Holiday Serenade, The (10 page)

Her head buzzed and any thread of control was singed and snapped by the fire raging through her. She shoved back from him, back from the chair, and stood there panting.

“What the hell do you know? You weren’t there. You don’t know.”

He stood slowly, moving in front of her. “So, I don’t know. Why can’t you say it?”

Her face started to crumble. She could feel every wrinkle, every line. “Because…it’s a fucking lie.” She slapped her hand over her mouth at her crass language. She
never
said the f–word.

“Why is it a fucking lie? Come on, Abbie. I wasn’t there. Tell me.”

And his voice was almost a shout, pushing her to the edge of the deep cavern of her fear. She hovered over the brink and then fell.

“Because…it
was
my fault! I didn’t see him for what he was. I didn’t think he’d do something like that. I trusted him!”

And that final admission brought her to her knees. “Oh, God,” she cried, wrapping her arms around herself. “He raped me.”

Before she knew it, Mac was beside her on the floor, gathering her close. “Let it out, Abbie,” he whispered, smoothing her hair as she cried against his chest. “It’s time to let it go.”

She couldn’t respond. She was snowed under by nearly seventeen years of buried pain, pain suppressed by the need to take care of a baby who hadn’t deserved to be born under such circumstances.

Mac held her tight while she cried out all the pain, the injustice, the victimhood, and the fear that had been frozen inside of her, closing her off to the love of a good man.

Finally spent and completely hollowed out, she leaned against her brother, head buzzing, body tingling. She felt him kiss her hair.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered.

More tears welled as she raised a head that seemed to weigh as much as a dumbbell. “Why?”

“Because you just opened the door to your own Christmas miracle.”

And as he squeezed her tight again, rocking her into a new center of peace, she realized he was only partially right.

Her Christmas miracle had started right now.

Chapter 9

R
hett surveyed the line at Don’t Soy with Me. Everyone was chatting like they had candy canes stuck up their asses. Usually he was of good cheer, but he just wasn’t feeling the Christmas spirit. Even though Jill had decorated the coffee shop so thoroughly it ought to be criminal. Stuffed elves hung from the ceiling along with a Santa sleigh and reindeer. Flashing white lights added a soft glow, and a cheerful fire roared in the fireplace.

One unfortunate elf had his whole body wrapped around a Don’t Soy with Me coffee cup, with Jill’s logo of a man and woman sitting at a table with a cup of coffee between them. The woman was crooking her finger at the man. The black image against the lime green backing reminded Rhett of him and Abbie. She crooked her finger—well, not often—and he pretty much came running…but then she always left.

As he shuffled forward in line, he realized he was sounding like the Grinch. Shit. He’d love nothing better than to leave and return to his brooding, but he’d promised the food–obsessed Rye some of the pastries Don’t Soy with Me sold from Brasserie Dare. It was the least he could do after leaving his friend to fend for himself last night, not that Rye ever had trouble doing that.

When he finally picked up his coffee, he heard his name shouted over Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” Damn, he loved that girl, but he wondered if she’d had to sit on a stick pin to hit those high notes. Tucking his gingerbread latte close, which only reminded him of Abbie’s baking, he headed over to join Arthur Hale, who was sitting in the corner with his signature red pen in his hand, likely marking up articles for
The Western Independent.
Rhett had grown fond of the oldest member of his Wednesday night poker group.

“Tried to get your attention earlier, but it’s like a zoo in here,” Arthur said. “Plus you look like someone kicked your dog.”

When Arthur gestured to the chair across from him, Rhett sat down. “Sorry, I have a few things on my mind.”

“Women troubles after last night, I expect. I saw Abbie’s face when she ran out of your party. She doesn’t seem like the type of woman who likes to be pressured into giving an answer.”

Rhett’s gingerbread latte neither pleased his taste buds nor gave him one iota of Christmas spirit. “I wasn’t trying to pressure her,” he growled, trying to balance respect for his elders with his annoyance about Arthur’s usual directness, something he appreciated when it was targeted at other people.

Arthur drew out two red hots, his second food group it seemed, and handed one to Rhett, which he took to be polite. He marveled at how anyone could eat that many candies and still keep his teeth, especially at his friend’s age.

