No Christmas Like the Present (10 page)

She vanished into the bedroom and returned with a cardboard box, at least as large as the one from the back of the hall closet. Fred hastened to take the load from her hands and carry it the rest of the way into the living room. Lindsay opened the flaps to reveal a small treasure trove of assorted Christmas knickknacks—reindeer figurines, stuffed snowmen, wooden nutcrackers, and more. Some of them were still sealed in their boxes. That was his Lindsay. Still keeping things boxed up. Except that this time, she'd brought them out on her own.

Fred discovered an artificial plastic ball of mistletoe. When Lindsay wasn't looking, he hung it over the kitchen doorway and waited for her to find it.

If she didn't, pretty soon, he'd help.

By late afternoon, they'd found a place for all of it, and Fred nudged the box into the hallway. “Well,” he said, “is that everything, Miss Miller? Or are you about to start pulling tinsel out of your ears?”

She laughed. “One strand at a time.”

He loved making her laugh. It was a delightful sound—light, abandoned, almost girlish. Nothing like the serious young woman she tried so hard to be.

That had become his strategy. Keep her laughing. Keep her busy. Keep her mind off the stack of Christmas cards perched mutely on the tray in front of the sofa. The stack had gotten a bit smaller since the night he met her, but the tray itself had never moved. When Lindsay happened to glance at it, her eyes would cloud momentarily. But she was getting good at avoiding looking in that direction.

They were both getting good at avoiding certain things. Like any mention of his orders from Headquarters. Or what came next, when he had to leave her.

For now, her light gray eyes were filled with that sparkle he couldn't get enough of. Somewhere during their little battle underneath the mistletoe, it appeared, she'd decided to trust him, to accept things for what they were at the moment. And he'd do anything in his power to keep it that way. Never mind what Headquarters wanted . . . at least not for now.

“How did you ever get so many decorations?” he asked.

She stood in the center of the living room, surveying their handiwork. “I buy some every year, when they go on sale after Christmas.” Her voice dropped. “When I start telling myself that next year is going to be different.”

“Well, that's going to stop.”

The sparkle dimmed a little. She didn't answer.

“Lindsay,” he persisted, “this isn't just my doing. I'm not the one who bought two dozen little reindeer figurines. Even Saint Nick only needs eight. You've wanted this. It's yours. Enjoy it.”

“Next year won't be the same.” She left the rest unsaid.

So they were in for a bit of seriousness after all. Fred went to her, put one arm loosely around her waist. “No, it won't be the same. It never is. People come and go, they get older, move, have children. There's only one constant in all of Christmas.” He nodded toward the nativity scene a few feet away. “And that's reason enough to rejoice.”

He watched Lindsay as her eyes followed the direction of his nod. “I know.”

If he could leave her with only one thing, it should be that. He shouldn't let his own selfish motives get in the way. But Lindsay looked solemn, and Fred felt a desperate need to lighten the mood.

He knew just how to do it.

“Let's see if we can finish what's left of that fudge.” Fred laced his fingers through hers and led her toward the kitchen.

When he stopped her under the archway, and his mistletoe trap, Lindsay laughed. But not for long. He caught her in a kiss, and her arms came up around him immediately, her lips both yielding and giving. It was several minutes before he could bring himself to raise his head. Until now he'd never focused on anything but the present, but until now he'd never believed the present could be so eternal. Did she feel even a fraction of what he felt? He looked down into Lindsay's face, and her eyes were bright once more, her cheeks flushed.

Yes. At least a fraction.

“I thought you were after the fudge.” Lindsay didn't move one centimeter toward the kitchen, didn't stir from his arms.

“I found something sweeter.”

When he kissed her again, she leaned back against the side of the archway, as if to savor the luxury of the moment. Her fingers tangled in the hair above the nape of his neck, gathering him nearer. The warmth of her body, so close against his, made everything else seem incredibly far away. Lindsay's hands slid down his back, her body pressing more firmly against his.

