“Actually, I don’t rate that high. I usually land on some tabloid show on Fox.”
“How the mighty have fallen.”
“Do you have a reason for disliking me? Apart from my charming behavior last week? I’d been drinking.”
“How reassuring,” she said sweetly. “If I have to choose between a drunk and the paparazzi I’m not sure—”
“I’m not a drunk.”
The vehicles were drawing closer. “Go back inside, then, and I’ll get rid of them.”
For a moment it seemed as if he might argue, but he simply nodded and disappeared into the house, closing the door behind him.
She’d reached her car before the first truck pulled up, and she leaned against the back of it, arms folded across her chest, effectively blocking access to the driveway.
“Can I help you?” She used the tone that had always been effective on frat-boy athletes who thought they could coast through English lit, and the reporter who was approaching her hesitated. Probably a frat boy in his youth, Angie decided dispassionately.
The others with him were busy unloading the van, but she wasn’t about to move, and there was no other way they could get down to the lake. The early snows were thigh-high in some places, the other driveways weren’t plowed and the trees grew so thickly that anyone venturing down there would probably end up walking around in circles. It was a nice thought, but she couldn’t take a chance on their stumbling across the Jackson compound.
“Rex Hamilton, Fox news,” he said with a showy smile, and Angie kept a deliberately stony face. Brody had known exactly who his stalkers were likely to be. “We’re looking for Brody Jackson…”
“I’m sure you are, but he’s not here.”
“Come on, miss. We know he is. He flew into Burlington eight days ago and he hasn’t flown out. Passenger lists are simple enough to trace.”
“I’m sure they are. He was here for one night, picked up a few things and then left. Driving, not flying.”
Rex Hamilton didn’t appear convinced. “Where was he headed?”
“I have no idea, and I don’t care. Probably someplace warmer.”
“That’s easy enough to do,” the man said, shivering. “Randy, set up a shot of this nice young lady and we’ll go from there.”
“You’ll go nowhere but back into your van and on the road again.”
“Do you know who I am?” the man demanded, affronted.
“You told me. Rex Harrison.”
“Hamilton!” he snapped.
“Of course you are,” she said in a soothing voice. “But you’re not filming me, and you’re going to get back in your truck and drive away. This land is private property, and posted against hunters, trappers and trespassers. I’m sure you fit in at least one of those categories.”
Hamilton waved the cameraman off, fixing a disgruntled stare at her. “You the new girlfriend?” he asked.
She had to laugh. “Not likely.”
“Because he goes through women like water. He’s used and dumped supermodels and A-list actresses in the blink of an eye.”
“Not really in his league,” she drawled.
Hamilton tilted his head to one side. “Oh, I’m not sure about that.”
“I am. Go away. If you’re as good a reporter as you seem to believe you are it won’t take you long to pick up his trail.”
“Why are you defending the man? He and those brothers of his ripped off thousands of people.”
“Then why isn’t he in jail?”
“Because he can afford the best lawyers.”
“Then why have his brothers left the country? Can’t they afford the same lawyers?”
“You seem to know an awful lot about the case for an innocent bystander.”
“Actually, I know very little. But as a gesture of goodwill I’ll tell you what he was driving, and maybe you’ll be able to track him down. He was in a Ford Explorer, dark blue or green, headed south.”
“I don’t suppose you have his license plate number.”
“I don’t even know which state issued it. All I can tell you is he drove out of here last week and I haven’t seen him since. And as I’m the only person living out here in the winter, I’d know.”
“And you are…?”
“Extremely tired of talking to you. Go away or I’ll call the police.”
“On what? Cell phones don’t work in this godforsaken place.”
“Where do you come from, Mr. Hamilton? New York City?”
“L.A. Why?”
“And you call this place godforsaken? Go back to the City of Angels, Mr. Hamilton. Or go chasing after Brody Jackson—I really don’t care. Just go.”
