Scrooge and the Single Girl

by Christine Rimmer

  She felt relief—honestly, she did—that they hadn’t done anything foolish, like fall into each other’s arms and start kissing madly. She had an agenda and making passionate, all-consuming love with Will would only distract her from what needed doing.

  Her plan had been formulating since last night, when he’d gotten honest with her and told her all the reasons he had for hating Christmas. It was a good plan, and she wasn’t giving up on it just because she’d realized that his dead grandma hadn’t been dropping in on her at night, after all. Okay, her subconscious had been playing tricks on her. And why, she asked herself, would her subconscious do that?

  Well, because it was trying to tell her something.

  What had Will said to her, that first night, in her dream? Help me, Jilly. Help me out. God, do I need it….

  It all fit together just perfectly and there was nothing supernatural about it. She had sensed a truth about Will and that truth had spoken to her through her dream.

  He needed her help. And she was going to give it to him. By the time the county snowplow got around to clearing the long driveway out front, Will Bravo would be Christmas-friendly. Jillian Diamond would see to that.

  “Jilly,” he said, when they were back in the kitchen, and she had started assembling the ingredients for dried apple, sausage and toasted pecan stuffing. “Do we have to do this?”

  “We do.” She opened the fridge and got out the sausage. “You’re going to love it. I need a frying pan.”

  He opened the cabinet in the side of the stove and pulled out a lovely well-seasoned cast-iron one. “You know we’d both just as soon have something simple, something straight out of a nice, big can.”

  She put the pan on the stove, grabbed a match and lit the burner. “There are times when we are called upon to go all out. Times that demand we sit down to a true feast.”

  “Times like Christmas,” he said glumly.

  She blew out the match. “Like Christmas, exactly. Pass me that sausage.” He handed it over. She peeled back the label and rolled the meat free of the white butcher paper and into the pan. She held out her hand. “Wooden spoon?”

  He turned to the earthenware jar with all the utensils standing up in it, grabbed what she’d asked for and slapped it into her palm. The meat started sizzling.

  She adjusted the flame and began breaking up the sausage with the spoon. “Get out the turkey, will you? Rinse it inside and out and wipe it dry with paper towels. Oh, and don’t forget to remove the giblets. They’re probably in the neck cavity. Wash them, too.”

  He grunted unwillingly, but he did turn and pull the bird from the fridge.

  “I want to get the turkey in the oven,” she said. “Then we’ll be free to go out and find ourselves a tree.”

  “My first choice would have to be a silver-tip fir,” Jilly announced. “I like the tiered effect of the branches, combined with the lush thickness of the needles. And that silvery-green color. Oh, I do love that.” She shivered, mostly from pleasure but partly because it was cold outside. They stood knee-deep in snow at the back of the house, all rigged out in their coats and boots, wool hats and thick gloves. Will had an axe he’d taken from the shed.

  “We don’t have a permit,” he warned, his breath coming out as a white vapor in the icy air. “We can’t just wander out in the woods and chop down any tree that catches our eye. We’re surrounded by national forest, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Oh, stop grumbling.”

  He hefted the axe. “I’m not grumbling. I’m making a valid point.”

  Jilly brought up a hand to shield her eyes against the blinding glare of bright sun on new snow. The trees started fifty or sixty feet from the kitchen windows. The land there sloped sharply upward into what appeared to be a mountain. In any case, it was a large hill, covered in evergreens, and it went on for a long way, up toward the ice-blue winter sky. “How big is this property?”

  “Why?”

  She sent him a chiding look. “Work with me here.”

  “Ten acres.” He pointed toward the hill. “And as you can see, at least half the acreage is on a serious slant. Where we have trees, they’re pretty thick. They tend to grow with bare spots and uneven branches, not what you want in a Christmas tree.”

  Jilly rubbed her gloves together. “Well, then. I guess we’d better start looking.”

  “Why did I know you were going to say that?”

