?

  Instead, Sam smiled. There was indulgence in the curve of his mouth, but his approval was genuine, too. “Nice,” he said, and scratched behind the dog’s ears before straightening up. “I had a dog named Salinger once.”

  She nodded. It was a start, and a good one. Charlie deserved a guy with a head on his shoulders, and it didn’t hurt that Sam’s head was easy as hell on the eyes.

  “What’s this?” Charlie asked, craning her head to look at the skinny brown bag still behind Sam’s back.

  “White merlot?” Sam said dubiously, and held it out.

  Charlie was blushing hard now, and Lillian watched as she jerked her head toward the kitchen, motioning for Sam to follow.

  Oh, Charlie. She didn’t know Lillian well enough to understand that a measly ten feet, not to mention no real sense of propriety, would never keep her from eavesdropping.

  “I thought we agreed this wasn’t a date,” Charlie hissed, and Lillian shook her head.

  “We agreed it was a stakeout,” Sam said easily, and set the bottle down with a definitive clunk. “You have a corkscrew, I hope? And glasses? Although drinking out of the bottle is totally a stakeout thing to do.”

  “Since when do you drink on a stakeout?” Charlie said, and in between trying to decide what on earth the two of them could possibly be staking out, Lillian heard the note of helpless humor in Charlie’s tone. Aha. She clearly liked this guy already.

  With an unexpected stab of protectiveness, Lillian inched closer to the kitchen door. She hadn’t known Charlie long, outside of the few times Charlie had visited the island with her parents or spent a weekend now and then with May, but Lillian was already fond of the adult she had become—her shy smile and her sneaky humor and, not for nothing, the way she had welcomed Lillian into her new home and her life without a second thought.

  And Lillian had her own reasons for wanting Charlie to be a friend. Reasons that went back to the years before little Charlotte Jane Prescott had even been born.

  “You know it’s not really a stakeout, right?” Sam was saying, but his tone was gentle. “We can forget the wine, if you want. I just thought it might be a good way to pass the time.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s mull it. A couple of cinnamon sticks, a little sugar—it’ll really warm us up. Until the ghost shows up, the spare room is cold. And it’ll make the whole house smell so Christmassy.”

  Lillian tried to put in her telepathic two cents. Yes, but mulling wine burns off all the lovely Dionysian buzz. Drink it the way it is, you two.

  She hoped for Charlie’s sake that she would make the most of this date. It wasn’t just her own age range that had a shortage of single men. A stop into any of the local bars, not that Charlie seemed to drink, would show her that. Husbandly behinds, solid and square, were rooted to the stools, as the locals watched televised sports and muttered to each other. When it came right down to it, Lillian supposed there were a few bachelors among them, but they were still a sorry-looking lot, to a woman.

  It wasn’t often, if ever, on the Vineyard that a gorgeous guy showed up with a bottle of good wine, now was it? And why dirty up a pan, no matter how wonderful it made the house smell, when you could just drink together and be happy? Lillian bent over to scoop Gloria up when Charlie’s cat Butch wandered down the stairs, tail waving in warning.

  Lillian continued to scheme silently. They should pop the cork and pass the time talking, flirting, possibly kissing. Should she intervene? Hell no. She told herself not to be a busybody, even if young women these days were supposed to be so girls-gone-wild. Not bashful or hesitant like Charlie.

  She flinched when she heard footsteps about to exit the kitchen, and backed into the front hall when Charlie appeared, fixing an innocent look on her face. “You know, I just remembered I have book group tonight at the store,” she said easily. “I didn
’t read the book, of course, but at least I could be on time, right?”

  Charlie frowned, blinking at her. “I thought you said ...”

  Lillian didn’t have to answer, since Sam plunged in without waiting. “The store?”

  “Pages, right in town,” Lillian said. If the man liked Salinger, he was clearly a reader. “My own small contribution to the world of independent bookstores.”

  “Excellent. I’m glad there are a few left on the planet.” Sam’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “I’ll have to stop in while I’m here on the island.”

  “That you will,” Lillian agreed and retrieved her coat and hat, snapping her fingers for Gloria. “Come around anytime. Ask Charlie, I’m almost always there.”