During their conversation three more vehicles had pulled up, blocking the narrow road. There was no place for them to turn around, and they were going to have a hell of a time backing out. Rex Hamilton looked at her for a moment longer, then shook his head in defeat. “We’ll find him. I promise you that. He can’t rip off the American public and get away with it.”
“I don’t care whether you find him or not. I just don’t want you finding him here.” Not the best choice of words, because Hamilton gave her one last, assessing stare.
Apparently, her innocent, self-righteous demeanor convinced him. She half expected him to make like The Terminator and say I’ll be back, but he spared her.
By the time the last truck had headed south on Route 100 Angie was freezing. Two of the vehicles had gone into a ditch, and the film crews had shown a surprising spirit of cooperation in helping push each other out. By the end they were wet, tired, cold and frustrated, and it was evident that nothing short of a prearranged interview would get them back out there. Crescent Cove in the winter wasn’t made for the faint of heart. She leaned against the hood of her car, listening to the sounds of the trucks as they faded into the distance, letting the peace of the snow surround her.
“How’d you manage that?”
She turned, startled. Of course the snow muffled everything, but she still thought some preternatural instinct might have warned her.
“I told them you were gone. It took some convincing, but they finally believed me. And you were supposed to stay put until I gave you the all-clear.”
“I was curious. Maybe I should hire you as my bodyguard. You accomplished what few others have managed.”
“I’m not interested in your body.” That came out all wrong, and she could have kicked herself.
“No, I’m sure you’re not,” he said. “More’s the pity.”
She jerked her head around to stare at him. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” He walked past her to the end of the driveway, peering down the road. “You think they’ll be back?”
“I doubt it. Once you get that badly stuck in the snow it pretty much ruins things.” She could get a good look at him with his back turned to her. He was thinner than she remembered—instead of the buff golden boy she’d once been uneasily aware of, he was now wiry, almost tough, wearing rough winter clothes that had seen better days, and his unbleached hair was too long.
She’d had a crush on him—she might as well admit it. She and Jeffrey had gone together practically since childhood, and she’d never really noticed anyone else, believing in their fantasy of soul mates, but she’d noticed Brody. Who could miss him, with his easy charm and effortless grace? He’d dated just about every age-appropriate, halfway-decent-looking female in the summer population, except for her, of course.
And out of the blue, she suddenly remembered Ariel Bartlett.
Fate hadn’t been kind to Ariel. She’d been plump, plain and hardworking, and had come from a family who’d farmed in Crescent Cove since the early 1800s. Her mother had given her that particularly unsuitable name, and she’d made her way through life, seemingly stolid and unimaginative, working as a waitress for Mort’s Diner, working as a checkout girl at BK’s Grocery, working at the Crescent Cove Harbor Club during the summers, while the teenage children of the va
cationers played. She’d had a huge, embarrassingly obvious crush on Brody, and they’d all found it vastly amusing. Jeffrey in particular had taken to calling her Brody’s pet cow, and he’d told Angie she was being a stick-in-the-mud when she’d tried to silence him.
Not that it would have done much good. Everyone thought her calf-eyed devotion was a riot. Everyone except Brody.
He’d never said a thing when people teased him, and he’d been unfailingly kind to Ariel. And at the Founder’s Day dance, which always signaled the end of the summer, he’d brought her as his date, treating her with exquisite sweetness, much to Jeffrey’s amusement.
That should have tipped Angie off to the fact that her intended was a snake, but she’d been too busy living up to expectations. And trying to ignore the fact that some tiny part of her, for the first time in her life, wanted to be Ariel Bartlett.
“Why’d you do it?”
Brody turned to look at her. “Do what? Steal billions of dollars from the unwitting?”
For a moment she was distracted. “Did you? Really?”
He shrugged. “I was a major executive at Worldcomp, and I should have known what was happening. I’m responsible.”
“But you didn’t do it, did you? Those slimy older brothers of yours did.”
