His Jingle Bell Princess

by Barbara Dunlop

  He shut off the truck and left the vehicle. Even with the trail to follow, it was slow going. Snow clung to the fronts of his pants. He stomped on the concrete of the porch, glancing around to see if anything had been disturbed. Everything seemed normal, he assumed there’d been a delivery attempt, or Brock may have been checking on the house earlier this morning. His car was gone now.

  He retrieved his key, staring at it for a long time before sliding it into the lock. He braced himself for the familiar sights, sounds and smells of his house. He knew this was going to hurt, but he also knew he had to do it.

  The key turned easily, too easily, especially considering the temperature. The front door lock always stuck in the cold. It felt like the door was already unlocked.

  Sam went on alert. He silently turned the door handle, pushing in, opening it halfway, knowing the hinge had a squeak past that. At least it used to have a squeak at that point. Not taking any chances, he moved sideways through the narrow opening.

  There, he paused, listening carefully. Brock and Melanie’s cars were both gone, so it couldn’t be either of them.

  He heard it—footsteps in the hall.

  Anger overran his fear. How dare somebody break into his house? If it was vandals, he was hauling them off to the police station.

  He marched forward, shoulders squared, ready to take on whoever it was.

  He rounded the corner and nearly ran straight into a short figure. They had a pack slung over one shoulder, and let out a high pitched squeak of shock.

  He grasped them by the upper arms, immediately realizing it was a woman.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” He shouted.

  “Sam?”

  He jerked back to focus. “Jasmine?”

  “You scared me half to death.”

  He didn’t think he could be more shocked. “What is this? Why are you here?”

  Her presence made no sense at all.

  “I didn’t expect you,” she said.

  “Are you stealing something?” It occurred to him that both he and Belle might have been far too quick to trust Jasmine.

  “Belle sent me.”

  Sam didn’t believe that for a second. Belle had no reason to send Jasmine to his house. Belle was completely respectful of his privacy.

  “Nice try,” he said. “Tell me the truth.”

  Fear crossed her expression. “That is the truth.”

  He realized he still had a hold of her, but he wasn’t about to let her go until he knew what was going on.

  “What’s in the bag?” he demanded.

  She hesitated, her eyes going wide.

  “If you don’t answer, I’m going to take it from you.”

  “Sam, please.”

  He reached for the backpack.

  She jerked back, trying to protect it.

  “Jewelry?” he asked. “Money?” Not that he could remember leaving any amount of cash in the house.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.”

  The claim was preposterous. She’d broken into his house and was leaving with a backpack full of something. He reached for the pack again, this time getting a firm grasp on it.

  There was a momentary tug of war, but she must have quickly realized she was no match for him. She let it go.

  “Be careful,” she begged. “It might break.”

  He unzipped the top.

  “Sam, I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry you tried to steal from me, or sorry you got caught?” He pulled the pack open, staring inside.

  Then his breath caught in his throat, and the fight drained right out of him. Staring up was a picture of Kara. He could almost hear her voice, smell her perfume.

  “Sophie wanted them,” Jasmine told him in a regretful voice. “They weren’t sure how to ask you. Belle gave me her key.”

  He steeled his emotions, pressing the two half of the zipper together. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “What else did you see?”

  “What?”

  “Did you snoop around? Look in the other rooms? What else did you find out about me while you were here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  What were the odds that she’d gone straight to the basement and back? The basement door was straight across from the master bedroom. She would have seen it. She had to have seen it.

  He suddenly knew he had to get it over with. He had to do what he’d come to do and he had to do it right now.

  He dropped the pack to the floor, marching around her, bee-lining down the hall. The master bedroom door was closed, but that didn’t mean a thing. Without giving himself time to think, he grasped the handle, turned it and pushed it open.

  The sight hit him light a freight train. He all but staggered under the force.

  It was exactly how he remembered it—the upturned bed, the broken lamp, the torn paintings, scattered books and clothing, and the jagged hole in the wall.

  “Sam?” Jasmine’s voice sounded small beside him.

  He braced himself on the doorjamb, squeezing hard.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I happened.” He forced himself to look at the mess. “I had a bad day. I was upset.”

  “Has it been like this…”

  He struggled for breath. “For a very long time.”

  He focused on a landscape painting sitting crooked against the dresser. He clearly remembered smashing it over the bedpost. The quilt was crumpled in the corner. He’d torn a pillow in half, and feathers were scattered. Odd that he didn’t remember that part. Some moments were crystal clear, while other moments were a complete blank.

  “This is what’s kept you away,” Jasmine said, her voice barely a breath.

  It was more than this room that had kept him away. But it was definitely his frenzy here that had driven him away in the first place. He’d been trying to hold it together back then. He’d thought he was holding it together.

  But Kara’s slippers had set him off. The smallest of things, but one day seeing them side by side beneath the bed had reminded him of everything he’d lost. He put his fist through the wall, and the floodgates had opened. His heart beat hard and fast with the horrible memory.

