The Spirit of Christmas

by Liz Talley

  “Different different.”

  “Oh.” What could a girl say to that? Um…nothing?

  “We should get back,” he said.

  “You never answered my question about your deal with Christmas,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. She wasn’t going to be dismissed like an employee. She may have signed on with MBH Industries, but she wasn’t under him.

  A naughty vision flitted through her mind…this time with him above her, running his fingers across her not-so-tight abs. Okay, they were tighter than before thanks to Zumba, but still not as awesome as his probably were. She’d been imagining that rippling six-pack and she knew they had to be ah-mazing.

  “Listen, no need to hash and rehash who we are. I’m a realist. A capitalist. And I don’t like Christmas. You’re a romantic, a Christmas nut and, I don’t really know…a communist?”

  “I’m not a communist…or a nut.”

  “Okay, but we’re different, from different worlds, so let’s respect that and we’ll get along fine.”

  “Fine. I’ll respect your right to be grumpy and inflexible.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Are you trying to argue again?”

  Was she? No. Though their earlier argument had ended nicely—a hot, steamy, forget-you’re-probably-standing-in-urine-and-other-icky-stuff kiss. So maybe there was something to be said for trading barbs with Brennan if it ended in bliss.

  “No, and you’re right. We should respect our differences, but I asked why you don’t like the holiday not to reiterate what we already know. Are you avoiding the question because you don’t have a good answer?”

  His eyes went blank—death-stare blank. “I have a good answer, but I fail to see why I’m required to share it with you.”

  “Because I asked.”

  “So…”

  “So what? You didn’t get a pony or an expensive gaming system when you awoke one Christmas morning? Or maybe Santa didn’t eat your cookies because they weren’t homemade?”

  The death stare remained.

  “Or maybe your high-school girlfriend kissed someone else beneath the mistletoe. Or did you get pink bunny pj’s from your aunt Mabel. Or maybe—”

  “My parents died in a plane wreck on the way to pick me up from boarding school for the holiday break. I spent Christmas Eve on the headmaster’s mother’s couch in Connecticut.”

  She swallowed the rest of her comments. But it was hard to swallow the idea of parents dying around Christmas.

  “Yeah, really nice opening gifts while funeral arrangements are being made by a grandfather you barely know because he virtually lived at his office. Makes for loads of Christmas cheer.”

  “Oh, Brennan,” she breathed, wanting to stroke his arm, but knowing she had no right to offer such comfort. They weren’t even friends.

  Still, her fingers sought his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  He looked away but didn’t pull his hand from hers. “How could you? You don’t know me at all.”

  “No, but I shouldn’t have been so obtuse. Very thoughtless of me.”

  He shook his head and allowed his fingers to curve around hers. “I’m certain those words are seldom used about you. It’s fine.”

  The image of a dark-headed boy curled into a ball on an aged couch popped into her mind. It would be so easy to weep for that boy, to hold him while he cried against the brutality of the world.

  But Brennan wasn’t a little boy. He was a man who should understand the holiday had little to do with mechanical failure or icy conditions or whatever had brought the plane holding his parents plummeting to earth. Yet, she knew the human mind was a complexity never to be explained. Fear and anger could twist unrelated facts into something seeming quite sensible. “How old were you?”

  “Nine, almost ten. I had been at Billings Academy for only four months—sent because my parents were in the process of separating. My sister’s accidental drowning a year before put both of them in a tailspin of grief, anger and finger-pointing. The weekend before they flew to pick me up, they’d reconciled. My father said he couldn’t spend Christmas hating my mother, blaming her for Brielle’s death. I had thought it meant the end of Billings, thought I could smile again.” Brennan’s eyes were focused on a distant spot, his voice different from his usual timbre.

  “When Headmaster Jennings’s eyes met mine after I answered my dormitory door, I knew. Knew my visions of laughter under the Christmas tree wearing the matching pajamas my mother had ordered from L.L.Bean were shattered like…like—” he pushed a broken piece of glass with the toe of his loafer “—glass.”