“Why would you care?”
“Actually, I don’t. I was asking you about something else.”
He didn’t move. “I’m waiting.”
“Why did you bring Ariel Bartlett to the Founder’s Day dance?”
She’d manage to surprise him, but he recovered quickly enough. “Maybe I thought she deserved to have a night where she wasn’t waiting on a bunch of spoiled kids who laughed at her. Or maybe I knew she had a crush on me and I decided to be condescending enough to give her the thrill of a lifetime. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I just thought of her.”
“You’ll be glad to hear she’s a very successful chef in Philadelphia. She’s happily married with two children.”
“I know that. This is a small town, remember. Have you kept in touch with her?”
He sighed. “What the hell does it matter to you, Angel?”
She’d forgotten he’d called her Angel. The only one who ever had, it had been both mocking and oddly affectionate back in those days. “It doesn’t.”
“Good. Thank you for your noble rescue of the fallen knight. I owe you.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it. If you care to, you can repay your debt right now and we’ll call it even.”
“What do you want, Angel?” He sounded wary.
“A Christmas tree.” It came out of the blue, and it wasn’t until she’d said it that she realized that was exactly what she wanted. A Christmas tree from the place where she’d spent her summers a lifetime ago. When she’d first fallen in love.
“There are fifty million trees on this spit of land,” he drawled. “What are you asking me for?”
“I want a special one. It’s near your tennis court. I planted it the year before we sold the house—I thought it was going to be there for my grandchildren. But instead my parents sold the house and it somehow escaped the bulldozer when you leveled the place. I’d like it.”
“Show me.”
It was tough going through the deep snow, especially with Angie breaking trail, but now that the idea had come to her she wasn’t about to let go easily. If she’d had to walk barefoot in the snow to get her tree, she’d do it.
She circled the tennis courts, heading down toward the lake, ignoring the stab of pain that always hit her. She used to spend hours sitting on the porch, staring out at the lake, eating gingerbread, drinking grape juice, playing canasta with her friends. She’d probably miss it for the rest of her life.
The blue spruce stood there, where she’d planted it so many years ago. Now tall, thick, beautifully shaped, it was her last tie to this land that had once been in her family for generations. It was time to sever it.
Brody had come up beside her. “Too big,” he said, looking up at it. “Unless you have cathedral ceilings, which I doubt. I suppose you could top it.”
“Top it?”
He glanced at her. “I thought you’d been living here for a while. ‘Topping’ means using the upper part of it for your tree. You could maybe use half the tree that way.”
“Never mind. It was a stupid idea.”
“There are lots of other trees around. Take your pick.”
She shook her head. “Forget it. I’ll just buy one when I get around to it. I don’t need my main tree until Christmas Eve, anyway.”
“Your main tree? How many Christmas trees do you have?”
She mentally counted. “Six. No, seven. One medium-size one in the kitchen, two small ones in the living room, one in the bathroom, one in the bedroom and two on the porch.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I guess I am. And I guess you’ll still have to owe me,” she added with a certain amount of satisfaction. “I’ve got some baking to do. Let me know if you need rescuing again.”
She half expected him to growl. After all, she was baiting him.
But to her amazement he smiled, a slow, reluctant grin that brought the memory of Brody Jackson back full force. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
HE WATCHED HER as she walked away. Angel McKenna was still a force to be reckoned with, as he’d always known. He wasn’t surprised she’d managed to run off the news crews. She’d always been ridiculously subservient to Jeffrey Hastings, but when he wasn’t around she’d been her own woman, vibrant, strong, enticing. Even when she was fourteen years old and he’d kissed her on her front porch, the summer Jeff’s parents took their kids to Europe instead of Vermont.
It hadn’t been much of a kiss, but then, they’d both been pretty young. And for all the innocence of it, it had lingered in his mind for years. Until he’d kissed her again—the biggest mistake of his life.
