The Christmas Princess (6 page)

He checked their surroundings again before stepping in front of her to open the door and enter first.

Scents and noise crested over him, but it was the undertow of memory that could take a man down.

On the far side of the kitchen a flow of people carried stacks of plates, napkins, and tins of utensils out a set of swinging doors. For an instant, tent flaps replaced the doors in his mind.

April’s voice came to him. “Hang your jacket here.”

She hooked her coat and purse over a peg before he reacted.

“That’s not a safe place for your purse.” He said it more to give himself time — to hang up his jacket and regain his mental footing — than from hope of changing her mind.

“It’ll be fine.

Focus on now. On the job.

The maelstrom of activity centered on a small black-haired woman holding a clipboard. People rushed up to her, asked a question, she consulted her clipboard, and gave an answer that sent the person scurrying back into the flow. At a trio of huge ovens, people filled metal containers with steaming food. More headed out the swinging doors.

April waded into the fray without a backward glance. One step behind, Hunter stuck out an arm to keep a man with a huge tray of uncooked rolls from knocking into her. The man harmlessly bounced off his arm and continued his journey, never bothering to see what redirected him.

Hunter came up behind April in time to hear her say, “I’ll do potatoes again, Maria.”

“I don’t know, April. Last year I thought you were going to drop from piling those mashed potatoes on the plates. That’s heavy work for– Who are you?”

A pair of dark eyes pinned him.

April glanced over her shoulder. “This is Hunter. He’s with me.”

“Is he now?” A large black man swathed in a white apron turned from the nearest stove and smiled. “Tell us all about it, April.”

She faced away from Hunter, but he knew she was blushing because the tip of her right ear showed pink.

“Not now, Jameel,” countermanded the woman as she consulted the clipboard. “No time. We sure can use the extra pair of hands. You look strong enough, so you do the potatoes, and let April do green beans.”

“He’s not here to work. I mean he already is … uh …”

“I can handle the potatoes,” he told Maria. “As long as they’re next to the green beans.”

“Oh, ho!” crowed Jameel.

Maria kept to the point. “If that’s the condition to your helping, I won’t argue. If that’s not the way they’re arranged—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She looked up. “I believe you will.” Then her attention shifted to someone by the refrigerators. “No, Henry — cranberries go in the other unit.”

Hunter followed April through the swinging doors, into a wide aisle behind a metal counter with rectangular holes to receive the containers he’d seen in the kitchen. Tables with paper turkey and pumpkin decorations cluttered the rest of the room.

April handed him a large chef’s white apron made of paper. He’d managed to get it on without shredding it when the kitchen doors popped open and a parade of potholder-wearing workers started carrying in metal containers.

At the far end of the room, someone opened the main door. A line shuffled toward them, gathering trays, plates and utensils on the way to the food. The leading edge of the line reached him, and he kept his head down and dug a metal scoop into a snow bank of mashed potatoes.

Beside him, April wished each person “Happy Thanksgiving,” some by name. Those simple words expanded into conversations about half the time.

He took a plate, overflowed the scoop and added it to the turkey and cranberries.

“You’re not leaving any room for the green beans,” April protested.

“I don’t mind, lady.”

Hunter looked up and saw the owner of the plate was a boy of about seven. His dark hair was slicked down except for a curling tuft at the crown of his head.

He winked at the boy, shocking the hell out of himself.

The boy gave a quick grin, then moved on down the line, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

As if it wasn’t odd for Hunter Pierce to be serving instead of receiving. To have the power to decide how much went on each plate instead of hoping for enough.

Plate after plate they came. Age, race, gender varied. Some came in families, others in pairs, most alone. What never changed was the plate they held out to him. The same dim white, the same portions of turkey and cranberries in the same positions.

Plate after plate, he piled on potatoes.

“Whoa, man! That’s a heap of potatoes,” the man named Jameel boomed from over his shoulder. “If you keep on like that I’ll have to get back to making more.”

Hunter stopped in mid-scoop. His brain knew he had no reason for the guilt making his heart jump.

“If you didn’t make the mashed potatoes taste so good, Jameel, people wouldn’t want so much.” April’s voice seemed to come from a distance.

