by Susan Wiggs
She was startled to hear him rattle off literary references. And the fact that he knew Dr. Zhivago’s first name made her fall a little bit in love with him, an occurrence she knew she must absolutely keep to herself. “In other words, I shouldn’t think I’m so special. Or immune.”
“Come on, Moe. What I mean is, people get their hearts broken every day.”
“People get their arms broken every day, too. Just because it’s a common occurrence doesn’t mean it can’t hurt. And for good reason, they take care not to let it happen more than once.”
“It’s not the same thing, and you know it,” he said.
She disagreed. They had each been broken in the past and each had survived, but the way they dealt with the aftermath only underscored their differences. Eddie went on with his life and lived as though each day were his last. Maureen turned in on herself, wearing emotional body armor forged by fear. That was proof they were incompatible. Wasn’t it?
The shepherd dog retreated again, perching on a high spot in the yard.
“This was fun,” he said, oblivious to her thoughts as he put the van in gear and eased onto the road. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“Fun?” she asked. “Sitting here and opening a vein?”
He laughed. “Hey, it wasn’t that bad. The date part, anyway. We should do it again sometime.”
“Not such a good idea. This once was enough.”
“Fine, we won’t call it dating, then. Tomorrow night, after play practice.”
“But—”
“But nothing. We’re going out again. Deal with it.”
Seventeen
“Are you ready for our next date?” Eddie asked, falling in step with Maureen as they left the church after rehearsal.
“I never agreed to go out with you,” she reminded him. “The snowshoeing—you bullied me into that. I never agreed.” Then again, she thought, she hadn’t refused.
“Fine, let’s not call it a date. I thought of something you’ll like better, anyway.”
“What’s that?”
“Shopping.”
Maureen thought she’d heard wrong. “You want to go shopping?”
“That’s overstating it a little. I have to go. I have to buy gifts for my parents.” He shook his head. “Just one more thing to love about Christmas.” He held open the door of his van.
She paused, then climbed into the passenger seat. “What’s not to love about buying gifts for your family?” she asked, intrigued in spite of herself. There was something inherently revealing—and maybe romantic—about shopping for gifts with a man. “It’s one of my favorite things about the holiday.”
“The rampant consumerism?”
“The gestures of love. Giving someone a gift doesn’t always have to be about spending money. I have a big family and a small salary. But I always try to pick a gift the recipient will appreciate. Sometimes I don’t buy anything at all. I simply give my time. For example, last New Year’s Eve, I babysat my sister’s kids overnight so she and her husband could have an evening out together.”
“That’s a hell of a gift, giving up New Year’s Eve.”
“I loved doing it. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m pathetic for not having a better offer on New Year’s.”
“Actually, I was thinking I’d like to be that better offer.”
She tamped down a flutter of excitement. New Year’s Eve with Eddie Haven. “Right.”
“Why are you such a skeptic all the time?”
“I’m not a skeptic all the time,” she said. “Only when it comes to you.”
“You mind telling me why?”
“Because I don’t trust you. I’m trying to guess your ulterior motive.”
“And you’re so convinced I have one.”
“People like you don’t go out with people like me,” she said. “Especially on New Year’s Eve.”
“Yeah?” He chuckled, nosing the van into a parking spot in the town square, swarming this evening with shoppers. “So what kind of people am I?”
Great. He was going to make her say it. “The kind who goes out New Year’s Eve and stays out all night long,” she said. “The one everybody wants to be friends with. The life of the party.”
“And you’re not?”
That made her laugh. “I’m a librarian.”
“Don’t pigeonhole yourself. The world is full of hot librarians. And I like the way you laugh. You should do it more often.”
“It feels good to laugh,” she admitted. It feels good to be around you. “But you just changed the subject. We’re supposed to be figuring out what you’re giving your parents for Christmas.”
