An Enchanted Season

The man in the overalls picked up the boxes, as instructed. He knew the situation. It was no surprise that the lady of the house wasn’t at home. Looked like a nice family. It was too bad, it really was. He left the check, safe in its sealed envelope, stuck through the crack in the door, then carried the final armload to the truck. Just as he shoved it into the back, with the others, the hat fell out. It rolled past his feet in a most unusual way. He went after it, but it kept rolling, and then just as he bent to snap it up, a big gust of wind came out of nowhere, and scooped it up. It was carried away, over a house’s roof and out of sight.

The man in the overalls rolled his eyes. Hell, an old worn-out hat like that wouldn’t have brought much anyway. He returned to the truck, pulled the door closed, and secured the latch. Then he drove back to the secondhand shop with the dead man’s clothes.

One

November 1992, Flint, Michigan

“YOU SOLD IT ? ALL OF IT?”

Matthew stared up at his mother in blatant disbelief. Wasn’t it bad enough that Dad had to die the day before Thanksgiving? That they had to bury him the day after? That their big meal on the day in between had consisted of deli meat, rolls, and about six casseroles brought over by neighbors and relatives?

She had to go and sell his stuff, too?

His mother blinked down at him. She seemed kind of in a daze, not all there, mostly numb. It seemed to him she could hear just fine, but what she heard wasn’t making its way to her brain.

“I had to, Matt. The money situation isn’t…it isn’t good.”

Yeah, he’d picked up on that much. He was twelve, not two. And he resented that his mother didn’t seem to think he could understand things. He did understand. He heard and saw and understood. Dad had died broke. He’d racked up debts that Matt’s mom hadn’t even known about. There was no money. There were payments due. And the funeral had cost a bundle. He got all that.

“I know the money situation isn’t good, Mom. And I could see selling the guns, the tools, the computer. But geeze, Mom, his clothes?”

“It was either sell them or give them away. And we need every penny right now. Christmas is coming.”

And that was Mom. She wasn’t worried about bills or taxes or losing the house or the car or even paying for the funeral. She was worried because Christmas was coming.

“We don’t need Christmas this year,” he told her. “We’re not gonna feel like celebrating anyway.”

“Oh, you’re so wrong, Matt. We need Christmas this year more than ever.”

He rolled his eyes, but thought about his kid sister, Cindy. She was only six, and yeah, she probably did need Christmas. But he didn’t.

“There must be something you want for Christmas, Matt,” his mother pressed on. “One gift. One special gift that could make this time a little bit easier for you. There is something, isn’t there? Tell me.”

He pursed his lips, cleared his throat because he didn’t want her to hear his grief in his voice. He was fine. But…

“Yeah, there is something. Or was. Dad’s hat.”

“His hat?” She blinked, still blank, but a little less so. “That silly felt fedora he was always wearing?”

Matt nodded. “He used to joke about that hat being my inheritance. Anytime we were doing anything fun, he would be wearing it. Don’t you remember? It was like—I don’t know, it was like his trademark, that stupid hat. It meant a lot to him. Remember how he wrote his initials in it in permanent purple marker when we went on vacation, just it case it got lost?” He paused there, remembering the road trip, the theme park, the fun. And that hat, at the center of it all. “I want Dad’s hat, Mom. It’s a part of him.”

His mother’s dull, numb expression changed then. It changed right before his eyes. Her face crumpled, and a rush of tears flooded her eyes and splashed onto her cheeks, and then she lowered her head into her hands. “I’m sorry, baby. I…it went with all the other stuff. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He sighed, wanted to be furious, but he couldn’t stand to see her crying like that. Her shoulders were quaking.

“How am I going to do this?” she moaned. “I’m screwing everything up already and he’s only been gone two weeks. How am I going to do this by myself?”

Matt licked his lips, reached out, and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s just a hat.”

“I’ll try to get it back,” she said. “It all went to a used clothing store, downtown. I can probably still find it.”

“Just don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does,” she cried. “Matt, I’m so sorry. I thought I could use the money to get you something nice for Christmas.”

If he had to pick the moment when he’d decided to hate Christmas forever, that would probably be the closest Matthew could come. That moment, right then. Matt hated Christmas. He hated the entire holiday season. It had taken his father away from him, and then it had doubled the blow by taking the only thing of his dad’s that he’d really wanted. And yeah, it was just a stupid old hat. But it was his dad’s stupid old hat.

He hated Christmas. And he vowed that day, that he would always hate Christmas.

November 1992, Oswego, New York

Holly opened her eyes, and saw that she was in a place that was all white. Sunbeams spilled through the window like liquid gold, and angels stood all around her.

But they were not angels. There had been angels, only moments ago. That much, she knew. As she blinked her vision clear, the blurry shapes she’d mistaken as wings faded, and the men and women in white took on ordinary forms. The room really had been filled with angels. She only stopped being able to see them when she woke fully. But she thought they were still there.

A nurse was writing on a chart. Someone warm was holding her hand, and Holly looked up to see her Aunt Sheila sitting there in a chair beside her hospital bed. She looked like she’d been there awhile. Her hair was messy and her eyes red and puffy. She was staring down at Holly’s hand as if she wasn’t really seeing it.

Holly looked all around the room, and realized that what she’d been dreaming hadn’t been a dream at all. “Aunt Sheila?” she said, surprised that her words came out in a dull croak.

The nurses in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. Aunt Sheila’s head came up, eyes met hers, and then filled.

“Baby,” she said. “You’re awake.” She shot a look at the nearest nurse, who hurried out of the room muttering that she would get the doctor.

But Holly clutched her aunt’s hand harder, and held her eyes firm this time. “Mom and Dad…and Noelle? They’re dead, aren’t they?”

Sheila didn’t say anything. Instead she gathered Holly into her arms, and held her hard. She held her tight. Holly tried to be brave like her mom had asked her to, but she couldn’t stop herself from bursting into tears. And in a second Aunt Sheila was sobbing, too.

They held each other and cried for a long time. They cried until they just about couldn’t cry anymore. And then finally, Holly sat up in her bed, and wiped at her eyes. “You all thought I was going to die, too, right?” Holly said.

Aunt Sheila blinked her red eyes dry. “What makes you think that?”

“I think—I think I did, for a while. I was with Mom and Dad and little Noelle. They’re okay.” She met her Aunt Sheila’s eyes. “They really are, they’re okay. You don’t need to worry.”

Sheila’s tears spilled over anew, and she pressed her palms to Holly’s cheeks, and kissed her forehead. And then she whispered, “Honey, do you remember what happened? There was a car accident. You were all in it. The doctors tried, honey, they tried their best.”

“I know,” Holly said. “But Mom wanted me to tell you that they’re okay. I saw them. I was with them for a little while. But Mom, she told me I had to come back. She said there were really important things for me to do. She said everything happens for a reason. And she said you needed me, Aunt Sheila. She said death isn’t real. And I know it’s true, because I was there—only it’s not really there, it’s here. She’s still here, she’s still with us.” She lifted her eyes, staring around the room, her lips pulling into a watery smile. “Can’t you feel her?”

Sheila gathered Holly into her arms, and held her gently. The tears were used up, but the grief remained.

“They’ll be okay as long as they know we are. I don’t know if I could have been if I hadn’t seen it all for myself. I crossed over with them. It was like walking them home. And it was beautiful, Aunt Sheila. If we fall apart, it’s going to break their hearts, but we don’t have to fall apart, because they’re great. They’re perfect, they really are.”

Sheila nodded. “You’re amazing, Holly, you know that?” She kissed her again. “So much like your mom.”

“She wants us to remember her at Christmas,” Holly said. “That was the one thing she made me promise to do for her. To always treat Christmas the way she did. She said she’d be there with me, every single year, as long as I keep that promise.”

Sniffling, Sheila murmured, “She adored Christmas.”

“And she never missed a Midnight Mass,” Holly said. “Or a Christmas special on TV. Rudolph, Frosty, The Little Drummer Boy.”

“And then there were the decorations.” Sheila took a rumpled tissue from her pocket and blew her nose softly, shaking her head.

Holly nodded hard. “She shorted out the house last year when she added that full-sized sleigh and reindeer to the roof. Remember? Santa waved and the reins lit up and the bells jingled and the reindeer moved? But only for about a minute and a half. Then everything went black.”

“I remember how mad your dad pretended to be when he had to hire an electrician to put the lights on their own separate breaker. He wasn’t really mad, though. He loved having the house everyone wanted to drive past at night.” They both laughed softly, sadly, but warmly.

There wasn’t a nurse in the room whose eyes were dry.

“Sheila, look,” Holly whispered. Sheila lifted her head and followed Holly’s gaze to the window. Snow was falling outside. “The first snow of the season,” Holly said. “Mom always said it has magic in it.”

“We’re going to be okay, Holly. You and me, I promise.”

Holly nodded. “We will be. And so will they.”

“They will. And we’re gonna have a Christmas to beat them all,” Sheila promised. “One to make your mom smile.”

“She’ll love that,” Holly said. “I love Christmas, because she did. That’s kind of what she left me, I think. I’ll always love Christmas.”

Two

Present Day, Binghamton, New York

HOLLY MADE HER WAY FROM THE KITCHEN TO TABLE SIX, with two breakfast platters, a carafe of coffee, ketchup, and maple syrup, all without batting an eye. She delivered the food piping hot and, as always, accompanied by a brilliant smile. “Anything else I can get you boys?”

Bub Tanner, as he was called, and that was the only name she knew, grinned at her, and rubbed his unshaven graying stubble with one hand. “I like how she calls us ‘boys,’” he said.

“She’s just flattering your ego, Bub,” Tater said. And that was the only name she knew for him. “She knows we’re both older than dirt.”

“Speak for yourself, Tater.” Bub reached for the carafe, but Holly beat him to it, filled his cup, and then Tater’s, with the decaf they hadn’t asked for.

“Enjoy your breakfast.”

“Here, take this with you, hon, will you?”

Holly looked back to see Tater holding out his thoroughly read newspaper. She smiled and took it from him. “Happy to get that outta your way,” she said, and then she paused, because the paper was open to page three and folded in just such a way that one particular story was looking her right in the face.

“Oswego Welcomes Natives Home for Holidays,” the headline announced. The story was a feel-good piece about all the people traveling in from out of town for the season, how good it was for business.

But that wasn’t the way Holly saw it. Frowning, she carried the paper with her behind the counter, and into the kitchen. “Aunt Sheila?”

Sheila turned her wheelchair around—she’d been parked right next to the short-order cook, probably lecturing him on his technique—and smiled at her. “What, babe?”

“Look what Tater just handed me.” She thrust the paper toward her, and Sheila looked at it, saw the story, lifted her brows.

“That’s the fourth time this morning, Aunt Sheila.”

Sheila nodded, tilted her head. “And how many signs did you have about your hometown yesterday?” she asked.

“Six.”

“Right. Including the billboard for the school play, To Oz We Go.”

“Oz We Go, Oswego. Come on, Aunt Sheila, it’s almost blatant.”

Sheila nodded. “You need to spend this Christmas at home.”

“I don’t know that I need to. And I don’t want to leave you—but I feel like something…I don’t know, wants me to.”

“Which is why I called the Realtor.”

“You did?”

Sheila nodded, and wheeled across the kitchen, toward the office door, with a quick glance back at Will, the new short-order cook. He met her eyes and there was…something.

Holly lifted her brows. “Was that—?”

“Office, Holly,” Sheila said. She’d opened the door, and held it now, waiting. So Holly obediently went inside.

“The old place is empty,” Sheila told her. “It’s in rough shape, being that it’s been empty for twelve years, but it’s habitable, barely. If you want to go up there for a day or two over the holiday, I think you should. You haven’t been back since the accident. Maybe…maybe it’s time.”

“But you’d be alone for Christmas. And we always do Christmas together. For Mom, you know. And—”

“We can do it up separately just as well. And I won’t be alone.” She said it with a meaningful glance at the doorway, which was still open. Will was whistling as he flipped flapjacks and smiled at her in a certain way.

Holly blinked and shot her aunt a look.

“Hell, I have MS. I’m not dead.”

Holly smiled from ear to ear. Her aunt really did embrace life, in every possible way. She loved that about her. It reminded her of the way Mom had been. The way she was herself. It must run in the female line.

“I could take part of the decorations up with me,” Holly said, mulling it over as she thought it through. “It would be kind of cool to decorate the old house like Mom used to. Even if it is in rough shape.”

“I think she’d like that. The power will be turned on, a fresh tank of LP gas hooked up when you arrive. Key in the mailbox.”

“You—you really did talk to the Realtor, didn’t you?”

“I think you have to do this, Holly. You haven’t been back there since you lost them. And your eyes are lighting up just thinking about it,” Sheila said with a smile. “You’ve been taking care of me, taking care of everyone around here, ever since you came here, Holly. It’s time to do something for yourself, even if it’s only for a couple of days. Give yourself a present this Christmas. Okay?”

Holly heard the rumble of a motor and glanced up and through the window, just in time to see a bus go past. Plastered to its side was an ad for the State University of New York at Oswego. She smiled, shaking her head. “I don’t think the universe is going to take no for an answer. My hometown seems to be calling me. Guess I’ve got no choice.”

Present Day, Detroit, Michigan

“Yes, I do have to go now,” Matthew told his sister. “Yes, Cindy, I know it’s Christmas week. But this is business.”

She sounded heartbroken, but honest to God, if he had to sit through one more warm, cozy, family dinner at her house with her idyllic life and her doting husband and her chubby babies, he was going to swallow a stick of dynamite and a lighter and hope for the best.

