I exhaled angrily. “I love Maggie. I would never do anything to hurt her.”
“You’re a loser. Now, get out of my kitchen.”
I would’ve liked to have smacked that sneer from her face. Instead, I just glared at her.
The door from the living room swished open. Maggie poked her head inside. “Oh, there you two are. Irene, the caterer’s at the front door. Do you want them to set up now?”
“They’re early,” Irene groused, abandoned the ice bucket and rushed from the room.
“Did I just miss something?” Maggie asked.
I gave her a smile. “No, babe, everything’s okay.” I retrieved the now-full ice bucket and followed Maggie back to the living room.
Irene blossomed into the equivalent of a Broadway producer as she directed the catering firm where to place the food. Next she bossed the family to the table, and dutifully every one fell into line like drafted soldiers, taking their seats.
The caterers were dismissed and Irene directed the dissemination of turkey, cranberries and vegetables. The Brennan clan dished out huge portions of stuffing and all the other accouterments, while I took a small scoop of potatoes, a slice of turkey and a spoonful of stuffing.
I glanced at my watch and figured Richard and Brenda were probably halfway to Cozumel. Brenda had been disappointed when Richard announced he’d booked the trip for Christmas Day. She’d wanted to put on a complete holiday feast, but I’d convinced her that January 6th—Epiphany—could be her last stab at making merry for this holiday season.
The Brennan family weren’t great conversationalists, but Irene was asking each in turn how they liked the food. While occupied, their collective disdain for me had diminished, but I still found it weird that they’d taken on Irene’s dislike for me as a form of family unity.
I pushed a morsel of stuffing around my plate before forking it into my mouth.
“What’s the matter, Jeff, isn’t the food good enough for you?” Irene eyed me with scorn.
Well, at least she addressed me by my name and not Hey, you. I swallowed. “It’s very good. I’m just not a big eater.”
“I wish I had your lack of appetite,” Maggie said and gave a hollow laugh. “Everything’s delicious, Irene.” Maggie would’ve said that even if she was choking on it.
Irene turned her attention to her father and I poked at the mashed potatoes on my plate. Maybe we’d only have to stay another hour. But there was still that mound of gifts to open. Did the Brennan clan open them one-by-one, or did they have a rip-fest with wrapping paper flying and demolish the pile in record speed? I could only hope .…
I took a bite of turkey, chewing slowly when I was hit by a sudden sense of panic emanating from nearby. I swallowed quickly and for a moment the meat caught in my throat. I grabbed my drink and took a swallow, but the panic I felt kicked into overdrive.
Someone at the table was choking—couldn’t communicate it—and a flame of fear coursed through me.
My gaze darted to those at the table, but everyone seemed to be conversing or fixated with the food on their plates.
Then I knew.
I shoved back my chair with such force that the table shuddered.
“Jeff?” Maggie asked.
I ignored her and stumbled against Peter’s chair, shoving him forward and nearly into his plate.
“Hey!”
Like magnetic force, I felt drawn to the kids’ table, panic nearly choking me, too.
The smallest boy at the satellite table had placed a hand on his throat. I grabbed him from behind, pulled him off his chair and placed my clenched fist against his sternum and gave a mighty jerk. The boy made croaking sounds, and his panic kicked into overdrive.
I gave him another two quick jerks and a hunk of turkey ejected from his mouth, landing on Eleanor’s plate.
“Eeeoooooo!” she wailed, and jumped to her feet. Her plate went flying and crashed against the wall, where it shattered into a dozen pieces.
Irene shot out of her chair like a missile. “What the hell are you doing?” she screamed.
The boy—Brian?—was limp in my arms, coughing, struggling for breath.
“Put that child down,” Irene hollered, and launched herself at me.
I dropped the kid back into his seat, but Irene crashed into me, her arms flying—windmill style—slapping at me, shoving me backward.
“You goddamned bastard—you’ve ruined our Christmas!”
I tried to get around her, but Irene had forty or fifty pounds on me, and I crashed into the buff-painted wall. A framed picture crashed, glass shattering as it hit the hardwood floor.
“Mama, Mama!” the little boy wailed.
Peter was suddenly there, yanking his wife off of me, grabbing her arms and pulling her away.
Sandy had grabbed her son in a fierce hug, patting his back.
“I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe!” the boy cried, and buried his face in her sweatered shoulder.
