Coming Home for Christmas

by Fern Michaels

  “Easy does it,” he said as he poured a scant shot and handed her the diminutive glass. “It’s not quitting time yet, and I’m not supposed to keep this stuff around.”

  She took it from him and held it. “Lex, I want to talk to you about something. I’m not quite certain I know how to handle this—I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Start by finishing your drink and we’ll take it from there.”

  Gratefully, Heather sipped at the liquid. She sipped again and felt herself relax.

  Settling into a chair, she crossed her legs, willing herself to be calm, playing for time. She did a swift mental review of what she knew about Felex Lassiter. He was cool in a crisis, levelheaded, and always considerate—a man whose strength could be depended upon. In his early thirties, his good nature and quiet authority won him the respect of his associates, while his handsome blond looks and athletic build won winsome smiles from the female assistants and junior execs.

  Heather agreed with the consensus that Lex wasn’t all about razzle-dazzle—unusual for a public relations man. It seemed people just naturally responded to his sincerity. Wasn’t this the reason she had sought him out now to help her gain some perspective on the Angela Steinhart problem? In truth, Heather was strongly attracted to him, but he had never made a move to kindle a relationship outside the office.

  “Lex, did you meet Angela Steinhart?” she finally began.

  Lex nodded. “Of course. She designed those fantastic Christmas displays. Best ever. Talented artist. Very imaginative.”

  “Maybe too imaginative.”

  Lex looked quizzically at Heather. “I’m not following you.” He waited patiently for Heather to make her point.

  “Today she came to see me and told me that she thinks something bad is going to happen at the mall.”

  “Like what? A commando raid on the cookie store?”

  “Ha ha.” Heather set aside her drink. “She didn’t really say. But she made it clear enough that she, um, sees things and then they happen.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “She wasn’t. Just said that accidents happen and she knows about them beforehand and that it’s been going on for a while. Meaning, I think, that she has visions.”

  “Go on.”

  Heather recounted the story of Angela’s visit. “The strange part is that in less than a minute she had me half-convinced that something was going to happen. But what can I do?”

  Lex sat upright, listening intently. Concluding her story, Heather lowered her voice and got up to pace the office.

  “Absolutely nothing.” Lex’s tone was measured and calm.

  “I don’t want to believe it. I’d rather think that this is what she says her parents think it is—a bid for attention, pitiful though it may be. However, I do have to file a report, and when security reads it we both know what’s going to happen.”

  “Right,” Lex agreed, considering her last statement. “These days they overreact.”

  “Exactly. I’d hate to bring all that aggravation down on Angela’s head, but what else can I do?”

  “Pull a few strings and bring in some outside manpower. But keep things quiet.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “I was thinking the same thing. But I wish I knew what we’re up against. If anything.”

  “You don’t have to know. Just cover your bases, that’s all.”

  “I wish she had told me more. I can’t even make an intelligent judgment. Heck, I don’t know anything about premonitions or ESP.”

  “I do, in a limited way.”

  Heather shot him a disbelieving look and hesitated, remembering the troubled expression in Angela’s eyes. “Really? Tell me.”

  “Sure. How about over dinner? On me.”

  “Ah—okay.” Her lips curved in an accepting smile. “I’d like that. It’s been a long, long day.”

  “Why are you fidgeting?” Her voice held the barely disguised note of harshness that was always present when she addressed her only child; so different from her usual languorous speech.

  “I have to talk to you. It’s important,” Angela pleaded, her thoughtful brown eyes watching her mother intently. “And you have to listen to me. I had another vision.”

  Sylvia Steinhart evaded Angela’s gaze. “For heaven’s sake. Can’t you see I’m in a hurry? You always do this to me. Today is the stockholders’ meeting and I don’t have a spare minute.”

  “But I need to talk to you,” Angela persisted, reaching out to touch her mother’s arm. “It’s about those things I see . . .”