“Honey, you know how I feel about the holidays. I know they’re important to you, but ‘to you’ is the operative part of that sentence. This place is a bargain. I can’t miss out, and if I buy it this week, when every other person in the market is taking the holidays off, I’ll have the kind of edge you never get in real estate.”

Spice that up with the phony-baloney goodwill of the season, and the Realtor likely wanting one more fat commission check before the end of the calendar year (to cover her holiday overspending, most likely), and he had it made.

People were idiots this time of year. He was smart enough to take advantage of that.

“Yes, Cindy, I’m flying. Right away? Well, yeah, seeing as how I’m calling you from the airport, I would say it’s pretty much imminent. Yep, I’m renting a car when I arrive in Syracuse and driving up from there. And yes, we’ll celebrate when I get back, I promise. There’s no reason in the world I shouldn’t be back in time for Christmas dinner. My flight leaves Christmas Eve, three p.m.” He almost grimaced at the thought, but tried to make the words sound sincere all the same. “Have a great week, hon. I’ll call you in a day or two.”

He flipped the phone closed, cutting her off before she could dole out any more helpings of guilt, then slipped it back into his belt clip, and dragged his roller bag over toward the concourse, where the flight had just begun boarding.

As he got into his seat, he leaned back, closed his eyes, and told himself he really would do his best to get back to Cindy’s in time for Christmas. Cindy needed Christmas.

And that thought brought to mind the other. The one from long ago, his first Christmas without his dad. And his mom’s tearful explanation about how she’d gone to the secondhand clothing store and tried to find the hat, but that it was already gone. And the proprietor not only didn’t remember who had bought it, he didn’t even remember ever having seen it.

The hat was beyond recovering.

Just like his dad. Just like his childhood after that. Just like everything eventually was. Gone.

Just went to show what getting too attached would do for you. Things are fleeting. Here and gone again. There’s no point getting too used to anything.

And holidays, he added mentally, are just plain stupid.

The wind blew the hat until it came to rest outside a truck stop just a few blocks from the dead man’s house. And there it waited. Eventually, a long-distance driver came out of the establishment, burping in a very satisfied way and carrying a clipboard, a set of keys, and a travel mug full of Joe, piping hot and twice as strong.

He walked toward his rig, and almost tripped over the hat on his way. Then he paused and looked down at it, tipped his head to one side, and shrugging, bent to pick it up. It wasn’t a bad hat. Nothing he’d wear, but the thing had character. He didn’t really want it. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to take the thing, but take it he did. He set it on top of the CB radio inside the truck, and let it ride there as he headed for his next stop in New York’s southern tier. It was almost like having a friend along.

Three

ALL WEEK LONG SHE’D BEEN SEEING SIGNS, TELLING HER TO go home. And now that she’d arrived, she wondered why.

The house was not what she remembered. Of course, it hadn’t been painted or maintained in twelve years. It showed the signs of neglect, too. There were a few shingles missing from the roof. One shutter had come loose and hung by its bottom bolts while the top of it veered out to the side as if threatening to jump. The white paint was peeling and chipped.

A car horn blasted, and Holly damn near jumped out of her seat, glancing reflexively into the rearview mirror. She saw a dark-colored sports car behind her, and even before she managed to put her own sunshine yellow VW Bug into gear to move out of the way, the hot little black car was pulling out and around her. It roared past, its windows too tinted to let her see the impatient jerk who was behind the wheel.

Licking her lips, she gently corrected her thoughts. For all she knew, the driver might have been late to pick up his little girl from some event, or maybe he was rushing a sick relative to the hospital. He could have a very good reason for his impatience, and she shouldn’t judge.

She let the tense feeling run off her shoulders like water off a raincoat, and eased her Bug into the worn dirt driveway. It used to be pretty solid and bare. Now, grass and weeds had come up, and they brushed the underside of her car as she drove over them.

She brought the car to a stop and got out, then stood there for a moment as memories tried to sweep in. She could hear childish laughter—her own, and her baby sister’s—drifting in from a long forgotten past. She could almost see them, bundled in snowsuits to the point where Holly could barely bend and little Noelle looked like the pink version of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Her cheeks, cherry red, her nose and mouth covered by a scarf with snowmen all over it. She was walking, but only just, and holding Holly’s hand, both of them in mittens as they tromped through the snow toward the place where they’d left the sled the day before.

She sighed and stared up at the two-story house. It was an ordinary frame house, nothing fancy, no real style or design to it. It was over a century old, drafty, poorly insulated, and probably needed a new roof and wiring and furnace and God only knew what else. It hadn’t been in great shape when she’d lived in it as a child. She remembered her dad calling it a fixer-upper.

“Why do you want me here?” she asked the house, or maybe she was asking her mom. She wasn’t sure. “What’s the point?”

There was a roar, and then a horn. She didn’t jump this time, just turned slowly to look toward the road where that same black sports car had returned, and sat there, growling like an agitated panther. Its tinted window slid slowly down, and she saw a man’s face, hidden behind dark sunglasses.

Something wafted from him—a feeling—almost like a breeze filled with tiny electric sparks.

She lifted her brows. “You again?” she asked

He frowned, glanced at her car, and then back at her. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was in a hurry.”

“Didn’t do you much good, though, did it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, wherever you were in such a hurry to go, you’re still not there.”

He tipped his head slightly to one side, reached up to pull off his sunglasses, as if it would help him to interpret her foreign language if he could see her better.

“You should slow down. Learn to enjoy the journey. You never really get where you’re going, anyway.”

“Uh—well, where I’m going is the Best Western. And I sure as hell hope I’m going to get there.”

She nodded, and thought he was only pretending not to get her deeper meaning. He looked intelligent enough. Dark hair, nice face. Deep chocolate eyes that made her tummy tighten up if she looked directly into them. And his mouth—well, she just wasn’t going to look at that anymore at all. There was something way too sensual about those lips.

“I haven’t been back here in twelve years,” she said, “but unless they’ve moved it, you’re pretty close.” She pointed. “Back the way you came, five miles, then take a right at the light. You won’t see it till you get around the big bend in the road.”

He nodded. “Thanks.” He slid his glasses back on, and she thought maybe he was giving her a more thorough look from behind them. It felt like it, anyway. Though she could be imagining it.

“Merry Christmas,” she called.

“Yeah.” He glanced at her, lips pulled tight, then pulled away.

She shrugged, and went up to the mailbox. The key was right where the Realtor had told her it would be. So she took it out, and let herself in, and didn’t even take time to look around. She knew herself well enough to realize she’d get lost in memories if she did, and it would be dark in a few hours, so she settled for a quick glance at the note Ms. Sullivan had left on the door.

Welcome home, Holly. It was short notice, but I did what I could to give you a comfortable stay. The electric and water are on, but the furnace isn’t. No time for that. So I had a face cord of firewood delivered for you—it’s stacked around the side. You can use the fireplace to keep warm. I stocked the place with lots of bottled water in case the tap tastes rusty. Hot water heater isn’t lit yet, but if you want to, go ahead. It’s been checked out, and while not efficient, it is safe. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call. Merry Christmas, Holly.”

Ms. Sullivan had been a friend to Holly’s mother. She wouldn’t want any sort of payment or thanks for all she’d done, but Holly would find some way. Either that, or she would pay it forward by doing something extra-nice for someone else.

She folded the note and tucked it into her pocket to keep, taking only enough time to start a small fire in the hearth before she headed back outside. She still needed to unload her personal things, groceries and supplies from the car. She’d bought the fixings for a very traditional holiday meal. And all the decorations she’d brought along. She had a ton of lights to string before dark. The long night ahead would give her plenty of time to reminisce and explore her childhood home.

THE “FOR SALE” SIGN IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE WHERE HE’D stopped to ask for directions should have given him a clue, but Matthew had brushed it off as meaningless. The house he’d come to look over was unoccupied and had been owned by the bank for a dozen years. Its asking price had just been reduced by a bundle. That one had a Beetle-driving hippie type in residence. Tree hugger. He could spot them a mile away. Even leggy, blond tree huggers with eyes so blue you could spot them from twenty yards away.

Her looks had floored him. Her attitude had irritated him. He’d asked for directions, not a seminar on enjoying the journey. The nerve. And she’d capped it by tossing that useless, meaningless phrase “Merry Christmas” onto her farewell.

At any rate, he checked into the Best Western, which he’d been assured was the best hotel in the area—not that there were many. He was in a hurry, and starved to boot, so he didn’t even look at the room. Just checked in, got the key, and asked the desk clerk the best place to get a decent meal that wouldn’t take half the damn night.

She pointed to a chain restaurant across the parking lot. Matthew rolled his eyes, and headed there, walking because there was no point in driving that short distance, and the Carerra was probably safer where it was. He’d paid a premium to rent a Porsche for the two-hour drive up from the airport, and more for the insurance. He didn’t want to have to use it.

He ordered a meal, then killed the time waiting for the food to arrive by phoning the Realtor to set up a showing.

Her reaction surprised him. “Uh—Mr. Reid—I, uh—it’s the day before Christmas Eve.”

“Yes, I’m pretty clear on the date, Ms. Sullivan. Do you refuse to show houses during the holiday season or—?”

“Well, no, of course not, I just—I had no idea you were coming into town.”

“I didn’t think it would be a problem. You said the place was unoccupied. Look, if you’re too busy with your…holiday plans…I can swing by and pick up a key and some directions, and show myself around the place.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“I…I have a tenant there. Just for the holiday.”

“A tenant?”

“Well, not exactly a tenant. More like a guest.”

He blinked, completely puzzled.

“She lived there as a child, Mr. Reid. Her parents were friends of mine, and when she called asking if she could spend Christmas there, I thought there’d be no harm. It’s her first time back here in twelve years and I thought—”

“Her first time back in twelve years?” he asked. And he immediately thought of the hippie chick in the bright yellow Bug, dispensing pearls of wisdom to hapless strangers. For some reason the fact that it was her made him a little more irritated than he already was. And he ignored the other feeling. The little trickle of liquid heat that simmered through him at the thought of seeing her again. That made no sense whatsoever. So as he did with all things that made no sense, he ignored it.

At least he knew where the house was now. “So are you saying you’re going to give up a sale because you don’t want to inconvenience a freeloader for an hour or two?”

“She’s not a freeloader, Mr. Reid. And of course I don’t want to jeopardize a sale over this. I just want to give her fair warning first, before traipsing in there with a stranger in tow. This is probably a difficult—”

“I have cash, you know. No financing needed. If I buy it, I can pay you just as fast as you can draw up the contracts.”

“If the weather’s not too bad tomorrow—”

“Weather?” He looked out the window. “It’s as clear as a bell outside.”

“We’re supposed to get lake effect tonight. But once the roads are cleared tomorrow, I’ll take a run over there and talk to her. I’m sure she won’t have any problem letting you come in and see the place later in the day, again, weather permitting. All right?”

He rolled his eyes. His food arrived. At least the waitstaff in this town were fast. It didn’t look as if anyone else was. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he promised. Then he snapped the phone closed, and looked up at the waitress. “You keep things rolling this fast, and you’re going to get a nice, fat tip.”

She frowned at him, maybe a little insulted, but pasted a smile over it and filled his coffee mug. As she walked away, she paused to speak to another waitress, and he caught a few words.

“What are we supposed to get tonight? One to three?”

“I heard three to five.”

He shrugged. It didn’t sound so bad to him. He focused on his meal, which wasn’t half bad, either.

Four

HOLLY STOOD ALL THE WAY AT THE END OF THE DRIVEWAY, staring back at the decrepit house that was currently lit up like a—well, like a Christmas tree—and smiling from ear to ear. It was dark outside, so the lights glowed even more brilliantly. It had taken her three solid hours. It hadn’t been difficult at all, because her mom had everything down to a science where decorating was concerned. There were still little hooks all the way around the eaves of the house for hanging the lights. There were more around each window. She’d asked the Realtor ahead of time to leave a ladder in the storage shed, and she’d been delighted to see that Maureen Sullivan had taken the intiative to leave a few more things as well, including a bag full of extension cords, a hammer, and a box of nails.

Holly went back into the shed to return the hammer and nails to their spots, so Maureen would find them right where she’d left them. She flipped on the lights this time. She hadn’t had to before—it had still been light outside.

The back corners of the shed were illuminated, and she spotted what she hadn’t seen before: a giant box, taped shut. Her mother’s handwriting was on the side of it. She’d written one word with a Sharpie marker. “Santa.”

“It can’t be,” Holly whispered. Then she ran forward, falling onto her knees and tearing at the packing tape like a child tearing at her first present on Christmas morning. She got it loose, and pulled the box open. Then pawed her way past the bubble wrap and newspapers that lined the thing.

And then she sat back on her heels, smiling through her tears. Santa smiled up at her from his sleigh. She looked around and found the other box, the one that contained the reindeer. Everything was in pristine condition. After all, they’d used the set only that one year. The year before Holly’s family had died.

“Aw, Mom. If I’d known this was still here…” She brushed her tears away. “No regrets, right? Okay. I’m putting him up on the roof, where he belongs!”

And with that, she carefully took Santa and his sleigh out of the box, carried them to the ladder, and laid them on the ground beside the ladder. Then she did the same with the reindeer. Finally, she searched the shed until she found a sack full of twine, and she strung it all together until she had a nice lengthy piece. She tied one end to Santa, climbed the ladder, and hauled him up.

The brackets that had held him and his crew in place were still there, right along the peak, though she crawled around feeling for them, because of the darkness. She made it work, though, and then hauled the reindeer up and was anchoring them to the roof, when the snow began falling, sticking to her hair, her shoulders, her eyelashes.

