by Jill Barnett
If she hadn't have moved, he would have walked right over her. "Where do you want it?"
For just a moment it looked as if she were trying not to smile. "There." She pointed toward a bucket filled with sand.
He carried the tree over to it and stuck it in the wet sand. The tree was too big, too crooked, and it tipped over. He picked it up again and told her, "You need to buy trees with straight trunks."
"Do I? You believe the right Christmas tree must be straight, like all the other trees? Perfect in every way?”
He merely stared at her.
“I think the bend in it gives it character."
"Trees don't have character."
"Well, I think this one does.”
He struggled until he finally got the thing to stay put, then stepped back and eyed the tree. It was as straight as possible for a crooked tree.”
"You know..." she said. "I think it needs to be tilted toward the right."
"I thought you wanted a crooked tree. What happened to its character?"
"Just because it's a little bent, doesn't mean I don't want it standing straight."
He turned around and stared at her. "Then why didn't you buy a straight tree?"
She waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss him and began to drag a wooden trunk across the floor by its leather handle.
He walked over and picked up the trunk. "Where?"
"You can set it by the tree."
He put the trunk down and the tree slumped to the right again. Half an hour later she was finally satisfied the tree was where it should be. He thought it still looked lopsided. But she was happy.
He had finally tied the tree to a line of rope that he wrapped around the stem of a wall lamp. When he was done, a hurricane wouldn't move that tree.
She began to pull out glass ornaments from the trunk and handed them to him, commenting on each one and how it held some special memory for her. Some made her laugh. Some made her drift off toward some distant place. But with each one, he saw a little bit more of the woman before him and her history.
Lost in his own thoughts, he stood there, looking at the glass ornaments but not really seeing them. She was humming Christmas carols and hanging decorations on the fir tree.
She stopped humming "Jingle Bells" after a few minutes and glanced at him over a shoulder. "Don't you want to help?"
He looked down at the ornament, then shrugged, "Sure." The next thing he knew he was decorating the first Christmas tree he'd decorated since his grandmother died.
A few hours later they finished the tree. Together. It sparkled with strings of electric lights with colored bulbs shaped like fruit. Tin birds in gilded cages hung from the branches along with paper chains and popcorn balls. Fine blown-glass ornaments from Germany were scattered all over while golden angels with porcelain faces looked like they were flying from branch to branch. Paper St. Nicholas likenesses hung from satin ribbons, and clay animals from Noah's ark were scattered on branches everywhere.
It was the best looking tree he'd ever seen, even if it was crooked. And when he stood away from it and really took it all in, he realized that they had accomplished more than simply creating a stately looking tree from a fir that at first reminded him of a hunchback.
The most valuable thing they had accomplished had nothing to do with Christmas trees, crooked or straight. Conn felt as if they were old friends. Nellibelle and him. There was a comfort he hadn’t felt in ages. Who would have thought it possible? He could have never imagined talking and laughing as they had.
Now she stepped back, sipping steaming coffee from a thick mug she held with two hands. "It looks lovely." She turned to him. "Now it feels like Christmas."
"You like Christmas?" He asked, thinking she was like him and didn't do much celebrating. Why bother when you lived alone. Christmas had become only another day to him.
"Don't you like Christmas?”
He shrugged. "I haven't thought about Christmas much. I did as a kid. But not in years."
"You should be ashamed. Everyone needs some bit of Christmas around them." Something caught her eye, and she looked past him. Her face lit up like the tree. "Oh, look!" She raced over to the window. "It's snowing!"
He joined her at the window, and for a few minutes they both stood silently watching the snow fall. As he stood behind her, the snow lost his attention. He was looking down at her, at that shiny black hair he thought might escape from its tight bun and fall down her back, maybe to the backs of her thighs. Her straight nose, white skin, and bright pink cheeks. Her brows tilted upward at the ends and gave her average face expression an exotic look.
There was an easiness about her, something he'd learned about her today, and he liked that. He'd had a good time tonight. He never even looked at his pocket watch, never looked at her clock. He wasn't bored, and it was almost two in the morning.
He studied her face, intrigued by what he saw. Her thoughts were there plain as day. She was completely lost in the pleasure of something as simple as falling snowflakes. She looked about sixteen.
She must have felt his stare because she turned and smiled up at him. He felt as if he'd taken a punch in the gut. Her smile was so powerful, he was certain it could knock him right out of the ring.
He thought about that moment a lot afterward. After he'd left and after he was in bed. And for years he would remember that smile, that wonderful joyous smile, as the one moment in his life when he saw how truly beautiful a woman could be.
Chapter 6
She found the hole in the floor the very next morning, when she was trying to find one of the cats. The hole was underneath her rag rug and was about the size of a dime—just big enough to see through. She pushed the cat out of the way and pressed her face to the wooden floor. There it was—his apartment. She shifted a little to try to get a better view.
Someone pounded on her front door, and she shot up so fast the cat shrieked. She stared at the door.
"Nellie?" He knocked on the door again.