The town square was resplendent, decked out for the Christmas season. Back when Nina Romano was the town mayor, she’d introduced measures to encourage local businesses to coordinate their decorating efforts. The result was a winter wonderland designed to highlight the beauty of the season. Swags of twinkling lights festooned the streets and shop fronts. Music drifted from speakers and shoppers bundled against the cold hurried from place to place. It was the sort of bustling scene Maureen loved this time of year. They passed Santaland, snow-sparkled and lit for business, a line of kids waiting to get in to see him and tell him their secret wishes. She glanced over at Eddie, who looked about as happy as someone about to have his teeth drilled.
“There they are,” Maureen said, gesturing at the excited children, a sight that was sure to cheer him up. “True believers. I dare you to tell me you didn’t believe in Santa when you were little.”
“I didn’t believe in Santa when I was little. No, actually I stopped believing when I went to ask him for a puppy for Christmas, and Santa asked for my autograph.”
“He didn’t.” Maureen bristled with indignation.
“You think I’d make that up?”
All right, so enough about Santa, she decided. “Let’s talk about your folks. What do they like?” she asked him, heading into a gift shop.
“Happy hour,” he suggested. “Starting at about three o’clock every day.”
Oh, dear. “All right,” she continued gamely. “What else do they like? Board games? Collecting things? Music?” She paused. “Old movies?”
“One in particular.” His tone flattened with ill humor.
“Not helpful,” she said. “Do they like books? What about hobbies, like cooking? Golf? Needlework—”
“I don’t know, okay?” he snapped. “So quit asking.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand. How can you not know these things?”
“Back off, Maureen,” he warned her.
Clearly he’d forgotten his insistence that this was a date. The closer she came to figuring him out, the madder he got. People turned defensive…when? She thought about this for a moment. When they were cornered. Guilty. Fearful. Of course, it made perfect sense. But what in heaven’s name was Eddie Haven afraid of?
Deeply intrigued, she said, “Let’s try this a different way. Picture your mom on Christmas day. You’ve just handed her a wrapped package. What is she hoping the package contains?”
“That’s ridiculous. How the hell would I know what she’s thinking?”
“Because she’s your mother. You’ve known her all your life. Same with your dad. When you walk into their house on Christmas morning—”
“Okay, I guess I didn’t explain this very well. The idea is to pick up something for my folks, take it to the wrap-and-mail, and send it off, end of story. The idea is not to resolve my family’s issues.”
“So you do have issues with your family,” she said.
“We all do,” he replied.
“Imagine what might happen if you reach out to them. That’s the magic of Christmas.”
“Excuse me while I go into a diabetic coma here.”
“Eddie—”
“Is he serious?” asked a familiar voice. “He’s diabetic? Oh, Maureen, and here I was counting on him taking part in the cookie exchange.”
“This is a surprise,” Maureen said, giving her stepmother a hug.
“I came to do a little shopping, then I’m meeting your father for dinner. Hannah Davenport,” she said, plucking off a hand-knit mitten and shaking hands with him. “And you’re Eddie Haven. I’ve been dying to meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure. And I’m not a diabetic. Just giving Moe here a bad time.”
“Moe. Renée told me you’d given her a nickname. I love that.” Hannah beamed at them both.
Wonderful, Maureen thought. She’s got the match-maker gleam in her eye.
“I’m counting on seeing you at the library Saturday,” Hannah continued. “For the cookie exchange.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
Maureen was fairly certain he had no idea what a cookie exchange was.
“In fact, I’ve just had a brainstorm,” Hannah declared. “You can go around with the sample tray. Oh, my stars and little catfish, yes. That’s exactly what you’ll do. Sales will go through the roof! Eddie, thank you so much for stepping up. You’re a prince, you honestly are.” She beamed at him, then said, “I am unforgivably late. Maureen, your father will murder me.”
“I’ll look for you on the evening news,” Maureen said, giving her a hug. As Hannah rushed away, Maureen turned to Eddie. “Congratulations. You’ve just been Hannahed. That’s what we call it in our family. Getting Hannahed means getting roped into something before you’ve figured out what you’re agreeing to and whether or not you really want to do it.”