  Right then, Jilly thought she saw movement—in the trees at the base of the hill. “Do you see that?”

  He squinted toward where she pointed. “I see trees. A lot of trees.”

  “No. Something moving. An animal, I think.”

  “I don’t see anything now. Probably a deer.”

  “No, it was smaller than a deer.”

  “Jilly, around here, we’ve got deer and raccoons and brown bears and mountain lions. And that’s just for starters.”

  “It’s gone now, whatever it was.” Jilly shivered—and not from cold. “I hope it wasn’t a lion. They scare me. You never know what they’ll do.”

  “You want to forget the tree?” he suggested hopefully. “I could go get my hunting rifle and we could track the unknown animal instead.”

  “Not a chance.”

  It took about a half an hour. By then, Jilly was cold enough to compromise a little. The tree they found was in the woods on the side of the house where they’d trooped around calling for Missy the day before. It was a Douglas fir, about six and a half feet tall and a little sparse on one side.

  “But we’ll put it by your chair, in front of the window in the living area,” she said, “with the bad side turned so we can’t see it.”

  “You’re saying I should start chopping, right?”

  “Yes. The quicker we get it cut down and put up in the house, the quicker we can start figuring out what to do for decorations.”

  His expression turned especially bleak. “We’re going to decorate it.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a Christmas tree, remember? You put it up in the house and then you decorate it. Now, just cut it down, will you? It’s cold out here.”

  “Okay, stand over there.”

  “Because?”

  “Can’t you ever in your life just follow instructions?”

  “You know, I could ask you the same question.”

  “Jilly. If you stand over there, you won’t get hit by flying wood chips and the damn thing’s unlikely to fall on you.”

  “Well, all right. That makes sense.” She trotted over to where he’d pointed. He raised the axe. But before he struck the first blow, he lowered it and turned to her.

  “Oh, Will,” she moaned. “What now?”

  “In a couple of days, we’ll be able to get out of here. You’re not just going to drive off and leave me with this thing in the living room, are you?”

  “What are you after?”

  “A commitment to tree removal. From you.”

  “Since we’ll be making the decorations, everything should be disposable. Taking it down won’t be a big deal.”

  “We’re making decorations?”

  “You have a better suggestion?”

  “Let’s get back to my original request. Are you going to help me take this damn thing down?”

  “Okay, no problem. I’ll help you take it down before I go.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Start chopping.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, Jilly would have put the tree in water with tree preserver to keep it green. But they were improvising here, with the equipment on hand. No tree stand presented itself, and they’d be taking it down in a day or two anyway. So Will nailed on a wooden stand of two-by-four scraps he found in the shed. They carried it inside and stood it up in front of the window next to the easy chair.

  Jilly stepped back and drew in a big breath through her nose. “Oh, smell that. I love the smell of evergreen, don’t you? And it looks great. You can’t even see the uneven part.” Will’s radio was s
till playing, softly, in the kitchen, still tuned to NPR, which was cooperating nicely now, with a program of Christmas tunes in honor of the day. One of her favorites was on right then, “Holly, Jolly Christmas,” a real classic, sung by Burl Ives. She turned to Will.

  He was watching her. And he was almost smiling. Was that admiration she saw in those beautiful deep-blue eyes? She got those lovely flutters in her stomach again. Her cheeks felt warm, her heart beat faster. She was maybe four steps away from him. She wanted to close that small distance.

  She could see it, just how it would be.

  He would hold out those strong arms to her and she would move into them. He would wrap her close in his warm and cherishing embrace. She would offer her mouth. He would claim it.

  Oh, yes. A long, sweet Christmas kiss. In front of the tree they’d just cut fresh, themselves.

  “Does your enthusiasm ever flag?” His voice was rough—and soft at the same time, one notch above a whisper. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He was looking at her mouth.

  What was she thinking? She shook herself. Firmly. “Don’t tell a soul, but now and then, I can get a little down.”