Headlights from the driveway drew her gaze downward.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

Matthew could not believe that in a few short hours, the tumbledown farmhouse had turned into the tackiest display he’d ever seen. Lights lined the roof, up into the peak and down and along the edges. They lined every window, painting their borders in color. They outlined the door, twisted candy-cane-like over the railings that flanked the front steps, and marched all the way around the front porch. It looked like something out of a children’s theme park.

He shut off the car, and opened the door to get out.

“Hello!” someone called.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, following the sound of that voice, gazing through the tumbling jumbo-sized snowflakes until he saw her. That crazy, good-looking hippie was on the roof! His stomach knotted up. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Decorating.” She shook her head. “As if that’s not obvious. Do me a favor and turn your headlights back on?”

“Huh?”

“Car. Headlights. On.” She thumped a fist on her chest. “Jane need light.”

He almost smiled. Almost. He stopped himself barely in time. Instead he leaned back into the car and flipped on the headlights. They didn’t help much, he imagined, but a little. She bent then and tugged, and he saw reindeer flying. Well, not actually flying. They were sort of rising, as she pulled them up by the rope.

And the snow, he thought, was coming down harder. “Look, it’s gonna get very slick up there very fast. You need to come down before you break your neck.”

“I promise I won’t break my neck.”

“You will if you fall.”

“Don’t make me think about falling. I wasn’t even thinking about falling. Now you’ve gone and put falling into my head, which makes it possible.”

“Huh?”

“What, you don’t believe in quantum physics?” She turned, the rope slung over her shoulder now, and dragged the reindeer higher up onto the roof. Then she sat on the peak, one leg over each side. A position he thought was much more stable than her former one. So he relaxed a little. She stood the reindeer up, bending over their feet and fastening whatever device she’d rigged to hold them there. It worked great. She was more than a hippie, she was a female MacGyver, he thought. Then she made her way back to the edge and sat down beside the ladder, her oversized boots, which looked like furry moonboots to him, dangling over the side. She was holding something in one mittened hand.

“Would you do me a favor and toss me the business end of that extension cord?” She pointed as she said it, and he saw the heavy-duty cord twined at the bottom of the ladder, one end snaked toward the house, and he saw that it was already plugged into a heavy-duty, outdoor outlet.

He sighed. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a party to this.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. He went to the cord, unwound a length, and tossed the end up to her.

She caught it easily, a huge smile on her face. “Ready?” she asked.

“Not exactly.”

She plugged it in. Santa’s sleigh lit up like the runway lights at Detroit Metro. His reins glowed, his sleigh’s entire shape was lined in lights, and they twinkled from key points on his suit. Every reindeer’s harness glowed, illuminating its face. All nine of them. The traditional eight, plus one riding point with a glowing red nose.

“Happy birthday, Jesus,” he muttered.

“How does it look?” she called. She was standing now, right on the edge, turning her back to him to try to get a better look at the display. He lifted his hands in a “stop” kind of gesture, and grunted the opening syllable of a stern warning. But that was as far as he got before she fell.

He tried to catch her, but only resulted in breaking her fall a bit.

She landed on her back right at his feet.

Her eyes were closed. Not in an unconscious sort of a way, but in an “I’m scrunching up my entire face in agony” kind of a way.

“Ouch,” she said. And then her face unscrunched and her eyes popped open. “Isn’t this the place where you’re supposed to be dropping to your knees, and lifting my broken body up and asking in a desperate, emotion-choked voice if I’m okay?”

He shrugged and remained standing. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He extended a hand. “Help you up?”

“My hero.” She clasped his hand with her mitten, and he braced while she pulled herself to her feet. “You’re a romantic devil, aren’t you?”

He chose to ignore her comment. “I told you you were going to fall,” he said instead.

“And that’s why I did. Thanks a lot.”

“You deserved it. This poor house would hide its face in humiliation if it could.”

“I beg your pardon! This house loves to dress up and show off. It hasn’t had the chance for a while. And I happen to think it looks great!” She stood staring at it, arms crossed over her chest, and then turned to look at him again. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“The place is for sale. I was thinking about buying it, and the Realtor refused to show it to me tonight. So I thought maybe you could give me the grand tour yourself.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “My ass hurts,” she said. “I really don’t feel like taking that giant ladder down and stashing it back in the shed.”

He lifted his brows. “Uh-huh. And if I were willing to do that for you?”

“Then I’d ask you to bring in some firewood. Enough to last overnight.”

“This is getting to be a pricey tour. And if I do both those things?”

“Then I’ll give you the grand tour, and tell you everything I know about this house. And I know most everything about it. I grew up here.”

He nodded. “Deal.”

“Cool. I’m Holly, by the way.”

“Of course you are.”

She frowned at him, and he quickly said, “Matthew.”

“Nice to meet you, Matthew.” She looked up at the sky. “Man, I hope this isn’t lake effect.”

He looked up, too. “I heard that term in town, but then someone said it was only going to be a few inches.”

“Phew. That’s a relief. Tell you what, I’ll put on some hot cocoa. You like hot cocoa?”

He didn’t. It was too damn festive and Christmassy. But he didn’t answer her, because his grumpy “no” might have made her change her happy little mind about letting him in at all.

The trucker opened the door of his rig when he arrived at his destination, in Binghamton. It was snowing there, and on a whim, he snapped up the old felt fedora and dropped it onto his head before climbing down from his rig.

But the wind had other ideas. It scooped the hat right off his head, and blew it crazily into the air, even as he gave chase, snapping his hands together overhead in an effort to catch it.

It was no use, though. The hat rose higher, and then sailed in a way he’d never seen anything that big sail before.

Shaking his head, he watched it go, and said, “Damn, that hat seems to have a mind of its own.”

Five

HOLLY WENT INSIDE, RUBBING HER HANDS TOGETHER AND heading straight for the fireplace. Bending, she added the last two sticks of firewood in the house. She’d brought in only a couple of arms full—just enough to take the chill off and chase the dampness out of the house while she was outside stringing lights.

She tugged off her mittens and set them on the mantle with their ends hanging over the front to dry. Shrugging out of her coat, which wasn’t damp at all, she hung it on a peg by the door, then she sat on the hearthstone to tug off her boots, and put them beside her, as close to the fire as was safe.

Sitting there, her back to the flames, she looked around what had once been the family living room. For a moment, she was swept into the past, to one Christmas morning long ago. The smell of pine, the twinkling lights, as she and her sister pounded down the stairs at about a quarter to dawn. The fireplace crackling, just like it was now. The presents, and paper and bows, and the candy canes on the tree.

Something tightened in her chest and she had a little trouble taking a breath. “Why did you call me back here?” she whispered.

Matthew came in, loaded down with more firewood than she could have carried in three trips, deposited it next to the fireplace, and then bent over and started stacking it more neatly.

Holly looked at him, then looked upward, her brows raised. “Really?”

“Really what?” he asked.

“I, uh—wasn’t talking to you.”

He frowned, looking around the place as if expecting to see someone else there. She shook her head, and crossed the room to where he stood. “Never mind. You just keep bringing the wood in. I’ll take care of piling it neatly.” And as she said it, she reached up to brush fresh white snow from his shoulders with her hand. “Looks like it’s really coming down out there.”

Her hand hopped from a pair of what she’d discovered to be nicely broad, strong shoulders, to his dark hair, where she continued brushing snowflakes away. But only for a moment, because he went very still and his eyes kind of slid around until they met hers.

Melted chocolate eyes. Yum, she thought.

Something crackled, and her hand went still in his hair. Whoa, that was something. And it was something potent, and delicious and exciting. And a little ridiculous. She didn’t even know this man—and what she did know about him didn’t exactly scream compatability. He drove an expensive car, too fast, was impatient, and thought her Christmas lights were gaudy. What was to like about any of that?

Her hand, she realized, was still buried in his hair. She drew it away, laughed a little to break the tension. “You ought to have a hat.”

“Did, once,” he said.

She frowned, tilted her head, and searched his face. There was something lost in his eyes when he said that.

He turned and headed back to the door.

Holly watched him go, then she felt the cold that rushed in as he went out, and rubbed her arms. She licked her lips. Was he the reason she’d been drawn back here? Was she supposed to meet him for some reason? Were they—nah. She added a few more chunks to the fire to distract herself from thinking along those lines, and got busy stacking the rest of the wood.

Twenty minutes later, they had enough wood to last for at least two nights, stacked neatly beside the fireplace. Matthew was shaking the bark and snow off his expensive black coat and taking off his boots by then. At least he hadn’t dressed like a city slicker in a Porsche. He wore jeans, Timberland boots, heavy socks underneath them, a nice sweater over another shirt. The sweater was brown, the shirt, pale blue—at least that was the color of the collar.

He hung the coat by the front door, next to hers, then carried his boots over to set them beside hers near the fire. She’d already swept up the trail of bark and snow after he’d unloaded the last armful of wood, and wiped the damp spots from the floor with a handful of paper towels.

“Thank you,” she said. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know. I would have shown you around the house anyway.”

“Oh, sure, now you tell me.” He took a seat on the hearth, where she’d been sitting earlier.

She ran into the kitchen for the steaming mugs of cocoa she’d left out there, and brought them in. She handed him one and then sat down beside him.

“So,” she said. “Grand tour begins in ten minutes. After you’ve had time to rest up, warm up, and drink your cocoa.” She took a sip of her own. “Meanwhile, tell me what a guy like you wants with a tumbledown old fixer-upper in the middle of the booming metropolis of Oswego, aka ‘Snowbelt Central.’”

He sipped his cocoa as she watched his face. A face that seemed get more attractive every time she looked at it. Hell. He lifted his eyebrows as he licked his luscious lips. “This is actually good.”

“You sound surprised.”

He shrugged and sipped some more. “I buy lots of old houses like this one. They usually sell for exceptionally low prices, ’cause they don’t look like much. But if it’s structurally sound, and the only work it needs is cosmetic, I usually double my money.”

She blinked. “Double? Really?”

“Sometimes better.”

She frowned, looking around at the house as she enjoyed her cocoa. “So what would you do to fix it up?”

“It’s pretty much the same with every house. You slap on fresh Sheetrock, a couple of coats of paint, put some kind of flooring down, whatever looks good and costs least. Replace any windows and doors that need it. But only the ones that need it. You make sure the wiring and plumbing are up to par, maybe upgrade the heating system. Then you go to the outside, pop on some vinyl siding, hire a crew to spend a couple of days sprucing up the lawn, make sure the roof’s intact, and voilà. It looks like a brand-new house.”

“And how long does all that work take you?” She was thinking in terms of years.

He said, “Me? It doesn’t take me any time at all. I hire contractors to do it. A job like this one—maybe three months, tops.” He looked at her face and said, “Why are you frowning so hard?”

She tried to ease the muscles in her face, which had scrunched up into what must be a fairly unattractive scowl. “It just sounds so…cold. So impersonal. I mean, do you even pick the colors?”

“Of course I do. Siding’s white. Interior, eggshell.”

“Blaaah!” She made the sound long and expressive and stuck out her tongue as she emitted it.

“You, uh—have something caught in your throat?”

“You know I don’t. God, the thought of this place—this place—of all places being sided in white and painted…I can’t even say it.”

“Eggshell,” he repeated. “Or maybe ivory.”

“It’s hideous.”

“Well, I can see where the person who put up the lightshow from hell would see it that way, but really, plainly decorated places sell faster and bring more.”

“Plain, maybe. Decorated? No. White siding and ivory paint do not count as decorating.”

“Clearly not to you.” He nodded toward the window, where multicolored flashes were turning the glass pane and the snowflakes beyond it red, then blue, then green, then yellow.

“Man, look at it snow.” She slugged down the last of her cocoa, and got to her feet.

He did the same.

“Well,” she said, turning, “where to begin. I guess you’ve figured out that this is the living room.”

“Yes, that much is obvious. The picture window is going to be a selling point.”

“Mmm. As would the plank floors. Dad was always going to sand them off and refinish them. Seven coats of poly, he used to say. He never got to it, but—”

“Vinyl flooring would be faster. Probably cheaper, too.”

“They’re maple,” she said. “Maple floors are rare. Probably would be another…selling point.”

“It’s a thought.” He examined the wide, worn-looking planks that made up the floor at the moment.

She ran her palms over the walls. “The Sheetrock does need replacing. But after sitting here unheated for so long—”

“It’s to be expected.”

“The sofa used to be here, by this wall. Most of the year there was a big old antique stand in front of that window, all covered in Mom’s knicknacks. But once Thanksgiving passed, we’d move the table out, and that’s where the Christmas tree went.”

She turned. “There was a chair there, another one here, love seat over there. And the mantle was cluttered with pictures of my mom and dad and Aunt Sheila and Noelle and me. At least, it was most of the time. During the holidays, they got moved, too, and the mantle hosted Mom’s Christmas village—until the collection got too big for it. That was the year Noelle was born.”

“And then what?” he asked, sounding amused.

“Then we got a second dining room table. A giant one.” She led him into the dining room as she spoke. It was just a big empty room now. Same plank floors, and worn-looking walls. “The one we used for actual dining was on this side of the room. And the one on the other side was Christmastown, USA. Mom would cover the table in that white, sparkly fabric that looks like fluffy fake snow. All her little buildings would be set up, just so. The church, the general store, the houses and shops, the ice-skating rink, the little miniature carolers that really sang. And there was a train that wound and twisted through the whole thing, with Santa in an engineer’s hat, and a whistle that really blew.”

“Wow.”

It wasn’t, she thought, an impressed wow. It was more of an “I-had-no-idea-people-were-so-sappy” sort of an exclamation.

