A Holiday to Remember (3 page)

Still, he’d survived, which he wouldn’t have bet on at the time. One of those tree trunks had come damn close to his head.

His leather jacket was a total loss—ripped at both shoulder seams, with the finish on the back sanded off by the asphalt pavement. He eased it off his shoulders and let it fall down his arms straight into the trash can.

The sweater he’d worn inside the jacket was still in good shape, but the collar of the shirt underneath had been soaked with blood, so he stripped to the waist. Pain from his dislocated shoulder stabbed at him with every move, and tomorrow it would spread across his chest and back, he knew. A glance at the mirror showed him the bruises outlining his ribs, not to mention the outlines of the ribs themselves. The months in Africa had been pretty rough. His shoulders had gotten bony, and his jeans hung loose on his hips. He’d really been looking forward to that meat loaf with Charlie tonight.

Not bothering to stifle his groans, Chris pulled the sweater back over his head, then wet his fingers and ran them through his hair to tame it. The ruined chaps had protected his jeans from major damage, except for being wet to the knees with snowmelt. He thought he looked decent enough for a sandwich with a bunch of schoolkids.

After food and some of that strong coffee, though, he planned to corner Juliet Radcliffe and drag the truth out of her. He would find out what was behind this stupid innocent act of hers if it took all night.

More important, he’d find out why she’d disappeared. And why she’d let him spend the last twelve years believing he’d killed her.

J
AYNE ENTERED THE STAFF
kitchen to find her seven students staring at a stack of charcoal bricks in place of the sandwiches.

Monique threw her hands in the air. “I can’t cook. And I shouldn’t have to. Meals are part of the deal here, right?” She stalked to the couch and plopped down, with her arms folded high across her chest and the bright beads on her many black braids clicking as they bounced. “I’m not gonna starve, either. Somebody had better make me something to eat.”

Jayne nodded. “That’s fine. You don’t have to cook. You can work with the cleanup crew after every meal.”

“No way.” Her skin, usually a soft shade of creamed coffee, darkened with an angry flush.

“Those are the rules,” Sarah said, without prompting from Jayne. “Staying at school over winter break means helping out with the chores. I’m not cooking extra food for somebody who won’t do her share.” She looked around at the other girls, who were nodding in response.

But Monique didn’t give in. “I don’t care. I’ll just go into town with that dude when he leaves.”

“I’m not leaving anytime soon,” a masculine voice answered. “You’ll get pretty hungry.”

The eight of them gasped in unison at the intrusion, then turned to see Chris Hammond leaning against the frame of the kitchen door.

“My bike is wrapped around a tree down by the road,” he continued. “And the snow’s a good six inches deep by now, with no sign of stopping.” He walked to the table and pulled out the chair on the end. “Ladies, I hope you don’t mind if I sit down. It’s been a long afternoon.”

Without waiting for their agreement, he lowered himself into the chair. From the way his face whitened as he bent his
legs, Jayne guessed he’d suffered more than a dislocated shoulder in the crash. He needed food and warm liquids.

“Good point,” she said briskly, moving to pour a mug of coffee. “Girls, this is Mr. Hammond, our guest.” Each of the girls introduced herself in turn. “Since no one is going anywhere tonight, let’s give the grilled cheese sandwiches another try. How’s the soup coming?” She glanced into the pot, then at the knobs of the stove. “Turn up the heat, get it almost to a boil,” she told Selena. “Beth, set the table with plates and bowls. Yolanda can figure out what everyone wants to drink.”

Jayne put the coffee down beside the intruder’s left hand. “Sugar and cream?”

He shook his head and brought the mug to his lips, then managed to sigh as he swallowed. “That’s good,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

“Let me know when you want a refill.” She left him alone as she supervised the dinner preparations, making sure the sandwiches emerged from the pan unscorched, the soup didn’t boil over and there were napkins on the table. Making sure, as well, that she didn’t stare at him, didn’t notice—again—the sharp blue of his eyes under thick, spiky lashes, or his sensuous lower lip, or the breadth of his shoulders.

Where in the world was her mind wandering, in the midst of all these teenaged girls? Maybe adolescent angst was contagious.

