A Town Called Christmas

“Merry Christmas to you,” the clerk called after him as he strode toward the door with his coat hanging open.

“And you,” he returned.

The street was empty. Michael buttoned up, put on his gloves and checked his watch. Only five-thirty and the wan sun had completely disappeared. The streetlights had come on, illuminating the flakes that filtered out of the vast charcoal darkness above. He was stuck in a snow globe.

He tilted back his head. More of the snowflakes melted on his face and lips, but this time he didn’t mind.

Let it snow.

A car pulled out of a small parking lot adjacent to the grocery store. Headlights cut across Mike’s face, blinding him for an instant. Laughter rang out from the tavern as its door opened and closed. She might be there, toasting the holidays.

He was about to step over the snowdrift at the curb when he thought of the grocery store instead. I should get wine. And chocolates for the sisters. There’ll still be time to look for the blonde.

The store was named Ed’s Fine Foods and it was chockablock with overstocked shelves. The aisles were only wide enough for one cart at a time to pass among paths narrowed further by freestanding displays holding mismatched assortments of goods. Mike brushed the snow off his shoulders and stepped over a dirty puddle just inside the glass doors. He passed up the cart to take a handbasket and began to wend his way through the aisles in search of the liquor department.

A flash of red caught his attention. He made an abrupt turn, nearly smashing into a cardboard stand of chocolate syrup in squeeze bottles. By the time he reached the next aisle, she was wheeling her cart around the other end. He saw the nubby coat and the red scarf, both of them hanging loose, and dark blue jeans tucked into her stylish leather boots. She had long legs.

The wheels of her cart squeaked. He listened, sidling along the aisle until he was opposite her. The shelves were quite short. When he reached up and took down a box of bran flakes, he could peer over the top into the next aisle. She was reading the label of a bottle of champagne. With a sigh, she put it back and selected a different bottle for her cart before glancing over her shoulder.

Mike slid the bran flakes into their slot.

She looked up when he strolled into the aisle. He smiled. “We meet again.”

“That happens often here. It’s a small town.” She pulled her coat closed, put both hands on her cart and nudged it over a couple of inches.

“I’m looking for a bottle of wine. What would you suggest?”

“There’s not much choice. If you wanted beer—” She waved at the vast array. Towers of twenty-four-packs extended the section into the corner of the store.

“No, I need a good bottle of wine.”

Her eyebrows made two precise golden-brown arches. “Trying to impress somebody?”

“An entire family.”

“Then you should go top shelf.”

He scanned the stickers and took down the highest priced bottle. Twenty bucks. Not that impressive. “I’ll get champagne, too.”

Reaching for the bottle she’d returned to the shelf, he grazed her arm. She inched away, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes. Her expression was thoughtful. “Big spender,” she said with a gently teasing grin, before turning away and rolling her cart toward the opposite end of the aisle.

Mike’s tongue felt unusually thick and slow. He still hadn’t introduced himself, but he couldn’t continue following her. Too obvious, even in a small store. He wandered the aisles, bypassing a sale on mixed nuts and waxed baking cups as he looked for the candy section.

A red mitten lay abandoned on the floor. The bottles in his basket clinked as he set it down to pick up the mitten. Smiling to himself, he turned it over in his hand. Soft and fuzzy, slightly damp.

He caught himself before he caressed the soft wool between his fingers. Sap. Embarrassed for himself, he thrust the mitten into his pocket. After the debacle with Denise, he wasn’t planning to be in the market for a good, long while.

Except, technically, he was.

He loosened the scarf around his throat. The store felt too warm and close. Steamy. At least he’d found the sweets. He examined rows of chocolate bars and bagged candy that sold two for a dollar, looking for something, well, impressive. A small decorative gold tin of Whitman’s Samplers was the best he could do, so he dropped several into his cart and headed for the checkout.

Wheels squeaked nearby. He sped up, making certain their paths intersected at the checkout lane. There was only one lane, and a woman with a cart filled with the makings for a holiday dinner—including a frozen turkey—had arrived first.

Mike lifted the turkey and a ten-pound sack of potatoes onto the conveyor belt, then turned and gestured at the blonde. Her cart stood between them. “Ladies first.”

“No, you go. I have more items.”

