Angie could never understand why her mother had held on to them for so long. Her academic parents had downsized when Angie had married, moving into a small apartment that overlooked Lake Michigan, and from then on they’d only had a tabletop tree, with no room for many of Angie’s favorite ornaments or the Christmas tree house, an ornate tree stand made by her father’s great-uncle Otto early in the last century. For some reason her parents had preferred to keep things in storage rather than let her have them, which was unusual, because her parents tended to dote on their only child.
Her marriage had ended Christmas Eve, and she’d spent the next few weeks huddled in a hotel room, not in the mood to celebrate a damn thing. By the next Christmas she’d been divorced for nine months and living in the farmhouse in Crescent Cove, and Jeffrey’s new wife had just given birth. To Angie’s surprise her mother had called, offering to ship the Christmas decorations east to her, but she’d politely declined, planning to spend the holiday alone in her farmhouse with nary a decoration or a Christmas carol to keep her company.
Big mistake, she’d realized. Fortunately, her old friend Patsy and her husband were living in town, and they’d dragged her out of her morose isolation and into the warmth of their large family holiday that had included Patsy’s mother and her new husband, Patsy’s father and his new wife, Ethan’s father and his new wife, and Ethan’s mother, newly widowed, plus five brothers and sisters and their spouses, countless children and even the ninety-year-old matriarch of the family, known to all as Aunt Ginny.
It had been impossible to stay depressed in such chaos. Impossible not to feel the faint, tentative rebirth of the Christmas spirit. And now that another year had passed, she was once more ready to celebrate the holidays with a vengeance.
She’d been half tempted to go right out and find the perfect tree the moment she’d come home from Chicago. A great many people in Crescent Cove put up their trees the day after Thanksgiving and took them down the day after Christmas. Since Angie had every intention of leaving her tree up until Twelfth Night, she decided it might not be smart to cut one so early, and besides, her mother was shipping the Christmas tree house stand to her. Time enough to find a tree when that arrived.
But she wasn’t going to wait any longer to get the smell of pine in her house. She needed to make an outdoor wreath, an Advent wreath, a kissing ball and anything else she could think of, anything to start the season off properly.
She grabbed the clippers from the jumbled junk drawer, put on her felt-lined Sorrels, her down jacket, her turtle fur hat and her leather work gloves and headed out into the gathering New England dusk.
She knew just where she was going. The trees down by the edge of the lake were thick and cluttered—she could easily trim a boatload of branches off them and it would only help them flourish.
Tucking the clippers in one pocket and her flashlight in another, she headed down the freshly plowed road, toward the lake, with the vast, comforting silence of the Vermont winter all around her.
A little too silent. There were still the occasional bears around, and fisher cats were downright nasty, so she began humming, then started singing. Loudly. “Good King Wenceslas” was an excellent song for tromping through the snow, and she’d always had a good strong voice. Patsy had talked her into joining the church choir for the Christmas season, and Angie had rediscovered the joy of singing. And on this deserted spit of land she could sing as loud as she wanted and no one was around to hear.
The edge of the lake was covered with a rime of ice, but beyond the crusty sheet it lay dark and cold and mysterious. She’d skirted the opulent Jackson compound, moving past the snow-covered tennis court that had once been her front porch, and ended up by the lake, where their rickety dock had jutted out into the water. She hadn’t been down here since last spring—she did her best to avoid the flatlanders who spent their summers on Black’s Point, particularly the robber baron Jacksons, who’d only been coming to Crescent Cove for the past twenty years. Rank newcomers compared with most of the summer population, whose grandparents and great-grand-parents had settled in the cottages along the shore more than eighty years ago.
But things were changing, and she had to accept it. In the 1930s, Crescent Cove had been the summer colony of Ivy League professors, a few ministers and the occasional grudgingly accepted lawyer. Now the academics could no longer support the taxes and upkeep on second homes, and the very wealthy had moved in, buying up land and houses, and in the Jacksons’ case, tearing down existing buildings to make more room for their extravagant and totally inappropriate taste.
She shook her head and began cutting branches, letting them fall into a neat pile on the snow, as she switched songs to “Silver Bells.” She was so intent on what she was doing, so lost in her glorious solitude on the deserted tip of Black’s Point, that she didn’t hear anyone approaching.
“You’re trespassing.”
She let out a shriek, the clippers went flying, and she spun around in the snow, her heart pounding. “You scared me!” she said, breathless, too rattled to be polite.
“You’re trespassing,” he said again, patiently. She couldn’t see him clearly in the gathering darkness, only a general outline. It was no one she recognized, and she knew most of the caretakers in town. He was tall, lean, young and not a local. There was something vaguely familiar about him, something about his voice, but she couldn’t quite pin it down.
“I’m the only one living out on the point during the winter, and no one’s going to mind if I take a few branches to make some Christmas decorations.”
“You’ll be sorry.”
“Is that a threat?” A wiser woman would have been nervous, but her instincts told her that she wasn’t really in any kind of danger. Then again, those infallible instincts had told her Jeffrey was her soul mate, and look how that had turned out.