She looked at him, awaiting a comment. He shifted as if slightly uncomfortable, then said, “I think the woodwork around the windows can be salvaged. That’s a plus.”

“Oh joy. Oh rapture.” She said it in a deliberate monotone. “Kitchen next, I need more cocoa.”

“Yeah, me, too,” he said. “Make mine a double.”

SHE SIPPED HER COCOA AS SHE LED HIM THROUGH THE REST of the house, filling every room with stories about her happy, idyllic childhood, and it began to seem as if every major event in her life was linked, somehow, to the holidays. Every Christmas memory ended with, “And that was the year Daddy got his raise.” Or “And that was the year I learned to ride a bike.” And so on.

She was a cheerful little thing, he had to give her that. Cheerful people, in his considered opinion, were only so because they didn’t understand hardship. If you knew what life was really about, you couldn’t go dancing through it with a butterfly net in one hand and an ice cream sundae in the other. Life sucked. It made you hard, once you saw that. This little thing, though pretty—okay, freaking gorgeous—and friendly, hadn’t seen anything yet. Give it time. See how long her positive attitude bull lasted once she’d tasted the grit of real life.

She’d finished the tour. They were on the second floor, where she’d just given him a painstaking description of how she’d decorated her baby sister’s room for the holiday with a miniature tree she’d picked out and decorated all by herself. It seems the young Noelle hated to go to sleep at night because she loved looking at the big tree downstairs and its twinkling lights so much. So little Holly had used her allowance money to purchase a small tree and a string of lights, which she had then erected in little Noelle’s bedroom.

It was all so damn special, he thought with an inner grimace.

And then she added, “That was the Christmas they died.”

They’d been standing there in that final room, which had been a toddler’s bedroom, when she said it, and Matthew thought the bottom fell right out of his stomach.

He stared at her, and tried to speak, and thought he must have heard her wrong. “They…who?”

“Mom. Dad. Noelle. All of them.” She gazed around the room again, her eyes damp in the glow of the single dim bulb. “Car accident. Icy roads, it was no one’s fault. I almost went with them, but Mom sent me back.”

“In the car?” he asked, thinking she’d narrowly escaped death because her mother hadn’t let her go along on that fateful drive.

“No. I was in the car. I meant, I almost went with them to…well, you know. The other side.”

“But your mom sent you back,” he muttered.

“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Aunt Sheila came and took me home from the hospital, to her place in Binghamton. This is my first time back here since.” She sighed, and turned to look up at him.

He was shocked to see a fine sheen in her eyes, and yet, a wobbly little smile on her face. “You know, Ms. Sullivan said there was probably still some of our old furniture up in the attic. And I’m getting sick of having nothing to sit on besides that stone hearth.” She turned and marched into the hallway as if she hadn’t just revealed her deepest pain. “Come on, Matthew, you might as well see the attic.”

The hat tumbled to the snowy ground when the wind let up, and moments later, a laughing child grabbed it and scooped it up.

“Look! I found the hat!”

“Aw, man, where did you get that?”

“It just came rolling up out of nowhere. Just like on Frosty!” The little girl’s eyes grew very big then. “Hey, do you think it’s a magic hat?”

“Yeah, Gracie. The snowman’s gonna come to life and say ’happy birthday’ the minute we put it on his head.” Her older brother shook his head at her. “There’s no such thing as a magic hat.”

“I don’t believe you!” she huffed. Then she marched over to the snowman they had built together, and tried to put the hat on his head. She couldn’t quite reach, though. She was hopping, and swinging the hat uselessly. Then her brother lifted her up high, and she plopped the hat on the snowman.

And then she waited.

Her brother was waiting, too, she thought. Even though he said he didn’t believe, he must wonder. They stood there, quiet for a long moment, but nothing happened.

“I guess you were right,” the little girl said. “No such thing as magic.”

“Hey, you never know,” her brother said. “There could be. I mean, it’s almost Christmas, right? Anything could happen.”

He took her little hand in his, and led her home for dinner.

Six

HOLLY LED MATTHEW ALONG THE HALLWAY, CARRYING A flashlight she’d dug out of her backpack, which she’d left in one of the bedrooms, until she stood underneath the square in the ceiling that marked the entryway to the attic. It had always seemed a mysterious portal to her as a child. The attic was a whole other world; darker than the rest of the house, cooler in the summer months, hotter in the winter, when the heat gathered there and hung around. It was dusty, not as neat, filled with clutter and cobwebs and dust. It even smelled differently than the rest of the house.

And getting there was impossible without help. As a little thing, she’d been unable to reach the cord that hung down. Now, though…She stretched out her arm, stood up on tiptoe, and closed her hand around the plastic grip at the end of the cord.

“Wow,” she said. “If that doesn’t drive home how long it’s been, nothing will.” She glanced over her shoulder with a smile, but Matthew was only frowning at her. “I could never reach this before,” she explained.

“Oh.”

He seemed a little tense, was looking at her with a new intensity. Well, she guessed some people didn’t deal well with it when you talked about death or loss. They were facts of life, just like the good stuff. There was no point in walling them off in some kind of soundproof room within your head. They were real.

Shrugging, she said, “Stand aside,” and when she felt him move, she tugged the cord. The trapdoor came downward, and the attached ladder extended itself and slid to the floor all on its own. Holly flipped the latches on either side that would keep it that way, then stepped on up, aiming her flashlight beam ahead of her.

Cobwebs met her halfway, but she’d never been afraid of them, or of spiders for that matter, so she just brushed them aside and kept ascending, until she stood on the attic floor. She stepped to one side to make room for her guest, and shone her light this way and that, looking around the place with wide eyes.

He came up and stood beside her. “Man, there’s a lot of stuff up here.”

“Yeah.” No need to elaborate. He’d stated the obvious. “Aunt Sheila and I sold everything that was worth much, just to help us get on our feet. She came back here while I was in the hospital and got most of my things out for me, so I wouldn’t have to. And she told me she’d stored everything she couldn’t sell in the attic and the shed outside. I just…”

For some reason her breath caught there, and her throat went real tight.

“You had no way of knowing what stuff was stored and what stuff was sold?” he asked.

She swallowed, nodded. “I never asked.” Her voice was raspy, the muscles in her throat still clutching hard at her windpipe.

He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology, Holly. I uh…misjudged you.”

“People tend to think I’m either an airhead or that I’ve been living in a charmed little bubble. I promise, neither one is true.”

“I got that. So how do you manage to love the holidays so much?”

“Not just the holidays. I love life.” She shrugged. “Hell, I figure Mom didn’t send me back here to be miserable. Mostly I think she sent me back to take care of Aunt Sheila.”

“Your aunt’s not well?”

“MS,” Holly said. Then she met his eyes. “Don’t look like that. You’d never know, aside from the wheelchair. Hell, I’m pretty sure she’s having a fling with the new cook at our diner.”

He tipped his head to one side.

“She loves life, too. Runs in the family, I guess.”

He just looked at her, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her. She glanced at the TV—a big console model with a knob to turn the channel, and no remote control. “Noelle and I used to lie on the rug watching cartoons on Saturday mornings.”

“I used to do the same thing with my kid sister, Cindy.”

She nodded. “That TV was outdated, even then.” Then she shook off the wave of sadness the memory brought. “What was your favorite?”

“My favorite what?” he asked.

“Cartoon. Mine was Scooby Doo.”

“Oh. I don’t know. I liked the Turtles a lot.”

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, you mean.” She smiled. “I liked them, too.”

He sighed, turned, and pointed. “There’s a sofa. Should we take it downstairs?”

“You offering to help?”

He made a face at her in the glow of the flashlight. “No. I’m gonna leave and let a woman who just fell off her own roof try to manhandle a two-hundred-pound sofa down two flights, single-handedly.”

“Don’t even think I couldn’t do it,” she said.

He smiled, and it was the first relaxed, genuine smile she thought she had seen cross his face. “You know what? I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

“Shall we?” she asked.

He nodded. Holly stuck the flashlight into a back pocket, and they each got on one end of the sofa, picked it up, and began the awkward task of maneuvering it through the opening and down the ladder to the hall below, and then farther, down to the living room.

They lowered it to the floor, then positioned it just the way Holly wanted it, facing the fireplace, with a view to the windows.

“Perfect,” she said with a satisfied nod.

“Anything else before I leave?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

She sat down, and patted the sofa until he sat beside her. Then she said, “Tell me why you hate Christmas.”

Matthew lifted his brows and stared at her. “Now what makes you think I hate Christmas?”

“Are you saying you don’t?”

“No. I’m asking how you knew.”

She nodded, grateful for the honesty. She’d half expected him to deny it. “Your reaction to the decorations, your comments about the season in general, all that kind of stuff. It’s pretty obvious.”

“Well, obvious or not, it’s not important.”

She met his eyes, held them. “I think it is.”

“Hell, Holly, don’t be ridiculous. In less than a minute, I’m gonna walk out that door, get into my car, and drive back to my hotel, and you’ll probably never see me again. So how in the world could my childhood traumas matter in the least to you?”

“They do.” She drew a breath and then blew it out. “I think you’re here for a reason. We both are. And I hate to let you leave before I figure out what it is. So it’s something from your childhood, then. A trauma?”

Matthew got to his feet, looked down at her, and extended a hand. “It was nice to meet you, Holly. You’re…” He shook his head. “One of a kind, I think. But I really need to get going.”

She took his hand, but instead of shaking it, used it to pull herself to her feet. Then she went to the fireplace to get his boots and coat for him.

He sat on the sofa putting them on, and the silence was taut. She needed to break it. “So, are you going to put an offer in on the place?”

“Depends,” he said. Both boots were on and he was bending over to tie them. Without looking her in the eye, he said, “Did you want to buy it back yourself?”

She looked around, felt herself getting misty. “I hadn’t even thought about it. It’s really not an option right now.”

“I see.”

“Why did you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Liar.”

He looked up from tying his boots, and met her eyes.

She went on. “You wouldn’t buy it if I had said I wanted it, would you?”

“Sorry,” he said. “You must have me mistaken for that Samaritan guy. Or maybe Santa Claus. I do what’s best for me. Period.”

“Oh, really? Then why did you ask?”

“Curiosity, that’s all. Besides, I haven’t decided yet if I want the place. It looks like a pretty good investment at first glance, but I never make a decision until I have my contractors inspect a place.”

“Oh. So step two is to send them up here to take a look.”

“That’s right.” He pulled on his coat, started for the door, paused halfway there, and turned back around. “Listen, are you sure you’re going to be okay out here all by yourself overnight?”

She tipped her head to one side. “You like me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why are you all concerned all of the sudden? You like me. Admit it.”

“I have barely met you.”

“Oh, so your concern for my safety here alone is based on you being what—that Samaritan guy, or Santa Claus?”

He pursed his lips, lowered his head. “Okay. I like you.”

“I like you, too. Now don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of food and water, the wood fire, lots of wood at hand, thanks to you.” She gave him a nod as she said that. “And I have my cell phone. I’ll be fine.”

“Just thought I’d check.”

“It’s considerate of you.”

He met her eyes, and they held for a long moment. For one, incredible second, she thought he was going to kiss her. But then he licked his lips and turned again toward the door. “Good night, Holly.”

“Merry Christmas, Matthew.”

He opened the door and headed through it, pulled it closed behind him. And then she was alone. She turned to face the empty house, and for just an instant, her heart whispered a longing. “Damn,” it said, “I sure wish he had stayed a little while longer.”

Knock, knock, knock.

Her head snapped up, and she spun to face the door, even as it opened. Matthew ducked inside fast, closed it hard, and stomped significant amounts of snow from his feet and his jeans.

He met her eyes, shook his head. “I hate to impose, kiddo, but I can’t go anywhere. Not until it lets up a little.”

Her smile was impossible to contain. She lowered her head to hide her face, and whispered, “Thanks,” to the powers that be, for answering her wish. She tried to suppress the grin when she met his eyes again. “You can stay as long as you want,” she told him. “Actually, I’ll be glad of the company.”

“Yeah. Every Christmas angel wants to spend her holiday with Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“Exactly.”

He looked at her with his brows lifted, but she ignored that and followed her instincts instead. She moved right up to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her body to his. “I’m really glad you came back.”

“Whoa.” His arms closed around her waist, and he hugged her right back. When he straightened away, he seemed puzzled and, she thought, pleased.

And why wouldn’t any man be pleased to be warmly, genuinely welcomed. She broke the embrace, and went to the window to peer outside. The snow was falling at a rate that brought back a lot of memories. “I think this is lake effect,” she told him.

“And that’s supposed to mean…what exactly?”

She kept looking out the window. “Depends on what kind of mood it’s in, I guess. You up to another trip up to the attic?”

He peeled off his coat, hung it on the peg, and heeled off his boots. “What do you need?”

“There’s a trunk up there, chock full of blankets and bedding, if memory serves. Maybe you could bring them down? And any oil lamps you see up there. I know there were a few. We might need them. After that, you might want to take a swing at opening that couch up. It’s a sleeper sofa. Meanwhile, I’m going to dig through my gear for the portable radio I brought, and just in time so I can listen for a weather report while I cook us dinner.”

“Don’t tell me you’re making a turkey with all the trimmings.”

“Don’t be silly. That’s for Christmas Eve. Tonight, it’s burgers and fries.”

He sent her a look that registered surprise. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was expecting you to be a health food nut, if not a full-blown vegetarian.”

“You should not judge people by their appearances,” she said.

“You’re right. I apologize.” He started for the stairs.

She said, “Just a sec, Matthew.”

He turned, and she lowered her eyes and shrugged. “I…um…the burgers?”

“Yes?”