“I’m in no rush.”

She nodded and moved past him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He stood directly behind her, looking at the straight, silky hair that brushed her collar. He closed his eyes and inhaled. How long had it been since he’d held a woman? Since he’d known the comfort of a soft, warm, curved body, a sweet voice and gentle presence?

He shook his head, dismayed that he could be seduced so easily, even after almost a year of virtual monkhood. First had come the long deployment, then the Dear John letter that had left him certain he’d never get serious with a woman again, let alone romanticize over a complete stranger.

One failed attempt was enough for him. At first marrying Denise had seemed like a good idea. She had all the qualities he hadn’t known he was looking for in a wife, until she and Shannon had kindly pointed that out and convinced him to propose. Unfortunately, after they’d been together for more than a year with the wedding still on hold, his former fiancée had nagged and griped more often than not. The deployment to the Gulf had been the death knell to an engagement already on life support.

Many times since the breakup, he’d wondered why he’d done nothing, even though he’d recognized Denise’s gradual withdrawal. And why, after the first sting of receiving her letter, he’d been more relieved than sad. More regretful than wounded.

Reminded of all that, he deliberately looked away from the woman standing in front of him. He told himself that his interest in her was only a pleasant distraction.

After a minute, he yanked the mitten from his pocket. “I almost forgot. You dropped this.”

She turned halfway. “Yes, that’s mine.” She took the mitten, matching it with the mate. She smoothed them between long, elegant fingers with polished nails. “Thank you again.”

“I’m Mike, by the way. Mike Kavanaugh.”

Her mouth opened, then closed with a little huh of a smile. She glanced into his basket. “I thought you might be.”

She recognized his name? Mike was going to ask how that could be, even in a small town, but she’d turned and begun placing her grocery items on the belt.

He studied her selections. Fancy stuff, fit for a more sophisticated holiday than he’d have expected, now that he’d seen the down-home, humble nature of the town. She had a loaf of Italian bread. Bunches of herbs. Fresh strawberries that must have been flown in. Jars of pistachios and almonds. Anchovies. Capers. Olives, radishes and two kinds of specialty cheese. Plus a bag of minimarshmallows and the bottle, which turned out to be sparkling ginger ale.

Marshmallows, anchovies and ginger ale? She had eclectic tastes.

She noticed his interest and paused with a jar of maraschino cherries in her hand. “My name is Mary.”

He crinkled his eyes at her, despite the previous decision to keep his interest detached. “As in Mary and Joseph? That’s appropriate for a town called Christmas.”

“The villagers do take the name seriously,” she said with a wry look.

“Maybe I’ll catch the mood.”

Her head cocked. “You’re not imbued with the holiday spirit?”

The question made him recognize the loneliness of being out of step, particularly during the holidays. He was sorry for it, much more than when Nicky had pointed out the same. “Not lately, I’m afraid.”

“Stick around. Christmas will work its magic on you.”

“The town or the holiday?”

She smiled. “They go hand in hand.”

She wrote a check for her groceries, then paused to put on her hat and mittens and button up her coat. She lifted one of her bags and reached for the other.

“Hold on,” he said, liberating another couple of twenties from his wallet. “I’ll help you carry those to your car.”

She cradled one of the paper bags to her front while he took the second and accompanied her to the door. The wind blew viciously, tearing the handle from her grip. The door banged against the wall. He pushed up close behind her and caught the door before it swung back into her face.

She sidestepped. “Do you need a ride? My car’s around the corner.”

“Thanks, but I’m being picked up.”

They moved carefully along a sidewalk that was bumpy with packed ice and snow, then loaded the grocery bags into the backseat of her car, a red Mazda with a plump Santa suction-cupped to a side window. The license plate read FALALA.

Mary’s eyes were slitted against the wind. She scraped hair out of her mouth and made a spitting sound. “I’ll see you around then, Lieutenant Commander Kavanaugh.”

He wanted to ask where and when, but stopped himself. “Maybe that can be arranged. I’m here for a week.”

She hesitated, looking at him with puckered lips. Her eyes held a secret—something fanciful, as if she were playing with him. She seemed about to speak, but changed her mind and got in to the car instead, easing herself behind the wheel. She tugged at the coat, which kept her bundled as furry as a bear.

