Any Given Christmas

by Candis Terry

  He wished she wouldn’t try so hard.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Not interested.”

  “You were interested the other night.”

  “I was drunk the other night.”

  “You didn’t taste drunk. You didn’t smell drunk. And you definitely didn’t feel drunk.”

  “And I think all those pain pills you take have messed up your head.”

  “Well, that would be a good excuse if I were actually taking any pain pills. But I’m not.”

  “Then I’m really sorry for the damage that hit to the turf did to your brain.”

  He laughed. God, he loved her quick comebacks. He looked at her. Studied her shiny hair, her warm eyes, her straight nose, smooth skin, and those soft, full lips he’d now tasted and wanted to taste again. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

  Her head came up. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy. I have classes to plan and I’m trying to get caught up on the thesis for my degree.”

  “Your degree? If you’re a teacher don’t you already have one?”

  I have a bachelor’s degree. I’m working on my master’s.”

  “Because?”

  “I’d like to expand into special education. Working with kids like Brenden has inspired me to want to know more so I can help them more.”

  “You’re an impressive woman, Emma Hart.”

  “I’m nothing of the kind. I just have goals.”

  “Meaning I don’t?”

  “Sure you do. It’s just that your life and your goals are a thousand miles away. You’re a temporary fixture. And just because you’re the brother of one of my closest friends, I don’t think I need to answer to you about where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing.”

  “You’re right.” He reached for her hand and when she didn’t pull away he felt a shot of courage. “I just thought after the other night—”

  “You thought what? That I’d melt in your arms like all those other women?”

  He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. “I could have sworn there was some melting going on.”

  “Nothing has changed from the night of Kate’s reception, Dean. I’m still the same small-town woman. I’m still only five-foot-three. And in comparison to the arm candy you escort around, I’m still completely forgettable. So do us both a favor.”

  “What’s that, honey?”

  “You don’t try to pretend like you’re attracted to me and I won’t try to pretend like I’m flattered that you might find me tolerable enough to help you pass the time while you’re stuck here in Deer Lick.”

  She withdrew her hand from his. “And please stop calling me honey.”

  Dean watched her disappear into the house and instantly the temperature dropped twenty degrees.

  She was wrong.

  Nothing about her was forgettable.

  Not one damn thing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “What’s got you so tangled up inside, Son?”

  Dean looked across the living room—which hadn’t been redecorated since Jimmy Carter sat in the Oval Office—to his father, who sat in a worn recliner enjoying a rare day off. Deep furrows creased his father’s forehead and the corners of his eyes. What little hair remained on his head was gray and stuck up like weeds. The man looked exhausted. And lonely.

  Even with his shoulder and career in shreds, Dean knew his own troubles were only half of what his dad had been through. Dean realized that he’d come back home to escape the pile of crap his life had become when he really should have come home for his dad. After all the years his father had been there for him, Dean knew it was his time to return the favor.

  Dean moved aside a faded pillow his mother had crocheted years ago as he sat down on the sofa, folded his hands together and dropped them between his knees. “How about we drive over to that little Basque restaurant on the main highway? I know you love a good lamb stew.”

  “Don’t sidestep the question, young man. Bad news?” his father asked.

  “No worries. Everything’s fine.”

  “Bull. You know you can talk to me. If not your dad, then who? So drop the crap and tell me what’s up.”

  His dad had that relentless gleam in his eye, and Dean knew he’d be better off just spilling his guts so they could get down to how his dad was doing. “I talked to the doctor this morning. He’s still not ready to release me for exercise.”

  “It’s only been a few weeks since you had the surgery. What’s the rush?”

  How about the fear that everyone was right? That his career is over? That he’d let down his team again?

  Dean knew if he could just get back in the weight room, or hell, even the bedroom he grew up in with those free weights he’d bought last week, he’d see some kind of improvement. He’d be making progress. He needed to make progress. Right now he was making squat.

  “I need to be a hundred percent by spring,” he said with a shrug. “Summer will be here before I know it, then training camp, and right behind that the season will start. They’ll release the schedule in a few months, and when they look at those game dates I want them to know I’ll be ready to throw.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself,” his dad said. “No one else has those expectations.”

  “No kidding.” Dean gave a humorless laugh. “Everyone else thinks I’m done.”

  “Not everyone, Son. But you’ve had a pretty good ride. So what if it did end? Surely you have something else planned for your life beyond football?”

  “Honestly, Dad, I haven’t given a single thought past playing. I love this game. I love the life it offers me.”

  “You’re spoiled.”

  “Yeah.” Dean nodded. “I am.”

  “Your mom and I didn’t raise you to be spoiled.” The creases at the corners of his father’s eyes deepened. “Maybe it’s time you looked around and figured out where else you might fit in. Because, I hate to be the one to break it to you, Son, but life isn’t always fair. Sometimes the things you love the most in life are ripped away and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

  Dean’s chest tightened as tears filled his father’s eyes. His father—a man’s man by anyone’s standards. A man who’d been the gentlest soul when he was with the woman he loved. A man who’d lost the love of his life and who must now find his way through the world alone.

