Miracle On 5th Avenue

by Sarah Morgan

  “Are we talking about me or you?”

  “Both of us. I promised myself that this Christmas I wasn’t going to spend my whole time alone in my apartment watching reruns of Hallmark movies and enjoying a threesome with Ben and Jerry.” She eyed him. “The ice cream, in case you were wondering.”

  “I’m ‘hiding’ in my apartment, as you put it, because I’m working.”

  “We both know that isn’t true, Lucas, but even it was you can’t work all the time.”

  He thought about his deadline and how far behind he was. “I shouldn’t even be sitting here talking to you.” And yet he was. And he was in no hurry to change that.

  “Go. The sooner you finish the book, the sooner you can get a life.” She stood up, careful not to look at him. “I’ll clear up. And I’ll open your mail.”

  “Do what you want with it.”

  His mail was the least of his problems.

  * * *

  Had she really told him he had a great body?

  She was going to have to tape her mouth. Or clamp her jaw shut. Anything to stop herself babbling like an idiot when she was with him.

  But it was partly his fault. Every time he looked at her she was scalded by the heat of sexual tension. Each smoldering glance fried her brain, burning away the last of her already inefficient filters.

  It was no good telling herself he wasn’t interested, or that he was unavailable. Her body wasn’t paying attention.

  Resolving to keep her lips sealed next time they were together, Eva cleared the kitchen, polished the stove until it shone, and then settled down at the island unit with the remains of her wine and a large stack of Lucas’s mail.

  She dealt with the junk first, carefully tearing through the address and disposing of it in the recycling. Then she turned to the rest.

  Most were invitations. Four publisher parties, another author’s book launch, nine charity balls, a night at the opera and two movie premieres. In addition there were twelve letters requesting charity donations.

  She didn’t even know people wrote letters anymore. And nine charity balls?

  Eva surveyed the invitations spread in front of her with more than a twinge of envy.

  Here, right in front of her, was evidence of an interesting life.

  If her social life looked like his, her chances of meeting someone would have been significantly increased.

  “Lucas Blade,” she muttered, “for someone who isn’t a party animal, you’re invited to a large number of parties.” Parties he would, no doubt, refuse to attend.

  And she knew now that the reason he wouldn’t attend wasn’t all to do with his deadline.

  In his current mental state he found the company of strangers as unappealing as she did.

  She grabbed her laptop and started with the letters.

  Dear Caroline, she typed, thank you for your kind words about my books. I’m flattered to know that— She pulled a face, wincing slightly as she typed, wishing she could change the title—Death For Sure was your favorite read of the year.

  She wrote at length and then signed off with Best wishes, Lucas Blade.

  Too formal?

  With a grin, she deleted Blade and added two kisses. She was willing to bet he’d never added kisses to any of his letters in his life.

  Each letter was given the same treatment and then she turned to the invitations, politely declining each one until she reached the last one in the pile.

  Darkness had fallen outside the windows and Central Park was bathed in the ethereal mix of moonlight and snow.

  The final invitation was to the Snowflake Ball at the Plaza hotel.

  The invitation was embossed in silver and shaped like a snowflake.

  Eva stared at it. If she’d been sent an invitation as beautiful as this one she would have put it in a frame and hung it on the wall. He was lucky she’d sorted through his mail.

  It was less than a week away. Was it too late to respond? No. Lucas was a VIP guest. They’d make room for him no matter how late his RSVP was.

  She scanned the details. The proceeds were going to a charity that trained and provided therapy dogs for the elderly. Her heart melted. She knew how many elderly people were lonely.

  On impulse, she picked up the phone.

  “Hi, I’m calling for Lucas Blade… Yes, I work with him…” That wasn’t a lie, was it? “Mr. Blade will be attending The Snowflake Ball. Yes, and a plus one. We’ll let you know the name later. Thank you so much.” She hung up, imagining what would have happened if she hadn’t opened his mail.

  He would have missed the ball, the social event of the New York calendar.

  He would have been so mad at himself.

  And he was going to be so grateful to her.

  * * *

  “You did what?”

  “I called the Plaza and said you’d be attending the Snowflake Ball. Let that be a lesson to you to open your mail. You almost missed it.”

  “Eva—” Anger thickened Lucas’s voice even though he knew it was wrong of him to take it out on her. “I don’t want to go to the ball.” The thought of it froze him to the bone. As always they saw things differently. She heard the word ball and thought of starlight and romance, whereas he knew it would be an evening filled with curious looks and sympathetic glances.

  “I know you’re busy, but it will be amazing and it’s just one night. I turned down a ton of other invitations. This is the only one I accepted.”

  “You shouldn’t have accepted that one.”

  She froze. “You told me to deal with your mail as I saw fit. I saw fit to accept one ball, the proceeds of which go to a very good cause.”

  “If I supported every cause I’m asked to give money to, I’d never get any work done and I’d be broke.”

