A Carol Christmas (7 page)

It wasn’t hard to imagine. Someone had hidden a Glade plug-in somewhere, and the scent of bayberry danced around us.

Keira walked into the center of the room. The walls were a light peach color, the carpet beige. The room was filling with sunlight. Standing in the middle of all the light, Keira looked like she should be in an Impressionist painting. Maybe Aunt Chloe would come here and paint her picture. She could call it: Young Woman With Everything.

Oh, dear. This was not a nice way to feel.
Don’t get jealous, Andie
.

Who was I kidding? I already was. My sister was going to have a big fat house to go with her big fat ring. For a moment I felt like a big fat failure.

I went up the stairs and entered one of the bedrooms. It had a walk-in closet, naturally. I walked into it. My kitchen wasn’t as large as this.

“Lots of closet space,” Gabe said behind me.

The closet suddenly shrank. What aftershave was he wearing? It had been bad enough in the car, but here it was taking over. He was taking over. And I was zinging again.

“You’re selling the wrong woman,” I said. “My sister’s the one with the money.” Well, she would be once she was married.

I slipped past him, making sure not to breathe through my nose as I passed. Too many more of those aftershave fumes and I was liable to get a hormone high. I got out just in time to see my sister scurrying from the bedroom, obviously hoping not to interrupt what she thought might be a potentially romantic moment.

Cupid Keira. How very convenient that she had picked Gabe Knightly to be the real estate agent to squire us around today. So, what was that about, really? Maybe she was assuaging her guilt over dating him after I went away to college. Not that it mattered anymore. What did I care who dated him after I was done with him?

My cell phone rang. Gratefully, I pulled it from my purse. “Hello.”

Keira walked back into the room, frowning. “Who is that?” she demanded.

Whoever it was, they were breaking up. I pressed the phone closer, put a finger in my other ear, and strained to hear. “Hello?”

It sounded like Beryl. “Andie? Can . . .
zwiittt, errV

“Just a minute,” I said, and rushed from the room.

“Tell them you’re on vacation,” Keira shouted after me.

Of course, I lost Beryl. I went outside and walked to the center of the Texas yard plot where I’d get good reception and called back.

“Oh, there you are,” she said cheerily. “Are you having a perfectly splendid time with your family?” She might just as well have asked, “Are you enjoying the Mad Hatter’s tea party?”

“I’m having quite a time,” I said, trying to be truthful, loyal and diplomatic all at once. “What’s going on with the Nutri Bread people? Have you been talking to them?” Hmm. That might not have been quite the way to phrase my question. After all, Beryl was The Planner. I was only the assistant planner. With the ideas!

“Not to worry, my poppet,” she said. “Everything is going swimmingly here. There will be plenty to do when you come back.”

Not to worry? I had just gotten the most evasive answer since “Am I my brother’s keeper?” and she was telling me not to worry?

“Beryl,” I began.

“Now, I have to run, so you have a wonderful time there in Clairol.”

“It’s Carol,” I said. I was gritting my teeth. I would probably be doing that in my sleep tonight. By the time the holidays were over I’d have TMJ.

“Yes. Well, ta ta.”

And then she was gone. Ta ta? Surely no self-respecting English person would ever say that. And surely no self-respecting English person would try to keep a member of her team out of the loop.

I called back, this time zeroing in on Iris the secretary. “Iris, what’s going on with the Nutri Bread account?”

“What do you mean?” she asked. She sounded evasive, like she was trying to spare me some sort of grief. Or maybe it was just a simple question and I was becoming the most paranoid woman on the planet.

“I mean what is Beryl up to? She hasn’t scheduled a meeting with the Nutri Bread people, has she?” Not the week before Christmas. The bread people would all be heading home to their families to eat bread pudding. And surely even Mr. Phelps would have plans this close to Christmas.

“If there is a meeting, Beryl hasn’t told me yet,” said Iris.

That didn’t mean a thing. “Well, when she does will you tell me?”

“Sure, but Mr. Phelps isn’t going to schedule anything until after the holidays. Everybody’s busy with office Christmas parties and shopping. Anyway, you won’t be back until after the first, and I’m sure Beryl will want you there. Oh, just a minute, Andie, she’s buzzing me.

