Risking It All for Love (A Christmas in Snow Valley Romance)

by Kimberley Montpetit

  “I agree,” Catherine piped up. “I gotta get the girls from the babysitter and get them in bed so we don’t miss church in the morning.”

  “But I’m starving!” Sam protested.

  “You’re always starving,” Catherine teased. “I’ll make you some of my grilled cheese and ham sandwiches when we get back to the house. I also brought a plate of brownies from home.”

  Sam groaned in ecstasy as though he hadn’t eaten in a week. “Can I drive?” he asked Dad, taking off for the doors.

  “Not in this weather,” was the abrupt answer.

  “Aww man, how will I ever learn how to drive with snow tires if you don’t let me practice?”

  The theater was emptying, lights going off. Saturday evening performances were always a scatter-and-run afterward.

  Even the foyer had only a few people left standing in small groups, and then waving goodbye, crying “Merry Christmas!” as they exited the glass doors. On the far end, a janitor was already beginning to sweep.

  I heard a slight cough and glanced up to see James Douglas, not looking uncomfortable one iota at our Mason Family dynamics.

  “Aren’t we just a typical family?” I asked tightly.

  “Perhaps I should take a rain check. I’m sure you’re tired, and you need to put your foot up.”

  Suddenly, I felt a wave of disappointment and relief at not going out for hot cocoa. A puzzling reaction, actually. I would have thought relief would be my dominating emotion, and I’d spend the next two weeks of Christmas break avoiding the guy.

  Part of me wanted to debate him on the merits of dance and religion and hot cocoa.

  “My foot will be fine,” I said airily. “So, okay. See you around.”

  “Church tomorrow morning?” His dark hair fell forward as he tipped his head toward mine.

  “Don’t hold your breath, Pastor.”

  “I take the official final exam in January.”

  “Then I won’t hold my breath either.”

  “You’re not a Sugar Plum Fairy, you know that?”

  “Check your forehead for temperature.” I waved a hand through the air in the Obi Wan Kenobi mind-bending move. “It was all a fantasy.”

  “Touché.”

  Chapter Six

  Since I’d driven early to the theater for warm-up, makeup, and costume dressing, I drove myself home.

  Mom fretted, of course. “I should have driven you instead of helping Marianne Cook set up for the quilting booth at the craft show.”

  “There was no way to know I was going to fall, but I can walk just fine. I’m fine.”

  It was so difficult not to become testy with my family, especially my mother. I’d lived away for too long. Been too independent.

  “Are you sure your ankle is okay to drive?” James Douglas had asked as he walked out with my family, the theater lights extinguishing behind us.

  “I’m fine!” I repeated, biting my tongue at my snappish tone. Instantly, I apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m just—there’s no reason for me to be irritated.”

  He gave me an understanding smile. “Families. Enough said.”

  “You too?”

  A shaft of moonlight glinted on his white teeth. “That’s a story for another day. Drive safely, Miss Jessica Mason. I’m pleased to officially meet you.”

  “I suppose I wasn’t particularly friendly at the cemetery today, either. I was—I just was visiting—” I stopped speaking, not wanting to share Michael with anyone.

  “No need to apologize. I came up to you because you looked like you’d frozen to the ground. I wasn’t sure who you were at first. But it’s understandable. You and Michael Grant were close.”

  I stiffened. A strange roar filled my ears hearing Michael’s name on his lips and I spun toward him. “How did you know—?”

  “Um, I saw the headstone.”

  I didn’t answer—hoping he would drop the subject.

  “I often walk through that section of the graveyard from Main to the church. It’s a beautiful path along there with the lines of cottonwoods and oak trees.”

  I just nodded, annoyed that he would presume to know the relationship Michael and I had. “You don’t know anything, Mr. Douglas. Don’t you dare talk about him.”

  “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I never meant anything hurtful. Please know that.”

  I shrugged, feeling my nose drip just a little from the cold. I walked more briskly, trying not to slip on the ice.

  Once I reached my car, I jabbed the key into the lock and swung the door wide.

  James Douglas held the door open while I climbed in.