She swiped a strand of loose hair from her face, brushed off her dress, and walked to the front door. When she opened it, he was standing there all covered in flakes of fresh white snow. He looked like a human mountain.
"Have you been outside yet?" he asked.
She smiled. "No, but I see you have."
He laughed that same deep wonderful laugh and shook his head and snow flew. "How could you tell?"
“Come inside.” She stepped back. "You want some coffee?"
“Coffee sounds good,” he said and stomped the snow from his shoes, then brushed off his shoulders, sending snow about like a retriever. Then he came inside, pulling off a pair of great shaggy gloves that made his hands look like paws.
She poured him a mug of steaming coffee and turned to hand it to him. He was looking at the Christmas tree.
"It looks as good in daylight as it did last night."
"It does." She watched him take a long drink that should have burned his mouth, but it didn't seem to bother him. "What were you doing outside?"
"Shoveling the walk."
"Is there that much snow?"
He nodded, took a drink, then stared at her for a moment. "The streets are starting to fill with sleighs."
She had moved to the window and was looking outside, where it looked as if the world outside had been dipped in sugar. She felt the heat of his body standing behind her. She could smell the wet leather of his heavy coat.
"Are you doing anything today?" he asked her.
"No."
"I thought you might like to see the city, from a sleigh. It’s there, just below the window."
She pressed her cheek to the old windowpane. Sure enough. There was a sleigh and a team tied to the front post. "I'd love to." She smiled up at him, and they both stood there for a second, neither saying anything. It was uncomfortably intense, so she looked away because deep inside she wanted something more to pass between them. "Give me five minutes."
"Sure.” He stepped back qui
ckly. “I'll wait downstairs." Then he left.
Eleanor raced across the room, pulled out a metal vacuum bottle, and filled it with hot coffee. She sealed it and then stuck it in a sock the way her grandfather always had. She tucked it inside a basket with some apples and a wedge of cheese, then she grabbed her coat, hat, and gloves and was down the stairs in a couple of minutes.
At the second-floor landing she slowed down so she didn't look like some silly old woman racing down the stairs. He met her inside the foyer and opened the door.
There was nothing like New York City when it was cloaked in a thick layer of fresh snow. He helped her into the sleigh and climbed in the other side. The seats were soft, and there were some wool blankets inside. She tucked one around her legs and feet, and straightened in the seat just as he snapped the reins.
The sleigh lurched forward, and they were off. The steel runners swished over the snow and the harnesses tingled. The horses trotted in a muffled clip-clop until he gave them the freedom to take off. A second later they were going so fast the sleigh bells hardly had time to jingle.
They passed other sleighs filled with people chattering and laughing like they were. Some people were singing Christmas carols and sleighing songs, and Conn began to sing.
She smiled and looked at him. He finished his song...if you could call it a song. Her cats sounded better. "It's a good thing you're a boxer and not a singer."
"I'm not a boxer." He grinned at her. “I'm a retired boxer.” For the next hour, he told her about his life as a boxer. They talked about everything while they drove all over the city.
The red and brown houses of Harlem were capped with snow. Manhattanville in its hollow looked as if it were peeking out from a thick, fluffy white blanket. Sleighs went up and down the wide boulevards, and along the sidewalks the red shawls of work women flashed like cardinals in the snow.
Their noses turned red, and they sipped steaming coffee when the air turned colder. Sleighs dashed throughout the city, and at the intersections people shouted Merry Christmas! Miniature avalanches fell from roofs and awnings and onto the sidewalks below. People ducked and ran, but no one seemed to mind being doused with fresh snow.
He took her to lunch at an Irish tavern where the novelty of the day was to guess the weight of the owner's pig. Eleanor's guess was off by a hundred and fifty pounds. They sat by a toasty wood fire talking while they drank coffee mixed with whiskey. Lunch was spicy lean corned beef and cabbage. She loved it and ate as much as Conn did. Two plates!
When they walked back outside, a mountain of snow had been formed along the curbs because the horse drawn snow plows had been hard at work. The ten-horse teams lumbered down the streets while the workers shoveled sand from carts behind the plows. One team turned the corner. The horses were frosted with a coating of frozen sweat and snow, and icicles hung from their harnesses like gems.
After the plows passed, the snow was piled in mountains along the roadside, where children bundled in mufflers threw snowballs at anyone wearing a large hat. Another group of kids had made an ice slide in the banks of snow by the curb.
She and Conn watched them play for a few minutes. The boys would run halfway down the block, leap on the snow bank, and slide down it standing up, their arms out wide to help them keep their balance.
Before she could blink, Conn was running down the street and onto the snow. His height and weight made him slide even faster, and people stopped and watched, cheering him into a perfect landing. He turned, swept his hat off his head, and made a bow. She was laughing so hard when he joined her she could barely speak.
He made some stupid comment about a man's sport while they walked toward the sleigh.
"A man's sport?" She repeated, her hands planted on her hips.
He turned back just as she began to run down the sidewalk. She went over the bank and pressed her ankles together, and held onto her hat. She slid down the icy snow bank to a round of whistles and applause.
