Home For the Holidays

by Lisa Plumley

  But this time, she only wriggled into his sweatshirt, then struck a seductive pose. “Thanks. What do you think?”

  “I think I’d rather have you naked.”

  “You and every other man for miles.” Rolling her eyes in pretend boredom, Rachel grinned. She smacked him on the ass. “Quit lollygagging, hero. You’ve got a little old lady to save.”

  “Bossy.”

  “You know it.”

  In perfect synchronicity, they headed for the living room. Reno had never felt less like doing his go-to guy routine. Especially when he had to follow Rachel’s side-to-side sashay all the way from the bed to the sofa, where…Reno stopped.

  He pointed. “Nobody slept out here.”

  Rachel was putting on her makeshift coat, adding it to her scarf, sweatshirt, and dress combo. “Hmmm?”

  “The blankets and pillows haven’t been touched. My dad didn’t come home last night. He wasn’t here when we got here, but I thought he was just staying out late.”

  What the hell could have happened to his dad? Tom Wright was getting older. He’d never been very street smart to begin with. His eyesight wasn’t good. And his hearing sucked, too, even though he tried to pretend all those acid rock concerts in the seventies hadn’t affected him. They had. Oh God.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  All kinds of nightmare scenarios flashed through Reno’s head. Pacing, he reached for his cell phone. He’d call his dad’s number first, then Angela, then 911.

  Or the hospital? Damn it, he wasn’t sure.

  “He probably spent the night with your mom,” Rachel said.

  In mid-dial, Reno froze. “What?”

  “Didn’t you see Tom and Judy at my party last night?”

  “Uh…” Reno was still getting over the realization that this panic—this utter freak-out—must have been what he’d put his parents through all during high school. He’d done his share of sneaking out past curfew. He ought to be shot. Concentrating hard, he said, “I saw them, I guess. For a second.”

  Truthfully, he’d started blotting out any thoughts of his parents together. Thanks to their lame-ass divorce talk, it was too painful to remember how happy they’d once been. Not that he’d admit as much. Trying to seem tough, Reno jerked up his chin.

  “Did you see them?” he asked.

  “Of course! I’m the one who invited them. And, you know, helped them end their feud. I guess you could say my advice worked, judging by the hot and heavy make-out session I saw them indulging in.” Looking pleased with herself, Rachel squinted at the blankets folded on the sofa. “Ugh. These are polyester, Reno. And plaid. Show some respect. Your father is a great guy.”

  Ugh. Make-out session. Reno shuddered. That wasn’t something he wanted to associate with his parents. Ever.

  In a mighty effort to turn his thoughts toward something less parentally X-rated, Reno finally realized what Rachel had just said: And, you know, helped them end their feud.

  Could it be true? Sure, Rachel’s advice to Kayla had helped her patch things up with her Kismet Elementary School posse. But it wasn’t as if his very own L.A. diva was some kind of miracle worker. On the other hand, Rachel had taken his father shopping for new shazaam!-style clothes. She’d bought him cool shoes.

  Check out my kicks! Nice, right?

  She’d restored his hope and his excitement for life.

  But that didn’t explain all this. That didn’t explain…

  “Did you take my mom shopping, too?” he demanded.

  “Of course! Right after we finished crafting about six dozen of those reindeer ornaments with the wooden clothespins and the glue-on googly eyes. She just needed a few new things—”

  “So you are responsible!”

  “Um.” Rachel backed up, looking alarmed—probably at the sudden intensity Reno felt. “Maybe. Responsible for…?”

  “Bringing my parents back together.” He didn’t know how, and he couldn’t begin to fathom all the details, but all of a sudden Reno believed it was true. It made sense.

  It made a weird kind of sense, but it made sense.

  “Do you know what this means?” Overflowing with relief, Reno pulled Rachel into his arms. He didn’t want her to see the stupid, gullible tears that sprang to his eyes. Even though she could probably hear him sniffle all the same. “We can have Christmas together again this year!”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Rachel’s voice was muffled, squashed against his chest. “Behold the power of fashion.” Apparently her solutions weren’t always as pragmatic as the one she’d dished out to Kayla. She patted him. “Just one big happy family, right?”