Impossible ideas flashed through his mind. It was out of the question. But what
would
happen if he carried Lindsay into the bedroom, with that color-flashing tree in the late afternoon dimness?

There was only one answer to that.

Get them both out of this apartment. Fast.

Chapter 10

“Whose idea was this?” Lindsay tried for a joking tone as she stepped out onto the frozen lake. Anything to conceal the near panic in her voice. Panic was winning.

And the question was rhetorical. Who else but Fred could have gotten her to drive up the mountain for the privilege of hobbling across slippery ice on narrow, precarious skates? Under the metal blades on her feet, the surface felt even slicker than it looked.

Fred squeezed her hands in both of his. “I've got you.”

That went without saying. Otherwise, she'd already be in a heap.
Six-year-old kids are doing this,
she reminded herself as one of them swooped by, leaving tiny shavings of ice scattered at her feet. Fred's two black-gloved hands held hers securely as he guided her slowly along the ice, keeping them close to the edge of the lake.

When Fred first suggested it, ice skating had sounded like a fun winter adventure. But roller skates—the normal kind, anyway—had four wheels on each foot to keep you anchored to the earth, instead of tottering like a baby giraffe taking its first steps. The fact that Fred was skating backward, in order to face her, didn't ease her mind. She'd feel a lot better if he could see where he was going.

He smiled down at her, apparently amused by her short, jerky strides. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Once. When I was about twelve. Have you?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Then how—”

A teenage boy cut across Fred's path from behind, and Fred deftly sidestepped without looking backward. “I think it's one of those osmosis things.”

“You mean ice skating is on a need-to-know basis too?”

Fred wobbled slightly. “Watch out. Don't make me think. Remember, I'm the one who's holding us both up.”

He took a longer, seemingly effortless stride backward, and Lindsay felt them pick up a little speed. She jittered off balance, gripping his gloved hands a little more tightly without meaning to. She'd never seen him wear gloves before; she was pretty sure he didn't need the protection from the cold. But they went along with the whole ensemble: the warm overcoat, the bright red scarf—he'd even worn the top hat again tonight, with Lindsay's approval. On the street, it would have been ridiculous, but in this wintry setting, it seemed fine, more flattering than the knit caps or ski masks some of the men out here wore. The top hat was jaunty. It was Christmasy.

Or maybe she'd left her sanity behind before they even left her apartment.

When she didn't totter over, Fred increased their speed again. Lindsay felt a light brush of the cold night air on her cheeks, and started to remember why this had sounded like a good idea.

“Better?” Fred said.

“Better. But would you mind not skating backward?”

“For you, anything.” He said it lightly, yet she heard a ring of truth in his voice.

He shifted her right hand to his left and stepped alongside her with an ease that would have surprised her in anyone else. He left the outer edge of the lake to Lindsay, a little extra measure of security. That was something else. Indoor ice rinks had a ledge. Here, there was nothing but Fred to hold on to.

Not a bad deal, she decided, as he tucked her mittened hand into his arm. In fact, she'd be hard-pressed to think of a better one. Lindsay slid on the ice alongside him a little more smoothly now—not graceful by a long shot, but it felt good. It seemed easier now that they faced the same direction.

Fred had been in a pretty big hurry to get them out of the apartment, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. The bracing air was close to the literal equivalent of a cold shower, and Lindsay knew she, for one, had needed it. Out here, under the glare of the outdoor lamps, she could get as close to Fred as she wanted, and not worry about anything getting out of hand.

Even without that, they had to be breaking Headquarters rules six ways from Sunday. But if it didn't bother Fred, she wasn't about to bring it up.

How had she gone from brandishing a walking stick between them, to this?

And how in the world was she going to go back to her normal life after this?

Less than a week ago, she'd been buried in her routine of going to and from work, trying to fulfill her obligations in between, all while she watched Christmas pass her by in a blur from the corner of her eye. Now she was in the heart of it, feeling the bracing air around her, holding a hand she could swear was giving her warmth straight through both of their gloves.