“You don’t think you were trying to pressure her?” Arthur snorted, pushing his wireless glasses up his nose. “Then you’re lying to yourself, son. Take it from an old codger like me. Sometimes a public declaration backfires, especially on a woman who guards her privacy like she does her underthings. Just because you want everyone to know you love her, doesn’t mean it’s smart to tell everyone, particularly in a small town like this one. If you look around, you’ll notice people are watching you, and not because you’re some famous poker player.”

Rhett scanned the room, and this time he saw the speculation in people’s eyes. Dare’s grist mill ran like clockwork. He’d grown so accustomed to it that he didn’t even notice anymore. Was this what Abbie had been trying to tell him?

“I was only trying to show her how much I love her. We kept our relationship in the dark before, so I wanted everything out in the open this time. Hell, I even wrote her that damn song and put my heart on my sleeve, and what does she do? Turns tail the minute we get close again.” He coughed, realizing he had revealed more than he intended.

Arthur’s age–spotted hand sliced through the air. “Please, just because I haven’t had sex for a while doesn’t mean I don’t know what couples do when they care about each other. Anyone can see that Abbie loves you. She just isn’t sure she wants to stand with you while you’re rustling up pictures and interviews as Rhett Butler Blaylock. To my mind, that makes her a smart woman.”

And yet that wasn’t the reason at all. It went so much deeper. Rhett knew it went back to what had happened to her—he just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Hoping some sugar would kick his system into the Christmas spirit, Rhett grabbed one of the cookie samples that Margie, the barista, was bringing around on trays. The Santa sugar cookie melted in his mouth. Arthur munched on his sample alongside him.

“When I have Christmas cookies, it always makes me think of my wife, Harriet. She would bake nearly twelve types of sweets for the holiday. It was a shitload of cookies to consume, but I loved her, so I ate them.”

The crumbs on the table flew to the floor when Rhett brushed them aside so he could lean forward on his elbows. “Abbie’s the same way, and damn if I don’t want to eat whatever she puts in front of me, even if it means more time at the gym.”

Arthur snorted. “Yeah, I’m really concerned about my time in the gym.”

Since the man was seventy–seven, Rhett laughed, and his first genuine smile of the day spread across his face. “So, you old codger, what’s your advice then? I’ve made a public declaration, which backfired. Now what?”

The process of stirring more cream into his coffee took a minute. Rhett knew Arthur was mulling it over.

“You make a private declaration,” he suggested. “A woman always likes to be serenaded. Don’t send another man to do your serenading, son. I like Rye Crenshaw’s music like everyone else, but he’s not the one in love with Abbie. You are.”

Just the thought of serenading Abbie made his heart triple beat in his chest. “But I suck at singing. It literally will make the cats cry.” Or was it the doves cry? Didn’t Prince sing about that?

Arthur pocketed his pen and drained his coffee. “That’s all the better.” He stood and patted Rhett on the back. “A woman can’t help but fall for a man who makes an ass of himself for her sake. Do something that’s hard for you. It’s a winning idea, son. Trust me. I speak from experience.”

“Thanks,” he said, as Arthur grabbed his cane and ambled off.

When Rhett took a sip of his latte this time, he could hear the jingle of bells in his ears.

His Christmas dream wasn’t over.

Even if it involved him making an ass of himself like Arthur had suggested.

Chapter 10

A
fter leaving Don’t Soy with Me, Rhett let himself into his house. He wanted to pat himself on the back for not grabbing one of the hot croissants he’d bought for Rye and consuming it on the drive up.

“You know,” said Rye, who was lounging on the couch watching ESPN’s Sports Center when he walked into the den, “it’s a good thing we’ve been friends so long or you might have hurt my feelings ditching me like you did last night. I was all scared and lonely out here in the big bad woods.”

“Sure you were, Red Riding Hood,” Rhett responded, knowing a line of bull when he heard it. “I brought you breakfast like I promised to soothe your shattered heart.”

Rye swung his legs onto the floor and sat up, studying him. “From what I’m seeing, you’re the one who looks like his heart has been through the meat grinder. I take it our song didn’t work its intended magic—even though you’re doing the walk of shame this morning?”