“They’re veggie burgers.”

He was quiet for a second, but then he laughed. It was a deep, slow building chuckle, but it grew, and by the time she managed to lift her gaze to meet his, his head was tipped back and he was laughing loudly.

She laughed, too, and it grew, each of them feeding off the other’s silliness, until their laughter died and they stood there, grinning foolishly.

And then his smile faded and he said, “So what about the turkey? Don’t tell me it’s tofu.”

“Turkey, once a year, for Christmas dinner, is the only meat I eat. It’s tradition.”

“I guess that makes some kind of sense.”

“Traditions meant a lot to my mom. Especially Christmas ones.”

He nodded, holding her gaze, a smile still gleaming in his eyes. “You know, I honestly can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.”

“Then you definitely need to do it more often,” she said.

“You might just be right about that.”

Their gazes locked for a long moment, and then Holly dragged hers away and turned toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna start dinner and find that radio.”

She hurried into the kitchen, where she had deposited boxes, bags, and two giant ice chests full of food. She fully intended to give herself, and her mom, dad, baby sis, and their former happy home, a full-blown, traditional, all-out Christmas Eve dinner. And she had brought all the trimmings. There was a new tank of LP gas outside, courtesy of Ms. Sullivan. Plenty enough for her to cook for a few days. The range was old, coppertone, and dated. But it was clean and it worked fine. She lit the oven to let it heat up, and then returned to her boxes and bags to dig for the little radio she’d brought along.

Once she had it working, broadcasting the station with the clearest signal, she took a package of frozen French fries from one of the ice chests. She lined a cookie sheet with aluminum foil, sprayed it with organic olive oil cooking spray, and spread the fries on it. Then she gave them another spray, sprinkled them in sea salt, and popped them into the oven. On a second tray she spread the veggie burgers, topped each of them with a slice of green pepper, a slice of onion, and a large thin slice of portabella mushroom. Then she added some tomato sauce and grated cheese blend to each, and slid them into the oven as well.

Finally the music stopped and the weather report came on. She went still, her full attention on the weatherman. Then she blinked, and looked skyward.

“I said I wished he would stay a little while longer.”

The hat blew off the snowman’s head, and tumbled to the ground. It rolled along until it hit the sidewalk, and then skittered on its brim, a few feet at at time, until it came to rest exactly in Bernie’s path.

Bernie was cold. Way colder than he used to get in the wintertime. But then again, he was getting on in years. He was probably way too old to be sleeping in doorways and whatnot. He was on his way to his favorite diner—the one with the cute waitress who always managed to find something hot for him to eat, and gave it to him without making him feel like a charity case.

She was a rare gem, that waitress.

His stomach was growling in anticipation and he walked a little faster as he got closer to the diner. He tried not to show up there too often. Didn’t want to wear out his welcome or take advantage of a kind heart. But there was just no help for it this morning. It had been a cold night, and he needed a warm meal in his belly more than he needed air.

His foot hit something in his path—and he looked down to see a black felt hat, just sitting there. Bernie looked up and down the sidewalk. He looked left and he looked right, wondering if the brisk, freezing wind had driven it off someone’s head—someone who was, even now, running along the sidewalk to retrieve it.

But no. There was no one.

So Bernie hunkered down and he picked up that hat. He put it on his head, and it felt good. Warmed his ears a little. Moreover, he thought it looked pretty good, too.

He smiled, and stood a little straighter as he continued on his way to the diner.

Seven

MATTHEW WAS THINKING THAT IT WASN’T SUCH A HARDSHIP to be forced to spend another couple of hours with a pretty woman. She had that happy-go-lucky, little Mary Sunshine thing going on, yeah. And normally, people like that got on his nerves like nothing else in creation. But she was different. She wasn’t one of those morons who were just too dumb to realize how shitty the world was. She wasn’t one of those lucky idiots who’d never had any hardships and so thought the world was a bowl of freaking ice cream.

She’d had some hard times. Lost her whole goddamn family at the tender age of twelve. During the holidays.

Just like I lost my dad.

And yet, she loved the freaking holly-jolly-ho-ho-jingle-bell bullshit.

He had to admit, he was curious about her. Her reaction to such a similar tragedy was so totally opposite his own that he found himself wanting to know more. Wanting to know…why.

There was more than that, though, and he knew it. He was attracted to her. Big time. And it was tough to rein it in when she was so open about feeling it right back at him. Hell, that hug. And that crack about liking him. And the look in those big blue eyes every time they met his.

Damn.

She came into the living room, bearing big plates full of food, and his stomach reminded him how long it had been since his lunch.

“Well, it smells good,” he said.

“You’re gonna love it.” She marched to the hearth, and sat down.

He got the message—she didn’t want food and crumbs all over the sofa bed because she was going to have to sleep on the damn thing. Okay. He joined her on the hearthstone, and took the plate she offered him.

The burger looked good, too.

“Whole wheat bun,” she said. “Best kind.”

“I’ll bet.” He picked up a French fry, still piping hot and salty. She handed him the bottle of ketchup at her side.

“Come on, try the burger.”

“Oh, all right.” He finished the fry, then picked up the burger, which was pretty hefty with all the stuff she’d added to it. He wrinkled up his nose, preparing for the worst, and bit into the damn thing.

Grimacing, he chewed. Slowly, he felt his grimace vanish. And then he lifted his brows in surprise as he kept on chewing. And then he swallowed, and he smiled. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Told you.”

“Oh, there’ll be no living with you now, will there?”

“Uh, actually, Matthew, there kind of will.”

“Kind of will…what?” He was lost.

“There kind of will be…some…living with me.”

“Huh?”

“Where did you get the idea we were only going to get a few inches of snow?”

He frowned, glanced at the window. In the glow of her hideous holiday lights, he could see that the snow was still coming down, huge flakes, falling densely and rapidly. “I overheard the waitress saying it at the diner.”

“Oh. And what did she say, exactly?”

“I don’t know. ‘Snow’ and ‘lake effect’ and ‘we’re gonna get two to three.’ Then the other waitress said, ‘I heard three to five.’”

“Uh-huh.” Holly shrugged, sighed. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Matthew. But, um, my best guess is they weren’t taking about inches. They were talking about feet.”

“Feet,” he repeated blankly. Then his brain interpreted her meaning and he said it again. “Feet?”

She nodded. “According to the radio, it’s going to go all night, three feet by morning, and possibly more. And I can’t even imagine how long it’ll take to get dug out, get the roads cleared, and so on, once it’s over.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No. It’s pretty common up here. We’re in the snowbelt, you know.”

“I knew. I just didn’t know, you know?”

“Oh, hell, yes,” she said. “So, I guess you and I are going to be spending Christmas together.”

Matthew looked up at the ceiling and muttered, “Dammit, when I said to get me out of spending another inane holiday with my sappy sister and her know-it-all husband and their whiny, sticky-faced kids, this is not what I meant.”

“I was just having a similar conversation with the universe myself,” she told him. Then she shrugged. “But you know, the gods love a good laugh. And this time I think the laugh’s on us.”

He sighed, but found it hard to be too upset about any of this. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he might think he was almost…enjoying it.

Nah.

“I’ve got a three p.m. flight out of Syracuse tomorrow. Think I can make it?”

“If you do, you’ll miss Christmas Eve dinner,” she told him.

And then the hideous holiday lights outside flickered, and so did the inside lights. They flickered, and then they dimmed, and then they brightened up again.

She sucked air through her teeth and closed her hand on his forearm. And heat shot right up it.

“We’d better get those oil lamps lit, ahead of time. The power’s not gonna last through the night.”

Neither, he thought, was he.

HOLLY CARRIED HER EMPTY PLATE INTO THE KITCHEN, AND her reluctant houseguest did the same. When she put a kettle of water on to heat, he crooked an eyebrow at her.

“No hot water?” he asked.

“It’s gas, and it’s not lit. I didn’t bother. Probably just as well we don’t—I mean, we’ve got a limited supply of gas. It’s a new tank, but it’s not a big one.”

“You’re using as much gas heating it on the stove as you would in the hot water heater.”

“I am not. Why heat fifty gallons and keep them hot for the duration, when we can heat just what we need, when we need it?”

“Because I’m going to want a shower in the morning. How much propane is out there?”

“I don’t know. A tankful.”

“Yeah, but how big a tank?”

She shrugged.

“All right, I’ll check while I’m out. If it’s enough to last three days, we light the hot water heater. Deal?”

“What do you mean, while you’re out? Why are you going out?”

“To see if it looks like I could make it back to the hotel.”

“In that Matchbox Car you drove?”

“It’s a Porsche.”

“In this weather, you’d be lucky to make it in a Bronco.”

“I’m just going to take a look.”

She shook her head at that. “Fine, you win. If the notion of spending any more time in my presence is that intimidating to you, then—”

“Intimidating?”

She shrugged.

“Why would you think you intimidated me?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet. I think you might be afraid of me. Or maybe of yourself. If you hang around me, you might just enjoy the holiday, and for some reason, you can’t let yourself do that.”

“Holly, there’s absolutely no chance I’m ever going to manage to enjoy Christmas. But uh, just so you know, I was thinking if I could get back to the hotel, I’d try to talk you into going, too. If the power goes out—and three feet of snow. I just think it might be safer.”

“Oh.”

She watched through the doorway as he bent to pull on his boots, then his coat. Then he went to the door, and headed outside. She ducked aside to avoid the rush of wind and cold that came in when he left. Then she sighed and shook her head and tried not to wonder if he had been thinking one room, or two, at that hotel.

She took her teapot off the burner, and poured the steaming water into the waiting dishpan. Then she cooled it with some from the tap, and washed the handful of dishes from their shared dinner.

As she washed the dishes, she recalled standing here at the sink at the age of twelve, washing them after dinner and complaining loudly the entire time. “I don’t know why I have to do them. I’m not the mom.”

To which her mother had replied, “And just where did you get the idea that dishes were always the mom’s job?”

Holly had frowned. Her father had just smiled to himself and averted his eyes. “Whaddya mean? Isn’t it?”

“Well, let’s see. Who dirtied these dishes?”

“We all did,” Holly said.

“So then shouldn’t we all clean them? Doesn’t that make more sense?”

Tipping her head to one side, Holly thought on it. “I guess it does. But if that’s how it is, then how come I don’t just wash the ones I dirtied, and you and Dad and Noelle wash your own?”

“We could do it that way, if you want to. Noelle’s too little yet, of course. But I think it’s nicer to take turns. That way you get two nights off after taking your turn instead of having to spend time in the kitchen every single night.”

Holly nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right.” Then she thought some more.

“Dad and I take turns doing dishes, but you make dinner every night, Mom. That’s not really fair, either, is it?”

“No, it’s really not,” her mother said. “But your dad’s a terrible cook.”

At which point Holly had nodded hard, dried her hands on a towel, and marched into the living room, where her father had gone. “From now on, Dad, you and I should take turns with the dishes, and leave Mom out of it. She cooks every night. It would be more fair.”

Her dad grinned at her and nodded hard. “You got it, kiddo. I think that’s a great idea.”

Holly smiled as the memory faded. She finished the cookie sheet and emptied the water, then grabbing a paper towel to wipe her hands dry, she went to the door and peeked out.

Even as she looked, he came tromping through what had to be six inches of snow already, toward the house. She opened the door for him just as he reached for it.

He stomped the snow off himself as best he could and came inside.

“So is it rude to say I told you so?”

“It’s coming down so hard out there I doubt I could see to drive anyway. And there’s so much snow in the road you can’t tell where the shoulders are.”

“And so you decided to try to leave anyway, because…?”

“I didn’t.”

“I heard the motor—”

“Oh, that. No, I just thought if I could turn the car around, I’d have a better chance of getting out once the roads are cleared.”

“Oh.”

He peeled off his coat, shook it, and hung it on the peg by the door. He was pulling of his boots when she said, “Just so you know, breakfast will be on you. Both prep and cleanup.”

He lifted his head slowly.

“We share chores in this house,” she told him. “And I did dinner.”

“I brought in the wood,” he countered.

“I’ll get the next load.”

“If I make breakfast, we get to have meat.”

“If you can find any meat in this house, besides the turkey, you’re welcome to cook it.”

“I might just go out and shoot something.”

“If you can find a gun in this house—”

He held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I was being sarcastic.” His boots were off, and he carried them over to the fireplace, set them on the hearth, and then turned and went still. She’d taken all the blankets and pillows he had carried down the stairs and made up the sofa bed, and she had to admit it looked awfully inviting.

And he looked awfully nervous.

“There’s no other bed,” she told him. “Nothing that can be used for one, and if we divvy up what few blankets there are, we’re both going to freeze.”

“So we’re gonna sleep together?” he asked.

She grinned broadly. “Yeah. You don’t need to worry, though. Your virtue is safe with me.”

“Gee, I’m very reassured.”

“What, you don’t trust me?”

“It’s nothing personal. I don’t trust hippies as a rule.” He was teasing her.

She smiled even wider. “I don’t think there are any such things as hippies anymore.”

“I’m not sure we’ve come up with a slang word that describes you better.”

“Fine. You call me Hippie. I’ll call you Ebenezer.”

“Whatever.”

She shrugged and headed for her bag, which she’d slung on the floor near the stairs. “I’m going up to change.”

“I’m going down to light the water heater,” he said.

“It won’t do any good. Power will be out by morning. You’ll have a tank full of hot water and no electric to pump it.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

“Have it your way.”

She headed up the stairs with her bag, so she could change clothes in the bathroom. And while she was thinking about it, she ran the bathtub full of cold water, just so they could bail buckets full to flush the toilet if the need arose.