  Charlie was still frowning, obviously suspicious, but she walked with Lillian to the door. “I like him,” Lillian said under her breath when they stepped onto the front porch. “Have a glass of wine, honey. Have two.”

  “Lillian.”

  “Just a friendly suggestion,” she said airily, and let Gloria lead her down the walk. “You have fun now.”

  And don’t think for a minute I’m not going to make you tell me all about it tomorrow, she said to herself, and grinned into the cold night air.

  Charlie closed the door behind her and found Sam lounging against the staircase wall, arms folded over his chest, as easy and confident as if he owned the place. She took the opportunity to give him a good onceover, knowing that the light from the kitchen reflected in the lenses of her glasses. He wouldn’t know. So ... he’d changed his shirt and he’d showered before he came over—his hair was still slightly damp.

  He liked to live dangerously, she supposed. He could count himself lucky that it hadn’t frozen on his head.

  Whatever. This still wasn’t a date. Not even earrings and makeup on her and a bottle of wine from him—and was that aftershave he was wearing?—made it a date. Especially when he looked like the kind of guy who never bothered with a second one.

  “So do you want to go upstairs?” she found herself saying, and winced in the silence that followed. That hadn’t come out right at all. “I mean, it’s after dark now and I’m sure you don’t want to be here all night. Don’t you have Christmas shopping or something—well, I guess it’s early for that, huh?”

  Bah humbug. What an idiotic thing to say. He was here, not at the mall. She had to stop talking right now.

  Sam was just smiling, sly as a cat—a huge, very sexy cat—and she fought a flush of heat that was centered far lower than her cheeks.

  “Why don’t we open that wine?” he said finally, and took her hand to lead her into the kitchen. “And no, I’m not doing any Christmas shopping now or later that doesn’t involve the click-click-click of a mouse. You haven’t even told me about yourself, really, how you ended up here, what you do.” He shrugged when she frowned, pausing over the kitchen junk drawer, and said, “Background information for the article. Not that I wouldn’t like to know anyway.”

  “Well, I told you I inherited the house,” she said, and snatched the corkscrew away before he could take it out of her hand. She twisted the sharp end into the wine carefully. “It’s been in the family since Cyrus Prescott built it, and the family wants to keep it that way. My aunt was the last in her generation—my dad died about ten years ago, and so did their sister. She never married, so there was only me.”

  “Only you?” Sam lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really?”

  “I have cousins. Somewhere.” She shrugged, and the gesture seemed oddly delicate given her thin shoulders. “Why? Do you come from a family of thirteen or something?”

  He laughed, watching as she deftly unscrewed the cork and popped it out of the bottle smoothly. “No, it’s just my brother and me. But I do have cousins, like you.”

  She poured the wine and passed him a glass before stopping to take an appreciative sniff of her own. “This smells wonderful. So, you know, grapey.”

  He chuckled the second she thought what a dumb thing that was to say.

  “I believe it is made from grapes,” he said seriously. “I read that somewhere.”

  Charlie gave him an embarrassed smile. He was confusing her. “Right. I was just saying.”

  His eyes softened with good-natured humor, although his angular jaw and the sharp slash of his cheekbones remained impassive, set firm. But there was no mistaking the warmth in his eyes.

  She nodded, and leaned back against the counter, settling her hips comfortably as she cradled the bowl of her glass in one hand. “Anyway, nothing much in the way of immediate family. No one around here.”

  “Got it.” He stared into his glass for a minute, dark brows knit in thought. “Your dad died pretty young, huh?”

  She nodded. Ten years later and she still missed him. “He was much too young and it was completely unexpected. I guess it always is, though.”

  “What about your mom?”

  Charlie smiled and met Sam’s eyes. “She got remarried two years ago, finally. She still misses my dad, but she likes being married, having a partner. And Joe is a good guy. They live in a tiny town in the Berkshires.”

  Sam nodded, but something in his face had changed. The tension was subtle, but it made her wonder what his parents were like.

