After breakfast, they went to the lake situated close behind the inn. There was a small crowd, couples, a few families, but most people seemed to have stayed in.
Rebecca eyed the ice nervously. It seemed very hard, very cold. “Maybe we should go back.”
“Now who’s being a chicken-shit?”
“My blood runs deep yellow.”
“I thought you wanted to do this. Do it.” He dragged her out on the ice, skating backward, guiding her around in a slow circle. It was like a glorified car-tow.
“You should move your feet,” he told her.
“But then I’ll fall. Car-towing is good.”
“Come on,” he said, his voice warm and coaxing, and for a second she caught a glimpse of Cory the Seducer. How many high school girls parted with their virginity because of that crooked attempt of a smile? The dark eyes never quite bloomed alive, but sometimes you saw a flash of humanity, a flash of a man who should’ve been.
Her feet stuttered in perfect time with her heart. Then one foot slid in front of the other.
“Do it again,” he said, still coaxing, still seducing.
Rebecca kept moving along, a shuffling gait more suited to a senior citizen’s walker than ice. She didn’t enjoy being gawky or flawed, especially in front of other people. But she didn’t do it for her, she did it for him. The momentary flash of his smile made all the embarrassment worthwhile.
“See, you’re skating,” he said, a complete overstatement. Then he let go of her hands. She screamed and promptly fell on her butt. He moved behind her, steady arms hooked under hers, easing her upright. Just as she was ready to fall again, he quickly propped her back up.
Rebecca felt the need to restate the ground rules. “No letting go. I don’t like falls. They hurt.”
He shrugged casually, a man accustomed to pain and falls.
Rebecca didn’t want him to hurt. She wanted to ease the falls and heal the pain, but she knew she couldn’t. Cory wasn’t her Charlie Brown Christmas tree. She couldn’t wrap him in a blanket and bright ornaments and have him suddenly come to life, because life wasn’t a thirty-minute TV special. Scars didn’t heal. They stayed. They burned, and they never went away, no matter how hard you tried. This, Rebecca knew only too well.
For a while, Cory towed her around, but sometimes he did let go. The first time, she froze. The second time, she skated. Two glides before falling, but it counted all the same. As a childhood educator—former childhood educator—she knew the power of positive reinforcement, no matter how small and insignificant the accomplishment.
“Excellent,” he announced, his face ruddy from the cold, but the eyes were endearing. He had no idea how powerfully he was growing on her. Cory Bell from P.S. 35 was an adolescent girl’s fantasy. Cory Bell, the man, had grown into much, much more. Even if he did have a tendency to run.
She lost her balance, tilting into him, possibly—probably—on purpose.
He stared at her mouth, and she heard his indrawn breath. She wanted to feel his mouth, breathe life there, into his heart. He lowered his head, and she waited. Just when she could feel his warmth, feel the whisper inside him, he drew back, his eyes guarded once again. “That’s probably enough for today.”
Rebecca tried to smile, possibly—probably—failed. “Sure.”
As he removed his skates, she again noticed the scars on his palms. Maybe there wasn’t anything that would help. Maybe she should give up the fight, but that wasn’t Rebecca. She’d always been blessed (or cursed) with what her mother called “razor-sharp focus.” Frustrated, Rebecca began removing her own skates. With the skates safely returned, he walked ahead of her on the narrow path to the lodge, giving her his back. She’d dealt with abused kids, she’d seen what worked, what didn’t. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and she wasn’t sure how to handle a man who buried his pain so thoroughly.
Rebecca trudged through the deep snow, feeling the cold build up inside her. Why couldn’t he open up to her, admit that he was having fun? Because he was stubborn, that’s why.
So, she had no choice. She gathered a fistful of snow and rolled it into a rocklike ball of ammunition.
Rebecca fired.
Dead hit, right on the back of his head.
Perhaps there was a smirk on her face when he turned. Quickly she wiped it away.
“What was that for?”
“Having some fun.”
His eyes narrowed. “You fight dirty, Miss Neumann.”
“And your point would be?”
