No Christmas Like the Present (2 page)

“And would the world come to an end if you told your friends ‘Merry Christmas' instead of making another batch of fudge?”

“I've done it every year.”

He shook his head. “You see, that's the kind of thinking you need to let go of. It's stealing your enjoyment. You don't
have
to do it all, every year, just because of some self-imposed precedent.”

Why was she listening to any of this? Lindsay pulled her hands away, and he let go without resisting. The room suddenly seemed colder. But that had to be her imagination.

He stood, brushed off his knees, and said brightly, “Time for that eggnog.”

“No, wait.” She'd let this go way too far. Lindsay recovered her feet and followed him, on wobbly legs, out to the kitchen. “You have to go.”

“Oh, I will.” He opened a cabinet. He knew exactly where she kept her holly-patterned mugs, the ones she hadn't used this year since she got them out of their box. “Just let me pour you a cup of cheer before I go. That's what you need.”

“I don't want any—”

“Oh, I don't mean that dusty bottle of brandy at the back of your pantry.
That's
not what you need.” He opened her refrigerator, where he immediately found the carton of eggnog in the side of the door. “You need—”

“For you to leave.” That was a little blunt. Better to humor him. He might not seem threatening, but standing beside him, she realized he stood at least six feet tall, compared to her five-foot-two. He was slender, but broad-shouldered and solidly built, not someone she wanted to mess with if he suddenly turned on her and had a fit. “I mean,” she backpedaled, “this is nice of you, but . . .”

“Don't worry.” He opened the eggnog and poured it. “I'm not a psychopath. They don't have those, where I come from.”

An image returned to her, of Scrooge's nephew on a snowy London street. “Where's that?”

He shrugged. “Headquarters. You wouldn't find it on any map.”

Play along until he leaves.
“So you're saying you're, what? An angel?”

“Oh, no. That's far too lofty for me. Just an ordinary messenger.” He inclined his head toward the television set in the next room. “Your own personal Spirit of Christmas Present, if you like.”

He reached unerringly into her spice cabinet, sprinkled the eggnog with nutmeg, and offered her the mug. “After all, I think it's living in the present that you need the most help with, don't you?”

She accepted the mug with shaky fingers. “I don't know.”

“Well, we'll start with that theory. I think the present is a fine place to start. I spend all of my time there, myself.”

He watched her expectantly, then gave an encouraging nod toward the mug in her hand. Lindsay took a sip to humor him. She watched him over the mug and willed him to leave.

“There, that's a start.” He stepped back into the living room. Lindsay followed, mug in hand, hoping to see him safely out the door. To her consternation, he stopped halfway through the room. “Now, you really ought to have some more decorations in here, don't you think? Starting with a real tree.”

“I already have a tree.” She nodded at the three-foot fiber-optic tree she'd bought this year to simplify matters. Something easy to set up and put away, instead of buying a fresh tree to throw away in a few weeks, not to mention digging into the back of the hall closet where all her boxes of lights and ornaments were buried. The little tree sat on the end table between her sofa and love seat, the glowing tips of its needles merging endlessly from red to blue to green to orange.

He scowled. “
That's
not a tree. That's only a tree if you're not physically able to put up a real one. Or if, for some odd reason, it says ‘Merry Christmas' to you. Does that tree say ‘Merry Christmas' to you?”

“Sure,” Lindsay lied.

“Liar,” he said amiably, and continued toward the door. Lindsay tried to conceal her sigh of relief.

He picked up his hat and the bent walking stick from the back of the couch, near the front door. With the tall black hat settled jauntily on his head, he was once again the complete image of Scrooge's nephew Fred. An image so appealing, it almost made her sorry to see him go.

Almost.

With his hand on the doorknob, he turned to her again. “So,” he said, “what are your plans for tomorrow evening?”

Lindsay's breath caught in her throat. “Nothing. I mean, you've helped me enough.” She hefted the nearly full mug of eggnog weakly. “This is great.”

“Don't be silly. We've barely begun. So, you say you're free tomorrow?”

“No. I've got—” Lindsay broke off. Something told her it would be a terrible mistake to tell him about the company Christmas party. “I have to work late.”

He frowned. Whether he was crazy or a bona fide apparition, even his frown was handsome. “Working late, this close to Christmas? They ought to be ashamed. Well, I'll see you again soon.”