  “Like yesterday?”

  She glanced at the old sofa bed. Missy was curled there, asleep on one of the thin throw pillows. Safe. “It hit me hard, her disappearing. Mostly because I knew it was all my fault.”

  He started to argue. “It wasn’t your—”

  “Will.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve already been through that. Let’s not start on it again.”

  After a moment, he nodded. “Good idea. So. Decorations are next, right?”

  “Good gravy, you should see yourself. For the first time, you mentioned decorations without scowling.”

  “You’ll have me singing ‘Jingle Bells’ before we’re through.”

  That brought on a clear visual of a teenaged Will opening a closet door and finding Monty and Mitzi in flagrante delicto. He was remembering the same thing. His devilish smile told her so.

  “Well, it’s Christmas,” she said. “Anything’s possible, right?”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  They were doing it again, staring at each other. She had that dizzying, falling feeling as if she were drowning deliciously, right there in his eyes.

  Speak, she thought. Say something now. “I did come prepared for tree decorating.”

  “You were going to cut down a tree all by yourself?”

  “You don’t think I could have managed it?”

  “I’m sure you can do anything you put your mind to.”

  She gave him a slow smile. “That’s what I like to hear. And I brought construction paper and scissors, glue and glitter. It’s upstairs in my suitcase. I’ll just—”

  “I’ve got a better idea.”

  The way he said that sent a lovely, warm shiver quivering all through her.

  He said, “Upstairs, in that closet where you found the pictures, you’ll also find a couple of big boxes of Christmas stuff.”

  The lights were the old-fashioned kind, heavy black wires with big multicolored bulbs. There was rumpled gold garland and a variety of dime-store glass ornaments, most of them faded with age.

  “This stuff is a little the worse for wear,” Will said when they opened the dusty boxes and had a look inside.

  “I love it. All of it. Every last inch of ragged garland, every ancient ornament.”

  He looked hopeful. “That means no craft projects, right?”

  “Let’s haul it all downstairs.”

  By one in the afternoon, they had the lights, the garland and every last faded ornament hanging on their tree. They took a break to share a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. They wanted to eat light, because dinner was going to be a feast and it was only a few hours away. Over the soup, she convinced him to turn up the radio a little so she could hear her Christmas favorites while they cooked.

  As the savory smell of cider-glazed roasting turkey mingled with the piney scent of the tree, they got to work on the big meal. There was to be pumpkin soup with sage and crème fraîche for starters. With the bird, they’d have gingered cranberry sauce, roasted root vegetables, the stuffing, corn strips with chives and cheddar, green beans with sherry vinegar and soft wheat rolls. She’d planned for two desserts: apple tart with tangy cranberry swirl topping and chocolate pecan pie.

  Will was an angel. A miracle. A total surprise. He chopped and sliced and diced and shredded, whatever she asked of him, he did. He found a yellowed linen tablecloth in the bedroom bureau and he spread it on the table. He polished up the mismatched flatware, brought a couple of pewter candle holders down from a top shelf and stood two white household emergency candles in them.

  At a little before five, they were ready to eat. Will carved the turkey. He did a fine job. Then he poured the wine—they made do with a pair of juice tumblers for wineglasses.

  Jilly lit the candles and they sat down. They raised their juice glasses and toasted each other, the season—and Mavis, for the use of her fine house. Then they ate. For a very long time.

  When they were both sure they couldn’t eat another bite, they cleared off the table and put away everything but the tempting desserts that still waited untouched on the counter. They played Scrabble for a couple of hours.

  Jilly won.

  Will was sure she had cheated. “Do you know how many times I’ve played this game?” He answered his own question. “Hundreds. Thousands. Nobody takes me at Scrabble.”

  “Oh, stop beating your chest or I won’t let you have any chocolate pecan pie.”

  “Just admit it. You cheated.”

  “I do not cheat at board games. I’m above such things.”