Conn was staring at her with an open mouth. She marched back toward him, her chin high and feeling more than smug.
"Where'd you learn to do that?"
"I was raised in New York, too. And if you'll remember, I've had more years of practice than you." She hopped up into the sleigh, pulled the lap blanket over her, and said, "Well, are you going to stand there all day or are we going to go sleighing?"
He muttered something about bossy older women that made them both laugh.
Snow was in the air. It began to fall a few flakes at a time, slowly at first, then faster and heavier. A light wind near the river carried clouds of snow in whirling eddies. Sparks from the potbellied woodstoves flew from trolleys and tin chimneys, and disappeared as if they were gobbled by the falling snow.
The trees of Central Park were covered in snow, making it a fairyland right in their own city. The Egyptian obelisk poked up out of the snow like a giant icicle. All the statues were dusted white and keep off the grass signs leaned at cockeyed angles.
They parked the sleigh and walked down a covered path where children were having a snowball fight. She gathered up a handful and hit Conn, knocking off his hat like the kids from across town.
He spun around, completely surprised, then he slowly walked toward her, revenge on his face. She laughed and taunted him, and then turned and ran as fast as she could.
He tackled her in the snow and rolled with her down a hillside, tumbling like children and laughing. She tried to smear his face with snow but he pinned her to the cold wet ground. He grinned down at her. "Cry uncle?"
"Never."
He rubbed snow in her face and watched her squirm and shout.
"That's not fair! You're bigger than I am."
"I'm bigger than everyone." He grinned down at her. He seemed like a giant against the gray sky, and she understood where he had gotten his name. There was snow in his hair and all over his face. She slipped a hand out from under his and swiped the snow off his eyebrows and chin.
He mimicked her motion and brushed the snow off her face with a tenderness that didn't fit his size. But when he was done, his hand cupped her cold cheek. His smile faded. His look turned intense. He stared down at her mouth.
An instant later he was kissing her. She was forty years old and until this very moment Eleanor had never been kissed with an open mouth.
The first thing she noticed after the shock passed was that their lips fit together perfectly. His mouth was warm and a little wet from the snow, and she felt heat rise from somewhere deep inside of her, a place and a shivery feeling she never knew existed. His tongue played along the line of her lips, then scandalously slipped inside.
Oh, but this was better than her dreams. Her hands moved to his shoulders. His hands held her head.
He kissed her eyes and nose and cheeks, then moved to her ear. He whispered her name, then pressed his hips harder against her thighs. "I want you Nellie ... I want you. Can you feel how I want you?"
She moaned his name.
His mouth was at her ear again and he chanted her name in barely a whisper. It was the most erotic thing in the world. His lips skimmed her neck and jaw and lips. He kissed her brow, and then he was whispering in her other ear, as chills went down her whole body. "Marry me," he said.
She froze. "What?"
He pulled away and looked down at her. "I asked you to marry me."
She flattened her hands against his shoulders and pushed hard. "Let me up."
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Let me up." She bucked up against him, and he sat up, his knees still straddling her legs. "Now." Her voice sounded gritty and cold and distant. She turned her head away and closed her eyes. She was such a fool.
"Nellie? Stop. Please." He tried to turn her back to face him.
She held up a hand to warn him away. She thought she might easily just crack in two. She squirmed out from under him, then stood and turned her back to him. Her legs felt like wood. Still she trudged through the powdery snow and picked up her hat, whipping i
t in the air to shake out the snow.
He was standing stiffly when she turned around. She could see he did not understand. "I'm sorry, Conn. I'm sorry about this, about everything."
"Don't you understand that I care about you? I want you in my life, and I want to make your life better."
She just shook her head, unable to tell him how impossible this was. She was too old, just too, too old for him. People would laugh behind their backs and she loved him too much to expose him to any pain. He couldn't seem to see how useless the idea was.
When she had turned twenty-one and was a woman, he was thirteen and had hardly left his childhood. Yet she knew he wouldn't understand. She was the one who had to remain sane. She was the one who had to say no.
He walked toward her. "There must be something I can do. Something to make you admit you care."
"I do care."
"Then why won't you marry me?"
"I can't."
"Tell me what I can do."
Her face felt twisted and tortured, and tears burned in her eyes. "You can't do anything."
He held out his hand for her. The look in his eyes was almost pleading. He obviously couldn't see how impossible marriage would be for them.
"I'm forty. You're thirty-two."
He jammed his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. His voice was so very quiet. "That doesn't matter to me."
"But it should. And it matters to me." She began to walk backward toward the park path, putting distance between them.
He looked up. "Please, Nellie."
"I'm sorry, Conn."
"I'll give you everything you need."
"You can't give me what I need. No one can."
He stood there looking as empty as she felt.
"Tell me what it is, and I'll try."
"Eight years. I need eight less years." Then she turned and ran away.
Chapter 7
Snow kept falling and falling. Conn stood at his window trying not to think so he wouldn't feel. Snow and ice had whirled down so rapidly that it obscured buildings. Wind drove blinding clouds of it around street corners and made the snow stick to the buildings, frosting everything.