And it did. No sooner had she changed into her favorite flannel pajamas, than the lights flickered and died.

It was the bang, followed by a deep shout from the cellar that made her go running down the stairs blind, but knowing the house by heart.

Eight

HE’D FIGURED OUT THE INSTRUCTIONS, FOUND THE MAIN gas valve, cranked it on, and was holding a match to the pilot, his thumb on the required button, when the lights went out.

Just as they did, the hot water heater lit with a soft “whoosh” and he let off the button, watching the flame inside. It stayed lit. Good.

Or not so good, depending. If the lights stayed out this time, Miss Know-It-All upstairs would probably never let him hear the end of it. Then again, it had to come back on sooner or later. And when it did, he would have hot water for a shower. So there.

He put the cover back on the hot water heater’s control panel, and rose, turning to make his way across the cellar to the stairway, but finding himself immersed in ink-thick darkness.

No problem, he could find his way out. It was straight ahead, about ten steps or so, and then—

He walked as he thought, and promptly banged his knee on something solid as a rock with an edge to it, which caused him to yelp in pain.

Dammit!

Her footsteps pattered rapidly up above, and seconds after that, there was a light at the top of the stairs. “Don’t move,” Holly called. “Let me get down there with the light first.”

“My hero,” he muttered, returning her earlier comment to her, just as sarcastically as she had delivered it. But his knee was throbbing big time, and he thought he’d done some damage there. So, okay.

She was beside him a moment later, holding the flashlight and examining his face while burning out his corneas. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Fine. Let’s go upstairs.”

“What did you hurt?”

“Knee,” he said.

And he shouldn’t have, because then she was hunkering down, holding her light as if she could see something, when his jeans covered it anyway.

“Hell, it’s bleeding right through the denim. Come on, I can’t do anything down here.” She slid an arm around his waist, held him firmly against her side as she moved the both of them to the stairs, and then up them. He almost told her he didn’t need any help. Right up until he stepped on the leg, that is. The second he did, he knew from the surge of pain that he did need help. And she was the only one around to give it.

Hell, just what he needed: to be dependent on a damn happy hippie—much less one so damn sexy he could barely keep his hands off her as it was. And to be stuck with her for God only knew how long to boot.

Just shoot me now, he thought. And then the thought faded, because she smelled so damn good. He hadn’t been close enough before to realize it, he guessed. Or maybe she’d put some scent on when she’d been upstairs changing. Just for him?

HOLLY LED HIM TO THE FOLDED-OUT SLEEPER SOFA. HE SAT on its edge, tense as a bowstring. “Just relax. I’m not going to amputate, I promise.” She met his eyes, tried to put a reassuring light in her own, but he didn’t look reassured. He looked nervous.

“I’m going to get my first aid kit out of my bag.”

“You brought a first aid kit?”

“Well, of course I brought a first aid kit. I never travel without one. Not that I travel much. Or at all. But I wouldn’t, anyway, without a—” She shook her head. “Never mind. Take the jeans off. I’ll be right back.”

“I’m not taking my jeans off.”

“Well, you’re not sleeping with them on. You’ll get the sheets all bloody, and they’re the only ones we have.” She ignored him, grabbing the second of the four oil lamps from the mantel, and lighting it. She’d already lit the first. Then she went to the kitchen, where she’d dropped the duffle bag she was pretty sure contained the first aid kit. She rummaged around until she found it, and came back to the living room.

He’d taken off the jeans and sat there looking obstinate, blood trickling from an inch-long gash in his knee.

“Hell. That must hurt like crazy.” She hurried to him, kneeling in front of him and opening the first aid kit, which was a hard plastic minisuitcase chockfull of supplies.

“Damn,” he said, looking down as she ripped open gauze pads with her teeth. “You could perform surgery with that thing.”

“I filled it myself,” she said. “It pays to be prepared. Hold still now.” She pressed a few gauze pads to the cut. “Can you hold these here? Nice and hard. You need pressure on it so the bleeding stops. Okay?”

He replaced her hand with his on the pads. She got up and ran back to the kitchen, wet a fistful of paper towels in cold water because there wasn’t time to heat any, and hurried back to him. Then she washed the blood away from his leg. He had a hairy calf. Strong, too. Firm. It flexed when she ran her hands over it, washing away the blood. She liked it. She liked it very much.

“Your sock’s all bloody, too,” she said, trying to keep her voice from betraying her. She set the wet paper towels aside and took hold of his sock, peeling it off his foot, her fingers in contact with his skin all the way. There was something—a rush of warmth. Attraction. Pleasure. Something. She paused and lifted her head, met his eyes, wondering if he’d felt it, too.

He held her gaze, and the look in his made her aware of the suggestiveness of her current position. Kneeling in front of him.

Oh, yeah. He’d felt it, too.

He looked away before she did. Okay, so he felt it, but he didn’t like it. Or maybe he liked it, but he didn’t want to. Whatever. She washed the blood from his ankle, and then returned her attention to the knee, covering his hand with hers, lifting the gauze just enough to peek. It bled again when she did.

“I’m going to have to tape it up. Butterfly bandages should do the trick. It ought to have stitches, but I don’t have a sewing kit on me.”

“Not quite as prepared as you thought you were, are you?”

“You can bet I won’t leave home without one again.” He held the gauze while she unwrapped the butterfly bandages. “We should clean it first. I have peroxide. It won’t hurt as much as alcohol would, but it won’t be fun, either.”

“Distract me then.”

“How?” she asked, opening the bottle and trying not to hope he’d say something just slightly inappropriate. And yet hoping just that.

“You said you never travel. Tell me why.”

She nodded at him to move the gauze. He did. She held a wad of fresh pads beneath the wound to catch the blood and excess, and then poured peroxide over it, saying as she did, “I don’t like to leave Aunt Sheila. It’s not like we can afford someone to take care of her, and she’d hate that anyway. I don’t know, maybe now that she’s apparently got a love life, he’ll help out now and then.”

Matthew’s body went stiff as she poured, but then she quickly pressed the gauze to the cut again. “Okay, you hold it together and I’ll tape.”

He nodded, reached for an alcohol wipe and tore it open, then cleaned his hands with it. “Your Aunt Sheila—she’s the one who raised you after…your family…”

“Yeah. I remember when I was in the coma, Mom telling me I had to go back.” She applied the first bandage as he pinched the wound tight. It had to hurt. “She kept saying I had important things to do, and that there were people who needed me. She even specified that Aunt Sheila needed me. And it turned out, she really did. More than anyone.”

“She was your mother’s sister?”

“Yeah.” She applied another butterfly.

“Your, uh…your family spoke to you. After they died, then.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “I don’t suppose you believe in that sort of thing. But they did. I mean, I was with them at first, when Mom said all that. But after I came back, she still…stayed in touch.”

“How? You hear voices? See her in dreams?”

She put on the third bandage, sensing that this was important to him and answering carefully. “No. She sends me signs. All the time. Heck, that’s why I’m here.” She lifted her head. “You can let go now. It’s all taped up.” He took his hand away. She reached into the kit for more fresh gauze, tape, and a tube of triple antibiotic ointment.

“What did you mean, that’s why you’re here?”

“I kept seeing signs, telling me I should come home for Christmas. So I did. I didn’t know why, or what the point was, but then you showed up.” She applied a generous dollop of ointment, placed the gauze pad over it, and then taped it carefully in place.

“I showed up. You’re saying you think I’m the reason she sent you here?”

“Well, you’re the only reason I’ve seen so far.”

“And what is it you think you’re supposed to…uh…do with me?”

She lifted her head, met his eyes quickly, and smiled. “The only thing that comes to mind—besides the obvious…” He looked really interested when she said that, but she went right on, pretending not to notice, “Is that maybe I’m supposed to teach you how to love Christmas again.”

She sat back on her heels. “All done.”

He looked at the knee, nodded. “Nice job. Thanks.”

“You can thank me by helping me decorate the tree.”

He frowned, looking around the room. “You showed me every inch of this place, and I don’t recall seeing any tree. Am I missing something?”

“My mother would never ask me to spend Christmas without a tree. We’ll have one, somehow. Maybe one is growing close enough by so I can go out and get it when the snow stops. Or maybe Santa will bring one when he comes.” She smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know how we’re going to get a tree, but I guarantee you, we’ll have one.”

“Ooookay.”

She gathered up the wrappings, carried them to the fireplace, and tossed them into the flames Then she returned to the first aid kit, and packed it up, closed it, and set it in a corner for safekeeping.

“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked. “’Cause I have pain reliever, if—”

“No, it’s okay.”

“So it’s your turn, then,” she said. She bent to the fire and tossed as many logs onto it as seemed wise, then replaced the screen and walked to the sofa bed. He was still sitting on the side, his feet on the floor, one sock on, one off. She crawled right past him and lay down, snuggled into her pillow, and tugged the covers up over her. She turned onto her side, to face him, waiting.

“My turn to do what?”

“Tell me something about you.” She patted the mattress beside her. “And lie down, will you? I’m not all that bad, am I?”

He didn’t answer, but he did peel off his sweater and shirt, leaving on a T-shirt. Then he lay down stiffly, on his back, pulled the covers to his chin, and carefully left a good four inches of space between the two of them.

“Not much to tell,” he said. “I live in Detroit. I have one sister—married with two kids. I buy, renovate, and sell houses. I do okay.”

He stopped there, as if that was everything. She rolled her eyes. “I mean something real.”

“Like what?”

“Like why you hate Christmas.”

He turned, just his head, nothing else, toward her. “I don’t talk about that.”

“Oh, come on. After the stuff I told you?”

He sighed. “Actually, it’s pretty similar. Eerily similar. But purely coincidental,” he added, with a lift of his brows and a nod of his head. “My dad died the day before Thanksgiving. The holidays have never been my favorite time since.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve,” he said.

“How did he die?”

“Heart attack.”

“So that left just you and your mom and your sister.”

“Yeah.”

“She younger or older, your sis?”

“Younger.”

She nodded. “So how did you celebrate Christmas that year?” she asked.

He frowned at her. “You’re a nosy little thing, you know that?”

She shrugged. “I already told you, I like you, Matthew,” she said. “I’m starting to think I like you very much.”

“Uh…yeah, well…”

“And I think maybe Mom knew I would. And I don’t think there’s any such thing as coincidence.”

“Look, Holly, don’t go getting any…ideas…you know about…you and me. This is just a couple of strangers stranded in a snowstorm.”

“Yeah. I know.” She moved closer; he didn’t move away. She said, “Can I just try something? Just to make sure?”

“Try…what?” he asked.

“This,” she said, and she closed her eyes and pressed her mouth to his.

Bernie wore the hat into the diner, and found himself a seat at the counter, not wanting to take up space in a booth. After all, he wasn’t a paying customer. He was there in search of handouts, though his favorite lady never made him feel as if he was.

There she was now, coming right up to him, wiping her hands on a crisp white towel as she did. She was sick, he knew, but he wasn’t sure exactly how. Only that she got more lame by degrees. She used a cane now, and he’d heard someone say she would be in a wheelchair before long. Her little niece sure had stepped up to the plate, though.

“Now, honey, you can’t even imagine how glad I am to see you,” she said. “I just had a fellow come in here—you wouldn’t believe the manners. Ordered a full-blown breakfast fit to feed a lumberjack, then got all huffy ’cause I didn’t get it to him fast enough and took his business elsewhere. I been back here wringing my hands thinking of all that food going to waste. I don’t suppose you might have room for it, would you?”

He shrugged. “I’d be glad of it, Sheila.”

Her pretty face broke into a full-blown smile. “Oh, thank you, hon. Now, listen, it’s gonna take a bit to warm it up for you. Why don’t you head on back to that booth right there? It’s next to the register. Gets too warm for most folks. And I’ll bring it on back when it’s ready. You want coffee or cocoa with that?”

“Cocoa would be good,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble, I mean.”

“No trouble at all.” She had already hauled a heavy white mug from beneath the counter, and she turned to a big steaming pot that smelled like heaven, and poured frothy chocolate from it. She handed the mug to him and patted his hands. “My goodness, your hands are cold.”

“Oh, they’ll warm soon enough,” he said, hugging them around the mug. “Thanks to you.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re doing me the favor. Go on, go sit. I’ll bring your food along presently.”

Nodding, he got up off the stool and made his way back to the booth she’d indicated. He slid into it, grateful for the soft, cushioned seat, and the room to lean back and stretch out his legs underneath the table, and just soak up the heat wafting up from the register nearby. It felt good.

That Sheila, she was one in a million.

He took the felt hat off his head, and set it on the table beside him, remembering his manners late, but at least remembering them.

He wanted to give her something to thank her. But he didn’t have much to give. Then again, he thought, glancing down at the hat, it would be no great loss to give her the hat. It was just the sort of thing she would appreciate, and he would be no more without it than he had been a few hours ago.

That was it, then. He’d give her the hat. He had a feeling it was the right thing to do. Odd, that. But there it was.

Nine

HE DID NOT EXPECT HOLLY TO KISS HIM. HELL, THAT WAS the last thing he expected. And his initial reaction was a sudden, desperate urge to jump out of that bed and run for the door.

He didn’t act on it quickly enough, though, and so the second urge stepped up to the plate. And that one was to wrap his arms around her and pull her close and kiss her right back.

Which was totally idiotic.

And yet, he did it. He rolled toward her, twisted his arms around her tiny waist, pulled her close to him, so her chest was pressed to his, and opened his mouth to feed from hers. And she opened hers, too, and he let his tongue caress those lips and she opened farther to welcome it inside. Damn. Damn, he was on fire all of the sudden. And it was dumb and made no sense whatsoever.

