The Christmas Cookie Collection

by Lori Wilde

  He peered deeply into Christine’s eyes, and something shifted inside him. The past melded with the present. He spied little flecks of green dancing in those enchanting blue eyes that sparkled and danced with the glow of twinkle lights. Her smile broadened, encompassing her entire face. Rounded cheeks, crinkles at the corners of her eyes. He loved how soft her skin was beneath his palms.

  A train. He was on a runaway train. He needed to stomp the brakes, but dammit she felt so familiar and at the same time so novel. She was an intoxicating combination of everything he’d ever wanted and everything he’d left behind.

  He traced a knuckle over her chin. She wasn’t a dream. Not a figment of his imagination. He could touch her, smell her vanilla fragrance, hear her sweet breathing, and he wanted to taste her too. Here she was. In his life again.

  And he wanted more.

  Once upon a time, he’d kissed her. It had been a great kiss, imprinted on his memory. But he’d left town, and they’d been too young. He hadn’t tried to take things beyond that kiss. But now? Now, if he took that next step, it would be a leap of faith, to hope she was as involved in this as he was.

  Finally, he dropped his arms, and she raised her head to meet his gaze. A rip of sadness tore through him. He saw identical sorrow, befuddlement, and concern in her eyes.

  Then, in a mutual merging as natural and inevitable as sunlight sliding into dusk, they drew to each other once more. A certain embrace this time, all tentative second-­guessing gone. Their bodies touched, pressed harder together, and surged, all chemistry and heat. Every inch of him ached for more contact. More Christine. More everything. He tightened his arms around her, buried his face in her sweet smelling hair. From now on, whenever he smelled vanilla, he would think, Christine.

  Her cheek was pressed against his jaw, her breath a shivery warm caress. Her lips kissed the throb of pulse at his throat. Eli groaned, gathering her closer until not a millimeter of space existed between them. A barrage of dormant impulses slammed into him. Desperate need. It bothered him. This desperation. He was afraid to feel again, afraid to open up his heart, afraid of getting hurt. Or worse, somehow hurting his kids in the process. But the unrelenting fierceness burning through his bloodstream refused to let go.

  Christine trembled in his arms, pushing closer still, as if starved for his warmth. He made love to her all over again.

  “Eli,” she whispered a few minutes later, as they lay breathing heavily, bathed in perspiration, the smell of sex and coconut.

  “Yes?” He reached out and traced two fingers over the curve and dip of her waist and hip.

  “We’re in this deep, aren’t we?”

  “I am,” he said staunchly.

  “There’s something I have to tell you. Something I should have told you before this happened.”

  Beside her, his body tensed, but he continued his gentle stroking. “What is it?”

  She rolled on her side to face him, stacked her hands under her cheek. The nightlight cast just enough glow for her to make out his features in the darkness.

  “You look so serious.” He leaned over to kiss her nose.

  “This is serious.”

  “I’m listening. You have my full attention.”

  Quietly, Christine told him her story, the full details of her accident, her recovery, the permanent limp. As she spoke, she relived it all—­the squealing tires of the truck, the bone crunching impact, the blurred faces of strangers gathered around her as she lay bleeding on the ground, the intense pain shooting through her leg. And then later there were the surgeries, the excruciating rehab, and hour upon hour of learning how to walk again. She ended her tale with the kicker. The words that had never yet failed to send men scurrying away from her.

  “My uterus was lacerated in the accident,” she said. “Scar tissue built up over the years. I’ve seen a dozen specialists but they all say the same thing. I will never be able to have children. I will never be a mother. I am a lost cause.”

  She paused, watching his face and waiting for the inevitable rejection. Why, oh why had she made love to him before telling him her secret?

  Instead, he shifted on the mattress, cupped her face between his palms, and stared deeply into her eyes. “I’m so sorry for what you had to go through.”

  “I only bring it up just so you know. I didn’t want to spring any ugly surprises.”