He briefly imagined what her body might be like beneath it. Long-limbed but curvy. For all the willowy, athletic elegance, there was a solidness about her, too. He sensed they would match up well.

Snow swirled. Wind whistled. He could delay no longer. With reluctance, he said goodbye and closed the door.

She smiled at him through the frosty glass and started the engine. He stepped back, oddly forlorn as the car pulled away, until he realized what she’d said.

Lieutenant Commander Kavanaugh.

After an instant of revelation, he gave a short shout of a laugh. Some secret!

CHAPTER TWO

“NICKY!”

“Mer!”

Meredith York wrapped her younger brother in a bear hug and held on for dear life, having learned what the phrase truly meant over the past few years of their separation, particularly during his most recent deployment at sea. Her heart squeezed itself into a tight knot, then released as a wave of pure relief rolled through her. She let out a deep breath. At last.

She gripped his shoulders. “You’re really here! You made it home for Christmas.”

“A promise is a promise, Merrylegs.” Nicky tilted his head back. He bumped their noses. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” She hadn’t expected to be so sentimental, but Shannon and Mom were watching with red-rimmed eyes and watery smiles. In the background, Nicky’s sons bounced off the couch with excitement.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Mom sent me out for provisions.”

Grace York dabbed the corners of her eyes with her apron, then retrieved the bags of groceries Meredith had dropped when she’d greeted Nicky. “My goodness. What’s this? Goat cheese? Capers? What are we going to do with capers? I hope you didn’t forget the marshmallows.”

Shannon, Nicky’s wife, had joined the siblings’ embrace. She leaned her cheek against her husband’s. “Skip and Georgie have their hearts set on church window cookies.”

Meredith unwound herself. She rubbed her eyes. “Of course I remembered the marshmallows, Mom.”

“Roquefort and goat cheese,” Grace clucked as she rummaged through the groceries.

“I thought I’d make something different for tonight—hors d’oeuvres.”

“Hors d’oeuvres. Fancy! Who are we trying to impress?”

Meredith flushed.

“She’s got city taste now, Grammadear.” Charlie York, the clan patriarch who’d remained fully involved in all activities since his retirement, stepped into the foyer with his sleepy granddaughter draped over his shoulder. At nine months old, Kathlyn Grace was the newest and much-adored addition to the family. “Don’t fuss at the girl.”

Meredith rolled her eyes as she slipped out of her coat and hung it on one of the wall hooks. She was thirty-six. Her hand went to her waist—her disappearing waist—as she bent to knock the snow off her boots. Certainly no longer a girl.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked Nicky. Without considering why, she chose to keep her meeting with Michael Kavanaugh to herself for a while longer.

“At the Cheer. I’m going now to pick him up.” Nick nuzzled his wife’s ear. “Want to come along, honey?”

Shannon glowed. Seeing their happiness brought both thankfulness and a pang of longing to Meredith’s heart. For more than a decade, she’d been satisfied with her thriving career as a human resources director for a large financial services firm, the high-rise condo she’d bought on Chicago’s Gold Coast and her lengthy live-in relationship with Greg Conway, a financial analyst she’d met at work. Then, suddenly in the past year, everything had changed.

“Hurry back,” Grace said. The slender, silver-haired homemaker was as active as her husband, involved in many church and community activities, in addition to her regular book club meetings and t’ai chi classes. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“It’s your favorite,” Shannon said as she and Nicky put on their coats and boots. “Pot roast and mashed potatoes.”

He moaned. “I can’t wait. I’ve been dreaming about Mom’s cooking.”

Shannon paused while wrapping a scarf around her dark brown hair. “What about mine?”

He grinned wolfishly as she preceded him out the door. “You’re in the other dreams.”

Meredith gave Nicky another hug before he left, then stood in the farmhouse doorway, watching the couple drive down the long, dark driveway, until her mother complained that she was letting in the cold air.

I want that. Merry shut the door and absentmindedly straightened the jumble of the kids’ snow boots, hats and insulated mittens. There, Mom, I admitted it. I wish I was married.