  A man who never cried. Until now.

  What right did Dean have to sit and complain?

  The pressure in his chest caved in. He stood and crossed the room, leaned down, and hugged his father tight. “I love you, Dad. And I promise I won’t let you down.”

  His father hugged him back and Dean felt the warmth of his father’s tears on his shoulder.

  In that moment Dean knew if he even became half the man his father was, he’d consider himself fortunate.

  Hours later, after sweet-talking his dad into the truck for a deliciously thick and meaty lamb stew at Anderazo’s Diner, Dean piled into his mother’s car to go for a drive and shake off the melancholy that had sunk its teeth into his soul. He passed Kate and Matt’s house, thought about stopping for a quick hello, but continued the loop around the lake.

  Time to take his father’s advice.

  Sometimes he got so busy with the Stallions schedule or the chaos that filled the rest of his days, he forgot to take a breath and look beyond what was right in his face. To see the beauty of life around him.

  He’d been to over half of the contiguous states and nowhere on earth displayed more splendor than his home state of Montana. The place where he’d been raised had a healthy sense of family and community. Its four seasons taught you when to work your hardest and when it was okay to slow down. It was easy to lose sight of all that when you lived in one of the biggest cities in the nation.

  Around the curve, the sledding hill at Upper Mill Creek had come alive with kids and parents in a rainbow of snowsuits. Even through the closed car windows Dean could hear shrieks of laughter. He smiled, remembering
the days he’d played big brother and hauled Kelly and Kate up that hill, only to push their sled down and then lug them back up again. They’d spent hours and hours there, having fun, just being kids. He slowed the car near the parking area when he recognized a familiar face.

  Brenden Jones sat on the tailgate of a white pickup, eating a sandwich while his mother poured him a steaming mug of hot chocolate. She handed the boy the drink and caressed his cheek. Her touch went unacknowledged. His mother’s shoulders lifted and Dean could almost hear the disheartened sigh escape her lungs.

  His stomach turned over as he thought of his teammate Bo Miller and his son. He thought of the fierce love the huge man had for that little boy who didn’t have the capability of displaying affection. But that didn’t stop Bo from trying to find ways to break through the wall that autism erected between him and his son. In the past year Bo’s heavy heart had lightened when he’d discovered a place just outside of Houston that offered equine therapy for children with Asperger’s and autism. He’d told Dean that the rhythmic motion of a horse helped the children learn to focus, and that their tactile senses were stimulated, which helped them develop communication.

  Dean had checked out the organization. When he’d seen for himself the progress of the children who participated, he’d pulled out his checkbook and made a substantial donation. Only now did he realize that just writing a check was too easy, too empty. Compared to the volunteers who worked with those kids every day, writing a check was a big fat no big deal.

  Easing his foot down on the accelerator, he continued down the road that looped around the lake where his father had taught him to fish and swim. The same lake where, as he’d gotten older and learned the fine art of persuasion, he’d convinced his female companions that skinny-dipping was good for the soul.

  A few miles beyond Matt and Kate’s house, a bright red and white FOR SALE sign stood out beyond a familiar row of pines on the side of the road. Dean was surprised to discover that after all these years the family who’d built the estate had decided to let it go. There’d always been talk of offers on the Clear River Lodge but the Plummer family had never considered a single one. Dean wondered what now prompted the sale.

  Curious, he pulled his mother’s car into the driveway and removed a flyer from the plastic box attached to the sign. The advertisement showed color photos of the inside of the five thousand square-foot lakefront cedar and stone house. Massive windows revealed the property, which included a barn and indoor riding arena, stables, corrals, and three guest houses. The strongest selling point had to be the river that sliced through the property and the hot springs that pooled in a cove beneath old forest pines.

  Dean looked at the price, glanced back down the road from where he’d just come, then looked at the price again. Without hesitation he reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in the number on the flyer.

  A few hours later as the sun set behind those ancient pines he’d set a plan into motion and signed on the dotted line.

  New Year’s Eve was never like you saw in the movies.

  There were never parties where women donned glittery gowns or men wore tuxedos or where Dom Pérignon was served in Waterford crystal. No one stood around, and, accompanied by an ebony grand piano, sang Auld Lang Syne in perfect pitch. And at the stroke of midnight gold and silver confetti did not mysteriously float from the ceiling. New Year’s Eve had been designed as a torture device for single women. The holiday ranked right up there on the crap-o-meter with Valentine’s Day.

  Emma knew that from personal experience.

  Tonight, as in past years, her oh-so-thrilling New Year’s Eve plans included working on her thesis, a cuddle with her cat, and a romantic comedy via the DVD she’d rented. And if she really felt like tooting her horn, she might just throw in a bag of microwave popcorn and the bottle of champagne she’d bought on sale at the Gas and Grub. Not that she didn’t love her cat, romantic comedies, or popcorn and cheap champagne, but at thirty-two a woman looked for something a little more . . . exhilarating.

  Something a little less predictable.

  Something that banged her drum and shot confetti from a cannon.