Finally, he lifted his head back a little, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “I, um…this isn’t a good idea, Holly.”

“I think it’s a really good idea,” she said. “Life’s too short not to embrace gifts like this. And this is a gift, Matthew. Don’t think for one minute it’s anything less.”

“I don’t even know you.”

She shrugged. “You’re about to.”

He was tempted. Sorely tempted. This was like some fantasy out of the Penthouse Forum. But it wasn’t a fantasy. It was real, and she was real, and there were real reasons not to sleep with someone you didn’t know. Particularly without protection.

And that, he thought, was the one argument that might save him. Both from her persistence and his own weakness.

“We don’t have any—”

“Yes, we do.”

He blinked at her. She smiled at him, her head resting on the pillow, her eyes sparkling with firelight. “You know how I was saying before that it always pays to be prepared?”

“Uh-huh.” It was a croak.

“Well?”

“I, um…I’m not looking for—”

“Let’s not question this, okay? Let’s not analyze it or talk about it or, God forbid, waste it. Let’s just enjoy it. Right now. In the moment. Can we do that?”

He had yet to meet a woman capable of any such thing. Then again, he thought, he had yet to meet a woman quite like this one.

“I can do that,” he said softly. And now he got a little braver, reached out with his fingers to stroke a wisp of a blond curl from her cheek. And then he paused with that curl in his fingers, rubbing it. So soft. And her cheek, even softer. “Can you?”

“I’ve spent my entire life living in the moment. It’s the only way I got through, sometimes.”

He felt the surprise rinse through him at that admission—the admission that she had ever been less than perfectly happy. It was something he didn’t imagine she let a lot of people see. And then he looked at her, really looked at her, and he saw beyond the happy, new age, positive-energy-spouting hippie. He saw a woman who’d been gutted, just like he had been. She was empty, and searching for something to fill that emptiness. She was vulnerable and needier than she knew. And right now, what she needed was him.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t handle being quite that needed.

He stroked her cheek once more, then leaned closer, and pressed his lips to it. “I can’t, Holly. I’m sorry.”

Her eyes slammed closed. White teeth bit down on her lower lip. She rolled onto her back and flung a forearm over her face, probably to hide it from him. “It’s okay. I understand.”

“I’ll probably regret it for the rest of my life, if that’s any consolation.”

“It’s not, ’cause I will, too.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“You should be.”

“It’s not that I’m not…attracted to you.”

“Well, duh.”

He frowned at her—well, toward her. She still had her arm over her face. “I don’t follow.”

“By ‘well, duh,’ I mean, ‘obviously you’re attracted to me’ and ‘who wouldn’t be, anyway?’”

“Any man in his right mind would be,” he said. “Maybe I just see more than they would.”

“Suddenly the Grinch is Mister Insight?” she asked. “This oughtta be good.”

“Would be, but I’m not going there. You going to be able to sleep?”

“Not much else to do,” she replied. Then she rolled onto her side, away from him, punched her pillow as if it had done something to make her very angry, and lay still.

“I’m sorry, Holly.”

“Stop saying that.”

He sighed, tried to relax into the pillow, and closed his eyes. But he wasn’t a bit sleepy. Mostly, his mind was busy conjuring what it would have been like. What he could have been doing, right then, instead of lying there, bored, wide-awake, and turned on in spite of himself.

Yep. He was an idiot.

EVENTUALLY, SHE SLEPT. SHE WASN’T SURE HOW. SHE’D been pretty much embarrassed to the roots of her hair to have offered herself to him so blatantly, only to have him turn her down cold.

Damn. She’d thought she had more sex appeal than that.

At any rate, she lay there stewing and frustrated until, finally, sleep had claimed her. And it seemed that sleep had its own ideas about what the two of them would and would not be doing in the comfort of the sofa bed.

Because when she opened her eyes, and she saw him opening his, they were lying, face to face. Close enough to kiss. They were tangled together. Her arms were around his neck. His were around her waist. Her leg was over his, his upper one was in between hers.

And before she could move, he was kissing her. Eyes falling closed, mouth moving to capture hers, arms curling tighter, pulling her closer.

“You don’t have to…” she whispered when his lips slid from hers to her neck. And once he started kissing her neck, it was all over. That was her weak spot, right there. She thought wildly that she even liked his morning breath. It wasn’t bad. Just real. Raw.

“I have to,” he muttered against her skin. “Trust me, I have to.”

She didn’t have to be told twice. She arched her hips toward his, and he pushed back, then pressed her onto her back and slid his hand down the front of her pajama bottoms. She scrambled out of them to give him better access. Then she tugged at his clothes as they kissed some more, wrestling his T-shirt over his head. He pulled her pajama top free of its buttons, pushed it off her shoulders. And then his mouth was moving from hers, down her neck to her chest. She shivered when he found her breasts, mouthed them, suckled them.

Pleasure shot through her like fire through a dry forest. Heat so intense she thought she might go up in flames. He touched her, then his hand slid between her legs, not hesitantly, not timidly, but eagerly. And he groaned at the heat and wetness he felt there.

She arched against his hand, silently pleading for more, and he didn’t make her wait. He rolled on top of her, slid inside her, and she quivered and sighed as he filled her. The sensation grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go. She tipped her hips up to his and took all of him, until he drove the very breath from her lungs. And then again and again. He kept on kissing her the entire time they twisted and writhed and pressed into each other. Straining, reaching, taking, and giving. And all the while his mouth took hers. He kissed her as if he loved kissing her. As if he didn’t want to stop. No man had ever done that before—kissed her all the way through sex. Open-mouthed, hungry, wet kisses. As if he wanted to devour her. As if he couldn’t get enough.

It made her feel more wanted than she had ever felt in her life. And she wondered where he’d been hiding all this passion, all this fire. Thank God he wasn’t hiding it now.

His hands slid underneath her backside, to hold her to him, tilt her up to take him, and he drove even deeper, and faster, and his kisses became more desperate. He was pushing her toward climax, and she reached for it, ached for it. And then, suddenly, he pulled back just slightly, tried to slow his pace.

“No,” she whispered. “No, Matthew, don’t stop.”

“But I’m—”

“So am I.”

She clutched his hips and rode him, moving against him as the wave crested, and crashed to the shore. Her entire body shuddered in sweet anguished ecstasy. She clung and she cried out, and then he was doing the same as he drove deep and held there, throbbing inside her.

They clung that way for a long time, and he kissed her again and again as her body sank into the most relaxed state of bliss she had ever felt. He withdrew after a time, rolling onto his side, pulling her close into his arms. She snuggled against him, content and sated.

Moments ticked past. Long moments as her body just hummed.

“We’re very different people, you and I,” he said eventually.

She stayed where she was, warm and cozy in his arms. “We have a lot in common, too, though. Not that I’m saying we have to, or—”

“I know.” He sighed. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, his breath in her hair. Maybe she wasn’t entirely sated just yet, she thought with a secret smile. “We had similar tragedies, centered around the holidays, when we were kids. But we reacted in entirely different ways.”

“Will you tell me now? About that first Christmas without your dad?”

He was silent for a long moment. So long she began to think he wasn’t going to answer her at all. And then he said, “Dad had this hat. This old felt hat he wore everywhere.”

“Not a fedora,” she whispered.

“Yeah. A black felt fedora. He always told me he’d give it to me one day. Like it was some kind of an heirloom or something. It was an inside joke between us.”

“That’s incredibly special.”

“My mother sold it, along with all his things, to a secondhand shop so she could use the money to buy us kids Christmas presents.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah. It was just a stupid hat. But it meant something to me. I don’t even remember what she bought me that year. Just that the hat was gone, and we couldn’t get it back. And it got to me. I guess I resented Christmas over that, as much as anything else.”

“I don’t blame you. It must have been like losing that one last little piece of him.”

She felt him nod. “That’s exactly what it was like.” He hugged her a little tighter. “Maybe it would have been easier if I believed…like you do. If he’d—I don’t know—talked to me or showed up in a dream or sent me some kind of unmistakable sign, you know? But to me, it was like he was just gone. Just…gone.”

“But he’s not.”

“See, that’s where we’re different. I don’t really believe that.”

“You’re the kind of man who has to see things, touch them, to believe them,” she said. “But I know your dad’s not gone. I’ve been there, don’t forget. And I’ll bet he has sent you signs—you’re just not seeing them. Because you’re not looking for them. And you’re not looking for them because you don’t believe they exist. You think seeing is believing. But I know you have to believe first. Then you start to see.”

He lifted his head and looked down at her. She met his eyes and smiled softly. He said, “I like you, Holly. In spite of myself, I think. But um…this—”

“Isn’t going anywhere,” she finished for him. “Because it’s impossible. Because you have to go back to your life in Detroit, and I have to go back to my aunt in Binghamton. And because of a thousand other reasons. We don’t have to go there tonight, though, do we? Let’s just enjoy this for what it is, and not worry about what it isn’t. That’s what we both said we would do, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“So can I tell you something before we go to sleep?”

“Sure.”

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

His smile was instant and full, and she thought, pretty damn self-satisfied. But he didn’t return the compliment. He was probably afraid to, afraid she’d read too much into it if he did. But she wasn’t going to put up with that. She jabbed him in the ribs a little. “You’re supposed to say it was good for you, too, you know.”

He snuggled down beside her. “It—”

His words were interrupted by the roar of a motor, and then a horrible crash and the sound of crunching metal. They both sat up in bed, stunned into immobility for just a second. Then they were scrambling for their clothes, lighting lamps. She ran to the window and looked out to see headlights, and the outline of a flatbed truck at a cockeyed angle off the side of the road, its nose crushed against a tree. The back of it was loaded with something, and covered in a white tarp.

“Oh, no.”

Matthew was pulling on his boots, then his coat. “I’ll see if the driver’s okay.”

“I’ll grab the first aid kit and be right out,” she told him, rushing for her own boots as he headed out the door. “God, who would try to drive in this?”

MATTHEW WAS WORRIED, AND TO BE HONEST, DAMN GLAD of the distraction, as he tromped through a good two feet of snow toward the wreck. Maybe the driver would be unharmed and would shack up with the two of them for the remainder of the storm. Maybe having a third party there would keep him from making any more asinine blunders like the one he’d made tonight.

Sure, Holly said it didn’t have to mean anything. But he’d never met a woman yet who could have sex and not want it to mean something. And yeah, she was different from any woman he’d ever met before. But at the core, women were women.

And she had some kind of effect on him. Because damn, he had never had sex that good. And he never ever talked about that stupid hat. At least he never had, until tonight.

He hoped the driver was okay. And he hoped the guy would stay for a while.

As he neared the truck, the driver’s door opened, and a man clambered out.

“Hey, are you okay?” Matthew called.

“Yeah, fine, fine.” The man walked toward him, shaking his head. “I really thought I could make it through. Should have known better, but hell, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

As he spoke, he zipped up his parka, pulled up the hood, turned to look in the direction he’d been driving. “Well, it’s only another half mile. My place is just around the next bend in the road. Guess I’m hoofing it from here.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Damn straight I’m serious. I’ve got a wife and kids waiting on me.”

“Look, at least wait until daylight. It can’t be more than an hour away,” Matthew said. “If another vehicle comes along, you could end up dead.”

“Matthew’s right,” Holly called. Matt turned to see her hurrying closer, all bundled up from head to toe, her first aid kit in one hand. “Come into the house. We’ve got a warm fire. I’ll make you some hot cocoa, and when it gets light, you can be on your way.”

He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. I was due in hours ago. She’s gonna be worried.”

“Can you call? We have cell phones,” Holly said.

“I have one, too. Home phones are out, I imagine. I couldn’t get through.” He shook his head. “Nope, I’ve got to go. Like I said, it’s not far now. Too bad about the load, but it’s pretty late to sell ’em now anyway. Still, one of ’em will go to good use.”

He walked around to the back of the truck, untied the canvas, and flipped it back. Matthew smelled pine. And when the driver pulled a Christmas tree, all neatly bundled for travel, off the truck’s bed, he just shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Well, I got a deal on ’em, you see. There’s only a dozen. Lots of folks wait till Christmas Eve to get their trees, so I figured I could turn ’em around for a few dollars’ profit.” He eyed the nose of his truck. “Looks like they ended up costing me more than I thought.” He loosened a string from the tree’s bundled wrappings, used it to make a tow line with which to drag the tree home. A half mile through a blizzard.

“Hey, you folks have a tree yet?”

Holly smiled. “I think we do now,” she said.

“Help yourself. Merry Christmas.” The man turned and walked away, pulling the tree behind him.

Matthew watched him go. Then he heard Holly mutter, “Thanks, Mom.”

He turned to look at her, and then at the truck full of trees, and then at her again. Her smile was as wide and bright as…hell, as a kid’s on Christmas morning. “I told you. First, you have to believe.” She ran through the snow, toward the truck, calling, “Come on, Matthew. Let’s pick the best tree of the bunch!”

Sheila hadn’t wanted to take the hat from Bernie, but sensed it was important to him, to his sense of pride. And besides, it was just exactly what Holly needed. She’d only just reenrolled in school, and landed a role in the holiday play. She was playing a hobo, and this hat was the one missing piece her costume still needed.

So Sheila gave the hat to Holly. And Holly fell in love with it. Maybe, somehow, she felt its magic. At any rate, she never went away from home without it. She even took it with her on that fateful trip back to her childhood home, twelve years later.

Ten

BY THE TIME THE SUN CAME UP, THE TREE WAS STANDING IN the living room in a makeshift tree stand Matthew had constructed from an old pail he’d found in the basement, and was held in place by a few yards of twine.

