Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology

by Christine Bell

  Kudos to Mother. Eliza McGovern competed as though Christmas decorating was an Olympic event and the McGovern Victorian would definitely win gold this year. Mom (with Dad’s obedient help) won year after year after year after year. The house couldn’t look more horribly perfect, in an old-fashioned-Christmas kind of way. White lights trimmed every edge of the house. The pine trees in the front yard were decorated with red and white lights so evenly spaced it looked as if a pack of elves had swarmed the trees and hand-placed each light.

  While Santa was high and a bit katywampus, he smiled and waved from his sleigh pulled by eight reindeer (plus a special hand-made Rudolph—Mother was nothing if not a Christmas populist) strung between the back chimney and the roof. The angle gave the appearance that Santa, with his giant sack of presents, was landing in preparation of leaving the McGoverns an ungodly number of holiday gifts that Clarissa’s mother would’ve spent the last ten months (yes, Eliza McGovern did begin shopping for Christmas in March!) collecting and wrapping.

  There could be no more Christmas-y house in all of Powder Springs, could there? Not even the Emersons, her parents’ neighbors since before Clarissa was born (and Mom’s biggest competitor where Christmas decorations were concerned), had more carefully curated decorations than Mother.

  Clarissa shook her head and closed her eyes. Deep breath. No there could be no more Christmas-y house than the one that Clarissa stood in front of, steeling herself to enter, simply because of the fact that Eliza McGovern would never allow a more Christmas-y house to exist in all of Powder Springs.

  Mother was all cheery smiles and friendly waves, but behind the pleasant facade lurked a scrapper looking for a knife fight. Clarissa pulled her rolling suitcase up the front walk. Snow fell softly around her, giving the already white lawn and snow-covered trees an ethereal glow. Maybe Eliza had planned the snow. If anyone could, it would be Mother.

  She yanked her bag up the steps. The scent of cinnamon? Truly? Did Mother have it piped out of the house and onto the lawn? One final breath filled with quiet and solitude. Once Clarissa opened that door there would be hot chocolate, and Christmas songs, and stories, and foil wrapping paper, and bows, and conversations. Many many many conversations, most of them inquiring, in a not-so-subtle way, when Clarissa would get engaged like her perfect younger sister Julia. The sister who lived a mere two hours away in Denver and worked as a teacher at a private school. The sister who had gotten engaged . . . or was meant to . . . this Christmas Eve.

  This family was nutter-butter, fruitcake, mad. Not a second of silence from sunup to sundown, and he had to survive another four solid hours until bed. Ye gads. What the hell would he do? Norris pulled his hand through his hair and tried to maintain the smile on his face while his jaw dropped open aghast at this family, this horribly crazy family, his best friend Kevin intended to marry into. The McGovern clan prepared to sing “Holly Jolly Christmas” yet again, and they still had three whole days until Christmas Eve.

  My God. He was going to lose his ever-loving mind before he could get out of this wackadoo home. Why was he here? Moral support. Hmm . . . that’s right. Moral support for Kevin, who had committed, after years of dating, to finally proposing to Julia, this Christmas Eve. Too bad the poor guy looked like he was being hauled to the gallows instead of embarking on the adventure of a lifetime.

  “Norris, darling, don’t stand all the way over there,” Mrs. McGovern called. “Come and join us by the piano. We’ve loads more carols to sing, and I adore your tenor voice.”

  Norris tapped his throat. “Sorry, I have to sit this one out,” he whispered. “Parched. And feeling a bit hoarse. But I’m sure there’ll be plenty more carols before Christmas.”

  “You bet!” Eliza sang out and winked. She turned back to the baby grand, where her husband, Julia’s dad, obediently started pounding the keys, because “tickling the ivories” was much too subtle a description for the McGovern repertoire. Kevin shot Norris a “help me” glance, but Norris simply rolled his eyes and turned away. Oh, no. No, no, no. Norris held little sympathy in his heart for Kevin. Kevin had strung poor Julia along for the past two years, ever since he’d taken the job as music teacher at the swanky private school in Denver where Julia taught English. Now, the piper had finished his tune and needed to be paid, in the form of an engagement ring to be proffered on Christmas Eve, or else.