With golden sandwiches piled high on a plate and chicken noodle soup ladled into nine bowls, Jayne told the girls to sit down and eat. When the flurry of movement subsided, two empty places remained—one beside Chris Hammond and the other at the far end, facing him. Over on the couch, Monique still pouted. So Jayne had the choice of sitting next to him or facing him as if they were parents on either end of the family table.

Avoiding the domestic image, she sat down in the chair at
his left hand. She could pour more coffee that way, and monitor his conversation with the girls.

After all, what kind of man did they have stranded with them tonight? He might be a pedophile, for all she knew. He’d stalked her all over Ridgeville just yesterday. And he’d said—she’d blocked the memory in the urgency of the moment—he’d said he’d come to find out why she was lying about her name and about not knowing him. The very idea meant he was delusional, at least. He’d clearly mistaken her for someone else. At the worst, he might actually be mentally unstable.

But she couldn’t have left him out in the snow, injured and bleeding, even if she’d had a choice. Which she hadn’t, because he’d fallen in the door without waiting for permission. Was he dangerous? Would she and the girls all be murdered in their beds?

“What are you worrying about?”

She snapped her head around to look at him. “I—I’m not worrying. Just eating.”

Chris Hammond gave a lopsided smile. “Except you haven’t picked up your spoon or taken a sandwich. You’re staring off into space with that little crease between your eyebrows you always get when you’re worried. And you’re wringing your hands in your lap.”

Jayne immediately relaxed her fingers. “I was just thinking about the storm.” The flush from that lie crept up her neck under her turtleneck shirt. “Do you know how much snow they’re predicting?”

He took a crunching bite of his sandwich and swallowed. “My granddad was predicting a blizzard as I left this afternoon. Maybe I should have believed him.”

“Is he a weather forecaster?”

“Just an old mountaineer.” Chris Hammond turned his head to lock his gaze with hers. “As you should remember.”

Her denial was overwhelmed by Yolanda’s shout from the other end of the table. “Hey, Ms. Thomas, can we go sledding after dinner?”

A chorus of cheers greeted the question.

“In the dark? Absolutely not.” Jayne shook her head. “You can play in the snow tomorrow.”

“There are lights all around outside,” Yolanda pointed out. “It’s practically daylight out there.”

“Yeah, those lights shine in my window every night.” Monique had finally allowed hunger to win, and had taken her place at the table. “I should know.”

“The best sledding hill doesn’t have lights,” Jayne told them. “There’s a little bowl on the other side of the woods, off the hiking path to Hawk’s Ridge. We call it The Nest. Girls usually try to see who can go down one side the fastest and then come up the other side the farthest.” She shrugged. “Of course, if you’d rather settle for the tame little bumps around here instead of spending several hours in The Nest, that’s up to you.”

“Masterful strategy,” the man beside her murmured.

The girls around the table debated for a few seconds. “The Nest sounds cool,” Yolanda announced. “How early can we leave?”

“How early do you plan to get up?” Jayne pushed back her chair and stood. “While you’re deciding, let’s get the kitchen cleaned up. Dishes to the sink, paper to the trash and the leftovers in the fridge. Monique, you’re washing.”

“I know, I know.” Rolling her eyes, the girl went to the sink and began running water. “Get over here and help me, Haley. You didn’t do much with dinner, either.”

“I opened the soup cans,” Haley protested. But she found a dish towel and prepared to dry the wet dishes.

“Wipe the table down,” Jayne reminded them, “while I—”

A big fist closed around her upper arm. Chris Hammond had gotten to his feet. “I need to talk to you.” His set face matched the steel in his tone…and his grip. “Now.”

Sarah came up on Jayne’s other side. “Ms. Thomas? Are you okay?”

“I’m not going to murder or rape her,” Chris Hammond said irritably.

Pale blond hair and light blue eyes might give the impression that Sarah would be timid, but she didn’t flinch in the face of Chris Hammond’s temper. Jayne put her free hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m fine. There’s something Mr. Hammond and I need to get straightened out. I’ll show him where he can sleep tonight and be back here in a few minutes.”

As she stepped past him, the grip on her arm fell away. Jayne walked down the hallway to the private door of her office without looking back, certain he would follow. She motioned him inside, then shut the door and leaned back against it, refusing to let him believe she was scared of being alone with him.