  “Good night,” I said, reaching for the handle as my family’s vehicle pulled out of the empty parking lot.

  I glanced up and James Douglas’ eyes were dark and meaningful. There was a long pause.

  “I’m afraid I keep sticking my foot in my mouth around you.”

  I shrugged. “Just trying to avoid religious platitudes.”

  “Why would I say something like that?”

  “I heard more than enough to last a lifetime after—after Michael died.” His name stuck in my throat. Painful. I swallowed hard, biting my lips.

  “I’m not going to say any trite clichés. I’d rather cut my tongue out.”

  I snorted again, but the laugh suddenly died in my throat as my neck prickled. The way he was watching me was so . . . so unexplainable. So tender.

  “Jessica, I’m serious when I say that I would love to get to know you. Your dancing was really beautiful.”

  I snorted, because I knew my stupid fall was unprecedented. Some of the corps ballet girls tripped or slipped during rehearsals but never during a performance. If my director had seen me tonight, he’d give me a pink slip. No second thoughts.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” he went on.

  “You have no idea what you’re saying. Goodnight,” I said again.

  “Travel safe, Miss Mason.”

  “Don’t call me Miss Mason, either.”

  “Alright. Jessica.”

  I shook my head, wanting to bite his head off. I almost told him not to call me that either, but I stopped. I wasn’t normally so rude.

  I gave myself a list of excuses. I was tired. I was embarrassed. I was still grieving. I was regretting ever coming home.

  But I was also, suddenly, wanting to burrow my face into his warm wool coat and sob my eyes out. But why, why, why, would I do something like that? It must be his whole “pastor” demeanor. A childish reaction to the running away episode at the cemetery when I thought he’d been stalking me.

  I hardly knew James Douglas, but I was already completely overwhelmed by the man.

  Slowly, I shut the door and rolled out of the parking lot.

  I could see James Douglas’s car lights following behind me.

  At first I was just annoyed again, but then realized that it was comforting to know I had a safety net behind me in case I slid off the road.

  The snow had stopped and, as I pulled onto the interstate to head the last couple miles into Snow Valley, it became apparent several inches of fresh snow had fallen during the late afternoon and evening. I saw skid marks, and a car sitting askew on the left side going the wrong direction. Pieces of metal and broken glass glittered in my headlights. The pile-up earlier. I shivered, knowing I’d just missed it coming this direction on my way to the theater.

  Chills ran along my neck and down my arms. Déjà vu of mine and Michael’s accident three years ago. In a week it would be the anniversary of his death.

  A sudden stab of pain pierced my ribs. The thought caused my breath to leave and my car swerved just a little bit.

  A quick glance behind me at James Douglas’s car made my face burn with self-consciousness. Would he think I’d secretly drunk something to ease the pain from tonight’s humiliating performance? Except James Douglas didn’t realize that I’d never touch alcohol again in my life. Not even a sip of plain, benign beer.

  I shuddered, tempted to tu
rn around and head straight back to New Orleans on Interstate 25. But I couldn’t do that to my parents, or my younger brother. Sam had changed a lot the past couple of years, and I’d missed it.

  Instead, I turned up the heater, running it full blast to get warm. Even my bones felt cold. I felt as though I was suddenly getting so old. Visiting Michael’s grave had created a peculiar aura of having aged ten years.

  I eased back on my speed as I hit the 30 mph sign on Main. Up ahead, the tree-lined streets were decorated with thousands of lights. Even the church’s evergreens were lit with a brilliant, blinking white. It was certainly beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

  When I passed the church I snorted for the third time that evening. Pastor John always had “creative” signs on the church billboard, which was stuck into the manicured grass along the sidewalk—although the usual green had become a silvery white of snow.

  Whoever is praying for snow, please stop.

  That was a sentiment I could say “Amen” to.

  My eyes flicked to my rearview mirror again. I noted that James Douglas did not turn into the church yard. I’d assumed he was living with his uncle, Pastor John. Maybe I’d assumed wrong.

  Then I had a strange thought. Almost like a voice speaking inside my head.