  “When I went to the bathroom, you—”

  “No. I didn’t. Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

  “But…zestfully, on a triple-word score, the Z on a double? I don’t think so.”

  “I beat you fair and square. Live with it. And come on, let’s get some water boiling so we can have a little instant cappuccino with our pie and apple-cranberry tart.”

  He tried to keep scowling, but he was having too much fun. “All right. I concede victory to you.”

  “There’s nothing quite so admirable as a graceful loser.”

  “Do me a big favor. Don’t rub it in.”

  They put the game away and served themselves dessert. Then they turned off all the lights except the ones on the tree and they sat together on the old sofa bed, sipping instant cappuccino, eating apple tart and pecan pie.

  “The tree is beautiful,” she said. The old-fashioned lights reflected off the faded bulbs. Those bulbs gleamed and twinkled just as brightly as they must have when they were new.

  “God. This pecan pie…”

  “Will. You’re groaning.”

  “I can’t help myself. I’m amazed and humbled. You beat me at Scrabble. You appreciate franks and beans. You love mac and cheese. But when you set your mind to it, damn it, can you cook.”

  “Amazed and humbled. I really like the sound of that.”

  “But maybe I’m just relieved.”

  “I like amazed and humbled better. But I’m interested. Why are you relieved?”

  “You didn’t insist on a gift exchange. I think I hate that part the most. It’s so over the top anymore. Stores start pushing you to buy, buy, buy before Halloween.”

  “I really wanted to do gifts.”

  “And here I thought you’d risen above the crass and commercial aspects of the holiday.”

  “No way. I’m as crass and commercial as they come.”

  “So what stopped you?”

  “I just couldn’t think of what to give you on such short notice. And then there was the little problem of the limited shopping opportunities up here on your grandmother’s ten acres. I did consider making them. I could have gotten us into the craft project you managed to avoid when you came up with the boxes of decorations—origami, maybe. Or macramé.”

  “Some thin
gs you shouldn’t do to a man.”

  “So true. I was afraid if I tried it, you might become violent.”

  “So you’re saying, you ordinarily do all that? You go all out with the gifts?”

  “That’s right. I shopped and wrapped for everyone before I left Sacramento. Bought for my folks and my sisters and all their little darlings, for Janey and Cade and Ceil and Aaron.”

  “You send cards?”

  “I do. Over a hundred now and the list is always growing.”

  He was shaking his head. “Sorry. I don’t get it. It’s too much work, and for what, really? People get crazy during the holidays, you know damn well they do. Expectations get too high. The suicide rate soars.”

  “Oh, relax. Nobody’s making you do anything you don’t want to do. All I’m trying to get across to you is you don’t have to hide out here until the season is past. You could come down from the mountain, you know? Join your family for Christmas dinner. Expect a miracle, instead of disaster.”

  “If you’re cooking, I might come.”

  “You are being altogether too appreciative.” She took his empty plate and mug from him, set it, with hers, on the table at the head of the sofa bed. “I keep waiting for you to get mean again.”

  “I won’t. On that level anyway, I’m a changed man. I’ve accepted the fact that I really do like you. And your damn cat, too.”

  “And next year? Will you be holed up here all over again?”

  He faked a frown. “What do you want from me?”

  What she wanted, she was trying very hard to keep remembering, she wasn’t going to get. But he did look fabulous by tree-light. And here they were, all alone, with all this time on their hands, getting along so well, enjoying each other in almost every sense of the word.

  And he was single and she was single and they were both adults and sometimes the best way to get rid of a big appetite was to simply go ahead and eat. Indulge yourself. Worry about paying the price later—if there was even going to be any price.

  Certainly, it had to be possible for two reasonably mature adults to have a lovely, romantic, sensual interlude and remain on good terms when it was over. Who could say? Maybe it wouldn’t have to end. Maybe they’d discover they were meant for each other. Like Jane and Cade—and Aaron and Celia.