Trading Christmas (8 page)

B
ernice Brewster slept well for the first time in three days. At her age, she shouldn't be worrying about her adult children, but Charles was a concern. For that matter, so was Rayburn. Thankfully her older son had taken her apprehensions to heart and traveled to Boston to check on his younger brother.

Naturally there was a perfectly logical explanation as to why a woman had answered Charles's phone. She should've realized her sensible son wouldn't have some stray woman in the house. Charles was far too intelligent to be taken in by a gold digger. Granted, she'd like nothing better than to see him with the right woman—but there'd be nothing worse than seeing him with the wrong one. Like that Monica. Well, she was a fool and didn't deserve Charles.

Fortunately, Bernice now had the phone number in Washington State where Charles could be reached. She leaned to ward the telephone and dialed.

One ring. Two.

“Hello,” a female voice answered.

“Hello,” Bernice responded, a little uncertainly. She must have written the number down incorrectly. There was only one way to find out and that was to ask. “This phone number was given to me by Emily Springer. Is Charles Brewster there?”

The woman hesitated. “Yes, but he's unavailable at the moment.”

Bernice swallowed a gasp and before she could think better of it, slammed down the telephone. Dear heaven, what was happening? Feeling light-headed, she waited until her pounding heart had settled down before she tried to call Rayburn at his apartment. She wanted to know what was going on and she wanted to know right this minute.

When Rayburn didn't answer, she tried his office and learned he was still in Boston.

“Why?” she demanded of his assistant. “Why is he still in Boston?”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Brewster,” the young woman said politely. “Mr. Brewster phoned the office this morning and that's what he said.”

“He has his cell phone?” Of course he did, because he'd called her on it the night before.

“I believe he does.”

Bernice carefully punched out the cell number and waited. The phone rang four times before her son answered. “Ray Brewster.”

“Rayburn,” she gasped, overwhelmed by her children's odd behavior. His greeting had sounded far too friendly, as if he'd been laughing. Well, this was no laughing matter!

“Mother.” The sound of her voice sobered him up fast enough, she noticed. Something very suspicious was going on. “Where
are
you?” she demanded.

“I'm forty-three years old. I no longer need to check in with you.”

How dared he speak to her in that tone! She was about to say so when Rayburn chuckled.

“If you must know, I'm in Boston at Charles's condo.”

“There's a
woman
there.”

“I already know that, Mother.”

Bernice gasped. “You spent the night with her?”

“I was in the same condo, not that it's any of your business.”

Bernice pulled out her lace-edged hankie and clenched it tightly. “I…I have no idea where your father and I went wrong that both my sons—”

“Mother, take a deep breath and start over.”

Bernice tried, she honestly tried, but her heart was pounding and her head spinning. “I phoned the number you gave me and…another woman answered.”

“A woman? Are you sure you had the right number?”

“Of course I'm sure. I asked and she said Charles was unavailable.”

“Hold on, let me ask Emily who it might be.”

Emily, was it? “I see you're on a first-name basis with this—this house-stealer.”

To her chagrin, Rayburn laughed. “Honestly, Mother, I think you missed your calling. You should've been on the stage.”

Her husband used to make the same claim, and while she did have a good stage presence, she suspected Rayburn didn't mean it as a compliment.

Bernice could hear him in the background, but hard as she pressed her ear against the receiver, she couldn't make out what was being said.

“Emily says she doesn't have a clue who would be answer
ing the phone at her place. She'll call later and find out if you wish.”

“If I
wish?
” Bernice repeated.

“All right, I'll get back to you.”

Her son was about to hang up, but she still had more to say. “Rayburn,” she shouted. “You behave yourself with this woman, understand?”

“Yes, Mother.”

The phone line went dead.

 

“A woman answered?” Emily repeated after Ray ended the conversation with his mother. “Now, that's interesting.”

“Who do you think it might be?”

Emily shrugged. “Don't know, but it'll be easy enough to find out.” She went to the telephone and punched out her own number in Washington State.