  Eli kissed her again, but before they could settle into the warm embrace of their joined lips, his cell phone rang. “I gotta get that. Might be the kids.”

  She nodded, fully understanding. She felt strangely relieved and at the same time bereft of their kiss. He got up, fished around for his pants, finally found the phone.

  “Hello?” He listened for a minute, head cocked. “Settle down. I’m headed home right now, Sierra.”

  Eli hung up and looked at Christine.

  “Your daughter.”

  “Yes. I told her I’d be home by eight o’clock.” He held up his wrist so she could see the face of his watch. It was ten p.m. “She called to tell me I’d broken my curfew. Fourteen going on forty, that one.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful girl.”

  He smiled. “She has her moments, but I really do have to go.”

  “I know. I’ll see you on Saturday when I deliver Sierra’s birthday cake.”

  He leaned down, kissed her forehead. “Until Saturday. I’ll be thinking of you, and I can’t wait for you to meet my kids.”

  “Me either,” Christine said, pulling her knees to her chest and the covers along with them.

  “I’ll see myself out. You sleep well.”

  “You too.”

  It was only when she heard the front door click closed behind him that she realized he’d never commented on her secret.

  CHAPTER SIX

  At one-­thirty on Saturday afternoon, five days before Christmas, Christine drove over the Brazos River Bridge that separated Hood County from Parker County, where Jubilee lay.

  The strawberry birthday cake sat in the passenger seat beside her. Since Eli had said that Sierra was a tomboy who liked horses, she had made the cake in the shape of one. A prancing strawberry roan, to be precise, and she was quite proud of how well it had turned out. It was one of the most lifelike cakes she’d ever created.

  Her GPS told her to drive another mile and take the next right. Christine slowed when she reached the exit. It was a one-­lane country road.

  One-­lane country roads made her nervous. That’s where her accident had occurred. She’d been out running at dusk, and just as she topped the hill—­wham—­the truck had come out of nowhere, slamming into her at full speed.

  She gripped the steering wheel more tightly, and her left leg gave a twinge in memory. It had been fifteen years since the accident, but she would never forget being struck, tossed into the air, and flung over a barbed wire fence. Crushed pelvis, shattered leg, lacerated uterus. Her mother crying. Her father’s tight face. Her little brother bringing his bedraggled teddy bear to the hospital and tucking it under her arm.

  Christine’s hand strayed to her lower belly. Because of that accident she would never carry a baby. That was lost to her forever. She needed to fully grieve that loss.

  She glanced down for a split second, and when she lifted her gaze to the windshield once more, she saw the girl.

  For one bizarre moment, she thought she’d gotten caught in some strange metaphysical time warp, and it was her long-­ago self, running along the side of the road in a yellow-­and-­gray tracksuit, light brown ponytail swishing over her shoulders, Nikes pounding the asphalt. In this strange universe, she was both victim and perpetrator, as the girl suddenly darted across the road in front of her.

  She reacted instantly.

  Slammed on the breaks. Tires squealed, locked up. Her Ford Taurus shuddered to a halt. The beautiful prancing strawberry roan
cake flew from the seat. The box flapped open, and the cake hit the dash with a mighty force, flinging red mush all over the car, and all over Christine.

  Her body shot forward at the same time, but the seatbelt yanked her back. The odor of burning rubber rolled through the car. Christine’s stomach lurched, and bile rose in her throat. She slapped a trembling hand to her mouth and sat staring out across the hood of her car, smelling smoking tires and oozing butter cream.

  The road in front of her lay empty. No runner. No girl. Nothing except for a terrible memory and a ruined birthday cake.

  But the girl had been there. She’d seen her.

  Christine blinked. Did you? Did you really see someone? Or did you see yourself as you were fifteen years ago?

  It shook her. She couldn’t deny it. Why was she having this vision now? Sure, she’d suffered her share of posttraumatic stress. Depression. Anxiety. Nightmares. But she’d been fine for years and years. The old scars had healed. The bad dreams had disappeared.