“I see. So what did I just agree to? Sample tray of what? Cookies?”
“Ha. You’ll have to show up to find out. People who allow themselves to be Hannahed are on their own. Come to the library Saturday morning and you’ll be surprised.”
“I don’t want to be surprised.”
“I didn’t want to go snowshoeing, so we’re even. And speaking of things we don’t want to do, you still haven’t bought anything for your parents.” She perused a display of luxury gifts in the window of Zuzu’s Petals, the town’s most interesting shop. The boutique had the added appeal of a sign in the window, announcing that a percentage of each sale would go toward saving the library. “Cashmere bedroom slippers?” Maureen suggested, leading the way into the shop. “A Foucoult’s Pendulum clock? What do you think of that signed print by Daisy Bellamy?” She indicated a dramatic, lavishly-framed shot of Meerskill Falls, cascading down a wooded gorge.
“Now you’re talking. How about all of the above?” He made his purchases, then headed for the shop door, his strides quickened by impatience.
A few minutes later, they left with a sack of wrapped parcels. “You’re no fun at all,” she said. “This is not shopping. This is…order-taking.”
“It’s efficient. I’m glad you came along, Moe.”
She felt slightly deflated. “You’re such a guy. Don’t you know that half the fun of shopping is the thrill of the hunt?”
“What’s the other half?”
She smiled up at him. “Walking through the door on Christmas, with your arms laden with gifts. Seeing people’s faces when they open their packages.”
He stepped outside. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Walking through their door. On Christmas Eve, I’ll be busy with the pageant, so there’s no way I can pay them a visit.”
“Yes, but on Christmas day—”
“Not happening,” he said, scowling at her. “What?”
“Why won’t you go see them at Christmas?”
“Let’s just say my parents have a different view of the holidays than I do.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me? Were they horrible to you? Did they force you to make that movie?”
“Hell, no. I don’t blame them. They had a kid who was good at performing, and they saw it as a way to earn a living.”
“Then why not go home to them?” she asked, truly baffled. “It’s such a lovely time to be together, to relax and celebrate the joys of the holiday.”
“Moe, I’m happy for your family. Mine’s different.”
“That’s sad, Eddie,” she blurted out. “It makes me sad for you.”
“Don’t be.” He leaned against the building, shoved his hands in his pockets and stared off into the distance, across the plaza with its swags of twinkling lights. He let out a long sigh of frustration, and frosted air bloomed from his mouth. “You want to know why I don’t head home for Christmas? Because I can’t stand sitting around hearing them reminisce about how great it all was, back in the day. I can’t stand suffering through another showing of that movie and I don’t want to sign the deluxe edition DVD for their friends.”
“What about just seeing your parents? Just being with them?”
“They don’t need that from me. We can’t all be as freakishly functional as the Davenports, Moe.”
“We’re not freaks.”
“Okay, sorry. I’m just saying there’s a huge difference between the way our families deal with the holiday. For us, getting together on that particular day is not that crucial.”
“Yes, it is,” Maureen insisted. “Every day matters, but especially Christmas.” She hesitated, braced herself and steadied her nerves, because explaining her family dynamic to people was always hard. “Hannah is my stepmother,” she said. “I’m crazy about her, and she’s been with me through the hardest times of my life.” She watched Eddie’s face, knowing he was remembering what she’d told him about her ordeal in Paris.
“I didn’t realize she wasn’t your birth mother,” he said.
“Hannah and my dad have been married for twenty years, and they’ve been together even longer. We all love her, and we’re incredibly lucky to have her in our lives.”
“Is your mom…?” He clearly didn’t want to ask.
“She died when I was five. One of us kids came home with a virus—you know how kids are always getting sick—and she caught it, and the virus attacked her heart muscle. She was dead within weeks. The only thing that could have saved her was a transplant, and…well, that isn’t really something you can plan for and time perfectly. At the age of five, I barely understood this. All I knew was that like any kid, I adored my mother, and when she died, we all lost our hearts, the whole family. It’s been more than twenty years, and I still miss her every day.”