  “Lillian brought some goodies from the bookstore,” she said to break the sudden silence. “I’m not sure gingerbread goes with white merlot, but we can give it a try.” She got out a plate and opened the container where she’d stored the sweets, arranging them more carefully than necessary to give herself something to do instead of looking at Sam, who was much too easy to look at.

  She put the shortbread Santa next to a gingerbread woman, then hastily moved him between two gender-neutral lemon bars, not wanting to seem as if she was making a pathetic hint or anything.

  This is business, she reminded herself. For him anyway. And this year she had no time to waste on romance, especially not if it meant pining for a guy who didn’t even live on the island.

  And pining was what she would end up doing, she thought as she slid the plate toward Sam. She couldn’t make a relationship work with a normal man who didn’t completely intimidate her, much less a guy like Sam. Who had probably been fascinating girls since elementary school. She could see him now, all fourth-grade swagger, holding court on the playground.

  “Does she bring dessert often?” Sam smiled around a mouthful of lemon square, and Charlie had to resist the urge to lean over and wipe a smudge of powdered sugar off his chin.

  “They opened a coffee bar in the bookstore,” she explained, carefully cutting a blondie in half. “Sometimes she brings the unsold stuff home when she closes up.”

  “But she was going back for her book group,” Sam pointed out.

  “I guess the members bring their own snacks,” she said faintly, looking at the floor. There was no book group tonight. Lillian had lit up like a Christmas tree when Sam arrived, and Charlie knew what she’d been thinking. And knew, too, that she would be pumped for the details tomorrow, and part of her hated to disappoint her new friend. At sixty-eight, Lillian was far from a prim old woman, but she was also the most sensible, straightforward person Charlie had ever met.

  She’d almost rather invent something juicy to share with Lillian instead of admitting that she thought the house was haunted and had actually agreed to be interviewed about it. The more she thought about it, the sillier it all seemed.

  Not that she didn’t believe there was a ghost in this house. She did. But it hadn’t shown up out of nowhere. Yet no one in her family had ever mentioned even the possibility of a spirit wandering through this old place. Not to each other, as far as she knew, and certainly not in public. Suddenly, she could imagine several generations of Prescotts turning in their proper New England graves, mortified and ashamed of her.

  Damn Franny, anyway, she thought with a quick stab of remorse. One panicked phone call to her friend on the mainland about things going bump in the night, and look where it had g
otten her.

  Of course, nothing might come of it, anyway. She took the last mouthwatering bite of blondie and glanced up at Sam, who was polishing off a second lemon square with enthusiasm. He certainly didn’t believe her, anyway.

  But maybe that wasn’t why Franny had told him, she realized with such a start that she almost lost her balance. She was always telling Charlie to get out more, to have a little fun. Maybe Franny had been sending the fun right to her door.

  “Nice to have a friendly neighbor,” Sam remarked, brushing off his hands and sitting back with his wine. “You haven’t been here long, have you?”

  “Well, Lillian has lived next door her whole life,” Charlie explained. “She’s actually known me since I was a child, when we came to visit my father’s sisters, Aunt Margaret and Aunt May. Are you keeping track of all this?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  She shot him a dubious look. “But I think we might have become friends, anyway. Lillian’s kind of fascinating.”

  “I bet she is.” Sam grinned and swirled the last of the wine in his glass thoughtfully. “And tell her thanks for the sugar fix.”

  Charlie laughed, the wine and the treats combined making her warm, a little giddy. Which was probably a bad thing. She wasn’t going to convince Sam there was something supernatural going on in this house if she was lightheaded with alcohol.

  But she didn’t care about that, really, she reminded herself. And Sam was the one who brought the wine in the first place.

  Which still made this seem like a date, honestly. The trouble was that she wasn’t sure she cared to protest about that anymore.

  “You want to head upstairs?” Sam asked, and she blinked in surprise. Date or no date, she wasn’t ready for—

  “To do a little ghost-watching?” he prodded gently, watching her face, and she sighed in relief.

  “Right. Sure.” God, this was exactly why she never drank wine. Or anything else. Every brain cell in her head slumped over and went to sleep.

  “You mentioned you were writing a book,” Sam said as he climbed the stairs beside her, carrying the wine and his own glass. “You could tell me about that while we wait.”