Yeah, thank God Arthur hadn’t mentioned that. Rhett had shed his coat jacket and tie, but he was still wearing the gray pants, white shirt, and shoes from the night before.

“Shut up,” he said and thrust the bag of food in Rye’s direction.

His friend opened it and moaned. “Dear God, are these—”

“Fresh croissants? Yes. I also brought you a ham and cheese quiche since you’re that kind of guy.”

His friend’s laugh was dirty when he jumped up to head into the kitchen. “That’s because the word quiche reminds of me of quickie.”

Rhett couldn’t help but think of how totally miserable he was after a night of fantastic sex. It was unfamiliar territory.

“Well, Abigail and I hardly had a quickie,” he confessed. “We spent all night in bed, but she left me high and dry this morning. Nothing’s been resolved.”

He knew that while making love with him again had been a huge step for Abbie, she still wasn’t ready to give her whole heart to him. And that’s what he wanted. Them married. Living together. Forever.

Rye slapped him on the back. “I’m sorry, man. I know how much you love her. Women!”

Yeah, who could understand them?

For a man who didn’t really care much for order, Rye arranged his food on one of Rhett’s white plates with the flair of a Cordon Bleu–trained chef. Then he carried it over to the kitchen table like it was the ark of the covenant itself, sat down, and bowed his head.

“You praying?” Rhett asked, shocked.

His hands opened like he was blessing the food. “Some things are meant to be honored. Food is one of them.”

“Well, color me surprised,” Rhett said, taking a seat across from him.

“Feel free to have some food. You’re so pathetic, the least I could do is share.” When Rye bit into the croissant, his eyes fluttered shut. “Dear God. It’s like being at a Paris cafe.”

“You truly are sick, man. Your love of food borders on obsessive.” But since his friend’s display eased his troubles a bit, he smiled.

“I’m telling you, it’s like heaven in my mouth.” Then he gave Rhett his full attention. “Now talk. What do we need to do to make Abbie realize the lengths to which you’ll go to be with her?”

Rhett decided to sample one of the croissants and realized his friend was right, just like always. It
was
heaven in his mouth. “Well, I ran into one of my Wednesday night poker buddies who’s seen a lot of years. He had an interesting idea.”

After he’d told Rye what he was thinking, his friend started grinning. “Can I watch? Seriously. I mean, I’ve heard you sing when you’re drunk as a skunk. I love you, but you suck balls, man. Maybe you can lip–sync.”

Rhett didn’t mind being flamboyant, but he did mind being foolish. “I don’t like it any better than you do, but I think he’s right.”

The quiche was quickly obliterated, and his friend’s groans punctuated the silence in the kitchen. “Well,” Rye said between bites, “if you really wanted to make an ass of yourself, you could sing Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” You’ll need a really tight jock strap for that one though.”

Rhett’s balls tightened at the mere thought—and not in a good way. “No thanks. I’m gonna sing her the song I wrote. Can you get me the instrumental?”

Rye’s shoulder lifted as he finished chewing. “Sure. You planning on pulling a John Cusack in
Say Anything
?”

“Man, right now, I’m embarrassed to even know you.”

“Like you don’t get the reference,” Rye said, diving into the bag for more food. “I’ve watched it with a girlfriend or two. Holding the boom box overhead is classic. And, this food just keeps getting better and better.”

“I figured that since you like your women to be tarts, a French one might do,” Rhett responded with an eye roll as Rye drew out a mini raspberry tart.

“Well, in terms of satisfaction, let’s see.” Rye bit into it and did the whole moaning thing all over again. “Yep. It comes pretty damn close.”

“If your fans could only see you now. I’m going to go practice—in the shower—so you can’t hear me.”

The tart disappeared into his friend’s mouth after the third bite. “Like that’s gonna stop me.”

Digging his feet into his shoes, Rhett said, “You’re sick.” And then he raced toward his bedroom full throttle.

The door was latched a few seconds after Rye started pounding on it. “Would you seriously deny one of your best friends a lifetime’s worth of entertainment?”

As Rhett headed to the shower for singing practice—
singing practice!
—he called over his shoulder. “Hell, yes.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, man,” Rye called through the door. “And I’ve changed my mind. I’m playing the piano for this live event.”