“Like Sylvie.”
“Yes. Minus the trigger finger and Kevlar bras.” Emma sat on the stool next to Noah, her leg brushing his. “And what do I do? I work. And then work some more.”
“And you don’t like that work?”
“I do.” Her words didn’t sound the least bit believable. “Who wouldn’t want my job?”
“You know what your mom would think about you?” Noah asked.
Emma mutely shook her head.
“Your mother would be amazed at all you’ve accomplished in so little time. She’d see how hard you worked in school, going to classes full time and working forty hours unpaid at the local news station. She’d be amazed at the way you’ve shot to the top in your field. I’m pretty sure she’d be in awe of the fact that millions of Americans have their breakfast with you every morning. She’d love your smile, your heart for Sylvie, and your brain that never quits.” Noah put down his spoon and rested his hand on Emma’s knee. “And she’d think you’re beautiful, Emma. Just like I do.”
Emma couldn’t find her voice. She had to wait until the tears surrendered their chokehold on her throat. “I wish she could have gotten to know you,” Emma said softly. “She’d have loved you. Your laugh, the way you work so hard, yet never hesitate to help someone.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman. And if she’s anything like you, I know she was.” Noah’s tender words were nearly Emma’s undoing.
She had to pull herself together. Crying on a man’s shoulder was not something Emma did. There was something about being with Noah that just tore down her defenses and made her voice nearly every wounded thought. “Thank you for putting the lights up.” Emma swiped away the moisture on her cheeks. “I’m glad this house won’t be the lone eyesore on the tour.”
Noah smiled. “Helping each other is what we do here.”
Like a tiny pin to her balloon of expectations, Emma deflated. Was he just there for the sake of the town? Wasn’t at least a small part of Noah there for her? He’d decorated her gutters, for crying out loud. Who did that? She knew he felt their connection too.
Noah’s stool squawked across the wood floor as he stood. “Let’s do your dishes.”
“You worked all day on my house. I’ll take care of it.” But he was already running water over his bowl in the sink.
He placed his dish in the empty dishwasher, bumping into Emma as he turned. His hands went to her hips to steady her. “Sorry.”
When his eyes locked on Emma’s, sorry was the last thing she felt. She didn’t know who stepped in first, but her hands had somehow found their way to Noah’s chest. She could see his eyes darken, and suddenly Emma was twenty-one again, standing in the arms of the man who loved her, who wrote her funny poems for Valentine’s Day, who took her to the drive-in and let her get the biggest popcorn there was, even though they were both college poor. Noah was still the boy who helped her hide that kitten from her apartment landlord, taking it to his place when a neighbor had ratted her out. Noah had been her first love.
And some days she wondered if he would be her last.
Rising on tip-toes, Emma leaned into Noah—
“Let’s go check out your lights.” He brushed her bangs from her forehead, his smile bittersweet.
Emma’s balloon took a swirling nosedive to the ground.
Noah took a step back and walked toward the living room. But not before she saw that flash of regret in his eyes.
It was something.
As Noah helped Emma into her coat, she noticed his hands didn’t linger. He moved fast and efficiently, then opened the front door.
In late fall in Sugar Creek, it was stumbling dark by five, but her house was lit up like a page from a winter fairy tale.
“Oh, Noah,” she said breathlessly. “It’s beautiful.” Emma stood in the yard next to him, barely aware of the cold rushing at her from every direction. White lights outlined each line and angle of her home, with dangling snowflakes that flashed and spun as if they were falling. “You did all this for the tour.” Her home looked like Christmas. Like someone who adored the holiday lived inside. “Sugar Creek is lucky to have you.”
Noah looked down at Emma. “This is for you as well, Emma. I want you to see a different side of Christmas. It’s not all shopping and crowds and sitting alone on the front row of your dad’s concert.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, blocking some of the wind, and pointed to her chimney. “That’s the Star of Bethlehem.” The heavenly beacon beamed in LED glory, like a signal to the Wise Men, to weary travelers, or those looking for their sign of hope.