  Mary Paige squeezed his hand but offered no words. What could a person say to something so devastating? What right did she have to berate the man for disliking a holiday that reminded him of his shattered family?

  His head jerked up and he released her hand. “Hell, I don’t know why I dragged up that tale of woe. I don’t usually wallow in melancholia.”

  “I asked,” she said, hoping her voice sounded steady. She wanted to hold him, to smooth away the grief etched on his face. To offer this hard man something she hadn’t seen a lot from him—simple kindness.

  “But not for that out-and-out pity party. I apologize.”

  “For what? For being human? For hurting? For wanting someone to understand why this time of year makes you sad?”

  “I don’t need your sympathy.” All trace of emotion had left his face, leaving him closely resembling that cold businessman she’d first met. “Bad things happen to people all the time. I’m sure you could go inside and talk to those people and find thirty different hard-luck tales that would make mine look like a fairy tale.”

  She shook her head as he reached for the door handle, but he didn’t see her. He was determined to dismiss his confession, to carry on as he’d always done. Maybe like a good little soldier or a stoic oak or some other metaphor for men when they swallowed grief and pretended not to feel. Her hand closed over his and he stilled.

  When his gaze met hers she felt a shiver. “You feel exposed?”

  “Don’t play games with me.”

  “I’m not. Nothing wrong with being human, Brennan. Nothing wrong with vulnerability. Nothing wrong with giving me the small gift of understanding you better.”

  “I don’t need to be fixed, Mary Paige.”

  “Who said I was trying to fix you? Who said I give a roaring flip about whether you sing carols or toast the Yule log? I’m not trying to rehabilitate you, only understand the disdain displayed by someone who doesn’t believe in the magic of the season.”

  Again, he gave her a flat stare. “Shall we?”

  “Shall we what?”

  For a long moment he regarded her, as if measuring intent, cataloging possibility. One eyebrow crooked. “Serve the poor.”

  “We shall.”

  He pulled open the door, withdrawing his hand from beneath hers, shedding her easily as he pulled on the cloak of control he usually wore. The only difference was now Mary Paige had seen beneath the protective armor to the frightened boy who hid beneath, and for the first time since she’d met Brennan, a certainty about what he needed settled into her conscience. She’d lied when she said she didn’t give a roaring flip about healing Brennan. Because somewhere deep inside, Mary Paige knew this whole crazy campaign was more than what it seemed.

  She had to be the Spirit of Christmas, not only for New Orleans, but also for the child who had cried silent tears on an unfamiliar couch. A boy who had grown to hate Christmas after being robbed of all it should have meant.

  Her mission was clear. Show Brennan what service and love could do…not just for the people they served, but for the person scooping beans or writing checks.

  “I’ll serve the beans this time. You’re too impatient and dribble juice everywhere. You got KP.” She slid past him as he held open the door.

  “What’s that?” He followed her, executive mask firmly in place.

  She gave him her flirtiest smile, raising her ha
nds and wiggling her fingers. “Dishpan hands.”

  His expression might have been intimidating had it not been for the tiniest sparkle that lit his eyes.

  Yeah, she could teach Brennan to embrace the spirit of giving.

  Maybe.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BRENNAN LOOKED IN the mirror and adjusted his tuxedo tie for the third time. Damn thing wouldn’t stay straight.

  “You’re looking awfully dapper,” his grandfather said, entering the formal living room where Brennan stood sipping a cognac and contemplating his whirligig bow tie. Izzy trotted in behind Malcolm like his entourage. She hopped daintily onto her elaborate doggy bed, turned twice and curled into a ball.

  “Thanks. Thought I’d confirm Mark’s delusion that paisley is back, therefore the tie.”

  “No doubt you’ll set styles this holiday,” his grandfather said, a faint smile hovering at his lips. Brennan knew sarcasm when he heard it. In fact, Malcolm was the former King of Droll, but seemed to have abdicated in favor of sincerity.

