Home For the Holidays

by Lisa Plumley

  “Ah.” Reno nodded. In the daylight sparkling off the snow in the yard, his eyes were flecked with gold. “Our family tradition is pizza on Christmas Eve, presents on Christmas morning, and complete bedlam on Christmas day. All day long. My niece, Kayla, goes totally nuts. Pretty boring, but—”

  “No, that’s nice!” Smiling, Rachel squeezed his arm in assurance. Then she realized she was touching him—again—and made herself quit. Forcing a light tone, she added, “Anyway, I probably won’t be able to squish myself into a decent outfit and waddle down to the block party, so don’t hold out for me.”

  Not fitting into appropriate garb was totally an ironclad excuse. Nobody in L.A. would have argued with it.

  “If you say so. I’ll save you a cup of hot spiced cider all the same.” After a quick check to make sure she had her things, Reno jogged down the ice-crusted porch steps. He winked from the sidewalk below. “It’s spiked. It makes all the girls easy.”

  Ha. She already was easy when it came to him. Hadn’t last night proven that?

  “Oh yeah? What does it do to the boys?” Rachel asked.

  His grin made her weak in the knees. Or maybe that was the effect of standing on six inches of uneven snow on numb toes encased in superchic alligator-skin stiletto boots. Whatever.

  “It makes them look twice as good to the girls.” Another grin. “I plan on having a few extra cups.”

  As if he needed them.

  Before Rachel could muster up a sassy response, Reno’s cell phone rang. He plucked it out of his pocket, glanced at it, then held it up to show her.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to get this. It’s my sister.”

  At her nod, he trod a few more steps across the snow-covered lawn, past her mother’s traditional sidewalk border of plastic reindeer. His square-jawed, cheerfully stubbled face made him seem like a prototype for macho men everywhere.

  Too bad his natural habitat was (ugh) the boonies.

  He turned, then held up his palm in farewell. “Nice to see you again, Rachel. Catch you in another ten years or so.”

  Raising the phone to his ear, Reno crossed the yard, then stopped beside his battered pickup. His voice carried in the stillness. “Hey, Sis. Yeah, sorry. I got kind of stranded.”

  There was a pause as he listened, fishing for his keys.

  Oh God. He was talking to his sister about last night!

  Frantically, Rachel waved her arms—a desperate signal for him not to spill the beans about their impromptu night together. What they’d done hadn’t been all that scandalous. Not really. But still—she was trying to be fabulous, not fodder for gossip.

  Unfortunately, Reno turned away before he saw her.

  “Yeah. Somebody skidded off the highway into a snowbank.” Reno opened his driver’s side door. It squealed into the post-dawn morning, echoing down the street—kind of like a secret being blurted down the phone line. “Nobody got hurt though.”

  On the porch, Rachel jumped up and down, waving her arms. How did you pantomime Shut up! Shut up! anyway? Those white-faced French guys probably never faced this problem.

  But Rachel did. Because Reno merely got in his truck and fired up the engine, then chugged down the street. Damn it.

  She’d warned him about this. She knew how gossip worked. Before she had even gotten out of his truck this morning, Rachel had exacted a solemn promise from him.

  “You can’t breathe a word about this to anyone,” she’d warned. “Not a soul can know what happened between us last night. No matter what. Okay?”

  Reno had only given her one of those half smiles of his. Then he’d shrugged. “Come on. Who am I going to tell?”

  At the time, bewitched by his you can trust me smile and his freak country-style machismo, she’d figured that was close enough to a vow of silence to suit her. Now Rachel realized the truth. Who was he going to tell? The whole world, apparently.

  By lunchtime, the news would be all over Kismet.

  Marooned on the snowy porch, Rachel sighed. Then she picked up her carry-on luggage and faced the bow-bedecked wreath on the door. At this point, there was nothing to do but slip inside her parents’ house, then do her best to stay there until the eggnog, sugar-sprinkled spritz cookies, and ranch dip had worked their magic, and she felt safe enough to return to L.A. to resume her usual fabulous life…fortified, Christmasified—and (she hoped) entirely forgiven.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Ooh, Rachel! Will you get the door please, hon?”