  “Right.” Another sniffle. Manfully, Reno got a grip on himself. He set Rachel apart from him, but he couldn’t distance himself from the beaming smile on his face. He realized it was happening and tried to suppress it with a tough-guy grimace.

  “Are you okay?” Rachel asked, looking concerned.

  “I’m fine.” Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”

  He hustled her toward the door—the better to prevent her from witnessing him swabbing at his eyes. His chest felt light, though, his shoulders loose, his whole body free. The little-boy part of him had apparently been terrified of that divorce all this time, but the grown-man part of him had ruthlessly quashed all those fears. Now Reno felt seriously at risk of breaking out with some sort of shake-your-groove-thing celebratory dance.

  Rachel pivoted. Instantly, Reno sobered as he opened the door for them both. He ushered her toward the snowy porch.

  No dice. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Look, there’s my neighbor.” Right now, Reno felt prepared to grasp at any distraction. “Hey, Gerry!”

  Rachel gasped. “That’s my dad! Ohmigod!”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right.” Too damned cheerful to ask why she was bolting behind him, using his body as cover, Reno waved.

  Rachel’s father, busily walking up the drive, waved, too.

  “Hide me. Hide me!” Rachel said in a harsh whisper.

  “Hide you? Why? Everything is awesome!” Reno’s head swam with remembrances of happy, close-knit Christmases past—and with anticipation of the bright and cozy holiday that now lay ahead for him and his family. “What’s up, Gerry?”

  Boisterously, Reno stepped onto the frosty porch to greet the man. They shook hands, Gerry Porter looking exactly as happy-go-lucky as he always did. The icicles on the eaves glistened in the sunlight. The holiday yard decorations Reno had already put out stood at the ready. The lights on the porch railing lay on the snow like jewels. Everything really was awesome.

  “I just came to see if I can borrow your ladder.”

  “Sure,” Reno said. “I’ll open the garage for you.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  On cue, Reno stepped toward his garage.

  A muffled squeal came from behind him.

  He glanced back to see Rachel, frozen in an awkward position with her eyes wide and her gaze directed straight at her father. Without her shield—aka Reno—to hide behind, she looked utterly conspicuous. Especially in that sexy red dress of hers, with her bare legs and strappy shoes plainly visible beneath her Scorpions sweatshirt, coat, and scarf.

  “Rachel?” Gerry Porter breathed. “Is that you?”

  Doh. That was when Reno realized what all the whispering had been about. Rachel didn’t want her dad to see her doing the morning walk of shame. In last night’s dress. With—it suddenly seemed to him—Reno’s handprints glowing in neon relief against her skin in all the most indecent, erotic places. The two of them couldn’t have appeared more naughty if they’d tried.

  Stricken, Reno gawked at Gerry Porter.

  Rachel continued to do the same.

  “So, uh, Rachel. Thanks for dropping off Kayla for me to babysit,” Reno improvised quickly. “That must have been one crazy and totally innocent slumber party you and Angela and Kayla had last night.”

  “Err…” Rachel’s perplex
ed gaze met his. She caught on quickly. “It was! Cra-azy slumber party. Pillow fights, pink nighties, curlers, sing-alongs…the whole nine yards!”

  United in their completely improbable lie, they nodded vigorously and faced her father. Gerry crossed his arms.

  “Now you’re a cast member of the musical Grease?”

  For an instant, the only sounds were a distant snowplow a few streets over and the strains of “We Three Kings” wafting from that bastard Hal’s garish yard display.

  “Yes.” Rachel nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “Rachel—”

  “No. Dad, I’m sorry. Just hang on. I can explain!”

  “So can I, Mr. Porter,” Reno offered.

  Instantly, they were teenagers again, hands clasped behind their backs in contrite poses. Reno hoped like hell that he hadn’t accidentally given Rachel an Angela-style hickey as a souvenir of their night together. Just in case, he nudged his shoulder sideways, gesturing for Rachel to cover her neck with her hair. Hastily, she complied.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” Rachel said.

  “It’s all perfectly innocent,” Reno added. “We were just leaving to help shovel Mrs. Bender’s car out of a snowbank.”