Lindsay gulped. “You don't mean at the stroke of midnight or something, do you?”

“Of course not. How rude that would be.” He glanced at the television set, then winked at her. “You can't believe everything you see in films, you know.”

And he opened her door and passed through it like any normal human being. Lindsay caught a brief glimpse of the tall, dark figure silhouetted by her porch light before the door closed behind him.

She locked the door. Bolted it. Turned off the porch light. And leaned against it for a moment, the mug of eggnog clutched in her hand.

Finally she staggered the few steps to the couch and sagged into its cushions, setting the mug down on the end table next to the tacky fake Christmas tree. Fleetingly, she wished there really was something stronger in the cup. She stared at the black-and-white screen through glassy eyes. It took some time before the images began to take on meaning again.

When the haze cleared, Fred was entertaining his Christmas guests, imitating Scrooge with that inextinguishable good-natured light in his eyes. He led his visitors in a laughing chorus of “
Bah, humbug!
”

Lindsay reached for her mug and drank another sip of the eggnog she hadn't taken the time to sample until tonight. She couldn't begin to explain what had just happened. But the old familiar flavor of the sweet drink soothed her, and brought back an undeniable taste of Christmas.

Chapter 2

What was it about mingling? Lindsay wondered.

She stood in her bosses' living room, making small talk with Nikki and Frank, two of her co-workers. At a get-together like this, she always felt tongue-tied, almost as if someone had her by the throat. She saw these people every day. Why was it so hard to find something to say now? Maybe because they'd all transformed in the last hour and a half, changing from the business-casual clothing they wore at the office into actual suits, ties and dressier dresses. Lindsay hadn't worn this satiny, champagne-colored dress before tonight; that might be another reason she didn't feel quite like herself.

The group broke up, and she turned, looking for someone else to talk to. Right now, the twenty or so employees of Newmeyer and Associates had all formed clusters in Phil and Evelyn Newmeyer's big living room, the scene of all three of the company holiday parties since Lindsay had worked for the couple's small firm. “Living room” was a misnomer. This was clearly an entertaining room, with a long table loaded down with food, and lots of empty floor space in the middle for standing and chatting. She wondered what it looked like the rest of the year. She'd never seen the room without those big swoops of pine garland running across all four walls.

Rather than find her way to the edge of another one of the groups, she decided to take a breather and sample the hors d'oeuvre table. Phil and Evelyn always put out a tempting assortment of snacks and desserts, and there ought to be fresh material for conversation there.
Isn't this great brie?

She'd taken one step toward the long table at the other end of the room when she heard a rich male voice, the texture of suede, at her elbow: “Ah, there you are.”

Lindsay felt the blood run to her toes at the sound of the pleasant British accent. By this morning, she'd all but convinced herself that last night had been a dream. Now this.

She sucked in her breath and turned slowly around to face last night's Christmas visitor.

If he was smug about catching her at the company holiday party, rather than slaving at her desk the way she'd implied, his smile barely hinted at it.

“How'd you get in?” she asked.

His eyes sparkled with infuriating merriment. “Why, through the front door, like everyone else.”

Lindsay glanced around furtively. Had Phil or Evelyn actually let him in, or had he just popped in, materialized, the way he had in her apartment last night? Probably not, since everyone stood in the same groups as before, with no bewildered eyes staring their way. A hideous thought occurred to her. What if he really
was
a figment of her imagination? For all she knew she was standing here in front of everyone, talking to empty space. She might end up spending Christmas in the loony bin.

“Can they see you?” she whispered.

“Of course. I told you, you watch too many movies.”

Lindsay shifted her weight from one high heel to the other. How to get him out of here? Heaven only knew what he might say to her coworkers. “You're not supposed to be here,” she hissed.

“What? Not presentable enough? I did away with the hat for tonight. It didn't seem to be what people are wearing these days.”

The period clothing. She hadn't thought about that. Lindsay gave him a hasty once-over. Men's fashions didn't change as much as women's, and without the long overcoat, his simple black suit coat and vest didn't look too out of place. In fact, they accentuated his broad shoulders and trim waist nicely, but that wasn't the issue here. The elaborately ruffled white shirt, and the oversize bow tie . . .

“The shirt and tie are a little too—” She broke off. “It doesn't matter. You have to go.”

