Oh, Christmas Night

by Jane Porter

  She smiled. “So what does Holden do in Galveston?”

  “He’s a petroleum engineer. It runs in the family. My father is, too.”

  “But not you?”

  “I’ve been the challenging one,” he admitted. “From birth, I’ve had my own ideas, and I think it was a relief for them when I headed off to college.”

  “You enjoy the battle.”

  “I enjoy problem solving. My brain responds well to puzzles and strategizing.”

  “I don’t like competition,” she said, “but I’ve never minded working hard, and I like a good challenge.”

  “Me, too. As soon as someone says it can’t be done, I want to prove them wrong,” he said, stopping in front of the bookstore front door.

  “I’m not usually influenced by others. I don’t tend to care what others think. I care what I think. It it’s something I want to do, then I’m going to do it.”

  “Which is why you’ve been taking your time trying to figure out what you want to do about Paradise Books.”

  “Exactly.”

  *

  “And why you don’t want my input on the bookstore.”

  “I never said that.” He gave her a look and she grimaced. “I just know what I can handle, and what’s realistic considering my career doesn’t allow much travel, or flexibility,” she added.

  “You’re not locked into a lifetime of drudgery at Novak & Bartley.”

  “I never said it was drudgery.”

  “They don’t respect you.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, jaw tight, expression mutinous. “I don’t badmouth your company. Don’t badmouth mine.”

  “I’m on your team, Rachel.”

  She looked away from him, toward the glow of the streetlight. For a long moment neither of them spoke and the silence wasn’t comfortable but he wasn’t going to back down. She wasn’t appreciated where she was in Irvine. She deserved better. It was time she put herself first.

  Abruptly she rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for showing me Mom’s house.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Sleep well,” she said.

  “You, too,” he answered, “and sleep in tomorrow if you can. It’s Sunday. Take some time for yourself. A lot of stores don’t open on Sundays here. You don’t have to open, or be open all day.”

  “What would I do if I didn’t open the store?” she asked, tightening her scarf.

  “I have an idea or two. Why don’t I text you in the morning and see how you feel?”

  “Why don’t you tell me your ideas now and I’ll tell you if I’m interested?”

  “It’s easier to be rejected by a text.”

  She laughed, the sound bubbling with warmth. “Do you really think I’d reject you?”

  “If you didn’t like my suggestions.”

  “Not going to argue with you on that.” She was still smiling up at him, looking angelic beneath the glow of the old-fashioned streetlight with her golden hair and bright eyes. “There’s a reason I’m still single at my age. I’m a lot of work, and I know it.”

  “You’re not a lot of work. You’re just you, and you don’t have to change being you for anyone.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll text you in the morning.”

  *

  Rachel couldn’t sleep in, even if she wanted to. She’d been an early bird her entire life, often doing her best studying while it was still dark outside. She woke early Sunday morning, and drank her first cup of coffee in bed, before carrying her second cup around the second floor of the bookstore examining the shelves. She’d heard that scrabbling sound again as she’d been making coffee and she was determined to find the mouse or rodent or whatever it was that was making itself a little too comfortable on the second floor.

  As she wandered between the rows, the fiction section organized alphabetically by author, she passed the As with its numerous Alcotts and Austens, moving on to Bs and Cs before reaching the Ds where the Charles Dickens book had fallen to the floor. She paused there, and drew the different Dickens titles out, checking behind the antique books for signs of rodent life, but everything was clean and clear. She moved on through the shelves, turning one corner and then another before coming to a row in the Ts where a tall, slender book was sticking out.

  Rachel went to push the book back in, but then she noticed the title. The Father Christmas Letters. A Christmas book. She pulled it out and examined the colorful cover. The author was J.R.R. Tolkien. Wasn’t that the author of The Lord of the Rings?

  She carried the book to an armchair by the window, placed her coffee on the windowsill and leafed through the pages, which were filled with dates and handwritten letters and quirky illustrations. She skipped the introduction, going straight to the first letter dated 1925 and it was all about Father Christmas’s recent move and how the North Polar Bear wasn’t there to help and Father Christmas was having quite a hard time of it. She was highly entertained by the story, and she studied the illustration accompanying the letter, before turning the page, reading the next letter dated 1926. The letters were stories about Father Christmas’s life at the North Pole. After reading several letters, Rachel flipped back to the front of the book to read the introduction. The Father Christmas Letters had been collected and published after Tolkien’s death by his son, and edited by his daughter-in-law. The letters and illustrations spanned twenty years and were copies of the actual letters Tolkien had written to his children every year for twenty years. What a treasure, she thought, closing the back cover, and it made her wonder, what other treasures were here in Paradise Books? She really should find out.

  But in the meantime, what was she to do about the bookstore mouse? She hadn’t seen any damage. Maybe it was a literary mouse. Maybe it just loved books. In that case, she should welcome the company.