  At the sound of her mother’s voice coming down the hallway, Rachel started. She glanced up from the rerun episode of MTV’s Made she’d been watching on the den TV. Wow, it was getting dark outside already—when had that happened? Sniffling, she swiped a tissue under her tear-filled eyes, then blew her nose.

  Those damn life-changing teenagers on Made, with their efforts to achieve impossible goals. (Seriously, galumphing two-left-footed emo kid to dazzling Broadway dancer? Be real!) With their goofy optimism and their inevitable disappointment and/or triumph, they were irresistible. They got to her every time.

  Also, watching them had been better than what she’d been doing—dialing up her celebrity stylist clients, one by one, on her antique cell phone. And getting sent straight to voice mail over and over again. If no one would even talk to her, how was she supposed to move forward?

  “Rachel Contessa Tiffany Porter!”

  Uh-oh. Her whole name. This was serious.

  Thanks to Christine Porter’s love of all things upscale and Hollywood, Rachel had been saddled with two middle names. Contessa, because of that old movie, The Barefoot Contessa, with Humphrey Bogart and Ava Gardner, and Tiffany, because of the jewelry store. Obviously. If not for her dad’s insistence that Rachel was “a good family name” (and his threat to dub her Gertie, after his great-great-grandmother), she’d have greeted the world as Tiffany Contessa Mercedes Audrey Hepburn Porter.

  “Just a minute, Mom!” They were on the part where the Made kid’s dream came true—or not. “I’ll be right there.”

  “There’s no time to wait.” Her mother appeared in the doorway, clutching a wooden spoon in one hand and wearing an apron. Yes, an authentic apron. She’d adopted the habit after a marathon of retro I Love Lucy reruns on TV Land and had never quit. “Everyone is here.” She squinted at the TV. “Can’t you at least put that on something more seasonally appropriate? Please. Someone somewhere must be playing The Santa Clause. I love that movie. That Tim Allen is so cute, isn’t he? Try TBS.”

  But Rachel’s attention had skidded to a stop on the words everyone is here. She muted the TV. “What are you talking about? Who’s everyone? And why are they here?”

  She’d only been in town for a day and a half. That couldn’t possibly involve everyone, in any shape or form.

  “To see you, silly! The guest of honor!”

  “Oh no. Mom, no. I came here to relax—”

  “And that’s exactly what you’ll be doing at the party. Didn’t I mention it?” Unfazed, her mother made shooing gestures with her wooden spoon. “Get going, young lady, and answer the door. I’ve got cheese balls to finish, you know.”

  Right on cue, the doorbell chimed again.

  Listening, Rachel tilted her head. “‘Jingle Bells?’”

  “I had your father rewire it.” Briskly, her mother turned, then headed back to the kitchen. Her voice floated to Rachel. “It’s got six different chimes for all the holidays. You should hear Thanksgiving. It sounds like a real turkey gobbling!”

  If only Rachel’s chichi fashion-industry friends could see her now. An authentic-sounding turkey gobble doorbell? Fabulous.

  “A party, huh?” Resigned, Rachel sneaked a final glance at the TV. Awww. The emo kid was a pretty good dancer. Lots of heart. “What’s with the guest of honor stuff?” She gathered her tissues, then stuffed them in the pocket of her pilled, droopy cashmere cardigan (aka, security blanket) as she followed her mom into the hallway. “You didn’t tell me you were having a party.”
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  “Just a small get-together. People in town want to see you, you know. My returning superstar.” Her mom beamed at her as she grabbed her mixing bowl from the counter. “It wouldn’t be right for your father and me to keep you all to ourselves.”

  “But you’re the only ones I want to see!”

  They were the only ones who wouldn’t spot her secret shame from a mile away. Her parents thought Rachel hung the moon. Which could only be good for her battered psyche, right?

  Her mother tsk-tsked. “Door!” she singsonged.

  Reluctantly, Rachel raked her fingers through her hair, then headed through the dining room to the foyer. In the corner of the living room, a naked Christmas tree stood awaiting trimming. That was the only evidence of restraint in the place.

  Everywhere else it looked as if the Target Christmas section had exploded. Lights blinked, discoing Santa gyrated, and garland wound around every surface. Holiday tchotchkes decorated the coffee table and side tables; a mistletoe-and-holly patterned fleece throw adorned the sofa. Even the foyer had earned its own Christmas treatment with a riotous display of greeting cards.

  Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells came the electronic chime.

  At the last instant, Rachel remembered to wriggle out of her comfy cardigan, leaving her dressed in a knit skirt, fuchsia tights, boots, and a blousy Stella McCartney original. It wasn’t the ensemble she’d have chosen to wow Kismet with, but it would have to do. Sucking in a deep breath, she opened the door.

  At The Big Foot, one of the few places in Kismet’s cutesy, touristy, lakefront downtown that still catered to locals, Reno dragged his beer across the bar. He took a swig, then looked around, his whole body vibrating with the guitar music.

  The band on the tiny stage was loud and homegrown. The patrons were boisterous and kind of crude. The ambiance was strictly beer-stained concrete, pitted wood tables, and liquor-company “stained glass” gimme lamps featuring logos of current and long-forgotten brands, but he liked it here. The Big Foot was the kind of place a man could go and just be himself.

  “Hey, Reno.” Next to him at the dimly lit bar—its only nod to the season a red and white felt Santa hat propped atop a bottle of Jim Beam—one of his neighbors nudged him. “How’s it going, football star?”

  “Can’t complain. How ’bout you, Jimmy?”

  “All right.” In a cheerful salute, Jimmy lifted his mug of cheap draft. He clinked it against Reno’s beer, then sipped.

  Slowly. Jimmy Gurche had been nursing that beer for the past hour at least, Reno realized. Times were tough in parts of the state, with layoffs running rampant and—in Kismet at least, hardly a skiing mecca—tourism temporarily in hibernation.

  “Hey, you didn’t get your other beer.” Reno motioned to the bartender. “Let’s have another one over here for Jimmy.”

  “No, no, Reno. Thanks, but I’m fine with this one.”

  Reno had been afraid of that. Smiling, he slapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “Screw that, you SOB. I bought a round for the damned house,” he lied, “and you’re getting yours.”

  “Oh. Well.” A smile slipped over Jimmy’s face, reminding Reno of the way he’d looked when they’d been in high school together—and Jimmy had been dangling biology class frogs in front of the squealing girls. “In that case…thanks!”

  “No problem. I’ve been meaning to talk to you anyway.” Reno edged closer as inspiration struck him. “I could really use some part-time help down at The Wright Stuff, if you can see your way clear to doing me a favor over Christmas. Why don’t you come down to the store tomorrow?”

  Jimmy looked interested. “Hey, thanks, Reno. I just might do that. Marsha’s been worrying about getting Christmas presents for the kids this year. Some extra work might set her mind at ease.” He shook Reno’s hand. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Nah. I’m just a guy who’s late delivering these beers.”

  Grinning, Reno raised the three drinks he’d bought. After working out the details of Jimmy’s new job at The Wright Stuff and spending a few minutes analyzing the current football season, Reno actually did order another round for the house—just to make good his initial fib to Jimmy. Then, ducking his head against the roar of approval from The Big Foot’s patrons, he headed back to his usual table.

  There, he set a root beer on the paper coaster in front of Angela. He slid one Budweiser to Nate, then dropped in his chair, ready for some Tuesday night relaxation.

  “Listen up.” Nate nodded at Angela’s root beer. “That’s what you should drink on your date with Patrick the Prick. Root beer. So you’ll be alert if he gets all handsy with you.”

  “He won’t get handsy. We’re just having coffee.”

  “Make it decaf,” Nate warned with solemn eyes. “And don’t get any goodies, like a donut or one of those scones. You want to be able to bolt fast if anything skeevy starts going down.”

  “Nate—”

  “In fact, I should go with you. I’ll be your muscle.”

  “Whoa, whoa.” Reno glanced from his friend to his sister. He had the feeling he’d missed something important. “What’s going on?”

  Primly, Nate raised his chin. He pointed his beer bottle at Angela. “Your sister has decided to sleep around.”

  “What?”

  “With Patrick the Prick,” Nate elaborated.

  “Hold on.” In her own defense, Angela raised both hands. “Nate’s getting three steps ahead of himself as usual.”

  “Hey! I resent that. Next you’ll be spreading rumors about me and getting me kicked off the Kismet High School faculty.”

