Burning Bright

by Anne Stuart; Maggie Shayne; Judith Arnold

“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 vacationers 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 obje
cts. 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—”

  “Spare me,” Patsy said. “At least they don’t make Christmas diapers.”

  “They do! They’re disposable, and, yes, they’re against your environmental conscience, but I thought when you travel they might come in handy.”

  “Oh, God,” Patsy said weakly. “Anyway, you probably picked up that candle in one of your insane shopping forays and just forgot where you bought it. And then you had some crazy dream about a shop run by Mrs. Santa Claus on some nonexistent street, and you don’t remember where you really picked it up. Which is a shame, because it sounds cool, and I’d love to have one.”

  “I didn’t dream it.”

  “Suit yourself. Are you staying for dinner? After all, you brought it. If you don’t stay I’ll worry that you don’t trust your own cooking.”

  Angie looked out at the darkening afternoon. “As long as you promise it won’t snow.”

  “Wuss,” Patsy said genially.

  Four hours later she regretted her decision. Channel three had betrayed her, and a few lazy flakes were swirling down under the moonlit sky. Angie crept along the bare pavement, clutching the steering wheel. There’s nothing to fear, she told herself. It can’t turn into a blizzard until you get home—there isn’t time.

  Though of course at the pace she was driving, she might not be home until midnight. She pressed her foot a little harder on the gas pedal, cautiously, and the Jeep moved with a bit more vigor. She had the heat on full blast, and the car still smelled like a bakery. She only slid a bit when she turned into her driveway and came to a solid stop against the snowbank.

  The lights were on, and smoke was pouring out of the chimney. She never left that many lights on, and the fire should have died down by now. For a moment she considered putting the car in reverse and getting the hell out of there.

  And then the snow started again, and she knew perfectly well that home was the safest place to be. Besides, if she’d imagined Mrs. Claus’s Candle Shop, then she might very well have imagined she’d turned off the lights when she left.

  She grabbed an armful of packages from the back of the car, trudged up the front steps onto the porch and opened the door. Then dropped the packages as she saw him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  Brody looked up from his spot on the floor. The perfectly shaped Christmas tree towered over him, albeit at an odd angle, and he’d managed to assemble Uncle Otto’s Christmas tree house, but the actual mechanics of it seemed to be providing more than its share of frustrations.

  “What do you think I’m doing? Repaying my debt. And you might want to close the door before you freeze us both.”

  She kicked the door shut behind her, leaving her packages where they’d fallen. “By breaking and entering?”

  “You don’t lock your house, Angel. And you asked for a tree. I brought you one. Sorry it couldn’t be the one you planted, but I have a certain affection for that one, and besides, it was too big. This, however, is perfect. If I can just get it to stand straight.”

  It was a perfect tree. “It needs two people,” she said, stripping off her down jacket and gloves and kicking off her boots. “You hold it while I tighten the screws.”

  “I’m already down here. You hold it.”

  There was no way to avoid coming close to him—managing the Christmas tree required proximity. She kept as far away as she could, focusing straight ahead as she reached through the thick branches to grasp the tree trunk. The Christmas candle sat where it always did, in the middle of the table, shedding its golden glow, and she felt some of her tension begin to drain.

  “I don’t know why you need so many trees,” he muttered, practically beneath her skirts if she’d been wearing any. Fortunately, she had on jeans, but his head was uncomfortably close. “Most people get by with one, and it’s usually artificial.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “And you should never leave the house with a candle burning,” he said, looking up at her. “I don’t care how safe you think it is, a cat could knock it over. We’ve even been known to have the occasional earthquake.”

  “Highly unlikely. I don’t have a cat at the moment, and for that matter I didn’t leave the candle burning. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  “It was burning when I got here,” he said. “And anyone who marries Jeffrey Hastings qualifies as at least a partial idiot. You can let go now.”

  She released the resiny
trunk and stepped back. The tree stayed where it was, straight and true. “What have you got against Jeffrey?”

  He scooted back from the tree, making no effort to rise. “Same thing I’ve always had,” he said. “I would have thought you’d learned your lesson.”

  “Our divorce was very civilized. And just because our marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean he’s a monster.”

  “No, not a monster. Just a total pig’s butt. Always has been, always will be.” He rose, in one fluid movement, reminding her with sudden, disturbing clarity how tall he was. “Don’t tell me you’re still in love with him. You spent half your life thinking he was God’s gift. I would have thought you’d learned better by now.”

  “I’m not still in love with him. Though I don’t know what business it is of yours.”

  “Don’t you?” he said, his face enigmatic. “Where are your lights?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your lights. I’ll put the lights on the tree before I go. I’m taller than you are, and I can reach higher. Unless you want to kick me out.”

  She wasn’t sure what she wanted. Having him there was bringing back all sorts of memories, disturbing ones, confusing ones. But if he left she’d be alone with those thoughts and regrets.

  She swallowed her protest. “That would be very kind of you,” she said. “They’re in the trunk under the table. Can I get you something to drink? Maybe some eggnog?”

  “You don’t have eggnog. I already searched your refrigerator. And why do you have light beer? You don’t need it.”

  She let that pass. “I can make eggnog,” she said.

  He’d been rummaging through the trunk of Christmas lights, but he raised his head up at that, his dark hair falling into his face, and she found she wanted to push that hair away from his eyes. What the hell was wrong with her?

  “How do you make eggnog? I thought it came from the grocery store.”

  “You use milk and whipping cream and raw eggs and brandy.”