“Man, I’m sorry. That’s just—shit. I’m so sorry.” In a motion that was both completely natural, but wholly unexpected, he drew her close, gently pressing his warm lips against her forehead.
She hadn’t expected to feel so touched by his sympathy. It nearly made her forget the point she was trying to make. Pulling back to look up at him, she said, “You know what? My mother wasn’t perfect. I bet, like your mom, she had her flaws and made mistakes. So what? I’d give anything to have one more day with her.”
“And you wouldn’t care whether that day was Christmas or some other time,” Eddie pointed out. “Don’t get me wrong. I visit my parents often enough.”
“Christmas is special.”
“For you, maybe. For me, it’s just another day. And for my folks, it’s an excuse to crack open the Cold Duck and reminisce about things I didn’t think were so hot the first time around.”
She was completely intrigued by his aversion. “And you’ll do anything—even spend years doing community service—to avoid being with them on this particular day.”
“You missed your calling, Maureen. You should have been a psychiatrist.”
“Family counselor.”
“Whatever.”
“Daisy, this is incredible,” Maureen said, holding up the glossy poster.
Daisy never quite knew how her work would strike someone until she got their unfiltered reaction. Then she saw that Maureen’s eyes were wet. “Incredible good, or incredible bad?” she asked, her confidence faltering.
“It’s perfect,” Maureen assured her. “Don’t mind me. I get emotional over everything this
time of year. Thank you so much. Everyone who sees this is going to want to come to the pageant. It’s so evocative.”
The poster bore a striking image of the night sky in winter. Far below, so tiny it resembled a toy, was the church with its glowing nativity scene. The image was dreamy and brushed with magic, as though painted rather than photographed.
“I’m glad you like how it turned out.” Daisy had come to the church straight from the printer’s. “I hiked halfway up Watch Hill to get the shot.”
“At night?” Maureen shuddered. “In the snow?”
“I had a friend with me,” Daisy said quickly. She’d talked her friend Zach into it. A fellow student at SUNY New Paltz, he sometimes helped out as her assistant on challenging shoots. Zach was also, to his great chagrin, her favorite photographer’s model. With his straight, white-blond hair and strong, Nordic features, he was a compelling subject. Daisy liked being around Zach, because unlike the other guys in her life, she wasn’t confused about him.
“Well, it’s gorgeous.” Maureen touched a finger to her name. In the corner of the printed poster, it said Codirected by Maureen Davenport and Eddie Haven.
“I thought I’d get some more candid shots today, during rehearsal,” Daisy said, taking out her favorite camera, a good digital SLR. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” Yet Maureen’s expression was uncertain as she looked around the stage area of the church. “I’m afraid it’s pretty chaotic around here.”
“That’s her polite way of saying things aren’t going her way,” said Eddie Haven, coming in through a side door. He was carrying a guitar in a case and some kind of sound equipment. “Right, Moe?”
Daisy aimed the lens barrel at Maureen just in time to catch a completely spontaneous and attractive blush. Okay, I get it, thought Daisy. And when Eddie grinned at Maureen, Daisy shot that, too. I really get it, she thought. This was something she enjoyed, capturing people’s emotions, particularly the honest, unscripted ones. She was a good wedding photographer, and maybe this was why. She loved what the camera revealed about people when they were in the moment, not thinking about what they looked like. In the spring and summer, weddings were fast becoming Daisy’s bread and butter. A lot of photographers shied away from weddings, but Daisy loved them. She was inspired by the sweep of drama and the intensity of emotion that tinged the air, the over-the-top happiness and even the nerves. Maybe she enjoyed weddings so much because she didn’t ever expect to have one of her own, not a traditional one, anyway. Her past was too complicated. Her present, too full of Charlie. So the chances of her future including a traditional wedding were slim. It gave her a keen eye for others, though. Take Maureen and Eddie. They had excellent chemistry. They’d make a great bride and groom, not that they seemed to know it.