Jameel laughed. “All right, all right. But I’m telling everyone I hogtie to do the peeling that it’s all your friend’s fault.”

The leathery-faced man in front of Hunter extended his plate.

“Don’t you mind that old Scrooge Jameel, young man. You listen to our April and heap those potatoes on here like you been doin’. You’re the most popular soul up and down this line today.”

“Why, Robert, you said I was your favorite last year,” April teased.

“You was, last year. But look what you’re serving up this year — beans. We still love you, April. But this man, he knows how to dish up potatoes to make a soul happy!”

Everyone around them laughed.

Hunter put his head down and focused on the next plate shoved in front of him.

The sound April made in her throat jerked him out of a non-thinking stupor like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers.

“What?” No one was in sight on the empty street.

She brushed the front of her top, visible between the open flaps of her coat.

“Green bean juice,” she muttered, disgusted. “Not very princess-like.”

“Princesses do charity work. Just not usually heavy labor.”

She looked at him. Not until he saw the surprise in her face did he realize he was smiling. Relief at leaving the shelter.

They had reached the corner by her old apartment building. Down the side street he saw a man’s form slumped at the base of a wall.

“Wait here,” she said

“I’m coming.”

“No you’re not, or Leroy will disappear. I want to bring him and Ham their Thanksgiving dinners.” She hoisted a plastic bag with leftovers from the shelter. “Leroy and Ham don’t like going to the shelter.”

“So you deliver.”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

“And you skip Thanksgiving dinner yourself.”

“No. That’s the bag you’re carrying.”

She headed down the sloped sidewalk toward Leroy, who now stood at the far end of the building. Hunter surprised himself by not following her. But if Leroy hiccupped wrong …

He didn’t. He barely let April come close enough to hand over the bag, then he scurried off, while April called out wishes for the day.

“Two more stops before our dinner,” she said when she returned.

She signed in at the back entry of the animal shelter, which was officially closed, but apparently not to her. She tucked mini-baggies of treats in her pockets, and held one out to him. “They’ll love you forever if you give them treats.”

“No, thank you.”

She looked at him an extra beat, then added that baggy to her pocket.

She started with the cats, giving them treats, letting them wind around her ankles, talking to them, petting them. Even the ones that had “Caution” marked on their cages got a treat or two and some conversation.

She washed her hands at a utility sink. His momentary hope that they were done ended when she opened a door that revealed an aisle between dog runs. She greeted each animal by name and with enthusiasm. As with the cats, she let most have a few minutes out of the run.

But the last dog was clearly a favorite. Hunter knew it from her voice and her face when she opened the cage.

“This is Dragon,” she announced. “Dragon, say hi to Hunter.”

The shaggy animal gave an excited yip. But it was clearly for her, not him. She dropped to a cross-legged seat on an old towel on the floor. Wriggling with energetic joy that belied his white muzzle, the dog circled in front of her, so she could pet all of him while she stayed still, talking to him, praising him, and using his name every other word. The dog backed up so she could better scratch his flanks. He raised his head and a shiver of ecstasy wriggled along his backbone.

April sneezed. Three times in quick, hard succession. Hunter stepped around the dog for a look at her face. Her eyes were red.

“You’re allergic.”

He wrapped one hand around her arm to pull her up.

“No, it’s fine. I’m—.”

As soon as she resisted, the dog advanced so his body partially blocked April’s, and growled. Hunter didn’t know dogs well, but he knew a warning when he heard it. He had to admire the animal’s positioning — protective, and equally poised for offense or defense.

“Dragon! Shame on you. Don’t you growl at Hunter.”

The dog stopped making the sound, but he stayed right where he was and his eyes didn’t waver from Hunter.

“Really, I’m fine.” She sneezed again.

“Right.”

“It’s not Dragon — or any of the dogs. I’m allergic to cats. I guess I didn’t wash my hands well enough. It’ll stop.” She gave her arm a slight tug. He released it and Dragon relaxed. “If I weren’t so allergic, I’d have had a cat years ago.”

