No Christmas Like the Present

by Sierra Donovan

  “Here, now, before you catch your death.” Fred’s hand came to rest lightly on her arm, pulling her gently back to close the door. She’d shivered, but it hadn’t been from the wintry draft.

  Fred propped the tree against the wall with care and started to take off his jacket, as if to get down to business. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He put a hand in his pocket and withdrew a sprig of mistletoe, tied with a red velvet bow. He reached up easily and tied it to the hanging lamp over her apartment’s small entryway. “No home should be without it for the holidays.”

  Lindsay edged back, out from underneath the lamp, but if Fred noticed her discomfiture, he didn’t show it. He pulled off his coat and draped it neatly over the back of her couch with a smile. “I assume you have a Christmas tree stand?”

  Lindsay nodded weakly and went to the hall closet, making a wide circle of the mistletoe.

  What have I done?

  What she had done, she found, was to let in an inexhaustible source of Christmas cheer.

  Within half an hour, the tree was installed in its stand, Christmas carols were playing on her stereo, and Fred was trying to master the inevitably tangled lights. She’d seen a number of men wrestle with Christmas lights, but until now, she’d never seen one do it without swearing. “Electrical things aren’t my strong suit,” was his only comment.

  Not comfortable with electrical things. And he didn’t drive. So many little peculiarities, and so many seeming impossibilities. Last night she’d accepted it without much question, mostly out of dumb shock. Today Lindsay found herself grasping for explanations. Where had he really come from?

  “White Christmas” drifted to Lindsay from the stereo, and she thought of an experiment. “Name the singer,” she said casually. Playfully.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Bing Crosby. Everyone knows that.”

  So he hadn’t walked directly out of the nineteenth century. He was familiar with things that dated, at least, from the 1930s or ’40s. About the time of the movie she’d been watching. That didn’t help much at all.

  Lindsay’s temples started to throb with the warnings of another headache. A headache that felt out of place with “O Come All Ye Faithful” in the background. She’d be better off putting her questions aside for now, she decided.

  Her headache faded.

  She and Fred started winding the lights around the tree, standing on opposite sides so they could pass the lighted string back and forth between them. “I like these,” Fred said, fingering one of the bulbs as he handed the strand to her again. “Most people these days seem to prefer the tiny little bulbs.”

  Lindsay considered her larger, multicolored lights. “This is the size we always had on my tree at home when I was growing up.”

  “I’m letting you off easy, you know. A proper tree should have tinsel as well.”

  “Let me guess.” She peered around the branches at him. “One strand at a time?”

  “Absolutely.” He grinned. “Although I admit, that may not be the best thing for your personality type. You make things complex enough as it is.”

  The grin hit her just as his fingertips brushed hers to hand her the lights again. Lindsay ducked back behind the branches to hide the blush that started in her cheeks, spread to her ears, and quickly made it all the way down to her toes.

  “Who’s Steven?”

  Lindsay’s head jerked up, but the branches between them obscured Fred’s face. Her heart thrummed in her ears. Then she remembered a fortune-teller’s trick she’d heard about: firing off a random question, in the hope of making a direct hit.

  Lindsay said, “I have a cousin named Steven.”

  “No, not that one.” Any self-respecting quack fortune-teller, Lindsay suspected, would have seized the bait. “This would be someone more significant.”

  “You tell me.” Still holding her end of the lights, Lindsay stepped to one side of the tree and leveled her eyes at Fred with as much of a poker face as she could muster. Her mouth felt dry, but she kept her voice even. “Either you know who he is or you don’t.”

  “No, my information from Headquarters is strictly on a need-to-know basis. The rest is for you to tell me. They’ve only told me that you and Steven are to be reconciled.”

  Suddenly, she didn’t care where he came from. She just wanted him to go back there. Lindsay dropped her end of the lights. “That’s it.”

  Fred caught the lights. “What?”