  Smiling, she carried her cup and book upstairs, and did a search on the Tolkien book, and was excited to see the copy she had ranged in value from sixty to ninety-five dollars. Nice. There was value in this store. She just had to find the books that were special and get those onto one of the national databases. Maybe she should start with Christmas books. What else might Lesley have bought that was tucked away?

  Still online, she did a search for “classic Christmas stories” and was rewarded with numerous suggestions, with the most popular being A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, followed by ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, The Gift of the Magi, The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, and A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote. There were more suggestions, too, like The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus by Frank Baum, and Christmas in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and The Greatest Gift, which became the basis for Frank Capra’s Christmas film classic, It’s a Wonderful Life.

  Rachel scribbled all the suggested titles down and went in search of them on the second floor, and was delighted to discover she had all but the one by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Rachel took the books, photographed them, input the details into the online site she’d found that specialized in antique and collectible books and then created a display with them on a round table not far from the front door. Lesley had collected the classics. Surely there was someone out there that would love to add these books to their collection. It was time to fight technology with technology.

  She was still working intently hours later when her phone buzzed with a text from Atticus. “Hungry? The Graff does a popular Santa Brunch. I can put our names in for a one o’clock reservation.”

  Brunch at fancy restaurants had never been her thing but her pulse had quickened when she saw Atticus’s name on her phone. She liked him. Very much.

  He texted again. “Santa is here. You know you want to see him.”

  She shook her head, amused, and then glanced at her table with the classic Christmas stories and thought he was right. She would enjoy a festive Christmas something, especially if it included Atticus, and maybe a glimpse of the Graff Hotel’s Santa Claus.

  “Make the res,” she typed.
“I’ll see you at one.”

  Rachel showered and changed into the red blouse she’d worn for her open house party, pairing the blouse with dark skinny jeans and her favorite pair of ankle boots. She considered driving to the hotel but thought the fresh air and walk would do her good, so she set off fifteen minutes early.

  The air was cold—bracing—and she drank in great breaths, filling her lungs, clearing her head. The sky was blue with just a few high clouds. The sun shone brightly down on the dome of the historic courthouse, and Copper Mountain rose, majestic, behind all.

  It was such a pretty town. She was still a stranger here, but it was growing on her, the tidy downtown surrounded by old neighborhoods lined with Victorians and Queen Annes. Although Marietta looked small, she’d learned that there were some big businesses operating in the valley, from ranching dynasties to entrepreneurs and media conglomerates. She ought to find out which accounting firms were here. It’d be interesting to know who was doing business in Paradise Valley, not that she was thinking of relocating here, but it was always good to know who the competition was.

  Atticus was waiting for her on the hotel’s front steps. He smiled as she climbed them.

  “You didn’t have to wait out here,” she said, as he gave her a hug and then held the door open for her.

  “I know, but it’s a beautiful day. Look at Copper Mountain.”

  “Why do they call it Copper Mountain? Did they really find copper?”

  “From what I understand, not very much. Marietta enjoyed a brief mining boom, and most of the buildings on Main Street were built during that ten-year boom, but it turned out to be a small vein and it wasn’t long before it ran out.”

  “What happened to Marietta?”

  “It declined. By the 1920s Marietta was almost a ghost town. If it weren’t for the ranchers and cattle in the valley, Marietta wouldn’t have survived. The Graff was closed for over twenty years. Troy was the one responsible for bringing it back.”

  “Troy Sheenan?”

  Atticus nodded. “This is his labor of love. It nearly broke him.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a smart investment,” she said.

  “It wasn’t just an investment. He did it because the hotel was his mom’s favorite place. She died when he was a senior in high school.”

  “Like me,” Rachel said softly.

  “Yes.” Atticus put his hand lightly on her back, steering her down a hallway toward the restaurant where the brunch was being hosted. The restaurant was full, with a crowd waiting at the door, but Atticus gave his name and they were seated almost right away.

  Rachel glanced around the dining room which was festively decorated with lots of greenery and red velvet bows. A Christmas tree was in one corner and a tall gold chair in another. High school girls in elf costumes were standing near the chair. “Where’s Santa?” she asked.

  “It looks like he’s making the rounds. I see him over there right now,” Atticus answered, gesturing to the opposite side of the room.

  Sure enough, a portly, pink cheeked, white bearded Santa Claus was visiting with children at a table in the corner. His suit wasn’t the cheap variety, either, but plush red with a luxurious white trim.

  “He looks like the real thing,” she said, spreading her napkin across her lap.

  “Maybe he is.”

  She laughed and Atticus looked at her with a lifted eyebrow. “You don’t believe?”

  “You’re talking to Rachel Mills,” she answered. “I haven’t believed since I was in second grade when I discovered a closet full of unwrapped presents, and then half of those presents ended up in my stocking, with the other half wrapped from Mom and Dad under the tree.”

  “You shouldn’t have snooped.”

  “No,” she agreed regretfully. “I grew up too fast, and I can’t even blame Mom’s cancer, but rather my determination to know ‘facts.’ My need for facts meant I had no patience for magic, fiction, or fantasy.”