She’d lived with Greg for nearly seven years and had sworn up and down that a marriage certificate wasn’t important to her. That had seemed honest, at the time. What she hadn’t understood was how much the present situation would turn her previous perceptions topsy-turvy.

But would she marry Greg now, if he came back to her on bended knee? Definitely not. That ship had sailed. Only her mother still clung to the hope that there’d be a last-second wedding to save the day.

“Auntie Merry, Auntie Merry!” Skip and Georgie, her rambunctious nephews, burst into the foyer. “Grammadear said you’d help us make the church window cookies.”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I have the hors d’oeuvres to do.”

Georgie tilted his face upward. He was six years old, blond and freckled like his older brother. “What’s ‘oardurves’?”

She ruffled his hair. “Nibbly bits before dinner. Dolled up veggies and bread.”

“Like crackers spread with Cheez Whiz,” Skip said with authority. He was three years older than his brother and terribly sure of himself. With his father away on a sea tour, then on shore duty for the past six months, Skip had become serious about his role as man of the family. “And olives.”

“Can I eat them?” Skip asked.

“You can try one,” Merry agreed. The anchovy-and-pepper mix she’d planned for the bruschetta was sure to be too spicy for the boys. What had she been thinking? Her family was accustomed to plain home cooking, not the five-star cuisine she’d discovered in Chicago’s best restaurants. They’d be baffled by amuse bouche and dumbstruck by dim sum. Her parents shared their insulated community’s general distrust of visitors with sophisticated ways and a taste for change.

But I’m not a visitor. Meredith herded the boys to the kitchen. I’m here to stay.

When heart troubles had prompted her father’s retirement at the same time her relationship with Greg was cracking like an overboiled egg, she’d returned to take over the family business. Thus far, every improvement she’d wanted to implement had been a struggle for control. Her parents had run the York Tree Farm since their wedding forty years ago, with Charlie overseeing the Christmas tree operation and Grace managing Evergreen, the seasonal gift and sandwich shop that served the cut-your-own-tree customers who began showing up in November.

Meredith glanced into the family room, where her father jiggled the baby on his knee while she goggled at the sparkling ornaments and blinking lights of the Christmas tree. In the kitchen, her mother hummed a carol to herself while seasoning a pot of frozen green beans.

They’ll learn to adjust. Meredith smoothed the drape of her oversize cable-knit sweater. So will I.

After the elation of Nicky’s return, her mood had turned into melancholy. Although surrounded by family, there were times that she felt very alone.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the pot roast was out of the oven and the hors d’oeuvres well underway. Meredith heard the stomping of boots in the foyer. She hastily pulled a pan of bread slices from beneath the broiler. “It’s called bruschetta, Mom.”

Grace flapped a pot holder at the wisp of smoke rising from a charred crust as if it were a spark from Mrs. O’Leary’s lantern. “I know what bruschetta is, Miss Meredith. I watch the Food Network. All I’m saying is we don’t need more carbs. I already have the potatoes and the rolls. Your father’s diet…”

“I’ll keep him away from the hors d’oeuvres.” The cream and butter in the mashed potatoes was more of a concern, but Merry held her tongue. She took the pot holder and nudged her mother toward the doorway. “Sounds like Nicky’s back. Go say hi to our guest.”

Grace removed her apron. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Merry added chopped parsley to her anchovy mix. “As soon as I’m finished here.”

Her mother paused significantly. “Nicky’s pilot friend is single.”

“I know, Mom.” He’s also six feet of gorgeous, clean-cut masculinity. Don’t embarrass him. The man’s only on leave for a week. He’s not looking to get involved with…” Merry gestured at herself. No other explanation was necessary.

Grace’s face instantly clouded. She hurried from the kitchen without another word.

“Kryptonite,” Merry muttered. She couldn’t blame the woman for being old school, growing up as she had with strictly religious parents. And the wagons would certainly be circled if criticism came from outside the family. Even so, her mother’s disapproval did make Merry feel self-conscious. She couldn’t help but think of herself as Grace York’s cross to bear.

“Merry,” Nicky called from the family room, where the meeting and greeting was going on. “Come and see Mike. I want to show off my prettiest sister.”