“Now what?” he asked, surveying his work.

“Now, breakfast. I believe it’s your turn to cook.”

He studied her with his eyebrows raised, then, seeing that she wasn’t kidding, he nodded. “Okay, breakfast it is.”

“There’s a pile of food in the big cooler in the kitchen. I never bothered with the fridge.”

“Is there—dare I hope—coffee?”

“Of course there’s coffee. And luckily, I brought the stovetop percolator.”

“I’m not sure I know how to use it.”

“Then I’ll brew while you cook. Let’s get cracking, we’ve got a ton to do today.”

“We do?” He looked around the place as if in search of all the busywork she had lined up. “Like what?”

“Decorate the tree. Make Christmas dinner. And build a snowman.”

“I was thinking more in terms of shoveling the driveway and cleaning off our cars.”

She stuck out her lower lip. “You’re in that much of a hurry to leave?”

He studied her face, sensing a lapse in her happy-go-lucky, Holly-Golightly mood. “We’re going to have to eventually, Holly. It’s stopped snowing. They’ll probably clear the roads before the day is out.”

She lowered her head, licked her lips, then nodded once. “Well, let’s get on with breakfast then. If we’re going to decorate the tree, make the dinner, build a snowman, clear the driveway, and clean off the cars, we’d better get a move on.”

But the sadness remained in her eyes, despite her bright smile, as she hurried into the kitchen. Dammit, he thought. He knew it. He knew she was going to get all emotional on him, and want more than just a casual encounter. He hated hurting her. It was like kicking a puppy to hurt a bubbly little thing like Holly. But he couldn’t help it.

God, he couldn’t even imagine what else there could be between them. They were completely opposite in every way. Living with that cheerful, positive, upbeat, silver lining kind of attitude in his life would…

He was going to say it would be horrible. But he couldn’t quite tell that big a lie, even to himself.

It just wasn’t what he had planned. That’s all.

BY NOON, THE DETERMINED, STUBBORN, FRIGHTENED MAN had shoveled the driveway to within an inch of its life. Yes, frightened, Holly thought. He was scared to death of her, she knew it. And not just of her, but of what she represented—belief. Faith. Reaching for the impossible with every expectation that it would be. He didn’t want to believe in anything, because his past was full of pain. He was just avoiding more of that. Or he thought he was.

But he wasn’t really living.

He wanted to get away from her so bad, she thought if they’d been stranded on a desert island, he would try to swim for it. If they were in a prison cell, he’d have gnawed through the bars. As it was, all he had to do was shovel some snow and wait for the plows.

He was cleaning off the cars now. Hers as well as his own. And he’d be done soon. Her time was running out.

She bundled up and headed outside. “Enough work for one day,” she announced, snatching the snow brush from him. “It’s time for some fun.”

“You’ve got the tree all decked already?”

“What, you thought I was going to do it alone? No way. You, Ebenezer, are going to help me trim that tree. I’ve strung the popcorn and cranberries, though, and dinner’s in the oven.”

“Won’t it be done awfully early?”

“Mmm. I figured that way you could eat with me before you take off. It hasn’t snowed all day, and the plows have got to be out and making their way to us.” She eyed the driveway, the cars. “And it looks like you’ve accomplished your chosen goals for the day. So all that’s left…”

“Oh, not the snowman.”

“Yes! The snowman.” And with that she set the snowbrush beside the car, and ran into the snow. She started forming a snowball with the heavy, damp snow. “It’s perfect for snowman building. And what a day. I mean, look at it, Matthew.”

He did, she watched him. He looked up at the bluest sky imaginable, with the sun streaming down. It was, she suspected, about forty degrees. Pleasant and beautiful. While he was still staring up at the sky, she lifted her arm and pegged him square in the chest with the snowball.

“Hey!” He brushed the snow off, but even as he did, she bent to form another.

“Defend yourself, or suffer the consequences!” She fired again, but he ducked behind the car—her car, not his, she noticed. When he sprang up again, he was firing right back at her, and she took one to the side of the head before she found cover behind a drift. When she peeked up again, he was right on the other side, ready to nail her, so she pushed him hard, hands flat to his chest. He grabbed her wrists to keep from falling and wound up pulling her down in the snow on top of him.

They were both laughing, and then they both stopped. She held his eyes, licked her lips, prayed he would kiss her. And then he answered her prayer and did.

He kissed her, softly, then more deeply, and then his tongue swept into her mouth and she moaned around it. His hips arched against hers. She arched right back. They twined and tangled and fed from each other.

And then a roar made her lift her head. And she felt her heart break a little as the snowplow rumbled past, blasting snow out of the road like some kind of monster.

It felt like a monster to her just then.

There would be no snowman. No Christmas dinner with him. No trimming the tree. No more lovemaking. He was leaving; she could see it in his eyes when she lifted her face enough to stare down into them.

“I…can still make my flight,” he said.

And why did it hurt so much when she’d only known him for such a short time?

She got up and turned toward the house, because her eyes were burning and she didn’t want him to see that.

But he caught her shoulders, turned her around, and looked at her tears. “I’m really sorry, Holly. I never meant to hurt you.”

“You’re not supposed to leave. I know you don’t believe in signs, Matthew, but we were meant to meet. We were meant to be together, here, like this. And I can’t believe that the universe went to all the trouble to set this up, just to give us one night of great sex.”

“Holly—”

“There has to be more to it than that. There has to be.”

He sighed, and lowered his head. “It was coincidence. That’s all. There’s no deeper meaning, no universe plotting our lives. Things just happen, Holly. This…just happened. That’s all.”

She lowered her head, nodded. “Your keys are on the mantle. I’ll get them for you.” And with that, she walked back to the house, through the door. Angrily, she tugged off her mittens and brushed away her tears. Then she took the box she’d wrapped in old newspapers and decorated with a piece of pine all twisted around with a bit of her popcorn and cranberry garland. She picked up his key ring, and blinked her eyes as dry as possible, then she went back outside.

“What’s this?” he asked when she handed him the box.

“It’s a Christmas present.” She shrugged. “It’s stupid, really. Just something I thought…” She let the words die. “I, um—I put my phone number in there, too. I mean, at least that way, when you don’t call, I’ll know it’s because you don’t want to, and not because you don’t know how to reach me.”

“Holly—”

“Just go, okay? Just go, Matthew.”

He sighed deeply. She couldn’t keep the tears back any longer, so she turned and ran back into the house, fast, because she didn’t want to lose it in front of him and make him feel worse than he already did. It wasn’t exactly fair—she’d told him she wouldn’t make anything out of this, and then she had.

And yet, she couldn’t help it.

Leaning back against the door, she waited until she heard the Porsche start up and pull slowly away. And then she cried her eyes out.

Eleven

HE MANAGED TO DRIVE FOR ABOUT TWO HOURS BEFORE HE had to stop for gas and food and to kick himself a little more thoroughly than he had been for the last hundred miles. What the hell was wrong with him? He was fighting the most irrational urge to turn the damn car around and go racing back there. And what good would that do? It wasn’t like there was any future for the two of them. It wasn’t like you could meet someone and fall in love in freaking twenty-four hours. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real.

Okay, maybe it felt possible. But that was nonsense. You couldn’t form the basis of a relationship in one day. You couldn’t. It just didn’t happen. There was no such thing as love at first sight. Maybe infatuation. Maybe great sex even, but not love.

It didn’t happen. And there were no signs, and he was not meant to be with her. It was all coincidence. That’s all. Coincidence.

He sat in the car outside the diner, where he’d stopped for a quick lunch. He had an hour to spare before his flight, and only a few more minutes to the airport. But for some asinine reason, he couldn’t convince himself to go inside. Not just yet. He was eyeing the box, the gift Holly had given him, and knowing that he wasn’t going to get out of that car until he opened it. Because he was wallowing in feeling guilty for hurting her, and the gift, whatever it was, would certainly make him feel even worse, so he might as well take it.

Love at first sight. Bullshit. And this was just one more Christmas to add to the list of horrible ones. One more pile of the romantic crap people heaped on the holidays. If it hadn’t been Christmas, she might not have been quite so vulnerable.

It was like she thought her mother had delivered him to her as a Christmas present. The way she did the tree.

And how about that tree, anyway? She said there would be one, and then there was. How the hell did that work out?

“Coincidence,” he said. “Tell you what, Holly’s mom. If you’re so good at communicating from beyond the grave, why don’t you send me a message or two? Or better yet, have my dad send me one. Prove to me this is real and I’ll go back there so fast your freaking heads will spin.”

He sat still a minute, caught himself waiting, watching, listening, looking all around, as if he really expected something to happen.

“Idiot.”

Sighing, he took the bit of pine with its popcorn and cranberry strand off the package, and then he tore the newspapers off it. It was an old cardboard box she’d probably found in the attic. On the front was a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and read, “Thanks. Last night was the best Christmas present I ever got. This gift isn’t the original, but I’ve had it for years, and I always loved it. I thought maybe you’d enjoy it, too.” She’d signed it, “Love, Holly,” and jotted her phone number underneath her name.

If he was smart, he’d crumple that paper up and toss it out the window.

But he wasn’t smart, because he folded it and tucked it into his pocket instead.

Then he took the lid off the box.

Inside was a hat. An old, black felt fedora.

His throat closed off. He couldn’t even breathe for a second. And he thought his hand was shaking as he picked the hat up out of the box and turned it slowly in his hands. My God, it was exactly—maybe a little more worn but—no. It wasn’t the same hat. Of course it wasn’t. But it was so like that old hat that lived in his memory—so very much like it that he couldn’t help himself.

He turned it over, and looked at the tag that was sewn into the lining.

The initials were there. Faded, barely readable, but there. His father’s initials.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, but right then, Matthew came close. His eyes were burning and so blurry that he could barely see. Because if this wasn’t a sign, if this wasn’t some kind of magic, he didn’t know what was. He lifted his head, and whispered, “Dad?”

A truck pulled into the parking lot beside him. It was an orange truck and the men inside looked to be a road crew. There were signs in the back. One, the one facing him that caught his eye, read, “WRONG WAY. GO BACK.”

A smile split his face. He nodded hard. “All right, Dad. I’m going.”

He put the hat on his head, almost laughing out loud as he adjusted it to the same cocky tilt his dad always used. Then he turned the car around, and headed north on I-81.

HOLLY CRIED UNTIL SHE WAS SPENT, AND THEN SHE PICKED herself up, told herself to stop being pathetic, and to do her best to enjoy Christmas. For her mom’s sake, she could do that.

She decorated her tree, stringing the popcorn and cranberry garland all over it, and topping it with a foil-and-cardboard star. At 4 p.m. the power came back on. She set her table—an upturned crate in front of the sofa, topped with a bath towel for a tablecloth. She’d brought some real china for the occasion, even had two tall taper candles, one red, one green, in crystal holders to add the finishing touch. And wineglasses, one of which she filled.

Her holiday dinner was keeping warm in the oven. Turkey breast, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, mixed veggies, squash, and pumpkin pie. It was more than one person could hope to eat. More than four or five could probably manage, but she would try to do it justice.

But first, as long as the power was on, she decided to take a long, hot shower, and put on the dress she’d brought along. She always dressed for the holiday. And this one would be no different.

The shower was soothing, but she battled loneliness through the whole thing. If only Matthew would have stayed one more night. If only he would have celebrated Christmas with her.

Oh, but he was right. One more night would have only left her wanting another, and another, and more after that. It was probably better he left when he did.

She lingered in the bathroom, dried her hair, put on makeup and high heels. It was Christmas, after all. She donned the long red dress. It was pretty, slinky and clingy.

And then she opened the bathroom door and heard music. She blinked, wondering if she’d left the radio on, or if her mother was getting even more talented in cross-plane communications. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was playing on the radio. It brought a teary smile to her face.

She walked slowly down the stairs, humming along, and stepped into the living room. All of her food was on the makeshift table. Her candles were lit, and the other lights were turned off.

Matthew was standing by the fire, staring at the flames, sipping a glass of wine. The hat was perched on his head. She froze, just stood there, staring at him, wondering if he was some kind of an illusion. When he looked up and saw her, he set the wineglass on the mantle.

“I’d have been back sooner, but I had a stop to make.”

She wanted to rush into his arms. She wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to kiss his face off. But she forced herself to wait, to walk slowly to him, and not touch him. Not yet.

He took the hat off and said, “Where did you get this, Holly?”

“From my Aunt Sheila. She got it from a homeless man who used to frequent the diner. He found it rolling down the street, he said. I’ve always liked quirky things like that, so she gave it to me.” She shrugged. “When you told me about your dad’s hat, I thought this might be like it, so—”

“It’s not just like my dad’s hat. Holly, this is my dad’s hat.”

She blinked. “I don’t—”

“He put his initials inside. They’re there. This is the same hat.”

She pressed her fingers to her lips.

“I think it’s a sign. I mean, how could my dad’s hat make its way from Flint, Michigan, to here? Why would it end up with you? Unless…somehow, we were…meant to…”

“Meant to…what?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But I know I want to find out.” He handed her a card, in a large envelope, and she opened it. A couple of kids, a boy and a girl, building a snowman was on the front. She opened it and read the inside. “You’re why I love Christmas,” it read.

Her tears spilled over, and she flung herself into his arms.

“I want to buy this house,” he told her, holding her close. “But not to flip it. I want us to fix it up together, and spend time here together, and just…just see where things lead.”

“You mean you don’t know where they’re going to lead?”

He stared into her eyes, searching them. “Do you?”

She smiled. “Yeah. We’re going to live happily ever after.”

He smiled slowly as he lowered his mouth to hers. “Okay.”