  “I’m just the opposite. I wanted to believe in Santa Claus for as long as I could, and my parents encouraged me by letting me know that Santa only brought presents to the children that still believed, so I believed all the way through high school.”

  She laughed, vastly entertained by the idea of a muscular teenage Atticus opening his stocking on Christmas morning. “What were you getting in your high school stocking?”

  “Oranges, chocolate, boxers, breath mints.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t about what was in the stocking. The fun was just having a stocking—” He broke off, his attention drawn to an elderly man trying to navigate the crowded room pushing his wife’s wheelchair. A hostess was walking far in front of the couple, unaware that the couple was struggling. “Excuse me,” he said, rising.

  Rachel watched Atticus approach the couple and then begin moving people and their chairs so the husband could get his wife’s wheelchair to their table.

  Rachel’s chest tightened and a tender lump filled her throat. Atticus wasn’t just kind to her. He was a kind human being, period.

  Handsome, chivalrous, kind. He was someone she could lose her heart to. He’d turn her life inside out if she allowed it.

  Did she want her life turned inside out?

  Did she want that kind of change?

  Atticus remained with the couple until they were settled at their table, and then returned to her. “Sorry about that,” he said, sitting down again. “I saw them struggling and the hostess was oblivious.”

  “The hostess is young.”

  “She should have seated them at a table easier to reach. That was a nightmare.”

  “I’m glad you could help.” She nodded to the waiter who’d come to fill their coffee cups. “I confess I didn’t even notice them. I feel bad now.”

  “I’m just sensitive to the situation. My grandmother’s been in a wheelchair for the past twenty-five years, and my grandfather tries hard to take care of her, but he’s getting older, too. Makes me glad Holden is close.”

  “You don’t think you’ll ever live on the island?”

  “Not cut out for island life. Love visiting, love the holidays and traditions, but it’s not home.”

  “So Houston is most definitely home.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, either. Home is where I’ll raise my family.” He hesitated. “Home would be a place a lot like Marietta. I don’t want to raise my kids in a big city, or the suburbs.”

  His words evoked a longing in her she couldn’t decipher. He made family sound like something wonderful, and warm. “The winters are really long here.”

  “But there’s so much to do in winter. Skiing, sledding, skating. I’d keep my kids busy with lots of activities.”

  “You ski?”

  “I do okay.”

  “Which means you’re probably an amazing skier. Most people who are modest about something tend to be extraordinarily talented.”

  “Do you ski?”

  “I skied a little, when I was young. My mom and dad used to ski when they were first married, and I think they took me a couple times.”

  “So your dad doesn’t ski anymore?”

  “No, he worked a lot, and he’s retired now, and I don’t really know what he does to fill his time.”

  “You don’t talk about him very much. Are you on bad terms?”

  “Oh, no, we get along. In fact, I’ve been told I’m a lot like him. My mom was the touchy-feely one in the family. Dad’s more contained.”

  “I think you’re more touchy-feely than you want to admit.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, smiling at her.

  Her pulse did a jagged little jump. His smile was so beautiful.

  “One day you’ll have that husband and house and probably two or three kids running around, screaming at the top of their lungs,” he added. “It will be absolute chaos, and pure joy.”

  She pretended to shudder. “That sounds terrifying.”

  “Control is overrated.”

  “Says the man wh
o is always supremely in control?”

  His smile turned cool and self-mocking. “If only that was true. I’ve made more mistakes, and bigger mistakes, than anyone else I know. I just don’t let it stop—” He broke off, brow creasing, mouth compressing.

  “You don’t what?” she prompted gently, aware that his mood had changed very quickly, very dramatically.

  He didn’t immediately respond, and when he did, he sounded grim. “Years ago, I left a law practice I loved because I failed my client. I was too confident, and certain we had all the facts. The prosecutors annihilated the case, and my client went to jail. Had my client made mistakes? Yes. But his biggest crime was being in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

  “What could you have done differently?”

  “All of it. There should have been a better investigation. More research during the pretrial phase. I should have worked harder on a plea deal and settled out of court.”

  “So no more litigation for you.”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “No. I was obsessive about my work. I didn’t have much of a personal life.”

  “I can relate to that.”

  He smiled faintly. “When I was younger I had this idea of who I was going to be, and what I was going to do, and then things went sideways and I gave up the things I wanted, believing I didn’t deserve them, as I’d just mess it all up.” His lips quirked and his expression turned wry. “With time, I’ve forgiven myself for not being perfect and decided I still have the right to be happy, and have what I always wanted, which is a family of my own.”

  “You’ve been blessed with a close family.”

  “I have. They’ve been very supportive and it’s taken me a while but I’m ready for more. I’ve been single. I’ve enjoyed my bachelor days. But I’m older and ready to settle down.”

  She was silent, processing everything he’d said, and he’d said a great deal. She’d learned more about him today during brunch than she had in the whole last week. “You were going to say something, though,” she said, tracing their conversation back to the point where he stopped himself. “You were going to say you didn’t let your mistakes stop you, or something like that.”