  “But you’re not broke, and we’re not talking about every cause, just this one. It’s an organization that provides therapy dogs, and—”

  “But it isn’t just this one, is it?” To take his mind off the damn ball, he scanned the letters she’d spread in front of him. “I’m sending signed books for auction? What makes you think I even have that number of signed books?”

  “You wrote them. You must have copies. And maybe it seems generous, but it’s less time-consuming than going to the auction yourself and you’ll be raising money for lots of people less fortunate than yourself. I thought it was a perfect compromise. Why do these people write letters to your home address, anyway? Why don’t they just email your publisher?”

  “They do,” he said wearily. “These should have been handled by my publisher, too, but they have a new assistant in the office and she sent them directly to me. Do you have any idea how many invitations we receive? We can’t say yes to all of them, Eva.”

  “Not all of them, no,” she said, “but you can manage these. I’ve checked them all out. They are really good causes.”

  “Is there anything you think isn’t a good cause?”

  “Of course. I’m more businesslike than you may think.” She bristled. “I took a look at the financials and checked what percentage of their donations is spent directly on the cause, and what is spent on salaries, etc. These all came out well. All you have to do is sign the letters, sign the books and I’ll do the rest.”

  Deciding that in this case surrender was quicker than a fight, he reached for a pen. “Have you ever worked in charity fund-raising?”

  “I would be hopeless working for a charity. I’d be in tears the whole time. I don’t have a very thick skin. Try not to scrawl,” she added as she studied his signature. “They might not think it’s you.”

  He signed with an exaggerated scrawl. “Normally my publisher just sends these with a compliments slip.”

  “I thought this was more personal. They’ll treasure the letter.”

  He picked one of them up and read aloud. “I enjoyed writing it and it is certainly among my favorites. Anyone who knows me would know I didn’t write that sentence. I never admit to having a favorite.”

>   “Why not?”

  “Because then it sounds as if you think the other books you wrote aren’t as good.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If I tell you I’m cooking you one of my favorite dishes, you don’t automatically assume that anything else I cooked you would poison you, do you?”

  He carried on reading. “I agree it was a shame that such a warm, lovely character had to die in the second chapter.” He glanced up, exasperated. “You can’t write that. I don’t agree. That character had to die.”

  “Why? Couldn’t they just have been injured or something and then made a full recovery after good medical care? Why do all your characters have to die? It’s horribly depressing.”

  He lowered the letter. “Do I tell you how to cook? Do I suggest that the egg needs a little longer in the oven or that the cookie you baked would be improved with chocolate chips?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t tell me how to write my books.” He returned his gaze to the page. “I agree that your charity is raising money for a most excellent cause. I would never say that, either. I’m already inundated with sob stories about excellent causes.”

  “Which is why it’s even more important to make your response sound personal. They’ll appreciate it.”

  “And they will come back to me time and time again.” He carried on reading, “Although I am unable to attend your event on this occasion, it is my pleasure to enclose a signed book for you to include in your auction. I wish you every success with the evening and with your fund-raising. You’ve signed my name with kisses. And asked them to stay in touch.”

  “The kisses were a joke. It was supposed to make you smile.” She snatched the letter back from him and he felt a stab of guilt.

  “If I sign my name with kisses my social media account will be jammed with readers wanting to marry me.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. You’re scary when you’re moody.”

  “Because I don’t want to go to a ball that makes me moody?”

  “How was I to know you wouldn’t want to go? This one is special. It’s winter-themed, with snowflakes and Christmas trees. Silver.” She stared down at the invitation and he had a feeling she’d forgotten he was in the room. “I would kill to go to this. There—that’s a whole new motivation for murder you’ve never even thought of.”

  “But you’re not the one going. I am. Thanks to you.”

  “You can’t spend the whole of the festive season locked in this apartment.”

  “You’re starting to sound like my grandmother.”

  “I happen to think she is right about certain things. Not trying to set you up with someone,” she said quickly, “that never works. But the fact that you should start getting out again.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me that it’s been long enough.” The words came out as a growl and she looked at him steadily.

  “We both know I’m not going to say that. You’re not the only one grieving, Lucas. You don’t have the monopoly on that type of pain. Just because people want you to occasionally step outside and breathe in fresh air doesn’t mean everyone thinks you should have ‘recovered,’ whatever that word means. Maybe you’d feel better if you went out.”

  “Or maybe I’d feel a thousand times worse. One thing I know for sure is that nothing I’m feeling is going to be ‘fixed’ by going to a ball. If you want to live in a fantasy world, go right ahead, but don’t expect me to join you there.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to join me. There’s no room in my fantasy world for cynics.” She picked up her bag and stuffed the last of her things into it. “You should go, Lucas.”

  “Why? Because there is a strong chance I’ll meet someone, fall in love and live happily ever after? Is that what you were going to say?”

  “Actually I was going to say that shit happens, and all we can do is carry on as best we can.” She snapped her bag shut. “But locking yourself away isn’t carrying on, Lucas. It’s hiding. Your grandmother is right about that. You should go to the ball. It will be a wonderful evening.”

  “Call them back and tell them I’m not going.”

