No Christmas Like the Present (13 page)

“Lindsay, you and I—you need to forget it. None of this was supposed to happen.”

“You mean, not in the script.” Her words came out dead and dull.

“That's right.” A timbre that had been missing from his voice since he fell through the ice had returned.
He's getting better,
she realized. Better, because he was back to doing his job.

She should let him. But suddenly, facing a thousand hurt and resentful Stevens didn't bother her nearly as much as the fact that Fred
wanted
her to do it.

“You set me up.” Her voice rasped; she was amazed it worked at all. “None of this was real. It was all just to split me wide open—” Probably right down to Fred's fall through the ice. Until she finally broke down and spilled the truth. To help
him.
What a laugh.

He didn't contradict her.

She clutched at one slim, remaining straw. “You said I didn't have to—”

“No, you don't. I can't
make
you do anything. But if you don't use what you've learned, then I've failed you and all this was for nothing.”

Nothing.
Lindsay felt as if she were inside a glass jar and he'd just tightened the lid, neatly cutting off all her oxygen. Her eyes blurred so badly that she couldn't even see. Only one thing mattered in that moment. Not to have
him
see her like this. She levered her way off the couch, blindly heading anywhere away from him.

A hand caught hers. “Lindsay, wait.”

It was back. The gentle voice she'd known all along, and he pulled her back down to the couch with him. Lindsay crumpled against him, knowing she shouldn't, knowing she was an idiot to make herself vulnerable like this. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and tried to keep her tears silent, crying for a hundred emotions she couldn't even name.

“It's all right, darling. I'm here.” His arms wrapped tight around her, strong again. His voice, next to her ear, sounded as husky as hers had a moment ago. “Forgive me. It's all true and it's all a lie.”

“I don't understand.” Her voice came out muffled, between his neck and the pillow.

Fred let out a deep sigh, and she felt his chest slowly sink down underneath her, but she heard no sign of any rattle or cough. “Headquarters knows what's right for you. I have to believe that.
But.
I want you to listen to me very carefully—” He pulled her back from him, just far enough to cup her face between his hands and look straight into her eyes. “If anyone expects me to spend one more minute pretending to feel good about it, they can bloody well forget it.”

He smoothed his thumbs gently across her cheeks, wiping away tears. Lindsay searched his eyes. They remained solidly fixed on hers, and she felt a huge tension drain out of her limbs. She shouldn't feel better—not a lot better, anyway—but some important part of the universe had righted itself. She drew in a deep breath. “But you still want me to go back to Steven?”

“It's not a matter of what I want. I'm not supposed to
want
anything, beyond what's best for you. That's what . . .” He broke off. “That's what caring for someone is all about.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“You mean, do I want you to go back to Steven, personally?” He ran one thumb slowly down her now-dry cheek. “Lindsay, for my part, I'd rather be dragged over carpet tacks and dipped in rubbing alcohol. But what
I
want can't matter.”

“It's not what
I
want either. I did a terrible thing, but—”

“Terrible.” He considered the word, almost as if he were tasting it. “You hurt someone you cared about. You may
feel
terrible, but I don't think it's exactly a capital crime.”

“You don't think maybe they're punishing me for—”

“No, no, no. They don't
do
these things for bad people.” Fred shook his head. “Believe it or not, no one is trying to torture you, Lindsay. Least of all me. Headquarters—well, I can't say I've been happy about their methods lately, but they do have your best interest at heart. That's why I have to believe Steven will make you happy in the long run. Regardless of what either of us feels now.”

“So you don't want me to go back to him. But you want me to.”

A smile touched his lips. “In a manner of speaking.”

Lindsay lowered her eyes. The bottom line was still the same. Fred still wanted her to go to Steven. And she still lost Fred. That had been a given all along, but somewhere along the line, the thought had become unbearable.

Fred traced the outer line of her lips with his thumb. “What I want,” he said, “is impossible. I'm not your future. I can't be.”

He drew her close to him, against the soft, unfamiliar sweatshirt. “And no, I can't make you do it. But if nothing good comes of my being here, then all I've done is hurt you, and it would have been better if I never came.”

“Don't say that.”

“Just promise me you'll think about it.”

“What happens to you if I don't?”

“Nothing for you to concern yourself about.”