  Norris cleared his throat. The whole Christmas Eve marriage proposal hit a bit close to his heart. Perhaps if he’d waited until he’d been instructed that a proposal was expected, even required, Norris’s heart would still beat in an unshattered piece. Alas, the knowledge had come too late for him.

  He snuck a quick look at his best friend standing beside his soon-to-be in-laws. Norris shuddered for the poor bastard. Kevin wore dead eyes and a plastered-on smile as he mouthed the words to “Holly Jolly” for the thousandth time in preparation for the annual Candy Cane Lane competitive caroling event. Perhaps his pal saw a glimpse of Christmas future, or even a lifetime of birthdays and cookouts with the in-laws, stretching out before him ad infinitum.

  Norris grabbed the bourbon and added a slug to his eggnog. He wasn’t certain that Kevin would acquiesce to his beloved’s demand for a ring, as Norris had yet to see a diamond and there had been no talk of jewelers or wedding plans.

  A shrill high-pitched note shrieked through the holiday haze. Yes, well, perhaps he needed a jaunt outside. Norris walked toward the front door and took his jacket from the coatrack. “Just getting some fresh air,” he called to no one in particular. The McGovern trio and Kevin continued warbling notes and Norris pulled open the front door.

  Mother’s voice could cut glass. My God, how many times could one woman sing “Holly Jolly Christmas,” and what was that horrible arrangement? Music was yet another testament to Clarissa’s square peggishness in her family circle. While Mother, Daddy, and Julia shared the gift of perfect pitch, Clarissa couldn’t sing a note to save her life. “A dying goat in a bucket” had been the phrase Mother had coined to describe Clarissa’s vocal talents. Each and every year Clarissa sat on the sidelines while Mother, Daddy, and Julia turned a holiday tune for the annual Candy Cane Lane Carol Competition. The McGoverns always won in the family ensemble category, with either Julia or Mother taking the solo award each and every year.

  Why was she home? Clarissa closed her eyes. How could she possibly feel any necessity to darken this doorstep again? Because while none of her colleagues back in L.A. would recognize the Oscar-winning-producer as the same woman struggling to open the front door of her childhood home, when Clarissa swept away her career success, the childhood feelings of resentment and inadequacy still resided in her heart.

  Deep breath. She was home because she loved Daddy and Julia. While Julia. Her little sister’s constant good nature and smile made it impossible for Clarissa to forego the big Christmas event. She loved them. All of them. Even Mother. She simply needed to take her happy-holiday family in small doses, otherwise their cheery nature might kill her, and to be fair, she guessed her quiet contemplative nature made her family uncomfortable, too.

  Clarissa stood before the perfectly decorated door with its fragrant pine wreath and red velvet bow. She reached for the knob and the door flew open.

  Sound smashed her eardrums. Cinnamon invaded her nostrils. And her eyes? Her eyes landed on a tweed coat much too light for a Rocky Mountain winter. Moved upward over the broad chest until her gaze met a pair of familiar eyes in a face she would never expect to see here. Clarissa’s brows creased.

  Oh. My. God.

  “Norris?”

  His blue eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. “Clarissa?”

  Her heart hammered. A knot formed in her throat. Then heat clutched her belly and flew to her face. Hot. Fierce. Heat. “What the hell are you doing at my parents’ house for Christmas?”

  2

  What the hell was he doing at her parents’ house for Christmas? Escaping, that was what he was doing. Escaping and getting aw
ay from the cheery holiday hoopla. But what was Clarissa—ah, like a ball-bat to the head it hit him—McGovern doing at the McGovern home. He’d failed to put those two important facts together. Why would he? No one in the McGovern house ever referred to Clarissa by her first name.

  “I . . . uh . . . I had no idea this was your parents’ home.”

  She raised her eyebrow in the same way she’d done when they were a couple. That judgmental look that seemed to yell, I don’t believe you. How could you possibly be that stupid?

  “There aren’t any pictures of you!” Norris said in his own defense.

  She cocked her head to the left and thinned her lips.

  Right. Not the best defense. “You’re the sister they’ve been talking about.” Now Norris lifted his brow. “But they don’t call you Clarissa.”