“Not a threat,” the man said in a calm voice. “You’re cutting cat spruce. You put that up in your house and it’ll smell like a litter box.”
“Damn,” she said, staring down at the pile at her feet. She’d forgotten about cat spruce, and it was too cold to notice the pungent smell. She glanced up at the stranger again. She couldn’t see his face, and pulling out her flashlight and blinding him with it wasn’t very polite. She knew that voice, somewhere far in the back of her memory, and it was driving her crazy.
“Listen,” she said. “I don’t know who you are or what business it is of yours, but I really don’t think the Jacksons will mind if I pilfer some evergreen branches from the land that used to belong to my family. They may be greedy robber barons, but a little thing like this isn’t going to matter to them—they won’t even be aware that I’ve done it. Most of them haven’t been up here for several years, so they’re unlikely to notice. By summer everything will have grown back, and no harm done. Except—” she looked around her “—I lost my clippers when you startled me.”
“Greedy robber barons? That’s a new one.” His laugh was without humor. “And believe me, they’ll know.”
She did believe him. Because it finally hit her who he was. She didn’t need to see his face—she was only surprised she hadn’t realized right off.
“You’re Brody Jackson,” she said flatly.
“Yes.” He didn’t bother asking her who she was—it probably wasn’t worth his attention, but she persevered anyway.
“I’m Angie McKenna. I live in the old Martin farm down the road. You probably don’t remember me, but we used to hang out together when we were kids. A century and a half ago.”
“Did we?” His voice was noncommittal. He’d forgotten her, of course. Why should he remember? Brody Jackson had been the golden boy all his life—beautiful, smart, athletic and charming, adored by all the girls, both summer and yearrounders, admired by the boys. For all that she’d been his next-door neighbor, after the first summer they hadn’t had anything to do with each other. She was just one of a gaggle of girls at the Crescent Cove Harbor Club, and while she’d a
lways been acutely aware of him, it was little wonder she’d passed beneath his radar. Except for two occasions, and she wasn’t going to think about that.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t realize your place was winterized.”
“I can manage,” he said. “And why are you here? Where’s Jeffrey? I thought the two of you were America’s sweethearts.” His voice was faintly ironic—something new. And then she realized with a start that he knew exactly who she was.
“We’re divorced. I’ve been living here for a couple of years.”
“Another illusion shattered,” he said. “I suppose I would have known that if we’d used the house in the past couple of years.”
“I…”
“I’m not really in the mood to catch up on old times,” he said. “You better go home.”
The flat, weary tone in his voice made that clear, though it told her little else. Except that he didn’t sound like the golden boy he once had been.
But she wasn’t about to argue. She bent to scoop up the branches, cat spruce and all. “I’ll just clean these up.”
“Leave them.”
No way she could argue with that, either. All she could do was aim for a dignified retreat. “Well, I’m, er, sorry I bothered you.”
He said nothing, and she shrugged. She wasn’t quite sure how to end the conversation. See you around was a possibility, but he’d probably come back with not if I see you first.
“Goodbye, then,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Isn’t it a little early for that?”
“It’s never too early for Christmas,” Angie said. “Sorry I bothered you.”
“You already said that. Go home, Angel.”
There was nothing she could do but leave, aware that his eyes were on her as she made her way through the snow to the plowed road. When she got there, she turned back to try a pleasant wave, but he’d disappeared.
“Hell and damnation,” she muttered, tromping back down the road. Brody Jackson was the last person she needed around here, especially if he’d gotten mean in his old age, and he certainly behaved as if he had. At least he wouldn’t stay long—there was nothing in the town of Crescent Cove for the likes of Brody Jackson.
Her house was toasty when she went back in. She kicked off her snowy boots, put another log in the stove and began to make herself some dinner. Not until she was falling asleep several hours later did she remember what he’d called her.
IF BRODY JACKSON STILL had a sense of humor he would have laughed. Angel McKenna had thought he wouldn’t remember her. He remembered everything about her—her unflinching gaze, the freckles across her nose, the husky voice that he’d always found such a turn-on. Of course, as a teenager he’d found everything a turn-on. But in particular, Angel McKenna.
She didn’t look that much different. She must be thirty now, and she wore her brown hair long, to her shoulders. Her eyes were the same rich brown that could have the most unnerving effect on a boy. And a man. And her slightly breathless voice was as familiar as if it were yesterday that he’d last spoken to her.
But that wasn’t the case. It had been years, and he still hadn’t quite gotten over her.
It wasn’t arrogance to know that he could have had any girl he wanted in Crescent Cove. Any girl but Angel, who never went anywhere without Jeffrey Hastings by her side. They would have been prom queen and king, he thought cynically. Childhood sweethearts, teenage steadies, the perfect marriage that had been preordained by the Fates.
A marriage that had shattered. He wondered why.
It wasn’t important. He hadn’t come back to Crescent Cove to relive old times; he’d come to lick his wounds and keep a low profile. Softhearted people would say he’d come to heal. More realistic ones would argue he’d come to hide.