“I'm serious. You've never answered that question.” Lindsay pulled back to look at him again, squirming herself into a pretzel twist. “Fred, where
do
you go after this? Do you go off and show someone the true meaning of Valentine's Day, or April Fool's?”

He chuckled. “I don't think so. The fact is—” He looked away, his eyes drifting past her shoulder. Fred almost never did that. “I probably should have told you this a long time ago. I think you're my first case.”

“What do you mean, you
think?
”

“It means, I don't remember anything before they briefed me on you. And then I was on your porch. I never questioned it at first. Remember, it's my nature to live in the present. I suppose I assumed that any other cases were irrelevant. But if you're my first assignment, it might explain how I've made such a hash of things.”

Lindsay frowned, trying to sort out the implications of that. “Maybe you just don't remember.”

Which meant, he might not remember Lindsay after he was gone. And she might not remember him. The idea was so unthinkable, she didn't dare say it. Then another thought occurred to Lindsay, this one wonderful.

He didn't remember anything before they met. Almost as if he'd literally been made for her.

She ran one finger upward over his cheek, feeling the scratch of whiskers that had never existed before. “Are you sure this isn't some way of . . .”

She stopped. What a self-centered, egotistical thought. “Of what?” He reached up and touched the same rough cheek. “Oh. Getting me ready for a life on earth? No. I'm afraid that's just their way of being humorous. My orders are clear.” He took her hand down from his cheek and clasped it in his. “
You
didn't answer
me
yet. I know facing Steven is hard for you. But promise me you'll think about it.”

What had she told herself just a little while ago? About being willing to face an army of Stevens? Lindsay cringed inside. She'd rather join Fred being dragged over the carpet tacks. But if she didn't fulfill his “assignment,” she had no way of knowing what would happen to him. Fred still seemed certain that Headquarters was always benevolent. After seeing him fall through the ice, Lindsay wasn't so sure.

“I'll think about it,” she said. He seemed to be waiting for more. Lindsay licked her lips. “I promise.”

He squeezed her hand. “For tonight, that's all I ask.”

It would be a hard promise to keep. Because she knew, if she was going to do Fred any good, she had to do more than
think
about it.

 

 

Fred turned and stretched his legs out on the couch, pulling Lindsay up to sit in front of him. He let her lean back against his chest, more than happy to serve as her armchair. After today, he owed her that much and more.

As he cradled her against him, they sat facing the Christmas tree she'd forgotten to turn on. That would never do. Fred held his breath, closed his eyes, and remembered that the biggest secret was not to try too hard. An inaudible
click,
and when he opened his eyes, the tree lights had come on. So, things were back as they should be.

Lindsay's head stirred. “You
are
feeling better.”

He heard the faint note of regret in her voice and understood it. How nice it would have been if, in some misguided form of punishment, Headquarters had left him earthbound. But that sort of thinking did no good, and it certainly did nothing to lighten the mood.

Fred circled his arms more closely around her waist and rested his cheek against her hair, just above her ear. “Now, do you remember your lesson in Christmas Tree Appreciation? Watch the lights.”

He gazed along with her at the large colored bulbs, waiting for that sense of peace to descend. It didn't work. First, a few adjustments still needed to be made. A moment's concentration, and he willed the lights in the room to gradually dim, then started the music on the stereo. The sound of handbells chimed low in the background. Fred remembered they'd been listening to that disc yesterday, before their ill-advised decision to go skating.

“This is one of your favorites, isn't it?” He knew he'd heard it several times.

“Mm-hmm.” Her voice sounded much more relaxed, a welcome thing. “I've played a lot more of my Christmas music this year.”

“That's one legacy from me I hope you'll keep. Remember, Christmas is always best when you take it out of the box.”

“Don't say ‘legacy.' It sounds like—”

“Just a figure of speech, darling.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head and breathed in her soft, indefinable scent.

A few minutes later, the sound of Lindsay's breathing became slow and even, and he knew she'd fallen asleep. Small wonder she was exhausted, after all this. His time here might be short, but he was sure he'd already had enough seriousness to last a lifetime.

Fred wrapped his arms around Lindsay and tried to synchronize his breathing with hers. He had no idea where he went from here, and at the moment, he didn't care. This moment was everything. He could have quite happily existed for an eternity here with her, just like this, gazing at the multicolored lights. In the darkened room, they shone both softer and brighter.