The line was picked up almost right away. “Hello.”

“Faith?” Emily shrieked. “Faith? Is it really you?”

“Emily?”

They both started talking at once, blurting out questions and answers, then each explained in turn. Even then, it took Emily a few moments to discern what had actually happened.

“Oh, no! You came to spend Christmas with me and I'm not there.”

“You went to Boston to be with Heather and now she's in Florida?”

“Yes, but I can't think about it, otherwise I'll get too upset.”

Faith was sympathetic. “I felt so badly for the way I brushed off your disappointment.”

“And now you're trapped in Leavenworth.”

“There are worse places to be this time of year,” Faith said. She seemed to be in a good frame of mind. “Charles and I have reached an agreement,” she went on to say. “I'm staying until
after Christmas, and in exchange, I'll keep out of his way and cook his meals.”

While her friend put a positive slant on the situation, Emily realized Faith had to be miserable. Alone—or virtually alone—at Christmas.

“What about you?” Faith asked.

“I'm stuck in Boston, but it's really a lovely town.” Still, none of that mattered now. “Oh, Faith, what a good friend you are to go to all this trouble for me.”

“Well, I tried.”

Emily wanted to weep. Despite everything, it seemed she was destined to spend the holidays by herself. Still, she'd had a wonderful evening with Ray and felt attractive and carefree in a way she hadn't in years.

They talked for several minutes longer, making plans to call each other again. When she finished, Emily replaced the receiver and looked over at Ray, smiling.

“I take it she's someone you know?”

Emily told him what had happened. “I was lucky I caught her. Faith was on her way outside to go sledding with the neighbor kids. She's so good with children.”

“Faith sounds like a fun-loving person.”

“She is.”

“She's staying, then?”

Emily nodded. “She and Charles have worked out a compromise.” Emily felt guilty about the whole mess. Poor Charles. All he wanted was to escape Christmas and have time to work without interruption. But, between Faith and the Kennedy children, Emily figured the poor man wouldn't have a moment's peace.

Ray drank the rest of his coffee and set his mug aside. “I guess I'd better head back to New York.”

Emily knew it was too much to hope that he'd stay on. “I can't let you go without breakfast,” she said brightly.

Ray seemed almost relieved at being given an excuse to linger. “Are you sure I'm not disrupting your plans?”

“Plans? What plans? I'm here for another week and I don't know a soul in town.” She opened the cupboard, looking for ideas, and found an old-fashioned waffle iron. She brought it down, oiled it and plugged it in.

“I wondered what happened to Mom's old waffle iron,” Ray said as he leaned against the counter. He watched Emily assemble ingredients.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She shrugged as she cracked an egg against the side of the bowl. “Not really… The truth is, I'm just delaying the inevitable.” It probably wasn't polite to be this truthful, but she was beyond pretense. The minute Ray walked out that door, she'd be alone again and she'd enjoyed his company.

“Actually, I'm not hungry, either.”

“You aren't?” The question came out in a rushed whisper.

Ray shook his head. “I was looking for an excuse to stay.”

He and Emily exchanged a grin.

“Do we actually need an excuse?” he asked.

Emily didn't know how to answer or even if she should. “Do you have to go back to New York?”

“At the moment I can't think of a single compelling reason.”

“Would you be interested in staying in Boston for Christmas? With me?” Normally she wasn't this direct, but she had little to lose and so much to gain.

“I can't imagine anyone I'd rather spend Christmas with.”

O
n a mission now, Faith walked down Main Street in Leavenworth and headed for her favorite grocery. Even after a number of years away, she was astonished by the number of people who remembered her. Five years earlier, she'd done her student teaching in Leavenworth and worked in Emily's classroom.

Newly divorced, emotionally fragile and struggling to pick up the pieces of her life, she'd come to this out-of-the-way community. The town had welcomed her, and with Emily as her friend, she'd learned that life does continue.