“How did you know?” Sandy asked, her face taut with fear. “You couldn’t see the kids from your seat. How did you know?” she demanded.
All eyes were on me. Maggie hadn’t told them about my gift. Instead of gratitude, the entire family looked at me with suspicion—as though I had caused the kid to choke.
“What are you?” Irene asked.
I saw a wild-eyed Maggie standing behind her confused parents. “I’ve had enough,” I told her, and headed for the front door. Grabbing my jacket—from the closet floor—I struggled into the sleeves and yanked open the front door, letting it slam behind me.
I made it to the car by the time Maggie came running after me, sans coat. “Jeff, wait!”
I opened the driver’s door, the dome light spilling wan light onto the darkened, snowy drive.
“Where are you going?” Maggie said.
“Where else, home.”
She stood there, hands cupping opposite elbows, shivering in the cold. “I don’t think they realize you just saved Brian’s life.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ll hang around to wait for their show of appreciation. Give my regrets to Irene, will you?”
“Jeff, please come back in. I’ll explain everything. I’ll make them understand.”
“You can’t. Don’t you see, Maggie, Irene has already poisoned them against me. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m nothing but trouble for you. You might just be better off without me.”
“But I think I love you.”
That would never be good enough for her close-knit family. With a failed marriage behind her, Maggie already had a blemished record where men where concerned.
“I love you, too, but—” They were never going to accept me, and shoving that fact down her throat on Christmas Day was too cruel for even me to attempt.
“Can someone drive you back to Richard’s to pick up your car?”
“I’m coming back with you now.”
“No, you’re not. That’ll just put a bigger wedge between you and your family and I don’t want that for you. Sandy and Dave live in Tonawanda, don’t they? That’s not too far from Richard’s house.”
“But—”
“Go on. Go back in. Smooth things over. It’ll be okay.”
But instead of retreating, she shuffled through the inch or so of new snow and threw herself into my arms, swamping me with a tsunami of emotions: love, shame, and pride all rolled together in an almost overwhelming amalgam.
“I’m so ashamed,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “How could my family let me down like this?”
“They’re just worried about you being with someone like me.” And probably with reason.
She held onto me with fierce determination. “I love you,” she asserted, and yet this thing inside me that could tap into others’ emotions told me she really wasn’t sure what she felt. Oh yeah, she felt some kind of affection, but deep down love? No, she just wasn’t sure.
And why should she?
I kissed the top of her head, then pushed
her away. “You’re shivering. Go back inside. If you want to come back to my place later, I’ll wait for you. If not … that’s okay, too.”
“I’ll be there. You can’t keep me away.”
Yeah, but how much longer would she feel that way? Irene held much more influence over her than Maggie realized. I pulled her close again, hoped I imparted some of my warmth. “I love you, Maggs.”
“I love you, too.”
She didn’t. Yet. Maybe never. But that was okay. I could accept it.
At least for now.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of Rochester, NY, L.L. Bartlett honed her characterization and plotting skills as a frequent writer for romance magazines and was a finalist in the St. Martin’s/Malice Domestic contest for best first novel.
In addition to the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, Bartlett also writes the New York Times bestselling and Agatha-nominated Booktown Mysteries series under the name Lorna Barrett.
Bartlett’s Victoria Square Mystery Series will debut in February of 2011.
Visit her website at: www.LLBartlett.com
(You can also find her on Facebook, Myspace, and Twitter.)
Also By . . .
L.L. Bartlett
The Jeff Resnick Mysteries
Murder on the Mind (2005)
Dead in Red (2008)
Cheated by Death (2010)
Short Stories
Cold Case (A Jeff Resnick Story)
Abused: A Daughter’s Story
Lorraine Bartlett
The Victoria Square Mysteries
A Crafty Killing (2011)
The Walled Flower (2012)
Short Stories
We’re So Sorry, Uncle Albert
Only Skin Deep
What I Did For Love
Lorna Barrett
The Booktown Mysteries
Murder is Binding (2008)
Bookmarked for Death (2009)
Bookplate Special (2009)
Chapter & Hearse (2010)
Sentenced to Death (2011)
Murder on the Half Shelf (2012)
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Table of Contents
Bah! Humbug - A Jeff Resnick Story
Bah! Humbug - A Jeff Resnick Story Page 2
