Home for the Holidays (20 page)

This was destined to be the worst one of her life. Not only was she alone, but she was in a strange town, without a single friend. And her daughter had just broken her heart.

“F
or heaven's sake, what is this?” Charles stood outside the gingerbread house in the middle of Santa's village feeling total dismay. There had to be some mistake—some vast, terrible mistake. Nothing else would explain the fact that after flying three thousand miles, he'd landed smack-dab in the middle of Christmas Town, complete with ice-skating rink, glittering lights and Christmas music.

He closed his eyes, hoping, praying, this nightmare would vanish and he could settle down in a nice quiet prison community. When he opened them, it was even worse than Charles had imagined. A little kid was staring up at him.

“I'm Sarah,” she announced.

He said nothing.

“I lost two teeth.” She proceeded to pull down her lower lip in order to reveal the empty spaces in her mouth.

“Is this where Emily Springer lives?” Charles asked, nodding toward the house. He was uncomfortable around children, mainly because he didn't know any.

“She went to Boston to spend Christmas with her daughter,” Sarah informed him.

“I know.” So he was in the right town. Damn.

“She keeps the key under the flower pot if you need to get inside.”

Charles cocked his eyebrows. “She told you that?”

“Everyone in town knows where the key is.” As if to prove it, Sarah walked over to the porch, lifted up the pot and produced the key, which she proudly displayed.

A one-horse open sleigh drove past, bells ringing, resembling something straight off a Christmas card. It didn't get any more grotesque than this. Ice skaters circled the rink in the park directly across the street from him. They were dressed in period costumes and singing in three-part harmony.

Rolling his suitcase behind him and clutching his laptop, Charles approached the house. It reminded him of an illustration, too cozy and perfect to be true, with its scalloped edging and colorful shutters. The porch had a swing and a rocking chair. Had he been Norman Rockwell, he would have found a canvas and painted it. Charles sighed heavily. This must be his punishment for trying to avoid Christmas.

“My mom's bringing you cookies,” Sarah told him as she followed him up the steps.

“Tell her not to bother.”

“She does it to be neighborly.”

“I don't want neighbors.”

“You don't?”

The little girl looked crushed.

He didn't mean to hurt the kid's feelings, but he wasn't interested in joining a Christmas commune. He simply
wasn't socially inclined. All he wanted was to be left alone so he could write—and ignore anything to do with Christmas. Clearly, he'd been mistaken about this town—where was the prison? Keeping to his all-work-and-no-Yule agenda was going to be more of a challenge than he'd planned.

“Thank your mother for me, but explain that I came here to work,” he told the little girl, making an effort to mollify her with politeness.

“But it's
Christmas.
”

“I'm well aware of the season,” he said, stabbing the key into the lock. “Let your mother know I prefer not to be disturbed.” He hoped the kid would take the hint, too.

Sarah jutted out her lower lip. “Okay.”

Good, she got the message. Charles opened the front door and stepped inside. He should've been prepared…. If Leavenworth was Santa's village, then stepping into this house was like walking into a fairy tale. The furniture was large and old-fashioned and bulky, with lots of lace and doilies. He'd traded homes with Goldilocks. Well, with the Three Bears, anyway. A grandfather clock chimed in the living room and logs were arranged in the fireplace, ready for a match. A knitted afghan was draped across the back of the overstuffed sofa. A green and blue braided rug covered the hardwood floor.

“Oh, brother,” Charles sighed, truly discouraged. He abandoned his suitcase and laptop in the entry and walked into the kitchen. Emily had left him a note propped against the holly wreath that served as a centerpiece on the round oak table. Charles was almost afraid to read it.

After a moment he reached for it, read it, then tossed it
in the garbage. She'd left him dinner in the refrigerator. All he had to do was heat it in the microwave.

Dinner. Cookies from the neighbor. “Jingle Bells” in a one-horse open sleigh gliding back and forth in front of the house. If
that
wasn't bad enough, the entire street, indeed the whole town, glittered with Christmas lights that blinked from every conceivable corner. This was madness. Sheer madness. He hadn't escaped Christmas; he'd dived headfirst into the middle of it.

The first thing Charles did before he unpacked was pull down every shade on every window he could find. That, at least, blocked out the lights. He found an empty bedroom, set his suitcase on a chair and took out the work materials he needed.

The doorbell chimed and he groaned inwardly, bracing himself for another confrontation with the Christmas kid. Or her mother, bearing gifts of cookies.

It wasn't a woman with a plate of cookies or the child who'd accosted him earlier. Instead there were
six
of them, six children who stared up at him in wide-eyed wonder. They were dressed in winter gear from head to toe, with only their eyes and noses visible behind thick wool scarves and hand-knit hats. Their noses were bright red and their eyes watery. Melting snow dripped puddles onto the porch.

