No Christmas Like the Present (5 page)

Fred's fingers lingered in her hair before he let it fall back into place, his expression unusually serious. His face was close to hers as he went through the motions of straightening the scarf, his eyes never leaving hers. What did he see there, and what was he thinking? She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply, afraid to move, afraid he'd know what
she
was thinking. All she had to do was tilt her head back a little to raise her mouth toward his—

—and make a complete fool of herself.

Instead, Lindsay lowered her eyes to study the scarf—a more delicate knit than Fred's, made from yarn so soft it threatened to melt between her fingers. It was white with slim red stripes.

It matched the candy cane earrings.

“Thank you.” Breaking the silence seemed to break the spell.

“It suits you.” Fred stood back to give her another moment's contemplation, then smiled his approval. “Ready to go?”

“Maybe we should ask Jeanne to go with us.” What? The words came out of her mouth unbidden. But something told her it might be smart not to spend too much time alone with Fred.

He appeared to consider it. “No, let's keep it between the two of us tonight. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

 

 

Half an hour later, Lindsay found herself riding beside Fred in a one-horse open sleigh.

Well, all right, a horse and carriage. But the bells on the horses' bridles jingled just like the ones in the song. White drifts of snow surrounded them on both sides of the road, piled high from the work of the snowplow yesterday. The lake district, just twenty minutes from Lindsay's home, got a lot more snow than her neighborhood, thanks to its higher altitude. And unlike the snow in her neighborhood, this snow would stay on the ground all winter long.

Lindsay looked back over her shoulder to make sure the street full of cars still existed behind them. It did. But the city had cordoned off two blocks for the Christmas street festival, so that it was only open to foot traffic and the horse-drawn carriages. The little shops and businesses in this area all sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing one long overhang that ran the length of the block. Long swags of small white Christmas lights hung from store to store. Street lamps, installed ten years ago but designed to look like their old gas-powered cousins, were wound with evergreen garland and red ribbon. Most of the downtown businesses closed by early evening, but out in front of the stores, pushcarts stood loaded down with wares that Lindsay strained for a better peek at as they passed. Pedestrians bustled purposefully or strolled casually among the carts, well bundled against the cold.

Up in the carriage, it was even colder, above the sidewalk with no protection from the wind. The frosty air bit her cheeks, and she pulled the big, heavy woven lap robe up around her.

She felt Fred's arm behind her, offering a little extra warmth. From any other man, the move would have seemed opportunistic. From Fred, she wasn't so sure. At this particular moment, Lindsay thought she might trust Fred more than she trusted herself. But sitting forward felt prim and uncomfortable as well as cold, so at last she gave in and settled back.

Sure enough, with Fred's firm, solid arm behind her shoulders, a sensation of warmth welcomed her. His coat sleeve held a woolen, masculine scent, and Lindsay held back a sigh. The inviting comfort of Fred beside her felt safe and dangerous at the same time.

“How did you know about this?” she asked.

“They do it every year, the week before Christmas. Didn't you know?”

“I've heard about it. But how did
you
know?”

“When it comes to Christmas, I make it my business to know. I suppose you've never been?”

“No.” Lindsay saw his mouth tighten slightly, as though he were biting the inside of his lip to keep from saying something obvious. It was a look she was coming to recognize. “Go ahead,” she challenged him. “Lecture me.”

“Who learns anything from a lecture?” The carriage stopped. Fred climbed down ahead of her, then stood at the curb below, offering a hand up to her.

He hadn't worn the top hat tonight, but he didn't need it. With his charcoal black overcoat and bright red scarf, illuminated by the old-fashioned street lamps, he fit perfectly into the bustling holiday scene behind him. The hand he held out to her was bare. Lindsay hadn't thought to wear gloves; she suspected Fred didn't need them.

Sure enough, his hand was warm when she put hers into it. As she stepped down to join him, a blend of harmonized voices reached her ears.

Lindsay glanced down the sidewalk to the left. Carolers, in full Victorian costume. None of them looking as authentic as Fred did, even without his ruffled shirt and top hat.

Fred kept Lindsay's hand in his to steady her until her feet made solid contact with the sidewalk below. It had to be close to freezing, so patches of ice were a distinct possibility. But the concrete under Lindsay's feet was gritty and solid. She felt an annoying pang of disappointment when he let go of her hand, but his smile still held her fast, even as the winter chill stung her cheeks once again. People shuffled around them; Lindsay moved closer to Fred to let them pass.

“Which way?” he asked her.

At a loss, Lindsay looked around. The carolers had stopped, to a smattering of applause, and Lindsay heard the clink of coins as they collected change in a tin cup. A pleasant confusion of aromas wrapped around her senses: the sweet smell of baked treats, tinged with the always-enticing scent of chocolate; hints of meat, bread, and spiced apple cider; and one very familiar scent that Lindsay couldn't quite identify. Smoky, sweet, slightly acrid . . . it niggled at her memory but wouldn't let go.

“What's that smell?” she asked, as if he could possibly know which one she meant. A wooden cart loaded with pastries threatened to roll over her toes, and Lindsay stepped back, this time closer to the window of a closed shoe store.

“Don't tell me you've never had roasted chestnuts.”

“That's
what it is!” She giggled. “I tried to cook them once.”

The corners of his mouth quirked up. “And?”

“It . . . didn't work out.”

Fred's mouth widened the rest of the way, into another of his ready smiles. “What went wrong?”

“I guess I should have found out
how
to cook them first. I figured, how hard can it be?” Lindsay stepped aside for a toddler swathed in a fat blue coat, closely pursued by a protective mother. “So I just popped them in my oven, a couple at a time, to see what worked. Nothing did. After a few minutes they'd explode. Sometimes they were dried up, sometimes they were smushy, but they all looked like monkeys' brains.”