  Everyone had something going on. Kate had rightfully bragged that she and Matt planned to spend the holiday in bed with champagne and nothing on but the radio. Kelly Silverthorne planned to spend a quiet night fixing her father his favorite meal before she had to fly back to Chicago. Maggie planned to spend it side-by-side with Ollie at the Naughty Irish. And though Jesse Hamilton had asked Emma out and she’d gotten her hopes up, he’d suddenly been called out of town. Which left her to either drag herself to the Grange to celebrate with the women’s auxiliary and their spiked punch bowl . . . or spend it alone.

  With her cat.

  Yippee.

  By the time ten o’clock rolled around, Emma lifted the deeply purring Oscar off her lap and turned off the TV. She didn’t think she could go through the entire twenty-seven dresses that had inspired the title of the movie.

  She was that girl.

  Always the bridesmaid.

  Never the bride.

  The movie was just too depressing to watch. Oh sure, she knew Hollywood would wrap it up in a nice little bundle of happily-ever-after at the end because that’s what Hollywood did. Even if she didn’t have a friend who’d once lived that so-called glamorous life and who still had to move back to her miniscule hometown to find true love, Emma knew fairy-tale endings were just that. Pure fiction.

  Gee, when had she become so cynical?

  While she paced the hardwood floors of her small house, Oscar padded behind her on silent paws. Once he realized her destination did not include the can opener, he’d given up and plopped down in the doorway with a pathetic feed me scowl. She stepped over his pudgy body without an ounce of guilt.

  First, she spent the better portion of the afternoon researching the effects of autism. The more she learned, the more she wanted to know. After her eyes had begun to cross from all the reading, she’d taken a break to take down her holiday decorations. After that she removed her spice jars from the cabinet and reorganized them alphabetically. Labels out, of course. When she found herself headed to the laundry room with an armload of whites, she stopped. She didn’t care how bored she was, no way would she do laundry on New Year’s Eve. That was just too pathetic.

  Maybe tonight could be the night she’d treat herself.

  She’d been patient.

  She’d overpaid her dues.

  She deserved a little ahhhhhh time. Didn’t she?

  She looked up at the Chanticleer wall clock over her stove. She still had time before midnight to take her bottle of bargain-basement bubbly out to the hot springs and hope for the fireworks display someone would inevitably shoot off over the frozen lake. Sure, maybe she’d only have one glass and toss the rest, but at the price she’d paid she didn’t need to wrestle with guilt. And if she decided to drink more, the MADD members offered free rides home.

  It was the perfect plan.

  Without another thought, she slipped her arms through her old standby parka and grabbed her keys, cell phone, and supplies. With a sorry you’ll be spending New Years Eve alone kiss to the top of Oscar’s head, she headed out the door.

  The lake road was deserted as Emma flipped on her turn signal and steered her Forester down the long driveway of the Clear River Lodge. The place had sat empty for over a year now, since Mr. Plummer had passed away and no one else in his family wanted to travel from their elegant home in California to some peashooter town in the Montana wilderness.

  The thought made Emma sad. The grand cedar and stone home was a beautiful place that deserved to have someone to love it as much as the man who’d brought it to life.

  At least from the outside it appeared beautiful. The closest she’d ever gotten to the inside had been to peek through the windows after the FOR SALE sign went up. The Plummer family had left the house fully furnished, which Emma recognized had been
expensively implemented by the hand of a very talented decorator.

  As usual the house sat in total darkness while she parked near the corrals, which were close to the hot springs. She opened her door, grabbed her champagne and towel from the back seat, then headed down the trail previously made by the footprints of people like her, who, on occasion, snuck out to enjoy a little piece of nature that didn’t belong to them.

  When she reached the steaming pool of water, she set down the bottle and paper cup she’d brought in the snow and proceeded to step out of her boots. She scanned the area. Completely alone she decided to be daring and go sans bikini. The air was cold so she quickly removed her clothes and hung them on the nearby corral fence. Then she twisted her hair up, secured it with a plastic claw, and eased into the hot water with a long appreciative sigh.

  The pines towering above the hot springs filled her nose with a fresh bouquet. While the moon above played hide and seek behind large puffy clouds, Emma peeled the foil off the champagne bottle, untwisted the cage, and dislodged the cork with her thumbs. It exploded into the air with a loud pop and she laughed. Maybe that’s all the fireworks she’d get for the night, but it was better than watching a movie that only reminded her of her own lackluster life.

  She poured the drink into her paper cup and settled down into the water until it floated above her shoulders. She took a sip of champagne, wrinkled her nose at the bubbles, and let out another long sigh. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax.

  “You’re trespassing, short stuff.”

  Dean chuckled as Emma squeaked and splashed away from where he sat amid the shadows. Earlier when he’d slid into the relaxing pool he’d had no idea anyone would join him, let alone that he’d be offered up the vision of Emma stripping down to her shapely birthday suit and slipping into the water with him.

  Happy New Year.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  He chuckled again.

  “Oh, my God. Is that you, Dean?”

  “You plan to share that bubbly, honey? Or keep it all to yourself?”