  “You mean those things you say you see!” Sylvia Steinhart backed off a step, a look of impatience on her face. Then, to change the subject, to talk about anything besides Angela’s delusions, she asked, “When was the last time you wore clothes that weren’t covered in paint and craft glue? You reek of both. A little perfume and a pretty dress wouldn’t kill you.”

  “I have work to do.”

  “Oh yes. Such important work. Doodling and daydreaming.”

  “It’s important to me,” Angela retorted.

  “Hmph. You hardly ever come out of that glorified closet you call a studio.”

  “That’s where I work, Mother. And I’m happy there.”

  “Well, I’m sorry we let you take over that room. It’s always a mess.”

  “Don’t, Mother. Just don’t. Take the time to listen.”

  “Oh, really, Angela.” Sylvia snickered, turning her back on her daughter. “Not now. I’ve got to look and be my best, and you’re upsetting me.”

  “It’s always ‘not now.’ Every time I need you, you’re either going to the office or the theater. If it isn’t the theater, then it’s the hairdresser. When will you have time to talk to me? Give me some idea!” Angela’s exasperation was edged with defiance, but her eyes were filled with unshed tears.

  Sylvia glanced up from fastening the clasp on her watch and saw that Angela hadn’t budged. “Time is money,” she began, then stopped herself. “Oh, that must be it. You need money. Here.” Sylvia reached into her purse, opened her wallet, and pulled out five crisp twenty-dollar bills. She tossed them on the shiny surface of the cherrywood table, hoping to distract her daughter.

  “I don’t want your money, Mother.” Angela’s voice shook with emotion. “I want to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Something’s going to happen, something terrible—”

  Sylvia’s mouth tightened. “I’m not as indulgent as your father, Angela. And I refuse to hear anything more about these so-called visions of yours. Most of the psychiatrists said it’s only your way of getting attention,” Sylvia scoffed.

  “Most. Not all.”

  Sylvia waved a dismissive hand. “Right. One did diagnose you with dissociative personality disorder, whatever that means. And there was that last one—the doctor you liked, who kept talking about ‘fugue states.’ I wasn’t sure if he was a shrink or a piano teacher.”

  “Guess what. That term actually means something,” Angela said softly. “Too bad you’re not interested in finding out more.”

  “I’m just thankful they all gave up and no one else knows. If word got around, I’d never be able to show my face in public again.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Angela shook her head. “Good God, isn’t there someone in this family who’ll listen to me?”

  Sylvia remained unmoved, adjusting the position of the diamond watch on her wrist.

  “Oh, forget it. Just forget it,” Angela said furiously, grabbing a decorative pillow and throwing it against the wall. The silk split at one seam and a few feathers drifted out onto the powder-blue carpeting. “Admit it, Mother. You’re afraid to hear what I have to tell you because you know that once you hear it you’ll have to do something, and that will take precious time out of your oh-so-organized day!”

  Sylvia looked at the feathers on the carpet as if they were going to burn a hole in it. Anger and frustration tensed her features. “I shouldn’t have g
iven you money. For that little stunt, sweetie, you’ll get nothing more for a month.”

  Angela spun around. “And they say my generation is all messed up. God, they should throw you under the lights and see what makes you tick!”

  “Just take the money and get out of here,” her mother snapped. “Find a roommate or something. And let me know when you get a real job. Freelance design doesn’t count.”

  “It’s a start—”

  Sylvia shook her head disdainfully. “You can’t live on it. That art degree was a waste. As far as I’m concerned, you owe us for that.”

  “Really, Mother? Why?”

  “Oh, you can start with the care and feeding of all your deadbeat friends—you brought home every stray and loser in the dorm every chance you got.” She gave her daughter a contemptuous up-and-down look. “When was the last time you had a bath? You look like a stray yourself.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Why don’t you just leave home? Go ahead,” Sylvia taunted. “Just drive off in that cute little Porsche your father was nuts enough to give you—”

  “Stop it!” Angela groped across the table for the five bills to throw them, too, but as her fingertips touched them, she suddenly became distracted. Her gaze was fixed on a bottle of bourbon that was resting too near the edge of a low shelf near Sylvia’s elbow. “Look out!” she shouted, reaching toward her mother.