Fred laughed. “Well, then, you don't know what you're missing.” He took her gently by the elbow—a habit she had to admit she was beginning not to mind—and steered her to the right. “Let's find out what you think of the real thing.”

He guided her unerringly toward one of the street's many pushcarts. Clearly, it was the right one; the closer they got, the stronger the scent grew. “You do a lot of cooking, don't you?” he said.

“Not exactly. Baking, mostly. Cakes, cookies, fudge . . . then I'll heat up a frozen dinner. I've never learned to cook anything that's good for me.”

“That makes us even. I never eat anything that's good for me.” They reached the vendor, a short, swarthy man who probably would have been freezing if it weren't for the chestnut smoke. “Two, please,” Fred said.

They received two white paper cones full of the strange-smelling nuts. Lindsay hadn't decided yet if the scent was pleasant or unpleasant, but it was potent. And the cone was delightfully warm. She cupped her hands around it.

Fred paid for the chestnuts. He'd paid for the carriage ride, too, while Lindsay had been digging in her purse for her wallet. It struck her as odd that not only did he have modern American currency, he had no trouble using it.

“Fred, how do you—”

“Try your monkeys' brains, before they get cold.”

Lindsay tentatively peeled away a chestnut shell, so thin that it was more like a skin. Inside, it looked dark and shriveled, not much different from the ones that had come out of her oven. She took a bite and found the flavor more roasty than the ones she'd tried to cook at home, but she still couldn't tell whether she liked it or not.

Fred peered down at her. “Well? What do you think?”

She hadn't seen a man this concerned about the way she felt since Phil sent her home with strep throat last year. At least, not until she fainted in her own apartment a few nights ago.

“I'm not sure.” She tried another one. They continued down the crowded sidewalk, and Lindsay ate one nut after the other while she tried to decide.

She never knew which direction to look. They paused at some of the innumerable carts selling an array of handmade Christmas ornaments, candles, and other gifts. They caught the end of a children's puppet show of
The Night Before Christmas,
and a cluster of half a dozen men and women playing “Ding Dong Merrily on High” on handbells. Then, at a little kiosk near the end of the street, Lindsay bought the perfect Christmas present for her mother: a delicate deer figurine, made from blown glass.

That find, by itself, would have made the trip worthwhile. But it couldn't, by itself, account for the lightness Lindsay felt. She should be home addressing Christmas cards. Instead, despite the crowds and the cold, when they reached the end of the street where the little street fair broke off, she felt a sharp sense of disappointment. From here, a carriage would take them to the parking lot, where her familiar green Honda waited. She found herself reluctant to leave this little world behind. She wasn't sure how much of it was the street fair, and how much of it was the unlikely, charming man at her side.

“Here's what you need.” A gentle squeeze at her elbow steered her toward the open doorway of a little coffee house. Lindsay felt the breath of its warmth before they actually stepped inside. The place was packed with people clustered around the tiny round tables. Yet, somehow, Fred found an empty table at the window, and a waitress arrived to take their order with equally surprising speed.

“Hot chocolate?” Fred lifted an eyebrow at her.

“Yes, please.” Lindsay turned hopeful eyes toward the waitress. The lines around the woman's broad face and mouth didn't invite special orders, but Lindsay took a deep breath and tried anyway. “And could you please add a dash of vanilla? With whipped cream on top?”

At the woman's weary look, she immediately regretted the request. Until Fred added with a smile, “And the same for me, please.”

The waitress returned his smile, and fifteen years fell away from her face. “No problem,” she said, and headed back to the ordering counter with a light step.

Well, fine,
Lindsay thought.
I said please, too.

Still smiling, Fred eased back in the tiny, straight wooden chair, somehow managing to make it look comfortable. He folded his arms. “Vanilla.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “I still haven't figured you out.”

Figured
me
out? “It's good that way. It makes the hot chocolate a little richer.”

“Oh, I don't doubt it. That's why I ordered the same thing.” He tipped his chair back slightly, a dangerous move in Lindsay's opinion, given its flimsy frame. “Your fudge recipe was delicious, too. The one piece I was able to eat, at any rate.” His brows drew down ever so slightly, but not enough to quench the smile. “You definitely know how to add that little something extra, to make something more enjoyable.”

It sounded like a compliment. Maybe that was what made Lindsay's cheeks heat, even as she waited for the other shoe to drop. Instead, he regarded her steadily until she was certain he could see inside of her. When she couldn't stand it any more, she prompted him: “But?”

His gaze shifted over her shoulder, and Lindsay turned to follow it.

A boy, probably about nine years old, carrying a handled cardboard box, edged his way down the row of tables alongside the window. Lindsay recognized the box and knew she'd soon be the owner of a couple of new candy bars. On any other night, the restaurant staff might have sent him off, but in the bustle of the Christmas festival, apparently no one had objected so far.

The boy reached their table and rested the box on the edge. “Would you like to buy a candy bar?” His hazel eyes and his question were aimed at Lindsay, probably figuring her for the soft touch she was. She pulled her purse into her lap.

But Fred answered first. “How many do you have left?”

He peered into his box. “Four.”

“I'll take the rest.” Fred reached into his pocket and paid the boy, then accepted the candy bars. “Oh, here.” He held one white-wrappered candy bar out to the boy. “You gave me one too many.”

The boy counted the four candy bars still on the table. “There were only four.”

“Well, then, this one must be for you.” Fred winked.

The boy glanced from the candy bar in Fred's hand to the four on the table. “How'd you do that?”

“You've put in a good night's work. You deserve it.”

“Thanks.” He picked up his empty cardboard box and studied Fred. Finally, he said, “I have an uncle who can pull a quarter out of my ear.”