He laughed. Low and full of retribution. She should have been fearful, but Rebecca had her jets firing. Those same jets had made her homecoming princess by a landslide, snag James Anders Hardy from bitchy little Monique O’Neal and beat out snotty Heather Patterson for the Modern Manhattan Prep job. Now, Rebecca was two seconds away from a full-blown conniption, and as anyone who had experienced Miss Neumann’s class knew, a conniption was a moment to be feared.
She watched as he picked up some snow and trudged forward. One step, two. Closer to her. His eyes weren’t nearly so empty now.
“Bring it on,” she mocked.
He reached for her, and promptly dumped his handful of snow inside her coat. Down her shirt.
Rebecca gasped, her nipples sharpened into frigid icicles. Deftly she shook out the snow, but there was no feeling in her chest anymore. Rat bastard.
He snickered, dancing away from her, her fists flying.
She grabbed more snow, packing it tight, wound up the pitch, and let it fly.
He ducked.
Damn.
Cory advanced, hands held up. “Truce.”
Rebecca, noticing the curve of his mouth and heated light in his eyes, felt the exquisite thrill of victory, and stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Fine.”
He hooked a finger on her coat and pulled her toward him. She shouldn’t have seemed so breathy, so girly, so…eager, but this time when he lowered his mouth, she was ready. Oh, she was more than ready. The hard bark of a tree bit against her back, the hard feel of Cory crushed against her front, and everything in between was starting to melt. She knew he could kiss, knew how good he could kiss, and frankly, it confused her why he avoided the whole kissing thing.
As far as Rebecca was concerned, two people could stay here, mouth to mouth, forever. As long as it was Cory. As long as it was her. A sigh welled up inside her. Longing and loneliness combining forces to overwhelm her. She had never imagined she was lonely, aching for this. But now…she never wanted to be alone again.
Cory lifted his head and stared, the pulse throbbing in his throat. His dark eyes were rabbit-still, and she could see the panic radiating from within him. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, merely waited for the instant to pass. She would wait as long as necessary because no man had ever made her want so badly.
The wind danced through the branches of the tree above them, snow falling to the ground.
I know what you want for Christmas, and there you’ll find it under the tree. The words from the letter came back to her, and she felt the magic. The air shivered with it, whispering in her mind, stunning her with it. This was her Christmas present. He was her Christmas present. A bubble of laughter welled up inside her. She’d been so wrong to doubt for one second the magic of Christmas.
She smiled up at him, still waiting.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that,” he said, the light completely dimmed from his eyes. She felt the laughter inside her dim, as well. Now wasn’t the time for sorry. Now was the time for the “I’ve been waiting forever for you” speech. Now was the time when the cupids and cherubim plucked at their harps and lyres, and carolers burst into glorious song.
She waited for the moment, but the moment passed.
Instead Rebecca bit the inside of her mouth, hard.
Chapter 7
Sunday, December 22
Being surrounded by all this “happiness” and “joy” was starting to make Cory jumpy, as if he was inside some undercover operation, pretending to be someth
ing he wasn’t. Rebecca made him want to pretend.
When the sun rose on Sunday morning, he didn’t even think about running away. Didn’t even act like he wanted to. She just rolled over next to him, throwing an arm over his side, keeping him close. Cory went back to sleep. Dreamless sleep. He didn’t need dreams, he was sleepwalking through one. Happily.
He knew she saw things in him—some real, some imagined—and somewhere he’d stopped worrying about it.
Rebecca would be leaving soon.
They had until Tuesday morning, Christmas Eve, and then she would leave for her parents’ place and he’d be on his way to Canada. Until then, he would stay. Have a good time. It was sex, nothing more, then he’d dash out the door without saying goodbye—the patented Cory Bell method of retreat. Goodbye wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.
He woke again and watched her sleep. He kept repeating the plan in his head, but it felt off, like driving in a nail and missing the stud. As he stroked the softness of her hair, he knew that for now he wasn’t going to worry. Now he was going to pretend that his past had never existed, that the scars in his palm had never existed, that the black hole inside him didn’t exist, either. At the moment, the only thing that existed was her.