  That guileless stare of his again. Lindsay felt the hot sting of betrayal. To think she’d actually let him into her home. “This is some kind of game. You’ve been spying on me. Or else someone must have—”

  “Now, see here.” The sudden firmness in his voice surprised her. “I’ve had about all of this I can take.”

  “You’ve had all—”

  “Yes.”

  The Christmas lights in his hands flared to twice their brightness, then blinked out.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “I understand this can be hard to accept at first, and I’ve been patient. I bring a tree to your door, and at least you’re ready to accept that. But the minute I bring you a bit of news that’s not to your liking, you’re ready to shoot the messenger. Is that fair?” He didn’t raise his voice, but his mouth was drawn in a firm line that looked out of place on his features.

  Her eyes went down to the darkened lights in his hands. An electrical surge, she tried to tell herself. Sure. And somehow he’d managed to rearrange the snow on her walkway before he knocked on her door. She’d hallucinated the carols on the phone. And of course, it was pure coincidence that made this man a dead ringer for the actor she’d been watching on television moments before Fred appeared in her life.

  When she raised her eyes to his face, he locked her in a steady gaze. He didn’t look like he was playing a game. He looked genuinely offended. “What proof do you need that I’m telling you the truth?”

  She looked down again at the lights.

  Up again at his eyes, still fixed on hers.

  And swallowed hard.

  “Steven was my boyfriend in high school,” she said. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  He frowned. But this time, seemingly, not at her. “That’s odd. I wouldn’t have thought of matchmaking as my strong suit.” His frown deepened. “What was he, some sort of beast?”

  No, she thought, I was.

  “No,” he mused, “that can’t be it. That wouldn’t be in your best interest, and that’s what this is all about.” The lines between his brows faded. “Still, I suppose there’s no law saying that’s the first thing we have to deal with.”

  The string of lights came back on. But he wasn’t looking at the lights. He was looking at her.

  Fred held the strand out to Lindsay, ready to continue their work. As far as she could tell, he’d never noticed they’d gone out.

  Lindsay stared at the lights, then at Fred. “This isn’t normal.”

  Fred met her eyes as he put the bright string of bulbs into her hand. “Now you’re beginning to get it,” he said softly.

  Lindsay tried to concentrate on stringing the lights. Or the prickling of the pine needles. National disasters. Anything was better than the unwelcome thoughts now crowding her brain.

  Why did Fred have to bring up Steven? And how could he and “Headquarters” know about Steven . . . unless Fred was exactly what he said he was?

  Just when she thought this situation couldn’t get any stranger, now he was bringing her old boyfriend into it. She hadn’t seen Steven in ten years. Hadn’t thought about him in . . . well, that was a lie. He was there in the shadows, especially this time of year. Because they’d broken up this time of year, and it had ended so badly.

  Didn’t Headquarters know anything about letting sleeping dogs lie? Some doors were better left closed, and she was pretty sure Steven would agree with her.

  She sneaked a peek at Fred through the pine branches. It would make so much more sense if he’d appeared as a reproachful, chain-rattling Jacob Marl
ey. He claimed to be her personal spirit of Christmas Present, so why was he dredging up the past?

  It didn’t make sense, but it was getting harder all the time to deny that this was real.

  She knew Fred was watching her, trying to read her expression, even though every time she glanced at him he, too, appeared focused on the Christmas tree. With the effort they were putting into hanging these lights, the tree ought to be a masterpiece by the time they were done.

  Fred let the Christmas carols from the stereo fill the silence while they finished with the lights. Lindsay’s disquieted features, and her slightly unfocused expression, let him know she had some thinking to do. Best not to interrupt. Besides, he needed to do some thinking of his own.

  What in the world could Headquarters be thinking?

  Why send him to play matchmaker between a beautiful woman and her ex-boyfriend? If he’d known, he certainly wouldn’t have brought the mistletoe. He’d meant it as more or less a joke, although he wouldn’t have been above stealing a kiss if the opportunity presented itself. All in the spirit of holiday cheer, of course.