Although, in truth, she was terrified.

“All right, Mr. Hammond, you’ve got what you want—complete privacy with no possible intervention from the police, the girls or anyone else. What in the world do you have to say to me?”

Chris took his time examining the office. More wood paneling and a wall of bookshelves surrounded a huge desk with brass handles. Leather armchairs and a brocade sofa faced each other on an Oriental carpet. Original oil paintings and velvet drapes at the windows bespoke money and prestige.

“Very nice,” he said crisply, turning to face the headmistress again. “Looks like a cushy job. One you wouldn’t want to lose.”

“Yes.” She didn’t dress to impress, which suggested she was very comfortable with the power she held. Posed with her shoulders against the door, wearing navy blue slacks and white sneakers, a navy sweater and white turtleneck, she looked casual and confident. But he could sense the tension in her body.

“Is that the reason you won’t tell the truth?”

“What truth? What could I possibly be lying about?”

Chris set his jaw. “Your name, for starters. Not Jayne Thomas, but Juliet Radcliffe.”

“I have never heard that name before in my life. And it certainly isn’t mine. You have me confused with someone else.”

He sat on the edge of the big desk. “So where do you come from?”

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “About fifty miles south. My grandmother lived near Nantahala. She raised me.”

“Not your parents?”

“Our house burned down when I was seven. They were killed trying to bring out my little brother.”

“That’s quite a tragedy.”

She gave him a dirty look. “Don’t be so sympathetic.”

“Sorry. But I don’t understand why you would make up a background like that when you’ve got a legitimate past to call on. With me.”

She took a step forward. “You have to believe me. I’ve never heard of Juliet Radcliffe.” Her voice had softened, lowered, as if she were pacifying a wild animal. “You and I met for the first time yesterday.”

“Charlie says different.”

“Charlie?” She stared at him with a puzzled look. “Your grandfather? How would he know?”

Chris took out his cell phone. “Not much quality in these gadgets, but you get a general idea. I snapped your picture yesterday in town. Charlie said he would have known you anywhere.” He pushed a few buttons and called up the photo, then held up the phone screen for her to see.

She gave it a brief glance. “Charlie, the ‘old mountaineer’? At least he’s got the excuses of age and bad eyesight. You, I’m afraid, are just plain wrong.” Turning her back to him, she reached for the doorknob. “Now that we’ve got that settled, I think the best place for you to sleep is—”

“The hell we have.” Chris strode forward, grabbed her forearm with his good hand and pulled her around to face him, while shutting the door with a single kick. Then he gripped her other elbow, ignoring the spear of pain through his shoulder. “I learned every inch of your body when we were seventeen.”

She stopped struggling and stared at him, mouth open.

He nodded. “You have a birthmark on your left hip, red and shaped like a boot.” Her gasp made him smile. “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen it. I’ve kissed it. Want to tell me now that I’m plain wrong?”

Before his next heartbeat, the lights went out.

I
N THE ABSOLUTE BLACKNESS,
the girls started screaming.

“Dear God.” Jayne whirled, felt for the doorknob and flung open the panel. “Sarah! Monique!” Out in the dark hallway, she started running. “It’s okay, girls,” she called. “Everything’s okay.”

“No generator?” Chris Hammond asked from behind her.

“There is. I don’t know why it’s not kicking on.”

Outside the kitchen, she ran into a bumbling, sobbing huddle of teenage girls. Stretching out her arms, she touched as many of them as she could reach. “Calm down, everybody. We’re okay. Everybody is okay. Our eyes are adjusting. We’ll be able to see soon. Shh. Shh. Just relax.”

Gradually, the sobs were replaced by sniffles. Jayne herded the girls into the library, where embers glowed red in the fireplace.

“We’ve got plenty of flashlights,” she told them, “one for each of you, at least. Thousands of batteries. We’ll build up the fire and be warm and cozy.”

“What happened?” Taryn’s voice still quivered. “Why did the lights go out?”

“I don’t know.” Jayne carried a plastic tub of flashlights and batteries from the storeroom into the library.

“Isn’t there a backup generator?” Sarah started handing out the torches. “Doesn’t it switch on automatically?”

