Stitches In Time (16 page)

"They don't do curses," Adam said seriously. "They're very high-minded and pure. But it would have been
embarrassing. It was kind of a low-down trick." He brightened. "She didn't notice me, though, so it's okay."

Rachel looked up at him. Big as a bear, covered with hair... "I don't see how she could have missed you."

She unlocked the car; he had two shopping bags in each hand and a large lumpy parcel—could it be manure?—under one arm. A roll of gaudy green and red wrapping protruded from one of the bags.

Adam ignored this rude remark. "We need to find a liquor store," he said cheerfully, tossing his purchases into the backseat. "I'm going to get Pat a bottle of whisky. Tonight we'll wrap presents and listen to carols and I'll make eggnog and chowder—"

"I'm going out."

"Oh, yeah, that's right." Adam started the wipers as snowflakes appeared on the windshield. "It's supposed to snow tonight. Maybe we'll have a blizzard and then you'll have to stay home."

Home. A strange word for him to use; the Leesburg house was home to neither of them.

Snow began to fall heavily during the afternoon, but the weather was not responsible for the alteration of her plans. Tom called shortly before five to say he had to work.

"On Christmas Eve?" Rachel exclaimed.

"A policeman's lot. And," Tom said, "the lot of a policeman's wife. Ask Cheryl. I'm sorry, Rachel."

"It's not your fault. I hope it's nothing serious?"

"All in a day's work," Tom said. There was a note in his voice that warned her not to pursue the subject. "Rain check?"

She reassured him, sympathized, and hung up to find Adam watching her.

"Well, you got your wish," she said shortly.

"I admit I was thinking negative thoughts, but I don't know enough magic to implement them. What happened?"

"It must have been something grisly, he wouldn't tell me."

She turned on the television. The story was the lead feature on the local news; murders always claim top spot. A liquor store hold-up gone awry, a semiautomatic rifle, a store full of holiday shoppers . . .

Adam reached the set in a single long stride and switched it off. "Not tonight," he said.

"My God." Rachel dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

"I said, not tonight. You can't do the victims, or Tom, any good by agonizing over them. Come here." He lifted her, unresisting, out of the chair and led her to the door. The dogs took its opening as an invitation and rushed out; Adam drew her onto the porch and held her there, one arm around her. "Look."

Falling snow made a lacy curtain against the dark. The ground was already covered and every twig was outlined in white. The dogs ran in delighted circles, rolling and kicking the soft covering into drifts. Bright against the dark and the snow, the lighted trees along the street shone scarlet and green, blue and golden yellow. Barely audible, on the farthest boundary of hearing, came faint sounds that might have been birdsong or the distant echo of music.

"It's so beautiful," Rachel murmured. "So peaceful. And less than five miles away—"

"Cut it out." His arm tightened, drawing her closer. It was a friendly, passionless embrace and she yielded to it, resting her head against his shoulder. "There's plenty of tragedy and sorrow out there. You've had your share and you'll have more, and so will I and a lot of other people. All the more reason to enjoy the good times."

"You're quite the philosopher, aren't you?"

"I have many talents," Adam said. "Want me to say some poetry?"

"The Night Before Christmas'?"

Expecting a joke or a flippant response, she was surprised to hear something quite different.

'"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes, Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm.'"

"That's lovely," Rachel said.

"It's an incantation. Against the powers of darkness. Not witches and fairies, dark thoughts and nasty people."

"Then ..." Rachel had to stop and take a deep breath. "Then it's not working."

"Huh?"

He saw it, and let out a faint scream. Pale against the night, enveloped in white from its shoulders to its feet, it glided slowly toward the gate. Long silvery hair floated out around its head, which was crowned with a wreath of dark leaves.

Adam recovered his breath. "Shades of Charlie Dickens! It's the Spirit of Christmas Past!"

"I
didn't mean to do that," Adam mumbled.
"How
did I do
that? A harmless snatch of poetry! If Shakespeare's not safe, who is?"

