It didn’t open far. About six inches, and he could see her face inside, trying to peer out without stepping forward. Was she that afraid of him? Or the threat of some unknown intruder?
She opened the door a little farther to poke her head out. Belatedly, the porch light flicked on, bathing her head in a light golden glow.
“Hello?” Lindsay’s eyes searched the darkness beyond the porch light, her eyes falling directly on the spot where he would have stood, if he’d been standing. Coincidence? Her eyes remained fixed there for a moment, and she stepped forward, hugging her arms around her bright red sweater. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to reach out for her, to soothe away the cold and apprehension. Except, of course, that appearing in front of her would send her screaming inside and destroy all his work so far.
She looked so alone. In the apartment beyond her, he saw a few stray cards scattered on the floor, as if they’d tumbled from the tray when she got up. He had a good idea what she’d been up to since he left.
Lindsay’s eyes lingered on his vantage point for several more seconds. Then she ducked back in and closed the door, which had never been open more than a foot.
She could have sworn she’d heard someone outside.
Lindsay bolted the door and started back toward the tray of cards, but she couldn’t bring herself to sit down again. Maybe she’d been imagining noises just to avoid the task. She certainly hadn’t been making much headway.
Fred might be bringing out her Christmas spirit, but he wasn’t helping her concentration. She detoured to the refrigerator and the carton of eggnog. It had expired yesterday. Lindsay sniffed the contents, decided to take a chance, and poured a mug. She added nutmeg and took a cautious sip. Still good.
She returned to the living room and sat close to the fire, realizing that Fred would approve. He was getting under her skin, like some kind of posthypnotic suggestion. But surely, taking a little good advice couldn’t be wrong.
Lindsay turned her gaze to the tree again. That part was harder to recapture. She’d turned too many lights on. And this time she didn’t have warm hands on her shoulders, a soothing voice, or a soft kiss beside her ear.
She sipped the eggnog again, slowly, and tried to quiet the buzzing thoughts inside her head.
Cards. Shopping. Christmas tree. Glowing lights. Fred . . .
Steven.
He was waiting there, at the back of her mind, like a bill to be paid. If Fred was really here to get her to fix things with Steven, it was a high price to pay. And she couldn’t imagine how she’d go about it.
Had she really made a mistake ten years ago? She knew she’d handled the end of their relationship badly, and she had to admit, it would be nice to know how Steven was doing now. But for all the times she’d wondered about him, she’d never really thought about going back to him. She just wished she hadn’t hurt him.
In the years since then, dating had been a process of dipping her toe into the water only to jerk it back. She didn’t want to go in too deep, didn’t want to start something she couldn’t finish.
Lindsay sighed, sipped her eggnog again, and realized she wasn’t even seeing the tree, although her eyes were aimed right at it. She needed something more distracting. She reached for the remote control and turned on the television set.
A Christmas Carol was showing again. No surprise there. Two different versions, in fact. She’d never be able to see that movie the same way again, no matter what Fred looked like. Lindsay scrolled through the menu, searching for something less close to home. It’s a Wonderful Life? Too many regrets. Miracle on 34th Street, featuring a cynical career woman who didn’t believe in love or Santa Claus . . . no, not tonight.
Finally she found an old Bing Crosby special. That would do it. Lindsay turned up the volume, tucked her feet up under her, and did her best to ignore the Christmas cards.
Chapter 6
The next morning, Lindsay got to her desk promptly at nine. At five minutes after nine, a hand dropped from out of nowhere onto her stack of papers. A large, square-cut diamond ring flared at her.
She looked up from the hand into Jeanne’s face, which was also sparkling.
“What—!” Lindsay stood and sent her chair rolling backward. Her eyes went from the flashing ring to Jeanne’s face one more time. “Brad?”
Jeanne nodded, still beaming. “Guess he decided not to cheap out for Christmas after all.”
“Congratulations!” Lindsay crunched her friend into a hug, still trying to take it all in. She’d only met Brad once or twice, and he wouldn’t have been her first choice, what with his penchant for televised sports, cheap burgers, and sudden arguments. But if Jeanne was happy, so was she.
Lindsay wondered, fleetingly, if the big, chunky stone was cubic zirconia, then stomped the thought down. As long as Jeanne’s happy, she reminded herself.
She pulled back, allowing her friend to breathe. “Tell me how it happened! Were you expecting anything like this?”
Jeanne shook her head, still smiling from ear to ear. “Not in a million years.”
And Lindsay saw it. Or she thought she did. A shady flicker, just beneath the brightness in Jeanne’s eyes. Lindsay felt a chill of recognition as Jeanne continued.
“We were on our way out to dinner,” she said. “He just fished into his pocket and brought out this black velvet box. . . .”
The details faded from Lindsay’s hearing. Because when someone surprised you with a box containing a diamond ring, she knew from experience, there was only one answer that came easily.
“—and what else could I say?” Jeanne finished, with the same big smile firmly in place. The longer Lindsay saw it, the more she sensed the underlying effort behind it. That flicker of doubt.
She could be imagining it.
“I’ve never been so surprised in my life,” Jeanne added.
No. It wasn’t her imagination.