  The box of ornaments from Lindsay’s closet brought a much-needed change of mood. As soon as she knelt on the floor and parted the cardboard flaps, he saw it in her face. The soft light of rediscovery.

  She’d liked the tree. She liked the Christmas carols, or she wouldn’t have over fifty discs of them. But this box contained things much closer to Lindsay’s heart. He knelt across from her to get a better look. Not at the contents of the box, but at the expressions that crossed her face as memories flooded in.

  “My first nutcracker.” She volunteered the information unprompted. “One of the first decorations I bought with my own money. And here’s one of the crystal ballerinas . . .”

  A haphazard inventory began as Lindsay unwrapped the ornaments from napkins and tissues and laid them out on the floor. All of the ornaments were different—from different decades, and probably, at various times, different households. No sterile, color-coordinated ornaments, aside from the occasional bright-colored ball to be used as filler. This would be a tree filled with sentiment, and Fred realized he hadn’t expected anything less of her.

  After a few minutes she handed him a toy soldier, and stood to hang the first of her ballerinas. As they worked, Fred took care to let Lindsay gravitate toward her favorites, sometimes with a comment or a story, sometimes not. Then he spotted one that had the unmistakable air of a treasured memento.

  “Now, here’s something you don’t see every day.” He held up a bedraggled reindeer stick horse, with a huge Styrofoam head and a fake candy cane for a body.

  “Oh, let me hang that one.” Lindsay snatched it from his fingers and hung it low on the tree, but near the center, where it wouldn’t be missed.

  “That’s Rudolph. My mom let me take him when I moved away from home.” She fingered the reindeer’s bent green tinfoil antlers. “When I was little I always used to hang him from some nice high branch. Then I’d wonder why he turned up in a lower spot later on. Usually near the back.” She put her hands in front of her face to hide her smile. “Isn’t he hideous?”

  “Some of the best Christmas decorations are hideous.” Fred peered into the light gray eyes above her folded hands. Undeniably, they sparkled.

  And you were going to leave these boxed up in the closet all year?

  He refrained from saying it.

  The tree filled quickly. Soon there was very little space left, even for those generic ball ornaments, most of which went at the back of the tree. A smattering of decorations still covered the bottom of the box when Lindsay closed the cardboard flaps with a reluctant last look. “I guess I’ll have to save these for next year.”

  Next year. He liked the sound of that.

  Fred flicked out the switch for the overhead living room light, and they both stood back to admire their handiwork. The gray wintry day outside left the apartment fairly dim, so the tree’s colorful lights had a chance to do their work, transforming the room into a picture of holiday tranquility.

  Lindsay stood in the soft light with her arms wrapped around herself. “Thanks,” she said, meeting his eyes. A smile touched her lips, and tugged at his heart. It was her most unreserved moment to date.

  And if he let it continue, he might forget himself and put his arm around her, whether her case called for it or not. Remember the job.

  In the glow of the Christmas tree, that was hard to do. Fred stepped back to the light switch and turned it on. It bought him the distance he needed, but at the cost of the peaceful mood they’d just managed to capture. One glance at Lindsay confirmed he’d broken the moment. She surveyed the boxes they’d emptied, as though calculating the effort it would take to fit them back into the closet.

  “So,” he said, “what’s next?” He winced. His tone sounded overly bright, even to him. Not good.

  Lindsay twisted her fingers in her hair. Fred could see the demons returning. Time to pull her shell back around herself. Why did she keep herself boxed away, like those ornaments that now decorated her tree?

  “Cards and fudge,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, the cards.” Fred wandered to the little wooden tray, heaped with cards and bright green envelopes, and glanced at her open address book. “That’s quite a stack. And you’re only on the G’s?”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to pry.” He stepped back. “Hazard of my profession. Who are all these people, anyway?”

  He could absolutely feel some tiny coil inside her tighten. “My family. Friends from high school, and college . . .”