The three months she'd spent with Emily had been like a reprieve for Faith, providing a much-needed escape from her badly bungled life. Once her student teaching was completed, she'd moved back to Seattle and soon afterward graduated with her master's degree in education. Diploma in hand, she'd gone to California to be closer to family.

Although she'd moved away from Leavenworth, Faith had stayed in contact with Emily. Their friendship had continued
to grow, despite the physical distance between them and the difference in their ages. In fact, Faith felt she could talk to Emily in ways she couldn't talk to her mother. They were colleagues, but not only that, they'd both experienced the loss of a marriage, albeit for very different reasons and in very different ways.

They made a point of getting together every summer. Usually they met in Seattle or California. The long-distance aspect of the relationship hadn't been a hindrance.

Faith's family and friends were important to her; romance, though, was another matter. She was rather frightened of it. Her marriage had burned her and while she'd like to be settled and married with children, that didn't seem likely now.

As she walked through town, Faith waved at people she recognized. Some immediately waved back; one woman stopped and stared as if she had yet to place her. The living Nativity wasn't scheduled until the afternoon, so she was safe from the goat Charles had mentioned. She'd figured out that the infamous Clara Belle—she remembered Emily's hilarious story about a farm visit with her kindergarten class—had to be the goat in question.

Thinking of Charles made her smile. He was an interesting character. If he hadn't already told her, she would've guessed he was an academic. He fit the stereotype of the absentminded professor perfectly—a researcher who became so absorbed in his work, he needed someone to tell him when and where he needed to be.

He did have a heart, though. Otherwise she'd probably be hitchhiking back to California by now. As long as she made herself invisible, they would manage.

Once inside the store, she got a grocery cart and wandered aimlessly down the aisle, seeking inspiration for dinner. She decided on baked green peppers stuffed with a rice, tomato
soup and ground beef mixture. The recipe was her mother's but Faith rarely made it. Cooking for one was a chore and it was often easier to pick up something on the way home from school. Fresh cranberries were on sale, so she grabbed a pack age of those, although she hadn't decided what to do with them. It seemed a Christmassy thing to buy. She'd find a use for them later.

She'd come up with menus for the rest of the week this afternoon, and write a more complete grocery list then.

On the walk home, Faith discovered the Kennedy kids and about half the town's children sledding down the big hill in the park. If her arms hadn't been full, she would've stopped and taken a trip down the hill herself.

The kids were so involved in their fun that they didn't notice her. Breathless, Faith brought everything into the kitchen. She removed her hat and gloves and draped her coat over the back of a chair. Unpacking the groceries, she sang a Christmas song that was running through her mind.

The door to the den flew open and Charles stood in the doorway glaring at her.

Faith stopped midway to the refrigerator, a package of ground beef in her hand. “Was I making too much noise?” she asked guiltily. In her own opinion, she'd been quiet and subdued, but apparently not.

“I'm trying to work here,” he told her severely.

“Sorry,” she mouthed and tiptoed back to the kitchen counter.

“You aren't planning to do anything like bake cookies, are you?” He wrinkled his nose as if to say he wasn't interested.

“Uh, I hadn't given it any thought.”

“In case you do, you should know I don't want to be distracted by smells, either.”

“Smells?” With an effort, Faith managed not to groan out loud.

“The aroma of baking cookies makes my stomach growl.”

He wasn't kidding, and Faith found that humorous, although she dared not show it. She was able to stay here only with his approval and couldn't afford to jeopardize her position. “Then rest assured. I won't do anything to make your stomach growl.”

“Good.” With that, Charles retreated into the den, closing the door decisively.

Faith rolled her eyes. What was she supposed to do all day? Sit in a corner and knit? Play solitaire? If that little bit of commotion had bothered His Highness, then she couldn't see this arrangement working. And yet, what was the alternative?

The awful part was that she felt an almost overwhelming urge to bang lids together. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, she had to bite her lower lip to restrain herself from singing at the top of her lungs and stomping her feet.

This was crazy. Ludicrous. Still, it was all she could do not to behave in the most infantile manner. If she was going to behave like a child, then she might as well join the children. This close to Christmas, they had a lot of pent-up energy.