The just a minute felt like a millennium. Finally Iris returned. “That’s odd. She wants me to get Mr. Margolin on the phone.”

Mr. Nutri Bread, himself. My molars crunched against each other. “Keep me in the loop, Iris.”

“Okay,” Iris said and hung up.

I snapped my cell shut with a growl.
Not to worry, my poppet
. Right.

Keira was coming out of the house now, her cell phone to her ear. “No, we’re not done looking, but I already know this house is the one. I’m sending you pictures. It’s absolutely incredible and worth every penny.”

Easy for Keira to say, I thought, considering who was coughing up most of the pennies.

“All right, I’ll keep you posted. We’re going to go have coffee, then look at some more.”

Going out for coffee? Since when was that part of the house-hunting ritual?

I frowned and marched to the car. I was going to go have coffee with Gabe Knightly and Cupid Keira while, back in New York, Opportunity said, “Oh, it looks like Andie’s not home,” and moved off to knock on other doors.
Ta ta, Andie
. Could this day get any worse?

Chapter Five

We picked up eggnog lattes at The Coffee Break, then, with me grinding my teeth and texting all the way, moved on to the next house: a split level in Carol Estates. The candy cane stencils and home drawn art displayed in the front windows announced, “Kids live here.”

Gabe almost stumbled over a pile of shoes in the entryway.

I watched as he pushed aside the small tennies and rain boots with his foot. A vision of a couple of kids who looked like me (not Gabe. There was no resemblance to him!) flashed through my mind. They splashed through a mud puddle in bright yellow rain slickers and little rubber boots and laughed. The background scenery in my vision looked more like Carol than New York, and that was all wrong.

“The carpet’s worn,” Keira observed as she went up the stairs.

I followed her to the first level. The living room looked tiny compared to the one in the previous house. But it was cozy. Someone was into knitting, and a half-finished blanket dangled from one arm of the couch.

“This isn’t bad,” I said.

My sister looked over her shoulder at me and raised an eyebrow.

I shrugged and followed her into the kitchen. It looked like it had been completely overhauled. The cupboards practically smelled new.

“I like this,” said Keira, Queen of Take Out.

Those same little kids I’d seen splashing in the puddle now joined me in the kitchen. We were making cookies. Peanut butter. My mouth started to water.

Keira moved on and Gabe moved next to me.

“You looked a million miles away just now. What were you thinking?” he asked.

“I just had the best fantasy.”

He edged closer, an expectant smile on his face. Here was where I was supposed to share my deepest yearning: barefoot, pregnant (by him, of course), and happily baking Christmas cookies.

“Yeah?” he prompted.

“I was thinking about peanut butter cookies. I can’t remember the last time I had a peanut butter cookie.”

He frowned and followed Keira down the hall to the bedrooms.

“What? You don’t like cookies?”

No answer.

I smirked and followed after them.

“This place isn’t doing it for me,” Keira was saying. “Let’s go to the next one.”

“Okay. How about the Victorian? I bet you’ll like this one, Andie,” he added.

I shrugged. “Too bad I’m not in the market.”

“You never know,” Keira said from in back of me. Short-term memory loss. She’d forgotten which one of us was getting married.

I took her left hand and held it in front of her face. “You’re the one who’s looking. Remember?”

“I’m multitasking. I’m looking for both of us.”

“Real estate’s always a good investment,” Gabe added. “You could buy something and rent it. Let the renters make your house payments.”

Why did it feel like Gabe Knightly was always trying to sell me on something? In high school it was sex. Now it was real estate.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” I said diplomatically.

The Victorian was adorable, baby blue with white trim. The house had it all: patterned shingles, cornice trim, shuttered windows, and a charming front porch.

“It’s gorgeous,” I breathed.

“Too old-fashioned for me,” Keira said.

The house was calling to me. “Let’s look inside.”

Inside was even better than outside: hardwood floors, a staircase with a banister and a newel post, a grandfather clock standing sentinel at the foot of the stairs. The living room wasn’t as big as the one in the first house, but it was the perfect size to hold an intimate collection of friends at a holiday party. I took in the floral sofa and matching wingback chairs and the Oriental rug and imagined a group of women sitting around visiting in front of the fireplace, drinking vanilla tea. This fireplace wasn’t as big as the one in the first house, but large enough to accommodate Santa … if he went on a diet. As if the house itself wasn’t enough to lust over, someone had used a scented plug-in to fill the place with the scent of cinnamon.