  “That’s not all you’re shoveling this morning. Don’t try to sidetrack me.” Gerry Wright frowned. “It’s daytime, and my daughter is dressed like one of those hoochie girls on MTV.”

  More silence. Then…

  “What are you doing watching MTV, Dad?”

  “Uh…” Gerry stamped his feet, staring at his boots.

  “Does Mom know about this?”

  Now Gerry found an intent interest in Reno’s eaves. “Er…”

  “Come on, Rachel.” Sensing an opening, Reno helped out. “What’s a little Pants-Off Dance-Off to a fully grown man?”

  Gerry Porter blanched.

  Rachel tsk-tsked. “That show is on Fuse.tv, not MTV, Reno. My dad probably doesn’t even know Pants-Off Dance-Off exists.”

  They both crossed their arms and raised their eyebrows.

  Gerry spread his arms wide. He beamed, his smile rather shaky but nonetheless earnest. “Grease, huh? Congratulations!”

  Rachel stepped into her father’s embrace, blushing furiously but appearing grateful all the same. Reno stood by, awkwardly examining the snowbank for signs of a Crackers invasion. If those were tiny bichon frise footprints—

  “Come here, son!” Gerry Porter blustered. “Don’t be shy!”

  Suddenly, Reno found himself enveloped in a Porter-style embrace himself, pounded by his neighbor’s hearty back slaps and nearly muffled by the fluffy wad of Rachel’s scarf that got in his mouth. Helpless against the onslaught, Reno gave in.

  He hugged them back.

  Mashed against Rachel, welcomed by her father, Reno had the strangest feeling he would never be the same again…even if he wasn’t really part of a touring musical road company in the midst of a Christmastime Grease revival.

  Chapter Thirty

  Walking down Kismet’s Main Street at Christmastime was like being transported into one of those vintage 1970s TV specials—colorful, overeager, and a little bit cheesy, but ultimately lovable. Holiday music blared from hidden speakers, red and green banners fluttered over the snow-covered, brick-paved streets, and everything had been wrapped in shining holiday lights—from the old-fashioned power poles to the mailboxes and the bare-limbed oak trees growing at the edge of the sidewalk.

  Small businesses strung lights and painted their windows with festive holiday scenes. Vendors on street corners peddled candy canes, hot cider, and actual roasted chestnuts in small paper sacks. People milled around with smiles on their faces, coming together in groups of three or four or more as they lined up to wait for the annual Kismet Christmas parade to kick off.

  Wending her way through the throng at dusk, nose twitching with the scents of evergreen and peppermint, Rachel munched through the bag of authentic (and delicious) caramel corn she’d bought from a local vendor, her gaze sharp for signs of Reno. She hadn’t seen him for a few days—since their excursion to rescue Mrs. Bender from her snowbound car—but he hadn’t been far from her thoughts. Now (she’d just decided) she had something to tell him. Something momentous. Something she hoped he’d like.

  Shivering against the chill in the air, Rachel kept moving, striding past a wooden cutout of two elves bearing a gigantic bow-bedecked gift—an advertisement for homemade Kismet Christmas fudge. People passed by wearing jingle bells strung on their boots, long striped-and-pom-pommed stocking caps, and pretend reindeer antlers on their heads. In public. Non-ironically.

  But Rachel only nodded and smiled at them, for the first time appreciating the joy in doing what felt right instead of what was chic or trendsetting or likely to land a feature spot in Us Weekly for one of her celebrity clients.

  The truth was, these days she felt like a changed person. Her guardedness seemed to have vanished for good, swept away by her unexpected vacation and a traditional dose of Christmas cookies and ranch dip (courtesy of her mom). Thanks to Reno and his ability to see (and appreciate) the real woman behind the celebrity stylist aura, Rachel had started to feel the magic inherent in the whole Kismet shtick.

  So instead of finding the local “joyful community” thing unlikely or kitschy, she thought it was kind of sweet. Instead of feeling too cool for Christmas tree decorating and floats depicting decades-old mascots for local businesses, she actually felt eager to see some of the things she’d helped work on down at the Elks Club. And instead of ducking her head and striding briskly past all the people on the street, the way she typically did to get around in L.A., she found herself greeting friends and neighbors warmly, with real gladness to see them.