She woke a few minutes later, and they took a shower together, before Cory brought up breakfast from the dining room. She’d just finished eating when her cell phone rang. Cory glanced at the display, didn’t want to seem overly curious, but didn’t want to see some guy’s name, all the same.
It was Natalie. Rebecca ignored it.
“Why aren’t you picking up?”
She flipped off the phone. “Sometimes it’s better not to know.”
Yeah, ignorance worked a lot for him, too. He understood that. He wasn’t sure what the plans were for today, but the way she was rubbing her feet, it seemed like ice-skating was out. He suggested a sleigh ride later in the afternoon, and judging by the way her eyes lit up, that was definitely on the agenda.
Gee. In his rational mind, he was all sarcastic and smarmy. In his not-nearly-so-rational heart, he knew he wouldn’t deny her anything.
“How do you know Natalie?” he asked, curiosity finally overcoming caution.
She pulled three sweaters out of her suitcase and held each one up to the mirror.
“We worked together.”
“She’s a teacher, too?”
Rebecca decided on the blue one, and then lined up four sets of boots. Yes, the woman loved her shoes.
“Tell me about your kids,” he said, after pointing to the pair with low heels. Thankfully she didn’t argue.
He kicked back on the bed and watched her morning routine. After the shower, there was the skin treatment, then the makeup, then the hair. Rebecca was not speedy in the morning. He thought it was cute. While she towel-dried her hair, she started to talk, laughing sometimes, the sound making him smile. He’d gotten to where he’d ask her ordinary questions about her life, just to hear that laugh.
“Well, mainly they’re spoiled, with demanding parents, and more money than any one family should have. They have toys that cost more than some apartments. And when they do something wrong…” She laughed. “Never tell a parent their child is not perfect.”
But all that complaining didn’t match the serene look on her face.
“Why do you do it?”
“I don’t anymore,” she reminded him.
Semantics. Cory rephrased. “Why did you do it?”
Rebecca pulled the towel off her hair, and started to brush. A hundred strokes. He counted. “Because stuff happens.”
“Like what?” he asked, hoping to coax another laugh from her.
She took so long to answer, he thought she hadn’t heard. Finally she moved to stand in front of the bedroom mirror, and slowly she began to brush again.
“There was a kid I knew once. Every year they had Christmas at her grandparents’ house. Twenty-three relatives divided among two bedrooms. It was total chaos. Anyway, one Christmas morning, early—she always got up early on Christmas morning—her second cousin, Marty, cornered her in the bathroom. He’d always been really skanky, creepy, and in trouble with the law, but everybody wanted to believe he was good inside because he was ‘family.’”
She stopped brushing, paused and then started again.
“He bent her over the sink and raped her. And told her not to scream, so she didn’t. Not once. She kept waiting for someone to come and save her. They never did. And when he was done, she was pissed. Man, she was so pissed. Spitting mad. And she wanted to hurt him. Like he’d hurt her. She told him that Santa Claus would get him for what he had done. He laughed, told her that Santa Claus didn’t exist, and walked out the door. He knew she wouldn’t say anything. She was only nine, only a little girl. She’d looked in the mirror. Looked at herself. There was this emptiness in her eyes. Something was gone and she wanted it back. She never got it. But she tried.”
He sat quietly, frozen in place.
Rebecca turned away from the mirror, hairbrush in hand. When she looked at him, her blond hair was still damp from the shower, and there was an emptiness in her eyes.
Rapid-fire images shot like machine-gun fire in his brain. Silent screams,
milk-white flesh and innocence lost. Carefully he dug his nails into his palms, focusing on the pain there until the pain inside him was gone. It was a trick he used a lifetime ago.
He’d never thrown up, never allowed himself. But he wanted to now. His mouth was full of rage and terror and partially digested scrambled eggs. None of which would do her any good. Quickly though, his control returned and he swallowed it all.