“I’m going upstairs,” Keira announced.

I tore myself away from the living room and followed her up the hardwood stairs. The owners had put a carpet runner on them and we went up as soundlessly as burglars, the only noise in the place the slow ticking of the grandfather clock.

I tried not to drool as we drifted in and out of bedrooms. The two kids’ bedrooms were obviously occupied by girls, with canopy beds and walls painted pastel pink and lavender. The rooms were relatively neat, with only a couple of books or ballet shoes on the floor, the beds occupied by dolls and stuffed animals. The master bedroom offered a walk-in closet, lots of light from the windows, and thick beige carpet. I looked at the sleigh bed piled high with pillows and imagined myself snuggled under the Chinese red comforter and propped up against those pillows, reading. And next to me . . .

Don’t go there
, I scolded myself, erasing the Gabe Knightly look-alike from the vision.

“Nice, isn’t it?” he said at my elbow.

Glue Guy. It seemed I couldn’t shake him. “You think April would like it?” I asked sweetly.

The mention of my former best friend and his ex-girlfriend swiped the smile from his face. “We haven’t been together in over a year.”

I looked at him in disgust. “You really have commitment issues, don’t you?”

“Actually, I don’t. And that’s been the problem,” he added.

Oh, yeah. Try to suck me into asking all about your love life
.

“Whoa, come look at this master bath,” Keira called.

I looked. And wanted. If we got bathrooms in heaven, this was what they’d look like, all blinding-white tile and soft beige carpet.

“The Incredible Hulk would get lost in that tub,” Gabe said.

Keira opened the glass shower door and looked in. “Two of them could fit in here.”

“What do you think so far, Keira?” Gabe asked, looking at me.

“It’s not me,” she said. “This looks more like Andie.

Yeah, I could see myself in this place, dressing it all up, entertaining, eventually raising kids. “It’s nice,” I admitted.

“Something like this on that half-acre with a pond?” Gabe guessed.

“Something like that,” I admitted. “In the Hamptons,” I added, and he frowned.

We checked out a couple more houses, then Gabe took us to The Salad Bowl, one of Carol’s newer restaurants, for lunch. As we parked in front of the squat brick building I tried not to compare it to all the great restaurants I’d been trying in New York: Jia Xiang Lo’s for a Chinese breakfast of deep-fried Crullers and sweet soybean milk, The Candle Cafe for Veggie Hero Reubens, or the Original New York Milkshake Company where I always got good-natured harassment along with my grilled cheese sandwich and cherry vanilla shake. I didn’t even have to set foot in this restaurant to know it couldn’t measure up.

“Good choice,” Keira approved. “I love this place.”

“I figured you would,” Gabe said, and opened the door for us.

He knew my sister’s tastes so well. It irked me. And the fact that it irked me, well, that irked me. What did I care, anyway?

We entered and were overwhelmed by the smell of garlic and freshly baked bread. The place was painted a pale green, and it held so many plants I felt like I was in a salad bowl. Maybe that was what the owners were going for. Maybe they wanted us to be one with our food.

It was doing a brisk business, with almost every table full. We got the last booth and settled in, surrounded by planters full of exotic greens. The one in back of me brushed hungrily at my skin, making me feel like a fly on a Venus flytrap. This plant obviously preferred humans. I leaned forward and drummed my fingers on the table. What was Beryl the Brit saying to Mr. Margolin right now? One thing I knew for sure. My name wouldn’t come up.

“Nervous?” Gabe asked, nodding at my tapping fingers.

I stopped drumming. “No.”

“You never used to do that,” he said.

“I never used to be in business.” And living in New York City, where life moved faster than the speed of light and no one cared that the meek would inherit the earth. There the meek couldn’t even inherit attention from a store clerk. You had to be aggressive in New York. Who wouldn’t drum her fingers?

“If it’s making you that uptight maybe you’re in the wrong business,” Gabe suggested. “Or the wrong city.”

What was he thinking? New York was the most exciting city in the world. Of course I was in the right city. It was a perfect fit for me. It just took some getting used to after growing up in a small town, that was all.