But it was so much more than physical warmth she felt. Fred made her feel special, valued. He made the world around her look better, too: brighter, richer, as if she were seeing it more clearly. Lindsay couldn't remember feeling this way with any other man, not even Steven, and she hadn't gotten that close to anyone else since. With Steven she'd felt safe and comfortable.
Pleasant,
she admitted to herself reluctantly.

Being with Fred was so much better. So much more than she deserved.

And he'd be gone so soon.

Her stride faltered, and Fred's arm instantly boosted her up for support. “Thinking again, weren't you? Remember, the secret of a thing like this is
not
to think.”

She wondered if he was talking about the skating, or not.

Fred glided them into a turn as they approached the row of wooden barricades that blocked the unused portion of the lake from skaters—whether for safety, or to keep the public skating area down to a manageable size, Lindsay wasn't sure. But as they crossed the center of the lake, she tried not to think about the depth of the water underneath them.

Not to think.
Don't think about the water. Don't think about what happens when he leaves.

And then they reached the shore on the other side, and turned again. Fred's arm squeezed her hand closer against him. And Lindsay's heart lightened, along with her steps. She drew a deep breath of the cold air.

The lake was beautiful. The white ice and snow, the bright sweaters and caps of the skaters around them, all against the distant backdrop of the black night sky, with its tiny white pinpricks of stars. Tinny holiday music played from public address speakers near the skate rental shack, and even that sounded pretty in context.
It's that time of year . . . When the world falls in love . . .

Her skates slid smoothly along the ice now, and Lindsay felt light inside, almost as if she weren't touching the ground. She had to hand it to Fred. Never had she lived so completely in the present. There was nothing but
now.
Lindsay took it all in, and let the moment fill her heart.

She had no right to be this happy.

 

 

Fred guided Lindsay once again around the lake, feeling her relax a bit more with each stride. It was like watching a flower blossom in the snow, seeing her open up this way. And the bud had been beautiful to begin with. Once, he tried to spin them at the shallow part of the lake, near a soft-looking snowbank. They'd nearly tottered over; after she shrieked, she collapsed against him in a spate of that little-girl laughter.

Their Christmas outings certainly seemed to be doing her some good. But at this point, he could no longer pretend he was doing this for anyone but himself. Making Lindsay happy made him happy. A strange form of selfishness, perhaps, but selfishness nevertheless.

And as for that invisible nemesis, Steven—

He drew Lindsay a little closer as they rounded the turn that took them along the blocked area across the center of the lake, the part that made her nervous. Once again her fingers squeezed tighter around his, and he squeezed back.

It couldn't possibly make any difference to Fred whether he sent her back to Steven or not. Either way, come Christmas, Fred would never see her again. Still, something at the very core of him resisted.

Before, he'd never had a
plan.
But he'd always had a
purpose.
This was like being in free fall. Exactly like being in free fall—both exhilarating and terrifying. What repercussions from Headquarters awaited him on the other side of these four days, he didn't know. But in this moment, one thing was crystal clear: he was going to enjoy Lindsay while he had her, and the consequences be damned.

Seconds later a loud, sharp noise filled the air. Followed by a thousand smaller, crackling noises under his feet.

 

 

Lindsay heard a sound like a gunshot. An instant later someone yanked her left arm and wrenched her away from Fred. She tried to pull free, to get back to him, but she couldn't even see him. People blurred in front of her as someone dragged her backward by both arms now, the blades of her skates scraping the ice. Huge, spiderwebbing cracks radiated outward across the ice. She heard a referee's whistle, shouting voices, and behind it all, that ominous cracking sound.

A louder shot than before—an explosive one—and an enormous plume of water burst upward, behind the people who blocked her view of Fred.

The last of the crowd in front of her streaked past as people reached the shallow edges of the lake, herded by safety workers in bright red vests. Still straining against the hands that pulled her, Lindsay stared at a jagged, gaping hole in the ice twenty feet away from her.

A tall, black hat floated on top of the water.