  “I have not decided to sleep around. Or eat donuts with random men.” With her usual warmth and earnestness, Angela met Reno’s gaze. “I just think it’s time to start dating again.”

  Then she picked up her root beer and chugged.

  Reno boggled. “No. This is a bad idea.”

  Nate nodded. “Especially if it involves Patrick the—”

  “Wait.” Reno turned to him. “Who again?”

  “Patrick Goodger.” Angela sighed, then wiped her mouth. “From the high school. Remember? He’s the one with dreamy eyes.”

  Nate snorted. Reno squinted, trying to recall. Dreamy eyes weren’t high on his priority list. He came up with zip.

  “You met him at the organizational meeting for Kayla’s Christmas pageant. He’s helping with the A/V equipment. Patrick is a real genius when it comes to handling equipment.”

  “I’ll just bet he is,” Nate said darkly. “If he whips out a camcorder, asks you to take off your shirt, then promises the video is ‘just for him,’ here’s what you do—knee him in the nuts, then run like hell.”

  He nodded for emphasis, his blond brows drawn together.

  Angela ignored him. “I gave him my phone number yesterday, and we might get together over Christmas break. That’s all. It’s perfectly innocent. Just a way to get my feet wet.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Frowning, Reno gripped his beer. The raucous music poured over him, but it no longer felt cheerful or even normal. This was big. Really big. “Getting your feet wet was how you wound up with Kayla.”

  “And that turned out terrifically, didn’t it?” Angela stared him down. “I have a beautiful daughter. So don’t worry.”

  More worried than ever, Reno and Nate frowned at her. Her mulish expression dared them to disagree. Reno would have sooner licked the grungy floor of The Big Foot than say another word.

  Nate wasn’t so smart. “Sure, Kayla’s great and all. But you’re not ready for this, Angela. You haven’t been out there.”

  “Oh. And I suppose you have?”

  Stonily, Nate peered at his Budweiser. “I could have, if I wanted to. With Melanie, Anna, or Renee.” After a tense minute, he shifted his gaze to Reno. “And starting now, I want to.”

  Reno glanced up, still stuck on figuring out who Melanie, Anna, and Renee were. Oh yeah. Nate’s former “dream girls.”

  “I heard Rachel Porter is b
ack in town,” his buddy was saying urgently. “And I also heard you two are tight, on account of your picking her up at the airport yesterday—”

  Unbidden, an image of Rachel whooshed into Reno’s brain, amplified by those crazy sexy boots, her frankly endearing smile…and all the ways they’d passed the time while stuck on the freeway waiting for traffic to clear. If he hadn’t experienced it himself, he would never have believed it.

  Him and Rachel Porter. Together…

  Stifling a grin, Reno checked back into the conversation just in time to catch Nate twisting his high school class ring on his finger. It was his buddy’s primary nervous tic, the tell that would have allowed Reno to clean house when they played five-card stud, if he hadn’t been such an upright guy. Almost unconsciously, Reno touched his own Super Bowl ring.

  “—because if you fixed us up together, it would really mean something,” Nate was insisting. “You’re a big man in this town, Reno. You know that. Rachel must know that, too.”

  It’s one step up from a tractor, but it’s yours.

  You know that kid Pigpen? You’ve got his truck.

  “Actually, she wasn’t very impressed with me.”

  “So if you could, you know, put in a good word for me,” Nate pressed onward, “it would really mean a lot.”

  Lost in remembering that outrageous miniskirt of Rachel’s, Reno nodded absently. It was a shame she wasn’t going to any of the Kismet Christmas events. There was no chance of her scandalizing the town while holed up at the Porters’ house.

  “Or even, I don’t know…” Nate gulped, now peeling off the condensation-dampened label on his half-empty beer. “Invite her to some event so we can meet? Just give me some warning okay? Because I’m going to want to get mentally prepared.”

  Silence descended. Well, the crashing music kept playing, and the balls on the pool tables kept clinking, and people around them kept talking and laughing, but otherwise…nada.

  Reno snapped out of it. He found his sister and his best friend both staring expectantly at him.

  An ominous feeling settled over him. Trying to dispel it, he swigged more beer. “What? What’s the matter?”