“Do you want to come outside? Go sledding with us?” the oldest of the group asked, his scarf moving where his mouth must be.

“No.” Charles couldn't think of anything more to add.

“We have an extra sled you can use.”

“I—no, thanks.”

“Okay,” the second-tallest boy answered.

No one budged.

“You sure?” the first boy asked.

Someone shouted from nearby. An adult voice from what he could tell.

“That's our mom,” one of the children said. The little girl from before.

“We were supposed to leave you alone,” another girl told him. At least he thought it was a girl.

“You should listen to your mother.”

“Do you?”

The kid had him there. “Not always.”

“Us neither.” The boy's eyes smiled at him and Charles realized he'd made a friend, which was unfortunate.

“Emily said you were a teacher, too.”

“I'm writing a book and I won't have time to play in the snow.” He started to close the door.

“Not at all?” The oldest boy asked the question with a complete sense of horror.

“It's Christmas,” another reminded him.

The woman's voice sounded again, shriller this time.

“We got to go.”

“Bye,” Charles said and, despite himself, found that he was grinning when he closed the door. His amusement died a quick death once he was back inside the house. Despite his attempt to block out all evidence of Christmas, he was well aware that it waited right outside, ready to pounce on him the minute he peeked out.

Grumbling under his breath, he returned to the kitchen and grudgingly set his dinner in the microwave. Some kind of casserole, duly labeled “Charles.” He resisted the urge to call Emily Springer and tell her exactly what he thought of her little Christmas deception. He would, too, if she'd
misled him—only she hadn't. He blamed himself for this. Because he'd just realized something—he'd confused Leavenworth, Washington, with Leavenworth, Kansas.

The doorbell chimed once more, and Charles looked at the ceiling, rolling his eyes and groaning audibly. Apparently he was going to have to be more forthright with the family next door. He stomped across the room and hauled open the front door. He wanted to make it clear that he didn't appreciate the disturbances.

No one was there.

He stuck his head out the door and glanced in both directions.

No one.

Then he noticed a plate of decorated cookies sitting on the porch. They were wrapped in red cellophane, which was tied with a silver bow. His first instinct was to pretend he hadn't seen them. At the last second, he reached down, grabbed the plate and slammed the door shut. He turned the lock, and leaned against the wall, breathing fast.

He was in the wrong Leavenworth, but he might as well be in prison, since he wouldn't be able to leave the house, or even open the door, for fear of being ambushed by Christmas carolers, cookies and children.

Not exactly what he'd had in mind…

B
ernice Brewster was beside herself with frustration. For two days she'd tried to reach her son Charles, to no avail. He refused to use a cell phone and the one she'd purchased for him sat in a drawer somewhere. She was sure he'd never even charged the battery.

Growing up in Boston, Charles had been fascinated by history, particularly the original Thirteen Colonies. Now look at him! Granted, that interest had taken him far; unfortunately it seemed to be his
only
interest. If he wasn't standing in front of a classroom full of students—hanging on his every word as she fondly imagined—then he was buried in a book. Now, it appeared, he was writing his very own.

Why, oh why, couldn't her sons be like her friends' children, who were constantly causing them heartache and worry? Instead, she'd borne two sons who had to be the most loving, kindest sons on God's green earth, but…The problem was that they didn't understand one of the primary duties of a son—to provide his parents with grandchildren.

Bernice couldn't understand where she'd gone wrong. If there was anything to be grateful for, it was that Bernard hadn't lived long enough to discover what a disappointment their two sons had turned out to be in the family department.

Charles was the younger of the two. Rayburn, eight years his senior, lived in New York City and worked for one of the big publishers there. He insisted on being called Ray, although she never thought of him as anything but Rayburn. He was a gifted man who'd risen quickly in publishing, although he changed houses or companies so often she couldn't hope to keep track of where he was or exactly what he did. At last mention, he'd said something about the name of the publisher changing because his company had merged with another. The merger had apparently netted him a promotion.

Like his younger brother, however, Rayburn was a disappointment in the area of marriage. Her oldest son was married to his job. He was in his midforties now and she'd given up hope that he'd ever settle down with a wife and family. Rayburn lived and breathed publishing.

Charles, it seemed, was her only chance for grandchildren, slight though that chance might be. He was such a nice young man and for a while, years ago now, there'd been such promise when he'd fallen head over heels in love. Monica. Oh, yes, she remembered Monica, a conniving shallow little bitch who'd broken her son's heart. On Christmas Eve, yet.

What was wrong with all those women in Boston and New York? Both her sons were attractive; Rayburn and Charles possessed their father's striking good looks, not that either had ever taken advantage of that. Bernice sus
pected Rayburn had been involved with various women, but obviously there'd never been anyone special.