  Maybe I was assuming wrong about a lot of things.

  Chapter Seven

  When the sun peeked through the curtains, I rolled over, slipped my eye mask on, and stuck ear plugs in so I wouldn’t hear my mother knocking at my bedroom door.

  There was no way I was going to church and run into James Douglas. His eyes were much too discerning, as if he knew what I was thinking. I burrowed under the blankets, laughing at myself, but it was actually sort of true. Silly, but true.

  A prickling ran along my skin when I remembered the touch of his gentle hands on my ankle, the whoosh of my stomach as he slid his fingers partway up the calf of my leg. Just being doctor-ish of course—which he wasn’t. I guess his years at med school could come in handy for first aid if the occasion arose during a sermon.

  I hadn’t had prickles since I was sixteen and Michael kissed me for the first time on my birthday.

  A burning in my eyes made me nostalgic all over again. I sat up, ripped off my eye mask and stared out the window at a pale blue sky. The storm from yesterday had disappeared. Bet it was only twenty degrees—if we were lucky. Clear and cold.

  Swinging my legs over, I tested out my ankle, rolled the ball of my foot a few times and then stood to attempt a run to the bathroom.

  The tiled floor was icy. “Dang! I forgot I need socks and slippers here in the winter.”

  I’d been wallowing in grief and guilt ever since I’d come home, and now I was officially protesting church attendance. My mother was probably having fits. A moment later, I realized with a sudden jolt of good humor that I had the whole house to myself for another hour.

  I smiled. I wasn’t so tired anymore.

  Funny how I’d planned to sleep in for hours and then found myself wide-awake, a million things going through my mind. The performance last night. James Douglas’s evocative stare. Chills running along my neck, a fizzy feeling in my stomach I was desperately trying to ignore.

  Oh, and Michael. Of course. Yes. Him.

  I bit at my lower lip, stabbed by the familiar guilt, and opened my laptop to check email.

  There were a series of messages from Zach Howard, one of the company dancers. He was thirty, kind of old for me; although anything went these days when it came to relationships. One of the other dancer’s fathers had married a young woman the same age as his daughter. The troupe girls had rolled our eyes and shuddered. Could you imagine being with a man who was old enough to be your father?

  Even though Zach had the most muscular body of any dancer I’d ever seen—and was not old enough to be my father, just a big brother, I still wasn’t interested. Despite the flirting. The phone calls. The multiple invitations for a movie or coffee.

  His emails were filled with a couple of silly holiday jokes. Stories about his family in Houston. A quick mention that he was missing the company—which I took to mean he was insinuating that he missed me. I honestly hadn’t given him a single thought since the ballet company holiday party.

  “Welcome to my world,” I quickly wrote back, tapping the keys with my freshly painted long nails, done in pale, sugary cotton pink for the Sugar Plum Fairy performance. “Family Drama. Pestering Moms. Bossy older sisters. Although fairly cool younger brother.”

  I kept the email short and sweet, despite Zach having typed his phone number in a bolded font, asking me to call. “When you get back to New Orleans it’s time for us to have a real date, Jessica. We’ll have fun. I promise.”

  He may have been sincere. And then again, he may be using innuendos that were creeping me out. Hard to tell in email. Despite his rugged good looks, I wasn’t interested. Never had been, never would.

  Thanks goodness Snow Valley, Montana was a long ways from Houston. “Bet you don’t have two feet of snow on your front lawn,” I typed. “See you in a few weeks,” I ended airily.

  Hit send. Done. I deleted the junk mail and closed the computer lid, my body eager to move while I cast traitorous thoughts toward James Douglas. I wondered if Pastor John would let him give a guest sermon today.

  Quickly, I dressed in some leggings, thick socks, and a sweatshirt. Pulled my uncombed hair into a pony tail and brushed my teeth.

  Then slid down the polished banister downstairs just like I used to as a teenager.

  I stood at the picture window, drinking hot raspberry tea and eating one of my mother’s homemade cinnamon rolls, warm from the microwave and dripping icing.

