by Stuart, Anne
“WHAT ARE YOU doing for Christmas Eve?” Dulcy carried a tray of empty punch cups into the kitchen at the Society of Water Witches. She and Sybil were cleaning up after their traditional Christmas Eve open house, and for four hours Sybil had managed to forget the ache in her heart.
Of course, Nick’s failure to appear helped matters, she told herself as she tossed the recycled cups into the trash and shoved the forty-seventh sugar cookie into her mouth. She hadn’t seen him since he’d stormed from her house two days ago. Steve had brought the Subaru back for her, and all her devious attempts at pumping him got her exactly nowhere.
For that matter, Leona had been pretty scarce. The next day Sybil had tracked her down and read her the riot act about Nick’s near miss. Her reaction had been everything Sybil could have hoped for. Shock, dismay, disappointment, all showed quite clearly on Leona’s cherubic face. If Sybil wondered whether those emotions reached her tiny, dark eyes, she knew it was only Nick’s contagious suspicions that made her doubt her old friend.
Leona hadn’t showed up today for fear of running into Nick. And Nick probably hadn’t showed up today for fear of running into either of them. For all she knew he might have gone back to Cambridge for the holidays. He probably had family somewhere; he couldn’t have just appeared out of nowhere. Somewhere there must be parents, siblings, close friends, all of whom wanted him a great deal more than she did. Or should.
“Well?” Dulcy said patiently.
“Well, what?”
“What are you doing tonight? I know you’ve managed to put off your family again. Do you want to come over to my place, or do you have other plans?”
“You don’t celebrate Christmas, Dulcy.”
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Saturnalia’s close enough.”
“Somehow I just don’t think so,” Sybil said. “Pagan festivals and earth religions are all well and good, but when it comes to Christmas I get very traditional and sentimental.”
“When it comes right down to it you are a WASP, aren’t you, darling? A good little white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, with all those Christian hang-ups?” she mocked lightly.
Sybil refused to rise to the bait. “It doesn’t do any good to run away from what you are.” No sooner were the damning words out of her mouth than she bit her lip.
Dulcy smiled. “Exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sybil. Think about it.”
“I’m not going to think about anything but a good night’s sleep,” she said firmly.
“Then you’re not going to see Nick?”
“I don’t even know if he’s in town.”
“He’s in town, all right. He’s going to be all alone at the Black Farm this evening. He has to go back to Massachusetts tomorrow, but for now he’s—Why are you looking at me like that?”
Very carefully Sybil set the last tray of cookies down on the counter, very carefully she took a gingerbread girl and bit its head off. “Since you seem to know so much about his plans,” she said, “why don’t you go and keep him company?”
Dulcy threw back her head and laughed, a delightful, full-throated trill of mirth that left Sybil stonily unmoved. “Your jealousy is reassuring, darling. I was afraid you were too far gone. I know all about Nick’s plans because I asked him. And I asked him when he called me on some trumped-up excuse to find out what you were doing. I’ve told you before, Sybil. He doesn’t want me, he wants you. You’re not usually so obtuse.”
Sybil crammed the rest of the cookie into her mouth. In the past two days she hadn’t gone a waking hour without eating, she’d probably gained fifty pounds, and all the sugar was making her hyper and sick to her stomach. She reached for another cookie, this time a gingerbread boy, and contemplated where to bite first. “It won’t work, Dulcy.”
But Dulcy was tired of arguing. “If you say so,” she said, whisking the remaining cookies out of Sybil’s reach and dumping them back into a decorative tin. “If you change your mind, give me a call. I’ll be home casting spells for the New Year.”
“Not on me,” she begged.
Dulcy only smiled.
Chapter Nineteen
THERE WERE DISTINCT advantages to living alone, Sybil told herself later that evening. You could do exactly what you wanted, when you wanted and how you wanted. The trick was, taking advantage of all that freedom.
The Danbury Church of Christ had an early service on Christmas Eve, and Sybil had dutifully attended. When she got home at half past eight she turned out all the lights and lighted every candle in the house; she roasted herself a Cornish game hen stuffed with wild rice; she poured herself a glass of the best Chardonnay to be found in the state of Vermont; and she dressed herself in her favorite vintage Christmas dress, made of red velvet, with a deep, square neckline, leg o’ mutton sleeves and a full swirling skirt that reached the floor. She even put on lacy underwear and rhinestone-clocked stockings, and turned the radio to a station with the mushiest, most sentimental Christmas music she could find. With the dogs around her, each wearing red satin collars, she settled down to enjoy her Christmas Eve.
Normally her taste in music was somewhat more sophisticated, but for now she abandoned the Montreal-based New Wave station and settled for Mel Torme roasting chestnuts on an open fire, with Nat King Cole nipping at his nose. She sat in her living room, the spaniels around her, picking at her game hen, sipping her exquisite wine and letting the sentimental images of Christmas pile up around her like a midwinter snowstorm.