Her voice dropped. “Don’t tell the cats, but I’d rather have a dog, anyway. My apartment building didn’t allow dogs. The building manager caught me keeping one for a weekend, so I could show him to a family who couldn’t get to the shelter during regular hours. And it worked! The Flannerys adopted Homer. They sent a picture of Homer bounding through the grass and you could see how happy he was. Uh, what was I saying?”

“The building manager caught you breaking the rules.”

“Oh. Right. After that he watched me like a hawk. One time he insisted on looking in my laundry basket—”

Dirty-minded super probably hoped to see what Sharon had described with such glee. Lacy cups, High cut—

“—As if I’d hide a dog under all those towels.”

He eased his hands open. Towels.

“The machine here was broken, so I said I’d do them. Roger tried to say I wasn’t allowed to do commercial laundry under terms of the lease. I told him it wasn’t commercial since I wasn’t receiving money. He had no argument for that.” Her smile faded. “More recently, I’ve only been able to visit sometimes on my lunch hour.”

“While you lived with Warrington?”

He hadn’t meant to say anything — certainly not to ask a question. And most certainly not one with a rough edge to it. But there it was — a rough-edged question spoken aloud.

Her hands stilled as she tipped her head to look up. “Yes.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late.”

She resumed petting the dog. “A few more minutes. Poor old Dragon here needs a good home. People who love him as much as he loves them. People as loyal to him as he is to them. Is that so much to ask?”

He had no answer. He went to the cage’s wire door and swung it open. Behind him, April sighed, and he heard her getting up.

Beneath the name “Dragon,” a card attached to the door listed feeding requirements and check marks for when he’d been fed, watered, walked. At the bottom was a date.

“What’s December 27 on here for?”

Her hesitation gave him a moment to wonder why on earth he’d asked.

“He’s got until then to be adopted.”

What she didn’t say was that if he weren’t adopted, that would be the end of the animal that so clearly had caught her heart. Did the woman specialize in lost causes?

“Why didn’t you adopt Dragon last week?”

“Rufus’ date was the next day. Dragon has more time to be adopted. And he will be,” she added fiercely. “Someone will see how wonderful he is. Someone will adopt him.”

On the way back to the car, April checked her cell phone. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Family. I haven’t— I need to call them.”

“You can’t tell them anything about—”

“I know. But I haven’t told them ... I haven’t talked to them in a while. It’s Thanksgiving. I have to call them back.”

“I’m going to listen.”

“I won’t—”

“I’m going to listen.”

She jerked one shoulder. “Fine.” She stabbed a number on her phone.

Apparently it answered faster than she expected. “Leslie. Hi, it’s me. Happy Thanksgiving to everybody. We went to the shelter to serve meals. … Uh-huh. Everyone said hello, and Maria says thank you for the contributions. And after that, we went to the animal shelter. … Reese? No.” Her eyes flicked to him, then away. “Yeah. A sort of, uh, colleague. One of a group of colleagues,” she added quickly. “Oh, and Leslie, I haven’t told you the best part. I have a dog. I adopted Rufus from the shelter last week. He’s doing great. He’s only had one accident with his house training, and he’s terrific on the leash. He already knew sit and lie down, and he’s got stay at least 80 percent of the time, and he hardly ever barks, and never without a reason. … Yeah…. Uh-huh… Of course, I want you all to meet him as soon—”

She broke it off and her gaze came to him again. “Though it might be a while. You know with work and, uh, everything. But as soon as we can we’ll get together, for sure. … I don’t know. When you get back from Illinois we’ll talk and— Oh, I hear them saying the turkey’s ready, I’ll let you go now. Love to everybody. Hope Mr. M’s leg is better. Bye!”

She ended the call and let out a breath. “Okay. Last stop. My storage unit at the apartment.”

“You shouldn’t tell them they’ll meet me,” he said. “You shouldn’t tell them anything about this.”

She looked at him blankly for a beat then chuckled. “Not you. Rufus. I want them to meet Rufus.”

At a Lake Forest, Illinois home nearly bursting with good smells and happy voices despite its size, Leslie Craig Roberts stared out a set of French doors toward the frothing gray of Lake Michigan that could be seen beyond bare tree branches.