Instead of cutting half-moons into her palms, Rebecca didn’t play the victim, she fought back. She became head cheerleader, homecoming queen and a teacher who most likely stuck her nose where it didn’t belong.
Then Rebecca smiled tightly and went back to brushing her hair.
What was a man supposed to do? Cory wanted to comfort her, pull her into his arms and tell her that everything would be all right.
The hell it was. He knew that nothing would ever be right. So did she, but she didn’t want pity any more than he wanted it. They had survived. Life went on—but it had changed for him.
“Do you still want to do that sleigh ride today?” she asked.
Rebecca seemed to want casual conversation, while he was still trying to keep his guts inside.
“How does she face Christmas every year?” he asked, his voice quiet. He had to know, had to understand her, had to go deeper into the dark places that he hated to delve. This was for Rebecca.
She shook her head nervously, the blond strands flying as she brushed faster. “She has to. She won’t let anybody steal her Christmas. Not anybody.”
“She ever tell anyone besides you?”
“Nah. She’s tougher than she looks. Her business, nobody else’s.”
“What happened to the guy?” Cory asked in a whisper.
“Murdered in a Florida prison. Seems inmates don’t like deviants any more than Santa Claus.”
His fists unclenched. “I’m glad.”
“Me, too. No kid should go through that.”
“No, they shouldn’t.” She didn’t say any more, and he knew the subject was now closed. Rebecca didn’t look back. Ever.
He watched her with new respect, watching as she never missed a step. He’d always judged her through his high school eyes and overlooked her, dismissed her. He’d never been more wrong.
“So when are you going to get your job back?” he asked.
Rebecca brushed her cheeks with pink powder, back and forth.
“I’m thinking of moving to retail.”
That brought Cory to his feet. There was no way. “You can’t do that. You can’t give up on your kids. There are people that need you.”
“Nobody needs me, Cory. Those kids will be fine.”
She was so confused. Clueless about it, but that didn’t change the fact that Rebecca Neumann was o
ne of the few things right in the world. And he’d make sure she got her job back, if he had to go there himself…
Whoa. Hold it, Bell. He wouldn’t be seeing her in New York. Tomorrow was it. Their last day. The snow was still falling, but Tuesday was Christmas Eve, and she was leaving for Connecticut.
Rebecca Neumann, one of the best people to have ever come into his world, was going away.
She was putting on lipstick, and he wanted to put a sledgehammer through the wall.
His fingers flexed into his palms, he took a long breath, his heart slowing down.
Although Rebecca was leaving, that didn’t mean he couldn’t make the most of the situation. She wanted Christmas. He’d give her an amazing Christmas. It might not be Tiffany snowflakes on Fifth Avenue, but no matter how big she talked, Rebecca wasn’t Fifth Avenue, either. He’d still make it special.
So for the final time, Cory had a new plan. His eyes met hers and he tried to smile. His was a weak, half-assed smile, but after thirty-one years, he hadn’t yet mastered the art of looking happy.
* * *
Rebecca wasn’t sure what was up. Didn’t all men want perfection? Undamaged goods? But when she’d confessed her secret to Cory, he hadn’t run. When she’d done everything right, he ran. She showed him the worst parts of her soul and he acted as if she was his best girl ever.
Talk about throwing her system for a loop.
However, she went along with it. After she finished getting ready, he kissed her. Long, lingering. No passion, all tenderness, enough to bring a tear to her eye. She wiped it away before he saw.
Downstairs, Mr. Krause was dressed up in a Santa suit, wandering around like he owned the place, because, well, he did. Rebecca expected Cory to take off. Instead he came up, shook the old man’s hand and wished him Merry Christmas. It was oddly awkward, like when Maximillian Guerlain had played Abraham Lincoln for the President’s Day play. Her heart twisted.
However, right now there was a sleigh ride to look forward to. A sleigh ride she knew he would hate.
“We don’t have to go,” she offered, getting embarrassed by all his niceness.
“I love sleigh rides,” he answered, lying his ass off.
Dear Santa (A Blazing Little Christmas) Page 7