  Luckily, the girls had been visiting Libby.

  “I’m not proud of this,” he told Jasmine.

  She touched his arm. He flinched, but he didn’t pull away. He let the warmth of human contact seep into his skin.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said.

  “It’s absolutely my fault.”

  “You were in pain.”

  He had been. He’d been in excruciating pain that night, wracked with guilt for letting Kara drive. He was still in pain now, though it wasn’t as acute. It was moderated, dulled by time.

  He tried to mentally measure the difference. It was definitely better, but he couldn’t say by how much. He knew he wouldn’t lose it again and trash something else. He’d at least come that far.

  “Would it help?” She seemed to hesitate. “Would it help if I straightened up for you?”

  “No!”

  She flinched under his shout and he clamped his jaw shut.

  Brock had offered more than once to help, repair the hole in the wall. He was the only person besides Sam who knew about the breakdown. At least, he knew about part of the breakdown. He knew Sam had put his fist through the wall, but he thought it had stopped at that.

  Now, Sam stared at the room, knowing it was his responsibility to clean it up. He asked himself how he’d do that. If he could make himself cross the threshold, where would he begin?

  “Why did you come here today?” Jasmine asked.

  He dragged his gaze from the disaster to look at her. His heart rate decelerated, and some of the tension left his shoulders.

  He wanted to be honest with her along with himself. “I’m here because it’s time.”

  “You
shouldn’t do this alone,” she said. “You shouldn’t have come here alone.”

  “I have to do this alone.”

  “You have friends.”

  “You think I want my friends to see this?”

  “Then let me help instead.”

  Before he could bark out another refusal, she continued speaking. “I’m a stranger, Sam. After this week, you’re never going to see me again.” Her roving gaze took in the room. “Maybe there’s value in the separation between us.”

  It was an astonishing offer. He couldn’t believe he was considering it.

  What was there about Jasmine that made her seem safe? Something in his subconscious seemed to want him to trust her. If he hadn’t felt some kind of deep-seated trust, he wouldn’t have opened the bedroom door while she was in the house.

  “If you had to start today,” she asked, “what would you do? What’s the first thing you’d move?”

  “Why did you ask it that way?” He was wondering the same thing himself. It was strange to be on such a similar wavelength.

  “Even the most monumental tasks start with a single action,” she said. “They start with a single step, the smallest of movements forward.”

  “The bookshelf,” he said, making up his mind. “I’d pick up the bookshelf.”

  It was face down in the middle of the room, blocking almost everything else.

  “Good choice.”

  “You’re talking to me like I’m five years old.”

  “I’ll help. Let’s break the ice. Nothing but the bookshelf. After that, if you want to stop, we’ll stop.”

  He knew she was handling him. But he also didn’t hate it. For the first time since that night, he could actually think about entering his old bedroom.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “You will?” She seemed surprised, but she quickly recovered. “Do you want to go first?”

  “Yes.”

  He gathered his strength and took a step forward. Just like that, he was in the room. And he discovered his emotions were manageable. He took another step, and then another. And then he was at the bookshelf and he gasped a corner.

  She was right there with him, taking hold of the opposite corner. As they lifted, the remaining books fell out, clattering to pile on the floor. They carried the shelf to its proper place against the wall and set it down.

  Their gazes met.

  Although the same question had to be on both of their minds, she didn’t ask.

  He gave himself a minute, focusing on her instead of the room around him.

  And then he was ready, more ready than he could have imagined.

  “We can pick up the books,” he said.

  She smiled, and it gave him a new rush of strength.

  *

  Sam stopped his truck in Belle’s driveway. Snowflakes drifted down outside, and the pack of Christmas decorations sat on the bench seat between them. He shut off the engine, palming the keys. But he didn’t move to open the door.

  Instead, he angled his body toward Jasmine.

  “I don’t want them to know,” he said.

  She waited.

  “About the bedroom. They haven’t been inside the house since it happened.”

  “Belle?” Jasmine asked.

  Sam shook his head. “If she’d seen that mess, she would have said something.” He gave a raw, pained chuckle. “Or maybe had me locked up.”

  “You don’t need to be locked up.”

  What Sam needed was to heal. And to do that, he needed to move ahead with his life. Today was a start, and she was gratified to have helped in any small way. But there was a lot more work for him to do.

  “Do you mind keeping this between us?” he asked.

  She reflexively reached out to cover his hand. “I’ll absolutely keep it between us. Your secret’s not mine to share, Sam.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  His hand was cool beneath hers. His skin was tough and callused, strong and yet strangely vulnerable. She found herself closing her grip.

  He shut his eyes and she was overwhelmed by the urge to put her arms around him. If anyone was in need of simple human comfort, it was Sam in this moment. But she didn’t dare. He was still wrapped up in the loss of his wife, and her feelings were a complex mix of sympathy, compassion, and desire. She’d be a fool to act on any of them.