  Sylvia reflexively jumped back from Angela’s outstretched hand, bumping the shelf and sending the bottle crashing onto the bar directly below. The neck of the bottle splintered, spraying a shower of glass and amber liquid over the skirt of her designer suit.

  “Oh no! It’s ruined!” she shrieked. Suspicion narrowed her eyes and stretched back her lips. “Did you—? Oh my God. You made that happen, didn’t you?”

  Angela shook her head. “No . . . no, I just knew it was going to fall. I tried to push you away.”

  Sylvia stared at her daughter, her expression wavering between belief and disbelief. Then she looked down and surveyed the damage. “You knew that bottle was going to fall over . . . you made it happen.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Mother. Either I knew it was going to fall or I made it fall. Which do you think?”

  “You did it. You deliberately did it to keep me from being on time for my meeting.”

  She waved her hand. “Now I have to change. Get out of my way.” She pushed past Angela, heading for the stairs to her bedroom.

  “Are you going to listen to me or not?” Angela demanded, trailing her mother. When she reached the master bedroom she found that Sylvia had closed and locked the door. “Just hear me out. Is that too much to ask?” There was only silence from the other side of the door as she spoke again. “This actually isn’t about me. It’s about Timberwoods Mall. Something bad is going to happen there.”

  Inside the walls of her luxurious green-and-white bedroom, Sylvia was hastily changing into another of her designer suits. In spite of herself, she couldn’t shut out the sound of Angela’s voice. She was going on and on about her vision of some kind of disaster at the shopping mall. A series of shudders traveled the length of her spine. Her daughter’s urgent tone was unrelenting. Sylvia imagined her crouched outside the door, gloating, reveling in upsetting her mother for no reason. Only Angela called them visions. The psychiatrists had assured Sylvia they were nothing but bad dreams, some like scenes out of horror movies, but dreams nonetheless. It had long been decided that Angela obsessed over them in an unhealthy way.

  Sylvia’s hands trembled and an expression of anguish spread across her features. Why couldn’t she have a nice, normal daughter? One who was interested in the good things life had to offer. Clothes, travel, boyfriends . . .

  She massaged her temples with long manicured fingers. No matter what the shrinks said, she didn’t think it was normal for anyone to have dreams like those Angela called her visions. Somewhere, deep in her soul, she wondered if Angela didn’t actually cause things to happen. Like the bourbon bottle falling . . .

  The heartrending sound of a sob filtered through to Sylvia, and long-suppressed instincts of motherhood stirred deep within her. There had been a time when the two of them were the model mother and daughter, going places and doing things together. Sylvia recalled taking Angela shopping for that special party dress. And then, another time, for Angela’s tenth birthday she’d invited eleven little friends, bought a cake and party decorations. She’d even hired a clown to perform magic tricks. She smiled at the memory of all those perfect girls in their frilly dresses, their hair in ribbons. Those had been the good times, Sylvia thought, when her daughter acted like everybody else’s daughter, like little girls should act. Sugar and spice and everything nice.

  When had Angela changed? When had she become so . . . belligerent, so . . . strange? Sylvia tried to think of a specific incident, something she could point to and say that was what did it, but nothing came to mind.

  And so now here they were, mother and daughter, still living in the same house but worlds apart. Poor Angela, she really needed someone who understood her, someone who had all the time in the world to talk to her and listen to her. Sylvia toyed with the idea of going to her daughter, but she had no idea what to say to her or how to calm her fears. Instead she reached for her purse, swung open the door and rushed past Angela, fleeing the house.