Dressed in hat, gloves and her coat once again, Faith went outside. The snow on the front lawn was untouched. A fresh layer had fallen overnight, and with time on her hands, she made an impulsive decision to build a snowman. She grinned as she looked at the specimen in the neighbor's yard.

Starting with a small hand-size ball of snow, she rolled it across the lawn, letting it grow larger and fuller with each sweep.

“Do you want me to help?” Sarah asked, appearing at her side.

Sarah was a favorite of Emily's, Faith knew. As the youngest in a big family, she'd learned to hold her own.

“I sure do.”

The little girl beamed as Faith resumed the snow-rolling task. “The bottom part of the snowman has to be the biggest,” Sarah pointed out, obviously taking on supervisory responsibilities. “Right.”

“Dylan says it's the most important part, too.”

Dylan, if Faith remembered correctly, lived down the street and was a good friend to one of the Kennedy boys.

“Are you building a fort?” Thomas shouted, hurrying across the street from the park. He abandoned his sled near the front porch.

“This is a nice friendly snowman,” Faith assured him.

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Looks more like a snow fort to me.”

“It's a ball,” Sarah primly informed her brother, hands on her hips. “Anyone can see that.”

“I don't think so.” Thomas raced over to his own yard and started rolling snow. He was quickly joined by his brothers. The boys worked feverishly at constructing their fort.

Sarah and Faith hurried to catch up, changing their tactics. There were four boys against the two of them, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in cunning. While Faith built their defensive wall, Sarah rolled snowballs, stacking them in neat piles out of sight of her brothers.

“Now, boys,” Faith said, standing up and strolling to the middle of the battleground between their two yards. “I'm telling you right now that it's not a good thing to pick a fight with girls.”

“Yeah, because they tattle.”

“Do not,” Sarah screeched.

“Do, too.”

Faith stretched out her arms to silence both sides. “Sarah and I were innocently building a friendly snowman for Mrs. Springer's front yard when we were accused of constructing a snow fort.”

“It
is
a snow fort,” Thomas insisted, pointing accusingly at the wall of snow.

“It became one when you started building yours,” Faith said. “But before we go to war, I feel honor bound to look for some means of making peace.”

“No way!” Mark cried.

“Hear me out,” Faith urged. “First of all, it's unfair. There are more of you than of us.”

“I ain't going over to the girls' side,” Mark protested.

“We don't want any boys, anyway,” Sarah shouted back.

Again Faith silenced them. “You don't want peace?”

“No!” Thomas tossed a snowball straight up and batted it down with his hand as if to prove his expertise.

“Forget it,” Mark seconded.

“Then we have to make it a fair fight.”

The boys were silent, apparently waiting for one of them to volunteer. No one did.

“I suggest that in order to even things up, the boys' side is restricted to the use of one hand. Agreed?”

The boys grinned and nodded.

“Your left hand,” she added.

Their laughter and snickers quickly died out. “Ah, come on…”

Not giving the group a chance to argue, Faith tossed the first snowball, which landed just short of the snow fortification. Before the boys had time to react, she raced back to Sarah. The little girl was crouched behind the shelter and had accumulated a huge pile of snowballs.

Soon they were all laughing and pelting each other with snow. Faith managed to land several wildly thrown snowballs, but she was on the receiving end just as often. At one point she glanced toward the house and saw Charles looking out the living-room window.

Oh, no. Even a snowball fight was too much racket for him. Unfortunately, the distraction cost her. Thomas, who was fast becoming accustomed to pitching snowballs left-handed, scored a direct hit. The snowball struck her square in the chest. Snow sprayed up into her face, and Faith made a show of sputtering.

“Gotcha,” Thomas cried and did a jig of triumph, leaping up and down with his arms above his head.

Faith glanced at the house again and saw Charles laughing. She did a double take. The man could actually laugh? This was news. Perhaps he wasn't so stuffy, after all. Perhaps she'd misread him entirely.

Was that possible?