  Brennan offered a crystal cordial glass to his grandfather, whose breast pocket sported a bright red handkerchief that matched the blinking Rudolph nose he’d snapped onto his face. “No, thank you.”

  Brennan tried not to roll his eyes. He really did. But they seemed to have a mind of their own. “A blinking nose?”

  “What? It doesn’t scream ‘fun’?”

  “More like insanity.”

  Malcolm laughed. “Indeed, I fear I’ve finally gone mad, but I’m loving every second of it. I’ve another blinking nose if you wish to board the crazy train.”

  “Save it for the accountant. She’ll probably revere it more than the Hope Diamond,” Brennan said, sinking onto the damask slipper chair flanking the marbled fireplace. The room was New Orleans formal with a few funky original paintings from noted abstract painters. Malcolm had dated a noted, much sought-after interior designer who’d used their St. Charles mansion as a showcase for all that was luxurious and expensive. Brennan knew. He’d paid that bill and nearly choked at the cost of the rug where his feet now sprawled.

  “Mary Paige is a gem, is she not? I don’t think I could have picked a more perfect or deserving person to be our centerpiece for this campaign. I’m extraordinarily pleased.”

  Brennan grunted and tried not to think about Mary Paige and her silky hair and soft lips. He didn’t know why she bedeviled him, drew him to her like a kid to fireworks, but she did. And it bothered him that he couldn’t get her out of his mind. His mind should be filled with sales figures and the new line of bathing suits they were launching for plus-size women, not a nosy accountant with a too-big smile and an ass that fit incredibly well in his hands. But his mind, like his eyes, seemed to have a will of its own randomly popping up images of Mary Paige sprawled naked on his bed, maybe tied to the headboard with a string of Christmas lights. Now those were lights worth enjoying, ensnaring that blonde elf so he could enjoy the satin of her skin, capture her sighs with his lips as he showed her how to get into the spirit of things best not shared with anyone but him.

  Yes, only for him.

  “Brennan?”

  His grandfather’s voice ripped him from his naughty Christmas fantasy. “Yes?”

  “I asked if you were riding with me to the benefit. Is that why you’re here?”

  “No, thought I’d take the Virage for a spin. Nice night for it.” In most aspects Brennan was practical. He wore expensive clothes when necessary, but otherwise pulled on Levi’s and Dockers. His one true vice, the one thing he indulged in, however, was fast cars. Beautiful, luxurious, expensive fast cars and the silver convertible Aston Martin Virage coupe he kept in the secure Henry estate garage was testimony to a wicked part of him.

  The Virage was beauty in motion.

  He’d once dated a woman who’d viewed shoes as art, and when he’d seen the closet she’d designed filled with display cases for shoes, he’d been disparaging that a person would build a museum for shoes. Then she’d held up the shoes, one by one, her voice full of admiration for the details, the supple leather, the towering, glittering works of art, and Brennan understood. Everyone had his or her peccadilloes, embarrassing collections or self-indulgent fripperies that on the surface seemed ridiculous, but beneath spoke to a basic human quality—people liked pretty things.

  And his Virage was very, very pretty.

  He wondered what vice Mary Paige indulged in. Perhaps beautiful, expensive French underwear? That would be a nice collection to see. Or maybe erotic literature? No. Mary Paige wouldn’t dare.

  “Brennan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Awfully distracted this evening, aren’t you?” Malcolm said, smoothing a hand over his silver hair and tugging the lapels of his jacket into place, keeping one eye on the mirror like a sixteen-year-old on prom night. “I had hoped to introduce you to my date before the gala. Judy’s nervous about attending, and I thought it might set her at ease to know at least one more person.”

  Judy What’s-her-name was such an odd choice of dates for his grandfather. The thought of Malcolm dating a woman who’d once been a nun seemed like a joke. A nun and a billionaire walk into a bar…

  It was nearly as bad as Brennan dating the accountant who wore cheap clothes and fed homeless animals.

  “I’ll be glad to stay and meet her.” Even if he was ready to go. For some reason he felt antsy, a feeling that had settled over him since admitting to Mary Paige the real reason he wasn’t filled with Christmas cheer.