  Hearing the purr of the Mercedes in the driveway, Angela knew she had been deserted again. She tore through the rooms of the house. Looking for someone, needing someone. Anyone! Gleaming cherrywood tables winked back at her, mocking her confusion and loneliness. Her narrow face was streaked with tears and flushed with frustration. Her dull brown hair adhered to her damp forehead in frizzy ringlets. She caught her lower lip between her even, white teeth. Fifteen thousand dollars to straighten them, and Sylvia had complained to the orthodontist: “But they still look so—so big!”

  Having as little thought for Angela’s presence as had Sylvia, the doctor had retorted: “Her teeth are beautiful, Mrs. Steinhart. I’ve done a creditable job if I say so myself. If only her face weren’t so narrow. She’s a little too young for cosmetic surgery, but—”

  Angela had raced out of his office, ignoring the expressions on the faces of her mother and the orthodontist. Even now, almost six years later, the incident still stung. She didn’t care what that idiot of a doctor thought; it was the sudden look of interest on Sylvia’s face that had terrified her, as if her mother were considering the possibilities.

  Angela’s panic and feelings of loneliness nearly paralyzed her, to the point where she couldn’t even cry. She contemplated her next move. Her father. Maybe Daddy would listen. Somebody had to.

  In her bedroom she fished for the white cordless phone buried beneath a mound of undone laundry. She dialed her father’s office from memory and waited. “Daddy. This is Angela. I hope you haven’t left for London yet. Could you come home? I have to talk to you. It’s important. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”

  “Honey, if it was any other day but today, I could swing it. What is it? Boyfriend trouble? You are taking the pill, aren’t you?”

  Inappropriate question, to say the least. But he meant well, unlike her mother. “No, it’s not boyfriend trouble. Daddy, please, could I meet you somewhere? Or come to your office?”

  “Broke again? You know money is never a problem,” he interrupted. “There’s five hundred dollars in my top dresser drawer. Take what you need.”

  “Daddy, it’s not money. I have to talk to you, I really do. It’s about my visions—I had the worst yet, and I’m scared. Please, I have to see you!” She struggled to control her voice, to stifle the sobs rising in her throat.

  “Look, honey, you know I’m catching a midnight flight to London, and I have a thousand things to get done before I leave here. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll see you in a few days, over the weekend. Be a good girl till I get back and I’ll ship home an antique for one of your displays. Remember how much you loved the curio shop
s when we went to England together?” The connection was broken and Angela found herself staring at the phone in her hand.

  Well, what had she expected? He was indifferent in his own way, and fundamentally just as messed up as her mother. They had cut her off again, just as always, but it still hurt. It always hurt. More angry now than wounded, she rubbed away the tears with the backs of her hands.

  She needed someone, but who? Heather Andrews had listened with a polite smile, but no more than that. Angela regretted her impulse to confide in her, a stranger when it came right down to it. Fleetingly she thought of her last psychiatrist, then dismissed the idea. Never. Between that shrink and Sylvia they’d have her committed to an asylum. It was a recurring thought that terrified her. There had to be someone who would listen to her, listen and believe. Someone who would try to understand. Angela knew she couldn’t handle this by herself. No way at all.

  She desperately needed someone who would take the weight off her shoulders and maybe, just maybe, give her a reason to be hopeful that things would get better. Wasn’t Christmas supposed to be a season of hope? She answered her own question silently.

  Not for her.

  Angela stayed up until past midnight, looking out the window at the clear, dark sky, watching the tiny flashing lights of a jet high above, heading east. She had no way of knowing if it was the flight her father was on. Exhausted, she realized that she didn’t much care. Her eyes closed and she fell into a troubled sleep in the chilly room.

  Hours later, trapped in a dream, she covered her face with her arm, shielding her eyes. The light was so bright. It came suddenly, without warning. Unlike a sudden flash, it didn’t fade. It stayed, blooming brightly toward the center and radiating outward in streaks of red brilliance. The sound rocked her brain—low, booming, lethal. There was fear. A chest-crushing panic stealing her breath, denying her air.