“That’s the plan.” Jayne stood back as the girls began playing with their lights. “I don’t know why it didn’t work.”

“Can’t we call somebody to come fix it?”

At the window, Jayne looked out into a white curtain of snow. “I don’t think anyone can get out from town tonight.” She picked up the nearby phone and was relieved to hear the dial tone. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow morning.”

Red-haired Haley raised her hand. “Ms. Thomas, who’s taking care of the horses? If Miss Ruth Ann can’t get here, are they going to starve in the snow?” A computer genius with a history of anorexia and several arrests for hacking into business systems, Haley had started riding lessons this fall.

“We’re lucky in that regard. Ms. Granger had already planned to spend the vacation with her husband and daughter in Ireland. She left our horses with different friends in the area to be cared for with their animals. They’re fine.”

“Whew.” Haley sat back in her chair. “I’m glad.”

As the girls relaxed, Jayne had the chance to realize Chris Hammond wasn’t in the room. With her flashlight clenched in suddenly clammy fingers, she checked the kitchen, the storerooms and even the men’s restroom without finding him.

For a few moments, she stood in the hallway outside the library, considering Hammond’s strange disappearance. Where had he gone? Why?

A sudden gust of cold wind swirled around her legs. The beam of her torch showed Jayne that the outside door, locked as usual, was propped open a few inches. Chris Hammond had left the building. Would he come back? With a weapon this time? She didn’t know him, had no reason to trust him.

Maybe she
should
call the sheriff’s office. They might need help up here, after all….

In the next minute, the door opened all the way and the man in question stepped inside. The beam from his flashlight hit her square in the face, then dropped immediately.

Jayne kept hers high. “Where have you been?”

“Do you mind?” He brought his hand up to shield his eyes.

She didn’t move. “Why did you go outside?”

“I thought I would find and check out the generator, see if I could get it running.”

“Oh.” She lowered the flashlight. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I can’t tell. When’s the last time you needed it?”

“Never, in the three years I’ve been here. But we get yearly maintenance from the company.”

“Then you’ll have to ask them what went wrong. It’s dead out there, though. No chance of power for tonight.” He pulled the door firmly closed behind him. “What about water?”

“We’re supplied by the town reservoir, so we should be okay. If that water failed, we could switch over to the original Hawkridge supply, from a lake high in the mountains. We won’t have to melt snow to drink.”

His teeth flashed in the dark. “And are we taking cold showers?”

“Our water heaters are gas, so we’ll have hot water for showers and washing up. Thank goodness.”

“Things could definitely be worse.” He tilted his head and looked at her quizzically. “So, do you still suspect I’m an ax murderer?”

“Yes.” Without smiling, Jayne turned and went back into the library. The girls had settled around the fireplace, thanks to Sarah’s brilliant discoveries—marshmallows and coat hangers.

“Are there chocolate bars and graham crackers?” Taryn licked white goo off her fingers. “We could make s’mores.”

Jayne didn’t want to take on another project tonight. “We’ll look for those tomorrow in the daylight.”

A general protest rose from the crowd around the fireplace, expanding to take in the weather, the lack of power and
entertainment options and the miserable state of their adolescent world in general. The whines and complaints came at Jayne as only the most recent coating on a snowball of stress and tension that had been rolling downhill for the last two days, growing larger with every moment and now barreling straight at her.

She dropped into the nearest chair, her hands clamped tight together. In a minute she would regain control.

“Hey, girls! Shut up!” The shout actually echoed in the large room. Through the silence that followed, all eyes turned to the source of the command.

“That’s better.” Standing just inside the library door, Chris Hammond surveyed each of them in turn, one eyebrow lifted in sardonic question over those steel-blue eyes. “Is this a bunch of five-year-olds? You sound like it.”

Resentment flared on several faces. Yolanda opened her mouth to speak.

Chris held up a hand. “No excuses. This is far from the worst place you could be holed up during a blizzard. From what I heard at dinner, most of you chose to stay at school over the holiday.”

Yolanda’s mouth shut.

“Right now you’re warm, there’s food and drink and you’ve got company. You could be in the Middle East, holed up in a cave, looking for an enemy you can’t see even in the daytime. No fire allowed, only water to drink, and freeze-dried food from a bag for Christmas dinner.”