"Stop babbling." She kicked him firmly but impersonally in the shin, as she would have kicked a malfunctioning machine.

Two other figures followed the first. They wore prosaic, practical coats, one of fuzzy faux fur, the other of padded blue down, over what appeared to be long robes. No spirits these, Rachel thought, ashamed of that moment of weakness. A magical moment though, in its way.

The dogs, belatedly aware of their responsibilities, rushed toward the fence, and the visitors stopped at a safe distance from the gate, huddling nervously together. The leader looked up. The light fell clearly and unflatteringly on features that were unquestionably female and on the red berries and dark green leaves on her head. Straightening the wreath, which had slipped over one eye, she raised her hand.

Rachel saw her lips move, but couldn't hear the words because of the racket the dogs were making. One of the
acolytes jumped back as Worth reared up on his hind legs, front paws on the fence, massive head thrust forward.

Adam had recovered himself. "Dogs in!" he bellowed.

The dogs loved company. They were reluctant to leave their newfound friends, but eventually Adam persuaded them onto the porch and the little group bravely advanced.

"Come in and close the door," Rachel said out of the corner of her mouth.

"That would be rude."

"Rude, schmude. You know who they are, don't you?"

"Uh-huh. The least
I
can do is listen to what they have to say." He raised his voice. "Good evening, ladies and— uh."

The Spirit of Christmas Past cleared her throat and tried again. "May Her blessing be upon you," she intoned.

"Thank you," Adam said politely.

"We come in love," the woman went on.

An unconvincing murmur from the other two seconded the sentiment. Both had long dark hair and long white skirts, but Adam's uncertainty as to their gender was understandable. The leader had to be wearing several layers of woollies under her robe; she wasn't shivering, though her face was so red with cold that it rivaled the holly berries.

"May we enter this house?" She put her hand on the gate.

"No."

The word came promptly and forcibly, not from Adam but from Rachel.

Seeing him that afternoon with Pat, one of the "witches" must have realized their new recruit was a spy and an unbeliever. They had tracked him down—followed him, perhaps—and now they had come to tell him what they thought of him—in the kindest possible terms, of course.

Adam was such a soft touch, he was already squirming and looking guilty. If she hadn't spoken up, Adam would have let them in, Rachel thought.

Once you invite them in they have power over you. They can't come in unless you let them.

Adam was poking her and murmuring under his breath. One of the acolytes had fixed her with a glare that didn't look very loving. "I'm sorry," Rachel said firmly. "But we're busy this evening. What do you want?"

She sensed that the leader was accustomed to such rebuffs. With a shrug, she launched into a speech. There were a number of references to the Goddess, to love, forgiveness, and the spirit of peace. The gist of it seemed to be that they had come to forgive Adam for the cruel trick he had played upon them, to return good for evil, and to assure him they would pray for him.

"That's nice," Rachel said. "Good night and happy . . . whatever it is you celebrate."

She shoved Adam back into the house and slammed the door.

"Did you have to be so rude?" he asked reproachfully.

"Yes. Have they gone?"

Adam peered out through the window. "They're holding hands and chanting. Or singing. It's freezing out there, shouldn't we at least offer them—"

"No! If they want to stand around and catch pneumonia that's their decision."

"They're going now," Adam said, relieved. "How about a hot buttered rum to start the festivities?"

He hadn't overlooked a single holiday cliche. Since he hadn't known she would be there, Rachel had to assume the schedule had been arranged for his solitary enjoyment, but he was delighted to have someone to share it with, and his enjoyment was contagious. Sipping their drinks and eating cookies, with Christmas music playing in the background, they wrapped their presents. Adam made her go into the hall while he wrapped hers. She was tempted to peek; after seeing what he had bought for the others, she was immensely curious.

"Why did you get Mark a sausage?" she demanded.