No, the biggest mistake of his life was trusting his older brothers with their elastic sense of morality. Second biggest was marrying Estelle when she had the intellect of a toaster and the warmth of a walk-in cooler. But she’d been decorative, understanding and inventive in bed. At the time it seemed enough.
Kissing Angel McKenna hadn’t been a mistake. He just should have kissed her a hell of a lot more, and not given a damn about Jeff Hastings. Since in the end it didn’t look as if Jeff had given a damn about Angel.
How could he have cheated on her, left her? Then again, Jeff had always been a dog-in-the-manger type. He wanted what everyone else had, and the more he suspected Brody’s attraction to Angel the tighter he’d held on. Jeff would have done better with a party favor like Brody’s ex-wife Estelle—he’d always been attracted to shiny objects. Angel was too deep, too multifaceted for a man like him.
And for a man like Brody. He’d been made for models and female tennis pros and debutantes. Not for women like Angela McKenna.
Except that there were no women like Angela McKenna. And he was old enough to know that and stop denying the truth. That all he ever really wanted in this life was the girl next door. And that was the one thing that was always out of his reach.
Chapter Three
Third Week in Advent
At least there were no storms predicted for the next few days. Angie watched the local weather with all the intensity of a Greek sibyl trying to read the future, and while she trusted no one, she had a small margin of faith in channel three.
The back of her Jeep smelled heavenly, even after she’d dropped off thirteen pies, six tortes, two carrot cakes and one wicked concoction known only as Chocolate Suicide, and with each delivery she’d brought dozens of cookies. Her oven was on constantly, adding a nice dollop of heat to her drafty old farmhouse, and the smells of sugar and spice were divine. Almost as divine as the Christmas candle.
Angie had been unable to figure it out. It burned steadily, every night, but there were no drips—the flame glowed straight and true, and the fragrances
were unbelievable, ever changing. One day it was bayberry, another pumpkin spice, then another day where it smelled just like cranberries. She’d given up trying to guess how the woman calling herself Mrs. Claus had done it—she simply enjoyed it.
She’d spent the afternoon with Patsy, drinking decent coffee while Patsy grumbled over her milk shakes, sorting through baby clothes, arguing about names. “This kid better not be born on Christmas Day,” Patsy warned, taking a break and collapsing into the oversize rocking chair Ethan had found for her. “Nothing worse than having a birthday and Christmas all at once—you get shafted. Besides, I don’t want to spend Christmas in the hospital.”
“I thought you were planning on a home birth?”
“I am. But you and Ethan and everyone under the sun keep telling me I’m nuts,” Patsy said. “The doctors say I’m strong as an ox, the midwives around here are the best in the country, and I think you’re all fussing for nothing. This time I don’t think I’ll be my usual obedient self.”
Angie laughed. “The day you’re obedient is the day I learn to drive in snow.”
“You drive in snow.”
“Not if I can help it.” She sat on the floor, folding the cloth diapers Patsy had insisted on. “I just wish I’d been able to get you a candle like mine. It’s the most amazing thing. It smells like something different and wonderful every day, and the glow seems to fill the entire house. I wanted to buy one for everyone and I can’t find her shop.”
“Are you talking about that stupid candle shop again? I told you, there’s no such place in Crescent Cove and never has been,” Patsy said, putting a hand on her rounded stomach as Junior delivered a particularly powerful kick. “You must have been dreaming.”
“You can’t dream a candle into existence,” Angie protested.
“Yes, but you brought back hoards of Christmas things when you went home for Thanksgiving, and you’ve gone out every clear day this month and brought back even more. Admit it—your back seat is filled with more stuff, isn’t it?”
“Just a couple of new Christmas CDs,” she said defensively.
“And…?”
“A Christmas sweater, green and red yarn to knit a scarf, a musical globe, a couple of Christmas mystery novels, cereal with red marshmallow stars and green marshmallow trees and—”
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 46