And Emma wanted to hope again. She wanted to think there might be a chance she could fill the empty places in her heart. That there could be more to her life than just work. And that maybe one day Noah could be a part of it.
Emma took her gaze off the star and looked at the one who had so gallantly hung it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He reached out his hand and slowly lifted her hood over her head, using his fingers to tuck in the escaping strands of hair. “Emma?”
“Yes?”
“Your boss is about to make a move.”
Emma couldn’t move if her roof flew away. “I won’t complain.”
And then his hands were in her hair, her hood falling. His mouth covered hers, tentative at first, as if reacquainting itself, relearning the contours of her lips. But then the kiss deepened, both of them hungry for more. Like the house, Emma felt as if someone had lit her up with a thousand lights. No one had ever made Emma feel this combination of burn and surrender like Noah Kincaid. She strained to get closer to him, her hands sliding under his coat to explore the texture of his shirt. It still wasn’t close enough.
When Noah’s lips left hers, she heard her own inarticulate sound of protest. He kissed her delicate cheekbone, her forehead, finally ending at her temple, a spot of reverence and care.
Noah inhaled a ragged breath and pressed his brow to Emma’s. “So you liked it?”
Emma was pretty sure she was still floating among the leafless treetops. “I more than liked it. You can kiss me any time, Mayor Kincaid.”
He smiled wide. “I meant the lights.”
Oh. That too.
The transformation of her house had shaken her almost as much as the kiss. Looking at those lights was like looking at a love letter written just for her.
But it was a letter Emma couldn’t accept until she had said all the things she’d held onto these last ten years. “Noah”—Spit it out. Tell him how you feel. “When I broke our engagement—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Emma.” His easy smile dissolved like a snowflake on warm concrete as he stepped away.
“Aren’t we ever going to discuss—”
“It’s late. I should be going.” Noah’s hoarse words made her flinch. “I still have some work to do for the firm.”
“But—”
“Enjoy your lights, Emma.” He didn’t wait for her response, but simply walked to his truck and drove away.
Emma breathed deeply, the crisp air stinging her nose. She lifted her tired eyes to the chimney where the Star of Bethlehem shined above her.
“I could use some direction, too,” she whispered, her fingers pressed to her tingling lips.
On that very first Christmas centuries ago, a star had brought hope and an end to years of lonely silence.
Emma watched her own star blink and glow. “Maybe you can do the same for me.”
Chapter Ten
She was not crying.
At least that’s what Emma told herself when the doorbell rang Sunday afternoon. Blotting her damp eyes with her t-shirt, Emma muted It’s a Wonderful Life and hustled to the door to peeked through the peephole.
Three women stood on her front porch, huddled against the tyranny of the cold. They held bags of groceries, boxes of pizza, and more Christmas decor than any of them could carry.
“Let us in!” Sylvie banged her gloved fist on the door. “I b
ring good tidings of drinks and pizza!”
Emma cracked open the door. “That’s not all you’ve got.” She watched her cousin Hattie nudge a large box with her foot. “What is this Christmas tree doing on my property?”
“It’s my property,” Sylvie snapped. “And I will not have any house of mine naked without a tree.”
“I don’t want a tree, Sylvie.”
“Let me in.”
“Not with all that holiday crap.”
“Do you have a man in there?” Sylvie nudged past her and tromped into the house, her hens right behind her.
“There’s no man.”
“It wasn’t going to stop us,” Sylvie said. “I was just taking attendance.” Her grandmother pulled at the fingers of her leopard-print gloves. “Now, back in my field days, I’d always like to know the strategic game plan. So let me lay this out for you.”
Frannie nodded. “You tell her.”
“We’re going to eat some pizza. We’re going to have a little drinkie, then we’re going to decorate this barren space.”