  “I will not.”

  “You are out of line.” He heard the chill in his voice but was unable to stop it. “I don’t tolerate interference from my family, so I’m certainly not going to tolerate it from strangers.”

  Hurt flashed in her eyes. “Maybe I am out of line, but I’m not calling them back.” Her voice tight, she put the invitations carefully back on the table. “If you don’t want to go, then you’ll have to call them yourself.” With that she walked away and up the stairs.

  Lucas swore under his breath and dragged his hand over the back of his neck. He felt as if he’d kicked a puppy.

  What was wrong with him?

  He was deliberately goading her, seeing how far he could push her, and he didn’t even know why. All he knew was that having her here unsettled him, and thinking about snowflake balls and happy-ever-afters unsettled him even more.

  He heard the sound of her feet on the stairs and glanced up to see her standing in front of him with her backpack in her hands.

  Shock rippled through him. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ve left all the instructions for the food on the pad by the refrigerator.” Her tone was formal and she didn’t look him in the eye. “If you have any questions, you can call the Urban Genie offices. The number is on the pad, too.”

  He wondered how it was that someone so small and fragile could cause so much disruption to his life in such a short time.

  “I’m not going to the ball, Eva, and you walking out isn’t going to change that.”

  “You already made that clear. You also made it clear that you don’t want my help so yes, I’m leaving. It’s bad for my emotional well-being to be around people who are angry, especially when they’re angry with me. I don’t want to get stomach ulcers or hardened arteries, so I’m leaving while I’m still healthy.”

  Her words intensified the guilt and made him feel like an idiot. “Put your bag down. You can’t leave. It’s still snowing.”

  “I like snow a whole lot more than I like being yelled at. And if I don’t have the right to be concerned about what happens to you, then you don’t have the right to be concerned about what happens to me. They’ve lifted the travel ban and I’ve done everything I came here to do.”

  The truth was she’d done more. It was because of her that he was writing again. That he had a plot, a character and an idea strong enough to drive the story through to its conclusion.

  The corkscrew of guilt gouged a little deeper.

  He knew he should be thanking her, or at least apologizing, but the words jammed in his throat. This whole situation was like walking on emotional quicksand. It would be so easy for both of them to be sucked in deep.

  “Eva—”

  “Good luck with the book and try not to let all that dark stuff you write about color the way you look at the world. You seem to think that all interaction is manipulation or interference, but sometimes it’s just because people care. Have a good Christmas, Lucas.” She tugged her hat onto her head, hoisted her backpack onto her narrow shoulders and walked toward the door.

  He reached out a hand to stop her and then pulled it back again. What was he going to say? Don’t leave.

  It would be better for both of them if she did leave.

  He’d be able to get on with his book in peace and quiet. He’d be able to forget her soft curves and her sweet smile, her infuriating optimism and the way she sang while she cooked.

  He’d be able to focus on his book, one hundred percent of the time.

  Which was exactly what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  Eight

  Everyone has baggage, but when traveling through life take hand luggage only.

  —Frankie

  Mary Eleanor Blade, known as Mitzy to her friends, of which she had many, sat in the winged Queen Anne chair that had been a gift from her son, and was now carefully positioned to make the most
of the charming view from the window.

  Right now, though, she wasn’t looking at the view. She was looking at her grandson.

  She might be ninety, but she could still recognize handsome when she saw it, and Lucas was most definitely handsome.

  He’d inherited his mother’s beauty and his father’s strength. He topped six-four, and those wicked good looks, combined with an aura of strength and command ensured him a fan base of women who probably hadn’t even opened one of his books.

  Mitzy felt a twinge of envy as she admired his glossy dark hair. She’d long since made peace with her smooth bob of elegant gray, but she could clearly remember the time when her hair had been as black as his.

  One less seriously minded magazine had described him as perfect, but Mitzy knew better. He was smart and had a sharp sense of humor, but he also had a fierce temper and a single-minded approach to life that some had described as ruthless.

  Mitzy didn’t see it that way. She knew he wasn’t ruthless, so much as driven. And what was wrong with that? Who wanted perfect anyway? She’d always been suspicious of perfect. Never found it interesting. She and Robert had been married for sixty years, and she’d loved his flaws as much as his strengths. Lucas was the same. He was interesting. He was also troubled, and she desperately wanted to fix that. His mother, her daughter-in-law, would have told her to step back and let him find his own way, but Mitzy figured that if you couldn’t try to fix things when you were ninety, there wasn’t much point in being here. And the good thing about her age was that people were more indulgent of interfering behavior. They saw it as endearingly eccentric. Mitzy played along, even though her brain was as sharp as it had been when she was twenty. If it was interfering to try to help someone she loved, then yes she was interfering. It gave her purpose.

  “How was Vermont?” She used her most casual tone but she knew from the incendiary glance he sent in her direction that she was going to have to work a little harder if she wanted to appear innocent.

  “We both know I wasn’t in Vermont.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “Gran—” his tone bordered on the impatient “—let’s cut the crap.”