  Her cheeks pinked and her lips puckered. The corner of Norris’s mouth pulled up into a wry grin. “Oh, no, no, no.” He shook his head, desperately trying to contain what could only be called a wicked laugh completely at his ex-lover’s expense. “They don’t call you Clarissa, they call you—”

  “Don’t say it,” she hissed, her gaze nearly feral. “Do not say it.” Her nostrils flared.

  “Don’t say what?” he asked. Oh yes, this was too good to be true. Really. This unexpected gift was the only thing that could save this entire holiday charade. “The nickname that they have for you? Their darling Clarissa who they don’t call Clarissa, they call—”

  “Please.” She was begging with her eyes. She swallowed. “We’re adults. Surely you can understand why, after years and years of being away from home and developing a life for myself, I do not want to be called—” She paused, sighed, rolled her eyes toward the sky.

  “What?” Norris goaded. “What don’t you want to be called?” He leaned forward, a little bit too close, toward the woman who’d been his lover. Ahh . . . still the scent of lavender and lemons.

  His heart jackknifed in his chest. She’d broken that heart, hadn’t she? After that pain, how could the scent of her, the nearness of her, the sharp intelligence in her eyes possibly make him want her again?

  “Please,” her voice softly pleaded, “do not call me by the nickname.”

  He pressed his lips together and looked up at the doorframe. “Hmm, I do believe that this knowledge may have value. Knowing a rather embarrassing family nickname for a very powerful woman?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh really? You wouldn’t mind your Hollywood colleagues discovering that your family calls you—”

  “Piglet!” Mrs. McGovern yelled from behind him. “You’re home!”

  Every part of Clarissa, every cell in her body, seemed to cave in, as though crushed by the word from Eliza McGovern’s lips. Oh, he’d wanted to tease, perhaps because of the residue from his still-fractured heart. No one before or after Clarissa had managed to break his heart like that, and maybe that made Norris want to be a tiny bit nasty, in the way anyone is with a lover who once scorned them.

  But he never would’ve wanted to see that look in Clarissa’s eyes. The lost-little girl, you’ve-broken-my-soul look now haunting her brown-eyed gaze.

  The clamor of the piano keys stopped, and all three McGoverns swarmed past Norris to pull Clarissa into the house. She cast a forlorn look over her shoulder that seemed to convey the sadness of being swept up in the past, swept up by a family that not only didn’t look a bit like her, but didn’t act like her either.

  Norris slid past the family and out onto the porch, still, and maybe especially now, needing the escape. On top of the manic festivity, it seemed that he would be spending the holly-jolly holiday with the only woman who had stolen his heart.

  “Mother, do not call me that name.” The door had just barely slammed closed behind Clarissa. Mother yanked at her jacket and Julia, ever perfect Julia, was taking her rolling suitcase.

  “Oh darling, you know I say it with love and affection.”

  “More like as torture,” Clarissa mumbled under her breath. The house was entirely too warm, with a blaze roaring in every fireplace.

  “Now, Eliza, if Clarissa doesn’t want us to call her our little Pig—that name, then we shouldn’t. She’s nearly thirty. She’s our big girl with a big life.” Daddy leaned down and pulled her into his arms.

  Love flooded Clarissa. The kind of love you only feel when you’re home, even if it is with a roomful of crazy people who drive you nuts. Because it was her crazy, her type of crazy, her family, her people. Daddy released her, and Clarissa glanced around the room. If the outside of the house looked as though an elf had exploded, then this room had to be straight out of the North Pole. Ah, yes. Except for the addition of more decorations, it all looked just as it had when she’d been young and forced to inhabit the place. A picture-perfect holiday scene with velvet bows, Christmas tree, model trains running on tracks around the Christmas tree, presents, and lights. Like a set from a Hallmark Christmas movie.

  “Pig—” Julia’s fingertips flew to her lips, and she pressed her mouth closed. “I’m so so sorry. I promise I’ll try. I really will. I’m so glad you’re here!” She smiled, nearly wiggling with excitement. Her little sister was always such a happy little thing, as though she’d been given a perpetual amphetamine-serotonin cocktail.

  Clarissa nodded. “It’s okay.” She put out her hands and took Julia’s, because unlike their mother, who actually enjoyed making Clarissa cringe, Julia didn’t have a mean bone in her perfect body.