  “Good. I had hoped I might convince you to escort Miss Gentry to the gala. Has to be intimidating for her, too.”

  “I told you I’m not perpetuating the idea there is romance between us. She’s not my type.”

  Malcolm frowned but said nothing.

  Brennan tried to believe his own words even though his body had been singing a different tune, indulging in crazy fantasies about the simple, not-so-much-his-type woman for the past two nights. Crazy, hot fantasies.

  He was horny.

  No other explanation…at least not one he wanted to admit. He pushed himself off the chair and started to pace in an effort to release some of the antsy energy plaguing him.

  “Just a minute, Brennan, if you will.”

  Brennan paused. “Yes?”

  “Perhaps it’s not the time or place for such a conversation, but I need to apologize to you and that bill is past due. It’s hard to swallow my pride and admit to being something other than what I should be, but—”

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything.” Brennan wished he’d left before his grandfather had come downstairs. He hated arriving at events early so had settled in for a drink, leaving himself open to a dose of his grandfather’s sentimentality before meeting his date.

  “No, I must say it, Brennan. You deserve as much.”

  “I don’t deserve anything, and all this craziness you’re going through, I don’t understand it. You’ve changed so much I don’t recognize you sometimes.”

  “Good. I don’t want to be recognized as the man I once was. Was I all bad? No. But there was so much of me I didn’t access. So much of me that lived without feeling. Places in my heart filled with…with rot. I’ve spent the past few months trying to cull the weeds and seed the flowers of something better.”

  Brennan didn’t know what to say to his grandfather’s proclamation. “Well, I never thought you anything but admirable.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Malcolm sighed, heavy and resigned. “In many people’s eyes I was a success. Have you ever thought about what true success is?”

  “I’m guessing it’s not having money or influence.”

  Malcolm sank onto the couch, a smile twitching at his lips, the blinking nose absurd. “You’ve always been a bright boy, taking to business like a duck to a pond, navigating treacherous waters, ignoring what could distract and spreading your wings quite commendably.”

  Those words filled him with equal parts pleasure and pride. He had worked hard
to get to where he was. Malcolm had laid down a decree long ago that no positions in the company would be given without merit. If Brennan did work worthy of the mail room, there he’d stay. The position Brennan held had been earned through hard work, late nights and concrete results.

  “But you have no comfort, my boy. You’ve no true friends, no feathers to support your head. I know, for I discovered much the same not so long ago. An epiphany washed over me, and I haven’t the time this evening to share all I’ve learned, but I will say I’m sorry for being less of a man, for being unavailable to you when you needed me most, for leaving you in that godforsaken boarding school to grieve alone for all you’d lost. I was callous and shortsighted.”

  Like a bandage ripped from a wound, the pain of the memories waded through only yesterday with Mary Paige came roaring back. The smell of the couch he’d cried himself to sleep upon, the rawness of his nose from the sobs, the empty room lit only be a garish Victorian Christmas tree…and the days that followed. Black suit, lemon polish and red carpets of the funeral home. Waxy flowers, hushed whispers and empty platitudes to remember the man and woman who’d chaired the tennis social, donated generously to the campaign fund and mixed the best dirty martinis. Empty. Numb. Grief.

  And here, over twenty-five years later, his grandfather wanted to apologize to the boy he’d left behind? Too little, too late. Brennan didn’t want an apology and he damned sure didn’t want to remember how shitty he’d felt. How absolutely alone he’d been.

  “You know, I turned out okay,” Brennan said, trying to keep emotion at bay. That agony had knitted together into a tough determination to succeed, to grab control and to never feel like that young, bewildered boy again.

  And he hadn’t.

  Until yesterday.

  “Yes, you’re a good man even if you hide it beneath that very businesslike, busy facade. Don’t be afraid to find some softness, to reach for more pleasure than making profit, to take some time to remember what should be the most important parts of life—loving, laughing and sharing.”