  Why? Why was this happening?

  Perhaps the culprit was the latest confirmation from Jenny’s specialist that she could never have children. That had to be it. The genesis of her hallucination.

  Okay. She’d pinpointed the source, but that didn’t make it any less scary. It had been so real. She could have sworn there was a girl running along the side of the road. But if that were true, where had she gone?

  The radio was still playing. Bruce Springsteen. “Merry Christmas, Baby.”

  A hunk of decimated strawberry roan slid off the glove compartment and joined the rest of the mess on the floorboard. What was she going to do? Call Eli and tell him she’d be late? But there was no time to drive back to Twilight and bake another cake. She’d let him down.

  Bungled everything.

  A car horn honked behind her, and she realized she was still blocking the middle of the road. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Eli’s Honda Odyssey was behind her. How was she going to tell him that she’d ruined his daughter’s birthday cake over a ghost girl who did not even exist?

  Wondering if something had happened to Christine’s car, Eli told Deacon to watch the twins, as he pushed his Stetson back on his forehead and got out of the van. He’d sent Sierra to the movies with a friend to get her out of the house while he decorated for her surprise party.

  He sauntered up to her car, trying to think of a teasing quip, but he came up empty-­handed. Pathetic. It had been so long since he’d flirted that he’d damn near forgotten how.

  When he saw how pale Christine looked, the tight lines drawing her mouth, the shadows under her blue eyes, he was grateful that he had not made some silly joke. She appeared seriously upset.

  He tapped on her window.

  She rolled it down.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I . . .” Her bottom lip trembled. She swept her hand at her lap, covered in smashed cake. “I’m so sorry, Eli.”

  Alarm bells flared in his head. “What is it?” His voice came out rough as cornhusks. “What’s happened?”

  “Sierra’s cake is destroyed.”

  He leaned down closer, saw the mutilated cake mess splayed over the seat, the dash, and floorboard. Relief washed over him that Christine was okay. “Is that all? Are you all right?”

  “Her birthday is ruined, and it’s all my fault.”

  “Accidents happen. It’ll be all right.”

  “I let you down.”

  Eli shook his head. She was so hard on herself. “C’mon over to the house, and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

  “You have guests arriving later, a party to get ready for. You don’t have time to coddle me.”

  “I can’t let you drive all the way back to Twilight covered in sticky cake goo. Besides.” He tilted his hat back on his head. “I’d like it if you stayed for the party. We can pop your clothes in the wash.”

  Christine looked down at her clothes. “You’ve got a point, and I could make another cake while I’m there. Not one as fancy as what I did before, but I’d hate for Sierra to go without a cake.”

  “It’s a deal,” Eli said, pleased that she was staying. Yes, the original cake he’d ordered was ruined, but in the big scheme of things that didn’t matter. “Make a list of all the ingredients you need, and what I don’t have, I’ll go borrow from my neighbor, Ila.”

  He patted the side of her car. “Follow me,” he said, and then, whistling a happy tune, he ambled back to his truck, his mind vividly remembering the last time they’d been together. He couldn’t wait to get her alone again.

  Fifteen minutes later, Christine stepped out of Eli’s shower. A knock sounded on the bathroom door. Christine jumped, tightening the oversized bath towel around her.

  “Chrissy,” Eli called.

  “Uh-­huh.”

  “I rooted around in the closet and found something for you to wear while your clothes are in the washing machine. I also assembled all the ingredients you wrote out for Sierra’s cake on the kitchen counter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Um, should I hand it to you?”

  “Oh, yes, sure.” She scurried over to open the door a crack.

  His sexy tanned hand appeared, clutching a pink terry cloth bathrobe. That was it? Well, at least she had her underwear to put back on. Worried he might be able to see her reflection through the crack in the door, she snatched at the robe.

  Seriously, Christine? Are you that much of a prude? The man has already seen you naked and then some.