Sitting in her favorite chair with the phone beside her, Bernice wondered what to do next. This was a sorry, sorry state of affairs. While her friends in the Arizona retirement community brought out book after book filled with darling pictures of their grandchildren, she had nothing to show except photos of her Pomeranian, FiFi. There were only so many pictures of the dog she could pass around. Even she was tired of looking at photographs of FiFi.

Bernice petted the small dog and with a brooding sense that something was terribly wrong, reached for the phone. She pushed speed dial for Charles's number and closed her eyes with impatience, waiting for the call to connect.

After one short ring, someone answered. “Hello.”

Bernice gasped. The voice was soft and distinctly female. She couldn't believe her ears.

“Hello?”

“Is this the residence of Charles Brewster?” Bernice asked primly. “Professor Charles Brewster?”

“Yes, it is.”

Of course
it was Charles's condominium. The number was programmed into her phone and Bernice trusted technology. Shocked, she slammed down the receiver and stared, horrified, at the golf course outside.

Charles had a woman at his place. A woman he hadn't mentioned to his own mother, which could mean only one thing. Her son didn't want her to know anything about this…this female. All kinds of frightening scenarios flew into her mind. Charles consorting with a gold digger—or worse. Charles held hostage. Charles…She shook her head. No, she had to take control here.

Still in shock, Bernice picked up the phone again and pushed the top speed-dial button, which would connect her with Rayburn's New York apartment. He was often more difficult to reach than Charles. Luck was with her, however, and Rayburn answered after the third ring.

“Rayburn,” Bernice cried in near panic, not giving him a chance to greet her.

“Mother, what's wrong?”

“When was the last time you spoke with your brother?” she demanded breathlessly.

Rayburn seemed to need time to think about this, but Bernice was in no condition to wait. “Something is wrong with Charles! I'm so worried.”

“Why don't you start at the beginning?”

“I
am,
” she cried.

“Now, Mother…”

“Hear me out before you
Now, Mother
me.” The more she thought about a strange woman answering Charles's phone, the more alarmed she became. Ever since that dreadful Monica had broken off the relationship…Ever since her, he'd gone out of his way to avoid women. In fact, he seemed oblivious to them and rejected every attempt she'd made to match him up.

“Your brother has a woman living with him,” she said, her voice trembling.

Silence followed her announcement. “Mother, have you been drinking hot buttered rum again?”

“No,” she snapped, insulted he'd ask such a thing. “Hear me out. I haven't been able to get hold of Charles for two days. I left messages on his answering machine, and he never returned a single call.”

Her son was listening, and for that Bernice was grateful.

“Go on,” he said without inflection.

“Just now, not more than five minutes ago, I called Charles again. A woman answered the phone.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “She had a…sexy voice.”

“Perhaps it was a cleaning woman.”

“On a Monday?”

“Maybe it was a colleague. A friend from the History Department.”

Bernice maintained a stubborn silence.

“You're sure about this?” Rayburn finally said.

“As sure as I live and breathe. Your brother has a woman in his home—living there.”

“Just because she answered the phone doesn't mean she's living with Charles.”

“You and I both know your brother would never allow just anyone to answer the phone.”

Rayburn seemed to agree; a casual visitor wouldn't be answering his brother's phone.

“Good for him,” Rayburn said with what sounded like a chuckle.

“How can you say that?” Bernice cried. “It's obvious that this woman must be completely unacceptable.”

“Now, Mother…”

“Why wouldn't Charles tell us about her?”

“I don't know, but I think you're jumping to conclusions.”

“I'm not! I just
know
something's wrong. Perhaps she tricked her way into his home, killed him and—”

“You've been watching too many crime shows,” Rayburn chastised.

“Perhaps I have, but I won't rest until I get to the bottom of this.”

“Fine.” Her oldest son apparently grasped how seri
ous she was, because he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, Rayburn,” she said with a sob, dabbing her nose with a delicate hankie. “I don't know how I'd manage without my sons to look out for me.”

“Mother…”

“Take the train to Boston and investigate this situation. Report back to me ASAP.”

“I can phone him and handle this in five minutes.”

“No.” She was insistent. “I want you to check it out with your own eyes. God only knows what your brother's gotten himself into with this woman. I just know whoever it is must be taking advantage of Charles.”

“
Mother.
This is Christmas week and—”

“I know what time of year it is, Rayburn, and I realize you have a life of your own. A life that's much too busy to include your mother. But I'll tell you right now that I won't sleep a wink until I hear what's happened to Charles.”

There was a pause.

“All right,” Rayburn muttered. “I'll take the train to Boston and check up on Charles.”

“Thank God.” She could breathe easier now.