Emma knew there was just no getting out of this. The least she could do was self-medicate. “I’ll get the bottle opener.”
“For you, I spared no expensive. I brought very expensive wine.” Sylvie held it up.
“It’s in a box,” Emma said.
“So are all your presents, but I’m going to toss them all out if you don’t put on your happy face and get some holiday spirit.”
Sylvie hadn’t single-handedly stopped international terrorists on her good looks. The woman knew how to plan and maneuver, how to charm her way in and get what she wanted. Within fifteen minutes the house was rocking with music, the tree was one-fourth of the way together, and everyone had pizza on their plates.
“Give me another slice of Hawaiian,” Sylvie said to Hattie. “Aloha to my tummy.”
With Sylvie and Frannie neck-deep in tangled lights, Emma sat on the floor with her food.
“Can I join you?” Hattie slid a glance at the other two. “Looks like they’ll be occupied for a while.”
“Sure, sit.”
“I bet your apartment in Manhattan is something.”
“It’s less than half this size, and what’s something is the mortgage payment.” Though it did have a spectacular view.
“How’s the piece about Sugar Creek coming along?”
“It’s just bits and pieces so far. I’ve talked to some folks about life before the town revitalization, and I’ve been interviewing people about what the new holiday events mean to them. Sugar Creek’s added fifty new jobs just in the last year.”
“We have Noah to thank for our growth. Even before he was mayor, he was spearheading all of that. His passion for the town is contagious, isn’t it?”
It really was. Emma found herself driving by nightly and checking on all their events—not because it was her job, but because she really wanted Noah’s plan to work.
“So . . . ” Hattie took a bite of pizza. “Speaking of you and Noah.”
“There is no me and Noah.”
It was like someone dragged the needle across an old forty-five record. The whole room stopped and openly stared at Emma.
“Oh, really?” Sylvie stepped away from the mantle and sauntered to where her granddaughters sat. “Let’s play a little true or false, eh? You took a carriage ride through downtown together.”
“For work.” Emma set her plate down. “And I’m sure I can get you a senior discount.”
Hattie got in on the action. “And was he—or was he not—here last night to put lights on your house?”
“Put lights on the house?” Frannie took a sip of wine. “Is that some new slang for—”
For the love. “It means he wanted my house to be lit up for the city lights tour because someone”—Emma all but growled at her grandmother—“put me on the list.”
“And true or false”—Hattie was enjoying this game way too much—“Noah stayed for dinner.”
Frannie pushed up the bridge of her glasses. “Is dinner what you kids are calling sexy times?”
“It means Noah had chili.” Frannie was reading way too many romance novels. “He strung up lights. I fixed him chili. The end.” She certainly hadn’t missed the way small town news traveled. “And how do you even know about that, Hattie?”
Her cousin inclined her head to a certain pixie-headed woman. “A little birdie told me.”
“Does this little birdie have access to international satellites and spy cameras smaller than the head of a pin?”
Her cousin whispered behind her hand. “And a salt and pepper shaker she recently got online that picks up sound from three miles away.”
Emma’s gasped and pointed a shaming finger at her grandma. “Those are going in the trash.”
“It was your house-warming gift.”
Sylvie laughed, and soon Emma found herself joining in. Her grandmother might violate every Constitutional right to privacy, but she meant well. And it was hard to be mad at the woman who had brought a party to her house.
“Well?” Frannie perched on the arm of the couch. “We want details.”
“It’s nothing,” Emma said. “Noah is my boss. Part of the job requires us working closely together.”
Hattie rested her hand over Emma’s. “Has it been tough?”
Sylvie snorted. “Oh, yeah, romantic carriage rides. Really tough.”
Frannie waggled her sparse eyebrows. “Is it bringing the old magic back?”
Yes. It was bringing the magic and so much more. “He’s a good man. Any woman who marries him will be . . . incredibly lucky.”
“It could be you,” Sylvie said.