  White sugar. Worst thing for me, but it was hard to resist. It was Christmas after all. And my mom was an excellent baker. Her specialty: breads and pies.

  After licking my fingers I stretched in front of the tree—bare of decorations. The boxes were stuffed along the wall under the drapes waiting to be hung. Mom was easily distracted. I’d probably have to help her finish. Growing up, I’d always done the Christmas decorating. My sister Catherine was useless in that department.

  Selecting Christmas tunes on my iPod, I went through my warm-up routine as best I could. Maybe I should find a gym while I was here until New Year’s. Between the holiday food and no regular dance classes, I was going to go backward in agility and skills.

  Every dancer’s constant battle—staying limber. My muscles ached a bit. Bones creaked. Golly, had I turned forty overnight?

  I did a series of pliés and then a few turns in place, using the tree angel for spotting, my neck swiveling.

  I was bent over my knees, head down, holding the stretch when the front door opened. In burst Catherine and the kids and my brother, Sam.

  “Thought you’d still be in bed,” Catherine said, tossing coats, knit caps, and mittens all over the couch and armchair. She was such a slob.

  I gave her a faint smile, filled with sarcasm. “Yeah, well, you thought wrong.”

  “Girls!” Mom scolded.

  Every time I saw my older sister, I was suddenly back in high school bickering with her like we were thirteen again. No matter how old we got. Pathetic.

  My two nieces crashed into me for hugs and I swung them up and kissed each one on their faces, snuggling into their necks. Joanie was four and Amber was two and they were counting the days until Christmas with the Advent Calendar my mother had put on the refrigerator.

  “You missed church!” Amber cried, immediately slipping out of my arms to run to the tree and check for any new gifts.

  “Yeah, well, I had to work late last night.” I said lamely.

  My mother pursed her lips at my excuse and then asked, “Did you put the roast in the oven?”

  I gave her a blank stare. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

  “I left a note on the cupboard.”

  “Sorry, Mom, I didn’t see it.”

  She sighed and trotted off to the
kitchen. I followed for penance, Amber hanging onto my legs and beginning to wail. “Joanie won’t let me play with her doll!”

  Catherine pulled her off me and dragged the girls off to change out of their frilly church dresses. Wails followed, but she quickly cut them off. “Cookies after lunch for everyone who cooperates!”

  “Does that include me?” Sam asked, heading to the computer in the corner.

  Catherine patted his head. “If you’re a good boy.”

  Sam shook his head. “Girls! There are too many of them in this house.”

  As I entered the kitchen, Mom was already shoving the slab of pot roast and veggies in a roasting pan into the oven. “Guess dinner will be late. Of course, your father won’t be home for a couple of hours. He stayed on to talk with Pastor John about the upcoming fundraisers for the hospital. He’s on the board now, you know. ”

  “Oh, right. I forgot.”

  “You’d remember if you came to church with us.”

  I hid a grimace as I freshened my tea with more hot water from the kettle.

  Mom continued, pulling out a mixing bowl and the ingredients to create cookie dough. “Pastor John will think you’re ignoring him when you don’t come to church.”

  “Maybe I am,” I answered vaguely. There was that incident in high school with Kazz and Paisley and Molly at Bible Camp when we set the outhouse on fire.

  “But everyone needs church—or something—to ground them.”

  “Snow Valley is just too freaking cheerful for me. This town is small and gossipy. I hate everyone knowing my business. All those hugs when Michael—at the funeral, then the cemetery—you know.” I shook my head. “I felt stifled. Claustrophobic. I just wanted to scream at everyone to stop looking at me.”

  Now my mother looked hurt. “I didn’t realize you felt that way. The people here care about you. We all hurt terribly when Michael passed away.”

  I stuck my hands over my ears. “Don’t say it like that! He died. He was killed. It was my fault!”

  Mom reared back as if I’d struck her. Then her face fell, stricken. She tried to wrap her arms around me, but I flung her off. “It was not your fault, Jessica. It was stormy that night and the roads were icy and the brakes locked as you skidded through that intersection. We were blessed that you didn’t die that night, too.”