He no longer felt the need for sleep. But even if he stayed wide awake for every breath, the hours would pass, and morning would come.

The heaviness he'd felt in his chest all through the day was gone. In its place, an unfamiliar dull ache began to spread through him, and he knew it was only going to get worse.

He held very still and gazed at the tree, trying not to disturb her.

After some time—it might have been minutes or hours—her head slid down under the growing weight of sleep, then bobbed up again. She drew in a sharp little breath, and her body stiffened. Then, with groggy, sluggish movements, she started to climb off the couch. “I'd better get to bed.”

Fred held her. “No, it's all right. Stay here.”

“You need your rest.”

He didn't, not anymore, but that was beside the point. “Don't worry about it.”

He drew her back down to him, and this time she didn't resist. Fred shifted them both downward until their heads reached the pillow, and wedged himself against the back of the sofa, making as much room for her as possible. In a moment her head rested on his chest just below his shoulder, a perfect fit.

From the silence that followed, at first he thought she'd fallen asleep again. Then she raised her head and stared down at him in the dimness, her soft, light hair tumbling around her face. “Fred?”

“What, darling?”

“In the movies”—she passed a hand through her hair—“when something like this is over, nobody remembers what happened.”

“This isn't a movie, my love.”

It wasn't quite an answer, and she knew it. Lindsay persisted. “Do you think—”

“No.” He looked into sleep-confused gray eyes and spoke from his heart. “I couldn't bear you forgetting me. And I could never forget you.”

“How do you know?”

He mustered up all the conviction he could. “I'll see to it. I promise.”

She rested her head against him once more with a deep sigh. A few minutes later, her steady breathing told him she'd fallen back asleep. He didn't know if his answer had satisfied her or not.

It was as close to lying to Lindsay as he'd ever come. Because, unless he could make it happen through sheer force of will, Fred had no idea whether he'd be able to keep his promise.

Chapter 13

Lindsay woke up alone on the couch.

She jerked upright. She'd fallen asleep with her head resting on Fred's chest. She couldn't imagine how he'd gotten up without dumping her on the floor, much less without waking her.

“Fred?” No answer.

With growing unease, Lindsay pushed the tangled blankets aside and got up to search the apartment. Fred's wet clothes, the ones she'd left draped over the backs of her kitchen chairs two nights ago, were gone. She caught her breath, fighting the beginnings of panic. December twenty-fourth, the day before Christmas. He shouldn't be gone yet. Or had his mysterious powers-that-be decided his job was done?

The knob of her front door turned, and Lindsay held on to the white-runged back of the chair beside her.

Fred walked in, resplendent once again in his coat, top hat, even carrying the slightly bent walking stick, which Lindsay had almost forgotten. She gripped the chair tighter, fighting the urge to run at him like a flustered housewife from some old TV show.

Fred's eyebrows raised at the sight of her, then lowered in concern as he took in her expression. He strode across the room to her, pulling off his hat as he walked. “I'm sorry. I expected to be back before you were awake.”

“It's okay.” Lindsay made herself let go of the chair. “After all, why shouldn't you”—
vanish without a trace?
—“go out for—” For what? The newspaper?

“I checked in at Headquarters. I thought you'd prefer I came and went through the door.” Fred put his arm around her. She rested her cheek against the front of his crisp white shirt, and touched the lapel of his overcoat. The rough, yet supple texture felt like new, even though she was sure the heavy wool still ought to be damp after being so thoroughly soaked.

“What did they say? At Headquarters?”

“We're back on track. No harm done.” Fred reached around her to deposit his hat on the seat of the chair next to her. The hat, like the coat, showed no sign of ever having been dunked in a lake.

“So everything's back to normal.” Lindsay tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She should know better than to think anything would change. Fred had made that clear last night.

“You could say that. It was a short meeting.” Fred's tone was filled with wry humor. “I didn't want to go into too many details. Now I have a proposition for you. You work today, right?”

She nodded. “Usually they close early on Christmas Eve. But I need to be there.”