  It was kind of remarkable how thoroughly Kismet had changed her. Today Rachel had arrived unstressed, unhurried, and totally unwired. She’d actually left her cell phone at home—without dutifully working her way through her call list of former (and potential) clients first. That was just how at peace she felt.

  Maybe she hadn’t given Kismet a fair shake before…

  “Rachel!” Mrs. Hendrickson waved. “I love your coat. I just realized it today. I absolutely love your coat.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Hendrickson. All set for the parade?”

  “Yes, we are, dear.” She nestled closer to her husband, both of them positively brimming with good cheer. “We love parades.”

  Wow. That was kind of an extreme reaction to a simple parade, even here in Kismet. But Rachel only waved back at them and then moved on, still chomping her caramel corn. Yum.

  She was seriously never eating another protein bar again.

  “Rachel! How’s the caramel corn?” Bidie Niedermeyer asked.

  “It’s really good. You should try it.”

  “Yes, but do you love it?” Bidie persisted, wearing a sly grin. “Do you love, love, love it?”

  “Um.” Maybe Bidie was friends with the caramel corn vendor. Just in case, Rachel nodded. “Yes, I think it’s delicious.”

  Tittering with approval, Bidie waved and vanished into the crowd. Rachel watched her go, feeling momentarily perplexed.

  That feeling ebbed as she moved farther down the sidewalk, enjoying the cheerful sounds of “Joy to the World” and watching Kismet’s youngest generation get geared up for the parade by climbing onto their fathers’ shoulders for better views and talking animatedly about Santa Claus. Reminded of Kayla, Rachel smiled. That little girl was a real sweetie.

  “Rachel!” Mrs. Fowler stopped her, a curious expression on her face. She glanced over her shoulder at someone, giggled, then quickly scanned Rachel’s outfit of jeans, a sweater, and the (slightly more utilitarian but still awesomely chic) boots she’d bought herself at Dirk’s Footwear. “I love your hat!”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Fowler. It’s only practical—”

  “I just realized it today. I absolutely love it.”

  Perplexed by the woman’s enthusiasm, Rachel tilted her head. Maybe she was a kni
tter? A crafter like her mom, with a special appreciation for handiwork? “Um, thanks. It’s my mom’s actually. I don’t have much need for a hat in California.”

  “Love, love, love it!” Mrs. Fowler chortled, then left.

  Baffled, Rachel stood on the corner as warmly dressed Kismet residents surged past her, chatting about the parade’s likely start time and the official town-square Christmas tree lighting ceremony to take place afterward. She glanced up at the huge holiday bows affixed to the street signs, then shrugged.

  Probably everyone was just being friendly.

  But where was Reno? He ought to be here by now.

  “Rachel!” Mr. Caplan, whom she recognized from the Glenrosen decorating party, hailed her from his prime spot beside a mailbox. “How are you? All set for the parade?”

  This time she was ready. “Let me guess. You love my boots.”

  He looked. “No. They’re kind of flashy, if you ask me.”

  “Then you love, love, love my sweater. My purse?”

  “I’m not a fashion maven. You are, is what I hear. In fact, I hear you took some of the folks from the Elks Club on a shopping expedition to give them your expert advice.”

  She had, just yesterday. It had been fun acting as a personal holiday shopper for regular people—people who didn’t constantly wear sunglasses, demand fresh bottles of vitamin water, and let their teensy lapdogs slobber on the designers’ sample clothes. Rachel had decided she could get used to being treated like a real friend instead of a peon-slash-confidant.

  Not that all her celebrity clients had acted that way.

  But still.

  “I did. And I know someone who’s getting a very special secret Santa gift this year…” Rachel hinted.

  “Don’t tell me!” Grinning, Mr. Caplan put his wrinkled hands over his ears. “I want to be surprised.”

  Rachel smiled, then pantomimed zipping her lips. “The secret’s safe with me. Merry Christmas, Mr. Caplan.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too. Enjoy the parade.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Happily, Rachel headed on her way, feeling more a part of the community than ever. She had secrets to share with folks in Kismet, a happy Christmas morning to anticipate…and a few more unusual comments to puzzle over.