“No.” Her life was in New York. “Noah and I had our shot.” And she had blown it.
“It’s not too late,” Hattie said. “He’s available. You’re available.”
“We still want different things.” Didn’t they?
“Sometimes our priorities change,” Frannie said. “I thought I’d stay in the CIA ’til I was holding an M-16 in one hand and my cane in the other, but one day I woke up and knew it was time to come back home and be here for my family.”
Emma grinned. “Your family’s all in Seattle.”
She drained her wine glass. “And so far it’s working out really well.”
“All right.” Sylvie clapped her hands for attention. “Time to get back to work. Let me review what we have so far. The tree is now assembled, the mantle lights untangled, we got some strategically placed candles, and we’ve established that Emma might still love Noah Kincaid.”
“What?” Emma choked on her last bite of pizza. “No, I—”
“No more loafing!” Sylvie shoved a box of ornaments at Emma. “Get to decorating.”
With the Christmas music singing from Hattie’s phone, the ladies got to work. Though it was hard to distribute just the right amount of tinsel when her mind was on other things. Like what Sylvie had said.
Emma was not still in love with Noah.
She simply couldn’t be.
Emma worked alongside her family, and even found herself singing along with the others to Frannie’s music. Her own holidays of late had been so empty and lifeless. She wished she could freeze this moment—the laughter, the lights, the warmth in her heart at being with those she loved. This was celebrating a holiday.
“Here, Shug.” Sylvie pulled Emma toward the couch some time later. “Take a look at these.”
Emma slipped the lid off a red-and-gold box, her heart catching at what she saw nestled in the faded tissue paper. “Our Christmas ornaments. Where did you get these?”
“My attic. Your daddy left some of your mother’s stuff the first time he lit out of Sugar Creek. I couldn’t let them go to the dumpster.”
Emma picked up each ornament and held it up, letting the light catch and play. They were old and inexpensive, but filled with enough love and memories to make them priceless. There was the little toy soldier her parents had bought after they’d
attended the Nutcracker at a community theater. A seven year old Emma had slept through the entire second half. She smiled at a pair of glass angels holding golden harps. Her fingers traced the letters on a pink ornament with Emma’s monogram above the words Baby’s First Christmas.
“You made this one.” Sylvie held up a popsicle-and-cotton-ball abomination. “I think you were six years old. You came back from church one Sunday with glue stuck in your hair and that piece of fine art. Your mom thought it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Said you’d surely grow up to be an artist.”
Emma smiled wryly. “I grew up to flunk art in college.”
“Well, your momma was an optimist.” She pulled another out of the box. “Oh, this little gem was one of her favorites. You made it as well.” From Sylvie’s fingers dangled a small, twig-framed photo of Emma and her parents. It was the last picture of the family together before the cancer had hit. “Why don’t you hang it on the tree, Shug?”
Losing her battle with tears, Emma took the thin ribbon holding the ornament, thinking of her mother’s hand doing the same many years before. Walking to the blinking tree, Emma slipped it onto a narrow branch and watched the photo sway. If her mother had lived, or perhaps if her father hadn’t sold out for his job, would Emma have grown up to love Christmas? What would have been different? Would she have chosen Noah over a nomadic career?
The faded image of her parents smiled at her, and Emma flicked a piece of glitter from her father’s face. Maybe Noah was right, and she should let the past go. Her father’s actions seemed like a desecration to Christmas and her mother’s memory, but Emma definitely didn’t want her own past choices held against her.
Did her father deserve that same grace?
Easier said than done.
Two bottles of wine, three empty pizza boxes, and two hours later, Emma put the star on top of her tree and stood back. The girls had surely brought Christmas. Delicate lights intertwined with burlap ribbon across the candle-lit mantle. Bing Crosby crooned about glistening tree tops, while Sylvie sang along, and Hattie and Frannie danced with golden garland wrapped about them like fine fur stoles.
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