“Understood.” He tilted her chin up so that her eyes met his. “Here's my plan. We spend Christmas Eve together, you and I. But there's to be one rule. Live entirely in the present. No serious talk.” She could tell he was biting the inside of his lip. “I imagine that's going to be a challenge for you. Think you can manage it?”

“What about S—”

He laid his finger over her lips. “And
absolutely
no mention of what's-his-name. He gets you soon enough. If that's what you decide. Tonight it's just you and I. Are you agreeable?”

One more night of living in the present. Lindsay reached up and put her arms around him, standing on tiptoe to get closer. When her cheek brushed Fred's, the skin against hers was, once again, smooth and clean-shaven.

 

 

Lindsay had eaten a few holiday dinners at restaurants before, and they'd always felt a little strange. Tonight, with Fred, was no exception. Until now, she'd never had trouble finding anything to say to him, or felt pressure to make small talk. Tonight was different. For one thing, it was hard to avoid anything that might be construed as serious. In some ways, it felt like a first date.

Fred contributed to the feeling—and, thankfully, to the small talk—by keeping up a constant barrage of questions. He seemed determined to learn everything about her in the short time they had left.

“McDonald's,” Lindsay answered. “I was a fry cook.” She smiled bemusedly. “I don't get it. How much
do
you know about me? The first night we met, you even knew where to find the nutmeg.”

“Parlor tricks. They only told me enough to get you to listen to me. The rest, as you'll recall, I had to learn the hard way.”

Fred might find her an endlessly fascinating subject, but Lindsay was getting a little sick of herself. “Your turn,” she said. “Tell me something about
you
for a change.”

“Ask away. I'm an open book.”

Lindsay squinted up at the tulip-shaped lights that hung over their table. Hard to think of a question for someone without a past. “Okay,” she floundered. “Your favorite Christmas carol.”

“Depends. When I'm in a quiet mood, Handel's
Messiah.
When I'm in a festive mood . . . let's see. Maybe ‘Carol of the Bells.'”

Lindsay laughed. “You've got to be kidding. That one sounds like Edgar Allan Poe having a nervous breakdown.”

“But he did, didn't he? Maybe Christmas drove him to it. Maybe he was just like you, so wrapped up in trying to buy presents and mail cards, he finally snapped, threw up his hands, and said—”

Lindsay groaned as she joined him: “Never-more.”

She shook her head in amazement. Fred's education might be incomplete, but it was certainly varied.

“I hope that's changed for you,” he said. “About celebrating Christmas. Next year, don't forget what you've learned. Play the carols, drink the eggnog. Remember what Christmas is about, and what it's for. I want that happiness for you.”

This veered dangerously close to serious talk, and Fred seemed to know it. He turned his attention back to his plate. He didn't eat Christmas dinner like anyone else Lindsay had ever seen. Most people launched into the familiar favorites with gusto. Fred was more inclined to sample a bite as though considering it carefully before he moved on to the next item on his plate. His dinner was vanishing, slowly but surely, but he rarely seemed to eat the same thing for two bites in a row.

She waited until he finished a bite of sweet potatoes. “How's the dinner? Is it what you expected?”

“If it makes any sense, it's what I expected, only much more so. I've known intellectually what a Christmas dinner is like, but it's nothing like experiencing it first hand.” He sliced into a piece of turkey with exquisitely browned skin. “Have you ever cooked a turkey?”

“A few times, when I've had my parents down. I always need help with the gravy, though.” She stirred the light brown, slightly thin mixture poured into the hollow on top of her potatoes. “This is fine. But it can't touch my mother's gravy.”

His eyes were thoughtful. “I'll bet she's a lot like you.”

“I guess so.” Lindsay grinned. “She says it took her ten years to get the recipe right.”

“That definitely sounds like you.”

“You could find out.” Lindsay raised a forkful of non-homemade mashed potatoes and tried to sound casual. “I'd love it if you'd come with me to my parents' house tomorrow.”

Fred looked touched, and something else. He avoided her eyes—something Lindsay had come to recognize as a bad sign—and toyed with his glass of sparkling cider. “That's very nice of you. But how on earth would you explain me to your parents?”

“The same way I did at work, I guess. You're visiting from out of the country. . . .”

His eyes met hers again, his gaze so direct it was almost like a stab. “My love, I won't be here tomorrow.”

Lindsay's fork froze on its way to her mouth. “What?”