In fact, the house on Black’s Point was one of the few things he had left, after the government got through with him. The penthouse apartment in New York, the house in Tahoe, the condo in Hawaii were all gone. As well as the cars, the money and any shred of reputation he might have once had.
And his brothers.
They’d wanted him to join them. They’d siphoned off enough of the money from Worldcomp to keep them very comfortable for the rest of their lives, while thousands of people had lost their life savings, pension plans had gone bankrupt and the very name of their company was becoming synonymous with corporate greed and treachery.
But he’d stayed. As only a junior partner, he stayed to face the music. Once his brothers had left the country he had no more allegiance to anything but the truth, ugly as it was. The Jackson brothers had ripped off hundreds of millions of dollars, covering up that the company was in desperate financial trouble, and they’d departed before it had all blown up in their faces. Leaving Brody behind with his inconvenient conscience.
They’d finished with him in Washington. He’d testified, answered questions, unearthed hidden records—and lost almost everything. He had the house in Vermont, an old Saab, ten thousand dollars and a law degree that he’d never used. And never would, given his reputation.
It was irrelevant that he hadn’t known what his brothers were doing. That was no excuse—it had happened on his watch and he counted it as his responsibility, while his brothers enjoyed life in the Cayman Islands.
He kicked the branches that Angel had cut. She certainly didn’t have much of an eye; these trees were sparse and spindly. He picked up the pair of clippers that had gone flying when he’d startled her and shoved them in his pocket. He’d have to find some way to return them, and the smart thing to do would be to avoid seeing her again.
He could pretend that he hadn’t known she was in Crescent Cove when he’d made up his mind where he’d go, but he’d never been very good at lying to himself. He’d known she was here—the Crescent Cove Chronicle kept a busy social page for such a tiny town—and her presence had been a dangerous lure he couldn’t resist.
He needed to resist it now, now that he’d come face-to-face with her. He hadn’t realized she’d had such an effect on him. Even with Jeff Hastings out of her life, she was still unfinished business, and he’d be wise to keep her that way, at least until he had a better idea of what he was going to do with his shattered life.
At this point there was no room for Angel McKenna, no matter how much he wanted there to be. He’d thought maybe they could have a few laughs for old times’ sake. But he was surprised to find his feelings for Angel were just too powerful. He needed to be smart for once and keep his distance.
Life was complicated enough.
Chapter Two
Second Week in Advent
Angie slid into the booth at Mort’s Diner, dumping her mountain of packages onto the seat beside her before she could meet Patsy’s amused gaze from across the table. “Been shopping?” Patsy inquired in a dulcet tone.
“It’s Christmas. What can I say?” Angie reached for one of Patsy’s French fries.
“Weren’t you the person who just last year said she was never going to celebrate Christmas again? It was all Ethan and I could do to drag you over to our house for Christmas dinner. You didn’t even have a tree, for heaven’s sake. And now you’ve gone all holly-jolly on me. What’s the change?”
Before she had a chance to speak, Mort herself set a mug of coffee down in front of her. “Pie’s almost gone,” she said. “You gonna get back to work?”
“I’ll bring you a delivery by this afternoon,” Angie said, feeling guilty. There were four pies sitting on the counter in the old farmhouse, just a part of Mort’s most recent order. She’d been halfway to Burlington before she’d remembered them, and she’d almost turned back, but they were talking about snow tomorrow, and she didn’t dare wait any longer.
Mort departed in a dignified huff, shuffling in the rundown slippers she habitually wore in the old-fashioned diner, and Angie took a deep sip of her coffee, shuddering. “There are times when I would kill for a latte. This stuff could strip the enamel off your teeth.”
Angie eyed her friend’s huge belly, which was pushing against the table in the small booth. “She’ll come when she’s ready,” Angie said, deliberately keeping up their ongoing battle. Patsy insisted her baby was a boy; she’d been so exhausted from morning sickness and so uncomfortable and unwieldy later on that she’d decided only a male could be oppressing her. Her husband had received this bitter pronouncement with his usual calm good humor. It was almost impossible to ruffle Ethan, and he had kept his volatile wife on a relatively even keel during most of her difficult, long-sought-for pregnancy.
But Angie had decided it had to be a girl, and she was hearing nothing else. Mort was running a pool on sex, weight and birth date, and so far most of the town was siding with Angie’s pronouncement.
“There are things more important than lattes,” Angie said.
“Name one.”
“This!” Angie grabbed a brightly colored bag, opened it and whipped out a tiny red scrap of fabric. It looked as if it might fit a doll, but the red embroidery on the lacy collar said “Baby’s First Christmas.”
Patsy accepted the gift with feigned displeasure. “Junior’s not going to like being in drag for his first Christmas.”
“Any child you raise is going to be completely broad-minded about such things,” Angie said. “Besides, he’s going to be a girl.”
“Humph,” said Patsy, clearly not in the mood for fighting. “What else did you buy?”
“Lots of things.”
“Like what?”
Angie took a deep breath. “Christmas napkins, Christmas glasses, soda pop with Santa on the can, Christmas pasta, Christmas paper plates, Christmas candy, Christmas towels. I even got enough fabric to make a Christmas shower curtain.”
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