It wasn’t the first Christmas Eve she’d spent in solitary splendor. She usually enjoyed herself tremendously, far more than if she were dragged from cocktail party to open house in the determinedly festive environs of Princeton. Their family celebration had usually consisted of a massive, formal dinner on Christmas Day, followed by the anticlimactic opening of a few, very expensive presents, followed by more parties. There were times when her family seemed addicted to their hordes of friends; certainly a celebration like Christmas seemed more an excuse for socializing than for family get-togethers.
No, she was much happier up here in her snug little cottage, with a light dusting of snow falling outside, a real blue spruce she’d cut herself and dragged home shining cheerfully in the corner, her dogs around her and nowhere to rush off to.
Sybil wrinkled her nose as the radio played a particularly syrupy Andy Williams song, full of candy canes and holly and easy imagery. She preferred Mel Torme’s elegant simplicity, or “White Christmas,” no matter how many times she heard it.
She gave up on the game hen. It was delicious, but after two days of nonstop eating she’d suddenly lost her appetite. Even the Chardonnay was dull. She took her dishes out to the kitchen, dumped them in the sink and wandered back into the living room.
The presents beneath the tree were wrapped in brightly colored paper. Maybe she was more like her parents than she expected—she was feeling depressed, restless, lonely. She could change her clothes and take Dulcy her present, even visit the Mullers. But no, the Mullers would be at the party held for residents of the Davis Apartments. And Leona would be there, and right now Leona was the last person Sybil wanted to see.
Dulcy would be home, alone. But Dulcy wasn’t who she wanted, either. Sybil sank down on the ancient Persian carpet in front of the wood stove, leaning her back against the foot of the sofa, hugging her red velvet knees. For the first time in years, she didn’t want to be alone on Christmas Eve.
“Don’t be a fool,” she said out loud, and Kermit raised his head and woofed softly. “You’re well rid of him.” With a sigh, she rested her head on her knees.
Andy Williams faded in a rush of strings. Then it was Judy Garland, younger than Sybil had ever been, singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
It was the last straw. She sat there, her head on her knees, and wept, tears of loneliness, misery and despair, a
s the snow drifted down outside her windows and the tree twinkled brightly in the cluttered living room. The dogs moved closer in mute sympathy, but nothing helped. She sat there and cried, tears pouring down her face and running into her long mane of hair, cried until she started coughing and choking, cried until she began pounding the floor in fury.
The song on the radio had long since switched to something more saccharine when Sybil finally raised her tear-streaked face. “You complete, utter fool,” she said softly. “What the hell are you doing, sitting alone on Christmas Eve, crying, when the man you love is less than five minutes away?”
It took her fifteen minutes to get ready. It was already past ten, and she didn’t bother to change her clothes, didn’t bother to braid her long hair, didn’t bother to do anything more than scoop up Nick’s present, pull her leaking down coat around her and call Dulcy. And even that was eerily abrupt.
“Dulcy?” she said, slightly breathless. “Are you going to Canada tomorrow?”
A low, friendly laugh answered her. “I’ll come and get the dogs.”
“But—”
“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So run off to your nemesis. Give him a kiss for me,” Dulcy said cheerfully.
A sudden, peculiar suspicion flitted through Sybil’s mind. “You didn’t really want him, did you?”
“Truthfully?”
“Truthfully.”
Dulcy’s laugh was only slightly strained. “Let’s just say I would have been willing to try. But he came here for you, not for me, and I learned long ago not to fight what was meant to be. You can have him with my blessing, Sybil. Just don’t throw him away without a good reason.”
“Dulcy . . .”
“I’ll get the dogs. Merry Christmas, Sybil.”
“Merry Christmas, Dulcy.”
Her knee-high rubber barn boots were a little strange with the long red dress, and her long hair was covered with snow as she trudged out to the Subaru, the package under her arm. She decided against giving him any warning. Last time she’d seen him he had slammed out of her house. He might need a bit of persuading. Then again, she thought, remembering the burning light in his amber eyes, he might not.
She drove with far more than her usual care down the road to the Black Farm. Tonight of all nights she didn’t want to risk sliding off the road; tonight of all nights she wanted to take her time, to make sure she knew what she was doing. The closer she got to the farm, the stronger her self-assurance grew. When it came to being half a mile apart and alone and miserable, or together and happy, there really wasn’t much of a contest.
He’d learned his lesson well—the front door was unlocked. The Jaguar was parked by the barn, and Sybil winced as she spied the long, jagged scar along the door. The Subaru had definitely come off the best in this encounter, probably because it had less to lose.
She didn’t knock; she just stepped into the hall and shut the door silently behind her. The living room was deserted. She could hear the sound of dishes in the kitchen and the faint sound of someone humming. Clearly he wasn’t as bereft as she was, to be humming cheerfully to himself. For a moment she considered leaving, then steeled herself, slipping off the rubber boots and dumping her coat on the floor.
She moved across the chilly floors silently, the package crinkling in her hands. He’d found himself a Christmas tree, slightly lopsided, with multicolored lights and shimmering glass balls. He’d opened up the wood stove to expose the fire, the lights were low, and he was playing the same radio station she was. Had he heard “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and thought of her? Or had he preferred Andy Williams?