“Come Christmas Day, you're on your own. It's time for you to start applying what you've learned. That's the way it works.”

Her appetite vanished. By now, she wouldn't have thought it was possible to feel betrayed by Fred, but she did. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I didn't want you thinking about it.” Fred took her hand, lightly tracing her knuckle. “We have until midnight tonight.”

“That means we've only got—”

Lindsay looked down at her wrist, but not before Fred laid his hand over her watch, then neatly slipped it off in one smooth motion. He put it in his pocket. “Forgive me. But this is what I wanted to avoid. If you have it on, you'll keep looking at it.”

“There's that candlelight service at eleven—”

“I'll make sure we don't miss it. For the rest of the night, when it comes to time, you're on a need-to-know basis.”

She would have thought Fred wouldn't want to go anywhere near the lake, so soon after having been under it. But when she told him that was the neighborhood with the best Christmas lights, he was the one who suggested making the short trip up the mountain.

After surveying several streets from the car, Lindsay parked near the pier on the south side, where the lake was ringed by two-story homes with colorful lights that cast blurred reflections on the frozen water. Lindsay felt her eyes pulled toward the north end of the lake, where Fred had taken his spill, but it was too far away to see.

They got out of her car and walked alongside the lake, where flat boards over the edge of the water replaced ordinary sidewalks. If she'd been with anyone else, Lindsay would have been freezing. But with Fred beside her, she'd long since discovered, she was never cold.

They stopped and rested their arms on the rough wooden railing that bordered the walkway. Lindsay's eyes skimmed over the houses, especially the ones with lighted Christmas trees downstairs and darkened windows upstairs, where the children's bedrooms would be. She could feel the descending quiet, the growing anticipation. And tried to fight her own increasing dread. They had so little time left. She shivered despite the fact that she wasn't cold.

Fred put his arm around her. “So, what do you think is happening in these houses tonight?”

“The children are nestled all snug in their beds?”

“Of course. But what's going on in, say, that house?” He pointed to a home where every tree and bush was wrapped or covered in red and green lights. “I say Mom and Dad have put the children to bed. She's wrapping the last of the presents, and he's trying to assemble a tricycle.”

Just when she thought she'd gotten used to Fred . . . Lindsay turned with a frown. “How do you know that?”

He chuckled. “I don't. It's just a game. You can do it too. How about—say, that house?”

He pointed to one trimmed in white icicle lights. Through a downstairs window, Lindsay glimpsed the flickering blue eye of a television screen. “They're watching
It's a Wonderful Life.
”

“Quite possible. But you can do better. Try again. Use what you
don't
see.”

Lindsay contemplated a solemn, blue-lit nativity scene in front of another house. An older couple, probably, she decided, and tried to picture the scenario inside. “They're roasting a turkey in the oven overnight,” she said. “The house is going to smell incredible in the morning.”

“You see? Very good.”

Lindsay spotted a yard full of Charlie Brown figures painted on plywood. Definitely kids in that house. Her eyes lingered on Snoopy. “They're getting a puppy.”

“Perfect.” His arm tightened around her. “That's something else I don't know about you. Did you ever get a puppy for Christmas?”

“Not for Christmas. We always had pets, though.”

“Was there ever anything special you wanted for Christmas, but you never got?”

She couldn't help it. She turned to Fred again and stared at him for several long, slow beats.
No serious talk,
she reminded herself. So she didn't say it.

Lindsay searched her memory for something else. “Ballet slippers.”

“Oh?”

Lindsay shrugged. “It was kind of silly. I never even asked my parents for lessons, let alone the shoes. I was never too athletic.”

“Is that the point? You know, there are very few accomplished ballerinas. But I'm sure for every one of them, there must be thousands of others who love to dance.”

He was reading too much into this. “It's not some big unresolved thing,” she protested. “It was just a whim. I wouldn't have been any good at it.”

“Whims are fine. I just don't like the idea of your believing you wouldn't be ‘good enough' at anything.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don't have to do everything
right,
Lindsay.”

Fred studied her thoughtfully, and she squirmed.

“That's what you've been doing all along, isn't it? This is the time of year when you made your worst mistake. And you've been trying to make up for it ever since. That's why you're always trying so hard to get Christmas
right.
And that's why you miss out.”