  “How do you want to explain being together?” she asked.

  “That I picked you up on the road.” He looked uncertain, as if he was worried how she’d react to the magnitude of the lie.

  “We can say that.”

  She let his hand go and he flexed it.

  Then she patted the backpack. “And these? Do you want to pretend you didn’t see them? The girls were going to secretly hang them at the back of the tree.”

  Now his hands clenched the steering wheel. “They don’t have to do that.”

  “They’re trying to protect you.”

  “I should be protecting them.”

  “You are protecting them. You’ve kept them at Belle’s all this time.”

  “Is that what you see?”

  “I see a father who loves his daughters and is struggling to put their lives back together.”

  “I thought you’d have seen a crazy man who was falling down on his responsibilities.”

  Jasmine found herself smiling at his characterization. It was probably harsh, but likely not entirely untrue. “I think your instincts to push forward are good.”

  “I know they are.”

  Her heart went out to him for the tragedy he’d had to accept. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  He held her gaze for a long time, and she felt her pulse leap and her heart flutter helplessly in her chest. Nothing could come of these feelings. She’d be back home before she knew it, and this moment would be a distant memory. But it was still an exhilarating sensation, and she allowed herself to absorb it for a few more seconds.

  Sam was an extraordinary man, harsh on himself, yet tender and loving to the people around him. She’d never met anyone like him, never interacted in such a raw and honest way.

  “We should go inside,” he said, voice gruff.

  “The girls will be waiting.” She told herself to move.

  “Thank you for this.”

  “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

  “There’s a lot to thank you for.” He took hold of the backpack and opened his door.

  Jasmine followed suit, climbing carefully down into the slippery snow. She was sad to have the intimacy end, but she followed him up the walkway and into a side door that led to the laundry room and Sam’s real life.

  Amelia and Sophie scampered into the doorway, bumping into each other.

  “Daddy.” Amelia’s tone was breathless, then a confused look came over her face. “You’re with Jasmine.” She was clearly trying to figure out the implications, obviously wondering if they were in some kind of trouble.

  “I met her on the way here,” Sam said in a hearty voice. He held up the backpack. “She says she brought you something.”

  “Did you find them?” Sophie asked Jasmine, glancing hesitantly to her father, clearly trying to gauge his mood.

  “I found them,” Jasmine said.

  Belle arrived. She stilled, and her eyes widened on the backpack in Sam’s hand.

  Sam spoke to her. “I hear the girls wanted some Christmas decorations.”

  Belle’s anxious gaze darted to Jasmine.

  “Sam picked me up,” Jasmine said. “I showed him what I was bringing back.”

  “Shall I bring in the tree?” Sam asked his girls, a smile on his face as he made an obvious attempt to move the conversation to safer territory.

  “Can we?” Amelia asked, her expression immediately clearing.

  “The tree, the tree,” Sophie called out.

  “I have spaghetti on the stove,” Belle said. “We can eat first and then decorate.�
��

  “Sounds delicious,” Sam said, locating a pair of leather gloves. “I’ll set up the tree while you dish up dinner.”

  Jasmine couldn’t help but be impressed with how well he was pulling this off. There was no trace of the emotions he’d coped with back in his old bedroom. He was a great actor.

  “Do you need some help?” she asked him.

  “Can you hold the doors?”

  “I can do that.” She knew it was cold in the garage, so she re-zipped her coat.

  “You girls move the plants from the bay window and make a space,” he told his daughters.

  They immediately trotted for the living room.

  “Be careful,” he called behind them. “Don’t spill the dirt.”

  “Sam,” Belle said gently, moving toward him, a questioning expression on her face. “Are you okay with this?”

  “I’m fine with it,” he told her.

  She looked skeptical.

  “They’re just tree ornaments. The girls should have them for Christmas.”

  She watched him a moment longer and then gave a nod.

  He settled his hands in the battered gloves and opened the door that led to the garage.

  Jasmine followed him down three concrete stairs. The air was cool in the big open space, with darkness showing beyond the three small windows on the back wall. Belle’s red compact car was parked in one stall; the other two stalls were filled with shelving, benches, tools, and storage boxes.

  The tree was at the far end, propped up in a painted red stand, its broad, bushy branches extending out.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jasmine said as they came to a stop in front of it.

  Jasmine had never decorated a Christmas tree herself. The festivities in the palace were carefully planned, crafted, and organized by the staff. Each year, they chose a theme. It might be snowmen or angels, Santa’s workshop, or simply a color scheme. Last year everything had been done in gold and white. It was crisp and clean, but incredibly elegant.

  “Beautiful.” Sam echoed, an odd inflection in his voice.

  She turned and realized he was looking at her and not the tree. She felt her cheeks warm in reaction.

  “Did you know you’re beautiful?” he asked.

  She had no idea how to respond to that.

  “Of course you know you’re beautiful.”