Lindsay kept her own smile in place as well. She didn’t know what else to do.
It hounded her through the morning. Not just the vision of Jeanne bringing drinks and chips to a couch potato who wouldn’t even say “Thank you”—because, after all, Lindsay didn’t know that was the way Jeanne’s marriage would turn out. She just strongly suspected it.
What really bothered her was the nagging suspicion that Jeanne knew, deep down, that she was making a mistake. A mistake Jeanne didn’t want to admit to anyone, least of all herself. The same mistake Lindsay had nearly made with Steven ten years ago, before she returned his ring and ran out on him.
She’d solved her problem, all right. In a way that guaranteed Steven would never want to see her again. A shabby end to a pleasant four-year relationship.
Pleasant. Now, there was a bland word. Had that been the problem all along?
Lindsay tried to think back on her time with Steven as she slogged through her morning’s work. Four years together, and she couldn’t remember a single argument. He’d been considerate and dependable. They’d griped about the same teachers, seen the same movies together, and, more often than not, they’d helped decorate each other’s Christmas trees. Pleasant. What was so wrong with that?
Lindsay thought of the little current that had passed between her and Fred, just from the brush of his finger on her cheek. Then the relaxed contentment of gazing at the tree with his hands resting on her shoulders. Making fudge, walking together on a snow-flanked sidewalk . . . surely all of that was pleasant, too. But it was something more.
Now she was comparing Steven with an Englishman who’d appeared in her life out of thin air. As if anything real could come out of that.
Even if she was right about Jeanne, who was Lindsay to give advice?
Lindsay sighed and looked at her watch. Nearly lunchtime. She wouldn’t be going out for Thai food today; that was a rare splurge, and Jeanne was meeting Brad for lunch to celebrate. Lindsay pulled open her drawer and eyed the sandwich she’d brought yesterday, but day-old peanut butter looked far less inviting
than a chance to get out of the office for a while. Maybe a change of scenery would help her get away from thoughts of ex-boyfriends, glittering diamond rings, and that hint of dimness in Jeanne’s smile.
Lindsay went to the food court at the mall nearby. She could grab some fast food, and maybe she’d manage some quick Christmas shopping after she gobbled her chicken nuggets.
Predictably, this close to Christmas, the food court was thick with people. As Lindsay stood in line, she went through her gift list mentally: Jeanne, Phil, Evelyn, Matt . . . what could she come up with that she hadn’t already given them before? It got harder every year to find new inspiration. And every year, it seemed like she got a little closer to the wire. Maybe this was the year she should just buy gift cards and get it over with.
The mall’s Muzak reached her ears, singing about growing a little leaner, a little older, a little sadder . . . a little colder.
Great. Now even Johnny Mathis was picking on her.
Lindsay got through the line, turned to search for a seat, and her food tray nearly collided with a familiar charcoal-black overcoat.
Fred steadied the tray as Lindsay staggered off balance.
One glance told him this wasn’t the same woman he’d left sitting contentedly on her couch last night. Her eyes—that clear, light gray that usually reminded him of snowflakes—were more like storm clouds today, troubled and shadowy. Fred felt his own mood dim slightly, and that was a foreign sensation to him. But he didn’t like seeing her so disquieted.
Lindsay barely looked up at him. “Not now, Fred,” she said, and started to pull the tray away.
Not good. Not good at all. She didn’t even seem surprised to see him. Either she was getting very blasé about this whole thing, or something was truly distressing her. He tried not to dwell on how much her mood unsettled him, or what his own reaction might mean.
He held firmly to the tray. “Not so fast. What’s wrong?”
She tugged at the tray again. “Fred, seriously. I’m not in the mood.”
“I can see that. What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
This could be a splendid opportunity, as good a glance into Lindsay’s inner demons as he was ever likely to get, but that wasn’t what kept his grip so tenaciously on her tray. He didn’t like that cloudy look in her eyes, as if she really weren’t seeing him at all. That troubled crease between her eyebrows. Laugh lines were fine, but that crease didn’t belong there. He yearned to rub it away, as if he could erase it with his thumb.
He held on to her gaze as firmly as he could. “Let’s sit down.”
Her eyes regained a little of their focus, and she relinquished the tray. Good. He’d reached her, at least a little.
Finding a seat in this mass of humanity could be a trick. The food court resembled a parking lot of tables, with little more space between them than so many parked cars. But that was a problem much more easily solved than Lindsay’s troubled mood.
A few feet away, Fred glimpsed two young women lingering needlessly over two nearly-empty drink cups, and kept his eyes there; a moment later they both stood, still chatting, never consciously aware of his gaze. Fred held one of the newly vacated chairs out for Lindsay, then took his seat across from her.
She preoccupied herself arranging the items on the brown plastic tray in front of her. Then her eyes flicked up. “How’d you find me here?”
Unimportant details again. “Maybe because you needed me. I’m here for you, remember?”
Light brown eyelashes lowered. A sure sign she had something to say, and didn’t want to say it.
He fought off the temptation to reach for her hand. “So, what’s this thing you don’t want to talk about?”