“Have you done that?” Taryn asked, curling one of her frizzy brown pigtails around her finger.

“I’ve traveled with the soldiers carrying the guns. My weapon of choice is a camera.”

A photojournalist,
Jayne thought, as her hands began to relax.
Interesting.

“Can we see your pictures?”

He dragged a ladderback chair near the fire. “Didn’t bring my camera on this trip.”

“Do you work for a newspaper?”

“I usually freelance—I come up with projects and then look for an editor who’s interested.”

Beth Steinman, whose expensive and stylish haircut branded her a resident of Manhattan, asked, “Have you ever published pictures in the
New York Times?”

“Three articles last year.”

“Wow.”

“How about the
L.A. Times?
” Selena Hernandez represented the West Coast at Hawkridge.

“I just sold them a piece, and they asked for more.”

“Cool!”

His genuine smile was just as nice as Jayne had expected. “I have a blog, too. I post pictures and articles on
The View from Here.”

“So we could find you online?” The girls sat up in excitement, then all fell back to their usual slumps. “No electricity, no Internet.”

“Something else to look forward to when the power returns.” Jayne got to her feet. “With the heating off, we’ll have to sleep near the fire. We’re going to the dormitory now so each of you can change into pajamas, robes and slippers. A scarf or a soft hat might be a good idea—you’ll stay warmer if you sleep with your head covered. Then you can bring sheets, blankets and pillows back down and we’ll get set up for the night.”

The predictable protests ensued.

“So early?”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“I stay up till midnight, at least.”

“I can’t sleep without my tunes.”

Jayne held up her hands for silence. “We’ve got a school full of books,” she reminded them. “Also games, puzzles, paint kits…you can choose whatever you want to do.”

The walk through the dark halls by flashlight and the pajama-clad procession back to the library, dragging bedding and stuffed animals, only seemed to drive the energy level higher. A pillow fight erupted and threatened to soar out of control until Jayne pointed out what could happen if flying pillows caught fire. Hunger struck next, and no one seemed to be satisfied with cold candy, cheese and crackers. The absence of a microwave oven brought tempers and tears almost to the breaking point.

Without thinking, Jayne glanced at Chris Hammond, standing at the door observing the chaos. He nodded once, then gave another of those shouts, which again created instant silence. With a hand motion, he turned the room back over to her.

She cleared her throat. “Okay. If you can all settle down, get your bed made, such as it is, and sit on it, I will make hot chocolate for everybody. But you have to be calm. Cooking on the fire isn’t easy.”

“You can cook on the fire?” Beth looked skeptical.

“As long as people aren’t wrestling and throwing things nearby.”

“Then what?” Taryn always managed to ask the hardest questions.

Yolanda threw her pillow on the floor. “Yeah, how are we gonna get to sleep without TV or music?”

“As I said, there are books—” Jayne began.

“Or,” Chris Hammond offered, “I could tell you a story.”

“A
STORY?”
Yolanda, the tall girl with a boyish haircut and espresso skin, glared at him. “You think we look like little kids?”

Selena from L.A. snorted. “I hate those stupid fairy tales.”

But the blonde, Sarah, asked, “What kind of story?”

He settled into the chair near the fire. “It’s not a fairy tale, by any means. Not even fiction. This is a true story.”

“About who?”

He lifted his eyebrow. “What about
Ms. Thomas’s
instructions?” In the scurry to get their bedding straightened out, the girls didn’t notice his sarcastic emphasis on her name.

The headmistress did, but chose to ignore him as she carried a stockpot of milk to the fireplace and set it on a three-legged iron stand above a small pile of coals she’d raked forward, out of the blaze.

Then she sat on the hearth, too, legs curled underneath her, to stir the milk as it heated. Gradually, the girls quieted down on top of their blankets and turned their attention back to Chris.

“So?” Monique, the troublemaker from dinner, glared at him with a skeptical curl to her lips. “What’s this story about?”

“A boy,” Chris Hammond told them. “And a girl.”

A raspberry sound effect greeted his announcement. “Hansel and Gretel?” That was one of the quieter girls whose name he didn’t know, a redhead with green eyes.