She set the package under the tree. Then, on impulse, she sat beside it, cross-legged, her long hair hanging around her shoulders; sat there and waited.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the rich scent of pine above her—pure heaven. It was another five minutes before he appeared in the living room, a steaming mug in his hands, his gaze abstracted. He walked over to the sofa and sank down on it, never once glancing in her direction.
He was wearing the black sweat suit he’d worn the night they were caught in the storm. He looked weary, dangerous and very, very sexy. Sybil just sat there, waiting for him to notice her, waiting for some reaction.
What she got was the fifty-third rendition of “Little Drummer Boy.” The fire in front of Nick crackled and popped, illuminating his shadowed face, his distant eyes. Sybil got tired of waiting.
“Ahem,” she said.
“Jesus Christ!” Nick swore, almost spilling his coffee. He caught it in time, leaping up from the couch, and he opened his mouth to curse again. Then he saw her.
“It is His birthday,” Sybil said demurely, keeping the mischievous grin off her face with a Herculean effort.
Nick stood very still, his anger vanishing as swiftly as it came. “And what are you? A birthday present?”
Sybil shrugged, her thick honey-colored hair bunching around her narrow shoulders. “Birthday present, Christmas present. Whatever you prefer.”
He held himself very still, watching her with an unreadable expression on his face, and she knew she’d waited too long. She’d let her fear throw him away, and now he didn’t want her. She would have to make some light joke, manage a graceful exit with showing her devastation, her heartbreak, her . . .
“How about a wedding present?” he said.
She could feel the color drain from her face, as fear made on last attack. He wasn’t what she wanted, he wasn’t what she needed, it would only end in disaster, she should run like hell.
She couldn’t live without him.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Yes.” And she held up her arms to him.
“YOU’RE MAKING a big mistake,” she said. Her voice came out slightly muffled, since her face was pressed against his bare shoulder and her mouth was busy trailing lazy, satisfying kisses on his warm, sweat-damp skin.
“Am I?” he murmured sleepily, pulling her closer into his arms. A trail of clothing led from the bed into the living room, with the red dress a swirl of color under the Christmas tree. The fire had burned down low, and the multicolored lights from the tree were the only illumination in the bedroom. Sybil could feel his tawny eyes on her, watching her with sleepy satisfaction.
“I’m not the right sort of wife for you,” she said, feeling it only fair to warn him. “I’m not cut out to be a faculty wife, I don’t want to live in a condo, I don’t want you to wear a tweed coat with leather patches and smoke a pipe.”
“I hate pipes. And I’m not tweedy. And we’ll buy a house in the country, with plenty of room for the dogs.”
“But I’m not the kind of woman you want,” she wailed, miserable at the halcyon picture she could so easily imagine. It snowed in Massachusetts, just not so damned much, and they could have a barn and a pond for the dogs to swim in and babies. . . .
“No,” he said. “You’re not the kind of woman I want. But since you happen to be the woman I want, I guess I’ll have to make do.”
“I failed once,” she muttered against his skin. “I couldn’t be what Colin wanted me to be.”
“You already are what I want you to be,” he said, his hand trailing down her backbone, stroking, strengthening, soothing.
“But what if you change your mind . . . ?”
“What if you change your mind? There aren’t any guarantees in this life, Sybil.”
“No,” she said, doubt and misery thick in her voice.
“The only guarantee,” he said, “is love.”
She moved her head to look up at him. He was so beautiful he took her breath away. “Do you love me?”
He smiled, a slow, infinitely tender smile that banished the last of her doubts. “Completely,” he said, rolli
ng her onto her back and leaning over her.
She looked up at him. “I can fight love potions,” she said, “and I can fight Dulcy’s interference. I can even fight my own heart. But there’s no way I can resist you, too.” Sliding her arms around his neck, she pulled him down again, blotting out the lights.
SHE DIDN’T GET out of bed till late morning, and by that time Nick had already left. There was no way he could get out of it; his old friends Ray and Connie were counting on him. He’d drive down, have Christmas dinner with them, invite them to the wedding and be back before midnight. The Jaguar was capable of highly illegal speeds and the interstates down to Boston were kept clear.
She didn’t put up any arguments. Indeed, she wasn’t in the mood to argue about anything, from wedding dates to guest lists to the uses of dowsing, and he never brought up the subject of Leona.
If she’d had any doubts, the Christmas presents wiped them out. She had finished the flame-colored sweater, despairing of its shape and size. As always the hips were too narrow, the sleeves too long, the shoulders too big to fit anyone, but she’d wrapped it to give to Nick anyway, partly because he’d teased her about it, partly because the color of the wool complemented the fire in his disturbing topaz eyes. He laughed when he opened it, laughed when he pulled it on. It fit perfectly.
“I give up,” she said, falling back against the pillows. “Everything I knit comes out looking like that. I must have known you were coming.”
“Via your Ouija board?” he mocked gently.
“Tarot,” she said lazily. “Where’s my present?”
“What makes you think I got you anything? Last I knew we weren’t speaking; as far as I knew I wasn’t going to see you again.”
“You knew,” she said amiably enough. “What have you got for me? I can just imagine.”
She caught it when he tossed it, a small black velvet bag with something heavy inside. A stone of some sort. She opened it, and a deep blue pendulum tumbled out onto the bed.