  It wasn’t that she was a prude. Just modest. In fact, during college she’d gone through a mini wild phase, a backlash against her accident. At the time, she hadn’t realized why she’d burned through a string of casual flings. In retrospect, she realized she’d been trying to prove that she was still sexy and desirable in spite of her scars. But somewhere along the way—­maybe it was when she woke up in the bed of a man whose name she’d forgotten—­her behavior wasn’t empowering but making her feel lonely and empty, and she’d stopped seeking self-­esteem through sex.

  Her fingertips bumped against Eli’s and she heard him exhale audibly at the same time she sucked in a big gulp of air. They’d touched, and she was naked underneath the towel. It was so sexy. Erotic in an innocent way. Kids were in the house.

  Confused, elated, jealous, jumbled, joyous. Erratic emotions skip-­jumped through her. She put on her bra and panties. Slipped into the robe and belted it at her waist. It smelled faintly of mothballs. Not a particularly elegant aroma, but at least it didn’t smell of another woman. She put on her flats and stepped out into the hallway, feeling strangely exposed even though she was completely covered.

  Shyly, she followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, where Eli and his three youngest children were putting up groceries. From the doorway, she cocked her head, admiring their relay system of shelving groceries.

  Grocery sacks were in the middle of the floor. Eli’s twins, Abel and Abbey, removed items from the sacks. Abel handed canned goods off to Deacon. Deacon then stacked the items in the pantry, while Abbey handed off refrigerator and freezer items to Eli, who was bending over at the crisper, affording Christine an eyeful of gorgeous cutting-­horse cowboy butt.

  Her cheeks blistered. She almost turned and scurried back to the safety of the bathroom, but Eli straightened, turned, and lifted his gaze to hers. An automatic grin lit his lips.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of the bathrobe.

  He stood transfixed, his eyes taking her in. Unnerved, she pulled up the collar around her neck. She wished she had never braked for the phantom runner and sent birthday cake flying about her Taurus.

  “I cleaned out your car as best I could.” He did not glance away. Did not even blink.

  “Thanks. That was nice of you.” Brilliant conversationalist. Got any more
dazzling witticisms lurking in your brain?

  “All done, Dad,” Deacon called, breaking Eli from his trance.

  “Good job, kids. Deacon, why don’t you take your brother and sister into the game room and play Super Mario,” Eli suggested.

  “Wow, sure.” Deacon grinned.

  “I’m usually pretty strict about video-­game time,” Eli explained. “They have to earn the privilege. But since you’re here—­”

  “The kids don’t have to leave,” she said in a rush. The thought of being alone in the room with Eli made her breathless and bothered. They hadn’t talked since she’d spilled her big secret Thursday night, and she was feeling awkward around him. “I thought they might like to help bake Sierra’s birthday cake.”

  “Yay!” said Abel and Abbey. They jumped up and down.

  Deacon looped his fingers through his belt loops, took on a manly stance that was a miniature copy of Eli. “If they want to help make birthday cake, Dad, can I play Mario by myself?”

  “Thirty minutes.” Eli tapped the face of his watch. “No more.”

  “Yes, sir.” Deacon scooted from the room.

  “Cake!” the twins chimed in unison.

  “Can you handle this?” Eli nodded at his offspring. “While I put up streamers for the party?”

  “Oh, yes,” Christine said, the thought of spending time with two lively three-­year-­olds tweaked her heart. “We’ll be just fine.”

  Eli grinned and headed out of the room. “Holler if you need help. They can be a handful.”

  That’s what Christine longed for most—­to have her hands full of kids. She rummaged around in the kitchen and found everything she needed to remake Sierra’s birthday cake. Since Eli didn’t have ingredients to make a strawberry cake, she’d gone for the old standby, red velvet. Everyone loved red velvet, right?

  The children hopped around her like exuberant grasshoppers. She fashioned aprons for them from cup towels and clothespins, then pulled kitchen chairs up to the counter for them to stand on.