“Go? But I just got here.” His calm was maddening. “You look wonderful, by the way.”

Lindsay ignored the warm flush in her cheeks and cast her eyes around as if the walls or furniture held some answer, some quick and quiet way out of this.

“You could tell everyone I'm an imposter and make a scene,” he suggested. “But that wouldn't be much fun. Why not give me a chance? I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

“Lindsay.” A bright, cheery female voice behind Lindsay sealed her fate. “I didn't know you were bringing someone. Who's this?”

Well, people could see him, all right. Lindsay turned to find her friend Jeanne, dressed to the nines in a classic little black dress. Lindsay felt a brief flicker of hope. If she could catch the woman's eye, give her some signal that everything was not right—

It was no use. The pretty blonde's eyes were riveted on Fred. From the appreciative look on her face, she found him every bit as appealing as Lindsay had—when he'd been in his proper place, on the small screen in her living room.

Playing “normal” seemed like the only thing left to do. “Jeanne, this is—”

Lindsay's mind went blank; she had no idea what to call him. She said the only name that came into her mind: “Fred.”

Glancing toward her uninvited escort, she was gratified to see his brows twitch in the faintest of frowns. “Fred . . .” Her mind fumbled. “Holliday.”

“Delighted,” he said. The frown vanished. Taking Jeanne's hand, he inclined his head toward Lindsay slightly, as if prompting her. Prompting her to do what?

Oh. “Fred, this is Jeanne Weber.”

At least it got him to let go of her hand. Jeanne was positively beaming, and for some reason that irked Lindsay. Why? Jeanne was sweet, her closest friend in the office. The fact that she could have her pick of any male in the room wasn't her fault.

“How did you two meet?” Jeanne asked. She didn't seem puzzled by Fred's style of dress, Lindsay realized. Then she noticed he was now wearing a much more understated, contemporary white shirt, with a simple, slim black bow tie.
When did that happen?

“I'm here visiting,” Fred said to Jeanne. “A friend told me I should look Lindsay up. I'm so glad I did.” He turned a smile her way, and Lindsay felt another absurd flush. His words seemed directed at her alone, as if they shared a lovely secret. “She's showing me her way of keeping the Christmas season. I hope I'm not intruding.”

“Oh, not at all.” Jeanne's smile widened. “I could listen to your accent all night. What part of England are you from?”

“Camden.” He slipped a hand gently under Lindsay's elbow, and she managed not to jump. “You know, dear, I owe Lindsay a trip to the punch bowl. Catch up with you later?”

At Jeanne's glowing nod, he steered Lindsay toward the refreshment table. “What kind of a name is ‘Fred,' anyway?” he murmured to her out of the corner of his mouth.

“You weren't helping. It was the first thing I could come up with.”

“But ‘Fred'?” He ladled punch into her cup, smiling at her through his teeth.

“Scrooge's nephew.”

“Of course. I should have known.” He shrugged. “Well, I like the ‘holiday' part, anyway.” He handed a crystal cup of punch to her.

So now he had a name. Every move she made seemed to draw Lindsay deeper into the quicksand. Her head started to hurt.

A headache. That could actually come in handy. A quick ticket out of here, before “Fred” could do anything strange. “You know,” she said, “we should—”

“Lindsay.” The sound of her name was like having manacles slapped on her wrists. This time it came from her boss, Phil. No chance for a quick or gracious exit here. “Who's your friend?”

Behind his bifocals, Phil regarded Fred with the same open curiosity. Lindsay opened her mouth, but Fred was already offering his hand with a hearty smile. “Fred,” he said. “Fred Holliday.”

“It's nice to meet you, Fred,” Phil said. “Where are you from?”

A sinking feeling of inevitability settled in her stomach. As Fred cheerfully held forth with her boss, Lindsay felt the chance for escape dwindle away. She tried to interject, but Phil was already saying, “Let me show you my hobby room.”

That did it. Phil separated the world into two groups of people: the ones he'd already subjected to his collection of ships in bottles, and those he hadn't. Everyone else in the room had already gotten the tour before, but Fred was fair game. A fresh victim. Before she knew it, Phil was steering Fred out of the room, and Evelyn—Phil's wife, Lindsay's other boss—was greeting her.

“Who's your friend?” Evelyn asked. Lindsay couldn't remember when she'd been the object of so much attention in such a short time. It might have a little to do with the fact that she'd never brought a date to the company party before, but she knew Fred would have drawn plenty of curiosity no matter what.