Meredith brushed off her hands and went to join the group. Her nerve endings were jingling and jangling like a triangle chorus, but she folded her arms across her midsection and put on a serene smile. She glanced at Nicky first, ignoring Michael Kavanaugh’s presence. “You say that only because Noelle isn’t home from college yet.”

“Both my girls are lookers. They get it from their mother.” Charlie put his arm around Merry’s shoulders and urged her forward into the crowded room when she’d have rather hovered in the background. “Meredith, hon, this is Lieutenant Commander Michael Kavanaugh, ace pilot of the Blue Knight squadron. He flies a Super-Hornet, an F/A 18E. They call it a Rhino.”

“Yes, sir, but I’m not an ace.”

“Not yet,” Nicky put in.

There was no more delaying it. Merry pulled in a deep breath and looked up at the handsome Navy aviator. Her voice cracked, but she managed a placid, “Hello, Michael. How do you do?”

Then she put out her hand, waiting for the moment when the pleasure that had sprung to Mike’s face at the sight of her would disintegrate into polite withdrawal as he got a second, closer look.

That didn’t happen.

MIKE TOOK THE BLONDE’S hand and used it to pull her closer for a polite kiss on the cheek. “Fool me once,” he whispered in her ear before retreating a few inches. He winked, then stepped away. She seemed defensive, not wanting to be crowded. “Nice to meet you, Meredith York.”

Her smile wavered. “Call me Merry.”

“As in Merry Christmas, or Mary and Joseph?” Amusement danced in his eyes. “How could I have forgotten that the Yorks are named by theme? Merry and Nicholas—though he’s no saint—and what was the other sister’s name again?”

“Noelle.”

“Ah.”

“Corny, I know, but blame my parents.” She nodded her head at the beaming couple. “They’re the town’s unofficial Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus, in charge of all things Christmas.”

“Not even unofficial,” Nicky said. His baby daughter was cradled in the nook of one arm. “I must have mentioned that my dad plays Santa at all the town functions.”

Mike looked at Charlie. “Now I see why.” Nicky’s father was five-ten or so, and stockily built. Beneath a crop of gray hair, his face was flushed with good cheer and vigor. He could easily pull off an authentic “Ho, ho, ho.”

Charlie winked as he tugged at his full gray beard, which was liberally streaked with white. “I only grow it for the holidays.”

“But Grampa’s not the real Santa Claus,” said Georgie. “He’s an actor.”

Mike caught the sly look that crossed Skip’s face. He remembered informing his own younger brother of the truth about Santa Claus, after he’d put together hearsay with the hard evidence of the pile of presents they’d found stashed in their parents’ closet. The five-year-old had been inconsolable for days, and Mike had been forced to give up a soccer game and endure a two-hour wait in line to visit Santa at the mall. After that, he’d kept the news about the Tooth Fairy to himself.

He squatted beside the boys. “Skip, it’s been more than a year since I saw you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you now?”

“Nine.”

“That’s pretty grown up. What about your brother?”

“He’s only six.”

“And you’ve been taking good care of him and Kathlyn while your dad’s away?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh.”

“Well done. I know your father’s proud.” Mike leaned a little closer. “I have a younger brother, too. He still remembers every holiday we spent together, but especially the visits from Santa Claus. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

Mike clapped the boy’s shoulder and stood. The other adults were talking about sleeping assignments and where the baby’s pacifier had gone, but Merry had rested her hands on Georgie’s shoulders and nestled him against her front. “You have a brother?” she asked softly.

“Steve. A civil engineer. He was in Mozambique, building a dam, the last I heard.”

“And your parents?”

“My father passed away years ago. My mother is on a holiday cruise with her second husband.” Mike quirked his lips into a smile. Casual, to show he wasn’t as alone and lonely as it seemed…as he was. “Nicky took pity on me and hauled me along to join your family for the holidays.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah?” He wondered what else she’d heard.

Merry’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, shoot, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He laughed. “Never mind. Every Christmas party needs a poor little match boy.”

Georgie had become restless. She gave the boy an extra hug and let him go, then clasped and unclasped her empty hands. “I’m—we’re all very glad you could join us.” She glanced somewhat warily at her mother. “One extra is no trouble, not when we usually have a half-dozen ‘extras.’ You’ll see what a circus it is around here over the next several days. Our Christmas dinner is bedlam.”