"It's not a sausage, it's some fancy kind of wurst." Adam swathed the fat foot-long cylinder in gold paper and tied a ribbon around its middle.

"You got one for Pat too?"

"1 got one for everybody," Adam said. "I couldn't find any of the things on my list. Can you imagine a huge mall like that not having any manure or dried fish?
I
was lucky to find the wurst place."

He looked so pleased Rachel had to laugh, but she said firmly, "
I
don't like wurst."

"It's a good thing I didn't get you one, then."

After the presents had been wrapped Adam served his clam chowder, settled her in a chair in front of the television set, and put on a tape. The
Nutcracker.
Of course, Rachel thought; what else? Tschaikovsky was too saccharine for her tastes, and it had been years since she had seen the ballet; but that night the magic took hold, and the sheer beauty of the final pas de deux brought tears to her eyes. Even the sight of Adam solemnly sucking a candy cane didn't spoil her mood. He had turned the lights low and they sat in silence for a few moments after it ended.

"My mother took me to see it every year," Rachel said softly.

"Is she dead?" It was like Adam to avoid the cowardly euphemisms—deceased, gone, departed.

"Oh, no. Alive and flourishing." Her laugh struck a jarring note. "She lives in England with her second husband and their family."

"Oh. That's who the packages are from. I couldn't help
noticing," he added hastily. "The stamps and the customs forms and—*

"Of course you couldn't help noticing. Don't be so defensive."

"Aren't you going to open them?"

"Now?"

"Well, you don't want to drag them all the way out to Ruth's and back again, do you? Come on,
I
want to see what's in them even if you don't."

"Why?"

"I love presents," Adam said happily. "Everybody's presents."

An anticipatory grin appeared in the middle of the beard. Rachel shrugged. "Oh, all right."

"Don't get up. I'll bring them."

He carried them to her, opened the outer boxes, and unloaded the contents, package by package. They had been beautifully wrapped, with bright bows and tags bearing affectionate messages. "To my dearest daughter with love from Mum"; "To Rachel from Alison, have a happy Christmas."

Adam had given up all pretense of respecting her privacy. There was a childish greediness in his interest. "Who's Alison?" he asked, watching Rachel unwrap a white jeweler's box.

"My half sister."

The box contained a bracelet of twisted gold mesh. Adam took it from her hand and fastened it on her wrist. "Looks good on you. She's got good taste."

"Mother picked it out. Alison is only three."

The gifts piled up—a cashmere sweater, a necklace to match the bracelet, a stuffed cat wearing a straw hat and an imbecilic expression, books, tins of tea and cookies and crackers from a famous London shop—and a bed of tissue from which Rachel drew a cloud of filmy pink chiffon.

Adam had been chuckling over the cat. He let out a low whistle. "Wow. That's the fanciest party dress I ever saw. Are you going to wear it tomorrow?"

"It's not a dress, you idiot. It's a robe ' Pink chiffon— polyester, probably, not even her mother would be silly-enough to send a garment that would have to be dry-cleaned every time it was worn—trimmed with satin rosebuds, it bore a striking and certainly coincidental resemblance to the Callot Soeurs peignoir.

Rachel bundled the full sleeves and flowing skirts back into the box. The yards of fabric were so fine they compressed into a small space. "I'll probably never wear it. What a waste of money."

"It's pretty," Adam said. One big finger stroked a satin rosebud.

"
I
never wear things like this. That's the last, isn't it?"

She tossed the box onto the floor and settled back.

"You want more?" He put the cat on a shelf near the TV, straightened its hat, and then began picking up the discarded wrappings. "'We'll miss you,'" he read aloud. "'Sorry you couldn't make it ... ?'" The questioning note in his voice elicited a grudging response from Rachel.

"They sent me a plane ticket."

"And you didn't use it?"

"
I
couldn't spare the time." She met his mild, astonished gaze squarely, and he caught the message this time, closing his mouth on the words he had been about to say.