  “This is”—Julia’s face beamed as she turned—“Kevin.”

  Poor Kevin.

  A dazed expression, like that of an immobilized wild animal, had frozen Kevin’s features. His smile seemed plastered to his face. With blonde hair cut short and the tall lean build of a runner, he was the ideal addition to the McGovern aesthetic.

  He reached out his hand. “You’re Pi—Clarissa.”

  Good finish. There was a distinct possibility that he’d never heard her real name until she’d said it.

  “I am.” She eyed him. What type of man willingly entered this mad existence? There’d be Sunday dinners, and holidays, and birthdays, and . . . well, who knew? Maybe this existence, the one in which Eliza McGovern dictated your life and how you inhabited the world, was just what Kevin wanted.

  Or not.

  Fear. There was a distinct hint of fear in Kevin’s eyes.

  “Nice sweater,” Clarissa said without even the hint of a smile.

  “Mom got that for him,” Julia gushed. “Isn’t it grand?”

  Clarissa nodded. Rudolph with a red nose. That blinked. Actual LED bulbs behind plastic. And this grown man, who was joining their family, was required to wear it.

  “She got him a different sweater for each day that we’re here.” Julia smiled. She too had obviously been dressed by Mother, with a beaded holiday sweater embellished with a white angora swan, a red and green pleated plaid skirt, and a gold bow in her blonde hair. “She has clothes for you, too.”

  “Oh, I bet,” Clarissa said. She didn’t look at Mother, but instead headed toward the bourbon, where she poured herself a stiff one without bothering with the eggnog.

  “Yes, darling, that black you’re wearing simply won’t do.” Mother appeared with a tray filled with snacks and set it on the table in front of the fireplace. “It looks like you’re attending a funeral.”

  “Mine or Kevin’s?” she muttered. Clarissa glanced toward her soon-to-be brother-in-law. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing. Poor sap. She wondered how Julia had actually hog-tied this one into proposing. Julia was now across the room and Mother whispered in her ear. Or had it been Mother?

  “So, Kevin, how long have you and my sister been dating?”

  “Two years,” he said.

  “Hmm. That doesn’t seem too long.”

  “It’s been a fabulous two years actually.” He nodded, but his ashen color contradicted his words. “I’ve spent time with your family, and we s
eem to be a fit.”

  “First McGovern Christmas?”

  “Yes,” he choked out.

  Clarissa laid a comforting hand on his arm. “Hang tough, Kevin. I think of a McGovern family Christmas like a gynecological exam; uncomfortable and cold, with a bit of pain and bleeding, but then it’s over for an entire year.” She took a long pull of her drink. “You’ll hardly even remember until the week before Thanksgiving next year.”

  “I . . . I’ve just never seen anything like this.”

  “Christmas as a competitive sport?”

  “Exactly.”

  Clarissa poured more bourbon into her tumbler. She knew she’d need at least two glasses more to get through the next two hours. Took a deep breath and decided to brave the obvious, if uncomfortable, question. “So how is Norris involved?”

  “Norris?” Kevin’s brow furrowed and he scanned the front room. “Where the hell is that chapt?”

  “Chap! Ha! You must know him as a Brit then. Chap. Next thing you’ll be calling him bloke and saying wanker. So adorable.” She took another long gulp of alcohol.

  “Well, he doesn’t sound it much anymore, but he did spend a number of his formative years in London with his mother. We met at university, when I did a semester abroad.” Kevin face took on a quizzical expression. “You know Norris?”

  Clarissa nodded. Did she ever. Another slug of bourbon. Mother had moved to the family Christmas tree—the one with real gifts beneath it, not just empty boxes wrapped in pretty foil like under the living room tree. Mother even allowed her and Julia’s handmade childhood decorations on the family tree, as long as they were placed on the back, out of sight.

  “How do you know Norris?”

  “We used to sleep together,” Clarissa said.

  “Oh, I see.” Kevin cleared his throat and looked away. No, he wouldn’t be used to this sort of abrupt, direct conversation. Julia was well practiced in Mother’s mandatory social airs. But Clarissa? No. Way.