She bit into one of the strange-looking breaded chunks from her tray a little more fiercely than seemed necessary. “I just found out Jeanne’s getting married.”
“And?”
She stared at the remaining bit of breaded food in her hand, as if she too wondered what it was. “I think maybe she’s making a mistake.”
“How so?”
Lindsay shrugged. “I just don’t think he’s right for her, that’s all.”
“How would you know that?”
She met his eyes for the first time since they’d sat down. “Fred, this is the guy she was afraid was going to break up with her just to save money on a Christmas present. He wasn’t even with her at the company party. Probably home watching a football game.” The rest of the morsel met the same violent fate as its predecessor.
“I don’t understand. You’re upset because your friend is throwing her life away on a monster who watches sports programs? Sounds like the fate of half the women in America to me.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Are British men any better?”
“You’re forgetting. I’m not really British, or American, or anything else. And you’re changing the subject.” Rather smoothly, he had to admit. “Although I don’t have much use for television. Now, if I could figure out how to make the thing work, why then, there might be trouble.”
She cracked a smile. Better. “It’s nice to make you smile,” he said, before he thought.
Confusion crept into her face, and he remembered his abrupt visit to Headquarters last night. He had to be more careful what he said. And not let her distract him from the matter at hand, whether with that smile, or her little changes of subject.
“Lindsay, what’s really bothering you about this? Could it have anything to do with the fact that Jeanne is getting married and you’re not?”
Her eyes flashed. “You’re way off.”
“Methinks thou dost protest too much.”
The stormy look in her eyes turned to utter frost. Fred rather admired the spirit behind that glare. Anything was better than the vacant, preoccupied look she’d worn when he first ran into her. He searched her chilly gaze without backing down, trying to ascertain what lay behind it. Begrudge a friend her happiness? No, it didn’t sound like the Lindsay he knew. But then, emotions weren’t always rational, and if Lindsay did feel jealous, she might also feel guilty about it. That could account for her mood, and her defensiveness about it. Fred studied her, weighing her expression as best he could.
No. It was the obvious reaction, but it didn’t feel right. He said softly, still holding her gaze, “What is it then?”
The troubled crease between her brows deepened. She ducked her head to take a drink from her cup. As her lips pursed around the straw, Fred couldn’t help imagining how a good kiss would help them both forget all this nonsense. He shouldn’t be thinking this way, and he knew it. He couldn’t remember ever—
“She’s my friend.” Lindsay’s eyes drifted past his shoulder, almost as if she were speaking to someone else. “I think she’s doing the wrong thing. But it’s not for me to say.” She toyed with her straw. “I don’t think she’s really in love with him.”
Fred stayed motionless, almost afraid to speak out loud. “What makes you say that?”
Lindsay shook her head, light brown waves of hair swaying slightly around her face. “Just a feeling.”
“Then why would she say yes? There’s not that much social pressure on a woman to get married these days, is there?”
“More than you think. There’s the whole biological clock thing. And there’s just something about a diamond ring—” Her eyes remained fixed over his shoulder. “Just the fact that someone would give it to you.”
She sat up straighter, drawing farther back from him. Her tone changed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a little jealous.” She searched out another breaded chunk of food from her tray.
“You know, I don’t believe you’ve ever lied to me before.”
Her eyes came up to meet his. Her lips parted, as if to deny it, but nothing came out.
He was close to something here. So close, he could practically step on it. But if he stepped too hard, he might crush it.
“All right,” Fred said. “Here’s a harder q
uestion.”
She looked at him warily over her cup.
He said, “What are those things in front of you?”
She plucked up one of the breaded bits. “They’re chicken nuggets. I guess they take chicken and—”
He frowned. “Grind it up? And cover it with bread? I thought this was a civilized society.”
It had the desired effect. It made her laugh, and for the moment that troublesome line between her brows disappeared. “I don’t understand you, Fred. You know who Bing Crosby is, but you don’t know what chicken nuggets are?”
“Need-to-know basis, remember.”
“So, what, is there a manual or something?”
“Not really. It’s sort of like the way . . . Can you remember the first time you heard ‘Silent Night’? You know it because you’ve always known it. I know who Bing Crosby is the same way I know”—he cast around in his mind for an example, shrugged—“that Gone with the Wind is a film about the Civil War, where someone says a four-letter word at the end.”
Lindsay buried her face in her hands. Had he said something wrong?
Then she brought her hands partway down and peered at him over her fingers. Her eyes brimmed, not with tears, but with mirth, and he loved the fact that he’d put it there. He didn’t care one whit whether the joke was on him. “Oh, Fred. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “Enlighten me.”
She lowered her hands, shaking her head. “I can’t. It’s a three-hour movie.”
“Maybe we could watch it together.” He bit his tongue. As he’d been so recently reminded, time was short. A three-hour movie with Lindsay just wasn’t in the offing. And she had him sidetracked again. Still, it seemed to him that this light, meaningless conversation did her more good than poking away at things she obviously found painful.
Apparently not. He had his orders. Even as he sat considering them, he saw the laughter fading from those light gray eyes, back toward her customary serious expression. How could Lindsay’s best interest run so contrary to his own instincts?
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