As she stammered out a response, Lindsay cast a last desperate glance over Evelyn's silk-clad shoulder at Fred, who turned away from Phil long enough to give her a solemn wink.

 

 

Word about Fred spread quickly, and Lindsay discovered that having a handsome British stranger for a party date provided her with an instant conversation piece. She couldn't even get to the brie. Every time she tried, someone else flagged her down with eager questions. Trying to ad-lib the answers didn't do anything for her headache. Neither did her cup of punch, a heady mixture of pineapple juice and 7UP. It didn't contain any alcohol, but it made up for that with its lethal double dose of sugar.

When Phil brought Fred back from the tour, Lindsay tried to get to him. But no. Matt the accountant blocked her way, and over his shoulder, she could see Fred captured by Jeanne.

Fred caught her eye, shrugged, and turned to hear whatever Jeanne was saying. Lindsay felt her blood sizzle, and reminded herself that she'd always liked Jeanne. The point was to get Fred out of here before he said or did something outrageous.

A moment later he started toward her again, but this time Evelyn accosted him.

It went on that way for about twenty minutes. Lindsay wouldn't have guessed a large room with twenty-odd people in it could seem this crowded. Every time she tried to catch up with him, or Fred with her, there always seemed to be a knot of people between them. At this rate he'd know everyone in the office as well as she did before the night was over. As far as she could tell from everyone's comments, at least he hadn't said anything too bizarre.

And then he stood at her elbow, holding out a plate laden with cheese, crackers, a few strawberries, and some decadent-looking chocolate wafers. Somehow
he'd
made it to the refreshment table, darn him. Or maybe one of the women had offered to hand-feed him. “Try the chocolate,” he said.

Lindsay bypassed the tempting chocolate and reached for the cheese and crackers, something to ease her headache. Now, if she could just keep him in her sight long enough to escort him quietly out of here. “Fred, we have to—”

“I can see I'm saddled with that name for the duration.”

“I've thought of a few worse things to call you.”

“You don't mean that. Say, are you all right?”

She felt his eyes on her, and looked into them before she thought. He caught her in a warm, dark gaze, full of the same concern he'd shown after she fainted in her apartment. “You look tired,” he said.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Sorry. Lovely, but tired. I think you need to sit down.”

Cupping her elbow in his hand again, he guided her toward the far side of the room. Lindsay started to protest, then thought better of it. Let him think she was some kind of wilting Victorian flower. This headache was her excuse to leave.

She sat in one of the little-used chairs lined up against the wall. He leaned over her and ran his fingertips lightly over a spot just above her temple. From across the room, it probably looked like a romantic gesture. From where Lindsay sat, it was more than that; her headache eased.

No. It went away. Lindsay shook her head hard, trying to bring it back.

She blinked, wondering if he knew what he'd just done.

“Better?” So he did know.

She stuck to her original purpose. “We need to go.”

To her surprise, he didn't argue. “I agree. I don't like you looking pale.” He tipped her chin up to look at him. “I wish you'd accept that I'm here to help you, though. What did you think I was going to do, start rattling chains and raving about Spirits of Christmas Past and Present?”

Maybe the overload was wearing her down. Or maybe he really wasn't crazy. Maybe, with his inexplicable entrances and costume changes, he was exactly what he said he was. If not, he almost certainly had to be a member of the Houdini family, and a mind reader to boot.

A smile touched his lips. “You know, the sooner you let me help, the sooner we can start making progress.”

“The sooner you'll be gone?” She hadn't thought of it quite that way before.

“Oh, now you've cut me to the quick. I've only known you a little while, and I'll miss you terribly when I'm gone.” He was still smiling, but for once, he actually sounded serious.

A dangerous idea began to blossom in her mind, and Lindsay found herself toying with it. He'd shown absolutely no sign that he intended to harm her. Could it be safe to go along with it, just for a little while? She had a feeling she wouldn't be able to shake him any other way.

It couldn't hurt to humor him here, anyway, in a roomful of witnesses. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

“It's a grueling, tedious job, really. Start enjoying yourself. Here, have one of these.”

He picked up one of the sinful-looking chocolate wafers and offered it to her. He
would
have to choose the least dietetic thing on the plate.