  “Why don’t you just send them all postcards and be done with it?”

  “This is the only time of year most of them hear from me.”

  He quirked a brow at her. And why is that? “What about a newsletter, then?”

  “Too impersonal. Anyway, single people don’t do newsletters. That’s for people with kids who play soccer and take piano lessons.”

  Fred noticed that while she was defending to the death the need to write the cards, she hadn’t taken a single step toward the tray. He smiled at her gently. “Lindsay, you hate these cards.”

  She blinked at the word. “I don’t hate them.”

  “Well, they’re the bane of your existence, then.” This time she didn’t argue. “I could at least address the envelopes for you.”

  “It has to be in my—”

  “—own handwriting.” He nodded gravely as he finished along with her. “I should have known. Has it ever occurred to you that you make things harder than they need to be? Why not call your friends during the year?”

  Her fingers still wound through her hair. Sometimes she seemed like a ball of consternation, a tangle of knots he yearned to unravel. But many of his ideas for doing so, he felt sure, wouldn’t pass muster at Headquarters. And they probably wouldn’t be too popular with this Steven, either. Not if the man had any sense.

  “All right, then,” he said. “I can help you with the fudge.”

  Her hand dropped from her hair. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, let’s look at this. How much fudge do you need to make?”

  “Two batches. One with almonds and one without. And it’s a complicated recipe. You couldn’t—”

  “Oh? Care to make a bet on that?”

  “You are kidding.”

  “No. Here’s the deal.” This was much better. Perversely, he found it far easier to deal with her arguments than with her vulnerability. One sharpened his wits. The other one seemed bent on making him forget why he was here. “How long does it take you to make one batch of fudge?”

  She bit her lip. “About forty-five minutes.”

  “Do you have two pots?”

  “Yes. But there’s no way—”

  “Wait. You haven’t heard my terms yet.” Fred folded his arms, leaning back against the wall next to the light switch. “I’m a quick study. You make a batch, I make a batch. I’ll do exactly w
hat you do.” She opened her mouth to object again. He held up a hand. “If we don’t turn out two perfect batches of fudge in the time it would have taken you to make one—I leave you alone.”

  Her mouth stayed open. Did the thought of having him go away still appeal to her? He hoped not. But he pressed forward.

  “If I lose, I’ll leave you in peace. No arguments.” He paused, then played his trump card. “No Steven.”

  She flinched at the name. What kind of person was this man?

  “However. If I win.” He drew in a deep breath. “You agree to let me take you on a proper Christmas adventure tomorrow night. Again, no arguments.”

  He studied Lindsay’s face. So much went on behind those eyes. Strangely, the longer he knew her, the less sure he felt of what those thoughts might be.

  Finally her mouth turned up in another smile. “Okay. On one condition.”

  He straightened from the wall. “What’s that?”

  “If you ruin a batch of fudge, you have to replace all the chocolate and marshmallows we waste.”

  “Sixteen marshmallows,” Fred repeated. “Not fifteen. Not seventeen . . .”

  Lindsay rested one hand on her hip while the other hand stirred in the marshmallows she’d just added to her saucepan. “Remember. The deal is, you do it my way.”

  “Oh, I’m not arguing. I just wonder what bizarre chemical reaction might happen if—”

  “Hush.” The sparkle had returned to her eyes, and the cloud of stress had faded as they stood side by side in front of her stove, assembling the ingredients. In her kitchen, all uncertainty dissolved, and Lindsay transformed into a woman in control. Fred was no fool. He added in his marshmallows.

  “Where did you get this recipe, anyway? Your grandmother?”

  Lindsay blushed. “Internet.”

  “You can’t be serious.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve heard of people using computers for other things, like meeting someone to marry. But something as important as fudge?”

  “Well, sort of. I started out with a bunch of recipes I found on the Internet. Then I experimented. I like to add some milk chocolate in with the semisweet. And a lot of people use marshmallow creme in ajar, but I—”